Best Gored Poems
Your pillar of truth
Our beacon of light
Show us the way (of the)
Starboard and the portside
Illuminate me now
Bedazzle me white
See me so small
Im blinded in sight
Thy tower so tall
Empowered to write
Exposed by your beam
Ghostly ship in the night
'pon steely hard granite
Imploring your rays (like)
Coved dish of satelite
A tempestuous sea
In the saline of my sight
Inscribed on those palms
Was Thy love for me
Later to be gored
By these very same hands
Who's blood this I see?
Striped red 'round this house
Flows down the trunk of a tree
Amix with my own
'Twould be an honor for me
When drawn from the well
Make me the same
Comes one perrilous night
A torch to forgive
(Magnificent power!)-a bearer of light
"The Circe Effect" (Part 1)
Circe, Goddess of magic, nymph, witch, bold enchantress
daughter of Helios, Sun God, her father, can you imagine? ...
let me paint you further, the tree of this wacked-out family canvas -
daughter of Perse, her mother, wild Oceanid Nymph, spawned not on landmass,
but in the vast deep blue deep.
Aeetes, her brother hung tight to his Fleece
and Pasiphaë, her sister, given in marriage to King Minos of Crete,
had a fling with a monstrous White Bull,
a gift from Poseidon, ain't that so sweet?
she bore a bastard child, the Monataur with a ring in his nose,
horns and hoofed feet.
Now there was a family of total dysfunction
and Circe, poor dear, betrayed for remaining herself,
remaining non-function
was banished to Aeaea for murdering her husband
the Prince of Colchis.
There on Aeaea, as revenge, Circe drew out her magic wand - not a sword,
transmuted her enemies, all those who offended her into wild beasts,
where they were left to circle her mansion and roam to eat swill as their feast.
Docile not dangerous, drugged and delerious,
these beasts never gored -
they were fawned on by all newcomers, who were simply just curious,
never bored.
These entranced beasts lured newcomers to our girl Circe
with a woof and purr.
Enter Circe, quite disturbed, in a logical kind of way.
“More pets for me!”, she thought, “they will never stray”.
These lonely, adventurous vagabonds who ventured into her lair,
well, she showered them with all her incantations, but they never heard
her words of Love ever there –
Circe would finally reveal who she truly was,
for you see by now all that pain, all that hurt
had converted our dear old Circe into a siren
otherworldly, deadly lethal, mysterious, re-birthed;
all that ventured into her Kingdom now were
captivated by her spells and
then promptly, with a wave of her wand,
transfigured forevermore
as creatures,
of her Elysian Fields interred.
(Lovejoy-Burton/ Dec 2017)
By Elton Camp
Tex had a longhorn he hoped to sell
But it was too dirty to do very well
It’d been lolling in the mud and dust
To get it all cleaned up was a must
So Tex pulled into the car wash bay
He put in coins and began to spray
He washed the critter nose to tail
Got it all ready for the cattle sale
But loading it back onto the truck
He got gored and was out of luck
So here’s the moral to this tale
Wash a cow and it may impale
Savannah Night
There was an uneasy feeling that night on the savannah.
The creatures were jumpy as they huddled and grazed.
Startling at each new sound, one stamps its foot and
the vast herd flees, from what they are unsure.
The lions creep through the long grass setting an ambush.
The first pair's job to spook the herd now is done.
The rest spread out, now taking up the deadly hunt.
Working quickly they target one and separate it.
One lioness jumps on its back then slips off and is trampled.
Another tackling it face on is gored in the shoulder.
But the rest soon have it cornered and it is soon smothered.
As it dies the pride are already ripping open its belly.
The blood covers the land red as it seeps into the soil
There will be feasting tonight as the lions gather to eat.
Snarling as they rip into the warm carcass, blows lashing out,
As they vie for position, pushing and shoving each other.
The hunt was long and hard, the fruits came at high price.
Two lioness wounded, one will die. Such is the cost of success.
A calf bawls for its mother, yet she cannot answer its call.
Sadly it is too young to live, it will end up a tasty morsel.
Sated the lions rest in the early sunlight as cubs play.
Life for now on the savannah continues, and peace reigns.
Pedro, a slick, suave and smooth matador
The pride of his native-state, Ecuador
He'd flash his red cape
The bull would go ape
After each pass, the fans shouted, 'Encore!'
One time Pedro let the bull come too close
The crowd sat in stunned silence, comatose
Pedro may have been gored badly
Yet he still smiled most gladly
'Time for a new gig,' he said ~ 'Adios!'
I played the flute for a rampaging elephant
she hesitated then flashed a forlorn tusk
and rambled on...
She trampled a greed pocked society
gored its steel hook wielding keeper
and his forty-year reign of chained isolation.
