Get Your Premium Membership

Best Hammered Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Hammered poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of hammered poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Hammered poems, articles about Hammered poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Hammered poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

Poems are below...

View all new Hammered Poems

The Best Hammered Poems

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


Metallic city howls like a wounded animal scraped by nocturnal vigils of grandchildren and elders emaciated like tuberculosis lungs gasping from chug-chugs of tobacco soot... and the face of a night is hammered by ripped moans like plucked strings in motel rooms; pagan women opening limbs for a meal in silent fury. This is the other side of town... beggars peddling hope; factory shoulders ranting over shuffled cards and fired gin as wives’ blistered fingers clean rented pots, gibbering same monotone of hymn, “give us daily bread, daily bread”. Outside, the pier coughs off the commercial honks of weighed cargo reeked with labor’s perspiration, where pawnshops buzz with greed's snicker... the evening owl attempts winks under the grime of bloodied moon… it spits the larynx of tenants’ raged hoots wishing morsels of fresh sunset would pour some grace of life’s salve, before the shrill of red sets in... again.
101 in a ROW contest -4 - PD Linda

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2013

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Accolade

 Fighting mid the strong and bold,
His eye and blade were keen;
Marching like a thund'ring storm
On foes of Faith, his queen.

Now returned in victory
Upon his mighty bay,
Set he off to Langley Tow'r
Her summons to obey.

"John the Squire," the footman called,
And held the oaken door;
Faith, it seemed, had gleaming eyes
Like never once before.

"John! 'tis good to see thee hale,"
The queen exclaimed, and rose:
Tales have sped to Langley's gates
Of many broken bows."

"God has saved me whole and well,
By prayers, I ween, of thee;
Tell me please, my lady Queen
What service I may be."

Saying thus, the squire bowed
And doffed his burnished helm;
Struck in awe by Faith, his love,
The queen of Arthur's realm.

"Gilbert saith," rehearsed the queen,
"That deeds of thee are done
Greater yet than those of Wat 
Or even Henry's son."

Tears bedecked her youthful face,
And glistened in the light;
John the Squire, as she had hoped,
Had done her favour right.

"Nay!" the humble squire cried,
"This word is not so true!
How could I, the meanest squire,
Perform the deeds they do?"

"Hush!" It was a firm command;
"I'll hear these lies no more; 
Kneel before me, Squire John,
A knight shall leave the door."

Down before the queen he knelt,
He pledged his knighthood true;
Swore her ev'ry small command
With cheerful heart to do.

From his side she drew his sword,
She struck the accolade;
"Thus the greatest knight," she said,
"Is from a squire made."

From her hand the sword did fall,
It clashed upon a stone:
"John, if battle claimed thy life,
How could I be alone?"

"God has prospered all my ways;
My Queen, I praythee, cease!
Soon these wars shall claim our foes,
And Britain be in peace."

Faith remained there by her throne,
With light upon her hair;
Not one maid of Camelot
Was even half so fair.

"God be with thee evermore,"
She bravely said at last;
"Guard and keep thee from the foe
Until the very last."

John the Knight farewell did bid,
And swiftly rode away:
When the wars were hammered out,
He'd be a king in May.

  For the Famous Art contest. Inspired by the painting "The Accolade" -1901 by Edmund Blair Leighton. 

Copyright © Isaiah Zerbst | Year Posted 2013

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Still Out Back

Hints of warmer days and barbeque dreams
filter through the last gasps of winter air
cold drinks and late nights soon to be seen
through tiny openings of the back door screen

I've been knocked down, stained and hammered 
screwed tight over and over and about to be stripped
laid out, measured, broken, rotted and ripped
rained on, burnt up and walked upon by lesser men

I'm weathered and worn but I'm still alive out back
my creaks tell a different story as I sway in the wind
inebriated adventures still speak of regretful moments of sin
the birds have all used me and I'm barely hanging on

Still standing in a spot of your last shooting star wish
Waiting for some attention and that first springtime kiss

Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2017

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Unlike Thee Athenian

Those rarer men I once fondly 
Many dead now...
What remains of them they are so 
Am I to die when numbered
Amongst the last?                   
Old and bent, pale and withered;
Thin fingers grasped                        
Like a hawks talons upon the 
Smooth knob of a lacquered stick;   
My few remaining hairs, as grey 
As Novembers morn, oiled and 
Combed sideways over...well...
Whatever small amount will be left 
Of it!                                

