Best Cutthroat Poems
The trail to the peak was a long and arduous climb
Which skirted a pristine glacial lake about midway.
Shimmering below, it offered a cooling balm for the heat
And a picturesque spot to rest and refuel for a while.
A short down-climb led to a high cliff that overhung the depths
Of aquamarine waters; crystal clear, revealing a rocky bottom.
Chartreuse lichen grew from the wetted rock face
While damsel flies of cerulean hue darted to and fro.
In the shade of a small oak we were content to eat our lunch.
From our vantage we watched the cutthroat trout feed;
Rising to a caddis hatch. Splashes of watermelon, coral and saffron
Under their jawlines divulged the source of their strange name.
Fronting the shore, a spacious open meadow served as a refuge.
A doe and twin fawns lay surrounded by tall grass and wild flowers.
Tangerine bells, snow-white lupine, and purple daisies with lemon eyes
In hues of lavender and lilac covered the park in waves.
After a short dip in the icy waters, we took a few moments to gather our things
And reflect on the beauty and grandeur of this unknown retreat.
Truly we were blessed, our bodies, minds and souls rejuvenated
As we climbed the slope to continue our trek to the snow-capped peak.
8/1/2017
Free Verse
6th Place
Seasonal Color Contest
Sponsor: Dale Gregory Cozart
Pink and grey walls rise like castle parapets
Reflecting the sunrise in golden hues
I ride along the canyon to the sound of leather
Creaking softly in the tranquil mountain air
Sweat and horse, with layers of dust
Well worn jeans against a speckled hide
Gently swaying in a unified rhythm
Languidly haze swirling about our feet
Around the bend we startle snow geese
Flocks floating, rising, settling serenely
Angling, landings against the lapping waters
Black tipped wings against wintry white
Sandhill cranes foraging for cutthroat trout
Reflecting blue beside the meandering creek
Majestically standing, patiently waiting
Blue dragon flies dancing within their reach
Off the beaten path we wander
Past yucca swaying in the breeze
O’er grama blue as sky beneath us
Cushioned carpet of pine and peat
Rock squirrels scurry across a Douglas fir
Scolding woodpeckers on a burnt oak tree
The chorus is merged by the hoot of an owl
And the clip clop against rocks as we proceed
Canopies of piñon line the trail
Mixtures of conifer shade the landscape
Grey blue greens with clusters of sienna
Cathedral spiritual within an ageless solitude
A pond sits in the glen
bright fish dashing about
casting silvery shadows
ducks chasing after them
eels making their way to sea
flying birds circling back and forth
green frogs croaking for a mate
herons gobbling them up
in the depths a pike floats
jutting out its pointed head
keeping hidden as it prowls
lurking between the rotting logs
minnows swim by unharmed in shoals
newts eagerly snapping them up
out in the reeds lays up a catfish
playing dead it patiently waits
quick to react to its prey
reaping the bounties little fry snack
sticklebacks swim lazily through reed beds
trout leaping catching fly's and midgets
under the calm waters life abounds
vivid rainbow trout spawn
while the blue waters thrive
xanthine filled plants floating
yellowfin cutthroat trout dart by and
zander perch fill a fisherman's net
Me barber’s still one of them blokes who lives the school of old,
using methods quite old fashioned to what modern trends unfold,
so with scissors, clippers, hot towel, then lathered with a brush,
he’ll shave you with a cutthroat, though never in a rush.
And he offers further benefits, if you’re that way inclined,
for just a couple of extra bob, you get your shoes well shined,
and while waiting for your turn, you can read a magazine,
or tune in on conversation, while his razors shaving clean.
He sells those huge cigars as well. I think the Cuban brand!
And there’s Californian Poppy that the young won’t understand.
Wafting through his barber shop is the smell of after shave…
And today there is one customer, who wants to misbehave.
He’ll be in the chair before me; I have to put up with his rot,
his voice is loud and won’t shut up, intimidating all us lot,
so when his time had come, we hoped he’d give us all a spell,
then he demands a shave and haircut and to shine his shoes as well.