Men with rifles arrived, expert at finalizing freedom.
It took 200 bullets, give or take, to bend her ancient knee.
She trumpeted to her kin, long ago marked for death...
profits cut away from their gray mountain heads.
I played an Ivory flute for an angel elephant
as she slid into the mist of a sunflower ascension.
The mind eternal lies before us always.
Less pure in tone, we come to it drenched with life;
Fearless companion in our hour of days.
A purity not withstanding breadth of knife.
Away! Away! succubus death,
much less a breach than I.
How many not mislaid in breath,
In priceless toll, said duty to be paid.
No field of honored memories
they preach without belie.
Captured each, and each with closed fist shouting;
Me or not, Cold or hot, we stand between as choice;
all for desperate screams grown silent.
Pastoral in the presence, of one solitary voice,
Whose form of words so hesitantly mouthing.
Whence came we witness to the stream.
Whose eyes are these that hold our field a-view?
Memories whose touch a solid scream;
Form ignored and glory gored of few.
We are not the man.
No animal or simple word defined.
We pause, we pleasure, we perform,
With speck, and all our mind deform;
Our fingers will one day unfold.
Our torrid tortured tale be told.
Yours, mine, ours,
Drumroll spam-like dance,
Become the gist of one more fist
To smash against the sand.
The old country vet traversed Henry County over hill and dell.
He was a familiar sight in his buggy pulled by his horse, old Nelly Bell!
He served farmers and ranchers for nigh on two generations,
Deliverin' calves, foals and lambs and performin' tricky operations.
He left the comfort of his bed on many a cold and blustery night,
To help a cow deliver her calf by the mellow glow of a lantern light.
He'd been kicked by cantankerous mules and butted by grumpy goats;
Spat upon by numerous llamas and trampled by chargin' shoats;
Bitten by mean old junkyard dogs and clawed by feral cats;
Gored by irate bulls and pestered by stingin' gnats!
He witnessed the miracle of birth durin' his practice of many years,
And won the confidence of his clients and the esteem of his peers.
Though he had some book learnin' he mostly taught himself.
He never aspired to become rich and had little of the world's pelf.
He recognized that God created all creatures great and small,
And suffered the hazards of the job to treat and love them all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Hank had cowboyed and rodeoed fer nigh on forty years,
Ridin' in sleet, rain and snow a-herdin' cantankerous steers.
His hide was tough as leather and his legs was slightly bowed,
But brandin' dogies and fixin' fences was all he ever knowed!
His gut was made of iron from a diet of taters, beans and bacon.
Many times he was throwed from his hoss but his will remained unshaken.
He'd been bit by rattlesnakes and scarred from many barroom brawls,
And kicked by many a skittish bronc while muckin' out their stalls!
When tryin' to halt stampedes, Hank was often gravely gored,
And was hoarse from yellin' and cussin' at that riotous horde.
When shoein' hosses they often left an imprint on his chest,
Where flyin' hoofs landed leavin' him angry and depressed!
He didn't git rich and couldn't hoard money fer a rainy day;
Not much chance of accumulatin' such on a cowpokes meager pay.
His bed was usually 'neath the stars with his saddle fer a pillow,
Sharin' space with his old dog Spike and an occasional armadillo!
One day he up and told the boss, "I've had my fill of a cowboy's life.
I'm a-quittin' as of now. My old bones is weary from all this strife.
I'm saddle sore and tired of bunkhouse livin' and all yer stingin' slurs.
You kin take this job and shove it 'cause I'm a-hangin' up my spurs!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Way up there in the Colorado mountains at around 9000 feet,
There once was a thrivin' village that served as the county seat.
It was a boom and bust town that now lies in desolate shambles,
Its one-time stately buildin's now overgrown with creepin' brambles.
'Tis said that a vein of gold was discovered when a feller dug deep,
To bury a friend who was gored to death by an irate mountain sheep!
His discovery was known as Dead Man's claim and the rush was on,
And to the place hordes of miners, gamblers and rabble was drawn.
There were three or four rowdy saloons on each and every block,
Servin' booze and featurin' high-kickin' women around the clock.
A Methodist church and a school brought a tad of culture to the place.
Folks of finer tastes thought 'soiled doves' paradin' about a disgrace!
An untended graveyard gives witness to the wickedness of the town,
As headstone etchin's reveal the doom of many who were gunned down!
Yet is heard the phantom sounds from saloons from rabble goin' bananers,
Fightin', gamblin' and dancin' to the tinklin' of out-of-tune peeaners!
Northerly winds prod tumble weeds up and down dusty thoroughfares,
Streets once teemin' with humanity goin' about their nefarious affairs.
Now is only heard the ghostly creakin' of rusty hinges on saggin' doors,
When frigid winter winds bear down upon those dreary windswept moors!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
There was an uneasy feeling that night on the savannah.
