Hawing Poems | Examples

Witch G Bawing

She eats her lunch while precariously balancing herself on a line
None of us clearly know why, but she tells us it keeps her feeling fine.
Several ebony crows come by cawing, hemming, tooting and hawing.
But does she fall off? Not ever, she’s a professional, Witch G. Bawing.

Fifty-Two Pickup

rising and falling
hemming and hawing

fifty-two pickup
jokers included

Of Sallow Pallor

Trust is an oak tree with shallow roots.
so very treacherous in windy weather.
I feel as though I'm glued to the floor;
pinned like a moth to an insect display.

I wish to leave this horrible evil place, 
run far away into the cold, dark night.
In the flickering shadows of mankind
sympathetic words are a honeycomb, 
sweet to the soul; healing to the heart.

Dreams rise and fall like lunar tides;
engrossing thoughts flood the brain; 
as blood through old varicose veins.
Flotsam strewn about dying fields as
jetsam falls from darker, foggy skies.

Face rises to the sun, a sallow pallor.
Vultures perched, perversely hawing;
a flag is folded in presentation style;
roses tossed onto a shiny new casket.
The eve of one's quietus has arrived.

On Portraiture

Portraits can take many shapes and forms
Unlike in Rembrandt, a Rubens, or even a Dali
Modern artists will often eschew the norms
Portraits of myself do not look much like me.

Unlike in Rembrandt, a Rubens, or even a Dali
A portrait may be merely a fine-line drawing
Portraits of myself may not look much like me,
Asked why, the artist will do some hem-hawing.

A portrait may be merely a fine-line drawing
Having none of the subject’s facial features,
Asked why, the artist will do some hem-hawing
Artists must see subjects as mythical creatures.

Having none of the subject’s facial features,
I find it impossible to know who I’m looking at
Artists must see subjects as mythical creatures,
But I take umbrage when I am drawn as a cat!

I find it impossible to know who I’m looking at
Modern artists will often eschew the norms
But I take umbrage when I am drawn as a cat,
Portraits can take many shapes and forms. 

Written November 28, 2022

The Cauldron

I’d rather that my message was encapsulated in poetry
Instead of the hemming and hawing of the world
Seems a curse held under the breath, malodorous 
You know what they’re thinking, as if they were pure
But the cauldron is bubbling with maleficent baubles
Just waiting to spit in your eye, which was dry…

10/29/2020

A Bigger Bucket Please

The donkey was kicking up a ruckus all right
Hee hawing and making all kinds of a mess
We told him to hang on to the barn oh so tight

There was a bucket stuck on his head.
We ran for the doctor who came right away.
We told him to have patience or he might be dead.

My sister patted the donkey, and I helped Doc Boff.
It was touch and go with lots of kicking.
But at last we finally got that bucket off.

Doc Boff tried to reason with the donkey letting him know
He should not do it again, 
But unfortunately, that donkey was unbelievably slow.

It was the second time that week I said with a cough.
The doctor picked up the bucket and hid it in the corner.
If he cannot reach it, you won’t have to take it off.

But that’s how we feed him I argued my case.
Doc Boff gave me a forgiving smile. 
Get a bigger bucket, and you will save face.

During Sermon No One Seemed Inspired

During Sermon No One Seemed Inspired

During sermon no one seemed inspired,
Were almost sleeping while being tired;
Hemming and hawing;
Pawing and clawing,
And up congregation finally was fired.

Jim Horn

Arranged Hatred

Evil smirks are on the agenda 
For you tonight my Dear 
Ever so fortunate my beautiful face dims 
The hatred burning across the dinner table 
You're as dense as your guests 
They look at me through your eyes 
I am the luscious 
Silver spoon men like you relentlessly 
Pursue until you capture and kill us slowly 
I concede, by marriage I'm your wife
So when these friends of yours inquire 
About our consecration before God 
After too much brandy and not enough tact 
A blush rises and you feign modesty 
Hemming and hawing 
You out wait the women
So you can give them a detailed account of my very being
At night I turn my back to you 
And imagine you are one of the men you betrayed me to

Witness of Christmas

WITNESS OF CHRISTMAS

A long road, a long ride for pondering.
A burst of occasional hee-hawing.
Bumping along, did they sing, did they talk,
this man who dreams dreams, with Mary he walks.

Did the star follow them to Bethlehem,
encircling with golden diadem
the unborn Son of God, who turns with joy
within the virgin’s womb, this tiny boy.

A cold Winter’s opus breathes Mary’s psalm.
Her intended spouse smiles, uplifting palms.
Celestial beings keep watch of night,
alert to the impending birth of light.

