Best Sawed Poems
Once there was dingo, rabidly mad as he could be
who thought he was a Bruce of a man by how he spoke
But no man would call him their 'mate,' for you see...
he was a mongrel dog who pretended to be a bloke
The dingo who called himself 'Keefer,' was all talk-no bite
got caught chasing a galah (chicken) for want of a feast.
But ol' Keef got clawed by the rooster night after night
He was a drongo (fool) who thought he was a beast.
"Crikey!" I heard real men screaming from inside a bar
when they laughed at Keef wearing daks (male trousers)
He tucked his tail and ran from feathering with hot tar
"Get out, ya Hoon (hooligan)! We scorn rabble-rousers!
Keef was a loud mouth when he was blotto (inebriated)
Downing snag (sausages) and guzzling frothy (beer).
Tried to mate with a sheila (girl) but he'd been castrated.
Fair dinkum (that's true). He was neutered last year.
Some say he likes wearing female clothes, they swear.
He's such a hostile dingo, telling them to 'Rack OFF!'
But there's pictures of him in knickers (ladie's underwear).
and some of him before his little stub was sawed off.
I guess sometimes he gets to feeling clucky (maternal)
cuz he uses phrases like 'mother this and mother that.'
Looks like he'll end up some place heated and infernal
Dingo Keef's punishment for hurling all those brickbats.
A rabid dingo, that fool proved to be a fizzer (fizzled out)
His rants and threats to beat guys up were just a joke,
who was well-known as a bogan (hick) and a social lout
who accepted the truth. Ol' Keefer is now socially 'woke.'
Last I heard of him, he'd taken up with a mate called, Roo.
Another misfit creature roaming around in the outback
He played for hours each night, blowing into his digeridoo
because he couldn't stand Keef's braggin' and talkin' smack.
Roo felt relieved when the dingo, kinky Keefer disappeared
The one who'd been called 'the blunder from down under.
He'd mumbled for days about Milton Creek and Roo feared
that dingbat dingo would try to tear that town asunder.
The Lumberjack's Hard Days Of Toil
Salty sweat, from deep axe strokes to lean hands
heavy cotton shirt soaked, mark of the man.
Lumberjack, strong, cut of a different breed
hard at toil, to fulfill his family's need.
With each hard day's task, his heart grew stronger
morn to night, his time away seemed longer.
Wife and children, rarely got to see dear dad
yet all knew his sweet love and were truly glad.
As his axe bit into hardest of trees
mother sat at home shelling garden peas.
Each one doing family duties and chores
living sweet melodies of musical scores.
Work done, rushed he, to family to rejoice
duty performed with honor and by free choice.
R.J. Lindley
Sept. 16th , 1996
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 11 11 0 10 10 11 11 0 10 10 11 11 0 11 11
Total # Syllables: 148
Total # Words: 112
Note: My father started out as a lumberjack, back in the day when so much was done by strong hands and not ease of machines! To be a lumberjack back then meant that you were a strong man and willing to work hard.
Both are strong and positive attributes.
My Dad, later after several years decided to use his brains more and his arms less.. I remember he saying often, "Son use whichever you think best, strength or brains but regardless the free choice made -do so honestly, fairly and with honor!
This poem, is dedicated to that man, the guy that saw honor in hard labor and
in using intelligence to garner a brighter and better future.
I have cut trees, carried and sawed logs, and split wood as a boy on the farm.
TRUST ME, IT IS HARD BACK BREAKING WORK.. but it also yields positive dividends and builds good character in a man.
The Old Oak Tree
For thirty-three years she’s been standing there,
With all her majestic beauty, without a care.
From a tiny seedling I had planted her,
The years rolled by swiftly, like a blur.
The decision was made, she must come down,
The old oak tree looked stately wearing her crown.
The tree surgeon, Jesse, came by that day,
Chain saw in hand, he didn’t come to play.
As each limb was sawed off, I felt the pain,
I stood helplessly as my big oak was slain.
