Best Chaffed Poems
In Memoriam of brave, lost souls during the First World War
Our insides churn, nostrils flare, with the pungent stench,
Order given to leave our sanctuary and trench.
Battle cry, whistle blown and up and over we go;
Standing together in advancement row by row.
We, doomed soldiers, marching onto the battlefield
holding our rifles, killing weapons, as our shields.
Hats made of tin lay cumbrous on our head,
Boots holding chaffed, unsteady feet, as we tread.
Upfront the enemy and fast approaching us,
Peaceful bygone days, oh— how beautiful it was!
Loss of innocence, bloodied through war, outbraves,
Blades turn crimson red — so many early graves.
Bugles sound, shells explode, blinded and choked within;
Shattered dreams, shattered lives, battle we may not win.
Comrades that became friends fall at our feet —
Only death awaiting them now to meet.
Their last breathless, muttered words lovingly spoken,
A falling silent tear, plea, gesture or token.
Remembrance to behold for their sweetheart, mother;
Final last memories, thoughts, can be of no other.
Resonant of sound and echoes of war
a shroud of smoke filled air as now and before.
Remember us always today and forever more.
We gave to king, country and those we adore.
He seemed very much like those white dogs before,
With a raggedy coat, pointed ears and much more.
But the likeness soon ended to those dogs gone away.
For he'd never known kindness or love in his day.
He didn't know words, didn't even know stairs.
His nose, from the kennel, was chaffed of its hair.
Boredom was passed licking fur from his paws.
The pads on his feet bordered long, ragged claws.
He paced back and forth mostly all of each day:
Slept in a tight ball to keep cold nights away.
Wary of children and grown men alike:
Startling sounds made him cringe out of sight.
He was hungry and thin: I could feel every bone.
He stayed by me like glue and was scared left alone.
He wolfed down his food in an uneasy rush.
He didn't know combs and felt fear of the brush.
But time has now passed since the dog came to stay
From that harsh, lonely kennel on a hill far away.
This little white dog now seems mostly like them:
Those former white terriers, my sweet, loyal friends.
He now spends his time . . like before . . by my side.
But something has changed, for he's not there to hide.
With all of this good there is even much more.
He now plays with his toys and will ask for the door.
He eats with good manners, sleeps sound in his bed:
Stretched out in contentment, fun dreams in his head.
He loves his car outings and with each early spring,
Explores the old pathways our daily walk brings.
I'm so happy to have him, as he sits on my lap,
Or sleeps by my chair for his afternoon nap.
He never will know all of the bad things again.
His life will be happy with me as his friend.
Yet as good as it's been for this dog to find me.
To learn love and to trust and from anguish be free.
I too have been blessed one more time from above,
By Him sending another white dog here to love.
My friend and I were skating in a rink.
He said, "Can we play a different sport?"
It was fun, but my friend tended to sink.
"Of course," I said, he smiled for my support.
He asked again, "Where else can we play sport?"
We played basketball, crowd around us chaffed.
My friend is a midget, that's why he gaffed.
The shoulders chaffed, the weary backs
of pack mules cursed with intellect,
so briefly were unburdened from
the detrious of war.
A break for a line doggy
from the green corrupted alley,
the worst stretch of the worst path;
hell's putrid inner city.
The Pall Mall you were having;
a cardboard box of four;
packed in nineteen forty six;
tobacco stripped three years before
the two of us were born.
Pungent smoke for driving off
the squadrons of mosquitoes,
drawn to the stench of uniforms
unchanged
in forty days.
Facing out; back to back,
your pack and mine supported.
I welcomed the distraction
of dreams softly spoken.
My pound cake and your peaches,
in drab green cans, divided,
thoughts of small town rodeos,
cool beds, with sheets,
and warm...
Precious breath not wasted
on Patriots,
or Politics...
So nice of you to mention
from your lofty Bully Pulpit
the bravery and sacrifice
of honor driven men.
Spewing verbose platitudes
that smell of self inclusion,
when pack straps, boots, and pistol belts
have never chaffed your skin.
The microphone before you there
will magnify your ego;
with bold, practiced inflection
you'll dispense your puffery.
Styled and dyed, your hair was
never sweat or helmet flattened,
your suit is by Brooks Brothers
and your tie is by committee.
You segregate your audience
and know them before speaking,
a patriot for veterans,
fear monger for the weak.
Quote the bible for the clergy;
they want to hear you pray,
and praise the second amendment
when you address the N. R. A.
Tell the minions "God will guide you,"
keep in step the righteous;
and rants against "entitlements"
plays well in wealthy homes.
Your conjured Muslim bogey men
sell billion dollar bombers;
while at the local high school
there's a bake sale to buy books.
Spirit Passing
Even in the bitter of the darkest winter
When our hearts feel cold as river stones,
And our tears are but ice fields,
When we feel certain that sweet summer winds
Will never visit our chaffed souls again,
We must remember, and always know,
That beneath even the coldest, deep frozen snow,
Sweet summer grass still lays green,
And spring flowers wait to grow.
