Best Hamstrung Poems
Whom Do We Trust
Written: by Miracle Man
7/21/2019
Every now and then, we all lose our bearing,
Facing days that become gloomy, often despairing.
We only check our compass for direction of travel,
When it appears that life is just about to unravel.
We oft seek out others, and with blame anoint,
But no man is a judge nor will God ever appoint.
He said, Cast your burdens upon me, for I care,*
Yet we oft live our lives hamstrung by despair.
We should never treat others as perhaps we’ve been treated,
Because with whatever we mete, we’ll also be meted.**
When we fail in casting burdens upon HIM for He cares,*
We’re eschewing the wheat while gorging on tares.
*1 Peter 5:7
Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.
**Matthew 7:2
King James Version (KJV)
“For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”
FATE LEADS THE WILLING
when my life
my very wellbeing
depends on the actions of those around me
it’s a trial to my innate sensibilities to bring my side
if my destiny is to live my final years in isolation
cut off from the interaction with others
it shouldn’t be any hardship
as I can employ this time to the enrichment of my scant knowledge
to learn to do without material trappings of this capitalist world
admit that we are guided by the rules of nature
and I must accept all things are beyond one’s own personal power
every day
every hour
every minute of my day
is another chance for a different path
there are very few things that we can control
also those who resist the pull of Fate will feel hamstrung by events that alter
their life plans
an individual who accepts the things that occur in life that are beyond his
control
can lead a happy life by controlling negative emotions and passions
et du volentem fata nolentem trahunt*
_________________________________________________________________________
*both Fate leads the willing and drags the unwilling
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
POET'S NOTE: The prepenultemate and penultimate lines (both 23 syllables per line - the top of the range as far as breathing is concerned) overrun the line space, hence the indentations.
All lines were checked via Howmanysyllables.com
(sung – in a round pussy willow warble - to the tune of --
Oh Where Oh Where has my little dog gone)
With a flam boy hunt deft jais nais sais quois
firm lickey split tongue
and two bell yule yar pissant
little nappy ruck berry filled up paul ling sacks
viz peppy la pew doth not peter out,
and weathers clawed rained swipes
from hello kitty when faux pas gets swung
assisting climbing Jacob's ladder
(without pussy footing,
orb bing a putz like the president)
advancing quick to attain orgasmic rung
while heading into a slippery sloping sluice
(with prickly endeavor emitting cleat trill
smooth sailing along a ****
re coarse upon phallic shaped pung
crossing la brea tar pits (peppered
with lai bee ha tricky bridge over the River Kwai)
comprising ideal place de la resistance
to woo tang clan foreign nee Kate,
where two puckered rill lee fleshy ruffling rills
tinged pinkish lips overhung
a challenging escarpment,
where many a brave Tom, Harry or Dick get hung
up, particularly while searching for fabled “G” spot,
cuz portcullis hamstrung
even the most fiercely determined
Engleburt Hump per dink
necessitating the moist risky ski maneuver
as most studs know tubby gelandesprung
though booby prize wool worth any slimy setbacks,
where sticky gook gets flung
from angry cat,
who does not in the least find amusing,
and if further pricked with rage
not averse to hurl dung
gar (with) ease at snaky,
retractable hardened beastie boy twill clung
for dear life and limb (er, or twig and berries),
while applying crampons (bivouaced
within his maxipad), viz bung
gull low, essentially a ball peen size cove
hammered out by Dashiell Hammitt, where coiled,
kinked follicles strewn tightly inlet among
pheromone laced verboten fruit.