Finally she stood cold, undressed and bare,
I felt so ashamed for my part in this affair.
I saw the surgeon cutting low on her trunk,
Then she began to sway like somebody drunk.
Finally, exhausted, she did a curtsy and fell,
A small tear came in my eye as I bid her farewell.
©2010 Lynn B. Glover
The last living light
Twinkles in his dead eyes
Alive a moment ago but now gone
Someone should shut them
A stare so lonely
Into a place that only he knew
He’s lying there on the floor
Bleeding hard from the head
Police don’t even bother
Just pay him his respects
It’s cold and lonely down there
Watching life go on
Knowing your no long part of it
Just a passenger who had made the final stop
It may not be where you are going
But it’s definitely where you will be
Somewhere down the line.
As he bled out no one stopped to care
He was nobody to them just a drifter
But even a drifter has a mother somewhere
His mother would have cared
Take him sweet Jesus and show him the way
He hath walked with the devil and a sawed off shotgun
Wrecked the lives of plenty a poor boy
Down on the wharf along the shore
Somebody cover him till darkness falls
Then we will carry him to Pointe Coupee parish
Across the river
And find his next of kin
Put him deep in that black gumbo
And let the devil do his work
For John Batiste was a man
Who needed no help
They’ll be frying up cracklin’s
At JP’s on Saturday night
Someone will crumble a beer can
And cuss John Batiste.
I'm aware that
They'll dare me to surrender when my burner's unkindled
And the barrel is empty
Since their whiskey is missing
But it's in our blood and baby it's trickling and
We're on a roll
I heard from her and her merciless curves
That the curse'll come first
Just 'fore the rebirth
It's a thought that gets lost when you pitch it with a cross
O'er a plate made of moss so
I'll name it Shell from Sawed-Off
As I paint Hell from Far-Off
Like the Seraphim cherishing the heart
Who can't turn from the art
Like embarrassing a perishing enemy
Yeah, one last taunt
When told to listen as though it'd fix it
Something went missing
Although I didn't miss it
A relation on a ship quite distant and
Slightly free
Where the ocean switched and the compass died instantly
Oh it's in our blood, baby we're tricky so now
Out that ship has sailed
Like the Seraphim cherishing the shark
Who can flip 'round the ark
Like embarrassing a perishing enemy
Yeah, one last taunt
And our sweat is slightly trickling
A whiskey business, the highest feeling
And the pressure is highly tricky
A risky business, a godly healing
My daughter is dying and as I'm praying, I'm pleading.
She has been stabbed and I can't stop the bleeding.
An ambulance is on its way but it may not arrive in time.
My daughter wouldn't put out so her boyfriend committed this crime.
If you're wondering how many other people he'll stab, the answer is none.
I'm so enraged that I blew his sorry head off with my sawed off shotgun.
My daughter just died and tears are rolling down my face.
She died for being a respectable girl and it's a disgrace.
(This is a fictional poem)
Storm of hearts
You can see in her eyes, there's a storm in her heart
Accusations boom in verbal sonic thunder
Rains flood her sullen cheeks, as her levees break apart
Harsh words cut deep, now her heart is sawed asunder
Lightning flashes strike at the heart of a matter
Polar winds collide, meeting the heated Gulf Stream
Violent winds, reveal truth, causing hearts to shatter
Twisting tornadoes churning nightmares from sweet dreams
Hurtful words sting her face, like an icy hailstorm
With deceitful lies, you camouflage your blunder
Betrayal detected as love's radar informs
Tsunami waves of guilt crash, and pull you under
Fits of jealousy raging like a hurricane
When trust is broken, life can never be the same
John Derek Hamilton
July 28,2017
The rebel who came to town
In search of inner peace
She roams the American West
Specifically, the Texas Hill Country and South Plains
She keeps a journal of her adventures and fights
injustice where she finds it
With a revolver and her dead father's sawed-off
double-barreled shotgun!
“Amazing tradition. They throw a great party for you on the one day they know you can’t come.“
Quote by Jeff Goldblum.
JOHNNY SPICER
In this tomb are the bits and pieces of the butcher Johnny Spicer
Got distracted whilst cutting meat and fell into the meat slicer.
JAMES.D.BOWLER
In this crypt are the flat remains of James.D.Bowlar
Tripped crossing the road into the path of a steam roller.
FREDDIE ALBRIGHT
In this grave is the head of surfer Freddie Albright
It was all that was left when he encountered a great white.
JIM BYRONS
Buried below are just the bones of hunter Jim Byrons
His rifle jammed and his body eaten by lions.
THE COMEDIAN
Hear lies Sid the comedian who thought it was funny
Kicking the bucket and owing the taxman money.
WILLO THE WISP
Lying below are the charcoaled remains of fire eater Willo The Wisp
Who drank too much petrol in his act and was burned to a crisp.
EMILY GRAF
Interred in two pieces is the magician's wife Emily Graf
Something went drastically wrong, and he sawed her in half.
PETE THE BUILDER
Above this grave is just the statue of the builder Pete
Fell headfirst into a cement mixer whilst mixing concrete.
JOE McNAIR
The loud crackling you can hear in this grave is of the killer Joe McNair
Too much power was used when they executed him in the electric chair.
Written on 11th August 2024.
Distort of sounds strum his bow —sawed heart rhythms,
mischievous fool impels my mind's rapt boredom.
The devil's finger warns and pivots, sedates,
adrift among alleged stolen dreamscapes.
The jester sleeps all day, perplexed I awake.
They decry their gun birthright
is to defend their home,
protect what they own
A government tank might come rolling
down the road one day
New Roman centurions coming to take
their beloved metal sons away
Give unto Caesar the lobby coins,
and he will let you keep your guns
Ask for the AR-15 exemption too ...
get a death certificate of ownership for you
Have in your treasured collection,
the most coveted item
that can blow dreams away
Possess the wizard of war wand ...
keep it on concealed Oz display
What lies behind the magazine veil
will blow your citizen reticence away
AR-15 lying wonder:
Killing machine putting souls
six-feet under
It’s your American gun birthright
to have death by metal proxy
at your trigger side
Bumstocks and sawed-off barrels,
high-velocity bullets: metal projectile arrows
Second Amendment voice tools,
get pleasure in bringing the pain,
speaking with First Amendment lead liberty
Shoot first and ask questions later ...
The law of trigger-nometry rules:
the barrel with the loudest bang,
has the highest caliber free speech authority
Gun birthright zealous voices
speaking with hot impassioned impunity
Shoot first and ask questions later ...
AR-15 making serial killing noises,
silencing crowds with political immunity,
automatically blowing dreams away
Talk to the trigger hand they say: Shoot first,
and ask questions later on another day
Inspired by the Iron Maiden Song, Tears of a Clown
Drinking, he recalled the Circus Grim,
and the strange world that ruined him.
He had done anything for a laugh.
Once, the magician sawed him in half.
He'd traveled the whole country round.
Now tears fall from the circus clown.
An orphan child, running from disaster,
fell into the service of a cruel ringmaster.
At first, he was never seen on stage,
laboring to clean a hungry lion's cage.
In dreams, he wore a jewelled crown,
and he rose to fame and renown.
The juggler, fire-eater and contortionist,
joked with him and the beauty he loved best.
It was then, a drunken challenge, he made,
and, to his surprise she accepted, unafraid.
She caught his eye as she came down,
a moment frozen for a circus clown.
His secret love, he thought, flew like a dove,
enchanting him, like an angel above.
No matter how he tries, he won't forget,
the trapeze girl who missed the net.
He'll swill whisky until he drowns
in tears, the broken-hearted circus clown.
Ten doggone years I've sawed your trees.
I quit. I'll saw my own darn z's.
I'm done with blood and sweat and tears;
I've sawed your trees ten doggone years.
Right out that door I'm marching on.
No use to look, 'cause I'll be gone.
I'm done with aches and blisters, for
I'm marching on, right out that door.
I'll never feel this weary back,
Nor sleep in such a leaky shack;
I'll go and find a decent meal --
This weary back I'll never feel.
With some sweet girl we'll settle down
Two thousand miles west of town.
I and my mule, named Mr. Merl,
We'll settle down with some sweet girl.
I've lived in hell, Mad Merlin Green;
Now I, like you, am strong and mean.
Once shy and kind, now hear me yell;
Mad Merlin Green, I've lived in hell.
I've started my stand-by diet: a few different fruits each day,
and having repeated it time and again, I feel qualified to say
apples, unless of a rare and crisp nature, are mushy and generally gross.
Halfway into the core of one, I'm still starving and feeling morose.
The diet's mainstay, pineapple, for its fat-burning enzymes revered,
when fresh, is somewhat palatable.
If it's green, though, ones mouth can be seared.
And that popular phallic banana, which when peeled, fast begins to rot:
That one I'll leave for the monkeys though it's garnish for sundaes or not!
Tomorrow I'm finally in for a treat. It's a watermelon to eat.
But for all my thumping to test for its ripeness,
it well could taste flat and not sweet.
Blueberries, too, and cherries are good.
I wish there were more fruits like these.
However, I long to see them all "berried"
‘neath Cool Whip atop cream cheese.
Plums or grapes, frozen or plain, "not bad" until they are dried.
By the time I'm consuming ghastly prunes,
I'll be famished for food that is fried!
Mangoes, too, are on my list of what I must partake.
But (gag me) their texture lends the sensation
I'm swallowing snails or a snake.
I've noticed of late with this regimen, its slimming magic is slowing
as with each precious year's dissolution, my metabolism's lowering.
Next week (so I say) I'll banish forever this obsolete, once-potent "cure".
It long since has extracted from me any craving for food that is pure.
With a dull kitchen knife I took my papaya today and reverently sawed it.
With its flavor lingering there on my tongue,
it struck me it hinted of vomit.
*I'm not a big fruit eater as this shows!! This is a diet I will no longer pursue!
Next I should do a poem on how sickening it gets eating salads day after day.
Jan. 27, 2017 for Jamie Pan's "It's time for hilarious poetries"
Winter Fantasia.
Snowman, his coat a trillion frosty threads...crotched by Jack,
the naughty mischief maker.
Each crystal cast perfect by Boreas. #
Blizzard bullies, bustling, jig-sawed sleet,
crystallized in my mindscape of imagery.
Winter Sun dares to melt you down, pasty white.
Your peculiar perfume, suggests ice cubes soaked in lemon-crush.
Shiver, quiver. As goose-bumps frazzle your Arctic world
the moon shines crazy, diamond flames hang in the lonely sky.
I materialise you...the absent person,
I colour the scene with my paintbrush and bucket.
Bold, stiff... blow a bon-bon kiss,
you sentry on snow-laden ice,
under heaven-hung, bunting stars...
a diamante necklace, swanked by Nyx, Greek Goddess of the Night.
Platted rainbows twist, entwine hues, illuminate
a fibre-glassed squirrel who morphs into a swirl of peppermint puffs
and whirls round in muffled silence.
Rouge-crested Robin rests on cold shoulder, then
alights on umber wings...
Ruby stained Snowman chuckles like river ripples,
egg-white flakes dying to pirouette,
airborne ballerinas, swivelling, spinning...
from knitted, silken clouds, finer than a Fuschia’s blush.
Come Spring sprinkles of Lime grass and creamed Crocus
blanket my view where you once stood.
Reality or imagination, I am the speaker of this poem,
so Jack, draw fern-like patterns on my windows, then
run away with Nymph shadows...
Even the wind dies happy.
# Boreas...Greek God of Winter.