"hatchets" poems
Widgets and gadgets
gizmos and apps.
Whatever happened
to cause the collapse
of my simple world?
What happened to the
simple pleasures?
The joy of simply living;
the joy of simply loving?
All consigned to the limbo
of a thousand electronic
gizmos.
I used to love a lass.
I gave her all I had
in time and space
and multiple delights.
But it is not enough
to satisfy her nights.
Without apps
she snaps.
That *****
needs her gizmo.
Without widgets
she fidgets.
She must have
her gadgets.
I’d like to bury hatchets
in her gadgets.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 7:02 AM UTC
Like a captive, I capture rapture wrapping around stakes that matter
Joan of Arc battered
Also tattered but, easily dismissive
Refracted from fractured prominent phrases people play with
Distinctly persuasive and evasive, dressed boyishly attractive, lax stature, dawning armor crafted by absence as if asked about it-
I’m drifted
Protection is principle prerequisite, when fire is lit
I sort of implore your aorta before it’s incinerated to ashes
Dethatched as a habit, with swords or hatchets crafted to singe heartstrings that attached it
While I slash slick Rick as a quick fix,
To fend for pretend pretenses or presumed tricks,
I can’t quit
Cause I hit lips against hash spliffs fashioned with dashes of passion all while rationing fireball cinnamon sips
Martyr to avoidance
I gaze at fabled dazed gossipers galvanizing grips on gritty grapevines while licking warning labels through smoke haze on blurred lines
Capably unstable
Other eyes attending scandal circles able to shout lies and rekindle handed arguments on tables with locked smiles stay boxed in
Avidly amiable
Searching for counterparts when combusted or branded
Toying with matches loses meaning when rules reseed
Those vagabonds claim love is some all end hard bent to mend what the same above can’t comprehend.
Breaking boredom, I pillage pillows with night terrors
And ardent arsonists yearn for flames that churn, turn, liquefy and learn learned thoughts and smoldered feelings
Completely complacent
Melting in one another they are completing each other like two candles tryst true at a wedding day
However later the blaze is severed, smoke sears, and charred black wick stands alone for them.
Aggressive and progressive.
As for me never pleading, fire forever fleets to streets between iron bars I built that cage in deep heat and seep dire dreams once desired
Suppose I’m a skeptic
Roasted or disconnected
Just jaded, just met you
Always over it too soon
Burnt but I’m amused.
I’m useful.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
The door it opened slowly,
my father he came in,
I was nine years old.
And he stood so tall above me,
his blue eyes they were shining
and his voice was very cold.
He said, "I've had a vision
and you know I'm strong and holy,
I must do what I've been told."
So he started up the mountain,
I was running, he was walking,
and his axe was made of gold.
Well, the trees they got much smaller,
the lake a lady's mirror,
we stopped to drink some wine.
Then he threw the bottle over.
Broke a minute later
and he put his hand on mine.
Thought I saw an eagle
but it might have been a vulture,
I never could decide.
Then my father built an altar,
he looked once behind his shoulder,
he knew I would not hide.
You who build these altars now
to sacrifice these children,
you must not do it anymore.
A scheme is not a vision
and you never have been tempted
by a demon or a god.
You who stand above them now,
your hatchets blunt and ******
you were not there before,
when I lay upon a mountain
and my father's hand was trembling
with the beauty of the word.
And if you call me brother now,
forgive me if I inquire,
"Just according to whose plan?"
When it all comes down to dust
I will **** you if I must,
I will help you if I can.
When it all comes down to dust
I will help you if I must,
I will **** you if I can.
And mercy on our uniform,
man of peace or man of war,
the peacock spreads his fan.
4.4k
**Whether it happens next... or this year
The vote
In memory of the last time I shed 'this tear'
And wrote... a piece
For the blood that flooded the streets
When in vain we sought
For calm... for peace
In a situation that was out of our control
A raging fire that almost engulfed and burnt all
When we all watched our motherland fall
Almost
When darkness threatened to blind all... or most...
Kenyans
When a neighbour would suddenly become a stranger... a ghost
Alien
Incited by the devil's seed
Damien
Brothers, sisters overcome by evil... greed
The same one...
That would then start a war... civil
And feed... off it
I, one individual Kenyan plead
That this time we say no to violence
We 'off it'
Let the disgruntled nurse his frustrations in silence
No blood for 'office'
And let us not get coaxed into foolish acts
To ourselves, we owe this
Let hatchets be buried away with the bones
Old ghosts can't haunt us
I shed a tear for peace this... or next year
Deaf ear to he that tries to taunt us
'Make the right choice'
I hope I reach many
And many hear my one voice
But this message cannot just be spread by me... so its 'we'
We can do it, and God wills it
Let it be
That we journey toward serenity
To a better tomorrow... come with me
The best way I can encourage my brothers and sisters
Is through poetry
For as a country and a culture we are destined to soar sky high
Thus... 'the pride of Africa'
We should always be
Peace.**
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 5:20 AM UTC
He toils all day and all year.