The creatures were jumpy as they huddled and grazed.
Startling at each new sound, one stamps its foot and
the vast herd flees, from what they are unsure.
The lions creep through the long grass setting an ambush.
The first pair's job to spook the herd now is done.
The rest spread out, now taking up the deadly hunt.
Working quickly they target one and separate it.
One lioness jumps on its back then slips off and is trampled.
Another tackling it face on is gored in the shoulder.
But the rest soon have it cornered and it is soon smothered.
As it dies the pride are already ripping open its belly.
The blood covers the land red as it seeps into the soil
There will be feasting tonight as the lions gather to eat.
Snarling as they rip into the warm carcass, blows lashing out,
As they vie for position, pushing and shoving each other.
The hunt was long and hard, the fruits came at high price.
Two lioness wounded, one will die. Such is the cost of success.
A calf bawls for its mother, yet she cannot answer its call.
Sadly it is too young to live, it will end up a tasty morsel.
Sated the lions rest in the early sunlight as cubs play.
Life for now on the savannah continues, and peace reigns.
They told me that it was going to be alright,
My daughter what a pride,
Smiling, happy to have joined,
The symphony of military life.
Back then it was alright,
Till they brought her in a coffin,
A body gored without eyes,
A badge of honor,
Compensation,
And the Kenyan flag.
I fodled her shaven head,
Hugged her legless body,
Then I realised I was 60,
And still I cried.
"She's gone to Paradise,
to be with God and the Angels in the sky,
To sing in white and fly like a kite."
None of that could stop the pain of death,
From roaming,
Staring into my eyes telling me that I was weak,
As the priest poured the dust Atop her coffin,
"Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust,we all return,"
The heat, the pain, pins and needles,
The sweat, the blood, the coffin going down,
I was beaten at last.
I covered my eyes, the tears coming in torrents,
Sobbing because she had gone so fast,
lips shaking, teeth rattling, mucus dripping,
The world turned blurry and all went black,
I opened my eyes my friends by my side,
I realised,
That all this while I'd been acting tough,
And still I cry.
Limerick : Once a Toro loved by a Matador
Once a Toro* loved by a Matador*
Maimed between shoulders by Picador*
Matador garrocha*
Picador muchacha*
Picador cornudo* Matador.
*Toro : bull raised for fighting in arenas (rings)
*Matador : « matador de toros », bullfighter ; usually
the head « torero », title obtained after the
« alternativa », ceremony honoring the torero
or « novillero », the apprentice bullfighter
*Picador : the well-protected assistant to the matador
on horseback who wounds the toro between
the shoulders in order to cause the bull to hang
its head
*garrocha/garrochar : (to use) the long lance with a metallic
harpoon-like head , wielded by the Picador
*muchacha : Spanish for girl or « daughter » as in this case
*cornudo : cuckolded (husband gored)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
The ground gaped garishly, gored with ghastly gouges of glowing, gravelly gobs ...
Finally unfettered from a frigid firmament, flames flung fiery, flaring fingers
ferociously forward ...
The blazing bastions bent on burning the backwood bluffs bare with bitter brutality ...
Unholy hoards of heated horror hailing the heavens with heinous, heckling howls of
hellish hostility.
It was a time to bond and booze with dear Papa,
An interval all the more naughtily charming
As it inflamed the temper of irascible Mama.
Before happy hour, we two went shooting
With the three o three I bought for drama
In a gauche youth that was always dragging.
Out we drove in my short, fat pa's beetle,
Two maladroits equally socially feeble.
We stopped by some neatly stacked cans
That we shot, exploding wet excrement
Putting a brown pall on our bonding plans.
I fired a random shot as if by witty accident.
Off we went driving by unbroken fences
Till we saw a policeman in bewilderment
Standing over a black and white cow,
By a farmer making a bellowing row.
“We shot the beef, my son,” joshed Pa,
And put the foot down upon the pedal,
Laughing merrily in the hurrying car.
I smiled at his jest however feeble,
A tasteless jibe at the furious farmer.
The very thought I readily dismissed
With a sly, effete flick of the wrist.
The matter of the dead cow was forgot
Until not too long before oblivion
Took hold of every thought of the sot
Aged stupid by whisky and bad living.
“It was because of that cow we shot,
A sin that God has not yet forgiven.”
For a neighbour's dog gored his heifer,
A punishment he had to decipher.
But I think he obliquely gave me blame,
For it was I who shot the bovine brute.
Before his fading mind went fully lame
He reasoned it best to stem guilty root
Before old sins haunted shaky mind's frame.
Dark disputes lingered as he was less astute.
But for me the cow is a point of indifference,
In the abattoir a month earlier of its existence.