Long Hatchets Poems
Long Hatchets Poems. Below are the most popular long Hatchets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hatchets poems by poem length and keyword.
Red Paint
Long before my time, a group painted in red lived on the land.
They lived with the buffalo and made weapons by hand.
They used arrowheads at the end of their spears.
Their homes were in tea peas planted beside the river.
They danced at night around the fire.
They were com and collected as their hearts desire.
In a no man's land, they fought with bravery and hatchets.
In red paint on horses, they had their revenge while it lasted.
It is sad that the white man had to take it all away.
Only skin deep, our blood is all the same.
Through revenant they stood their ground.
In the dark sky they survived when no one was around.
Just reach down and touch the dirt.
They washed off the blood in the river.
The land is for all mankind.
Through principles they were well defined.
Just like a wolf, they stand alert.
As warriors they just wanted to be free like a bird.
They are all connected in red paint.
Across the water shows reflections of their pain.
No manor tribe should ever be oppressed.
Standing towards the sun, they all came back from the dead.
Wewere wrong to take away their lives.
In the shadows they stood tall in the moonlight
You were willed the family homestead.
The price was that Eden drained from your eyes.
A life so weighted now
that it began cracking the mind.
Battling things real and imagined.
Praising Jesus, while keeping company with darker things.
Sanity is running on empty.
You're shaking hands with hatchets.
Making deals with death.
Your soul is in disintegration mode.
I've tossed you a line many times.
Only to be ignored many times.
Perhaps the line was too thin; I apologize.
Perhaps you were too arrogant; you'd never apologize.
Either way, I had to flee the friendship.
When your darkest color bled into mine.
Those goblins are advancing on the old homestead.
Perched upon the broken fence.
My dear dying friend,
It's too late to patch or mend when there is no cloth left.
Let's have lunch in the next life. I'll buy.
MAMA PRAY FOR ME
In your deepest chamber Mama,pray for me
To know who deserves my door and who worths not my window
For i have seen those who destroyed a man
Attend his funeral to console his widow
Pray me to understand the pain and harm
Of such sayings that mandates betrayal on life
I am but troubled when men spread their arms
For the closer the embrace the deeper the knife
Deadlier is the act when men and demons toast
I have heard tales of guests who poisoned their host
With the right hand do men bury their hatchets
And from their left hand strike with sharpened matchetes
Say a prayer for me and repeat my petition
For these days even the devil is rebirthed a saint
What better meal have i to offer my dentition
Since the teeth now bites the fingers that feeds it?
LizDiamond World Of Poetry
Nobody ever forgets where he buried the hatchet. ~ Kin Hubbard
You bring the hatchet
each time
and you bury it deep.
Your friend is still your friend.
Many hatchets more with them
you will bury.
But each new time
they cut you with another hatchet,
it opens up old wounds.
Some cuts -
as deep as the holes
they were buried in -
take longer and longer
to heal.
One day you realize
the cuts of many hatchets
have not been healing nicely.
The blood you bleed
has left a trail.
You follow that trail
to the many other hatchets
you thought were so
well-buried.
Maybe you will hoist up those hatchets-
every last one of them -
and raise them high
above your head,
then bring them
down
once and for all
with all your might.
WHACK!
Then you can say
“You, my friend,
are dead to me.”
Oct. 15, 2020
N/A in the Quotable Poetry Contest
She is forty-seven, but insists on being with our twenty-five-year-olds.
I have heard her in the office hallway begging to be invited to things.
I will bring a really good present if you invite me to your wedding.
I will buy a round of drinks if you let me come to your Friday night deal.
How did a person arrive at forty-seven and not have friends?
I am unsure why she is so needy, but she is in all of their social posts.
Throwing hatchets, on a sail boat, at their baby showers.
Her smile seems forced, but not as forced as the two next to her.
If they did not invite her, would she stalk them?
Wait outside their homes?
Follow their cars to the event?
Part of me says YES.
The concrete and plastic, chrome domed
bricked up auditorIum rang
like a hollow bell,
a meager few red skins circle the stadium seats
like smoke from a mythical “peace” pipe
ragged, distilled, diluted, distraught, “dised”
A 21st century ablution of angst.
