Gouged Poems | Examples

Hoar Bearded

Your noor overflows from your majesty
Your name exceeds over milkyway galaxy

At the earth at seas at skies your place
Who is in trouble caught up by your aids

Your arms are behind the dam of Gog
One blind eye of dejjal by your finger gouged

Next to Jesus your commander is Mahdi
You are the pioneer of glorious victory

You are the ruler of armies of Islam, master
You are the teacher of science Sultans, master
You are the hidden knowledge oceans' vessel, master
You are the light to heavens and earth, master
You are the honor of whole universe, master

Inevitable Procession

If you were to ask me
Be the one to catch me, before i take the fall
You'd be the only one waiting, afterall
For whence i open my mouth and
Spill a sea of pills tinged with reddened liquor 
I think you'd listen, then
If i took advice from any voice, it'd say 'give up'
But then again the only advice i ever took was the gurgles from down below
Onwards, outwards, suck inwards and hollow
If i gouged the gurgles, they'd say 'continue'
They'd count on me as i count every zero
They'd hold onto my head while i clutch the bottle
But, you'd catch me. 
Incase i couldn't catch me
You'd advise me to give up
But i'd have fallen from your grasp
Onwards, downwards, i'd ignore the numbers from the liquor 
For they'd spill from my mouth ever quicker
I'd have lost count, either way.
Hey, what did you want to say?

Before You Were Born

There must be 
an entry point
somewhere in the fabric 
of being, perhaps 
an unhealed 
wound in the bark 
of an ancient tree 
deep in a primordial 
forest or gouged 
in the cliff face
of a remote shoreline 
where southern ocean 
gales pound the continent, 
or somewhere quiet, 
unobtrusive, hidden 
from view in a corner 
of the self where it has 
been all your life. 

You feel its cool breath
blow across your face
much like when a slight 
breeze comes out 
of a cave when standing
near its mouth.
There are days now
when you are there
near its gape
when a weariness 
takes hold and you peer
into a dark nothingness
at the very centre 
of yourself, see it begin
to slowly dissolve
mind and form,
welcoming you back
to that place 
where you were 
before you were born.

Gnarls Knurl the Grip to Fight

after "Do not go gentle into that good night", by Dylan Thomas

Age can not scour away the furrowed gnarls time obeyed,
Nor mask the snarls, gouged as trenches on brows.
Grace knurls the grip that time has long betrayed,
To swage wrath and fury to a form that age endows.

Grace reveres the knurled design that time has hewn,
Not as a defect or flaw, but as grip etched by yen of years,
Like old trees twisted, contorted, too far gone to prune.
It’s grace that cradles calloused scars, not fears.

It’s the gnarls of age that knurls the last grasp of rage
to rebel against the curse of dusk’s encroaching bite.
Stroking the rebellious snarls that ring on anvil stage,
as loved ones bear the thumps and flails of the plight.

It's the gnarls of age that knurls the grip to fight,
against the blight in the coming of good night.

Nameless Blood

Blood drips on the ground beneath my feet
But not from my eyes you gouged out 
Or from the tongue you cut off 
Nor my eyes you left to listen 
And not my insides where it crawls.

Unkown makes me afraid
More than my blood pooling on the snow
I knew it always bleeds
But I don't know where the scar is

the body

The body

Johan on the strand
The sun shone on his belly
Gulls had gouged his eyes
Crabs crawled into his nose
came out of his mouth
A shroud of sea tar
A man strummed a guitar
A girl laughed
A summer in 1954.

The Women preys of Mercenaries

As I heard a sad 
story of a woman named  
Elysée, 
I am standing to tell the entire world about it. 
The woman who knows her value. 
As some mercenaries called
M23 entered her house around
a day and foced her to lay on the ground
 while looking at the sky. 
She listened to them and laid easily
on the floor to avoid to be slaughtered 
or shot publicly. 
As  she refused to sleep 
with some mercenaries, 
 She was hit,
                raped, 
           and mutilated ... 
her eyes gouged out 
in the presence of her children 
                                        and husband. 
I can say loud, " 
Woe to these heartless 
Rwandan mercenaries." 

As the women celebrate today 
March 8, 2025. 
My  call to you dear mamas and sisters, 
 " feel the pains of Congolese women
Oh wise women of the World. 
 Stand with the women of Goma
 and Bukavu who are victims of daily atrocities.
So sad as many women of northern, southern
 Kivu and ituri continue to be preys of some rebels
 and mercenaries.

Harsh Cold Winter

It’s a harsh cold winter
You’re gone and I’m so bitter
I sat front-row seat
As I watched our love wither

Heart gouged by the splinters
You’ve silenced your ringer
And my feelings for you
Oh, they still linger…

It’s a harsh cold winter
Choked sobs and silent whimpers
Sparks of love burned out
Leaving ashes and cinder

Sleepless nights
Bottles of whiskey 
Skipped meals 
My love, do you miss me?

It’s a harsh cold winter
I’ve always been an overthinker 
Should I move on? Or reach out?
letting my healing progress hinder

Week old sheets that smell of you
Tears as wide as the ocean
People come and go 
But all I ever wanted was your devotion

Remnants of Despair

I still remember your easily smiling face, poetry spilling from your lips
Singing joyfully at the dead of night, not a care in the world.
Oh how I miss your face when it was alive,
When it was not hardened, frozen, 
unfeeling.

