Long Hewn Poems
Long Hewn Poems. Below are the most popular long Hewn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hewn poems by poem length and keyword.
Part I: Ice
He shines like silver midnight moon -
cool marble statue, this tycoon.
And though he makes the ladies swoon,
of ice he’s hewn; of ice he’s hewn.
He’s poker-faced and can deceive
competitors and can achieve
most anything, but can’t conceive
of Genevieve, of Genevieve.
Like Neptune, distant from the sun -
relationships he chose to shun.
He thought the search for love was done.
He has no one; he has no one.
Now love’s allure has come his way.
What will he do? What will he say?
Will he grab hold, beg love to stay,
or let it stray? Or let it stray?
Part II: Fire
This dragoness disguised in lace -
passion’s flower with angel’s face,
precisely picks the time and place
each dream to chase, each dream to chase.
Like ink the color red, she stains
the hearts of those whose love she drains,
and then she leaves when naught remains
No lust she feigns; no lust she feigns.
And now there’s one who would suffice.
For him alone, she’d sacrifice
her everything, so he of ice
she must entice, she must entice.
So Genevieve now strikes the flame.
Will man of ice his love proclaim?
Beneath her fire and his cold frame,
they’re both the same. They’re both the same.
He carried the old man into the woods, and watched the body
slowly decay. In the end, after the sun had prepared the corpse
it seemed that the moon had consumed it. The trees did not mourn,
and Pinocchio - could not; although Geppetto had been his only
companion for decades.
He had seen children cry and wondered why? Now the wilderness
called to him.
When in that Alpine cabin he had danced for his master, he had given
no thought to the truth that the dwelling itself was hewn from the same
ancient material as his own consciousness.
For weeks he traversed the wilderness, hiding from any trace
of humanity. He did not grow tired - could not, but a need to be
anchored to the ground gradually stole over him. He envied the
tall trees with their deep earth grasping roots, how the trees fed
themselves from the soil, the air and the rain.
A time came when he simply had to be still, to feel what the trees
felt; to pacify his busy mind with the slow thoughts of the sky.
The years changed him, branches and sprigs grew from his trunk
his legs became immovable. That which had once been Pinocchio
drank from the soils deep wells, wells that filled with his once
human mind, natural cisterns that now nourished him with a
knowledge that any creature of flesh and blood could ever hope
to translate.
Cherokee chamber,
where a pow wow stampeedes preconceptions of inheritence,
from Her beaded neck charms of chance & chains of change
glisten from opulent offerings of roots, corn & lavender ablaze
on an alter of unworked stone mantled with skins strong beasts knew,
She is a " Stomp Dance " Queen with an owl as a friend and a spider as assassin,
with rattlesnake ribbons around Her wrists and prayers in Her braids thick with traditions,
the walls of Her teepee painted with the pigments of buffalo blood & sunflower pollen,
portraying a history hewn from customs known to Spirits and men alike,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen speaks for Her People and sings from the stars,
I found this Tribe, not in Appalacia nor on a prarrie stage but in the smoke of ceremony,
the Cherokee Princess has rattlesnake teeth tied to Her thigh & turtle shells upon Her hips,
She played the rabbit on the scene, then the wolf, if you know what I mean,
celebrated by the warriors as a tomahawk maker,
praised by the medicine men for Her Visions,
and feared by the Elders because of wrath that may follow Her steps,
the " Stomp Dance " Queen is a Princess, She is a Cherokee with a song Her own -
J.A.B.
I returned to the place of my birth a few months ago.
Visiting there always gives my languid soul a glow.
The house still looks good but the old barn is showing its age.
How long it will weather the storms is difficult to gauge!
Sad to say, its once sturdy beams and doors are sagging.
Its former brilliant red paint and white trim are also lagging.
Decades of tempests and searing sun have exacted their toll.
I recall so many fond memories as about the old barn I stroll!
The old barn was our playground on snowy and rainy days.
Dad placed a hoop on a beam for our rowdy basketball plays.
Scuffling in the mow, burying ourselves in sweet-smelling hay,
We kids spent many happy hours there, whiling the time away!
All was not play for this feckless Hoosier lad.
Honest toil was proffered and expected by my Dad.
At the tender age of ten I was milking Jersey cows;
At hay-making time I was the kid sweating in the mows!
Even though the old barn is aging its hand-hewn oaken beams,
Will bind it together a few more years weathering all extremes.
'Twould be admirable if some good soul would provide the pelf,
To paint and prop it up and restore it to its former self!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
COMBINED OUTLINES
gestural flourishes
mingling
with
the
naive
images
solitary
simplicity
of
imagery
reflowering
subtlety
enlarged
rough-hewn
&given
grandeur
a diagram
of isolation
in everyday
images
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Alistar Brandt led his men up the trail,
the sun high, the sky clear of rain or hail,
across long slopes, beneath mountains rocky,
vultures soaring between the ragged peaks,
behind him rode five members of his gang,
rough-hewn men who the law would love to hang,
but today they looked for a man of old,
who was farming these lands, they had been told.
They came across a cabin on a knoll,
a barn nearby, the spot they had been told,
corral nearby held half a dozen pigs,
nearby grew potatoes you’d have to dig,
between, a well, where a big man did work,
drawing buttons of water from the earth,
his clothes weathered, but his frame just as large
upon which Alistair knew there were scars.
