Long Hessian Poems
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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
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.
It stands alone four square, white-washed straw-thatched,
small window panes, black frames, and out back chickens hatched,
pecking weedy ground around a single willow.
Set just a little back from single country lane,
high-hedged between the farms with tracks for bumpy tractor rides,
strong arms to try and guide wobble wheels on hardened sun-dry ruts,
to draw trailored dung across winter's dark and muddy fields.
Father's fingers, numb with frost by hand-picked sprouts,
with dawn's dim light not yet bright enough to warm his back.
And hundred weights of summer grain on neck and shoulder,
staggered through barn doors to store, to tip hessian sacks piled high,
sack upon sack.
My mother, crushed and bruised at milking stall,
squeezing squirting teats to fill the milking pale,
to complete them all before mucking out the dung and straw,
then moving on to something more which bends the back
and rubs sodden foot sore in chilled hoof-trodden boot.
This was no Eden's garden which followed war enough to harden
even softer souls.
Yet, it was a paradise for smaller feet to roam free among the fields,
not caring when to make for home and sup on sprouts that dad had picked
and mum had peeled, and soft cooked, with such hard labour,
all overlooked by youth, and by youth's youthful ignorance.
For some, certainly for dad, and for mum,
Eden's garden gave way to thistle and to thorn,
and to sweated furrowed brows serving children's carefree days,
and precious hopes for first and second son.
These rode upon the carts and crossed the dykes in leaky barrels
and threw their stones at tethered bull not caring for the weather,
whether fine, or whether dull, or whether small gloved fingers numbed with chill.
For them that Eden's garden was a Paradise still,
and though choking staining seed was sown, it was not yet grown,
and eyes not yet exposed to serpent's smaller gardens,
composed for ever younger eyes, for the tainting and enslaving of ever younger lives.
That wiley snake now lurks and lies inside dark orchards of delight,
a world explored unseen from pillowed comfort,
and sometimes in the darker night with a different sky blue light,
that Eden web now known world wide, that Eden made with fallen pride,
that Eden oft obscene, that Eden all of lies, that lies behind the pixel screen.
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.
BURLAP and SATIN
Texture fine, woven design
Like harden tree sap
Rough is the burlap!!!
That's at my finger tips
Smooth is soft the satin as silk
The dress rapped around her waist
Burlap and satin
Give me such touch my reactions
Hard rough the silken liner
Smooth is the burlap binder???
Coarse touch soft brush
Weave me, cling to me of skin
Jute plant fibers touch
Burlap and satin
Just rough on the skin
May combine me with vegetable fibres
Wall hangings made of burlap rough to my eyes
Fibers to make rope, nets
Coarse canvas woven from jute, hemp
Burlap and satin
Browned fiber burlap, used especially for sacking
Sackcloth, gunny, canvas, hessian
Dress making and furnishing burlaps a burlap shirt
Fabric burlap Flowers nation
Can be a rose or carnation
Or woven even turned into a shirt Even seen them as a skirt
For what it's worth, smooth and rough
Burlap and satin
Matters not touch me in the morning
Also together burlap and satin so adorning
Fabric flower bouquet
A smooth, glossy fabric
Satin of silk, produced by a weave
In which this the threads
Burlap and satin
The warp caught and looped by weft cross stitch
At certain intervals a blue satin dress smooth like satin
Oh, also fabric flowers to the bouquet
Satin is a weaved that has glossy surface and dull back action
The satin weave is four or more no harm
Fill weft yarns floats over warp yarn
Four warp yarns floating over a single weft
a luxurious satin look For what it's worth smooth and rough
Burlap and satin
3/24/18 ©2018
For Contest: Burlap and Satin
Sponsored by: Anthony Slausen
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.
"The Hummingbird Cake"
The day started bright -
Bright Eggshell Blue
and ended in percussion
dark and cloudy stormed in
thunder pummelled drums
against a backdrop of
bruised eggshell dijon yellow
sweating heavy sage green
spitting spoilt the swollen pride of purple,
a wet abrasion against
Electric Blue
crackling along her lips
like Lightening
Sizzled on
her bitumen
her mind
winked at you...