Round shoulders meet, sidelong glances;
old and young form for dances.
All semblance of nature betrayed
by polyester tassels and cheap Crayola yarn fringe,
a sneakers and moccasins mix,
only the whistle-drum, and sage smoke sanctifies.
Circles form, crouching over polyurethane floors
silver hair, braids and hands harden; they bear,
bore the “dis” missive, disdain,
the balm of music eased all the pain.
Round shoulders meet, sidelong glances;
old and young form for dances.
The roof “dis” appears becomes the night sky
air vibrates with the heart thumping of stick on skin,
and so WE, the PEOPLE begin.
Chants warm the taunt throats of man;
a whistle trills the coyotes howl.
Heartbeat sings a drum song,
bowed and bent the circle dancers form.
Stomp, twirl, braids a whirl, winged dancers rattle and bell.
Mans peacock form no longer forlorn rises above the well.
Chant the tell tale heart,
the sorrow the joy, drum thumpers hatchets fall
on the neck of a starry night.
Drum and dance invite…..
scream,….soul song, smoke dream,
eyes daze in a reverent scheme.
Facing facts was never where he excelled:
avoiding them, he flitted, like a blind bat
guided as by sonar past obstacles
crowding the dark cave of his existence.
Still, some sight sifted through his shuttered eyes.
Onlookers might have guessed
he was merely another smug fat cat
forever grinning at the luck
that put him where, secretly,
he wished he would never have arrived.
Appearances aside, he was terrified
by his own fragility and that of those he loved --
a worrier, he merely masqueraded,
a graying rabbit with a nervous nose,
cowering in corners into which he heavily hopped
at the drop of each and every hat:
his mild pink eyes as tightly closed as any bat's
against the sight of hatchets
which might be flashing through the black
toward his hairy, cringing neck.
We had been married thirteen years.
We had two daughters aged four and one year old.
I had no idea what she wanted to talk about that day.
We went into our bedroom and closed the door.
There were no traces of any hatchets,
but by God one was about to fall.
I only heard the first few sentences before the room went silent.
The echo of my heart was beating in my skull.
A cold invisible sweat rolled down my brow.
My body was drowning in an unforgiving ditch of sinking mud.
The atmosphere was a sandpaper
grating against the grain of my senses.
Even the chair I was sitting on betrayed me
as it plugged itself into the wall.
There was no call from the governor
. The sentence was death by a lethal injection of
‘it is over, I want a divorce.’
My wife of thirteen years ended our relationship that day.
If love is bliss, if it is the light
then unrequited love is the switch that extinguishes the Sun.
I was sure “I am not in love with you,”
repeated itself in the annals of the entire universe.
Surely, the planets were no longer aligned;
the stars must have lost their brilliance that day.
At least the traffic must have stopped
and the economy crumbled worldwide.
Not as much as a mosquito bite
was affected that day.
All was as it should be.
Life was as fine as rain,
the day my world stopped spinning
and fell off its axis.
I cried that day,
I cried everyday for the next five years.
There is no pain
like the rejection
of the love of your life.
I was monogamous then
and I am monogamous now.
One life, one love.
It took me another two years to stop crying completely
and another three to grow a new spine.
It was, it is a brand new day and I am searching for my one love.
It feels good to be alive. It feels good to smell the flowers in the rain.
September 1 2014
Planet in flux…it sucks
No refuge..Scrooge rules..
Stooges subterfuge deluge..
Fossil fuel fools..
Poleaxes..then relaxes…
As the earth burns..
As it turns..on its axis..
***************
Us schmucks battling....
Puzzling...prattling clucks...
Aloof to proof....daft defiance..
Shucks the sleuth of science..
**************
Glower at their ivory tower..
Cruise ship trip fillip..
Dour baby boomer power..
******
Absurd herd..cans compliance
Uncouth trampling truth..
Nip & tucks alliance..
Mottled rucks…throttled petro bucks...
Plucks for retro reliance..
*******
Muzzling…weasel hatchets meddling...
Diesel guzzling trucks..
Saluting high falutin polluting
Pander to propaganda pedaling..
Ratchets up our dander…
Open the ruddy window!
Have a bloody gander!