Hessian Poems | Examples

An Artist's visit

For Sara Jama's contest "Emotional Shrapnel"
05/10/2025

she appears spontaneously
courtesy asunder
an uninvited visitor
behind her a seeping of rust at the gates
an artist with barren hands
splashing scarlet all over the hessian
a lurid migration, primordial as fossils,
sketched by Selene’s soft summoning
into the earth’s belly, 
with feeble niggles,
surging to tremor crescendos
abrading,
            grinding, 
                         scraping
in the moulded wisdom of the womb
where a design is deferred
a cradle lies still….

Sleeping Outside

A week of summer heat
with no cooling breeze
or break made bedrooms 
like brick kilns 
still hot after a day's firing.
You couldn't sleep.
Air conditioning back then
was a couple of loud,
clunking fans that blew
a hum of hot air.

To get relief
we would all sleep outside
on the back lawn on hessian
camping beds that sagged
and creaked even under
a child's weight. The night air
carried a slight damp
and the hint of a breeze.

I can remember laying back
under a blaze of stars,
giddy and full of questions 
at such wonder strung 
in filaments overhead. 
Uncertainty and doubt 
had begun to pick 
my childish world apart. 
I would grip the sides
of the bed possessed by
a strange sense 
that if I let go, I would fall
upwards into the sky.

I could never get to sleep
even when a cool came 
upon the early morning air.
There were too many
sounds I could not explain
and shadows my mind 
would shape into threats.
I would creep back inside,
back into a walled safety
and the heat.

Pouring Out My Heart

Pouring out my heart, it’s devoid of all blood 
Perhaps more knotted, resembling of redwood
Splinters and shavings, fall away with each thud
Can’t escape this logjam, only wish I could 

Pouring out my heart, but it’s failing to bleed
I’m losing my grip, roots won’t let me proceed 
Failing right now, to try express what I need 
Asking friends to listen, then pay them no heed

Pouring out my heart, packs sawdust in a sack
Peep inside the hessian, can only see black 
Empty now, that’s ok, voids always grow back 
How come I’m still here, has Jesus cut me slack 

Pouring out my heart, clots heavily engrained
Tied to dilemmas, escaping leaves me drained 
Worse part of all, my collapse is unexplained 
For better or worse, gravity’s not sustained 

Pouring out my heart, there’s nothing’s left to pump
Felled to the ground, with the slightest little bump
Prostrate and broken, a fragmented tree stump 
I’m resting come join me, make a chair we’ll slump 

Pouring out my heart, through a duty of care 
The fruits of my labor, look across and glare
I gaze beyond them, thinking life’s over there 
Vines grow round my neck, help lift me off the chair

Along the Canal

The canal poked like a finger
into the wrinkled abdomen
of the Port. Along its length,
ketches once bruised
wooden wharves unloading wheat
shipped from outports across the gulf.
Pigeons stalked the spill of grain
from hessian bags torn 
by wharfies hooks. Port Adelaide’s 
pigeons were kept well fed.

I can remember being harnessed
to a pole and taught to swim
in the cold, dark waters of the canal.
I thrashed and kicked but could not float.
I did not have my fathers dolphin grace
whose aquatic triumphs were engraved
on a silver trophy that stood proud 
atop a fireplace shelf.

In its final days the canal slowed 
to a halt. Wharves were empty
and gave way to rot. In the end, 
dump trucks cascaded fill down
embankments until it choked.
A car park now seals its grave 
where plastic bags sail endlessly 
across an asphalt lake.
A shopping precinct recalls its name
in gaudy signage.

Memory still has me dangling 
on the end of a pole, flailing arms 
desperately searching for something 
solid to hold, suspended
like a lead weight
above a cold abyss.

The Fishing Steps

Still clear and sunlit
are the tanned, weathered faces
of the fisherman,
their bloodshot eyes,
beanies and checkered shirts,
how they
stood hip deep
in their boats 
looking up at a gathered crowd,
the fish arrayed in neat rows
with glistening scales,
caressed, turned 
and splashed with seawater
by reverent hands,
translucent mops
of squid and trays
of crabs whose tormented
writhings rippled beneath
blankets of wet
hessian bags.

I can hear accented
voices yelling out prices
and frenzied seagulls overhead,
a haze of smells
and noise jostling
in a silvered morning,
when all was spliced
and wound into a bright
necklace of wire
from which a dozen 
or more fish hung
to carry home,
a ring of “tommy ruffs”
fit for the pan or to smoke
in an old tea chest
until they became
a sweaty glaze
of amber flesh,
a filet of sunlight 
and good to eat.

A Look Back, a Look Ahead

French was the international language
    Brittania ruled the waves
  Sears-Roebuck a retail behemoth
    American Indians still called braves

  China an enigma wrapped in a riddle
    The U.S. in a major depression
  Germany'd elected a bar-room brawler
    A dangerous, goose-stepping hessian...

