Best Wrangled Poems
One day I delivered a poem
one that seemed to be premature
so I swaddled her up
and set her aside
to grow 'til I felt reassured
How she yowled and howled for attention...
how she cried so piteously!
How she coughed and she sneezed
whimpered and wheezed
then threw up all over me!
Still I tenderly tended her bedside
and lovingly nursed her along
determined to sacrifice everything
to raise her up healthy and strong
As she grew and recovered, she wandered
and crawled over everything
and I found I had trouble containing
my rambling, unruly offspring
She became an inexcusable bounder
a wayward and bratty ingrate
who despite all my love and affection
refused to make sense or read straight
She dallied in questionable places
she idled and shiftlessly shirked
lazily lagging, ignoring my nagging
while I selflessly, endlessly worked
Firmly applied discipline to her
and structure, and meter, and rhyme
but she bucked, and rebelled, and bit me
and stayed up beyond her bedtime
We wrestled, and wrangled, and brawled,
bickered in bitter altercation
if I didn't do something quite soon
she would ruin my good reputation
At length, I decided I'd had it
we had reached the end of the road
and although she clung like a wet paper towel-
I flung her and flushed the commode!
I saw the carefree youth racing,
Racing their cars around the town.
And straight away I saw no one had
Properly clipped their buckles down.
They raced at breakneck speeds,
Irresponsibly, through a bright red light.
Lucky that time, not to hit anyone,
In the still of the cold wet night.
So I wiped a rag of oil over the road,
Around the corner they’d surely drive.
Yep, the carefree fools hit and slid,
Slid to the tree, nobody would survive.
Then I walked to them, the wrangled smash,
With my black cape, scythe and lanky bones.
I helped each up, took each away with me,
Past their cold empty new tomb stones.
“I am Death, I’m the end of your road”
I announced on our short little stroll.
Now, I’m looking forward to meeting you one day,
When I’m harvesting your soul.
The Feeling of Fishing while Floating
Is Graded on Goading, and Gloating
Bystanders oft blindly believe
In salmon the size of my sleeve
Tall Tales at the Time Told True
In Grandeur they Gained and they Grew
But my Rod and Reel won't Remember
Come the Dread and the Din of December
And by the Time I again Tell my Tale
I Will have Wrangled Ahab's White Whale
2/13/11
In the historical archives, many trails have led to
The making of a legend, those born with the pioneer spirit
Of individuality, bred deeply within their soul.
Such was this man we called, Mr. President, Theodore Roosevelt.
A cowboy rough rider, whom wrangled his way with true
Grits fight, making his way to the oval office round-up in
Washington, DC,
Thus America's pride, was alive within Teddy's wild heart.
This wilderness environmentalist, who's grand vision,
Had the foresight to leave a wondrous gift behind him.
To a nation beloved by him, this honorable man,
Bestowed his legacies inheritance for future generations,
To enjoy forever, the green valley's known as the
National Parks and National forests.
A nation's founding father, his face indubitably
Engrained, into solid granites bed rock, on the exterior of
Mount Rushmore, so does it bare witness, to this presidents
Greatness unto posterity.
A rugged individualist, believing in the fair deal policy,
For all men, should all have the same rights and liberties.
Theodore did so carry a big stick, but spoke softly,
In the foreign policy arena, thus receiving the Noble Peace Prize.
Drive did he, the stake of progress across the raw landscape
Of Cuba, creating a man made wonder, called the Panama Canal.
But if asked Theodore Roosevelt’s greatest achievement,
Was the raising of his children, and living life to it's
Fullest depth's degree.
A grievice day, to lose one such as he, but this man
Whom loved adventure, looked at the death as only
The beginning of another chapter's turning of a page,
Beyond lies another horizon's sunset to be explored.
Don't cry at the loss of one such as myself,
Shed no tears, yet raise a toast instead, on my behalf,
Celebrate how I lived, and for the little accomplishments
I've left behind.
For in this way Theodore Roosevelt wished to be
Remembered and the greatest tribute of all.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Penning wrangled mime
and wared out of my skits,
I’m poked in serspiration,
My mind’s in fisted twits.
It’s not the way I spike to leak;
I’ve turned to try it down.
Still I'm rilled with florious grime,
so nothing dings me brown.
We poets are a lazy crot,
voiling with turds and worse.
Roping with the fools of corm,
dinditions so reverse.
A hong lot toke in the sub
might dude me a girl of wood.
Or how about a bun at the reach?
Well, I can’t wet a gay, but I should.
All an illusion
It's all an illusion.
No matter where I am, I am alway just,
sitting there. Unaware, with a blank stare messy hair
and probably the same clothes that I always wear.
Wrangler jeans, and a button up, sleeved. (period)
Because, I hate T-shirts.
