HATCHET:

Hatchet, axe, a tool by any other form or name,

Call it what you will, but in the end it´s all the same,

Primitive, old, made from men´s humble beginnings,

Used for all his needs & often, many erring sinnings.           

Handle hewn & planed, as smooth as watered silk,

From wood that’s hard as nails & yet as pale as milk,         ´

Head of iron, steel, flint, or grey cold & beaten stone,

Sharpened edge, blade of razor, shaped & finely honed,

Made by hand, soil-toiled & gnarled of hardened bone,

With patience & often blaspheming & sweated moan,

Worked until completed, new & ready for work & use,

For man´s survival, ritual & sadly also in man´s abuse.

For carcass splintered & firewood warmly chopped,

For tossing games & the enemy prematurely stopped,

Tomahawk, hatchet, chopper, or just the simple axe,

Bones in cauldrons, heads scalped, wood in winter stacks.

Used in circles, by the fire, with mystic chanting friends,

Buried deeply with regrets, when you make amends,

This simple hatchet, this tool, called by many a name,

Made by the hand of the man, the only one to blame.