Hardpan poems on Hello Poetry

Denel Kessler Jul 2016

seeds lie barren
on the hardpan
of a soul craving

seek absolution
on scarred knees
search for bliss
in the brief bloom
after sparse rain
believe these offerings
are not in vain

seeds lie dormant
awaiting
grace

#forgiveness #water #grace #seeds

John Brimblecombe Nov 2013

Dandelion

Drum and bass - the engine revs,
Tyres grind and squelch into the hardpan.
The cab rises with a squall of angry breath,
Lurches forward with a shudder.

Wrought iron gates heaved shut
Hinges squeal like a pig, they are a pig.
Slamming metal resonates
In secure embrace.

Ugly black rubber stains the concrete -
Mascara on a cheap *****.
If the rumbling cages are food for the beast
Then I am stood in its bowels.

The sour smell of rotting food
Mixed with washing powder and bleach pollute.
Greasy plastic, rancid fat
Makes me recoil and retch.

In a gap in the tar she grows.
Raising her head to the sun in oblivious defiance

Justin S Wampler Jan 2021

Northwoods

They're still highways
That take you here,
But they seem less so.

Somewhat more like trails,
A hardpan of sorts,
Beaten through the hills.

They're still streetlights
That bring you to a stop,
Painting the wet streets in red.

Somewhat more like a twin dusk that
Demands hesitation, and patience,
To wait for the green dawn.

bulletcookie Aug 2021

Mending Wing

deep within this hardpan soil
lives a seed of hope
fallen out of curious Pandora's
empty wooden chest of woe

awaiting millions of moist tears
to permeate its germane heart
beget its roots and shoots
of nature's salve for carnage

when all fury breaks bone
and spirit's frayed tether
life spins its gears of light
spawning will and grace together

-cec

Mike Hauser May 2023

Digging Deep My Dreams

Leaning on my shovel
With pillow in hand
Waiting on another
Midnight dream in sand

Where I can start the process
Soundly in my sleep
Searching till there’s nothing left
Digging deep my dreams

I try and stay away from nightmares
Usually in hardpan
Digging there can be a bear
Avoiding all I can

The ones closer to the surface
Come with less meaning
Seldom are they worth it
Digging deep my dreams

There really is no science
In fact hardly a clue
In the way I find it
As dreams stay on the move

Like I said pillow in hand
Shovel on which to lean
All of this a process
Digging deep my dreams

TJ Struska May 2020

Blood Page

This is the blood page,
Where nothing counts.
But your shadow

This is the blood page,
Writ in ink
And sealed in nothing.

This is the blood page,
A dissolvable nightmare.

This is the blood page,
A wisp of wind
And dark creaking trees.

This is the blood page,
Where nothing good
Happens after nine.

This is the blood page,
Where rusted machinery
Moans with the night.

This is the blood page,
Where churning Maelstroms
Pull you inside.

This is the blood page,
Where leapers crowd nightmares
And noon becomes night.

This is the blood page
Of burning sun
And hardpan horizon.

This is the blood page,
Of ghosts towns
And junk cars.

This is the blood page,
Where trains run backward
And death is on time.

This is the blood page,
Where time disappears
And you with it.

Speaking of disappearing. Where have my readers gone.
Do you want to disappear also?

Justin S Wampler Sep 2020

Daydreams

Veiled silhouettes
Of horsemen galloping all out,
Cast in black against the twilight sky.
The beating sound of crashing hooves,
Like a heartbeat, like the ticking clock of doom,
Pound louder and mercilessly into reality.
Torches ablaze with hate come careening through,
Shattering the uneven glass windows,
Buildings go up in a funeral pyre.
Coughing, screams of dispair, a cacophony
Of misery, an apocalyptic wind chime blowing
In the smoke laden wind.
Blood flows and the red,
The red screams my name
As it runs through the hardpan,
Spelling out my destiny
In little crimson rivulets.

I can taste it now,
A desert in my mouth,
As I walk west
In solitude.

Third Eye Candy Feb 2020

where the moon should be

we are somewhere that gathers moss
while churning butter into permafrost
with dainty little hands, grown savage
from wailing in prayer. we contain a noise
that surrounds us. all the golden pollen
of our dark gardens, swelling in the flame
of our Mystery…. unopposed.
we join intangible things to quicken the hardpan
of our ziggurats. we hum our contusions
into clouds of memory, abandoned by pain
and left adrift in the eye of a grateful monsoon.
culling pearls from loose oysters
where the moon should be.

— The End —