Best Hatchets Poems
We are bouncing and prancing and living our truth.
We are the old women of Southside Acres McGuth.
We have bats and hatchets and know how to swing.
We slap them around while we dance, and we sing.
The old men at Southside Acres hid in their rooms.
They were afraid of these women who carried big brooms.
They had heard of this sort, so they hid most of the day.
The old women of Southside yelled “hip! hip! hooray!”
Categories:
hatchets, age, women,
Form:
Rhyme
The tulips and the marigolds were in a gun battle today.
Queen of Tulips was mad for her latest slave Charlie had run away.
She started the battle with hatchets, battle axes, and hammers too.
Queen of Marigolds ended it with assault rifles, painted periwinkle blue.
Categories:
hatchets, humor, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
THE CLOWN
The entire world loves a clown,
But wait until they get a load of me,
Is what the faceless figure under the mask
Says, heckling with laughter's haunting zeal.
After the lights of the midway fade, and the
Crowd's confetti is swept away, it is my turn
To play!
Sedition's malevolent being, lies hidden beneath
A painted on smile, I'm the devil incarnate,
So come along child of innocence, and we'll
Have a bloody, ghouling good time, just you
And I!
Many props of fun time’s torture, do I possess,
Chose which of these that you think is the best,
I'm not picky in the least, my new playmate.
Beneath the crimson big top, of fleshes canvas,
I'll put on a special show just for thee,
So save your screaming applause, until
After I'm finished if you so please!
All whom wish to join in my private
Carnival of fiendish delight, I welcome
Wholeheartedly, come young or old,
But beware none shall leave alive,
Or without missing a limb, maybe two.
Here comes my brethren in their tiny
Little hearse, did you think I'd not
Invite my kindred on such a special
Event like this.
Nay they've brought their own weapons,
Hatchets, machetes, and wonderful
Instruments as such, why do you look
So frightened, it won't hurt ####, that much.
Now some may say I'm a creature of
Darkness, an evil being without remorse.
But really under white face's make-up,
I'm just your average serial killer at heart.
Whom is quit creative, in the forgotten dark arts,
Of tortures insidious behavior.
So next time the circus comes to your small
Town remember, just hang around after the
Crowds leave the midway, don't worry
My friend, for I'll be hanging around just
Waiting for you, no special invite needed.
Signed sincerely, your friend the clown.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
hatchets, dark, evil, fear, halloween,
Form:
Free verse
Facing facts was never where he excelled:
avoiding them, he flitted, like a blind bat
guided as by sonar past obstacles
crowding the dark cave of his existence.
Still, some sight sifted through his shuttered eyes.
Onlookers might have guessed
he was merely another smug fat cat
forever grinning at the luck
that put him where, secretly,
he wished he would never have arrived.
Appearances aside, he was terrified
by his own fragility and that of those he loved --
a worrier, he merely masqueraded,
a graying rabbit with a nervous nose,
cowering in corners into which he heavily hopped
at the drop of each and every hat:
his mild pink eyes as tightly closed as any bat's
against the sight of hatchets
which might be flashing through the black
toward his hairy, cringing neck.
Categories:
hatchets, allegory, angst, sympathy,
Form:
Free verse
I, ex-conservative, do swear
The liberal view beyond compare,
Obama’s term, all heaven knows,
Like sweet lush grass between our toes,
Conservatives of good intent
As rare as bread from heaven sent.
I kneel before my liberal friends
And pledge my heart to make amends,
You stood by me when still a geek
Forgiveness mine, no need to seek,
Helped me to see the longer view,
Rejoin what Nixon split in two,
Let all of us forget our pride
And bury hatchets far and wide.
Let politics work as it should,
With give and take, sweet brotherhood.
Ex-conservative Date
_________________ _____________
Brian Johnston
April 2, 2015
Categories:
hatchets, political,
Form:
Rhyme
Tears after Fears….By Kones Kipkoech
The church, the police station,
The mall, the school, the airport,
The bus stop, the market,
Even the State House
Everyone lives in fears,
Which soon turns to tears.
Why murder ?