Most moms would cringe to lay their babe in hay,
but the Holy Spirit gives His okay,
and this mother, of great faith, swaddles Him
as the stable animals wing a hymn.

Perhaps some alone time with their savior,
before the trail of wise men, create stir,
with gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh
and the meek shepherds arrive with their herd.

Angels all around — history’s witness,
taking turns “Hallelujah”ing a kiss.
Her holy infant son, warm in her arms,
Mary’s unique hold to all heaven’s charms.

12/24/2017

Sounds of the Day

Sounds of the Day Contest
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron


Accentuated by nature the hushed willow gently weeps,
Beneath the sun the sparrow cries as he gently sleeps,
Above the clouds the eagle flies to catch his helpless prey,
For these are the sounds I long for during the beautiful day.

The tweaking of the baby doe nestled in his mother’s arms,
The gentle hawing that follows from the colt inside the barn,
The breath of breezes whispered from gramma’s ol’ maple tree,
All create the sounds I love to hear full of exceptional majesty.

Sweet calling of the mother goose to feed her baby ducklings,
The tender swaying of the pigeons as they nest in coupling,
Whispers of the yellow sunflower seedlings fertilizing the field,
Captivating sweet tunes of nature, oh how it does appeal.

Articulating southern twang of a sweet newborn baby giraffe,
The accents of mooing and milking of a sweet newborn baby calf,
The resounding howling of my dogs while with the ball they play,
For these are the sounds I long for during the beautiful day.


Date Written: June 19, 2016

Spit It Out

Would you just spit out what you're trying to say!
Stop sounding like a jackass, hee hawing a bray.
Sugar coating words won't make them sound sweeter,
and don't even try to recite them in rhyme and meter.

You keep babbling words. It's foolish procrastination.
Stuttering "B b b b...but  B b b b...Baby" in hesitation.
Minced words are stumbling and fumbling from you.
Hinting with utter nonsense is what you always do.

I don't have the time or the patience to wait around
while you stammer in the most annoying sounds.
Tongue tied and afraid you'll say something wrong?
I'm not mincing words in telling you goodbye, so long.




6/17/16

Tom the Tatters Man

TOM THE TATTERS MAN






The sidewalk creaked the old-ship-creak, cracking away a gorge at last;
  asphalt split like wood, split-fast and bastions and toilets ------
  overflowing fast; flooding through the deep dark cracks:
  the Drunken Dance

Tom the Tatters Man, Tom and Ned ------- drowned whiskey white 
  wreaking around where harlequins astound; with wine and clowns 
  and nothing but buzzards around ------ they shot them all down,
  they drank while death danced in their hands, heaving and hawing
  til their heads swam
 
Alleys here and there strewn with vagabond boxes, boxed like shoes 
  too tight to make the fit ------ they'd all given up on the fix of life
  every last one; the eldest and the young,
  beggars all

Skyscraper shadows make a house of steely-steel thatched roofs
  steely rust upon the alleyway proofs, the back is cold and stiff upon
  morning whiffs.... 
  of molten garbage

Defeat

Tom the Tatters Man did not despair, while here and there
  molten garbage everywhere ------ in his socks and shoes, 
  molten in his mouth despite a tune, as he rose up and flinched
  his morning love; a shot of whiskey at nine o'clock

Withdrawing

Withdrawing

What's with all of this him and hawing?
From whole world is everyone withdrawing?
And sad has become their favorite word
Which to me really is totally absurd.

Is this what God does want you to do?
Say life is over, done and now through
And into a corner shall creep and hide;
Forget about all the pain so deep inside.

Dear God again to You I will pray;
With Your will please show me the way,
To avoid clusters of very bad thoughts
And my heart being tied up in many knots.

jthorn5656@atmc.net

Doors

Il vaut mieux- as there was nothing.
None knocks at the door, as I don’t knock more
A horse doer, escaping from the stable
I penetrate a place then dropping from the window
Humming – hawing,
Rushing,
Sighing,
-In a far bench
I count the stumbling words, trailing the weakened tongue

Il vaut mieux- as there will be everything.
I come looking for incision to run away
The scattered papers, I let go
Trying another iron or wooden door
I’m crazy about wall’s hole
Joyful,
Sorrowful,
Lustful,
Our relation is like railway lines
We meet underneath the pressure of changing the course.

We'Re Not Like Them!

Who cares if the road winds or wends
so long as I step with my friends?
Quit hawing and hemming!
We are not the lemmings
who blindly fall off to their ends.

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