The Jihadi’s got an entire hour to kill
Hundreds of helpless patrons shocked and awed
An eon of murderous rage until
The long awaited reward from his “god”
Like schools, this Orlando bar predictably
Missing the one thing mass shootings lack
It’s no longer much of a gallery
When the intended sitting ducks shoot back
Ideology of disarmament
To some people, a feather in their caps
Yet it's to your eternal detriment
If mind-bending hatred falls in your laps
Hamstrung by their protocols, by and large
Officers stuck on perimeter, of course
No matter how they may want to charge
They are the police, not Delta Force
For a solution, this nation divided
Starkly different views on reality
The most effective measure derided
In its place, a plea to authority
When it goes down like this in disarmed France
To me it’s just as clear as a crystal
If innocent lives are to have a chance
Hear the message of the Pink Pistols
Brave by any measure to come out twice
First gay, then pro armed defense
Their deepest truths, no human price
Unwilling to appease or ride the fence
Helplessness has never stopped a rampage
There’s no reason to think it ever will
Only equal force can stop the carnage
When evil men have decided to kill
6/13/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
WHETHER GOOD OR ILL
Whether good or ill
just be still
When the ant tries to hamstrung,
Let it know you were still even when the bee stung
Whether good or ill
Don't be caught with you fingers in the till
Walk on the right path
And warn your eyes against what your brother hath
Whether good or ill
Let them mistake your effort for tilting at the windmill
Push as though every moment were your last strength
Live as though every moment were your last breath
Whether good or ill
Be at top and will
Never hesitate to begin
And quit after you win
Whether good or ill
Harry West was an Aboriginal stone age hunter,
on the Kokoda trail Second World War in New Guinea in 1942...
HARRY WEST of KOKODA...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYFVC072rJk
One man from Goodooga, black,
yes a "Murray" so true ...blue.
He carried a sugar bag on his back,
filled with grenades, primed too....
He left camp wearing a loincloth new,
went native I'll relate...
Went behind the lines to a Jap H.Q.,
fed them hand grenades old mate. ...
The Japs did, the natives brutalise,
worked them hard as mules as well. ...
When a " Fuzzy " fell and couldn't rise,
hamstrung him where he fell....
{and there he died so slow}
'Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels' bore our friends,
mortally wounded down the track...
Our Goodooga boy he made amends,
with Jap carrier parties black....
He killed the Samurai swordsmen, mean,
set Jap slaves many, free to run,..
Sent them back to the hills so very green,
this fight for them he'd won...
by Don Johnson. ..
After three months of killing Japanese by stealth,
he was near to our side of the fight an fell breaking his leg.
He crawled a few mile to the Aussie lines. He developed "Scrub Typus"
and died in the Port Moresby Hospital,
Harry was now buried with his mates in the Bomana cemetry.
Harry could track and hunt with the silent stealth and homing
instinct of the true stone age hunter, there was no one better at jungle warfare.
This Aboriginal Stone Age man could move from point to point by instinct,
no need for moonlight, overcast or raining made no difference! Never lost!
http://www.scullywag.com/kokoda1942stoush/
Wasting a Monday morning mooning
Till dawn creeps west in a slowly crawl
Across cunning cliffs of clouded sky
Bade dawn drawn down to noon bye
Bears a clear day brought so cheerfully dear
Soft as your loving grace in my soul
But my might at midday melt my mood
Sin made bad-luck rush ill-luck like lust
Hamstrung my strong stern faith so tight
Thro' tremendous traumas from friends and foes
Though a virgin moon on this Monday night
Brought smiles on my angular jugular frame
Smuggling my sins and iniquities to set me free
As my licit Lord gives me a loving leisurely lease
Drowning my doubts of musing morning mooning
And awakening my silent soul to sorrow no more
So when i feel like crying, i prayed and smiled
'Cos cant spend time crying about wrongs
Which my good Lord has nailed on the cross
I set about trying to make things right
And my life worthy of serving thee
For it isn't right crying instead of praying
It's no kind of example to set for kids or oneself either.
Quintain of: sorrow, despair, agony, misery, lament scoring
pain
Dolesome drum o'er jaded psyche taps a dark, palling
refrain
Hamstrung harp bridled soul with dissonant chords
enchain
Shrill flute a dreary, eerie melody wafts o'er drifting
swain
Melancholy tenor of wailing violin doth all availing hope
drain
Jumbled and distractedly jarred,
I awoke beside myself like a wraith,
a spectator to my primal confusion,
hamstrung by the goddess Chaos,
psychotic and frightfully broken.
Drifting through scrambled shrapnel,
a witness to my scrappy scrabble salads
chasing my fleeting thoughts.
I was an ineffectual phantom weeping
wounded windswept in the rain,
a helpless hapless harlequin of shadows
in perpetual refrain.
Months passed while doctors pondered me,
I compressed moments into kaleidoscopic disarray.