Surely that cannot be
What advancing age holds for one 
Such as me?
Then a portly figure stuffed like 
A drawn-up sack;
Crouched forward and painfully
Shuffling; stooped, like encumbered 
Atlas, with the weight of woeful
Lamentations heaped across my 
Crooked back.
Never! For, and knowing no man, with
Any amount of certainty, may choose 
His end,
On my steadfast will  would'st rather  
To depend:-

When refusing advancements 
Proffered from the Grim Reapers 
Gnawing malaise and begotten ills;
Also, with all caution, avoiding 
That deceitful Twilight that so 
Beguilingly spills...
Over lengthening shadows at close
Of day;
Thusly recalling there was, long 
Ago, an Athenian, who, to his
Deficit, in a greatly foolish and 
Disastrous way,
Practised un-natural munificence; 
His bane, Apemantus, the cynic,
Whilst loudly admonishing his 
Charity, cruelly heaping upon him 
In all manner of rebuking offence!

And,  notwithstanding hesitant 
Modesty, let it hereby be duly 
Mentioned that I too, undoubtedly,
Can somewhat compare against a 
Not inconsiderable measure of
Intelligence and wit;
In the mind's eye to construct
Momentary abstractions, that,
Loosely interconnected, the swift
Instance might briefly fit;
For do we not all strive to 
Produce the same?
To induce the many shades of an 
Evasive nuance into the fleeting 
Semblance of an illuminated frame?
Once a distinguished man wrote :- 
That whomsoever
Toiled industriously at a couple of 
Lines...was to work harder than all 
Those involved with much
Laboured effort and hard physical

Resolved, therefore, in this 
Moment of fortitude, ex post facto,
A part of myself to newly 
Before the lessening years are 
Solely wasted upon the countless 
Alters of good intent.
It is done! Let this then be my
Stated pledge: that I shall call
On all dead poets for their 
Creative rage -
To help fashion rhyming ink onto
A blank and crisp white page! 
Although I have neither Lofty 
Hammered anvil nor the fantastic 
Clay of common Yeats;

No matter - I have enough!  
Unto their evasive Muse I 
Therefore propose, before my fuel 
Runs dry, 
To aspire to if 
An ailing comet whose roaring 
Clamour, ferociously reignited, 
Burning a trail through the frozen 
Fields of an ice filled sky!
And, long hence the pen drops 
From this aged and palsied hand,
Under the blazing winds of those 
Sapphire fields - raising high my
Standard! A tattered rag, amidst
A salient, in the heart of this
Desolated and near abandoned 

Until, shattered, like countless 
Shards of a broken comet,
That discarded verse
Lies with my mouldering bones...
Wrapped in the comforting
Blanket of the tight brown earth.

Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2017

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

He Arose

Long ago Man soaked alters in blood
by sacrificing animals to God.
And ever since Noah and the flood
ploughs were hammered into sword and rod.

Civilizations grew and flowered
only to vanish with little trace.
And men of peace were labeled coward
while women were chattel kept in place.

God was always at war with Mankind
smiting pagans with His Holy wrath.
And compromise was so rare to find
there was no hope for a peaceful path.

Jesus didn't think of God that way
wanting to remove hate from His faith.
And preaching love taught us how to pray
purging souls of unclean thoughts and wraith.

He challenged what the people were taught
and they demanded blood for His love.
And crucified Him, yet His death bought
us eternal life through God above.

He was mourned and laid out in a cave
where for three days He suffered in hell.
And then He arose and left that grave
called His apostles and bid them tell.

God The Father now lives in our heart
blood is no longer offered to Him.
For through His Son, Man got a new start
and our fate no longer looks so grim.

Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Beauty in the Wind

On the rise of a hill, overlooking the bend Where the old gravel road, seems to narrow and blend Stands your bony remains, weathered timber and nails Posing regal contentment, without praise or complaint Lacking attention, but for birds and the rain.. Leaning slightly in back, from the north to northwest Squeaking a bit, from a past of neglect It clings to the wind, to a past that has spent The years have abused you... No longer called useful? I beg to reply...I think you are beautiful Strong beams held you strong Your day's work was done When the wind caught your breath and death came with drought, where doubt found a home Now the birds make their home on the wings of your song Pride came from the hands that came to erect Hammered a nail with faith's dedication Placing each board, with hope and conviction A wheel, standing regal, a workhorse with fervor Once brought new life, from the depths of a river The years have abused you... No longer called useful? I beg to reply...I think you are beautiful

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

God Answers Aunt Kate-repost

For the last few days
     her depression had weighed
          heavy, a thick woolen shroud,
              her thoughts thickened by darkening clouds,
                    in an endless tunnel the sides closing in like a narrowing funnel.

She sat, immobile, staring 
      through the window of the house she'd built with such caring.
It'd started as a shack by a pond on some land
                           and she'd hammered and built it
                                               with help from no man.

She kept adding on, room after room,
      as if she, too, suffered from the Winchester doom.

Eccentric, they'd call her, if she had any bread,
      but, since she was poor, she was "soft in the head."

A tiny little woman, emaciated, so thin,
      she was not much more than frail bones under skin.
Yes, she was surely a pitiful thing,
      shoulder blades jutting like primordial wings.

Like an old phonograph with its needle stuck,
          she prayed for death, so far with no luck.

Suddenly there came a tremendous din,
         like demons scratching on her roof of old tin.

Startled, heart pounding in her bird-cage chest,
             she was suddenly afraid of a cardiac arrest.

Armed with her twelve gauge she crept to the door,
         a thousand claws scratching, louder than before.

She'd always been brave and her life had been hard,
           so, gun at the ready, she stepped into the yard.

Locked and loaded and aimed at the roof,
        she feared for her life, to tell you the truth.

(Not minutes ago, she was begging for death,
         now she was worried this might be her last breath.)

Then she looked at the roof and let out a gasp,
         the rifle fell heavily from her stunned grasp.

There on the roof and thick in the trees,
          was a sight that made her weak in the knees.

HUNDREDS of VULTURES all eye-balling her,
        clacking their beaks as they seemed to concur.

Aunt Kate started laughing and laughed 'til she cried,
        she hooped and she hollered, holding on to her sides.

The birds, having reasoned she'd make less than a bite,
                  stretched out their wings and took off in flight.

Her depression has lifted and, I heard a rumor,
       that her life had been saved by God's sense of humor. 

********Many thanks to Aunt Kate for this wonderful true story.**************

Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2009

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Color of Love

How to describe the color of love?  Might you frown in surprise if I spoke of brown?  Dull, pockmarked, ocherous brown. 
A tarmac of grain, stained the color of earth, that never saw rain.  
One humble old table, from an oak that would fall.  Who could have known the 
moments recalled?

Just a scarred weathered plank, with a warp in the middle. Blight she would hide with a bright checkered cloth.  Those who would sit, night after night, greeting with eyes, meeting with ears,... filling the gaps with laughter and tears 

Decades were spent, over string beans, and potatoes, bridging the gap of a mid-day mishap, a chat after school, or a new family rule.
Resurrecting a family, at the end of the day, while chomping away on unidentifiable casseroles, that filled the belly, as well as the soul.
Consuming wisdom and  noodles, in the comfort of home. 

Who would have noticed this shabby antique, wearing wax from Crayolas,  white coffee cup rings. Ink spots, and dings. And three winking holes made by father's misdeed! 
(His picture-frame project,  misjudging the nails! Three slender digits pierced in without fail!  Hammered tight, to the top. While mother's shot through the roof! 

Who could have ever guessed that a well-worn, weathered old piece of grainy brown oak could be the glorious color of love?


