Tag Archives: hammer

08.12.21
by

Crisp (an acrostic poem)

Image: assets.epicurious.com/photos/58332829de1def5b05b7eb37/4:3/w_1775,h_1331,c_limit/hard_apple_cider_21112016.jpg

Cider so hard you need a hammer and chisel to drink it

Resulting in puckered lips that would make an Instagram influencer jealous

It leaves an impression on the consumer’s soul

Searing the memory of that tree, that branch, that fruit, that moment

Permanently into your psyche

11.25.20
by

Tool (an acrostic poem)

Image: aclbomb.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/hammers.jpg

The hammer felt so good in his calloused hand

Only that didn’t seem enough for this task

Opening up the metal box he reached in and pulled out a larger hammer

Looking at his source of frustration he grinned and went to work “fixing it”

04.03.20
by

Smith (an acrostic poem)

 

Selecting the right words to give strength to the tale

Managing to weld together sentences without seams

Intricate work with the hammer to make the whole thing take shape

Then quenching it with an editing pass to give it durability

How a writer forges stories from raw emotional stock

 

Image: darksword-armory.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/10/sword-making-steel.jpg

03.15.19
by

Crash (an acrostic poem)

Capsizing the tin of screws sent them careening to the tile floor

Running away from the cacophony, Flynn kept his head down

Another hammer flew by, smashing the windows on his left

Splinters of glass impregnated themselves into his flesh

He threw himself through the ex-window before the ground finally found him

 

Image: s-i.huffpost.com/gen/1440349/images/o-SLEDGEHAMMER-facebook.jpg

03.16.17
by

Bloody Kiss

Tap.  Tap.  Tap.  The chips of virgin white marble flew with each hit of the chisel from the hammer, littering the floor with inspiration.  Morgan had spent seven days going over this particular block looking at what was hidden within.  Seven days of laying on of hands, to get the feel of the rock.  She spent hours upon hours looking at the block from every conceivable angle.  Now she was obsessed with releasing the imprisoned statue held within the marble tomb.  She tasted flecks of cold hard marble as she continued her work.  The sound from her chisel and hammer gave her clues as to how she was doing with her excavation.  The smell of her sweat mixed with the marble dust made her almost intoxicated.

Tap. Tap. Tap.  The statue began to come to life.  Morgan could feel it start to breathe with the life she was pouring out of her hands.  It began to flex the muscles she carved into its limbs.  The creator was working on the created, while the created worked on the creator; a circle of energy that kept building and building until…

Crack.  A small imperfection of the marble block made itself known with the release of energy and sound pent up for millennia. Morgan stopped her hammer mid swing and let it drop of her deadened fingers.  With a second crack it fell to the floor.  The created life fled the lump of stone, leaving a petrified corpse behind.  Morgan felt her creativity evaporate under the glare of the broken piece of art in front of her.  She placed her chisel softly on her lips, as if to kiss the whole endeavor goodbye.

Morgan puckered her lips a bit, feeling the sharp end slice her lightly.  The blood she tasted woke her out of her torpor.  She picked up the flawed marble statue and gave it a bloody kiss.  Where she had kissed the marble left a blood red “lipstick” mark.  That made her smile.  It was almost like a goodnight kiss on their first date.  She would figure this piece out eventually.  All good relationships just needed time.  She left the marble behind on her table, the chisel laid beside.  Tomorrow she would try again, but first she needed to take care of this bloody lip.