Splits two
into one
not three
Taken slowly
deliberately
cake digested
swallowed like swallows
nibbling freely on air
a symphony of do you see me
in a Hummingbird storm
stairs to you she stares
upwards forever upwards
at lines of ebony tied tight
words kick and spit
like a cat in heat caught up
in a hessian sack
words in a puzzle
shaken and caste
on a playing board
pure white
not black
She,
Third person,
always Third person,
listens to her own heart
and then listens to the
words you have put on
and slowly worn warm
Revisits in her evening
a conversation with an old friend
Lorikeets on the balcony
Passionfruit cake and their
beaks in honey
a day in the life of Mosman
Carmen the dancer
Blueberries and
Raspberry Banana Bread
and Gold Crested
Pterodactyl Cockatoos
commandeering her kitchen
her gangster lovers
dead ends and loose screws
The day started bright blue
Ended in a thunder clap
boiling over onto a glowing hotplate
of flying embers,
reckless kisses and an unplanned
Storm;
A piece of Hummingbird Cake
was fed through a thread
In dreams while you watched
a movie in bed
Spoken to you
through
mind cerebral
not Reality read
Poppyseed and Honey
Bees buzzing on swollen
unheard lips
that silently bled Red
Words
Meanings
Life
Read
Red
Sugar ingested,
Honey to Blue Horse Flies.
Australiana
Fed.
Sleep,
Bed.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
"Listen to the Hummingbird" / Leonard Cohen
https://youtu.be/hYIeW8bwlWQ
"Meadow" / Liam Gallagher
https://youtu.be/wHVuW7eOPNI
"Cosmic Dancer" / T.Rex
https://youtu.be/GMfjA4gyEcU
"Meadow" / Liam Gallagher, Lyrics
https://genius.com/Liam-gallagher-meadow-lyrics
Flour sacks I remember you so well
full of golden grain, bran or flour
a slight but delightful musty smell
perambulating the atmosphere
Sacks cut up for all sorts of things
cloth shoes and dresses even trousers
rough coats that did not keep one warm
scarecrows dressed in sacks
Vegetables stored in sacks that are stacked
in rows inside the dutch barn ragged edges
where the rodents have been chewing happily
a veritable feast they will not go hungry
Sacks of cloth rule in my book
paper is not the same no way
a soggy mess when it rains
ripping as you carry them
Hessian sacks people knew would last
paper is only good for bonfires
or as twists to start the parlor fire
airless no good to store food through winter
written 11/22/2013
contest Whatever Happened To Flour Sacks
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
From Noonlight to Moonlight
I'll chance to mention a jaunt once took, along a sloping ridge; coming up steady o'er jakes ravine, cross the creaking pinewood bridge, tethering up the hosses, to a half charred lightening stricken tree; we gazed right down the 'scarpment at cattle roaming free after muffling up our riding boots in swathes of Hessian brown; stooping right over we made our way, by the darker shadowed ground, we got to to a stand of trees, that offered the needed hide; scuttling there as quick as quick, until we were inside made sure no herders were present, heard no sounds borne on the breeze; we picked out a couple of young heifers, this side of some bouldered scree then raising our crossbows silently, as moonglow licked each bolt; we loosed ..Whoosk.! the thuds)) sounded so strong you almost felt the jolt.: did i see a gleam in Mikkies eye?? could it be a heartfelt tear?? I said we had no real choice you know, my voice edged with tension & fear, a quick smile shot right back at me, as gazing deep in my eyes; she gave a hard kick into my shin, catching me by surprise!! saying now while I' affix the lariats Joe, you vamoose up the mountainside; get the horses and drags back soon, in case the rancher makes a ride, so I lit out for the ridge crest, my heart was beating wild." While swearing that damn hussey's more capricious than a wayward child; once on the ridge i scramble down, back to the waiting steeds quickly pulling the halters loose, my mind intent on speed!! soon I'm back with Mikkie, we pull the heifers onto the drags; then we're coaxing our horses up that draw!! headed for the safety of our own distant and shadowy crags. copyright Joe Maverick.co.uk