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


In pleasantries, orchestrated on our screens,
We live the lives of many men and women,
As if sex could be! We grow, composed of well-cooked pablum
Eaten between long work hours, digested pleasantly.
In a fetal coil, I rest, my optic eye
Doesn’t blink at the silver reticules of my mind:
My body well knit by well-knit engineers,
This me-model makes real tears, running from my eyes.
Of course I’m human – hammered out in school,
Wearing what Designers Club tells me to;
You and I, we can adjust ourselves with tools,
Look down upon the Primitives -- those old fools.
Insulated from all microbial bio-terrors,
Safe from the brute, the thorn, the flawed flower
Blooming wild; we -- kept safe – know no variant weather,
Pity the Primitive, exposed to flood and laser-tower.
Did you see those messages, scrawled upon a wall,
Comparing us with vipers at Adam’s Fall?
There’s not an original thought in what he thinks:
That purist Primitive! His raw flesh stinks!
Computers say it best, and yet, I see
Something –compelling--- in his graffiti:
“O song, sing forth unto the endless skies--
O hear, created stars! You long have looked
Upon all who weep, who ever made outcry,
And wrote it down, in God’s forgotten book.”

written for those in the future--a protest against genetic engineering

Copyright © Judyth Vary Baker | Year Posted 2009

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Kreutzer Sonata

(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece with this title.  Count Leo Tolstoy
followed in 1890, with a short novel of the
same name, in which he argued that
matrimony can never work.)

What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether? 
Two very different creatures, yoked together? 
I was a piano, you a violin: 
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin, 
and laced with bitterness. I was your base, 
and you provided brio, flourish, grace. 
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame, 
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim, 
you struggled up until, played out, defeated, 
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted. 
A war's a love affair, and love's a war. 
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for? 
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over - 
but could there ever be a vita nuova? 
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly, 
while you abraded. Why could we not see? 

And so I played it stately, sad, no frills, 
while you kept up your repetitions, trills 
and variations. Hovering and wary, 
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary, 
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous, 
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous. 
It seemed to me the harmony had gone: 
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song. 
Two butterflies together, intertwined, 
we tangled on the same, but different, line.

Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The endgame

The endgame 

And the cemetery was
nowhere to be found
yet was so present
in the shallow depth
the graveyard of the mind

No tombstone unturned
fragmented torn and twisted 
sorrow flowing down 
encrypted alleyways 
and Thanatos’ call 

Searching to imprint
coffin’s nails on seams 
of muddy icy prison
hammered chiselled avenues
creeping through and in

Dead alive and collocated
hell firing place and time
scorching cementing
looming crossing overs
to where and when to how

No monument just
monumental nothing
void oppression
endless loop’s demise
thoughts emotions dragging

Torrential thunders
roping in electrocuted lightning
nooses from the tree of
living emptied darkness
flowing rapids standing still

The cemetery awaiting
ashes urns and vultures
presiding over Ganges Styx
Caron caring like a
lifeless Buddha saddened

Giving taking suffering
unthreading tapestry graffiti 
splashing on the canvass
sombre art in progress
oscillating back and forth

The reaper harvests harshly
the mindless soul and body
crumbling bones infested
carbons desiccation apathy
hedonistic pleasures dull extinct

Gravitation nudges wild
and gently roaring
culling sculls foreclosing scooping
offerings burthens memories
premature un-furbished epitaphs 

Silent roaring rampant syncopal 
admonished synergetic resolution
teasing fool and morbid jester
luring loosening resolve
apprehending lithographic scribes

And the cemetery blinding
obvious and for the taking 
present not yet for embrace
remains a silhouette on the horizon
and life for now is stronger

May 18th 2016

Contest entered:
And the cemetery was... Broken Wings

Copyright © Kai Michael Neumann | Year Posted 2016

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Tilted Dahlias --The Artist

The sage green wall had worn a blank look
until, slightly askew, with a tilt to the left
dangling helplessly, without a complaint 
is the pride of an artist, who lacked all constraints.

He dipped into his paints with no sense of restriction 
hung it in place without hesitation
giving the viewer a crick of the neck.

