Best Mutilate Poems
Brutes, in name of God, to show their might,
fixed laws, that you’d succumb like measly sheep.
Womankind, kind woman, rise and fight.
Innocents of war with smiles once bright,
ravished; tossed like garbage in a heap,
angels hovering nigh have you in sight.
Faithful brides, for something less than trite,
set on fire in their beds as they sleep.
Kind woman, womankind, your soul‘s in flight.
Girls in huts, legs spread, cry out in fright.
A ritual to mutilate cuts deep.
Angels from on high do hear your plight.
Wives in their own homes (not all is right),
beaten, hush their children not to weep.
Womankind, kind woman, comes the night. . . .
Sisters, don’t be wearied by the blight.
For what they sow, God’s told us they shall reap.
Angels have prepared you robes of white.
Kind woman, womankind, hold tight your light.
For the 'TRIBUTE TO WOMEN' Poetry Contest
"It is neither wealth nor splendor; but tranquility and occupation which give you happiness". By Thomas Jefferson
A place where the zeal of my heart dwells
The appeal of a simple life, as lucid tale tells,
within a framework of some tranquility.
Slower flow and less agony ooze credibility.
A sulfurous fury emanated from the darkness.
Nostrils flared with a fiery, acrid harshness
Roaring voices mutilate the uttermost peace
It is impossible to tango with a noxious piece.
My chest heaves, and my lips unclench in a sigh.
Release suffocating lighting with the word "supply."
I'm blessed in my peace, and that lets me smile
embroidered with power and dominance style.
To admit a stroll when I could spare some time
In a casual way down an uphill road, sublime,
I absorb it all in whilst I walk through the forest
Each idyllic scene unfolds for an hour of rest.
Where I'd stay is beside an almond tree,
Its gentle breeze murmurs as it hugs me
where I'd quietly sit by the windowpane
holding a mug while glancing at the rain.
A place to catch the firefly's graceful elegance
Relax amid a velvety starry sky for your dance,
A little peace and quiet amid life's frenetic pace
So my soul is punter attuned, full of helpful solace.
Written: April 13, 2023
1st place contest winner
Writing Challenge - 'T' Words - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
I am trying to relate to the strategy of rhyme,
Using words to titillate from the droll to the sublime.
Do I write "a rime that scintillates" to describe a ghost
Of frost? I consult the information highway hosts
Who assimilate rhyme-chimes on internet dot coms,
Those prime verse doctors granting aid so poems do not bomb.
I'll create a word-dance show to equate a tango's flow,
So solitude and fortitude and quietude must glow!
These multitudes of disciplines provost my attitude;
Will you, for faulty demeanor, please grant me latitude?
My aptitude to mutilate (a crime I must not boast.)
Is like a marmalade of brine upon my morning toast.
I ventilate and, then, deflate my inmost certitude;
This grime will grow in plenitude, a naughty turpitude.
I'd rather ev'ry word I post would jubilate the coasts,
Mime the scent of thyme about each lyrical outpost.
This roast of rhyme will blow ego and have me eating crow
If I don't quickly disappear, you know, vamoose and go.
© Faye Lanham Gibson, June 10, 2014
I’ll mutilate my heart, that’s what I’ll do
Cut out that piece that lives and beats for you,
and then I'll simply wait and let it bleed
Perhaps with flow of blood, I will be freed
No suture will I use to stanch the flow
The healing balm my heart will never know
The part that housed my passion and delight
Now torn away, it leaves a ghastly sight!
I will not move, I will not even breathe
Though all my blood in angry bursts may seethe
I’ll wait until the last drop drains away
And see if that will be my dying day
My heart betrayed my mind, and this is why
Unable now to love, my heart will die
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Hamba Kahle Anene Booysen! (1996 – 2013)
Dead at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
‘horrific’, ‘repulsed’,
‘brutally raped’, ‘shocked’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site in Bredasdorp.
Anene was raped,
savagely mutilated,
Her 17 year old body tossed aside,
by the hands of men.
Men, always men,
cowardly, beastly, perverted, twisted men.
‘Beastly’, ‘perverted’, ‘twisted’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
who now lies cold and dead.
How many Anene Booysens will it take,
for us,
society,
families,
people,
human-beings,
and,
men, especially men,
to excise the ghastly menace,
of the heinous capacity that resides,
within men,
always men,
to brutalise, rape, mutilate, and murder.
‘Brutalise’, ‘murder’, ‘rape’,
do these words mean anything,
to anyone,
anymore.
Not to Anene Booysen,
murdered at 17, brutally raped and left,
to die,
in the dirt,
at a construction site,
in Bredasdorp.