My immediacy overruled past and future; and
all spacial orientation collapsed. I watched my
decline like a desperate specter, never seeing
how I could exit my vertigo maze.
But as abrupt as it began, it inexplicably stopped.
I was engulfed by luminous morning,
A bystander to my maelstrom no longer,
I arose astonished in tearful release
to a world of deeper textures
and fevered passions,
to this world where I am no longer
beside myself.
Last Days
Trembling with trepidation,
You count days lived and enjoyed
Hamstrung with anxiety, stock take
Time your future has destroyed;
You seem to wait with bated breath
To evaluate what you achieved
And, find with a lot of chagrin
That forever you’ll be aggrieved.
Aggrieved for not giving Love
To Friends, Family and to Self
Aggrieved for not using the chance-
Now a dusty relic on the shelf!
Adopt elation of a consummate
Who does Last Days approach
Content with trials and triumphs
Brooking no regret or reproach:
Who harboured the right gear
To face adverse clime to come
Like a Hunter from the Wild Cold
Happy to head off for Home!
JM
17th Oct’ 2013
The new pedagogy, such sweet success!
Brittle crispy teacup children abound.
Wan eyes fused to the screen, don’t look around.
Take me to my safe space, just too much stress.
Who will fix what’s broken? They don’t know how.
Fighting for their freedom? Don’t understand.
It's someone else’s job to repair this land.
Polished Brooks Brothers tyrant, take a bow.
Education, once to build citizens
Infiltrated with fell priorities
Cultivation of hamstrung denizens
Multiple choice equals minimum voice
Limiting possible realities
Eyelids fused, mind confused, they lose, rejoice!
abba cddc efe gfg= semi-italian sonnet
3/2/16
I wish I was a Tory,
It would be another story,
So much simpler not to care
Or have to be aware
Of how other folks must strive
To make a crust to stay alive.
I could keep my privileged indifference
Surrounded by a picket fence
I wouldn't have to own the knowledge
(Whilst enjoying Heston's snail porridge)
That paupers are dying on NHS trolleys
I could just enjoy my hard earnt lolly,
Keeping my guilt edged share portfolio
Guilt free and safe offshore
(Like Rees Mogg, Gove and BoJo) so
That my net worth will appreciate
And HMRC won't be able to deviate
The profits accrued from fracking
To subsidise those who are plainly lacking
Any acumen or entrepreneurship
As a Tory I could safely worship
At the altar blessed by Thatcher, Zuckerberg and
Branson,
As I stack up my king's ransom,
A monument to personal wealth,
Built without any heed to the health
Of the welfare scroungers or the planet
A social conscience? They should ban it!
Let's get on and get the bull done,
Disposable wealth is supposed to be fun,
What's the point in being a Tory
If you're hamstrung by one nation rhetoric?
Yoghurt knitting tree huggers make me really
sick,
'It's for the money, not for you'
Is the motto of my Tory crew,
so go hug a hoody if you will,
My snout is staying firmly in the swill!
The Temptation of St Anthony
I entered the desert,
took a vow not to speak
Lucifer’s here too, hoping
silent men grow weak
My path seemed so straight
but quickly became oblique
I question whether it is I
that fetishise the bleak
The fish sang in bass tones,
dirges I once knew
A trapped fiend plucked strings
from a hamstrung canoe
The joyful decapitated
are half man half shrew
As laughter echoes from whalebone
prisons, meant to subdue
Beasts around the table
chant a satanic grace
I saw my own face
in the filth they embrace
Physicality beckons
in this unholy place
I pray what I've seen
my mind can efface
I avert my eyes
to remain true and just
From helping hands
that will morph and disgust
I’m not paranoid although
filling with lust
Some gifts look divine,
served by demons I distrust
Deities fawn and
confess their obsessions
Say they’ll absolve me
of any transgressions
I’m losing my will and
might make concessions
God be with the days,
I had my own possessions
As the churches crumble
the habits reveal
Is a sin still a sin
if you know it’s not real
If this is right, I’ve done
no wrong to appeal
I’m out on my feet,
but not ready to kneel
Even the heavens are tainted
with monsters that float
Their droppings rain down,
but I tighten my coat
Hunching to dodge scythes
that fixate on my throat
Focus past pain
to salvation so remote
Calm amidst chaos
is my weary repose
Rock bottom cannot
inflict any more woes
Right now it appears
as if anything goes
Should I step up to the plate
or keep on my toes
I’ve stooped low in thought
but never in deed
I’ll rise to full height
and in good faith be freed
After all, what’s a hellscape
unless you take the lead
I’m not yet a saint,
just planting the seed
I’ve long left the desert,
beatified in name
People believed me broken,
and can now heal the lame
I found peace in tortured
mind, I battled to tame
Wrested truth by devotion,
exposed lies within shame.
The Carnivore Within...
Meaty morsels besiege
this vegetarian advocate
yet, the atavistic Jainist within me decries,
egg hen hies his, and lamb hence
carnivorous ache that won't abate
case in point being on the horns
hoof ah dill ham ma, neither willing,
nor ready to abdicate
nagging, succumbing, and writhing,
asper Pavlov's dog salivation,
Ike hen not obliterate
every now and again curr raven
hunger for game, though aye abominate
hone beak able unethical abuse
delivered sans electric ham not prod,
nor pleased, when yours truly doe eth abrogate
his staunch conviction against
merciless maltreatment of animals
which doth exhaust and accelerate
environmental degradation, and realized
moo mints agoo, a temptation did accentuate
bull dozing tenuous die hard longing,
how quickly temptation,
recidivism, and predilection to accommodate,
and appease feeling mouth watering za eel
for ma ham mulls hamstrung taste, I did acclimate
and acquire ineradicable taste primal beastie boys
relished after the hunt squatting by flick ring fire
with other village people
tearing killed deer - if accurate,
nonetheless a grievance
(akin to heresy) as a traitor
Joe against fundamental aversion to reactivate
cow hard lee self betrayal caving against tenets
regarding aversion to the very business
of slaughter (houses), and I eve hen advocate
against gluten free NON GMO free ranging
creatures, who can experience pain
and suffering, some display affectionate
behaviour, plus without doubt agitate
without success to savor natural longevity,
perhaps becoming family pet,
whose tender loving (vittle) care will not alienate
said domesticated innocent
porpoise full chums
hoof found a caring home, articulate
ting compassion, tha hare fore,
a conscientious baldpate
or hirsute organic caretaker,
would neigh ver deer stirrup the roost
ruffle any tail feathers, only celebrate
affection, and mane lee horse around!
Vane glorious and absolutistic,
though I defiantly,
cavalierly, and blithely attest
Yukon bet your (laugh-in) sweet bippy
mine acidic breast
houses anarchic, anti-poetic ballistic,
barbaric, and bubonic
cannibalistic demons within thy
safely guarded Pandora chest
atomic cesium clock
timed to trigger avast
burst of anxiety, frenzy, and
(What me worry
Alfred E. Neuman) blast
ting mental quietude at most
inappropriate, inconvenient,
inopportune, out classed
adrenaline rush, nausea,
palpitating heart, vertigo
besieging, corrupting,
endeavoring fractured arrant
cleft daemonic gripping
hellishly psychic chant
rendering unto sieze hoar,
a choking vise grip extant
yule hiss sieze indomitable
banshee fully controlling grant
diabolic, dogmatic, and dynamic,
anguished corporeal ache
easily, egregiously, and emblematically,
exemplified historically
graphic fatalistic, and ecstatic coup,
(koo), when I caused furious frantic flight,
and/or fight betake
king angst causing just desserts
for Marie Antoinette,
who got her humble pie cake,
thence dispensing with formalities,
where a joshing drake
(named Gill O. Teen)
also known (solely known
to mine selfish source error ways)
alias i.e. as; the Lewis (loose)
lunatic, heady harvester,
and decapitation Deacon trumpeting,
trouncing, and triumphing tranquility
for fifty three Tuesdays,
thence sea king punishing psychotic
pre pound payment
basking in glory (re: gory us)
amidship crashing quays
music to mine ears hearing plaintive neighs
high pitched straining
vocal chord hamstrung keys
regaling oceanographic
lambent hagiographic essays
and keeping at bathos bays.