He takes each misgiving
and gives them momentary life,
through one lamentable tear...
Before he carries on digging.
He gets his hands *****
as he digs through soil, earth and sweat.
No end in sight,
or he'd rather not see.
No solace he'd find,
no peace he'd let.
He only sees this expanse of land...
Of which he diligently keeps.
Tales told by dishevelled sand,
covering secrets
which he has been burying deep.
He has made this
his past, present and future.
He'd make sure that each would fit.
Tied to this grounds,
he is the worn-out keeper.
He never tells but he buries hatchets.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Listen Here -> https://soundcloud.com/m_c_vegh/itch
I got an itch and I never scratch it.
I wish I could attack it with hatchets
have at it like addicts, -get higher than attics
smother it like asthmatics.
***** out its flame.
Cause the itch lays the tracks for train in my brain
just a scratch and I know that I'd go insane,
so the itch just remains.
Simple and plain.
But the itch won't control me
cause scratchin it won't console me
the comfort it brings is phony
even when I feel lonely.
I used scratch without noticing
in an itchless-ness bliss,
until I scratched my self raw
a fact that I somehow missed.
that's when you know that you're trapped,
all that you can do is scratch
cause if you don't then you'll crash
a striked match turned to ash.
you've gone and burned out all your midnight oil
nothing left from feasting spoiled
the itch makes your blood boil.
who knew that the pleasure that came from this friction
would turn against you so fast and create an addiction
there's no predictions for scratching
but for the scratching itself
except scratching always leaves you lonely
cause you just scratch yourself
and I wish I could shut these problems off with a switch,
but I got ninety-nine problems and the itch is the *****
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
Robert Jordan
Ofelia
One
Sing, my forest. Sing, groans. Sing, snapping. Sing life and wild, sing trees, sing limbs that course and bend thick with sap and soil-blood. Sing, my child. Sing, my sweet love and dirt and life. Sing, sweet death, sing, sing.
Two
Find Robert Jordan. Find Robert Jordan in my forest among my kind limbs and find his breath, find his breathing through thick growth and his steps delicate upon the paths of tender dirt and find these paths great in number that wind as veins through the forest body.
Find Ofelia. Find Ofelia in my forest among my kind limbs and find her breath, find her breathing through thick growth and her steps delicate upon the paths of tender dirt and find these paths great in number that wind as veins through the forest body.
Three
Robert Jordan and Ofelia sit upon the stump of a dead tree in the depths of a clearing in the forest. The stump is monumental in size. The diameter of the stump is that of a building. Robert Jordan and Ofelia used hatchets to make gashes into steps in the side of the stump and in this way climbed to the top. The top of the stump has been worn smooth like glass. The forest surrounds the clearing in its thickness and is heavy in every direction and curves up above them and to the center like a temple would and the top of this temple is many hundred feet above them. Robert Jordan and Ofelia sit on top of the stump and in the center, facing opposite directions, his back touching hers and her back touching his, rigid, perfect posture, legs crossed, their respective hatchets bridging the gap between their respective knees, blades shining in a dull silver light that hangs about their forest’s temple as any fog hangs about any forest. In the forest surrounding them hang many mossy vines. The vines weave through the trees and connect them and carry themselves through each other as webs though without order. Robert Jordan and Ofelia see the silver light illuminate the edge of the forest around them and the trees and vines there and they are sure the pattern continues through the deep forest though they cannot see into it fully. In the deep of the forest around them through the silver fog hang hundreds of small red lights that sit at every different level in the forest from the forest floor up through the canopy many hundred feet above them. The small red lights look as small eyes do and are perfectly circular though do not appear so in the silver light. The red eyes glint as far-away lights do when these lights are out of focus and so have the same dagger-shaped spires that extend from the center and outward in various numbers. They eyes reflect into and off of the hatchets and stretch themselves along the length of the blades. Ofelia opens her mouth slightly to speak. Robert Jordan knows her mouth has opened. Robert Jordan knows her breath comes from the forest and knows that with its drawing she also draws in the silver light of the clearing and the small red lights of the eyes around them and small parts of the forest suspended in their midst. Ofelia ventures to speak and invites these things to enter and live within her and that in her body, though only slightly, is where part of the life of those things now reside. Ofelia knows what Robert Jordan knows. Ofelia continues to speak:
Feb 19, 2012
Feb 19, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
Light hearts and lace
Cast uneasy shadows
on things; all too
often left unspoken
We dance betwixt
moonlight and an ever
ignored reality.