Anene Booysen
(1996 – 2013)
* – Hamba Kahle – “Farewell, Travel Well” in Zulu
** – Bredasdorp is a small town near Cape Town, South Africa
Form:
Lazy afternoons on easels
Maples giggle loud with sweetness
Blue and yellow mixed in grasses
Withered wrinkles sink in lilies
Joggers run in fear of dying
Secret trails end in abyss
As the sun stabs days in prisms
Bloody madness grabs the paintbrush
People old vanish from benches
Emptiness sits down by me
Artists mutilate self-portraits
Tempera in tubes succumbs
Painters shoot apocalypse in veins
Signatures escape through keyholes
Night becomes obsessive pitch black
Ghosts invade museum closed
...and I walk by with my suitcase
as reduced to it I am...
No one knows I carry homeless
The Portfolio of my Fate...
copyright@iolandascripca2012
So your great gran
was a suffragette
She fought for the right for women to vote
She thought that would make a woman equal,
put them on the same footing as a man
Looking back, that was misguided thinking
by woman like your great gran
Your great gran
and her suffragette sisters
didn't count on their own gender betraying them
To use their hard fought freedoms perversely
Frivolously,
and in the end, irresponsibly
Now you're using your right to vote
to remove the stigma of using dope
Using your freedoms to enhance your breasts,
to mutilate yourself
To smoke cigarettes,
sadly giving yourself cancerous flat chests
Surrogate suffragette,
carrying another woman's baby
The same woman who fought for the right
to have you as her breeding pet
You got your great gran
rolling in her grave I bet
Surrogate suffragette,
my how you're fighting so hard to suppress
all those good freedoms women worked too hard to get
Free to get equal pay,
free to keep your job
should a pregnancy comes your way
Free to smash the glass ceiling,
free to abolish gender hire double dealing
Surrogate suffragette,
you say you're a thoroughly modern woman
But your great gran wouldn't recognize you,
if you were walking down the street
and she saw you coming
My unusual physical appearance
Was enhanced by a striking thinness,
And enormous long-lashed blue eyes.
Less charmingly, I was also the kind of
Deliberately malicious little hooligan
Who'd remove some periodical
From a neighbour's letter-box
And then mutilate it before reposting it.
The sixties' famed social and sexual revolution
Was well under way, and yet for all that,
Seminal Pop groups such as the Searchers
And the Dave Clark Five;
Even the Fab Four themselves,
Were quaintly wholesome figures.
And in comparison to what was to come,
They surely fitted in well
In a long vanished England
Of Norman Wisdom pictures;
And the well-spoken presenters
Of the BBC Home Service,
Light Service and World Service,
Of coppers and tanners
And ten bob notes;
And jolly shopkeepers
And window cleaners.
At least that's how I see it,
Looking back at it all
From almost half a century later.
Of Pilgrims and Indians
By Elton Camp
In school we are taught a history filled with lies
In order that American history be well sanitized
The Pilgrims were a stern but gracious bunch
Who invited the Indians in to share their lunch
The Pilgrims were grateful to God to still be alive
And that with the Indian’s help, winter did survive
In their joy that they were still among the living,
Fed the savage natives at the first Thanksgiving
They thought themselves to be God’s chosen group
That those evil heathen it was God’s will they dupe
They were the new Canaanites in the promised land
Who, unless they converted, suffered a stern hand
In the name of Christ, they had every right to slaughter
Any the rebellious Indians: man, wife, son or daughter
The massacres of the Pequots are a very good example
Of what the Indians could expect was only a sample
Defenders of Pilgrims say that they were a hostile tribe
Murderous and far more vicious than one could describe
But, the Pequots were quite tranquil and living in peace
When Pilgrims hunted them like animals did that cease
It was in 1637, to the evil Pilgrim’s everlasting shame
Set a village on fire & shot those who escaped the flame
Before they set out with the intention to destroy a village
They prayed to their Lord to direct them in their pillage
To Indian captives, Pilgrims showed the extent of hate
To murder wasn’t enough, so they enjoyed to mutilate
So one Pequot man they literally tore limb-from-limb
Until Captain Underhill showed mercy and shot him
And by candid records written at that time, we’re told
Captives they decided not to kill, into slavery they sold
Other Indian tribes, to help, the Pilgrims did compel
And demanded body part of victims as success to tell
Some may teach we cannot know what motives they had
But their conduct speaks for itself and is so terribly bad
To viciously kill other people seemed to give them a thrill
Then they made it worse by claiming that it was God’ will
(The version of the Pilgrims we are taught is school is nearly a complete falsehood.
An example of spinning history. Sorry to crush any childhood delusions.)
What does a young naïve Christian think
When a hooded desperado storms a prayer room,
His scary presence quiets the praying tongues ,
And his outlawed round replaces hope with doom?
He doesn’t think, instead he silently prays :
Father, forgive their misinformed cruel idiocy,
Teach these men that suicide is not an escape
From the punishment for their bloody idiosyncrasy.
What does an aging single mother think
When the hope of a graduate daughter or son
Turns out to be that unthinkable news of death,
The bullet-riddled corpse, the end of the rising sun?
She does not think, instead she miserably cries:
Father, blight their brows with sulfurs hot,
Numb their souls with the gall of unending pain,
And their hope for bliss in death reduce to naught.
What does the orphaned little boy or girl think
When the bright elder sibling they adore
Calls to say that she’s been forced to call
And say goodbye before the triggers go?
The orphaned boy or girl does not think, instead they howl:
Father, tell the murderous killers to spare my sister
For there is no-one else to wash my clothes
And none to help with the assignments and dinner.
And what does the heavenly merciful Creator think
When the roars of guns and the sobs of death
Force him to turn and cast his all-seeing eyes below
To behold such thick-skinned extermination of breath?
He does not think, instead he wonders:
What breed of men is this I accidentally made,
To wound and mutilate my innocent lambs,
Rejoicing as their lives sorrowfully fade?
(The massacre of well over 150 Garissa University College students by the Al-Shabaab militants on 2nd April 2015)
Although, being cautious during explorations,
forests generally host intrinsic jeopardy.
Killer leopards mutilate not only people, quickly.
Readily, saving them until voracity wants: Xena; Yaks; Zebras.
12/27/2016
mutilate
manipulate
touch
fondle
and burn
fleshes wounds
hot wax's touch
not too little
not much
choke
gloat and burn in hell
I see her face
hot sand
cold hands
man to man
twisted corpse
mine to warp
melting pot of
your hot
retort
deeper into
your mind
like a tape worm
dripped in wine
Form:
The lying sewer rats have revealed themselves once again
a tale has surfaced without credit but begs to be king
this plague and disease has taken away innocent life
We all can see the scorpion in words published in a sting
the odour leaves an invisible stench deeply within souls rooted
Our nation has what it deserves corrupted evil swine
wallowing in self pity crying over spilt milk bad eggs
poor in spirit drunken by their lack of knowledge
wisdom is condemned as false doctrine to address logic
Where creeps the shadows over the truth sandwiched
hiding behind a mask the joker laughs at democracies fools
This world is falling into the pits of hell with rotten apples
at the helm they form a circle dividing people to core beliefs
brainwashed individuals follow their leaders backwards principles
God be with anyone who can think for themselves
because the trendy have lost all faith and love
they judge everyone by their own standards
afraid of the cross they bear malice against goodwill
Sin we all can see how you mutilate everything Holy
take one look into the heart of this problem unfolding
hide your face in shame as the day will come when you kneel
SPECIAL SPIRITS
I locked myself in a library one night
No one knew and there was no one in sight
I spoke to the spirits of so many still there
Frost read me a “Road Less traveled” as I unraveled a maze
So many concepts, so many thoughts, so much beauty
I felt as if protecting those venerable volumes was my duty
No one would rape, mutilate or change a page because I was there
As Poe’s poems smothered me in frosted fear
Baudelaire betrothed me to Breckinridge
And I was captivated and captured by Coleridge
I gazed all around and imagined how many words I was surrounded by
And that Dickenson or Dickens both had reason to cry
I locked myself in the library to sleep around poems
And realized how essential to me are so may tomes
I locked myself in the library to sleep around genius profound
And that made me ruminate on to where this planet is bound
© 2011.….Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
Beautiful U....S not!
The source of troubles,
It is your fault..
One Bush comes,
Another one had to go,
But U...will always
Remain a foe,
Bill!..[Some say],
Not Bill of rights,
Here he comes..
The Caucasoid,
The supreme white,
Here, he comes [some say],
To finish the digging..
In Iraq north...south, wreak!
In Somalia, ohhhhh...
A mission of black gold, a mission of Hope,
In Somalia, ohhhh...
A mission of human aid when a need be!
A mission of handful semolina,
A tin of a fainted corned beef,
And a bit of Uncle Sam's dope,
A son of a rope..[Some say],
But Bosnia is not
Is out of sight,
Where are you bloody humans,
Worthy or not.. Of the name,
Where are you coward Muslims?
Source of disgrace,
Scandals..
And shame..
Where is your manhood?
Where is your womanhood??
Where is your pride to stand and fight?
The barbarians...
Who crash babies' skulls, mutilate,
And deflower virgin teens and take sight,
Of blue eyed young Slavs,
By day and night,
It is wrong [some say],
Nay, it is right
To stand there hoping,
Wishing without reaching..
Praying to almight..
Why don't you sacrifice the dear darling and fight?
And be one martyred soul and unite?