It hangs precariously, for an eager assessment
without circumspection, neither yes's or no's...
No hemming or hawing just helter and skelter
Instead, a take me or leave me,... is the quick estimation
Conforming was no issue, just pure bold assumption

Excitement exploded from two eager hands
that thrust it in place, with assured restless haste,
hammered a nail with pride and conviction
and planted it there,  with pure ardent fervor

Sharing a warmth of a seasonal decade....
this amateurish, yet delightful landscaped intrusion
sings in the sunshine, and smelling of springtime
shouting with color, and sprinkled with lavender
flavored with turpentine, and oil-painted rainbows

In the lower left corner, is an array of dahlias,
bursting with crimson, never changing or fading
never thirsty for water,
barren of a single, silent, dried up weed
and free of decay, dismay or mold

The amber was gold, the umber was bold, 
          rust to rust, dust to dust......ash to ash

With him he took all the pride that he found
           ...still holding the brush stroke of a satisfied smile 

For Anthony's Contest: Favorite Artist
Dedicated to someone special in my life  R.I.P.
4/16/14  Revised for Anthony's Contest

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


When hurt is embedded, so deeply within
how does one remove it, where do they begin?

The decay begins slowly, when a life starts a-rotting
and it cannot be changed by planning or plotting

It's not be chased, nor coaxed from it's lair,
not left to escape and vanish into thin air

It can't be extinguished as a fire with a blanket,
nor hammered into shape like coins with a planchet

It can't be wiped as from the eye like a mote,
or scraped like a barnacle from the hull of a boat

It cannot be pulled from the soul like a cord
or hewn as a rope by the blade of a sword

It can't be excised like a malignant lump,
nor can it be carted away to the dump

It can only be moved with love and compassion,
with time and with care, there is no other fashion

Copyright © David Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

My Gee-Gee

Looked up this morning, no clouds overhead So happy I screamed like a banshee What greater seduction than smelling fresh air With the breeze caressing my gee-gee As I stand here naked as the day I was born Only one thing has entered my psyche Put on some clothes, you silly old twit Your gee-gee is frozen, by crikey Must have been a great party last night Can't remember my first or last name As I take a quick peek at my poor little gee-gee Must have played some pretty rough games Sure hope I don't get that hammered again Can someone please find me some clothes I'll quietly ride off in my beat up jalopy In case to some girlie I proposed © Jack Ellison 2013

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2013

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


The night holds such gray, when beating wave and tortured sky compete
      "Still round the corner there may wait, a new road or a secret gate."
Hammered from the surf or pounded from the shapes of the giants causeway
      life will emerge while all eternity waits, the bright of sunlight to relate.

Abate the misery of colorless life, lost love and that which was so sweet
   fill the empty rooms within the manse upon the tor, so now, incomplete
with the sound of childrens laughter and the rampant run of little feet.
   Let loose the lock from gate which binds my love to death so indiscreet.

The looming form of barren rib and prow so sharps denies the rift of heaven
     Its skeletal remains do not harken to the light nor St. Peter's prod
for my love, my life, my heart was lost amongst the waves thus broken
    and will walk no more with me upon the sand or haunted sod.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


The reigning monarch's hammered earth,
my foot upon controlling girth
nature alone encircles worth
as I go on to capture hurt!

Oh stop, the chiding from the Church
the fault deriding my sake's birth
the fool abiding in the lurch
does mock it all, while I research!

Oh stop the hour, but yet occur
my soul's fate's prism, without slur
and stop those moments when you were
my truest love, without demur!

That snow that melteth down the stream
doth barter not but by degree
and shares its focus merrily
then also stop ~  the poet's fee 

must focus rhyme . . . eternally!

Copyright © Paula Larson | Year Posted 2012

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Neon (9/11)

When dulled down shock painfully became
a pickaxe ache behind shimmering eyes,
the bludgeoning screen hammered memory cells
repeatedly, over and over.
Tears exploded, soft rain dampened flame,
the grumbling dust cloud debris disguised
broken hearts bursting in agonised swells
searching for life confirmation.

Crashed vultures, evil in senseless flight,
beating humanity for hours like a drum,
cramping the breath with holocaust claws,
gleefully gloating, gloating.
Yet humanity does not die in the night,
by the warped wicked ways of fanatical scum,
humanity fades not, nor crawls on all fours
the prey of abomination.