I watched the barber lathering, before he beckoned with a call…
then this beautiful young woman came and stood in front of all.
The barber mentioned “Here’s a customer, wanting you to shine his shoes”
and when she bent down to do the job she gave some awesome views.
The loudmouth couldn’t help himself; he had to open up his gob.
He mentioned to the pretty lass, that when she finishes her job,
they ought to sneak away together, and book themselves a motel room,
but from the lass who shone his shoes, a shock’s about to loom!
She smiled into his soaped up face, and gave his shoe a pat,
“I’m sorry sir, I’m married and my husband wouldn’t like that.”
“Your husband!” Scoffed the loudmouth, “Use your commonsense!
Tell him you’re working overtime and I’ll pay you the difference.”
The lass raised her brow and gave a grin, then his shoe a final wipe.
She stood up and took a deep breath before replying to his hype,
“Your offers pretty good” she said, “I’ll go and get my hat and coat,
but you can tell him if you like… he’s got the razor at your throat.”
©2005 Lindsay Laurie
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the whistle of wind in cutthroat pipes,
the jolly japes and spring heeled capers
in the sepia pulp of the Sunday papers
and in all the Jack Tar bilge in your head,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead
the gory tales of bright crimson stripes.
the intestinal spool of viscera and gutting,
the slashing swipe of steel blades cutting,
and the opening wounds awash with red,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the love-a-duck and strike-me-blind,
the dear boss letters and cunning stunts,
the hunter or hunted in Whitechapel hunts,
and the feverish sweats in every bed,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
And you will know me by the trail of dead,
the buckle-my-shoe and daily grind,
the Juwes and gin and pea soup nights,
the whore flesh slaughter and ghastly sights,
and the legends of all I did and said,
for you will know me by the trail of dead.
Dice, the goddess of morals, asked her mother, Themis
Why there's divorce, gambling, abortion, and alcoholism?
Why should dehumanization, like a Bloodstone, beamish?
Why should knives of nemesis nip the knots of neutralism?
Cores of conscience, like collapsed castles, Themis said, crash
The self within the inner sanctum, like sand grains, is split.
Joy, peace, harmony, happiness, and self-fulfillment clash
Empathy and sympathy submit to apathy's conflict.
Demons in humans delicately dominate their domains.
As though white sheep amongst black cattle, they cudgel their brains.
Their will to do good, like delinquent house dogs, is in chains.
Blood of cutthroat competitions, to win, flows in their veins.
Honesty should guide one and all, Themis said to Dice.
Summit of self-splendidness alone will never suffice.
(Blank Verse Sonnet)
We traded fields of cotton bolls for snows
so deep they swallowed house and car alike,
so cold a breath transformed to crystal ice,
so strong the air became as still as death.
A fur-lined boot or glove spared flimsy guard
as fingers, toes and nose began to pulse
in pain and foster hope to somehow dodge
or ease the winter's all-consuming freeze.
Yet skin and pores recalled a choking sun
and days of sweat beneath its cutthroat burn
through cotton rows, its never-ending bite
of white-hot scorch and physical malaise.
Northern peaks and speckled river trout
defeated weather’s aim to drive us south.
You left your lion heart with him
Buried your problems in his mane
You gave up your snapping jaws
Because you thought it’d keep you sane
You didn’t see the joy of living
With a swinging tail and cutthroat jaws
You wanted to be independent
So you left behind the jungle’s laws
You didn’t think that you’d miss him
You didn’t think that you’d look back
But a pang of envy cuts your heart
When you see him roaring with the pack
You admire his lions from afar
You feel your stomach start to churn
Because you know that you’ve lost hope
You’ve passed the point of no return
They all tried to make you stay
Didn’t know why you’d leave them behind
They desperately tried to see beyond
The walls you built to keep them blind
Now they mourn the loss of you
You’ve gone somewhere they can’t follow
They know that you can’t feel their pain
The tragic reality they have to swallow
Mourning leads them into sadness
And sadness leads to pain
Drowning in their agony
They start to feel the strain
He tries to wish you back to earth
But you cannot leave the sky
Back to all their grieving hearts
Is the only place you cannot fly
How you wish for your fur back
How you wish for the old ways
Seeing his deflated spirit
Makes you wish for better days
Do you realize the gravity of your absence?
What subduing your roaring spirit has done?
The jungle longs for your steady heartbeat
The weight of your footsteps as you run
He misses your calming reassurance
The presence that makes his very soul sing
And he still fails to understand
Why you chose to leave everything
In pulling away you inspired doubt
Leaving is not what kings of the jungle do
And it will only be a matter of time
Before he gives up his lion heart for you
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2015
I used to get my haircut, at the local RSL
Gunther was the Barber, he knew my hair real well
for 20 years he cut it, short back and sides or trim
whenever my hair got too long, I went round to him
The RSL grew bigger, not the special place we knew
with a big hotel as part of it, dress regulations too
no more for the working man, with blue tee shirt and thongs
or even the old Digger, didn’t feel like he belonged
It was now a money maker, not the place it had been when
you’d always meet someone you knew, a place for working men
They still had darts and pool of course, if you wanted a game
but smoking banned, and count your beers, it just wasn’t the same
now Gunther’s place was not as busy, as once it would have been
they pushed his shop outside the doors, the entrance hardly seen
one day he said he’d had enough, it was time for him to go
another nail in the coffin, of the life I used to know
to find another Barber, now that was quite a chore
these places they all had “Hairdresser”, written on their door
the women all talked kids and shops, and clothes that they’d seen there
no sport, no racing, no latest tips, unless they were in your hair
never had a woman cut my hair, or a man with streaks in his
and the very first that did, I thought she took the pizz
when she said, I don’t have a cutthroat, so I can’t shave your neck
maybe your wife can do it, when you get home, like ‘eck
as if I’d let my loving wife, get that close to my throat
with a cutthroat razor, I’m not a silly goat
I don’t think she would let it slip, she still loves me, although,
it would be the last nail in the coffin, of the life I used to know.
She opens the DSM-5 to page 666,
Know Thyself,
who among us is not a Beast somehow,
she's enthralled by Imperfection,
It explains the scars on her heart,
if she believed in Perfection
then she would need to accept her own nature
unequivocally,
she would have to love every part of herself,
poetry is her therapy
building puzzles her bliss
solving puzzles her passion,
she is a madwoman in the 3rd degree,
a sensational spaz
believes that she is a heroine among the herd,
starlet atop a soapbox
cavalier with her cross of crass sass,
she cares too much to be free...
searching in the trauma of souls
for her own ghost
lovestruck by the Devil's lightning
Godsmacked by the grind
listening for God to apologize,
she's exhausted by cynicism
brilliant yet bitter,
a cutthroat competitor,
frozen beauty in a flame,
she expects Life to buck her every day
a jaded girl looking for the grim,
on stormy days she sings to the static
perhaps she's waiting for the Apocalypse -
J.A.B. 2020
Sorrow tumbled into words, an antidote
When sobs choked; venom in the throat.
I hear in wrath, again, his disgusting gloat.
Follows, her muffled groans upon each smote.
In a while, she whimpers in an awesome note.
Probably, in pain, bearing his lusty frote.
I lay jack-knifed, as ever, a vain mote.
Tears overflow in such relations of fraught.
An unwanted witness I’ve been, still zygote.
Begetter that blessed me with love drought!
Who cares? My soul long for draught.
No more! I’m tired of being the scapegoat.
I pray to thee, free us of this cutthroat.
In time please, send us thy lifeboat!
Date:17/06/16
Placed 10 for contest Desperate Housewife by Poet Destroyer A (2/07/16)
Placed 2 for contest Sadness by Silent One (11/02/17)
It is the last stage after years of school and plays.
