"jackhammering" poems - Hello Poetry

Little jackrabbit heart Jackhammering at this brittle bone cage Salty tears from all parts Looking for answers on an unmarked page. Beating back fear with a big stick Timid, mouse voice tries to squeak The words of a lioness. Oh why did you pick The littlest songbird with her bound beak? Little squirrel darts off, afraid. After a struggle to stand on shaky legs, The tiniest foal gave up and laid In the soft hay. Sweet little dog begs On the back porch ( liquid scared, scary eyes). Let me into your heart, let me into your home! Caged bird becomes freebird of open skies Dipping low to touch the ocean's foam.

0

Mar 16, 2010

Mar 16, 2010 at 10:08 PM UTC

iris-stevenson

Jackrabbit Heart

Little jackrabbit heart Jackhammering at this brittle bone cage Salty tears from all parts Looking for answers on an unmarked page. Beating back fear with a big stick Timid, mouse voice tries to squeak The words of a lioness. Oh why did you pick The littlest songbird with her bound beak? Little squirrel darts off, afraid. After a struggle to stand on shaky legs, The tiniest foal gave up and laid In the soft hay. Sweet little dog begs On the back porch ( liquid scared, scary eyes). Let me into your heart, let me into your home! Caged bird becomes freebird of open skies Dipping low to touch the ocean's foam.

16

Imperfect world, purposeless person. I retired to pursue perfection learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants, read every inch of English literature, Scientific American and Foreign Affairs, have an affair with an American. Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars. Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls. Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share with Jesus believers on talk radio shows where we try to bring your lives into expressible states before it’s too late and climate change inundates you. Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear, one day you’re feeling fine, the next not. We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget your face and previous accomplishments. The place you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens) and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful certainty all is well, nothing special need be done. Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly. Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish. Everything is as one would wish. Numberless are the world's wonders but none more wonderful than aliens.

0

Sep 22, 2015

Sep 22, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC

robert-ronnow

Purposes Incomprehensible and Wonderful as These Purposes

Imperfect world, purposeless person. I retired to pursue perfection learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants, read every inch of English literature, Scientific American and Foreign Affairs, have an affair with an American. Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars. Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls. Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share with Jesus believers on talk radio shows where we try to bring your lives into expressible states before it’s too late and climate change inundates you. Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear, one day you’re feeling fine, the next not. We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget your face and previous accomplishments. The place you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens) and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful certainty all is well, nothing special need be done. Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly. Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish. Everything is as one would wish. Numberless are the world's wonders but none more wonderful than aliens.

28

There in the hole of a witness tree He sits with teeth jackhammering Chewing his regurgitated worries Back down to swallowable size His mind juggling coordinates Of hickory, walnut, and acorn Wearing one too many hats To blend in with the autumn circus Bushy tail pendulum Synchronizing his thoughts: Twenty paces south of the mailbox Winter All along the curb on elm street Winter Catty-corner to the sandbox I didn’t bury enough My mother was right about me Will there be nuts in heaven? Am I fit to enter Winter? No one understands the freeze Or the way it syphons your dreams No one really knows for certain If they can trust the promise of Spring These jitters become seizures Of collateral faith He is pressing his bones To hold back the winter Shaking like a reed in October’s gust Fretting in the hollow of a tree

0

Apr 24, 2014

Apr 24, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC

steven-hutchison

24 of 30 - Jitters

There in the hole of a witness tree He sits with teeth jackhammering Chewing his regurgitated worries Back down to swallowable size His mind juggling coordinates Of hickory, walnut, and acorn Wearing one too many hats To blend in with the autumn circus Bushy tail pendulum Synchronizing his thoughts: Twenty paces south of the mailbox Winter All along the curb on elm street Winter Catty-corner to the sandbox I didn’t bury enough My mother was right about me Will there be nuts in heaven? Am I fit to enter Winter? No one understands the freeze Or the way it syphons your dreams No one really knows for certain If they can trust the promise of Spring These jitters become seizures Of collateral faith He is pressing his bones To hold back the winter Shaking like a reed in October’s gust Fretting in the hollow of a tree

30

The break is long over. I should be back in that Hole, jackhammering my Way around that broken Pipe. But this butterfly Landed upon the dust And band-aids on my hand, And neither of us Wants to let Go.

0

Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 4:24 AM UTC

sgholter

Butterfly

The break is long over. I should be back in that Hole, jackhammering my Way around that broken Pipe. But this butterfly Landed upon the dust And band-aids on my hand, And neither of us Wants to let Go.

10

In the holy spot with the sitting rock, an oak. Out back shagbark hickory and maple. Ants climb the rock. August, birds celebrate flowering weeds, the seeds of autumn to come. I am here to name it and know it and help it to grow. These mountains are my grave. A good grave to go to. The crows have been in conference, again. A jay, blue, pokes a hole through reality. I find sumacs fruiting and the male *** organs of the Queen Anne’s lace. Juncos glean the lawn, an occasional nuthatch in the butternut. I hear a pileated woodpecker jackhammering and my neighbor’s skill saw chirring. Ants crawl on connecting interlacing instructions.

0

Aug 9, 2015

Aug 9, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC

robert-ronnow

Undersky Sleeping, Bonekeeping

In the holy spot with the sitting rock, an oak. Out back shagbark hickory and maple. Ants climb the rock. August, birds celebrate flowering weeds, the seeds of autumn to come. I am here to name it and know it and help it to grow. These mountains are my grave. A good grave to go to. The crows have been in conference, again. A jay, blue, pokes a hole through reality. I find sumacs fruiting and the male *** organs of the Queen Anne’s lace. Juncos glean the lawn, an occasional nuthatch in the butternut. I hear a pileated woodpecker jackhammering and my neighbor’s skill saw chirring. Ants crawl on connecting interlacing instructions.