Sneaking around lies of
Omission
and buried hatchets.
Oh what wicked webs
we weave.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
it's a tree's life
a birds and bees life
the bees knees life
but they carve into me with these knives
see, i'm a tree and i help out the bee hives
in every land of milk and honey
honey, it's the honey that's the money
it's straight tree life
not down on a knee life
i stand for one thing and that's all
texas chainsaw massacre and hatchets
lost limbs and widow makers
in every atom is a gift within
every thing of thick and thin
it's straight tree life
it's so great to be life
i have one godly fate, to all relate
breathe me in and lay beneath
i am the shelter that you seek
come to me don't be afraid
i am all warmth and in all shades
it's a straight G's life
yo nuts swing on deez life
it's a tree's life
we all shake with the leaves
and say goodbye when they leave life
spring will be back to see us
not exactly, but we will be us
loving the sun, wind and rain
changing with the weather to be the same
accepting change
knowing we will live on
tree life
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 8:02 AM UTC
Famous Leatherstocking was a mighty hunter,
Like a male Artemis; Freischutz without bullets.
He did slay many a fiend for Minerva;
Slicing their gullets, before burying the hatchets.
He whistled as he skinned the prey he killed,
And wisdom hung about him like thick mist;
He told stories and glorified all the blood spilt,
But never did he mention the few he missed.
There will always be ones like Leatherstocking,
Those who **** for sport, who like to brag.
When there's no prey left and nothing's shocking,
He might hunt down the children who've been bad.
Or that's what they'll say to keep us in line,
For we are the children Minerva left behind.
Feb 8, 2011
Feb 8, 2011 at 4:20 PM UTC
Its paralysis in wonderland
Ignoring all the things you can
Building a soapbox out of buried hatchets
On which you finally hope to take a stand
Will you ever be this young again?
I don't know, but don't get mad
when I ignore your gender, man
We split the toll for the long road home
We find ourselves questioning things
that they never wanted us to know
Pioneering sinking ships,
- still being told to 'row!'
A routine change of quarters,
Pushing on every border,
Until you finally feel you've found a home
Where is your light?
Where is your soul?
I guess we've got a ways to go
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
How much time passes
between inviting the sun to hunch in the corner of my room
canary and screaming for the world to stop orbiting
and suddenly it’s night
and you realize it’s been seventeen hours since your body has made a request to move
knees pulled up to chest empty and heaving white
every bone in your body an orchestra of creaking
soundly against the crickets leaping off the fourth floor of your balcony dingy
the background noise of your dreams
blood the scent of pennies ripe in the air
smeared here and there
across all things unwanted
where apologies thrive on eleven cold dollars an hour—
you never asked for this.
I am better
at tallying each shade my room turns
because it has nothing to do
with the cerulean in my face
and this is the only place
that I allow warmth to be subjective,
when it’s breaking through windows with hatchets
instead of being waited on
watching the mouth of my wall clock nailed shut
frozen in a minute and speechless,
I have no desire to dial an ambulance
bear witness to the whirring American frequencies
of heads turned 180 even during the scuffling feet rustling rush of rush hour,
I’d rather hear the ringing in my ears
of each ghost that has ever followed me back home
quaking in translucent skin.
I heard that three a.m. belongs to the devil
I haven’t tested that theory since I was seventeen sacrificing and surrendering
but I do know what happens between the hours of thinking without doing
wanting without acting
the bed a fort you are asked to hold down by that hefty feeling
in your feet that reside two blocks from where your legs used to be,
and there is no path filthy with orchids,
when dark is just on the brink of waking,
but you can’t tell the difference anymore.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 1:05 AM UTC
Single sneaker rolls down a road
As the dog barks at empty room corners
Limb shaking winds replace august heat
With an off key church hymn humming heart
And
Two toned makeup, matching stain on new---old shirt
Animal tested
Cheap
Incomplete
Like a José guzzle, airy gag
Shots of half assed smiles
Across an empty bar
Read half assed headlines
Bury corporate hatchets
In pocket or timepunch
Wish we stood for more
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 12:47 PM UTC
[min 1]
Bleed my blackness away
Brother for I want to be you one day
All just and fair
For the Lord knows I failed
To make you see my way
[min 2]
Just today ought to be the day
Lord found me, under silent gaze
to steal my sunshine away
For he sent his carpenter
to chisel my life away.
