Best Gruelling Poems
I remember how I would cry myself to sleep
Night after night then I would wake the next morning
Dreading the moment I stepped into the
School's doors where you would all be waiting.
You'd smile and pretend like we were the best of friends
Till my parents left the car park then the words
Would fall from your mouths slashing and cutting,Burning into
my brain. You would all stand around me mocking me,jeering.
When you saw your words didn't effect me,you moved on to
The physical. I remember how your hands would wrap
around my throat,preventing me from breathing. You'd laugh at
My struggle to breathe. I remember how they would hold
Me down so I couldn't run while you would punch me repeatedly till I
Could no longer stand up right,till I lay in a pool of my own blood. How people
would just watch and laugh but never stop and intervene. The pain and
humiliation I felt only enhanced your glee.
I've grown stronger, now nobody would dare mock me. Sometimes
people aren't strong enough to survive this so they leave but some
people come out stronger...like me. I remember how you'd get so angry
Because I never cried,I never screamed I just took it silently.
When I look back I see how small you were and I try to feel anger at what you
did to me but I feel nothing. I try to hate you but I can't.
Maybe it's because I'm now successful and you have nothing to look forward to
but another gruelling day of pain and little food.
I feel no hate only sympathy towards the person I once feared but no longer do.
Now I look back and smile at how I could've stopped you and I know you
realised this too, now I know why you only ever hurt me when your friends were
around to hold me down. I admit you've ruined me in many ways. I can no
longer trust people,love people,no longer look people in the eye,but I look back
and smile because if you had never hurt me like you did I wouldn't be the
person I am today, I wouldn't be as strong and independent,as successful and
happy as I am today, I would never feel such a strong sense of justice like I do
now so I would like to thank you for making me a better person.
Thank you.
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The moonlit trees
Sway drunkenly against
The kaleidoscopic backdrop.
Their lunar shadows
Stagger merrily
Over the forest floor,
Gaze longingly
At mice and hares and move on.
Soon their tipsiness and incapability
To stay upright will come to
A gruelling hungover end
As the golden chariot of
Apollo returns for another day
To light the way home
For lost leafy souls and
Drunken arboreal oaks.
And Diana’s wit and beauty
Will once again be outshone by
The mothering nutritious glow of the sun.
60 Seconds
Gruelling nights with haunted dreams
Explosions tearing at my seams
The worst, last night; I couldn’t sleep
My expendability made me weep.
With dawn awoke a brand new day
A deathly mare in my mind lay
And there it lay until at last
60 seconds had oddly past.
60 seconds not thinking of you
Acidic eruptions did not spew
From the pit of my stomach to expel my heart
First waking moments not torn apart.
The realization made me smile
I pondered it for a while
The first 60 seconds that you weren’t there
The first 60 seconds I did not care.
No thoughts of kisses on my lips
Or intertwining fingertips
No mocking jokes to make me giggle
Or cheeky moves to make me wiggle
60 seconds without your eyes
60 seconds without your lies
For 60 seconds my heart was mine
For 60 seconds I did just fine.
Sadness, still it lurks within
But I shan’t touch a drop of gin
Those seconds showed me I shall win
Now the healing can begin…
9th April 2019
I looked at the horrible faces,
agnostic,
I look at the beautiful faces,
pristine,
I looked for a summer in the midst of winter,
and for repose in a gruelling duel with death and oblivion.
I looked for salvation,
looked outside the door for breath and bread.
I looked towards the sun,
and inwards,
and moved upwards and moved closer to the stars,
within the cyclone of your scars,
within the summer of your love.
I looked before overlooking anything,
and beyond hope,
and before tomorrow and happy as I was
I kissed life on the chicks and sat
next to a pumpkin
and read limericks.
I looked within your eyes and tried to find out if they were true,
and since they were true I looked further into your heart,
and without further I do I said can we be one?
I sat under the bodhi tree and said can I be a bodhisattva,
and I was open to love and open to desire,
and open to freedom of movement
and the amorous rain fell on my toes and it felt so free.
I looked into your eyes and within your heart and saw love,
and saw possibility and discovery and laughter.
For I had tasted your love so much,
and tasted your dreams in my sleep.
I looked within you, within me, and tried to find your peace,
our peace.
