Best Hessian Poems
On the black stallion of death,
Its red crimson eyes pierce through the night,
And the hell's beast breathes its hot brazen breath
Blazing against the darkness's chilling air!
Does he ride, this phantom of the dead,
Wielding vengeance's sword.
With one hand on the hilt of the blade,
The other arm reaching outwardly,
One finger pointing at his intended victim!
Screaming with a blood curdling howl,
Give me your head vermin, or I'll cut
It off myself, than laughing at their fear!
Beneath crimson fire moon, this hooded and caped,
Death's stalker, hunts down the innocent
Taking that which he desires the most
Their essence of life!
Run to the bridge's safety salvation lies
At the other end beyond.
For these waters cleansing baptism,
Could swallow him whole.
The headless horsemen cannot cross,
These blessed waves of sanctuary,
Or banished is he, hell bound for eternity.
This highway man, rides devastation’s
By ways, of the unknown.
Seeking to restore mind and body,
This Hessian with aggression,
Yearns for justices revenge, to what
Ends bequeath, he cares not, the price
To be paid, in human flesh and blood.
On Saint Hollows Eve, the horsemen
Gallops, across dead-man’s boundary,
Awaiting the stray trespasser, to trip into
His well-hidden trap.
Than striking without mercy's sake,
With its sharpened edge, steel slices
The mortal flesh, taking his prize,
The headless horseman rides away
Into the night.
Yelling, I'll return next Hollows Eve, be thee
So warned, for your salivations sake alone,
Don't tread in Sleepy Hollow after dark!.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Categories:
hessian, adventure, dark, evil, halloween,
Form:
Free verse
"The Hummingbird Cake"
The day started bright -
Bright Eggshell Blue
and ended in percussion
dark and cloudy stormed in
thunder pummelled drums
against a backdrop of
bruised eggshell dijon yellow
sweating heavy sage green
spitting spoilt the swollen pride of purple,
a wet abrasion against
Electric Blue
crackling along her lips
like Lightening
Sizzled on
her bitumen
her mind
winked at you...
Splits two
into one
not three
Taken slowly
deliberately
cake digested
swallowed like swallows
nibbling freely on air
a symphony of do you see me
in a Hummingbird storm
stairs to you she stares
upwards forever upwards
at lines of ebony tied tight
words kick and spit
like a cat in heat caught up
in a hessian sack
words in a puzzle
shaken and caste
on a playing board
pure white
not black
She,
Third person,
always Third person,
listens to her own heart
and then listens to the
words you have put on
and slowly worn warm
Revisits in her evening
a conversation with an old friend
Lorikeets on the balcony
Passionfruit cake and their
beaks in honey
a day in the life of Mosman
Carmen the dancer
Blueberries and
Raspberry Banana Bread
and Gold Crested
Pterodactyl Cockatoos
commandeering her kitchen
her gangster lovers
dead ends and loose screws
The day started bright blue
Ended in a thunder clap
boiling over onto a glowing hotplate
of flying embers,
reckless kisses and an unplanned
Storm;
A piece of Hummingbird Cake
was fed through a thread
In dreams while you watched
a movie in bed
Spoken to you
through
mind cerebral
not Reality read
Poppyseed and Honey
Bees buzzing on swollen
unheard lips
that silently bled Red
Words
Meanings
Life
Read
Red
Sugar ingested,
Honey to Blue Horse Flies.
Australiana
Fed.
Sleep,
Bed.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"Listen to the Hummingbird" / Leonard Cohen
https://youtu.be/hYIeW8bwlWQ
"Meadow" / Liam Gallagher
https://youtu.be/wHVuW7eOPNI
"Cosmic Dancer" / T.Rex
https://youtu.be/GMfjA4gyEcU
"Meadow" / Liam Gallagher, Lyrics
https://genius.com/Liam-gallagher-meadow-lyrics
Categories:
hessian, freedom, psychological, romance,
Form:
Free verse
A delicate blue Daisy
Nestled between roses of pink and cream,
Held firm by pink love-in-the-mist,
Green foliage and tiny gypsophila.
Stems bound in hessian and ribbon.
Something blue in her bridal bouquet.
17th June 2017
Categories:
hessian, blue, color, flower, love,
Form:
Free verse
"Possums on the Run - Part 1"
Well she ran away
danced the F.U.
Revolutionary Dance
Jokers are trumps
Euchre, 500,
Queens Slippers
no Deuce, no Romance
Holey holy
blue jeans torn and buried
underneath the house
with uneaten sandwiches
going mouldy in plastic lunch bags,
old unwanted items, school books
torn pages, hessian bags, burnt pots,
newspaper wrappings fading
tales of the city with
dreams of necromancy.
She’s upstairs deliberating
sitting at the kitchen table
writing her stories
Over with doing the dishes
done with Rainbow Princesses,
homework squats and
buried small town garbage runs
over strawberry jam and creamed up
Sunday Cream Buns.