It was their man, named Dan Smith to the world,
was strong enough to lift a steer and hurl,
he’d rode with them until three years ago
when he’d got caught, sentenced to prison’s woes.
He once had called himself Dan the Deadly,
but all had joked, called him Dan the Dummy,
not much for brains, which any man could see,
Alistair doubted he could even read.
His sluggish thoughts had led him into jail,
missed a signal to flee back to the trail,
just stood a fought a posse on his own,
lost to numbers (Though he’d broken some bones!)
But that was why they wanted him today,
to swing big firsts if things should go astray,
and Alistar saw as the big man turned
that on his face the same dumb look was burned.
For a moment Dan just looked on blankly,
then said, “Al, did you come here seeking me?”
Alistair said, “Didn’t come for the view,
and we got a job that might interest you.”
Dan waved his big hand. “Don’t do that no more.
Got a farm and woman I can’t ignore.”
Alistair frowned. “Just hear me out them choose,
this could mean eight thousand dollars for you.
See Red Joe Hayes got himself shot last month,
the one who knocked off that army wagon.
I know ’cause his pard Bill rides with us now,
says Red hid that payroll up near the clouds.
Up in the high country, just north of here,
but others are looking too, it appears.
Near sixty thousand, and you’d get your share,
if you help us fight any fools up there.”
CONTINUES IN PART II.
A Sense of Diamonds
To hear me would sound like a symphony of octaves –
played all at once with concrete fingers
on diamond in the rough strings.
To see me…O’, to see me you would have to turn,
ever so slightly sideways, to ensure proper exposure –
one would not wish to either scar his or her retinas
with too much light; or murder their spirits with silky
raven on a moonless night, darkness. No, no. That
is far too much for the eyes to bear.
To touch me would be like dipping warm fingertips into
a pool of liquid mercury; like the sun’s rays beneath
the water, touching the ocean’s deepest silver depths.
The scent of me would bring your waiting nose to a
dichotomy of frenzy – one side wanton, and as eager
as a schoolboy with a playboy – but the other side!
The other nostril would shrivel under scrutiny; buckle under
the burning scent of disgust and unrefined madness, as if you
were smelling your own death, not the florid scent of Eden.
And to taste me…to taste me would leave the tongue
as twisted as a winter apple’s branches; as torn as a wool
tartan from the shoulder’s of a traitor; and as confused
as a year without Spring. To taste me would be like
tasting every dream you ever lusted, and every ending
that ever broke you – like sipping lemonade in the void.
But…if you are the one; the only one in the midst of all
this impenetrable chaos who can sense me, beyond
the average man’s malleable stone-walled borders –
than I bid you come. Test the likes of this diamond
against your rough-hewn backdrop – try me on for size;
see if you have the stones to not. Get. Cut.
A mate of Musk, I’m told I’m going soon
(if NASA still exists, this side of June):
the lack of oxygen might make me swoon
- my rear end is as puckered as a prune!
I feel I ought to leave a happy tune,
an album by somebody who can croon.
That swallows effort, warbled by Pat Boone,
or Herman’s Hermits leader, Peter Noone?
Perhaps a piece of marble, nicely-hewn?
Amid the regolith, randomly strewn,
A DVD by National Lampoon?
The one with David Bowie – what’s it – Dune?
The Brooke Shields epic movie, “Blue Lagoon”?
That stoned director (Stone) gave us “Platoon” –
or how about “Five Weeks in a Balloon”?
Scaling my legs through woods,
Seducing the forest's hood.
Let the journey saunter to me,
Let me traverse.
That land bewitched with luxury,
Heightened pleasures and glowing glory.
His hewn by the hand of my forefathers.
Let me traverse.
The path that leads there,
Is laced with broken bottles and loosed hair.
Many opposition and thriving treacherers.
Wouldn't let me traverse.
Trucks of bilated prejudice.
Ocean of confusion drown me like a dice.
By what now will i rise?
Let me traverse.
Does the lion feed on air,
When they're presence of hare?
How will i continue being a savage here,
When all my goodness are there?
Oh,i want to advance.
Let me traverse!
Let me own the Night
Let the others play on bright sun-filled days,
in song and merriment, play on.
Let me own the shadows that seep into your soul,
yet still promise hold, a promise of sleep 'til dawn.
With the morning pray.., bring them on gilded and gossamer wings,
for bright is their future with warmth of everlasting hope, and hearts lifted.
I long to be as cold and silent as a blanket of new fallen snow,
to spin webs, translucent, with life ebbing and borne of tragic past.
When, at last, clouds part and ominous foreboding dread flees,
into the corners, hiding..sinless, without remorse or regret.
Let me own this cloak, beautiful as rough-hewn stone,
I no longer seek acceptance, nor call another's fate my own.
May Calliope sing and lull them to a blissful place, redemption their's to keep,
for it was always said that it must be so.
I will continue to turn away from the calamity of the sun,
for what's left unsaid remains unsaid, what's left undone, undone.
No tears will be shed that will be seen where shadows lie,
the dark will hold them, it would seem, and so shall I.