Could Hitler pulverise humanity dead,
could Stalin annihilate it's very soul,
could Hussein defile it's essence to dust,
could they, hell.
It arises from rubble and ashes instead,
steel resurrection, reassembled whole,
in the love and pride of people it must
elicit restoration.

Beneath the veil of despair-crippled night
a broken city seethed neon 'till morning,
mortal wounds blazed and shone in rebirth,
defiantly living, living.
And hope prevailed in each bulb burning bright,
in each filament, tube, each spark a new dawning
of all that Heaven allows on Earth,
a prayer-shot inspiration.

The carnage of angels bedazzled with pain,
yet the courage and conscience of saints empowered
a neon-lit love of brother for brother,
a blinding, blinding sight.
From sorrow and sacrilege raining again
humanity's wonder, upon them was showered
the love of the brave and the just for each other
that they become the light.

Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


by Valerie D. Staton

Jael, Heber the Kenite’s, fearless wife, 
concocted a formidable plan.

With hammer and nail she’d shorten the life,
of King Jabin’s top military man.

She met Sisera and offered her bed,
It was a feigned gesture of good will.

While he slept she hammered a nail in his head
as it was her utmost intent to kill;

Though he’d escaped the battle with Barak,
She thwarted the plan of the Canaanite.

For she assured he was not going back.
Jael delivered the Israelites!

Deborah and Barak sang with glee,
Blessed above women shall Jael be!

Scripture Reference: Judges 4:1-24, 5:24-27

Copyright © Valerie Staton | Year Posted 2018

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Dragon A Wild Adventure

Dragon Anguish Adam clenched his fists attempting to block his senses from the growing growls that hammered against his rib cage. The thousands of millenniums he had lived barricading his heart from all worldly emotions. Adam looked up at the daunting sky to see flaunting dark clouds creep overhead. He breathed in the sweetest aroma of petrichor. Thunder grumbled breaking the silence in the coldness, as strikes of white lightning flashed across the night sky. He couldn't stop the desire to shift into a dragon and fly. To feel the wind beneath him again, to stretch his wings and weave between the clouds and roar. Adrienne, his beloved was a mortal. She was a beautiful blossom that he had vowed to protect. Her smile would make leaves turn green and flowers burst into color. Her eyes were the color of the forest that would shimmer like the night sky with a thousand stars. She had a riot of long burnt umber hair that cascaded down her slender back. His memory's grip, craving her, again and again. Kisses that engulfed and would open the doors of heaven. Releasing a fiery passion within him engulfing his world. When Adam had been gone hunting for food for several days. Men from another clan came down from the hills pillaged and burned the village, not a soul had been left alive. He raised his head and gazed into the night, never again would he open his soul. Adam shifted and jumped as he spread his leathery wings and flew in the cover of the night sky and the clap of thunder. 10/13/2018
Poetry Contest: Fiction - October 2018 Writing Challenge Sponsored by: Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2018

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


As we met by the park in the dark then went to the alley where we sparked up some grass and began to get paly 
He said Hasheiesh he could get later that night at a very cheap price if we're wanting to buy and the girls were like...  Safe yeah hun what time and where should we meet ya? 
This guy looked at us and replied mine and it's decent! 
Do you mind if my mate dean comes? I've already called him. He's on way hear now then we can score 
Man we were still school kids we didn't know the score or the rules of picking up. 
We thought he was cool but in his claws he was gripping us. 
Smirking and grimey and perfectly lively so we took the bait and returned to him timely later that night we arrived to meet Adrian who was stoned with his mate and he only seemed tame again. 
His friend looked at Carrie, Emma and me,  he chuckled and glared then stood up from seat where he almost fell over tripping over his feet with a spiff in his hand and the booze he had it was cheap. 
Come on dean,  Adrian shouted,  let's get back to flat and chop up these ounces. 
Come on kids follow me it's just up this street and dean with his whisky drinking it neat began leading us to his mate up the road, 
Come on ya slow coaches if you wanna get stoned. 
Through the darkness we walked with these two blokes to Adrian's home to pick up the dope when dean got weird and started acting a creep at the top of the stairs outside 63c
As the key went it the lock I must admit I did think 'what the hell have we done and what is that stink'? 
People speak about intuition and trusting those inklings 
I shouldn't have went with my head and just my gut instinct
As he led us into that dark dingy flat he even said welcome to baths most minging gaf. 
Pulled out the lambrini from us his coat and Dean had some wraps and rolled up a note. 
He glared at Emma telling her to get close and said **** and you Carrie you and her both. 
Dean showing of a blade that he had in his pocket excitably playing around with sharp objects. 
Already hammered were those two blokes with no Hasheiesh just a few grams of coke and it didn't take long for it to be gone up their nose and then both men were angry and began to throw blows.  
Touching the girls locking me in the kitchen so I looked for a knife and realised they're all with them. 
Banging the door saying open it now knowing when they do how it's going to go down. 
Then the door opened with Carrie stood there,  broken bottle in hand and blood in her hair. 
She said get Emma she's still on the floor she went crazy when Adrian called her a whore then that **** grabbed her holding her back and I bottled him for being a dirty old man touching us all night that's fucked up behaviour and while you were in there Dean was sucking inhalers saying they were sending his mind all icy I was frightened with them both sat beside me 
I picked up Emma and got her to her stand and we ran, escaping that minging old flat. 
Straight outside and on the street leaving the door wide on number 63c