A good day out
some holiday
collecting cut grass
she stands watching
red skinned motor mower man
barking orders
while the other daughters
stand en garde cross-armed
no hat, sun burnt,
barefeet, blistering in the
boiling Sun.
En Garde, patiently waiting
watching Frilly Lizard Black Boy
Kangaroo Paw Hibiscus
“There’s a tortoise under the
outside dunny!”
there’s a flaming tortoise
on the run
slow mode
totally bizarre,
wonders where
it came from…she thinks,
“run tortoise run”.
She knows better, she’s 17,
she’s the Dancing Queen,
she’s Top Gun.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Jan 2018)
1. .... x
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2ZUX3j6WLiQ
Categories:
hessian, childhood, father daughter, journey,
Form:
Free verse
The Prospector:
He packs his tack in a great canvas sack
And then drives away in his car.
Nobody cries as they wave their goodbyes;
They will await his return from afar.
When he reaches the track he will find his way back
With his GPS tuned to a star.
The stories are told how he travels the road
With constant anticipation,
He ignores the snakes as he hammers in stakes,
On the boundary of his location
This man has gone bush, and he shows no rush
To return to civilization.
This modern-gold seeker, with a stick and a beeper
That creates echoes to his ears from the ground.
On his own, he unpacks his gear from his sacks,
He’s left family and friends in the town.
Now the bush replaces their loving embraces
With an encompassing sky and a peaceful surround.
The look on his face shows nary a trace
Of emotion as he unpacks his gear.
He sets up his camp, and primes his lamp,
Lights fire, and watches a dingo draw near.
Staring into the embers, he starts to remember
Other campsites like the one he has here.
He wakes in the morning, stretching and yawning
As he extracts his bones from the ground.
His muscles will strengthen as the days lengthen
While he walks the grid; listening to sounds.
Bright are his eyes, as he unearths the prize
His detector, signals it there to be found.
When his eyes behold the nugget of gold
As he digs in the earth for this prize
They sparkle and shine as he takes out his twine,
Knotted, for measurement of size.
The tail of his shirt removes unwanted dirt
And hessian covers rock from prying eyes
As he looks to the ground; there is more to be found!
Shards that catch the bright setting sun.
He puts some in a pot, then marks this fine spot,
So he can find it again when he’s done.
For the task of recording his find in the morning,
He must leave; he feels he should run.
From the past he has learned, he knows he’ll return
After the assayer sees what's in his sack.
There is quiet celebration, with this revelation
As he phones his partner to say she should pack.
They both go to sign on the dotted line,
Then together they travel the track back.
Wordancer
Categories:
hessian, adventure, friendship, inspirational, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
From Noonlight to Moonlight
I'll chance to mention a jaunt once took, along a sloping ridge; coming up steady o'er jakes ravine, cross the creaking pinewood bridge, tethering up the hosses, to a half charred lightening stricken tree; we gazed right down the 'scarpment at cattle roaming free after muffling up our riding boots in swathes of Hessian brown; stooping right over we made our way, by the darker shadowed ground, we got to to a stand of trees, that offered the needed hide; scuttling there as quick as quick, until we were inside made sure no herders were present, heard no sounds borne on the breeze; we picked out a couple of young heifers, this side of some bouldered scree then raising our crossbows silently, as moonglow licked each bolt; we loosed ..Whoosk.! the thuds)) sounded so strong you almost felt the jolt.: did i see a gleam in Mikkies eye?? could it be a heartfelt tear?? I said we had no real choice you know, my voice edged with tension & fear, a quick smile shot right back at me, as gazing deep in my eyes; she gave a hard kick into my shin, catching me by surprise!! saying now while I' affix the lariats Joe, you vamoose up the mountainside; get the horses and drags back soon, in case the rancher makes a ride, so I lit out for the ridge crest, my heart was beating wild." While swearing that damn hussey's more capricious than a wayward child; once on the ridge i scramble down, back to the waiting steeds quickly pulling the halters loose, my mind intent on speed!! soon I'm back with Mikkie, we pull the heifers onto the drags; then we're coaxing our horses up that draw!! headed for the safety of our own distant and shadowy crags. copyright Joe Maverick.co.uk
Categories:
hessian, cowboy-western,
Form:
Rhyme
Grandma rode a pig one day,
Cause her horse had gone lame,
She rode it down the main street,
Horace was quite tame.
She had a rope around his neck,
Grandma pulled him to a stop,
With bonnet on and hessian bags
She went into the shop.
Groceries bought, she returned
And placed them on the pig,
As Grandma rode past a gawking crowd
Some locals did a jig.
Her horse soon got better,
It was the only piggy trip she made,
But now each year on that day
They hold a lady's pig parade.
