working in the fields, picking cotton, and given food that is mouldy and rotten
Sweating in this heat with nothing to drink clothes ripped and dirty, and they are beginning to stink.
Chains around our ankles so that they cannot run, dropping exhausted in the blazing sun
Women were being raped, abused, and they went through hell
Made to have babies for their masters to sell
locked in at night, in wooden shacks, with welts from the whipping and the blood running down their backs
If they tried escape, hobbling would be done. Our masters would break their ankles so they could not run
So they did what they had to do in order to survive.
Bowing their heads to the masters just to stay alive
And if they were to die there would be an unmarked grave
No one cared who was buried there, just a worthless slave.
Those dark days are gone now; not slaves, they are now free
Able to live as equals, that is how it should always be.
Now go to the grave with no name to see
And say to them thank you for setting us free
DRINKING PROBLEM
I might have a drinking problem
Even Though I am not a Hobbling Goblin
Which might be Bewildering
No, it’s not alcohol
Even in the halls
Where there are bouncing balls
But caffeine regardless of steam
Although I am not bursting at the seams
My beverages usually have caffeine
Especially at the trickling stream
Do I really have a drinking problem?
Don't sit down
until I'm done!
I've counted fifty,
if I've counted one
I sew the linings
of ripped hoodies
for my son,
and other shirts,
pillows, and blankets
some for students,
some were over-loved,
some because I wanted
to be young, beyond the cotton
they were tailored from
But in this dream,
I try to reclaim my bedroom
where the towels and comforters
are stored up high and forgotten
and someone filled the garbage
with empty mouthwash bottles
and unused toothbrushes
I was scared of a door that opened
by itself
in a house I lived in twenty years ago
My mom was always comforting
but I wanted to be brave
Wasteful and unnecessary,
as are the needles I never used
to mend the fabrics I never asked for,
the shirts, the books
I never read
'Somewhere Out There'
is a song written the year I was born
by Linda Ronstadt
and James Ingram
This American tale is short
and hobbling forward,
hopefully
"If love can see us through"
I will love you stronger than steel
if you make headway
Me, alone,
in understanding
that everything
is in the same moment.
Happening feebly now,
hobbling along
like some cripple
caught under hurricane debris.
I can see it now,
the dreams I will have tomorrow
happening now,
later, again, today.
I can smell the meal
from the next town over
and feel the hunger
I will never cease to satisfy,
ever.
It itches
like a mad dog with rabies,
scratching its back
against loose bark
for the bear.
Someone will hear
these metaphors
and take them to heart.
Someone else
will keep moving along,
ignoring everything.
It is all happening at once,
the commotion.
And all we can do
is toss our beliefs forward
into the sea,
and the sea
will toss them back to us
without a care in the world,
making us question
if those similes were metaphors,
or if the sea dried up.
I leave the Christmas matinee
after five. Clouds sparse and dark
blue, fierce wind kicking up
from the North. Last night I rented
Midnight Cowboy, hoping it wasn’t
a mistake. The first time
I saw it I was spending the night
with my closest friend, who lived
in the dorm. Some guys
trapped me in the men’s toilets,
blocking the door, forcing the air
from my lungs. But how could I
not watch again, with goofy Joe
Buck, cowboy hustler who cares
too much to earn genuine coin
for sex, and Ratso hobbling
(like Amahl or Tiny Tim)
and that inconsolable harmonica
and Nilsson dragging me
to endless aching? How badly
I need Christmas this time
around. Something to keep me
from slugging myself. Ratso
follows me like a cozy shadow,
all crumby and disgusting. If only I
could kiss him on the mouth again
and again, crash the showers
in the men’s dorm and lather him
tenderly. If only I could go back.
If only my buddy had said
something. Just something.
Autumn
….. is mortally wounded!
It sways, strays
across the silken sky
quivering over rusty hedges
shivering through shouldered trees,
splattering, smattering
everything in blood-red.
On it stumbles,
On it tumbles
shivering over the valleys
spearing through the trees
smearing the water blood-red
while the ground offers no sympathy
just a hardened, frigid face.
On it goes,
On it flows
gasping and grasping
at clouds of bandages,
hobbling towards the horizon,
haemorrhaging life
in crimson splashes.
While winter,
no ceremony
nor propriety,
just the sly smile
of an Arctic fox,
coldly awaits October’s
shredded, dreaded last breath!
Autumn
….. is mortally wounded!
It stumbles, tumbles
across the silken, rouged sky
quivering over rusted hedges
shivering through shouldered trees,
splattering, smattering
everything in blood-red.
