Short Hewing Poems

The tree does not at the hewing suffer
Albeit the callous thwacks all edges raining down
Nor the tons of muscles befalling on its cadaver
But savvy ing a bisection of the axe stems from her own

She protractedly taught him to target archery
How his bow bends unerringly
When he at last imbibed the art secrecy 
Betrayingly shot her uncompassionately....

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You left me hewing the rock of fame;
Constructing the titanic colossus of name.
And joined those devouring milk and butter,
Refusing to stand out from the clutter.
And now the sculpture of renown I've carved;
It's delicate and precarious frame I've shaped.

Now flash me your grin,
In it I see shades of sin;
The hands that maimed the trammels of love
So divinely fashioned from above....

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Four thousand years ago the Celt
Raised a ring of rocks around
Patterns on the English ground.

And there the Druid maidens felt
Bronze-age daggers at the heart,
Hacking, hewing them apart.

Then the pagan priests began
Chanting prayers and splashing red
Till the glutton gods were fed.

And thus the rituals of mere man
Echo clear the ancient call,
Haunting Mankind since the Fall....

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The crisp brown earth sits,
Broken
Where the depths of ocean blue
Still refuse to fall.

The Weary feet tramp, 
Sickeningly thudding
Hewing the broken brown flesh
To the cloudy whirlwind above

Silence’s deafening din whispers,
Broken only by the harsh cries
of long drawn out croaks,
from circling scavengers

Winged in feathered rags
With naught but breeze to relieve
the cruel afternoon’s gaze,
frying the crisp brown earth....

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