Ladies with their bonnets
Sit astride a local swine,
Grandma judges best on street,
I hope she chooses mine.
Categories:
hessian, children, funny,
Form:
Rhyme
I was born in 1943
in a rural backwater safe from the bombs
also a safety net still akin to the 19th century.
Neither electricity nor gas
only an old oil lamp and candles for comfort.
The luxury of the tin bath once a week
brought in from the scullery, placed in front
of the cast iron Yorkist fire range
with hob and side boiler, to source the hot water
poured into the bath at regular intervals
to help keep out the cold.
Old overcoats and hessian sacks placed across
the bottom of the doorways, to aid keeps out the icy drafts,
also aid as foot warmers once upon the beds.
A copper boiler for the weekly wash
a fire beneath to be lit, a combination of paper
sticks of kindling all pre chopped
as were the logs to maintain the heat
of the dark stained grey coloured water,
stirred by the posser, to aid mixture
of the home made soap, and the garments.
Slop bucket (The posh name for it)
to be emptied every morning,
carried down the lane to the tippler convenience
care not to spill on the seat or trouble with the neighbours.
Wet batteries for the wireless
to be carried once a week from the local store,
replacements for the empty ones
a choice of 2 stations
BBC and BBC.
Early nights, early mornings the darkness prevailing
throughout the long winter months,
only for the daylight to never end
in the month of June, impeding one’s sleep
even then we were never satisfied with our lot in life.
Only my father laying in a military hospital
a casualty of war, was missing the value of it all
after all he was fighting for it
his life style, his freedom our freedom
to enable me to write this, ever so simple story!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Categories:
hessian, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
With a stareless stare I glared
A hessian head with a stitched mouth
Button eyes creepy but kind
Round but bulgy, lumpily stuffed
An old shirt covered my back
As the sun beat down on me since dawn’s crack
My arms flappily held out to sides
Showing east and west on the green field’s rind
Only one leg I had beneath
On which I stood patiently
Planted deep into the soil
Where the farmers farmerly toil
And on my shoulder my friend was perched
Squawking harshly at sun’s rays first
Saying hi to me ev’ry day
For a quick chat – never long to stay
My only friend was my enemy
The one that came and sat down with me
The one I was supposed to scare away
Was the one I wished would rather stay
And as my old hat flapped about
The farmer would quite unkindly shout
At my friend that would sit down by me
Then my friend flew away – forever free
Categories:
hessian, friendship, irony, loneliness,
Form:
Rhyme
Flour sacks I remember you so well
full of golden grain, bran or flour
a slight but delightful musty smell
perambulating the atmosphere
Sacks cut up for all sorts of things
cloth shoes and dresses even trousers
rough coats that did not keep one warm
scarecrows dressed in sacks
Vegetables stored in sacks that are stacked
in rows inside the dutch barn ragged edges
where the rodents have been chewing happily
a veritable feast they will not go hungry
Sacks of cloth rule in my book
paper is not the same no way
a soggy mess when it rains
ripping as you carry them
Hessian sacks people knew would last
paper is only good for bonfires
or as twists to start the parlor fire
airless no good to store food through winter
written 11/22/2013
contest Whatever Happened To Flour Sacks
Categories:
hessian, food,
Form:
Light Verse
Curlews crake against white limestone walls
Their echo shrill in the early mist
Wake those who danced the night before
As bog sighs from heat release and black water buzzes
The insects a top scoot in siderwinder display
Heather hangs over and down to the slime in purple and yellow brown
A bicycle grounded on a nettled floor and endless sting
Dance long over and handle bars long relieved
Of scent of a young lady's dress up lifted by seam.
Corn mountain awakes and crows upon the light but corncrake was there first
Mountain clicks and breathes with new sunshine and old scenes the hay the turf
The window curtain a saucer hidden with red meat a treat unseen
Oh why does father not approve
Up, out, blue pooch curtain breaks open and feet to hessian mat
Get up quick the fox was down was in and took the best Rhode Island red
Never to lay never to feed nor mend the mesh but dance dance dance
Kneading and current buttermilk bray and toss and knead away
The heat remains and cooks and pots the bread upon the air
Sweet smell and egg and Rhode Island's best.
Hush boy a sound clean collar for him upon this summer working day
Hangs on Father McHugh's nail it hangs of starch and awaits it's wrap
Before the pipe alights and hears do tell her name do tell
Is the lady of good stock and family fair or cold and just of the night and the air
Forget the bird explain no more as the pipe will choke and bang the floor
Tell me again as Sunday lasts to Mass now and pray for those who passed
Categories:
hessian, nostalgianight, night,
Form:
Kyrielle
Banshees’ howl and werewolves’ prowl,
Medusa’s calling your name,
Under the cowl of vampiric fowl
You’re raising the stakes to the game.