Is it religion ?
Is it region ?
Is it the skin colour?
Riches or poverty ?
Why spill innocent blood ?
Why does your eyes blink in joy in the sight of spilt blood ?
Why does your nose heave with joy at the smell of the blood ?
Why does your finger rests on the trigger?
Ready to execute an ‘Holy command?’
We live in trepidation,
You instill fear by your blood beckoning threats,
Chickenhearted, you render us,
At dawn, you threaten to blow off the roof of this temple,
At noon, you threaten to steal the sacred wind at that mall,
Twilight comes, we shed tears for the blood you spilt at the bus stop…
And leave us wondering ; who’s next ?
Tutu! Tututu! Tutu! Tutuu!
A white fatty flesh flying in the air ?
Oh! No! The brains of my fellow compatriots,
You have blown them off,
As the whirl wind does the chaff,
And fled, and claim you execute a Holy retaliatory act?
Terror, tension tears and trauma;
Dismay, disquiet, disheartenment and dread;
Shock, strain and stress,
Are painful piercing words you have taught us to live with.
Is murder a Holy Act?
Why ruin the vibrant youths?
Why indoctrinate our youths?
Kill to defend a ‘religion’?
Kill to defend a ‘region’ ?
Kill for American currency?
Kill for a ticket to heaven?
I reckon it’s hell though.
A religion that murders is not a religion,
God is love,
Love for humanity is the right religion,
You and I are images of God,
Your religion is right,
If it promotes love for all humanity
My religion is right,
If it teaches love for all,
From West to East
From North to South…Love
You have a right,
I too have a right
For you and for me,
God is one !
Shall our tears forever flow ?
Shall fear forever cripple us ?
Let’s restore the glory of our land,
Tranquility is what we need in our land,
Let’s bury the hatchets,
Let’s come to the table,
We are one blood, one nation and one people,
Thus;Let’s embrace; love ,peace and harmony !
Categories:
hatchets, abuse, anti bullying, conflict,
Form:
Verse
slivers of gold sifted out
glints of sunshine
cutting through clouds
only for moments
we traipse through thick thorny vines
grabbing around our ankles
each day falling into holes
of kids screaming
climbing jagged mountains
of bosses needing more
more of our thinly spread bodies,
minds, and spirits
wading through mud
thick mud of mortgages
sticky stinky car payment mud
vines wrapped around our neck
with sharp thorns
sharp marriage thorns of
selfishness and indifference
we whack away with our dull hatchets
as red despair and confusion
drip down our legs with each tiring step
then for a short moment
a piercing glimpse of sun and blue sky
the blue sky eyes of that little boy
made inside me
the sun dancing
on that sweet girls giggles
as she puts her short awkward funny
arms about my undeserving neck
those blue eyes of that boy
and giggles of that girl saving me
saving me every day from ungratefulness
the smell of her hair and warmth of his cheeks
pulling me up from the tangled mess
heap of indirection and self pity
for brief seconds a cool embrace
from the one who helped me make them
cold water embrace from the hope stream
quenching my parched self righteous lips
unsure when the glint of sunshine or
sliver of gold may revisit
Categories:
hatchets, sadme, blue, self, blue,
Form:
Free verse
We started going house to house and freeing all the
slaves, then killing all the white folks left with
hatchets, knives and chains,
we only used blunt objects to conceal our wave of
smoke, I'll surely be the father to the mom of all
revolts.
I speak of 'we' because by now we numbered 7-0,
and had the whiteness falling to the ground like
heaven's snow,
we went through 55 caucasians and their pretty
wives, we also killed the kids but there were some
who didn't die.
The poor white families were spared, we left them
all intact, they didn't think no better of themselves
than they did blacks,
the point of this to whites was our reality in chains,
reality depicting the brutality of slaves.
We only got 2 days before revolting was
suppressed, by white mobs and militias causing 56
black deaths,
along with others killed and beaten numbered many
more, I think it was 200 but I really can't be sure.
I ran eluding capture for another couple months, the
white folks swore that I would pay for all these
sick'ning stunts,
until the day October twenty 1831, they found me in
this ditch I'm hiding in, I guess I'm done.
