Best Hewn Poems
Part I: Ice
He shines like silver midnight moon -
cool marble statue, this tycoon.
And though he makes the ladies swoon,
of ice he’s hewn; of ice he’s hewn.
He’s poker-faced and can deceive
competitors and can achieve
most anything, but can’t conceive
of Genevieve, of Genevieve.
Like Neptune, distant from the sun -
relationships he chose to shun.
He thought the search for love was done.
He has no one; he has no one.
Now love’s allure has come his way.
What will he do? What will he say?
Will he grab hold, beg love to stay,
or let it stray? Or let it stray?
Part II: Fire
This dragoness disguised in lace -
passion’s flower with angel’s face,
precisely picks the time and place
each dream to chase, each dream to chase.
Like ink the color red, she stains
the hearts of those whose love she drains,
and then she leaves when naught remains
No lust she feigns; no lust she feigns.
And now there’s one who would suffice.
For him alone, she’d sacrifice
her everything, so he of ice
she must entice, she must entice.
So Genevieve now strikes the flame.
Will man of ice his love proclaim?
Beneath her fire and his cold frame,
they’re both the same. They’re both the same.
Let me own the Night
Let the others play on bright sun-filled days,
in song and merriment, play on.
Let me own the shadows that seep into your soul,
yet still promise hold, a promise of sleep 'til dawn.
With the morning pray.., bring them on gilded and gossamer wings,
for bright is their future with warmth of everlasting hope, and hearts lifted.
I long to be as cold and silent as a blanket of new fallen snow,
to spin webs, translucent, with life ebbing and borne of tragic past.
When, at last, clouds part and ominous foreboding dread flees,
into the corners, hiding..sinless, without remorse or regret.
Let me own this cloak, beautiful as rough-hewn stone,
I no longer seek acceptance, nor call another's fate my own.
May Calliope sing and lull them to a blissful place, redemption their's to keep,
for it was always said that it must be so.
I will continue to turn away from the calamity of the sun,
for what's left unsaid remains unsaid, what's left undone, undone.
No tears will be shed that will be seen where shadows lie,
the dark will hold them, it would seem, and so shall I.
Treasure from the sea
Golden doubloon
Sixteenth Century artifact
By ancestors hewn
Earth’s history lays buried
Beneath five oceans
As undersea tremors
Create violent commotions
Freeing from Spanish galleons
Precious metals, gemstones
To greet early beachcombers
History on loan
Memories of bygone ages
Scattered on the sand
Finally kissed by sun again
While in a searcher’s hand
I pursue this morning trek
With Atlantis on my mind
Seeking proof at last
In treasures I might find
When ancient civilizations
Seem to disappear
Comb the beach, you might find
The evidence is here
For like a phoenix rising
New finds appear each day
And I’ll not stop searching
Till doubts I can allay
Cherokee chamber,
where a pow wow stampeedes preconceptions of inheritence,
from Her beaded neck charms of chance & chains of change
glisten from opulent offerings of roots, corn & lavender ablaze
on an alter of unworked stone mantled with skins strong beasts knew,
She is a " Stomp Dance " Queen with an owl as a friend and a spider as assassin,
with rattlesnake ribbons around Her wrists and prayers in Her braids thick with traditions,
the walls of Her teepee painted with the pigments of buffalo blood & sunflower pollen,
portraying a history hewn from customs known to Spirits and men alike,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen speaks for Her People and sings from the stars,
I found this Tribe, not in Appalacia nor on a prarrie stage but in the smoke of ceremony,
the Cherokee Princess has rattlesnake teeth tied to Her thigh & turtle shells upon Her hips,
She played the rabbit on the scene, then the wolf, if you know what I mean,
celebrated by the warriors as a tomahawk maker,
praised by the medicine men for Her Visions,
and feared by the Elders because of wrath that may follow Her steps,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen is a Princess, She is a Cherokee with a song Her own -
J.A.B.
The hutch
like everything else in this house is
crooked. A slanting hardwood floor
and the burnished ends
of an ancient table.
An ever rounding table
"a table with history" she says,
a lineage with the cut
and lineaments
of the eight-score man who built it.