And this dormant frozen season will pass.
So it is with the passing of souls.
One cannot live until another has gone.
Our hearts feel frozen and life stands still.
But the warm spirit of that passing soul
Will be the warm summer winds
That will melt our winter hearts,
And our melted tears will give life
To the spring flowers bloom.
Harsh! The asphalt sac circumscribes my spirit
drowning the spectacle of sapphire ambiance
That whirls a blue crush over my suntanned face,
whose temples are rippling with shimmering grin
And ,merry bustling the spontaneous chills smothering
my qua-spirits yet spray a fiery furnace of detesting
Scandinavian epidermal whimpering over my incongruous
antics with the talismanic chemist ritualistically rebirthing
my vexed spirit chaffed away with enduring rejection of
a taciturn corps that writhed aggravatingly for it dresses
a being that is obvious of a race,say human identity....
As morning's veil did lift its gentle hand
On my first call to ingratiate with the land
I fathered that night to dawn's early stand
And hit the roadway, where my journey's plan
Did unfold like a map, with twists and turns so grand
If I remember well, Kachikau did wave his hand
H hazily, with a wry grin, a gesture so bland
I paused for a moment, twiddling thumbs of my hand
Chaffed by the wind, my heart did take its stand
I looked at this dehydrated home village of mine
Eyes bursting with pathos, a tale so divine
In some odd sense, that distorted moment did shine
A light enough to fool the mind, a beacon so fine
I felt my heart beat increase with the intensity of light
Like selenium, a spark that ignited the night
I looked again at this parched home village of mine
Even raddled grass blades, a beauty so divine
The sun did rise, a fiery ball of gold
As I walked on, my footsteps did unfold
A story of longing, of dreams yet untold
Of a heart that beats, with a spirit so bold
The wind did whisper secrets, of a world so wide
As I walked on, my soul did start to glide
Through fields of green, where wildflowers did sway
And the scent of blooming lavender did fill the day
I felt the warmth of the sun, on my skin so fair
As I walked on, without a care
The world did seem so vast, so full of wonder and might
As I walked on, into the light of day and night
The stars did twinkle, like diamonds in the sky
As I walked on, with a heart that did not deny
The beauty of the world, the wonder of the sight
As I walked on, into the darkness of the night
The moon did glow, a silver crescent shape
As I walked on, with a heart that did not escape
The magic of the world, the mystery of the night
As I walked on, into the light of day and night
In the vortex of a maelstrom, I was rudely thrown
drowning in turbulent waters for an error I bemoan,
a blunder of loving someone who chose to whittle
away at my heart until it became fragile and brittle
Bereft beyond the point of caring if I lived or died
My eyes were scarlet, burning from tears I'd cried
But they became transfixed, immutable on a fire stoked
for my normally tenuous demeanor had been provoked
I was a genteel lady, who demurely acquiesced to love
but it was time for me to throw down the gauntlet glove
I was chaffed by what had been just an interlude for him,
an escapade, a mere dalliance, a rascally romantic whim
I drew a rough sketch; in likeness of my vagabond swain
an abstract portrait, in Picasso's style, the face of my bane
Black eyes were hollow, blind orbs that would never see
that his trifling peccadillo tryst was a brutal betrayal to me
The painting was delivered as twelve bells pealed midnight
I watched as he unwrapped it, but carefully kept out of sight
A formidable opponent I had become to his knavish ways
In the moonlight his face turned pale; his eyes were glazed
MY skies are turning grey, there's silence in the air..
The clouds are weighing heavy, especially in my eyes...
My days are passing quickly by, the years have almost gone..
Where are those sunny, summer days that were going to last forever..
When hope was Spring of things to come and ambition drove my youthful life..
But now the Winter fills the air and chills me to the bone..
The evening light is fading and the road ahead is closed..
There's nothing left of aspiration it's laying scattered at my feet..
With forlorn hope and a future full of scorn..
You see I'm getting old and getting in the way..
I'll be tomorrow's shadow sitting in the dark, or lonely in the park..
Just like the ugly duckling but going in reverse..
From being strong and healthy, to weak and hard of hearing..
My tree of life is failing, the leaves so brown and withered..
They fall and dance upon my Autumnal grave..
I'm wrinkled to my sagging skin and chaffed beyond belief...
My trunk is riddled with disease, the drugs will dull the pain..
These once strong arms are snapping in a gentle breeze....
My time is nearly over, my legs are oh so thin, I'm sinking to my knees..
The Winter wraps it's frozen shroud around my weakened body..
But just before I go to sleep, I smile and think of you...
Oh my love, my precious gift, my very special moment...
Perfection of the beautiful kind, the angel of my dreams...
A love so true and tender, that kept me warm on the coldest days...
