Dear A,
“Do you remember John McLean?” you asked
“He died of an overdose this week past,”
If I remember John McLean? I can see
Him in fractured shadows of memory
Edges curled up with whisky and cigarettes
Our midnight quests for sleaze and side-effects;
While we talked of escape and sought new thrills
Beyond the tollgate and home’s confining hills,
When we searched that night so determinedly
For pills in the nervous light of a pharmacy
Perhaps our adolescent raving dimmed
Some destiny already struggling in him?
Like Eve’s fossil footprints pressed in the dune
On mustard shores along Langebaan lagoon,
All our choices leave their trails, faint remains
Of petrified memory through time-hewn veins
And the blue-black susurrus of his blood
Dried up like Eve’s footprint before the flood.
Ending so sudden, abrupt, unforeseen.
But yes, yes, I do remember John McLean.
Yours sincerely
M.
Walking down a lane, strewn with withered leaves,
I watch as they twirl and pirouette in Autumn's chill wind
leading them in a rhythmic dance that it skillfully weaves
as they plummet, leaving branches naked and chagrinned.
There's a true spark of vigor in the breeze of Autumn's call.
One I am quite happy to answer in poetic verses composed
about a family trip to the pumpkin patch, amid hues of Fall
when Nature's boldest color palette is so vibrantly exposed.
It's time for gathering together, and offer words of thanks
for the bountiful food and the beauty of a harvest moon,
and children Trick-or-Treating; scary Halloween pranks.
There's a crispness in the air and firewood to be hewn.
I get so excited when my favorite season approaches
and foliage gloriously blazes in shades of rust and gold.
Too quickly the coldest season of the year encroaches.
I'm not enamored by Winter when shivering with cold.
From this lane, I watch geese flying to a warmer clime,
their vee formation clear to see as to the South they go.
But before Winter takes command there's enough time
to enjoy these golden days of Fall, before the first snow.
After repeat defeats were strewn
The timing was most opportune
Started on an afternoon in June
Bazball did enthrall was a boon
Love new plans fans did croon
Bliss soaring sixes above festoon
Adoring this scoring monsoon
At the gall all pundits did swoon
Can’t impugn change of fortune
Batting assault & new era hewn
For 2 years were over the moon
Luxuriating in the Bazball lagoon
Magical mystical & mythical rune
Could stop Tests from dying soon
Harbinger of gunslinger’s saloon
Save cricket from its silver spoon
From results the cult couldn’t cocoon
Faults and default style won’t prune
Want to party like they’re in Cancun
Down under plunder burst the balloon
Stokes went from typhoon to buffoon
As the ECB and Key he did lampoon
Then Ben again did his team maroon
So it ends like any loony tune cartoon
As high noon for that wee Kiwi racoon
English Test tycoon to white ball goon
"That’s all folks” Baz’s bull finally spewn
Endings like happily ever after must empty the vessel before the cauldron is filled, moil the foiled plot double the witches brew, constable the open air, and ensure the grasses are hewn, the total is specially K and especially after the first wave which thwarts this the souix marble, and underlings parlay.
Say it once, say it twice
mad folk yell, it’s not nice.
When the brain, fires in haste
lest a thought falls to waste
tie sour tongues; iron deep frowns
rough hewn gifts don't cast clowns.
Widen your spheres; hone words truly
Great minds bounce; no acts unruly.
In the splendorous sky of my halcyon heart,
shimmering with the glow of argentine art,
like the sequins of the moon you sparkled,
I absorbed your seraphic sheen hewn.
In scorched sky above the wasteland of my life,
cumulus clouds hovered as rainless clumps.
In their smoldering shadow
a desert spawned in my heart.
At its fading fringe in the oasis of yearning
you became the mesmeric meadow in my heart
where I traced a turquoise trail of dulcet dreams,
discerned the lattice of my love engrave
the enticing emblem of the blooming rose,
with its patina eternally frozen on your face.
When my golden pasture gleamed
with the eventide’s heavenly hues,
you embellished the rose buds of rapture,
I saw unfurl in your entranced eyes
with the lilting luster of covert craving.
As twilight painted the panorama of passion,
my suffused sky dissolved with sapphire serenity,
spread sensuality spectrum on your visage,
flowering as a stardust smeared scarlet rose
in the secret garden of my heart.
The last of us
meander in rolling hills
by the misty stream
tinkling round slate rocks.
A doll size cottage
hewn of ancient limestone
silhouetted in rainbow flares
creeks and rumbles forlorn.
Withered lace murmurs languid
framed by dark embrasures.