A common greed, as succubi feed
Engulfing your final amen,
Planting the seed so all that you’ll need
Is the wisdom of darkness again!
Incubi mate invoking a fate,
Zombies seem so rotted out,
Cerberus waits, guarding the gate;
Screaming evolves from a shout.
Wendigo beasts and satanic priests
Infecting a poisoning pen,
Cannibal feasts, knowing at least
You’re welcoming darkness again.
Hessian witch, a smouldering *****
Cursing you all from the flame,
Spasmodic twitch relieving the itch
Still the figments of evil remain.
Entangled within a commoners sin
Corrupting the roots of our Zen,
Bleeding the kin and letting it in
Till we welcome the darkness again.
© Copyright 2013 Adam Parker
Categories:
hessian, dark,
Form:
Rhyme
Winston has passed on...
She heard him rummaging, turning on taps
opening the fridge, you know, stuff like that
removing her coat, a black felt-like hat
she set the long table and stroked her sad cat
then calling out as he stomped upstairs
You know that snow has stopped out there?
idly listening to his suitcases click
life, she mused, is cruel, unseemly quick
You see he'd bought his doggie fresh meat
rarely would Winston receive such a treat
she vigorously scrambled eggs with soft butter
anxiously preparing a meal for their supper
their tea lightly milked before she'd reveal
she'd buried his dog in that far orchard field
buried him deep in a Hessian sack
buried him deep next to old Jack
Winston will never again play fetch
eat them damn apples **** dribble retch
how could she describe Winston's demise
how could she prevaricate confabulate lie
they'd constantly worried about it all going to far
those hoops that tunnel that damn see-saw
devilish chicanes coloured balls
Yet round and round he loved it all
so feckin happy before he finally expired
one more summer you know he'd be nearly retired
excessive exertions is what they would say
Vet said so, don't ya know last Wed-nes-day
now poor Winston would run no more
howl to get in before peeing on the floor
don't cry she sobbled it is for the best
but I felt such guilt I must also state this
before I smothered that big head in wet clay
I painted his death mask earlier today
Oh how he wept as he turned sad and broken
Winston's image, a poorly executed token
Categories:
hessian, hilarious, , cute,
Form:
Cartons, squashed boxes moving in mountains
Men on motorbikes, sway-backed mules
Men bended carrying crates of apples
Hessian bags, sewn shut wait at home domains
In the Himalayas region there is no tradition or event
To announce apple picking, not plucking season
From August to October but depends on summer extent
But the locals agree it generally begins with reason
I landed at a guest house in Manali, Himalaya
Small houses lay hidden among the apple trees
As every family in the area owns an apple tree
Apples have become integral part of their lives
Oh, Cartons, squashed boxes moved in mountains
Men on motorbikes, sway-backed mules
Men bended carrying crates of apples
Hessian bags, sewn shut wait at home domains.
Unfamiliar, curious, as my excitement grew
Wandered off in a trice, my hotel owner suspicious
She followed me some distance so as to view
And make sure I wasn’t plucking apples delicious.
++++++++
Dr. Ram Mehta
Date: 18-10-13
5th place win
Contest :Apple picking time
Categories:
hessian, nature, seasons,
Form:
Rhyme
BURLAP and SATIN
Texture fine, woven design
Like harden tree sap
Rough is the burlap!!!
That's at my finger tips
Smooth is soft the satin as silk
The dress rapped around her waist
Burlap and satin
Give me such touch my reactions
Hard rough the silken liner
Smooth is the burlap binder???
Coarse touch soft brush
Weave me, cling to me of skin
Jute plant fibers touch
Burlap and satin
Just rough on the skin
May combine me with vegetable fibres
Wall hangings made of burlap rough to my eyes
Fibers to make rope, nets
Coarse canvas woven from jute, hemp
Burlap and satin
Browned fiber burlap, used especially for sacking
Sackcloth, gunny, canvas, hessian
Dress making and furnishing burlaps a burlap shirt
Fabric burlap Flowers nation
Can be a rose or carnation
Or woven even turned into a shirt Even seen them as a skirt
For what it's worth, smooth and rough
Burlap and satin
Matters not touch me in the morning
Also together burlap and satin so adorning
Fabric flower bouquet
A smooth, glossy fabric
Satin of silk, produced by a weave
In which this the threads
Burlap and satin
The warp caught and looped by weft cross stitch
At certain intervals a blue satin dress smooth like satin
Oh, also fabric flowers to the bouquet
Satin is a weaved that has glossy surface and dull back action
The satin weave is four or more no harm
Fill weft yarns floats over warp yarn
Four warp yarns floating over a single weft
a luxurious satin look For what it's worth smooth and rough
Burlap and satin
3/24/18 ©2018
For Contest: Burlap and Satin
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
Categories:
hessian, appreciation, beautiful, fashion, feelings,
Form:
Rhyme