Hate them!
In fact, I'd be fine if they all just disappeared!
Into thin air. I'm serious.
the plague, wasting, predators, or aliens came to take em!
They'd say.
Or they inbred too much,
and their lineage diminished
intelligence forsook em.
Gene pool plummeted
they became disoriented, wrangled and out-competed
and just sort of drifted away,
They'd say,
it was probably believing everything they see on the news.
That led to their doom.
That, and marrying too young, having litters,
of far more than they could possibly support on their wage!
Stupid T-Shirts
And later, when documentaries are made on why their society caved.
they'd say in five languages: “Stupid T-shirts”
You'll see em today, at the Walmart or on display in friendly glass cases,
With nothing but idiotic slogans, and quotes from bad movies
“That's what she said”
Or some sort of shark-cat reaching with fangs and claws up at
a bikini wearin slice of pizza...
They call it “Paws”
Myself, I'd rather be shirtless in a game of seven card stud.
I'd rather be seen strung up dangling by my hair parasailing through Canadian Territory,
and mistaken for a chipmunk. Covered in varmints blood, Or spend my weekend servin sweet tea to
Donald Judd.
Than even be seen wearing one.
No dignity in em,
Just picture Grant, Lee or even Sam Houston
Wearing a shirt with an arrow
That reads:
“I'm with Stupid”
Rob played semi-professional rugby,
From when he was 4 until the age of 21,
When he got a serious spinal cord injury,
Whilst playing that rough game spun.
As part of his rehabilitation sessions,
At Rookwood Hospital, exists in Cardiff,
He played table tennis for his arms,
Which he continued thereafter, his quiff.
That was from 2005, but by ’11’s Euros,
He qualified for London’s Games 2012,
The Paras of tremendous meme flows,
About disability sport, now off the shelf.
But he left lonely and without a medal,
Which made him determined, craving,
So he increased the work and the mile,
He sweat each day, a medal engraving.
He was World No. 6 in 2012, not good,
For him, so he worked on consistency,
And became the Euro Champ good,
In Italy with singles and team tenancy.
In 2015 at the Euros again, in Vejle,
In Denmark, he did the same thing -
Topped the charts with his angle,
In both events - it was plain sailing.
Then, the major victory came in Rio,
The crowd erupted wildly at his win,
Because the tension had been audible,
When he’d wrangled to win gold vin.
Wrangled truths consistently warn
wrinkled ideals persistently withdrawn
blatant bargaining the hopes of the new-born
banned are the muscle and the fighting brawn
Attained and sustained consciousness abide
ardent and absolute realities adorn
slowly creeping down an unforgivable slide
slated by an over souring scorn
Red and black bandanna's revered
riled and vile of a rebel royalty
land of lakes and volcanoes leer
lost in furore of a forgotten loyalty
Partitioned by purity of parity
pride of blood begins to pour
cloaked in the simplicity of clarity
correlated and formulated by the core
Democracy left hanging and dangled
demonstration of a presidential dud
messy, madness forged and mangled,
mired, muddy and muddled in mud.
(Sandinista realpolitik)
He was sun-scorched, flame-torched
stood tall, strong as a brick wall
loose-hipped, well equipped
in for the count, without a doubt
expert tracked, surprise packed
spurs jangled, wild mustang wrangled
I should have, could have
but I was lost, dust-bowl tossed; in Trouble!
In a mess, I confess
as he turned, my body burned
fanned my face, acting chaste
he was endearing, God-fearing
a lop-sided smile, immaculate styled
I could have run, fired my gun
but I only choked, when he spoke,
he was ice cool, me more the fool; he's Trouble!
He tipped his hat, steel-grey eyes of a cat
heavy lidded, my heart skidded,
he said, 'Maam?', took my hand
his cornfield hair, his unnerving stare
I might have, right have
high-tail, hit the trail
the preacher grins, there's all my kin
now side-by-side, my downhill slide; into Trouble!
All curtailed, I in veil
'Do you take?, my mistake?
white wedding gown, two hearts pound
next the ring, my clammy skin
my Pa's tears, must squelch my fears
all too late, more my fate
the thrown rice, last minute advice
my Mama's bliss, that sweet kiss; of Trouble!
Blushing bride, our buggy ride
all alone, our log cabin home
white picket fence, it all makes sense
just me and you, the mountain's view
angels singing up above, it must be love
carried past the oven door, need I say more?
a four-poster bed, enough said
'What a Man!', to our life plan; without Trouble!
©25/02/2012
The sun had just begun to melt away the teary eyes
Still coated with a fresh layer of salt
My piano stood as witness to my mummification
Pleading to sing the pages of my diary
The fresh scent of oils seeped into my skin,
gnawing at my still reflection.