And now sends my contented soul to heaven......
the gun shoots
runners off
one step two step
running with the stride like no other
it passes the 10k mark
my mind is daft
my body chaffed and burnt
at 13 miles and I get a second wind
I am indulging in what I do
fatigue is not an option,
20th mile I'm sore and wreaked
with my conscience I endure
finally, I can see the finish
I cross the line and collapse
that's me sorted
my time here is done
Her yellowed eyes weren't blinking,
despite so very many crawling flies,
seen to be covering her stilled face,
nor did she hear the fearful cries,
of the many other children around her,
as they all lay weak and forlorn,
and we all knew that many more voices,
would be stilled before the new day's dawn.
Those swollen bellies of oedema, cruelly deceive the eye,
malnourished as they are, yet still so very rotund,
a mean trick upon those who have so little protein,
their stick thin legs and arms lying limp and moribund.
Meanwhile back in our big cities, the bins bulge too,
with waste food that would have saved lives in the right place,
and people are dying with obesely swollen bellies and chaffed thighs,
would they not have wished they had instead, fed some distant face?
Maybe in the future, will we learn to balance all we do,
and let all the world know we are but one human race,
ready to spend less on the baubles that the ad men push so hard,
as a new day's dawn for all would be a gift of grace...
©Rhumour
November 4th 2010
Edited September 2nd 2012
I wish I was an Oscar Meyer weiner....cause then I'd be in somebody's buns.
"I shall return!" I said to my last wife, last time I saw her in 1989. McArthur I isn't!
Why are women so much smarter than men? Probably cause they have brains.
I never realized just how stupid I was until I went to the eye doctor's. See "A bad
day at the eye doctor's" poem.
My eye doctor seemed to catch on real quick as to how stupid I was.
I hate to say it, but I think Rodney Dangerfield would make a better president.
Excuse me, but what year is this?
Did you ever wake up and realize the best part of your day was over?
I have a picture of me, when younger, flying in the air,in my karate days, kicking
butt. Now I need help just to pick up the picture.
How did I earn the nickname "Skuzz-Bucket"- I don't even own a bucket!
I guess the best thing about getting old is you got less time to suffer.
Wives- I need a chain letter. Alimony? Can't squeeze an orange that's already
orange juice. Excuse while I take the pits out of my hair.
And to my fans, I say thanks- wish I could afford an air conditioner though.
My "friends" gave me a room aerosol air freshener. Seems the main ingredient
was Zyklon-B.
With friends like that, who needs enemies?
Have a" happy"! What a crock!
My doctor said he'd pay me not to come anymore.
He wanted me to join the "Euthanasia Club"
I didn't pass the test, however- they said I was brain dead too long.
Even the Girl Scouts mock me- they ask me for cookies!
I once had a girlfriend named "Cookie" She was cute, but her butt was chaffed
from bed-hopping.
Ever try to nail a girl while she's hopping on the bed?
Well goodbye my friends- see ya'll real soon...(Genuine White Trailer Trash
Lingo)!!
Is it just that I seize the throe of your peer's pluck?
I, your most faithful servant come calmly into
your womb of beauty, only to be chaffed by the lack
of it's current.
Is it I, that makes the flower wither?
I have broken such before,
under heavy moons I thought
not worth the weight of ponder.
My young heart, defeated by its own selfishness.
Will your anger be my penance for the sins
of nights spent without what I have been so
certain was to be my salvation?
Hell is surely your fury,
for nothing has ever been
as arduous as the slip of
our comfort.
And yet, I cannot let it fall, not this.
Not us.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Gladly the rag falls dead beside the kitchen sink,
Grey and brown with coffee grounds and spillage,
Dripping pensive ochre on the rim,
Sombrely it slipped over the brink
And stank of rape and pillage.
Handmaid of the sweat shop penitentiary,
Her abrasive bruises culled by twilight shades,
In solitary confinement for a lifetime and a day,
Locked into bleak mundanity, her being rudimentary,
She dreams of bygone summer glades.
Cobwebs hang down perilous from the dimming light,
A naked dying sun on bare and fraying flex,
Sheds gossamer bars upon her grating spine
Wherein knots of sheer tension coil their fibres tight,
A flea circus of a prison complex.
The code of the dishmop head that often taps
Against her moribund loop of apron string
Construes a garbage cipher she ignores,
For the cold communication that it raps
Is the sort that fails to tell her anything.
Inward she may focus on her wilder past,
When sex bristled sheathed in fishnet and scarlet
And hidden chaffed the thong of leather lingerie;
Her power and vivacity magnetic, unsurpassed,
Defined and drove the instinct of the harlot.
Still upon the reddened sagging of her upper arm
Scowls the blurred blue stain of a devil replete
With horns and pitchfork, malicious crimson eyes
And a sneer prophesying she was doomed to come to harm
With the self-fulfillment legend: "Easy Meat."