It's the little things in life that mean so much
That steaming cup of hot coffee waiting for you as you greet the day
The cheery hello from a neighbour
As you stumble out of the house, briefcase and keys in hand
Ready for the challenges of yet another exciting day
The smile on the traffic cop's face at the corner
As he waves you through after the kiddies have crossed the street
After your gruelling hour long commute
You get to the office and the day starts with high-fives
The cute new secretary gives you a big smile
As you rush by heading for your office
Those long arduous meetings that go on late into the afternoon
Where everyone finally finds out the company has had
It's best year to date and you feel proud
That you had even just a small part in it's success
Then after fighting the late afternoon rush hour traffic
You return home exhausted only to be greeted
By your adoring family and you feel on top of the world
None of these things individually make your day
But all of these things combined make you aware
We're all so lucky to be alive
And that little things mean a lot
© Jack Ellison 2014
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
I want to return home
I'm sick of being alone
the green house, my warm room
without this dense feeling of gloom
i want to be with the people i know
where the days arent so gruelling and slow
the place filled with warmth and laughter
where i would live happily ever after
sitting around together eating tea
with them telling me they love me, unconditionally
but honestly I'm just lying through my teeth
because this is all just hireath
Hypocrisy within the Village Flock
As the seasons of my life changes, glorious it may not be!!
Valley bells summons the flock to chapel.
Heavily polished Pews squeak, as Village flock take their seats.
Distant ghostly voices ring out with such shallowness.
“Chapel roof raised with such false faith”
No attention paid to the sermon.
The congregation floored by jealousy, as each man mirrored by his own status.
Women competing, against their hats and frocks.
Jealousy worms weaving through their gowns,
feathers in hats, quivers as the coven moves through the vestry door.
Minister excited to the jingles of the collection box whilst being passed around and around.
my soul lays upon a bed of thistles.
Whilst the thorned crown compresses the thoughts within my head.
Lurking within the shadows of the cross .
Whilst the gruelling over the sacrificial lamb
So-called reputable men “ that should not be”
The pitch pine pulpit, creeks with despair.
Parishioners best clothed with shiny shoes,
“all hypocrites congregate here”!!
Layer upon layer of blasphemous faith,
create a stain on uneasiness upon the so-called sacred walls .
Each Private hymnbook worn by sweating hand,
fidgeting tell- tales of fear through ware.
Each before God and un- easy to what conscience they happen to bear!!
“ If this is faith, then I want no more,”
All false faces glance, finally and for the last time.
I exit through the memories, OF that stained chapel door.
Now that December has descended
with it's roots of ice and skies of snow
our timber fortress is a sanctuary of ethnographic enlightenment
and embassy that entreats the exchange of craftsmanship,
lately I have been preoccupied with my etymological research,
it is important to President Jefferson, an anthropologist
that we discover the origin of the natives through their languages,
he is obsessed with understanding the diversity of the human race
a bone collector of civilizations and shaman of scholarship,
Private Sheilds, through his blacksmithing expertise
has allowed us to barter iron for corn without which
the Corps of Discovery would either lose vital quantity of provisions,
be reduced to malnourished paupers, or even engage in unscrupulous raiding,
there are still a thousand arduous miles to go
from all estimations, before reaching the Pacific,
as is, the Elders, especially from the Hidatsas
are suspicious of our motives
because of the 18 foot high pallisaded fort we have built adjacent to the Mandans,
so mistrust is suppressed well with an open door policy
and liberal trade of battle axes,
knives, weapon and tool sharpening, kettles, needles and so on,
January 1805,
the new year has introduced 40 below zero weather, syphilis and fists fights,
to stave the ills of boredom we routinely go on hunting expeditions
through the gruelling grip of winter's madness,
another activity that warms the soul are the spectacular jamborees
that conjure the whiles of instincts
and reminds us all how the heart seeks it's deepest expressions,
Cruzzatte plays the fiddle like a tempter of lunatic love
while Silas Goodrich thumbs a mandolin into the dreams of romantic heroism,
the squaws often coo with eyes of diamonds
arms outstretched with fingers swaying like wind blown wheat,
York is a sensation with the Indians
they have never seen a Black Man before
describing him as the black clay of chaos,
they believe there is magic in his skin
touching and rubbing him constantly like a healing stone,
J.A.B.