Was it God’s love what drove yours away?
For what reason does the Sun rise; rousing this cold star?
Was it for this the bullets flew? Was England worth
Stealing your innocence away, carelessly, flippantly,
selfishly?

Our country is filthy with ignorance, the front clean and pure,
Snowy white feather mocking, girls giggling gallantly,
Surprise when I snarl, stumble back; shocked.
The Soldier's uniform staves off the dove, 
its curse.

Desperately lingering in your gaze, I search in the abyss,
The most loving part of you asleep, or dead.
Nothing I can do can make it stir, still I reach for you,
Ragged, scarred skin, they’re only remnants of your service,
my dear.

The jolt of terror evoked not from your maimed face,
One side ripped, gouged of recognition, eye mangled,
But from the other, undamaged pupil unmoving,
Emotions missing, heart agape, your brain stone,
Empty.

REFRACTION

REFRACTION

When a meaning’s span has no breadth
Or even being superficial with no depth
Then any intrinsic value would be scarce
Perhaps with origins on different worlds
Yet even when they are barely glimpsed
Or simply imagined and merely dreamt
By thick mist and clouds one is engulfed
Any claims of understanding can be false
For clarity of perception, one is obliged
As from the void it can never be gouged
But it’s like a burst balloon when pierced
And then none shall ever know its secret

Those who teach can’t

For some reason the radiator is on
Some sun skimmed summer
Our ties slung in varying disrespect
Head resting against palm to feign the guise of awake
My desk scrawled with the names of ones before
some etched some gouged
A slug shaped excuse for a mammal gurgling on about that and another
As I watched glints of sunlight skip together outside
like some ethereal game of tag
For some reason the always called me mister followed by the abrasion of my second name

You are hear to learn

Like a cue my head swivelled in unison with my sigh

What can I say look at my teachers

My hands already grasping the denim straps of my makeshift bag dragging the contents and scrunching it within

Deliberately squeaking my chair to watch the vessel in his neck just a fraction more as I rose to leave the room 
He still thinks he’s punishing me as I head towards the outside and what will be

Pit Valleys

In parts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire
there are still pit-valleys,
where industry and nature collide,
marry, and have their natural born children.

The earth once gouged, raped and laid desolate,
is landscaped by those who once despoiled.

Time plays its part, plants its seeds,
it up-roots high piled slagheaps,
softens broken mountains of concrete.

I have walked these valleys,
in some I had to stumble over the fractured bones
of abandoned and rusting machinery;
the fire scorched detritus of coal mines.

I have also strolled through resurrected Eden's,
vales recreated out of the unspeakable
into the bright eloquence of beauty.

The hands of men
and the wings of gardening angels
have covered-up all self-made wounds,
have put to bed the deeply trammeled.

The Lord of daisies and daffodils
strolls unmolested once more,
through the worst and the best
that good intentions can do.

How Much Vengeance Is Enough?

How Much Vengeance Is Enough?

By Mark D. Stucky
How much bloody carnage and rubble
is required to atone for sins of a few?
How many eyes must be gouged
to extract desired justice?
If wronged, is exchanging one eye enough?
What about two eyes for one? Or ten for one?
Is twenty enough?
How about a hundred?
Such revenge might feel like justice,
but it fuels hate’s endless cycle.

Can we exit this interlocked sequence
of oppression and reflexive violence?
Can we struggle toward implementing
a radical, restorative, improbable alternative?

Remember what a crucified carpenter taught
about loving enemies and turning cheeks?
Do such ideals seem impossibly wrong
when gushing anger from our wounds?
Yet, as he stretched on splintery beams
no carpenter would willingly build,
he said, while gushing blood for all our sins,
“Forgive them for they know not what they do.”


(See also my related poems “Your Order for Peace on Earth,” “Hate Vacuuming,” and “Weapons of Wonder.”)

(Cropped image is by Amin Moshrefi on Unsplash.com.)

Lost

Everything I touch disappears before my eyes,
Holding me back, stifling my cries.
I thought this time would be different.
That’s what I hoped, that’s what I dreamt.

I’m lost in a forest, stuck in the trees;
Stumbling, suffocating, I can hardly breathe.
You were my compass, my light, my guide,
But now it feels like a part of me has died.

You were my joy, my only escape,
Now my heart’s been gouged out, the wound agape.
You anchored me, tethered me to the world around,
Now I’m just lost, never to be found.

I know it’s my fault
That everything’s come to a halt.
Yet I just can’t bear
The idea of you not being here.

Eyes Blind Love Heart

As I have learned to my cost

That love truly is as blind as they say

When it is lost and the heart must
it's penance pay

Rather then gouge my eyes out now 
before I ever begin or wish to fall in 
love again

And offer me a guide dog that I
may love instead of another
lover or partner 

Who will most probably in the end
leave me blinded in every way

To the cost one must eventually have
to pay

If they do choose one day to steal 
that love away 

And leave one in a total state of fear
they fear that they may not wish to
love or give their heart away again

As the pain of a broken heart is far
worse than the fate of going blind
it having one's eyes gouged out

If you love a certain someone so much

The very thought of losing them or
spending time apart

Makes you unable to make it through
your day to day

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