The peeking neighbors' curious eyes were too busy that Monday morning
To see through my open shades.
I stood in the midst of my memoirs and final notes,
Holding bottles of bittersweet candies
(that once left my niece heaving on my bedroom floor)
One bottle for my flattened tone,
two more for my quivering hands; since,
apathy, at my state, seemed the better option.
I thought of my mother's face
Eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed
Arms stiff with stubbornness, as she found my wrangled body
My father holding my limp bones in his arms
smiling down at his "little girl"
I thought of the moonlit stones,
Where my friends dressed in black veils and stood sheepishly in the corners
Faces downcast, fingers pointed at one another.
Those who never knew me selfishly conceived a history shared with splashed of mascara
While I lay in my new wooden home,
Dressed in a Russian school-girl skirt,
neatly brushed pigtails, a corset to hide my folds,
and words I'd never have a chance to say.
Six hundred entries!
Oh, my word!
Nevertheless, we had agreed
to judge this contest.
I asked him to read each
and choose his top twenty.
I did the same, placing a star
in the top right corner
of each choice.
We sat to compare. We agreed
on 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place winners.
We agreed on 1st HM and 2nd HM.
Though we wrangled, each
defending stated opinions,
but could not agree on who
would take last place.
Third Honorable Mention
in the Annual Wyoming State
Poetry Contest of 2014,
won by ‘luck of the draw.’
We flipped a coin.
I’ve sauntered through the centuries
Constructed this dark legacy,
Possessed the air of leprosy
And fell upon my feet.
I’ve wrangled with the unprepared
Pacified the truly scared,
Unsuccessfully repaired
The dread of when we meet.
I’m there when life is waning
Through the thrall of death, abstaining,
Till there’s little left remaining
But a husk of sand and earth,
I’ve marched with every army
Rode the crest of each tsunami,
But they seldom ever harm me
For I know perdition’s worth.
I’m the tourniquet you shy from
I’m that final, lasting swan song,
I’m the emperor of the throng
That no longer has a voice.
For they’ve paid their solemn dues
As their light of life’s removed,
Now my wiles are set on you
And you really have no choice.
Now when the end’s encroaching
With A wisp of me approaching,
You’ll cry and whimper, hoping
That I’ll spare your sulking soul,
But that’s not in my nature
And there is no power greater,
And I’ll never return later
‘Cause it’s time to pay deaths toll.
New Years Old Wishes
In a world wrangled with wild wars
Between two developed nations,
With civil deaths a sad eyesore
And a bane to human reason,
With harsh tension and violence
Elsewhere one can daily witness,
Stemming from lack of tolerance,
Wrecking homes and lives with distress,
With a few basking in plenty,
Overwhelmed with satiation
And the lot dipped in misery
With children doomed to starvation,
Would New Years old wishes of love,
Would old wishes for compassion
Would wishes for peace fly as doves
Or drop down the deep ocean?
Sands of time will ever unfurl,
But human race will remain same;
So will issues facing the world
And New Years old wishes be same.
Painful Angles; Hope gets strangled
New fangled fears forever dangled
Entangled dreams are mostly mangled
Demons wrestled then wearily wrangled
StrAngels chAngeled,
My sweet CocAinegeles!
Those cunning exchAngeles
Outlawed derAngeles...
Oh, ye kind Angels, give me Peace-
From your embrace, never released
Envelope me, and do not cease
Wrap me in your Golden Fleece!
Let me taste your silver blood,
And in my Heart, a joyous flood
Sprouting wings, a Soul to spring,
Like a flower to its bud
*Angel in Your Eyes Contest Entry
Author: JustThatArchaicPoet
(I know this is a really weird piece, but I wanted some form "angel" in a lot of the verses, even if it's a word like "Angle". I guess it's more experimental than anything and probably not what you're looking for.)
When once I trek wearily lonely on a path
As I knew life unknowingly could pour it's wrath.
I tried not to get myself entangled
In life's problems, but unceasingly I wrangled
Until I met a maiden on whom's words I stood
Then fighting life's problems I knew I could.
Repulsively, I skid off my way;
My face whenever she saw, she try to look away
Then to her my flaws I said I knew
And the chasm between us she sew.
The almighty all things we know could gather
Verily I perceive has brought us together.
But though all things were made for our general use,
Many a time things do not fuse
But my mistress whose love is so innocent and free
Let me grow near her like a tree
On which with her love she could water
Making our bond so strong none could alter.
As a beauty i know she is a star
And there is none like her by far
Cause all beauty she is accounted to possess
And love, none can match her in her prowess.
But at the end life is but a walking shadow
And your hour if you abuse and fret, then ends your show
But our life a memoir would be, then unleashing a MEMENTO.