My approach to life has always been
One of lightheartedness and just happy to be alive
However, I recall my early years, especially my teenage years
When I was filled with self-doubt
Thought of myself as quite unattractive and lacking in people skills
Until I got out in the working world
And realized my humour helped push me through
I discovered people love to laugh
It helps them through their gruelling day at the office
Humour has carried me through my whole life
Through my good times and especially through the tough times
My motto is, “if I can't change things...
Oh well, this is the way it is, so no sense being unhappy forever”
Though at times it can be extremely difficult
I've always manage to eventually laugh at life
I've discovered it's the only way to survive
I'm not suggesting that everyone is capable of this
But it's my secret to a long and happy life
So there you have it... why I'm known as “Jester Jack”
A title of which I am so very very proud!
I'm just happy to be alive!
© Jack Ellison 2014
gaping mouth kiss to canvass
on my jugular death’s caress
my spirit’s quenched combust
a champion in defeat’s bust
eyes swollen shut, “and he’s out!”
down for the count on my gut
prey food to a superior predator
beneath the boot of my victor
ear compelled to my new level
to the maniacal laughter of the devil
gasping bloodied snot for breath
choking on own uprooted teeth
flashing a mockery of embarrassment
cameras capture my lowest moment
in my fading hour...falling apart
in living colour...creating art
twelve rounds in life’s gruelling bout
going toe to toe with an unfair lout
to be counted out of existence
I will accept with reluctance
“one, two,” referee takes a closer look
eight seconds to be written out of the history books
“...three, four, five, six, seven...” don't hesitate
...and I’m up at the count of eight!
SPIRIT OF A CHAMPION
Thabang Jan Ngoma
22-07-2015
For Contest Name: Get Low
Sponsor: Casarah Nance
I taste suburban bliss
On your journey to my heart
In the breath of your kiss
You whisper, “We’ll never be apart.”
A shower of living colour
The shade of the highest tower
My thirst has never known anything cooler
Your beauty holds such power
A diamond to break the ice
In your eyes I see it sparkle
On my knee begging for a yes
In your hourglass - a twinkle
You bless me with a smile
My happiness’s when you fizzle
I hold on for a cool while
It’s been a gruelling path to your bottle
When I sizzle - Always Coca Cola
Sing Me.. A JINGLE! - Poetry Contest
Sponsored: by Lyric Man
Cradled in her mother’s starving belly
Spawn of a fruitless tree in Death Valley
With only hunger pangs to worship
A step in any direction would be hardship
Nourishing daily on the harshest inferno
There isn’t a gruelling day she’s never known
Her mother’s tears of sorrow vaporise
Long before they can leave her blind eyes
She’s a thirst in a drought of beauty
A wind-chill through the gates of hell
The warm release of the coldness of death
She is, against all odds, life on earth
Through the thin skin of her flames
Her burning desire to feel a warm embrace
She dries at night with the rise of the moon
And regains life with every breath of each noon
A woman so strong with no mum of her own
Who grew independently battled alone
Raised 3 beautiful kids and shined a light on there's
Liked after them always nan always cared
Worked all day and lead a good happy life
Then Mother Nature struck with a gruelling blunt knife
She forgot some things that's we take for granted each day
But she still always loved and had time to pray
A woman that was strict and proud
Become terrified and lost at the back of the crowd
Looking fragile. Small and fright in her eyes
Not knowing what tomorro had to lie
Breaking my heart to see a beautiful soul this way
And still she would try laughing each day
As much as it sounds selfish Indeed
I'm glad she is happy in her daydreams
Every day is her memories that will long last
No horrors of the present just smiles from the past
As long as she has comfort knowing I'm here
My heart will no longer fear
Ever been given the “bum's rush”?
It happened to me yesterday
By this highfalutin dermatologist
Who's definitely overpaid
Appeared to me his only concern
Was how many souls he could see
To help him choose between a Jaguar
A Mercedes or an SUV
This may sound a bit cynical
But what else am I to surmise
Spent a minute and a half in total
Discussing the rash on my thighs
His 4 hour days must be oh so gruelling
As his golf buddies patiently wait
Only 43 patients to rush out the door
Before once again joining his mates
So did I get at least some satisfaction?
Well he told me my problem was age
His advice, “just suck it up, mister”
Now you know why I'm so enraged
Ever been given the “bum's rush”?
My blood has boiled over the top
Where did their code of ethics go
I'm disgusted with the whole damn lot!
© Jack Ellison 2012