The eerie, beautiful portrait
of some great- great- great-
someone-or-other
hangs so solemnly with Victorian grace
the nail has begun to bend,
but she will never fall.
One cabinet for the silver
and wine glasses
has been painted triple-white
and sunk into the wall like a safe.
Its shelves boiled clean
to hide their ignoble wood
(probably pine).
Not like the Oak left bare-
the smell and musk
of those dark hand-hewn ceiling beams
and the redolence
from somewhere behind the house
of deep-purple lilacs
growing fat like grapes.
Outside, the painted gardens swirl together
in a dizzying carousel of color and light
with short, fat brush strokes
and heavy, bold shadows;
the flowers burn from the healthy soil
replacing sand from ten years ago.
200 bags of fertilizer and now:
A nightgowned woman plays firefighter
every morning with a green hose,
keeping up with the investment.
To hear me would sound like a symphony of octaves –
played all at once with concrete fingers
on diamond in the rough strings.
To see me…O’, to see me you would have to turn,
ever so slightly sideways, to ensure proper exposure –
one would not wish to either scar his or her retinas
with too much light; or murder their spirits with silky
raven on a moonless night, darkness. No, no. That
is far too much for the eyes to bear.
To touch me would be like dipping warm fingertips into
a pool of liquid mercury; like the sun’s rays beneath
the water, touching the ocean’s deepest silver depths.
The scent of me would bring your waiting nose to a
dichotomy of frenzy – one side wanton, and as eager
as a schoolboy with a playboy – but the other side!
The other nostril would shrivel under scrutiny; buckle under
the burning scent of disgust and unrefined madness, as if you
were smelling your own death, not the florid scent of Eden.
And to taste me…to taste me would leave the tongue
as twisted as a winter apple’s branches; as torn as a wool
tartan from the shoulder’s of a traitor; and as confused
as a year without Spring. To taste me would be like
tasting every dream you ever lusted, and every ending
that ever broke you – like sipping lemonade in the void.
But…if you are the one; the only one in the midst of all
this impenetrable chaos who can sense me, beyond
the average man’s malleable stone-walled borders –
than I bid you come. Test the likes of this diamond
against your rough-hewn backdrop – try me on for size;
see if you have the stones to not. Get. Cut.
*Inspired by Nathan Leccese's Diamond in the Rough, contest. :)
When the night wind changes course
sending breezes from the north,
when farmer's fields lie brown and fallow
and empty ropes swing from the gallows,
when children's faces are drawn and gaunt
and earth-bound spirits wail and haunt,
when eagles scan the barren snow
and field mice shiver deep below,
The dragon stirs deep in his lair,
the townfolk sense him with despair,
the mountain rumbles as he wakes,
he spreads his wings, the valley quakes.
He snorts and breathes a sulphur fire
and eyes his cache with dark desire,
gold and gemstones line his cave,
a sea of diamonds with emerald waves.
The trees are black against the snow,
one warrior stands to face his foe,
chain mail clanking, his sword is honed,
he goes to face his fate alone.
Fire breathing, wing-spread vast,
the warrior is at first aghast,
the dragon's chest and stomach, too,
shine with gems of multi-hues.
He'd slept so long upon his loot,
he wore a jewel-encrusted suit.
He saw the warrior's weapon glint
and chuckled at this innocent.
The dragon swooped and breathed his breath,
the warrior smelled the scent of death.
Many times the dragon dove
and set aflame the fields and groves.
Lost in this game, he gave no thought
to the warrior who mattered naught,
and as the dragon flew by low
the warrior drew his mighty bow.
The bow and arrows were Elfen-hewn,
inscribed with words in ancient runes.
The warrior held his breath and aimed
and steeled himself against the flames.
The dragon saw the arrow cocked
and turned his head, their eyes were locked.
The arrow's flight was straight and true,
into the dragon's eye it flew.
The warrior was elected king,
he wore fine jewels and heavy rings,
but though he tried, he found no peace,
he'd formed some strange bond with the beast.
The corpse was plucked clean of its jewels
and all the people danced like fools,
though he was king of hill and glen,
they never saw him smile again.
"To The Moon And Back"
Once, in a blue moon, true love comes along
Surpassing all limits...growing so strong...
That each beating heart breathes in, the same song.