They tried me and they found me guilty, sentenced
me to death, this happened on November 5th, there
wasn't much time left,
was hung on the 11th and for days that's how I
stayed, until they cut my head off and my body
chopped and flayed.
I look around at blacks folks in this modern day and
age, and there may be some freedom but y'all still
are truly slaves,
for me though death is nothing seeing those get
killed for drugs, remember me Nat Turner for the
man I really was.
Categories:
hatchets, historyhouse, me, day, house,
Form:
Rhyme
We had been married thirteen years.
We had two daughters aged four and one year old.
I had no idea what she wanted to talk about that day.
We went into our bedroom and closed the door.
There were no traces of any hatchets,
but by God one was about to fall.
I only heard the first few sentences before the room went silent.
The echo of my heart was beating in my skull.
A cold invisible sweat rolled down my brow.
My body was drowning in an unforgiving ditch of sinking mud.
The atmosphere was a sandpaper
grating against the grain of my senses.
Even the chair I was sitting on betrayed me
as it plugged itself into the wall.
There was no call from the governor
. The sentence was death by a lethal injection of
‘it is over, I want a divorce.’
My wife of thirteen years ended our relationship that day.
If love is bliss, if it is the light
then unrequited love is the switch that extinguishes the Sun.
I was sure “I am not in love with you,”
repeated itself in the annals of the entire universe.
Surely, the planets were no longer aligned;
the stars must have lost their brilliance that day.
At least the traffic must have stopped
and the economy crumbled worldwide.
Not as much as a mosquito bite
was affected that day.
All was as it should be.
Life was as fine as rain,
the day my world stopped spinning
and fell off its axis.
I cried that day,
I cried everyday for the next five years.
There is no pain
like the rejection
of the love of your life.
I was monogamous then
and I am monogamous now.
One life, one love.
It took me another two years to stop crying completely
and another three to grow a new spine.
It was, it is a brand new day and I am searching for my one love.
It feels good to be alive. It feels good to smell the flowers in the rain.
September 1 2014
Categories:
hatchets, heartbroken, universe,
Form:
Prose Poetry
I lay crying in the woods,
Bloody knees and a broken nose,
The rain is falling washing away some blood,
My hair is knotted and filthy with who knows.
No one travels this dirt road,
This is to much of a mental load,
Are they waiting so quiet,
Will this end in a riot.
My clothes are tattered and torn,
My heart is full of nothing but scorn,
I hear them walking in the woods,
I run frantically my senses are no good.
I hide behind a tree,
Hopefully they won't see me,
Their knifes and hatchets make me panic,
They call my name now I'm frantic.
I pray to the saints for divine intervention,
Getting killed was never my intention,
I just wanted to camp and have fun,
Now I know my life is done.
They grab my hair and drag me back,
I'm traveling inside some kind of sack,
My doom is now sealed I hear from above,
I regret not saying I love you to those I loved.
I hang now from ropes tied to the roof,
My soul needs no more proof,
The pain is agonizing and too much to deal,
All I can do is cry and squeal.
They draw the knife from the table,
I know now escape is now unable,
He makes small horrifying slits,
And a dose of salt is what I get.
A lit cigar is next an his list,
I try to go somewhere else in my mind finding no bliss,
He pokes me with a shallow point,
The pain sits in at my joints.
He removes my bones one by one,
I hope he is having fun,
I am dying there is no doubt,
I wish I had taken another route.
I'm sorry my family and loved ones,
Sorry for all the things I've said and done,
I'll see you one day in heaven,
It's sad I died at eleven.