[min 3]
father's blood, for water spray
plough cotton, your way
black cotton, to design thy dreams
you did silence my sway
A breath in the fray, I breathe away
[min 4]
the fair soldier, does your bid
in the darkness of the night
he steals my life away
as the wheels of time, tick away
a breath in the fray, I breathe away
[min 4:30]
crushed under the wheels
of your desires, of your greed
wheels of time turn,
the world don't care
for no time to stand and stare
[min 5]
no time to hang that noose
no tree that stand tall to
carry me to your place
on the end of a rope hung loose.
no time to stare, no time to snooze
[min 5:30]
no time to stand and stare
for there is another to bleed
for justice to be done
the world is to be rid
of the blackness, that's me
[min 6]
A musical note of your instrument
He too is your son, O' Lord
my executioneer is here
with hatchets drawn
to bleed my blackness away
[min 6:30]
saw him to the end of his rainbow
but no legs to walk me, home
O' mama, sorry to keep you waiting
don't set the table, the supper bowl
with eager eyes, and a losing hope
[min 7]
Oh' mama, I can't breathe
my brother just, with knees pressed deep
for he has decided to slay
by bleeding my blackness away
by bleeding my blackness away
[min 7:30]
Pray, no more, but alas every day
is a glorious day, for one more
to bleach his bones,
to pure cotton in the air
to breathe his last away
[min 8]
wish my kin led me by his hand
as the wheels of world moved,
with lightening speed,
I breathe my last,
I bleed my blackness away
[min 8:30]
the light of life fades, amongst red neon stares
whilst roses wilt by the roadside
and hopes to pain, by the wayside
I breathe my last,
I bleed my blackness away,
[min 8:40]
black cotton in the air
white cotton, a soul lay bare
red cotton in the air
red cotton in the flare
[min 8:46 - FLOYD DIES- The World looks upwards at the SpaceX Falcon 9 Starlink 8th mission]
no time too soon
fly me to the moon
eye coins for the fare
so precious, so rare
fly me to the air
[min 8:47]
no time to spare
no time to stand and stare
'tis just cotton in the air...
Jun 9, 2020
Jun 9, 2020 at 11:21 AM UTC
There is complexity in the heart
Despite even the matters that soon depart
Where it is blind, there is lightened distress
Dear fallen dove, what hath you thought and digress
Hypocrisy to judge, for empty I am as well
Even with waters that shield have divided as well
Backs turned, thinking clearly you suppose your not well
Even to ears familiar you have fears; very well
Camaraderie binds the past but how much more shall it last
With hatchets above grounds of varying cast
There is nothing, silences perhaps
Sadly why I comprehend, sad why I cannot share your joy
Sad that you’re blinded merely by only mishaps
Of the anchors of distracted affections; humanities ploy
Jan 31, 2010
Jan 31, 2010 at 11:38 AM UTC
Defiant is your heartfelt rhyme
it can be heard towing the line
crooked memories beat a drum
open the door, let truth come
For this tale is bold and cold
let others learn from this story told
years of grudges held in minds
decaying love in modern times
No sorry was ever read or said
regret or sorrow of the dead
in life they lived in persecution
never wanting resolution
Until one day the visits stopped
no more humble pie in ***
silence was the biggest noise
cutting ties and leaving toys
Firmly closing doors for good
on all the bad rotting wood
fleeing intimidating jibes
instead was drawn to happy times
Years passed by and families grew
as they moved to pastures new
never turning back the clock
or hatching any vengeful plot
A thorn was poking into wounds
was never cleaned, certainly doomed
death ended much of bitterness
forgotten words in wilderness
Never let a ****** bitter feud
fester for years, like cud chewed
always burry hatchets deep
and save our souls for peaceful sleep
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Come to the place where we bury strangers.
We hang them up to dry til' their rotten,
turned mad, and all sides of themselves forgotten;
then we drink their blood, despite the dangers.
Then, and only then do we sing them to sleep:
such disharmony blaring down their ears on repeat.
The will to give up soon starts to creep,
and we listen for the last breath and the last heart beat.
Come to the place where we bury strangers-
I know that your at least little tempted.
But many have failed when they have attempted
to hold on to their heads in these chambers.
We can and we will sing you sickly to sleep:
such disharmony blaring down your ears on repeat.
The will to give up soon starts to creep,
and we listen for your last breath and your last heart beat.
We were crazy before you could catch it.
We walk in green mazes with boxes of matches.
We bury bodies and we've buried a few hatchets.
We were crazy before you could catch it.
So come to the place where we like to go.
I think you'll find us to be easy in nature.