30

I stand in the centre of the construction site. hearing drilling, jackhammering, shouting, and filling the gaps between all these sounds: the consistent thump of a boom blaster spitting and jumping as if asking everything to dance, rave with it. I say a prayer to Ronnie James Dio, and contemplate the thin, thin line between dubstep, and sitting -mouth wide open- under an angry, insane dentist.

0

Nov 20, 2014

Nov 20, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC

sgholter

thin, thin line

I stand in the centre of the construction site. hearing drilling, jackhammering, shouting, and filling the gaps between all these sounds: the consistent thump of a boom blaster spitting and jumping as if asking everything to dance, rave with it. I say a prayer to Ronnie James Dio, and contemplate the thin, thin line between dubstep, and sitting -mouth wide open- under an angry, insane dentist.

18

Sunday hung-over mornings and golden glares avoiding the dumb-hound dogs and their disapproving stares, a bedside table lined with more coke than wood a night-time of regrets, of differences of whether you would or should - ***beware the dumb-hound dawgs chewing upon fingernails rotten and curled exhaling noxious fumes and Badrock making everything see sense in a senseless world*** they stole your pitiful cranium and filled it full of idolisation jackhammering from high to low, like station to ******* station - yes it was good, full of *** and blissful ignorance but the harsh light of day brings addictions ruthless persistence not in the full throes of its torrid grasp yet you look at the half empty packets and ask should you carry on clean even though it stings or should you strangle your strength and clip it's wings? For drugs don't love you, it's a one way relationship that spits they'll leave you emaciated, broken, just like your mind that splits and fits - those pesky dumb-hound dogs you loved oh so much last night in a few broken years time you'll wish you'd never ever set sight.

0

Jun 13, 2017

Jun 13, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC

lexander-jones

Beware The Dumb-Hound Dawgs

Sunday hung-over mornings and golden glares avoiding the dumb-hound dogs and their disapproving stares, a bedside table lined with more coke than wood a night-time of regrets, of differences of whether you would or should - ***beware the dumb-hound dawgs chewing upon fingernails rotten and curled exhaling noxious fumes and Badrock making everything see sense in a senseless world*** they stole your pitiful cranium and filled it full of idolisation jackhammering from high to low, like station to ******* station - yes it was good, full of *** and blissful ignorance but the harsh light of day brings addictions ruthless persistence not in the full throes of its torrid grasp yet you look at the half empty packets and ask should you carry on clean even though it stings or should you strangle your strength and clip it's wings? For drugs don't love you, it's a one way relationship that spits they'll leave you emaciated, broken, just like your mind that splits and fits - those pesky dumb-hound dogs you loved oh so much last night in a few broken years time you'll wish you'd never ever set sight.

20

Old friend, I've just killed a man painted my spirit ****** red, cut the cord now it's dead Oh adios dear friends, it's the final half of the show the Thin White Joke is here and now it's time to go desperation lingers, unwanted and with regret I'm sure with time I will forget but I look at the flowers, unfeeling but born to be free holding against the tide, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide born just to be what have I done, destroying my only ally leaving this carapace wounded and fragile I'm standing against the tide, simply created not to live but to survive *what's the point in this world born to suffer with your ghastly grace you smother; homeless eat from bins the wealthy flounder in their sins morality bruised battered swollen dwelling in the void where hope is woven* I cannot see what I cannot forget a society sickened and upset bouncing flouncing to the point of no return in their graves the unholy turn and turn - and turn - So do you think you can lean and spit in my eyes? You think you can tarnish me with your pathetic lies? Oh lady, sweet sweet lady - *I was born to be alive I was born to hurt I was born to sin and look up skirts I'm a man, I'm a man can't you see I'm on the edge of psychopathic health and sweet nothingness the birds are there to fly tears made just to cry one caring/hatred abomination jackhammering from station to station I care not what you think nor what you say infact I care not for you in any way -* the flowers were born uncaring and free but now the world lags, cut finally - finally it no longer matters to me.

0

Aug 29, 2016

Aug 29, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC

lexander-jones

Fury

Old friend, I've just killed a man painted my spirit ****** red, cut the cord now it's dead Oh adios dear friends, it's the final half of the show the Thin White Joke is here and now it's time to go desperation lingers, unwanted and with regret I'm sure with time I will forget but I look at the flowers, unfeeling but born to be free holding against the tide, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide born just to be what have I done, destroying my only ally leaving this carapace wounded and fragile I'm standing against the tide, simply created not to live but to survive *what's the point in this world born to suffer with your ghastly grace you smother; homeless eat from bins the wealthy flounder in their sins morality bruised battered swollen dwelling in the void where hope is woven* I cannot see what I cannot forget a society sickened and upset bouncing flouncing to the point of no return in their graves the unholy turn and turn - and turn - So do you think you can lean and spit in my eyes? You think you can tarnish me with your pathetic lies? Oh lady, sweet sweet lady - *I was born to be alive I was born to hurt I was born to sin and look up skirts I'm a man, I'm a man can't you see I'm on the edge of psychopathic health and sweet nothingness the birds are there to fly tears made just to cry one caring/hatred abomination jackhammering from station to station I care not what you think nor what you say infact I care not for you in any way -* the flowers were born uncaring and free but now the world lags, cut finally - finally it no longer matters to me.

47