On it goes, on it flows
gasping and grasping
at clouds of bandages,
hobbling, wobbling
suffering deep gashes;
haemorrhaging life
in crimson splashes.
While winter;
with the sly smile
of an Arctic fox,
coldheartedly waits for autumn’s
shredded, dreaded last breath!
Ian Souter 2025
I used to get a little bit misty-eyed
watching an old person hobbling along
toting an overweight gray muzzled dog.
Thinking what a tragedy it's going to be
when one of them leaves the other behind.
Now, I'm that old man hobbling along
toting an aged greyhound dog called Time.
Thinking what a tragedy it's going to be
when Time dog leaves me far, far behind.
Spine chilling velocity
Willing feverish ferocity
Pollution spilling atrocity
Pushes our buttons
Top billing forging
Fiendish drilling pomposity
Gluttons gorging in the isles of muttons
Coining the term “purloining”
Plunder even here down under
Cast asunder..can hear the thunder
In the proud land of
The long white cloud
Scold from the fold to heal
But won’t listen..do a deal
Gaudy gems appeal..glisten
History sold for pieces of gold
Cower to phoney crony power
Dour Parasites roll the dice
Show pony baloney hour
Off their heads...now divining
Mining our whining sea beds..
Palaver of scour..devour and sour
Splice our shining slice of paradise
Vice rather than stories of glories told
Voraciously gobbling veracity
Audaciously hobbling precocity
Generosity wobbling even in the home
Of lengthy Cumulus Curiosity…
Not being funny
In this Land of Milk & Honey
Won’t kowtow to the cash cow
Getting out of hand
Because the answer forever
Whatever will never ever
Be just money!
The position of rest is with buzzing provocations,
Depict mind as it like, full of vibrations,
The pattern will not be drew to so easily
Let all winter our feelings from fire to the dale for water lilly,
Opportunity comes at ones through this pages,
Frisking frivolities edge to edge no matter rages,
Even a mother wouldn't be indulged with her offspring role early,
She became patient and let the time cover it enduringly,
If a nibble wanted to reach the position,
Must mimic mother's wishes for appropriation,
O! Dear friend surely I became still-stone
And hobbling to reach my flowers with a beacon.
Village Inn
a go-to restaurant for oldsters
old old old old old people
the parking lot is full of walkers and canes
they are hobbling in the speed of clogged ketchup
at seventy-two, I feel like a baby chick next to them
my arm is tender
my leg is sore
hobbling and limping
shall I tell you more?
my ankles are killing me
dual arthritis you see
each step down
brings a giant frown
I’m falling apart
a pain in my heart
seventy-one
is no fun
I took an unexpected trip to Accidental city,
bruised ribs, torn ligaments, a state most
would pity..
Yesterday I experienced a trip and a fall on
uneven asphalt outside a local mall..
There weren't any witnesses to observe
my little feat.
I focused on getting back up and safely
from the street.
My left hip's been iffy for quite awhile so
I pulled myself up in a downward dog style..
If it were only a few bruises I would just
say tsk tsk but once up I realized my pelvis
I had twist..
After reporting it to security I went directly home.
A night with heat and arnica and several mournful moans..
I could bear weight on my right leg so I hobbled thru the day,
until I discovered if I walk my left foot side ways, it keeps the pain at bay..
The author of this poem is still hobbling and hurting so
would some one out there kindly get up and close my curtain?
A few wet, wind scorched leaves,
are pressed like Victorian mementos
upon the wooden walkway
The trees in this forested park are tattered,
or stand like blackened forked skewers
piercing the stark air.
Autumn fell too far, too soon.
Winter grabbed the sky and quickly froze it.
Now the odd leaf upon the ground
seems abandoned, homeless,
unable now to be anything
but the litter of yesterday.
A good day for wading through
the history of this changing season,
to watch those prematurely gray ghosts
hobbling along a pathway
seeking threadbare sparks of life.
the little engine that could, as they say. he's the tortoise that won the race, despite not coming in first, second, or third. he won hearts because he completed the long, grueling race. many naysayers thought he couldn't do it. they scoffed at his advanced age and bad knee. they thought he'd give in mid-race, but he defied insurmountable odds, shushing all doubters. they counted him out before the race even began, yet, here he is, at the other side of the ribbon! it's his first-ever marathon. hobbling at the finish line, yet he's in seventh heaven! take a bow, grandpa. well-earned!
against-all-odds win
never underestimate ~
quite the underdog
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