The Whittler

The Whittler

In a union of two, I always thought
the one who is most high strung
with the loudest or surest preferences
was the one who usually wins

the little standoffs in marriage:
"I'm tired, are you coming to bed."
"I'm not in the mood for Mexican, you okay with Chinese?"
"Let's go, I don't see anything you need to buy."

I often feel I'm a block of wood
being whittled by the one I love. 
My tendency, to allow those more inconvenienced
to have their way, is permission given to control.

As I look forward to another decade of narrow-minded bureaucrats,
and losing myself in exchange for insurance and retirement,
I look down past the whittler's lap
and see shavings of wood, my dreams

of teaching college, returning to school,
leaving the bureaucracy that is sucking away
my moral compass, my intellect, my inner vision
of who I want to be. My dreams,

they pile up, buried and unsought,
while my dear one whittles a beautiful shape
of how he sees me to be,
in his own mind.

I grasp at the swirls and chunks of shavings
left discarded in the grass,
and I fill my pockets with all they can hold
for fear of losing bits of me.

Like a child hoarding tiny found objects;
rubber bands, paper clips, pennies, scraps of cloth,
I dream of all I can make with the remnants,
after the whittler's masterpiece is complete.

While gathering those trinkets of my life, the shavings,
my fingers dig deeper and fill my nails
with soft, cool clay hidden under grass
below the whittler's gaze.

With pockets full of pulp and dreams
and two fistfuls of red clay,
I find myself a quiet place
to form my self, and what I plan to be.

When I was done, I brought my form,
the symbol of my being,
and made some space above the fireplace
beside where my whittler's creation rests.

Proudly, like a child,
presenting a flower to his mother
I set my own masterpiece on prime real estate,
boldly owning my life's new path.

Together, the whittler and I stared
at the mantle of our marriage, at our creations,
and he smiled, as he looked over at me.
"It's about time you got some confidence, showed me what you can be."

So I asked, "What is the whittled form on the mantle?
Is that how you wish me to be?”
And he said with a chuckle
as he shook his head and grinned,

"Oh, that? I was trying to whittle a quill to present to you
when you publish your first book of poetry,
but I whittled it a bit much trying to fix my mistakes.
What do you see? A pen or an unleaded pencil, maybe?"

"And what of that clay you formed?"  My lover went on,
"What does that represent?" And I told him.
"Untapped potential, my whittler man,
to be shaped by me as I go along."

We reached for each other's hand
and strolled to the whittling chair. But first,
in separate directions we drifted, just a moment,
while gathering our supplies and our selves.

When we returned, I presented
a lump of cool, rust colored clay
and he handed me a knotty stick and a knife
and I began to whittle away.

Only this time, without resentment,
no feelings of loss or regret,
I accepted the chance to be God for one tiny moment
and be creator of my lover's destiny.

Maybe this is how God works.
We come to earth as a lump of clay, or stick of wood.
We live life thinking the Supreme whittler, and our loved ones, are forming us
to their image of what we ought to be.

What if we take that clay or wood that is us, and take a seat
at the whittler's chair, or the potter's wheel,
and claim the life God gave us here?
If we learn to take ownership of the "me",

perhaps we could finally become
the whittlers of our own destiny.

SWPoet
86 Lines









__________________________________________________
Original before corrections (For my reference only)

The Whittler

In a union of two, I always thought
the one who is most high strung
with the loudest or surest preferences
was the one who usually wins

The little standoffs in marriage,
"I'm tired, are you coming to bed",
"I'm not in the mood for Mexican, you okay with Chinese"
"Let's go, I don't see anything you need to buy"

And I feel I'm a block of wood
being whittled by the one I love. 
My tendency to allow those more inconvenienced
to have their way is permission given to control.

As I look forward to 20 more years of narrow-minded bureaucrats,
and losing myself in exchange for insurance and retirement,
I look down past the whittler's lap
and see shavings of wood, my dreams

of teaching college, returning to school,
leaving the bureaucracy that is sucking away
my moral compass, my intellect, my inner vision
of who I want to be. My dreams,

they pile up, buried and unsought,
while my dear one whittles a beautiful shape
of how he sees me to be,
in his own mind.

I grasp at the swirls and chunks of shavings
left discarded in the grass,
and I fill my pockets with all they can hold
for fear of losing bits of me.

Like a child with with tiny found objects in hand;
rubber bands, paper clips, pennies, scraps of cloth,
I dream of all I can make with the remnants,
after the whittler's masterpiece is done.

While gathering those bits of wood,
my fingers dig deeper and cover my nails
with soft, cool clay hidden under grass
below the whittler's gaze.

With pockets full of pulp and dreams
and two fistfuls of red clay,
I find myself a quiet place
to form my self, and what I plan to be.

When I was done, I brought my form,
my symbol of a my being,
and found an equal place on the same mantle
beside where my whittler's creation rests.

Proudly, like a child,
presenting a flower to his mother
I set my own masterpiece on prime real estate,
boldly owning my life's new path.

Together, the whittler and I stared
at the mantle of our marriage, at our creations,
and he smiled, as he looked over at me.
"It's about time you got some confidence, showed me what you can be."

So I asked, "What is the whittled form on the mantle,
Is that how you wish me to be?
And he said with a chuckle
As he shook his head and smiled,

"Oh, that? I was trying to whittle a quill to present to you
when you publish your first book of poetry,
but I whittled it a bit much, don't you think. 
What do you see? A pen or an unleaded pencil, maybe?"

"And what of that clay you formed", my lover asked
"What does that represent?"
"Untapped potential, my whittler man,
to be shaped by me as I go along."

We reached for each other's hand
and we strolled to the whittling chair.
In separate directions we drifted, just a moment,
while gathering our supplies and our selves.

When we returned, I presented
a lump of cool, rust colored clay
and he handed me a knotty stick and a knife
and I began to whittle away.

Only this time, without resentment,
no feelings of loss or regret,
I accepted the chance to be God for one tiny moment
and be creator of my lover's destiny.

Maybe this is how God works.
We come to earth as a lump of clay, or stick of wood.
We live life thinking God, the supreme whittler, and others are forming us,
to their image of what we ought to be.

What if we take that clay or wood that is us, and take a seat
at the whittler's chair, or the potter's wheel,
and claim the life God gave us here?
If we learn to take ownership of the "me",

perhaps, we could finally become the whittlers
of our own destiny.


SWPoet





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