Snag turned deadfall,
dread widow-maker with
your fag-ends caught
in the crotch of a living tree,
hold fast while the chainsaw
gnaws through your limb,
don’t pinch the bar in your haste
to get free, but as soon as
the uppercut meets the undercut,
drop straight, don’t twist
or kick. Sink into the soft
mulch of your many autumns,
the bed you made for just
this final fall.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Excellent. ‘…but as soon as
the uppercut meets the undercut,
drop straight, don’t twist
or kick. Sink into the soft
mulch of your many autumns…’
Lovely use of language.
Thanks, Dick. I’m not entirely satisfied with this poem, but your good words make me think it might be worth returning to at some point.
Lovely! That’s what I had to say too!
I have to say the “fag-ends caught in the crotch” threw me far afield. Do they say “fag-end” in PA?
I like the hexing action too. I always forget to hex.
Damn nice. And I can smell the dry musty twilight smell of fallen leaves.
Thanks for the comments.
HELL, no!
But then, most people don’t say spells, either. The thing with spells and charms is you have to use deliberately strange or obscure language. It’s a power thing, same as with bureaucratese.
Wonderful! In the always-learning-something-new department, I was curious to read the last definition of snag: “sensitive new age guy”.
Yeah, that’s me. Heh.