Copyright © Sam Perkins | Year Posted 2018

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Proof in Lock of Hair and Baby Tooth

Proof in Lock of Hair and Baby Tooth

‘Love you mama’
Shouts a fairy’s
baby tooth
set long before
in a violet velvet box.

‘Miss you lots’
whispers mama,
eyes fixed as she
fondles the
pearly bit.

This kind of love
so fast, no force
of wind can pry
from a mother’s
heart hammered to pieces

clumsily restored
with loving epoxy
and homemade patches
of friends and

Time’s stitches transform
the gaping wound in
scabby healing
and finally the
scar – another proof.

©Kathryn McL. Collins

Copyright © kathryn collins | Year Posted 2012

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


              HURRICANE HATTIE                                                                

It came like a thief
After midnight
With preconceived plans
Across the Caribbean Sea
Suddenly turning west
Making a beeline
To British Honduras
In Central America

It foiled expectations
That it would arrive
At seven the next morning

Made a surprise visit
Six hours earlier
Like the Gestapo
The Secret Police

While people were
Least prepared
Of better things.

It attacked
Ignoring neighboring

As if 
Remotely controlled 
By some
Vengeful fanatic
At 150 miles per hour
And more
The coastline

The Jewel

People still ’memba
How in ’61

It wrecked havoc
In Dangriga
Belize City
San Pedro
Cay Caulker
Among others
As it 
Their valuables 
Like a Repo Man
Dispossess them 
Of their 
Treasured belongings

Within the 
Make-belief safety
Of its eye
Poor people 
Thinking it was over
Sought their fortunes
On the beaches
In the shops
In others’ property
When Hattie
On a round trip ticket 
Came back hurriedly
And with 
More gusto
Lashed out 
As a category five
To teach them a lesson

And dignity.

In the end
One third of the coast
Was devastated

One third
Another third
With 264 dead
And millions
Of dollars lost
The place lay wasted

And victims
Wallowed in its wake.

As it distanced itself
Its handiwork
And Observed

With a smirk
Its power 

Woman and child
It grinned 
In satisfaction
At its exploits
And its supernatural supremacy
To shape destiny
And vanquish the vulnerable

Copyright © Karan Chand | Year Posted 2014

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Jealous Heart

you figured me out.

My smile has become crooked,
hammered down upon guillotine pedestal.

Her strands of tormented wishes,
now caressed by singer’s ebb & flow.

Baritone lyrics glide out in wanton scope.

no longer choked by charred rope,
double-knotted sadness.

Mercury skies rain down.
White satin mystery, solved.

Or so it’s proclaimed…

Joy’s declaration made upon Paper-Mache falsities,
placing reservations on matters of the heart.

True happiness thrives on sunrise currency,
not clouded futures.


Yeah, you figured me out. 

This smile has become crooked.
No toothpick can hold this up high.

I guess this tear knew all along.

But, I walk on.

As I continue to pay my price,
writing out reality checks.

I know I’ll always be your friend.

not today.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.