We do not pass judgement on any creature,
nor do we kick someone when their down and low.
We just drink a little blood and bury a few strangers.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 4:24 PM UTC
There is dog howl wind
behind that cold door
out there
where
all the stories
come true.
There are manic truants
running wild across
my back lawn
with
little hatchets
and bags.
There are sneaky smiley men
inside the TV box
greedy tongued
cold
begging money
and souls.
I will shut off the TV
let the dog in
lock the door
rock
creaking
dark
old
happy
safe.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 7:38 AM UTC
Buried hatchets and gateway drugs
Third wheels in search of two way streets
Manic compulsions are my hobbies, I need closure
The bad news bearer has me pegged, I'm still unsure
The bad guy still harbors feelings, drowns in his thoughts
Use you foresight to see that you need
To do the breast stroke to win
But in hindsight I guess you shouldn't have made that last brushstroke beforehand
Clog my toilet with a dollop, you hoot and holler, you'll get a wallop
Rebuked and cold cocked, so despondent kick rocks at their glass house
Goose eggs make green house gas
Do or die, cardiac arrest
Life's calling
The call is dropped
You're unfit for this
I'd like a life line
It's survival of the fittest
-Tommy Johnson
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
The hatchets swings from right to left
cutting sway in magical arc glittering acidic polish
labourers strive in whimsical grafts and melliferous distune
the gods in Olympus stand akimbo watching meddling mortals
No demigods in hazey disquietude sees
for those the gods forsake wear the laurels made for Pompeii
time will tell come the days of transmogrification in Cosmos Paths
the oracles files litigation before the gods against impostors vile
The seven tongues of the seven headed dragon
flicker between the dawn and dusk, between mist and flames
salacious visions mired in morbid delight cooked with arsenic dew
a cauldron boils for givers and takers, a chalice of retribution awaits
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 3:43 PM UTC
i've come to settle debts and unrequited loves upon bar stools and bloodied hatchets
up and down used condoms on faces of horror story linens
smiley faces and hearts above the grey clouds gleaming sovereignty
where the earth bathes
she weeps
" don't do that, we have a motor"
i cry and kneel down and beg forgiveness
the waves are crashing at my feet
i can see dead fish glistening just above the water
bobbing up and down
its just like good music
hot air winds of desert motion
steaming and boiling the life force
so it comes out
far out
make me spill the wine oh great god of ****
make my heart contend to the greatest spirit of dying
and wake up
still drunk
i will not spit the light in vain
only to enrich the folly that we call life
and they call entertainment
i can sit here forever
spewing out inequities of college kids "learning"
i can sit here forever
adding to the dying and suffering and coloring of something
and it shall remain
i will die where you left me
like a snake shedding its skin
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
your mother's chickens
that bawk; that shamelessly take her food
that she soothes; then fly away
full of her kindness, flightless and weighed down
out of the nest she built with her own jaws,
clumsily plunking to the ground.
your mother's children
that walk, that bawk; that she'll lose too
snapping their beaks, using their words as weapons
like hatchets they never sharpen
left inaudible but volatile,
and impatiently toss away
aimless, 'til their throats are sore
final squawks spent in defiance,
axes ricocheting like bullets
back in their mouths.
she can't help but smile at the
thought- there will be no
flying south,
not this winter-
not ever.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:02 PM UTC
The electric kettle grooves like a gavel bounce bouncing off the bench when the judge won the raffle
The sound waves baffle the mind as the refrigerator hums along to the microwaves song
A beep beepin’ melody as smoke’s creep creepin’ from the oven
And the blender is lovin’ the distraction
Keepin’ their eyes from the action
As he hatchets and dispassionately dispatches chickpeas left and right
No end to the violence in sight
Who cares about wrong from right
There will be hummus tonight
**** blender got his business done but now the fun begins as the stove channels the power of the sun to heat the pan and the plan is to fry the dough, those homemade doughnuts make the crowd go nuts but the sizzle of the grease unleashes the beast of the band, the main man, the rockstar, tattoo on his arm, rugged charm, protects you from harm, my man the fire alarm.
The fire truck sirens join the orchestration and soon the scene of devastation muffles into a hum, but umm, the night’s still young and we could still go, you know, I’m pretty loco for them Doritos and I may be burnt and poor but Taco Bell is open ’til 4.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC
The idle chattering of a family occasion.
It swings around every holiday.
The gathering of peas from the same unhappy pod.
Talking without saying anything.
Bloodless, insipid, mundane.
All emotion sunk deep down, beneath the layers of years.
Hatchets left swinging in the breeze.
Bury one in me?
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC