"hewn" poems
Give them to me.
All the pieces of your broken heart.
Give them to me.
I'll take them.
All the rough-hewn misshapen bits of your shattered dreams.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Give them to me.
They are wanted here.
All the parts of your misspent childhood. All the regrets of ticking seconds behind you.
Give them to me.
And we will build a cathedral. A stained glass window of who we are as tall and as beautiful as it should be.
Let me have them.
And we will make a mosaic that stretches as wide as the sky. Showing every color your heart gained from the bits and pieces left on the ground.
I will take them.
And forge a sculpture of how beautiful the ideas are that we cast out in our failings and we will cast it in our failings.
Let me have them.
And we will ***** a monument of all the small things in the shape that you remember them.
Towering. Looming. Striking. Beautiful.
Let me have them so we might bind the words said and regretted, (or worse) left unsaid in leather and call it scripture.
Our Psalms. Our Proverbs:
*“The tip of my finger dangles like my tongue. Wanting to touch something beautiful.”
“If it were not for him, it would have been us.”
“You were all my brightest colors.”
“I wish I were more like you.”
“I wish I were less like me.”
“I am sped.”*
And we will read them at dawn like litany.
Stretching our voices to the corners of the universe. Asking for the wishes you make when you are scared. Or alone. Or both.
That we may take them.
And make a blanket.
A blanket to cover our childhood and let it rest at last.
I will take them.
All the parts you no longer want.
Give them to me.
Because they are what make us beautiful.
Give them to me.
That I may forge them into pitch and feathers and craft mighty wings.
That I may take flight from your worry. And soar on the updraft of your misconception.
Give them to me.
I will take them.
Because I would rather burn like Icarus than to have never dared to fly.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
The Earth was ours.
We filled its fertile fields full of
Plants of our own choosing: our own design.
To provide for ourselves we drained the Earth
Because the Earth was ours.
We populated the islands that
The Earth had built for us from its own skin.
Like parasites we kept it alive for our needs
Because the Earth was ours.
Then one day the Earth spoke:
You who crawl over my face,
Unthinking for the blemishes you build.
You till my skin and plough my bones, you drink
My tears and feast on my flesh. Slowly, my fiery
Vengeance has brewed, bubbled upwards
And wrath shall be known.
It will begin as a rumbling.
You will think I tremble with terror at your might
But the movement of your monuments is more my
Laughter at your lowliness. The hallways of your houses
Will be hewn by themselves as my body convulses to be rid of the
Sickness of you. You will sound your two-tone Armageddon sirens
In vain as my thunderous thoughts tumble your towers
Fragment your foundations. Break your brick walls.
Stone on stone will spark, igniting infrastructure
And your cities will burn.
But it is just the beginning.
I will bury you.
I will bury you in the fire of my fury.
I will bury you in the ashes of my anger.
You will solidify, screaming, into silent stone.
You will choke, child-like, on my smoke.
You will die by my hand: your home.
And I will bury you.
And this to me is easy.
I am greater than all you build from
My body. So I use my body to wreak ruin:
Reduce your greatness to rubble and dust
Because the Earth was always mine.
I was always my own.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 7:53 PM UTC
A thought sometimes forms
I live too much
yet I do too little.
Woken at strange hours,
never asleep.
Rapt in raps
or wrapped in riddles
Chained to links
or hammered to handle
stubbed to bone
Mens et
Manus
There is time yet, I swear
To flourish
To dream
To make
To be
To do
To create
Will I?
We'll see
There's time yet to tell
Be yourself, they say
The best you you can be
But once more— Will I have time
To edit
I live less
I do less
Portfolio: empty
or at least, locked away.
Excitement too.
Blank slate
Blank palette
Is there any paint?
Can I truly make
excitement saturate?
Will I be able to place
value as I see fit?
Can the world be hewn slimmer, slicker
Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger
Tis daft I think, to amuse such a notion
But not necessarily so daft to be wrong
Emerson called it misunderstood,
Shaw found it unreasonable
But ay, theres the rub
That bed once made, must be lain in and
all dreams which might be had are alone not enough
Bloom effects don't work outside the movies.
Ideas are trash, these are recession times
Deflations made them a farthing a dozen
Started 10.03.11
Unfinished
D.B. Guy
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 2:57 AM UTC
Every battle of a warrior
is riddled with confused
noise!
The garment of a warrior
is rolled in blood!
When the bricks are falling
down, a warrior builds
with hewn trees
When the sycamore are cut
down, a warrior replaces
them with cedar
In the lifting of the smoke he
burns down wickedness
and its fire with stout heart
Certain in certainty, the trees
in the wood bow to the
warring winds in the battle of a
warrior!
Warrior sings upfront in
victory and for victory,
standing determined on
the mountain of courage
and faith, dutifully
worshipping on the altar
of fearlessness and glory.
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 4:27 AM UTC
Heartbeats fast
whispers and plans
a mother's heart conflicted
as she wrings her hands
through the courage,
streaming tears
she will let him go
despite her fears
Outside, canines barking harsh
men's cruel shouts
she must say her goodbyes
as the shots ring out
So many kisses
on his sweet, sleepy face
little man deep in slumber,
in angelic grace
yes, he cried for a minute
as the morphine kicked in
and she rocked him and rocked him
his little frame, so thin
Now as his father takes him
she crumples to the wall
"By the will of God may I see
him again" she whispers
for he is her all
Outside the freeze
puffs breath into clouds
the quiet imperative for
this next move:
Father gently slips son
into the rough-hewn jute,
No rotten potatoes today, no
this is far more important
No one will look for a tot
in a potato sack, he hopes
He looks around and slips
through the hole in the wire
These moments are critical
the need for speed is dire
A quick trip to the village
in the black cloak of night
looking over shoulder
Finally the house…it's just there,
the next meadow over
the secret knock is sounded
and the door opened in silence
warm arms greeting, helping
carry the goods inside
Will this be a respite
from all the endless violence?
Laid gingerly on the bed,
the sack is eased off gently
no potatoes inside
just a small sleeping boy
his parents only pride
Father strokes his hair,
Lays his palms on his head
to bless this bundle of sweetness
in his new environment
"I will come for you, my son"
tucks thin blanket around
and the deed is done
and now, in the cold lonely
smoldering air
of the burning dark
now in the kiss of hopeful protection
yes, now it's time to part
Back to his wife in the ghetto's
cold, sickened space
to try to convince her
to bust out of that twisted place
You are my warrior, you
and all the others
Your spirit beats on
in my
naked heart's
thunder
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head
The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall.
Of mighty kings of Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away;
The world was fair in Durin's Day.
A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.
There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote,
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built,
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
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sitting on the floor barefoot in a baby blue dress
perfections dreamscape hewn in lace
romance flower of such gentle strength
and such sweet grace
my life was a blank page
waiting to be written
waiting for my wanderers heart to be smitten
for this wild child dreadlock princess
for this gentle soul to sing her heartsong for me
tremble no more for all darkness is gone
with eachother we are stronger than moonlight
with eachother our hearts beat as one
my life to you and for you my sweet
be my wife
be my life
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
The sun is over the yardarm;
My mused Goddess of poesy
Sitting like patience on a monument
Of Iris; Chrysaor yielding
Whilst I throw ones lot
Twisting in the wind of the
Rostrum of technology
Cutting my teeth on rainbow dreams of you.
Peace, hope, sincerity
In the twinkling of an eye
You have the edge on
As with serene conscience of you
I set fire to terracotta tears
A rough-hewn diamond
Needing an earfull
Lo! harkened death
Herald of the last supper.
Eleete j Muir.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
In a strange mood - see/write art
in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^
in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.
knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.
a ***** well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.
^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell
Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
737
The Moon was but a Chin of Gold
A Night or two ago—
And now she turns Her perfect Face
Upon the World below—
Her Forehead is of Amplest Blonde—
Her Cheek—a Beryl hewn—
Her Eye unto the Summer Dew
The likest I have known—
Her Lips of Amber never part—
But what must be the smile
Upon Her Friend she could confer
Were such Her Silver Will—
And what a privilege to be
But the remotest Star—
For Certainty She take Her Way
Beside Your Palace Door—
Her Bonnet is the Firmament—
The Universe—Her Shoe—
The Stars—the Trinkets at Her Belt—
Her Dimities—of Blue—
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she hovers over the handwritten letter
with maniacal grin gripping her face
as she devours his texted words
with weeping eyes
and she sings in unnatural tones a child's lullaby in some
forgotten french dialect
delightful reflections in song of the garden gate
leaning broken onto the rough hewn path
where the soulless cherubs cherish their seed
in haphazard rows cherub faces sling silent tears
and labour at the desires never felt and
the dark soils never fertile
seeking redemptions in the rebirth of the harvest moon
which decorates the far wall of the tomb
the cherubs brief delighted laughters
soon sputter and fail
as in the dying light of day
reveals that they must labour yet another day
to no useful end
she lives in this place
a cottage of straw with dark windows
and a wood stained door
she sits on its porch with knitting in hand
weaving futures for her beloved cherubs
weaving pasts for her own
she devoured him like she did his words
and came home to roost
like her innocent faced dragoons
she will someday march forth with this army of doom
but today she is content to be contrite
knitting porridge and whey wall hangings
from the tables of the
steampunk princess
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:27 AM UTC
There's a little graveyard
just outside of town
The grass is overgrown
The trees are dead and brown
For as long as I remember
No one's been up there
And from the look of the dead flora
Nobody really cares
It's about a mile east of here
The fence is almost gone
It's never going to get mistaken
for good old forest lawn
There's not a stone of granite
Most are white, or made of wood
There are spots among the headstones
where others may have stood
I thought it was a potter's field
for those destitute and poor
but, upon close examination
i have discovered so much more
The names go back before the war
The civil one I mean
Back before the Pilgrims came
back to sixteen seventeen
There is no history of them at all
The names aren't from this town
But, there they are on ancient stone
Buried in our ground
It's really something different
The feeling of knowing who they were
Were they here in search of riches
Or chasing down the wealth of fur
I've checked all the stones still standing
Two hundred thirty one in all
that includes the stones rough hewn
left leaning by the wall
The town itself was started
Back in eighteen forty two
So compared to those here lying
The town is fairly new
The graveyard is neglected
There's no body here at rest
from since the town was started
laid in this hallowed nest
There's crosses and carved angels
Whole families as well
With this much soul protection
They will never go to hell
No one knows about them
But in this field the dead still lie
About a mile east of Vickston
With the road, cars passing by
No one will go up there
To tend those who came before
So, they'll sleep soft here forever
And dream of life forever more
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
Father's Day was yesterday.
But why must a day be set aside to show a parent love?
I love my parents all year round
I've fought, screamed, cried all the while loving them.
But, my country breeds strong independent people
national identity to be found everywhere.
From the hilltop spring to the coast
we Welsh are a mystical breed, of mystery and sorcery.
My anthem "Mae hen wlad fy nhadau"
or Land of my fathers made me stop and think,
think of my father and other men in this land.
Rough handed, hewn from steel and coal.
Iron willed, fiercely proud.
Valley born I am, even now I'm in a city.
But when I die Valley dead I'll lie.
In my father's plot, set aside for us.
Set aside on a green mountain overlooking the valley.
The land of my fathers, the land that bred him and me.
This poem is in English oh "uch a fi"
But if I write in Welsh my father will not understand
His generation denied the language of song, poetry,
and identity. I have a happy heart "calon hapus"
For he and I will be forever tied by blood and country.
Father's Day for me and all children born of woman lay claim to
Father's Day all year round.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
The moon sways
down the sun’s half eye
for it every mo
is the elephant is in the room
before the sun zooms out
deep down from the pi.
Magic is uncracked within
that first light breaks out
dawns in the eternal night
is a shiny tear in the speechless
witness’ open eye,
on the tight lips, deep runner silent pi!
Men on the painstakingly polished circle
may have hewn out riveted eyes.
Up more is set free deep down the pi,
bottom in anew, in open paradise!
Feb 5, 2022
Feb 5, 2022 at 11:29 PM UTC
For, a four legged companion,
A solitary
Gravel smoked voice clips instructions,
Harsh sharp whistles echo cross the valley floor,
Emitted by crag worn features.
Piercing eyes, sun bleached.
Skin hewn by dry stone walls.
Hands created by granite.
Coarse tousled hair guards against howling winds.
The hardworking man at peace with his surrounds.
© Nick Strong 2014
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 3:06 PM UTC
Too roughly hewn and cleaved around edges frayed
shaped and reshaped by these own calloused hands
I realize the shape of things ,... who I am ... who I've become ―
The sound of my own raw voice knows not convention ;
it was nothing more than words of fragmented tomes exposed
Only the broken wind covering footprints on the road not taken
on a never ending journey into a lonely abyss
These greatest fears I've come to know ;
my greatest weakness bared and borne
broken dreams bought and sold,
for less than they were worth.
In the chill of this winter darkness grown cold
a newly recurring silence echoes poignantly,..
redux
forevermore
self-loathed
déjà vu ―
***The only dream's fruition ever feared:
to walk alone at that predestined parting moment
within a stones throw of six feet underground ,...
dropping to these knees at a threshold
well-nigh left behind,
knocking at the door that leads beyond ―
never needing to know how to say goodbye …***
thinking out loud ... 11. 29. 2016
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 12:49 PM UTC
Here, passing lonely down this quiet lane,
Before a mud-splashed window long I pause
To gaze and gaze, while through my active brain
Still thoughts are stirred to wakefulness; because
Long, long ago in a dim unknown land,
A massive forest-tree, ax-felled, adze-hewn,
Was deftly done by cunning mortal hand
Into a symbol of the tender moon.
Why does it thrill more than the handsome boat
That bore me o'er the wild Atlantic ways,
And fill me with rare sense of things remote
From this harsh land of fretful nights and days?
I cannot answer but, whate'er it be,
An old wine has intoxicated me.
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1676
Of Yellow was the outer Sky
In Yellower Yellow hewn
Till Saffron in Vermilion slid
Whose seam could not be shewn.
2.7k
Peter built a paper boat
Which he could float about the sea
To hidden spots of lonely coast
Where not a ghost or man would be
He painted words along her bough
That soon would plough and skip and trot
Between the waves that rose and falled
The boat was called 'Forget Me Not'
He bid his wife a fond goodbye
The tide was high when he embarked
He drifted from his tiny cove
While weather drove and seagulls larked
He set his course horizon bound
For solid ground of ****** shore
As darkness came he made a bed
To keep his head above the floor
The voyage took him straight and true
Across the blue, toward the sun
But soon a tongue of lightening spat
And thunder rattled like a gun
The waves encircled hungrily
And angrily about their prey
The tempest heaved with no regret
It blew Forget Me Not away
He found himself all caked in sand
And on a strand of desert beach
Forget Me Not had run aground
But safe and sound from tidal reach
He folded down his paper yacht
And found a spot to build a home
But saved the sail and rudder strings
To forge some wings and daily roam
He glided high and long and wide
Past mountainside and shore to shore
And through the night he forged a blade
And with it made a lumber saw
He felled the trunk and snared the beast
And cooked a feast to celebrate
The rain it sought to disagree
But quick was he to remonstrate
The moonlight waxed and waned apart
And on his heart a longing formed
For home and his beloved bride
For fireside and there be warmed
And so he took the house he'd made
From humid shade of seldom oak
He set the island to his aft
And cried and laughed the words he spoke
They matched the words he'd lately hewn
Beneath the moon in shady spot
He carved into that seldom tree
'Remember me, forget me not'
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
Long ago, a Savior was born
and hidden within a humble birth;
covered with the cloak of humanity,
His presence impacted this earth.
Although we remember His birthday,
know that Christ is no longer a child;
He stopped being an infant, who was…
helpless, quiet, tender and mild.
He grew in strength and wisdom;
He demonstrated His holy authority;
He lived as He divinely taught;
He set the example, for you and me.
He gave of Himself completely
and paid the ultimate sacrifice.
He embodied God’s covenant of love;
His actions were timely and precise.
After suffering the shame of crucifixion,
He was briefly buried in a rock-hewn tomb;
three days later, He triumphantly exited
with a glorified body from Resurrection’s womb.
Today He lives and sovereignly rules;
so people of faith, it’s time to agree
that we must continue to live Godly lives,
seeing that… the manger is still empty!
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Matt 1:18-2:15, 27:46-54; Acts 2:22-24; Heb 7:25;
1 John 2:1-2; Rom 8:34
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,
The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
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to sleep i may, but not the dark vessel
of mine eyes, over stormy seas of placenta and albatross
tossed from the palm of a rough hewn, Five-Headed Crane
raking five beaks across a canvass of my wounded fires -
and my brazen black honey, trembling on the lip
of mis-fortunate birth...,
in the cataract of
a fine hat
on a fat
rebel.
my public spaces engineered
to come from the inside
the wastelands are beautiful
as you gawk
at the red
sun
a bead of red plasma,
flowing from an
open vein
in a mind shaft.
with a bad back
and no front.
but a lasting gasp....
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 5:49 PM UTC
she turned the questions in her eyes aside
and stealing away in the quiet
of the pine forest winters day
the taste of wood smoke was tangible on the sharp cold air
and his eyes hunted the ridge crest for sing of flames
as they hurried their steps along the rough hewn track
she carried the child whos silent contemplation
showed his understandings of the gravity of this flight
the bundle of possessions on his shoulder
weighed upon his mind
counselling himself not to regret casting it all aside should need arise
the woman and child so fragile and dear to his heart
mean so much more than mere trinkets of gold
he would surrender without pause life and limb to spare them
she was a smoky version of bobby dylan
complete with winged snakes in each hand
complete with a crown of jewels
and the thousand words dance
he was a seafaring man
they reached the shore of the sea
and found the wreckage of a sailing ship
her fine line speaking clear of her swiftness
and her appointments show without shyness
that she was of the finest portugal shipyards
they spent days making her seaworthy
laying up in the harsh tropical sun
neath the palm trees drinking *** from her stores
they put to sea in the birth of the new year
singing 'goodbye spanish ladies'
the three of them on the skiff tacking up-channel
trying to determine latitude by sighting
but a fog rolls in off the coast of grande bahama
as dawn breaks
man woman and grown child
the miles and the treasures cast aside
each wore on open hearted face
but neath the weary of sea miles
was their joys in the true riches
of eachothers soft hand entwined as they sailed into
a golden dusk
of a lesser throne
a kingdom of the sea
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
Surely
your eyes smile like
sunflowers in August
dropping their seeds
from skyscraper heights
as you hang from your cross
nailed together by your own
rough-hewn hands
dropping their seeds
as the wind runs its fingers
through the weeds
windchiming like a
platinum-plated Joni Mitchell
and surely you touched mine
surely surely surely
and I wish like Christmas Eve
like a first junior high dance
like a death bed watch
that I could afford even
a bottle of you
but the demand for you is high
and the supply . . .
well, you know, there's never enough
and you keep raising the price and
surely surely surely
you know, there's never enough
so I lie here
among the weeds
seeking out your seeds
some small, priceless part of you
as you rise out of my reach
like a house with a seaside view
like a villa in Tuscany
like gold
which you are
surely surely surely
you are
with your sunflower eyes
and your Christmas Eve wishes
you pay for my sins
dropping your seeds and
surely surely surely
you know, there's never enough
Mar 19, 2012
Mar 19, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC