Best Sore Poems
There's this sweet young lassie named Laura
When she visits, l fall down on the floor-a
So excited am I
My heart, it doth fly
Till my wings, they get all quite sore-a
© Jack Ellison 2015
What My Day Was Like And Why My Feet Are Sore
I walk with lead bricks tied to my feet,
down this trail into oblivion.
gasping at the light, the beams
spinning and from thin air
a melody, not the kind you think
more of a stomping the gourd
and drinking myself under
two crowns and my head spins off
whistling Dixie and promising to live
a hermit in a cave
eating stardust and baying at the moon
watching stars twinkle and speak in riddles
this old soul arguing back
and swearing to never ever lie
no sin tomorrow
but today any damn thing goes
to the hell hounds
trailing a dragon that seeks the princess
never found, but her slippers ruby red
she that watches me sleep
breaks my alarm and leaves me
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
as sunset draws near its opens
spitting out charms
into my willing hands
truth sees me and winks
saying Rob what shall you do tomorrow
I reply, shut up
these sandwiches tastes like bugs
his reply, yes son that is
my super-duper extra special sauce, roasted bugs
for breakfast Monday you get worms
I grimace and shout, Lord save me
my good friends are hideous.
Robert J. Lindley
Rhyme, Jan. 17TH 1979
Note- Weekend fifth made it until 10 pm Saturday night.
Through Dispare To Rejoicing
By Charles Gerald Patrick Chard 2nd
Chevra Gavri Hanita Hazaka Abir Selek 2nd
Am I alone ? Does GOD hear the prayers I pray ?,
For I wonder in my heart if HE hears anything I say,
So many questions of things I need answers too,
Sometimes I feel so tossed inside,unsettled and blue,
I feel HE does not care about anything I speak,
I feel my prayers go no higher then the celling, when HIM I seek,
I feel, am I doing the right thing, or does HE care at all,
I wonder if I am on the right track or in for another fall,
I cry to the LORD from the depths of my soul,
Can I at least reach up to touch the bottom, from this hole,
In this my darkest hour I scream to HIM from deep within,
No place to go from HIM, no place to hide from within,
Yet all I can do is to trust HIM and turn things over to HIM once more,
I can not leave my soul in the dumps when I feel this sore,
O GOD, my GOD I cry aloud to YOU my LORD,
Reach down in my dispare with YOUR two edged sword,
For my hear remains true as I learn to seek YOUR face,
I have learned my GOD, for YOU have put me in my place,
I will rejoice in my Redeemer and learn to do YOUR will,
I will take joy in mt Deliverer as I climb YOUR Holy hill,
Give me strength, give me live, draw me close,
So I may be assured in whom I value the most,
You know all the questions of my heart, YOU are the answer,
YOU are my answer, LORD GOD Almighty, Sir,
Please grant your servant a kindness, this I will ask,
To see YOU in all YOUR fulness and in YOUR presence, what a task,
O how my heart loves YOU, O spring of Living water,
I am the clay, O Creator, YOU are the potter.
Though it gets lots of water,
our grass on clay dirt yellows;
stubborn thorny weeds reside. . . .
where might I buy turf?
For Francine Robert's Contest:
"Flowers, trees, grass, or bees"
.
In tight contests,
rivals flash sour,
scheming smiles
of ignominies.
Some are spiteful
though they're down
beaten on bended,
wounded knees.
Their front act of
dire deceit: feigning
sportsmanship, not
conceding defeat.
Rancour and rage
behind their civil,
congenial masks
insidiously lurk.
Though, quietly they
lick their wounds,
they vow vengeance,
and defiantly sulk.
.
Can we make it in this world without athletic talent
Can we make it in this world with sensitivity
Can we make it in this world with a hot head
Can we make it in this world without a nice girl
Can we make it in this world with enemies
Can we make it in this world with lost friends
Can we make it in this world with pessimism
Can we make it in this world without enthusiasm
Can we make it in this world with scars of emotion
Can we make it in this world with poetic ambitions
I think we can
I think I can
Sore loser they call me
But I wanna prove them wrong
I wrote this poem because one of my classmates called me a sore loser (hence the title)
and the one thing I wanted to do is prove him wrong (Written on 10.12.10)
.
My toe just stubbed
the stubborn
piano's iron foot.
It hurts like hell,
torments like a
cigarette butt.
Doc said: stay home,
don't walk, take a day
off or more.
I did, but now I'm
bored to death,
not only sore.
But boredom quickly
breeds some crazy
thoughts, you see.
Seems my easy chair
sits on me
uneasily.
Quite weirdly,
colors I now hear,
sounds I now see.
I ache to be
stirred as sugar
in hot coffee !
.
You'll never believe this thing I saw
It couldn't stop from flappin' its jaw
With warts poking thru its beard
My eyes permanently seared
Wait! it was only my mother-in-law
searing shining sun
bedazzling snowmelt season ~
a sight for sore eyes
(March Full Moon – Dakota, Lakota, Assiniboine)
Your recent reveal was a sad steal
of all I knew.
My memory now bleeds severely
making days blue.
My world shattered and scattered
across the floor.
Something dying is out loud crying
aching and sore.
Your truth so grilling it is piercing
the past I saw.
Now that I am bruised by your news
I am plain raw.
Feeling a fragile head from words said
I’m torn apart.
No light to lend so darkness will bend
and ease my heart.
I will long mourn this unwanted thorn
that makes me cry.
I must ride the storm then wake some morn
with my eyes dry.
I need healing so I am willing
to see tears gone.
Accepting plight to put thoughts aright
I must play strong.
I accept what I cannot reject
for I love you.
Not knowing truth would alter my youth
your story flew.
Nothing to gain by showing my pain
so I hushed true.
Explanation of revelation
will not ease me.
You had a need to stop your own bleed
to set hurt free.
Never will you meet the strain of pain
for me, not thee.
and then buzzing starts below skin
shocks shoot along veins
I hold my arm
a different pain today
it buckles the knee
grinds the shoulder
it burns the elbow
gnaws the hip
I rub my back
a deep breath and sigh
ricochets ribcage-aches like children
playing at pinball machines
another new pain today
another old pain tomorrow
the everywhere everyday unsurprising surprise
and a spasm grips within muscle
it can rock your stand
need a cain in hand
as you walk the beat
gets heat under neat
you need sit on a sheet
with thoses
SORE FEET
Criss-Cross Acrostic: Ai My Eye
Criss-Cross Acrostic:
Note: *Construe as “words” not as “letters”: Lines 1 and 3 read alike reversed; Lines 2 and 4 read alike reversed; likewise vertically and diagonally from up-down or down-up mode.
"Ai Ai My Eye !"
I Was Saw Eye
Eye Saw Was I
Eye Was Saw I
I Saw Was Eye
Another Permutation:
« Ai Ai My Sore Eye !"
I Sore Was I
Saw I Sore Eye
Sore I Saw Eye
I Was Sore I
FURTHER PERMUTATIONS for SORE EYES
Eye Sore Saw I
Saw I Sore Eye
I Saw Sore Eye
Sore Eye Saw I
Saw I Sore Eye
Eye Sore Saw I
Sore Eye Saw I
I Saw Sore Eye
Eye Sore Saw I
Sore Eye Saw I
Saw I Sore Eye
I Saw Sore Eye*
This last quatrain diagonally reads as:
"Ai Ai Sore Eye" (phonetically): « Ai Ai Saw I"
I get a phone call
South I must drive
Surgery for an elder
Six hours I strive
Phone is ringing again
I'm heading North within a flash
Sister is in trouble
Eleven hours on my a--
Trying to get home
Phone rings again
Orchard needs watering
Six hours East I begin
My son needs to move
Head South one more time
Eight hours of desert
Elders on my mind
I hear a familiar ring
Five hours North-West before I'm too late
My elders heart may reach
God's fate
Daughter calls
Her truck broke down
Six hours East
I'm on a Merry-Go-Round
I'm beginning to wonder
If my job is still there
My a-- is sore
But my family is my primary care
Here it is again
A familiar ringtone
You'll fall off your chair
If my Chevron card you owned!
Bar Stool Bed Sore Ode to the Record Machine
Smoking Winstons
At the Seaway Lounge
At 2:00 a.m.
The juke-box sighs out
Buck Stovell, Roy Crestline and an occasional Darla Parsell,
Whoever she is
Buxom barmaids who are 53 years old
Wear nineteen year-old gold stretch pants
Bleached blond earlobes
Wrinkled double chins
Kissing
Genuine Cherokee Indian jewelry
An old gray side-burned man asleep
In the corner
Beside the cigarette machine
Middle aged women looking very divorced
At the bar, two stools away
From the pretzel can
I sip on warm Blue Ribbon
That looses it color in the dirty glass
“Oh … lonesome me”
Juke-box oozing out tunes
As my jaw oozes out of socket and
Into my callus factory hands
Dirty finger-nailed
Sex-starved wrists
Palms ready to …
Put another quarter in the box
Nashville’s monument to love
In a shaggy bar, in Lawrence, Indiana