Categories:
hatchets, childhood, deathme, pain, hair,
Form:
Heroic Couplet
the argument started like the lighting of a fuse
embers of an ongoing conflict spanning years &
the fact remains, at this age, neither of these family members need see each other any more unless they choose to---
so while one begins to chew the other out &
soon the new argument just becomes an addendum to the last
time they sparred,
and as the typical apathetic conclusion begins to loom on the horizon
(since neither parties are really listening to the other),
one of the parties changes their role &
begins to plea for a different ending to this
fight---
an effort is now being made by one party to
end this ongoing fight &
to change the course of their personal history,
this effort is a greater challenge than most things in either one of their lives
because it entails immediate family,
because it means real change
which cannot be won overnight &
which means that old ghosts & horrible memories
which have held together hate for so long
must be buried underground,
deep underground,
like so many successfully smothered hatchets
which have helped keep families together
while others continue to be torn apart &
destroyed by much less.
Categories:
hatchets, life,
Form:
Free verse
The concrete and plastic, chrome domed
bricked up auditorIum rang
like a hollow bell,
a meager few red skins circle the stadium seats
like smoke from a mythical “peace” pipe
ragged, distilled, diluted, distraught, “dised”
A 21st century ablution of angst.
Round shoulders meet, sidelong glances;
old and young form for dances.
All semblance of nature betrayed
by polyester tassels and cheap Crayola yarn fringe,
a sneakers and moccasins mix,
only the whistle-drum, and sage smoke sanctifies.
Circles form, crouching over polyurethane floors
silver hair, braids and hands harden; they bear,
bore the “dis” missive, disdain,
the balm of music eased all the pain.
Round shoulders meet, sidelong glances;
old and young form for dances.
The roof “dis” appears becomes the night sky
air vibrates with the heart thumping of stick on skin,
and so WE, the PEOPLE begin.
Chants warm the taunt throats of man;
a whistle trills the coyotes howl.
Heartbeat sings a drum song,
bowed and bent the circle dancers form.
Stomp, twirl, braids a whirl, winged dancers rattle and bell.
Mans peacock form no longer forlorn rises above the well.
Chant the tell tale heart,
the sorrow the joy, drum thumpers hatchets fall
on the neck of a starry night.
Drum and dance invite…..
scream,….soul song, smoke dream,
eyes daze in a reverent scheme.
Categories:
hatchets, native american
Form:
Narrative
Nobody ever forgets where he buried the hatchet. ~ Kin Hubbard
You bring the hatchet
each time
and you bury it deep.
Your friend is still your friend.
Many hatchets more with them
you will bury.
But each new time
they cut you with another hatchet,
it opens up old wounds.
Some cuts -
as deep as the holes
they were buried in -
take longer and longer
to heal.
One day you realize
the cuts of many hatchets
have not been healing nicely.
The blood you bleed
has left a trail.
You follow that trail
to the many other hatchets
you thought were so
well-buried.
Maybe you will hoist up those hatchets-
every last one of them -
and raise them high
above your head,
then bring them
down
once and for all
with all your might.
WHACK!
Then you can say
“You, my friend,
are dead to me.”
Oct. 15, 2020
N/A in the Quotable Poetry Contest
Categories:
hatchets, friendship,
Form:
Free verse
She is forty-seven, but insists on being with our twenty-five-year-olds.
I have heard her in the office hallway begging to be invited to things.
I will bring a really good present if you invite me to your wedding.
I will buy a round of drinks if you let me come to your Friday night deal.
How did a person arrive at forty-seven and not have friends?
I am unsure why she is so needy, but she is in all of their social posts.
Throwing hatchets, on a sail boat, at their baby showers.
Her smile seems forced, but not as forced as the two next to her.
If they did not invite her, would she stalk them?
Wait outside their homes?
Follow their cars to the event?
Part of me says YES.
Categories:
hatchets, age,
Form:
Light Verse
Burying The Hatchet
©Ben Burton 4/7/2018
When burying the hatchet, make it deep
Thus none who travels by might ever see
That designee of senseless, squandered time
Wherein the guilt lies not in any crime
Save arrogance or stubborness gone wild
Which should have been abandoned as a child
The path that leads us to maturity
Yields tolerance for those who disagree
For rancor clouds the hearts and souls of men
And festers, making enemies of friends
Much better to omit uncommon ground
Since harmony exists in huge amounts
Still, civil disagreements can be good
If hatchets are confined to chopping wood
Categories:
hatchets, anger, forgiveness,
Form:
Rhyme