From incipiency, a school asserts obeying the rule.
Echoes of the core argument resonate and sway.
Spending days indoors, assuming we're at school.
This temperamental roller coaster is the final scene.
My bachelor's wheeling and dealing was fruitful.
This cutthroat degree disrupts any irksome routine.
Words for graduation will be brain pages, useful.
They retract what they said around you on grad day.
On that day, got a ring and opined carat was useless.
Diploma Day hits with a shock, nothing above to say.
Graduation left you with memories to be excuseless.
Imagine the meadow where you struck the spark.
I gaze at my son, tears of joy and pride, an honor mark.
Written: March 10, 2023
Graduation Day Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
To direct thoughts as an oar guides a boat
Thoughts of good,not evil, rowing swiftly
Avoiding those whirlpools of tongue's cutthroat.
Trying always to row words that would lift.
Razor tongue get caught in the watefall.
Jumbled, twisted thoughts be steered to rough shoals
Trapped,hung on rocks to avoid a brawl.
Captain, turning my ship to you with soul.
Let the Pilot be life's guide everyday.
Swift may be the water, broken mine oar.
The Pilot will be mine help in all ways
Guiding safely through life to distant shore.
Mine flatboat, needing repair; broken oar
To Pilot give, now to you my soul soars.
I heard tell some folks think cowboys built the West.
The only thing I know for sure is I always did my best
to give a man a good days work for an honest wage
ridin' among tumbleweeds and dried brush of sage.
I wear a Colt 45 to scare off rustlers and killin' snakes
and I don't play cutthroat poker with tinhorns or rakes.
It ain't never been an easy job, the life of a ranch hand,
herdin' cattle near the flowin waters of the Rio Grande,
but it's the only way I always wanted to spend my days,
beddin' down under the stars, watching the herd graze.
I'm keepin' one eye open for those wanderin' lil dogies,
chewin' on the end of what's left of smokin' my stogies.
I lassoed a proud stallion, and gentled that big paint.
He's been a good trail horse, so I got no complaint.
I was in love with a rodeo gal, a pretty lil' barrel rider
but she told me a cowboy wouldn't be a good provider.
So I strum my guitar, singing a lonesome cowboy song
about findin' a good woman who won't do me wrong.
One day I'll be an old cowpoke, lying up on that hill,
but not 'til my last roundup, and my body's had its fill
of ridin' the range, mendin' fences, ropin' mustangs,
and eatin' chuck wagon beans when the bell clangs.
I've been thrown off a bad bronc, name of Buckin' Jet,
but don't put my name on that tombstone; not just yet.
January 26, 2021
Cowboy Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Congressman and senators forewent
all manner of civility, fidelity and integrity wii
hull ding broadswords, derringers
and firearms as all hell broke loose as testimony
to the dire prognostication foretold
more than saber rattling and Gatling guns que
kind from lambastes, fisticuffs
and brickbats ratcheted up as agents provocateurs nee
said obedience to semper fidelis credo, coda and cock knee
stance when dire straits called for restraint
against excess versus raising cane old hickory
i.e. Andrew Jackson latched onto when opposing with energy
and verve espoused by fellow delegates, and his hologram ghost bloody
from battle scars outside and/or inside
the halls of government where blows bashed
dovetailed elected legislators to officiate
as angry birds viz brouhaha clashed
Federalist against their nemesis
of the twenty first century
during the term of Donald Trump
who throve on the cutthroat frenzied
internecine lawlessness dashed
to and fro, hither and yon any hope for civilians to escape bloodshed
spilled from without vaunted halls of justice,
the approach of doomsday
writ large as anarchy and mayhem flashed
with uproarious coup d’etat,
when Democrats outliers gnashed
teeth, and nonestablishmentarian outlaws
pistol whipped and hashed
tagged traitors who roared America
went bankrupt at sold at fire sale price slashed
when Donald Trump ran the country
into the ground evidenced by Molotov Cocktails residue
in concert with the sulfuric odor of hand grenades trashed