I found such a love...the night I met you...
The stars whispered to me, "This love is true!
For you, there is nothing, he would not do."
Each time I asked you to lasso the moon
And take us both there, to sit, while we spoon
Within its crest...in a place you had hewn
Aloft on a cloud...that rope made whack.
We said, "I love you to the moon and back!"
With our hands entwined...this love would not slack.
We loved with our heart and soul...and we knew
Love's Eternal...even when gone from view...
Gazing at the moon, I see...me and you.
3.2.2017©deborah burch
Note:
Final verse not entered d/t confines of length:)
Precious moments...are these. I hold them dear
Looking not for stars...when the moon's so near
Your reflection sparkles in every tear.
Door o’ green
The door of green it stands ajar,
I enter here in a dream, so far,
A rough hewn table, here it sits,
Big yellow candle splutters its,
An ancient room, of meditation …..
As I look about the ancient room,
A figure seen within the gloom,
Svelte of body, bosoms loom,
The sweetness of creation,
She comes to me with loving eyes,
No words are needed, sobs or sighs,
And pressing close, and locked of eye,
I hold this incarntation,
The sudden chill of nipple freeze,
The points are made with subtle ease,
What can I do but play on these,
No words of explanation?
Moving closer within her thighs,
I trace her form, though things do rise,
Her bosoms rise, in breath caught size,
Inpaled by the situation,
I try to leave, she says don’t go,
The fire is burning me, you know,
Till passions fire has had to blow,
Exhaustion’s generation,
The magic place behind the door,
Where love does wait for me and more,
Fantasy says, yes me explore,
A mental apparition….
Don Johnson
Maples shed their trembling leaves,
the scorch of daylight dies and evening drips
in pools of reddish hue as I bereave the absence
of my heart's desire with saddened, love-lorn lips.
Happiness, a blessing never to be felt again,
slipping from my memory, as distant as the moon;
'neath cloudless skies I roam for miles to look for rain
in search of solace, for my spirit's sorely hewn.
Her gleaming beauty doth illuminate the night,
sets flares to shame, outshines the blushing rose.
I'd trade my soul and halt the oceans in their flight
if only she'd forgive me, put an end to all my woes.
Autumn winds chant a soulful tune
Elusive songs they choose to play
as maple branches bend and sway
Aspen trees drop their leaves too soon
Hues of umber, amber and gold
as seasonal changes unfold
Across forest floors they are strewn
Russet carpets to lie upon
when in repose a sigh is drawn
Then comes the sad cries of a loon
Haunting sounds foreshadowing death
She calls her mate with one last breath
Like withered leaves, a life was hewn
Taken from loved ones in the night
A cherished soul risen in flight
Pale light spills from a sallow moon
Beneath its glow we weep and mourn
Grief pierces like a sharpened thorn
Autumn winds chant a soulful tune
Aspen trees drop their leaves too soon
Across forest floors they are strewn
Then comes the sad cries of a loon
Like withered leaves, a life was hewn
Pale light spills from a sallow moon
September 19, 2022
In Remembrance of Connie - Autumn Theme Contest
Sponsored by Suzanne Delaney
In the heart of some dark English city
Came a sight that turned everyone's head
When as if from some dream came a wonderful team
In a wild sea of Boro Red.
Through all of my life it's been with me
All the fears, all the tears that I've bled
It wont run it wont yield it's my comfort and shield
This wild sea of Boro Red
Now this is a beautiful color
When I've worn it I've laughed and I've cried
It was hewn from the iron men of legend
And its run through with passion and pride
And now my Red Lion days are closing
As I lie on my funeral bed
I can see once again all those magical men
In a wild sea of Boro Red.
Sorrow soon be gone, glory fill my eyes
Boro I was born and Boro I will die
Never stopped believing, I kept my spirits high
Boro I was born and Boro I will die.
-----------------------------------------
Hear me sing this on youtube.
Google Boro Red. Louis Spence.
Thanks for reading.
Rio de Janeiro, a city by the shore:
Home to Ipanema, Carnival and dance folklore.
As a child, of you I read, from books that showed your Christ.
Arms outstretched, He guards your days and lights your sky by night.
And now I’ve stood beneath His feet and breathed the air you breathe.