We enter the void
over a parquet threshold
to greet mirrored visions
in ever rewinding portals
that unveil the stories
of our dreams unlived.
Some writers say
with their words
something new
Others
juxtapose
what before has been hewn
One values time
for its presence
today
One counts
each minute
like bales of old hay
Words of
redemption
words of regret
Freedom
inherent
— born of intent
(Dreamsleep: April, 2026)
Hand in hand we sit in the clouds
No one else knows
What we’re talking about
We roar with laughter
Face red and eyes wet
Not from sad tears,
From the laughter we get
Hers rings like a bell
A loud whimsical tune
Mine roars like a bear
And the silence is hewn
What is it about her?
Cuz she has me whole
My body, my mind, my heart
And my soul
Her eyes glow like summer
Her smile is the spring
The only fall for us, in love
And no cold winterbrings
Even silence is golden
Her face says it all
As we rest with contentment
Doing nothing at all
Two jovial jesters
In a world hard and mean
Forever side by side
With a shoulder to lean
We laugh and we snicker
We tumble and roar
But one look in our eyes
And together, forevermore
Angel dust glides
past the fairy wood
high above ancient boughs
and descends to anoint
my mangled mind
shot through with the lead
of seething maelstrom
born in the tombs
hewn to cordon frozen angst
bellowing for battle
with steel majesties
cocooned in satin alcoves.
Do or die got to perform in the eye of the storm
Noise from the boys remember we did deport
Another loss 3 nought a new boss will be sought
The depravity of gravity the reality of this sport
Big Ben’s men finally hold court our Last Resort
Insult beaten twice has the Bazball loon cult lost its spice
Starc’s legend hewn from chumps stumps in clumps strewn
Shredded in the dreaded Ashes vice Last Throw of the Dice
Bogged down in a twit pit will be flogged if we just slog
Stokes spoke about going for broke showing a bit of dog
Aussie boon.. Over the Moon In the Clover lagoon
The Barmy Army will still croon their afternoon tune
As another buffoon’s marooned OZ media swoon
Sucking on their silver spoon our Last Chance Saloon
Last ditch on the pitch must bewitch this is High Noon
Adjectival expansion:
describing the resident
of the Executive Mansion:
I give you, the President …
mean, obscene,
rotten, misbegotten,
rough-hewn, jejune,
numb, dumb,
rude, lewd,
sadistic, hubristic,
orange-dyed, red-tied,
frightful, spiteful,
greedy, weedy,
grim, dim,
crabby, flabby,
freely-swearing, diaper-wearing,
furious, incurious,
sallow, shallow,
benighted, indicted,
painted, tainted,
addicted, convicted.
(Latin for 'Michael Made Me')
There lies a town in northern Spain
(thank God it's little-known!)
where every chapel, church and fane
is hewn from honey stone.
Nice chunky arches, columns too,
with barley-sugar twist:
and gargoyles, griffins, gremlins who
quite cordially coexist.
To stroll here is to turn, with love,
some bestiary's bold pages,
and marvel at the mindset of
those early Middle Ages.
Capricious carvings crowd one door,
coeval "carls" of Beckett:
and, scratched into one caricature,
Micaelis Me Fecit.
The mason sits in effigy,
a chisel in his hand.
He eyes us quite audaciously:
that look, we understand.
He doesn't care for Time or Fame,
or Wealth, or Noble Birth:
that "Michael Made Me," is his claim:
and Michael knows his worth.
THANKSGIVING
This altar of grace, rough-hewn by gratitude,
Brazen heart to flame in enduring worship,
Fall and yield to Your providences of beatitude,
The Earth and its fullness proclaim Your Lordship.
Purged unto brokenness by blessings of seasons,
Render true blue folded palms of throb and breath,
To say, 'Thank You' through love and for all reasons,
Never to alter the altar, faithful in life and death.
It’s the cry of joy of all alive in blithe rebirth,
Resounding cacophony of praise in vibrant revival,
Prostrate in total surrender to the One of Worth,
Blade, then head, then full grain forever loyal.
Here we are, here I am, all of us, all of me,
In that Eternal graven thanksgiving: "Bow to Thee."
Stone castle forts fall,
their wet moats dry to parched dust
power mutes silent
yet tyrant's demand to rule
remains coiled in naked might
Drawbridge now unfolds
as policy, law, decree
the moat, a filter
controlling information
behind wall of secrecy
Fortress power stays
autocracy hewn in stone—
unbreachable walls
the moat of politicide
changing form, not its intent
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.