Wrought liquid metal, hued in the fire's of hell,
Pored into a castings shell, then hammered well,
By the angry fists of Satan himself, behold the skeleton key.
Accursed by evil's malevolent spell, one size fits all,
No locked doors can resist against its turnings twist,
Opening unto the supernatural's mystical power, and unlocking
Humanity's hidden passages and darkest corridors,
Leaving no secrets left unspoken or in silence.
Crimson blood spewing forth from corrupted key holes, oozing
Downwards unto the floor below, staining ancient
Tapestries of the royal gentries, and the upper classes refined.
Skull to the cross bones, it possesses a will of its own, 
A vile living entity, with its own consciousness.
Molding, reshaping itself at pleasures dark whim, 
Feasting on hatred's malice, then releasing it unto the world
Of men.
A twisted wanton thing, laughing with intentions cruelties,
And relishing in our agonies pain.
But *****sapiens are a curious species, never realizing when to
Leave things well enough a lone.
We must know what lies beyond that forbidden
Door, where mankind is not allowed to trespass.
In these dark places of shadows ethereal, it rocks in a fetal 
Ball, a creature, waiting to be disturbed, go then seek what lurks therein,
If you dare, only the key knows what it really is, and it laughs,
At our ignorance, mocking us in the darkness.
Four it is the beast, chained and shackled within our worst
Nightmares, a fierce devilish demon, that pierces through the
Darkest of night, to hunt the innocent souls of wayward men.
You've have ventured to far, beyond thy safety zone of no return.
Four death lies in those reddened eyes that watch you within 
The darkness.
If you move it will attack, motions movements attracts
Attentions reactions, so remain frozen there is no safety's retreat
Thou'art trapped, again the key so laughs in the abyss,
Mocking at humanity's ignorance.
Shaking with anticipations glee, it begs the next
User to place it into the key hole, of the unknown, come along 
Now what can it hurt, just one little peek, let’s look beyond the crimson
Door, as the skeleton key heckles with unbridled happiness.


Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014

Details | Hammered Poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Sweet Faced Ones with Nothing Left Inside

My path beyond the shores of time
from life to there are maritime ripples.
Harrowing blades of rain
hammered from storm-clouds shatter puddles
of glass to rolling streams of echoes,
Misery’s trail towards cleansing waters:

A bloody throat gasping for water 
is my alarm clock each day, it hurts all the time.
I drink and gurgle, but none of it matters, echoes
butcher my esophagus with hack-saw ripples
as knees tumble to drown in rusty puddles;
My lungs are a prison withered by the warden’s reign.

This morning I woke to the 13th straight day of rain
in Houston.  From my condo overlooking the water 
Clear Lake slept like a sidewalk puddle.
In July, humidity is a visceral sweater, sweltered by time
stitched in ‘X’s and needle-strung ripples
suffocating ragdolls in sweat-stained  echoes.

I took my coffee on the balcony.  Through iron-rods came an echo
redolent the voice of an angel; “Why’s it gotta rain
all the time, daddy?” she asked in wavy curls and golden ripples.
More clever then, I quickly responded, “Because god has to water 
his plants, Ava, that’s why it rains all the time.”
It used to be I smiled as she twirled through puddles.

The morning sky darkened as shadowy thorns continued to puddle.
Nearby lightning cracks hid from thundery echoes.
With each explosion my locomotive doubled its time;
Faster and faster screaming and taunting the rain,
inebriated veins screeching “Ice-water!” -
…and then a stillness overtook me.  The warden sighed a calm ripple;

From a dream my eyes bathed in tranquil ripples
of shimmering obsidian disguised as puddles.
Behind me were footsteps painted with water.
A song  I knew from Radiohead was echoing
a muffled chorus through sliding glass doors; “broken hearts make it rain,
broken hearts make it rain” and I remembered a happier time.

Then ripples staggered down my spine.   Tingling echoes
were  empty puddles violated by rain in my fingers and toes.
I again looked down at the water and thought, “Better get movin’, it’s breakfast time.”

2nd Place in contest "Rain" judged 9/10/16

Copyright © Phillip Garcia | Year Posted 2016