  Looking back, it's quite surreal
    Looking ahead, hard to get a feel
  Don't know if it's all real or illusion ~
    Or ends from the fallout of nuclear fusion

The Riddle of Shiny Helen

Love hearts and scabby knees.
Dead flies and stinging bees.
Dirty nails and sweaty lips.
Fishnets with ragged slips.
Eyeholes in a hessian sack.
Pimples on a tattooed back.
Toys that she just can’t unpack.
Helen. 
Secret Helen.

Lies from a mother’s heart.
Secrets that fell apart.
Beauty too divine to see.
As purple as a Judas Tree.
Singing from her cradle jail.
A baby crying weak and frail.
Giggle, breathe, inhale, exhale.
Helen
Splintered Helen.

An infantile brutalist.
A wide-awake somnambulist.
Mamma’s bile and Daddy’s fist.
A kiss, a slap a broken wrist.
She hides within a dark recess.
She dances with her own distress.
A monster wearing fancy dress.
Helen
Sacred Helen.

Fantasies of guilt and sin.
Concealed beneath a slab of skin.
Loathe the self and stunt the flesh.
Her impotence and spite enmesh.
To love the girl, she veils the face.
To save the world from its disgrace.
Before she leaves without a trace.
Helen
Shiny Helen.

Headless Hession At Sleepy Hollow

Legend around these parts strike terror in some
When I first heard it I swallowed my gum
What was his name? I asked. No one knew
He comes out at night in the fog of blue hue.

He’s the ghost of a Hessian soldier all alone.
Was beheaded in the Revolutionary war far from home.
He rides in silence, striking people down with terror
Sleepy Hollow Legend, no way in error.

My Great aunt told me she had seen this headless hunk.
She was so shocked she fell down with a thunk.
He haunts the towns on this side of Bunker Hill.
To this day, giving our youth a scare and a thrill.

Written March 14th, 2020
Contest: Your Favorite Legend
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke

Hollow

Hollow

Well-earned vacation at last
A tough work week in the past
Nice evening walk in faint fog
Along the banks of a bog 

Some dog howling up ahead
A growl filling me with dread 
I pause at the sudden yelp
Should I turn back or go help?

Feet rooted, I strained my ears
Breaking branches fuel my fears
Dog’s whine begged me to follow
Deeper into the Hollow

I use words as a writer
Certainly not a fighter
So, hearing hoofbeats sounding
I turn away, heart pounding

Old Dutch wives’ tales I have read
Hessian horseman with no head
And British spies, haunted lies
Speed my run, my urgent strides

Hoofbeats closer, I look back
At the source of this attack
Now too dark for me to tell
I let out a startled yell

I’d tripped on pumpkin unseen
Discarded last Halloween
Lungs burning, I found my track
To the lodge, I’d made it back!

Rested adventure writer
I pulled the wool throw tighter
While sipping hot cocoa with marshmallow
Living the Legend of Sleepy Hollow

March 1, 2020
Contest: Your Favorite Legend, First Place
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke

A Light Breaking Day Clouds At the Moon-

light break of the day
A hessian, giant face looks
whilst watching the moon
~
shining auroras
A little, giant fly looks
at the perfect moon
~
glared breaks of day
lone cloud, filled with rain water
falls from heaven host


2/18/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©

Burlap and Satin

Bequeathed between two golden sheets

Undine dims the light in candle’s ululation 

Reposed she rescues dusky husky groans

Low and behold her mountain quivers

Among the valley’s heezed pleasures’ height

Pure nubile hessian rugs unfold a magic matching ride

Alleviated sorrow levitates small lusty deaths

Nirvana nestles breezes sweet surrender

Dharma shivers solemnly four noble truths

Serenity and Serendipity shine Sex and Senses

At altitude of fiery fabric one drape of Burlan

Transposes skin on skin much more than satin

In love she trusts when smooth vibrations

Nurse naked native nights engulfed in sated touch



10th March 2018 ACROSTIC

When We Were Young

The billycart we made, with pride in our hands,
We made with a juvenile fun,
Using 4b2 planks, and big iron wheels,
It weighed somewhere near to a tonne,

For the farm’s eroded driveway, both steep and direct,
Covered in sharp, slippery sand,
Leading straight down, to the shard concrete bridge,
Upon which we'd often crash land,

We didn't need, nor have, O.H. and S. cover,
Our safety plan was more or less hope,
And this was shown with the steering we made,
Out of old worn torn hessian rope.

When we were kids we got cut and we bled,
All the time, with no song and no dance,
We learnt, first hand, how to face a good risk,
How to laugh at danger, at hurt, at chance.

Paeon To a Trenton Victory

Johann Rall and his Hessian men are defeated this harsh chilled day.
Washington routed these troops at a small Trenton town with surprise.
Crossing the raw Delaware Run, with war so lost as some would say,
he gives his land a victory now - such needful and sought for prize.
Hundreds of the bad German guards are then taken when full at ease.
Faces are red ashamed for sure when caught having pants down at knees.

Blue Daisy

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

My Unusual Grandma

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.

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