I’ve viewed the famous Sugar Loaf, seen monkeys play in trees,
visited your fruit stands and drunk from a coconut shell.
I’ve searched for creatures hewn in stone that midnight vendors sell,
and on your soft and clinging sand, I thrust my toes deep in
and glistened under winter sun, brown sugar on my skin.
Along Copacabana, I jumped waves, enjoyed a beach
which, when they cross an avenue, all visitors can reach.
On weekends and on holidays, your several sea fronts teem
with hundreds, no with multitudes, of people who all seem
content to chat beneath umbrellas, lounging in the sun,
while on a road closed to all traffic, others like to run.
And on that winding promenade are folks, most clad in shorts,
thong-bikinied women, sundry shapes and shades all sorts!
Kids whiz by on roller blades; old or young may ride a bike.
Many simply merrily stroll, though dressed as for a hike.
And in your city’s whole, the countless cars and bodies stream;
pedestrians and door-less shops, props in your waking dream.
with taxis veering left and right and people catching buses;
Cacophony of life your subways and your streets encompass.
Children on their mother’s hands; boys in soccer shirts.
Men sip beers at sidewalk bars; girls scurry in their tight skirts.
Portuguese artisans laid the paths your people walk.
What tales immersed in history if cobblestones could talk!
More than a metropolis, you are yourself, unique!
And I have had the pleasure to have sampled your mystique.
For Bic Gi-Sa's Landscape and Towns Contest
Somewhere in the Appalachian Hills quilted with love
there are cottages and curtains clothes on sills, quilted with love.
Up high in deep where electric wires don't reach where night is dark
and the ridge the deepest blue of spruce hearts are still, quilted with love.
Across the table hewn from ancient apple, rubbed and oil, flat, sweet
lies a cloth that Gram made from flour sacks once filled, quilted with love.
The stream, miles off, had held a mill where wheat was yearly brung
our harvest gleaning we would bring barefoot uphill, quilted with love.
Nothing was wasted then, old clothes, became new, small bits of sacks
bought comfort, hot pots to hold, mended gifts, heart instilled, quilted with love.
Some modern folks, when they hear his name,
will roll their eyes and look ashamed,
thinking the cowboy is uncivilized,
with his hats, and guns, and round-up rides.
That somehow they are beyond the stuff,
to good for the wild, and the rough,
following some unwritten ‘elite’ law,
suppressing the urge to shout ‘yee-haw!’
But I think when it all is said and done,
cowboys are truly made of awesome…
Riding swift across the wide-open plains,
coat flapping behind like your horse’s mane,
maneuvering a large and panicked herd,
turning a stampede with iron nerves,
rough-hewn men cooking by the firelight,
coyote chorus yips through the night,
knowing that for all the wind and grit,
it sure beats sitting in an office.
A battered hat worth more than any pearl,
grabs the attention of the cowgirls,
boots that announce you in any room,
be you a mere hand, or fancy bride-groom.
Leather vests that dress up any shirt,
and somehow can even make fringe"work,
a bandana or a wild rag,
with a thousand uses, not a mere fad.
The tell-tale jangle comes from your spurs,
vast coat made out of buffalo fur.
Square-dance, line-dance, twirl a girl around,
to fiddle and steel guitar’s sound,
campfire songs to entertain the kids,
harmonicas to sing the blues with,
teaching the folks to throw a lasso,
then breaking out tricks with swirling rope.
Living life by a strong honor code,
one that good people would do well to know.
Wyatt Earp and his famous revenge ride,
Masterson cut Dodge City down to size,
Doc Holliday gambling with a death wish,
Billy the Kid, criminal, yet tragic,
Wild Bill holding those aces & eights,
and old Kit Carson, out blazing the way,
Buffalo Bill brought the people a dream,
and who can forget, the legend Bass Reeves?
A six-gun at ready, holster right side,
the lines of a Winchester, ever sublime.
Ranches that sprawl on mountain and prairie,
riding the trails where man can breath free,
rampaging rodeo, those guns are fun,
and damn can those barrel-racers run!
Living out of doors, by both skill and luck,
be it on a horse or a pick-up truck,
It’s clear that when all is said and done,
that cowboys are truly made of awesome.