Long Gruesome Poems
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In the museum, you will find amazing history regarding
the relics of our past. Gruesome and grim in their telling,
a dark prelude to everything seen by the moon.
But hold it delightful that these days are behind. That the
awful atrocities of times gone by, are not a monolith towering
and looming over our future.
Know then, that we need not be frightened by the opening of
the book and the turning of the page. Take pride in the light
we shine on our darker moments, a reminding of who we should
never be, the vicious and vindictive tyrants of yesteryear.
Let history bare truth in its will to patronise us over prior mistakes.
We are fortunate to have the opaque plaques of reference to the
crimes of time, and what is lost to the wind.
May we never travel the same road twice. Finding ourselves victorious
only by being continuously retold in annoying fashion that this is where
we've come from. Looking on with oval, hope-filled eyes, believing we
now have the light to overcome the dark.
~Make a poem *2 Contest~ Hosted by: Shadow Hamilton
make a poem about light vs dark using the following words:
Awful, amazing, annoying.
grim, gruesome, delightful.
frightened, fortunate, finding.
monolith, moon, museum.
oval, opaque, opening.
patronise, pride, prelude.
vicious, vindictive, victorious.
THE SLAIN SOLDIER BONE
Once upon a dinner plate, there lay,
A chicken bone in a peculiar display,
Arranged like a man just so upon a plate,
Wearing a Christmas hat, looking quite elite.4
With ketchup splattered in crimson hue,
Like blood from a mischievous BBQ,
A Christmas tang tastefully satisfying,
From the festive spirit, it was not shying.8
Wow, what a view, this bone looks so odd,
A comedic sight, oh how it stood,
The bone was a hero of the poultry realm,
Bravely sacrificing, as a delightful meal for them.¹²
Beside the bone, is the knife and fork,
The weapon feast, a delightful quirk,
They stood as loyal companions, unremorseful,
After devouring the bone, non were mournful.¹6
A chicken bone, on the battlefield plate,
A warrior's death, his fate so great.
Drenched in ketchup, bloodied and slain,
The battle was hard, yet honor knows no pain.²°
A Christmas hat, adorned on it top frame,
A soldier of yuletide, in this gruesome game.
A knife and fork, the weapons of choice,
Used by the victors, who made a victory noise.²4
This ends the chicken bone with Christmas flare,
A culinary honorable death beyond compare.²6
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
FORM: Rhymes
Copyright ©? 26th December 2023
VII
There never was an army quite like Xerxes’.
Hyrcanians, Medes, Egyptians, Syrians, Scyths –
soon, Greece would grovel at its tender mercies –
a fate more gruesome than the grimmest myths.
It drank whole rivers dry. Took three days with
the crossing of the bridge. Then came a scare:
as Persian lava swamped its xenolith,
the portents were not good. A pregnant mare
gave birth to healthy offspring. But it was a hare.
VIII
A blundering boxer trying to swat a fly,
the Persian force could lunge, but could not kill:
it lost all credit at Thermopylae.
The Greeks, hard pressed, were in the battle still.
To win a war, you break the other’s will,
and this was not occurring. Could the key
be naval warfare? So, for good or ill,
Salamis earned its place in history.
The fleets would clash there. Whose would be the victory?
IX
A tyrant’s strength is his Achilles’ Heel.
His habit of command, of being obeyed,
occludes capacity to see and feel.
To trap them at their moorings seemed a raid
assured to smash the Greeks. Their fleet once flayed,
they could not go on fighting. They must lose.
But Persia’s pride, colossal numbers, made
disaster certain. Tangled, cramped, confused,
the sharks became the bait. For Xerxes, dreadful news.
X
“My bridge. Is it still standing?” Xerxes asked.
Oh, in that question, what a universe!
The pampered prince who - up to now - had basked
in sunshine felt a clutch of fear, and worse:
the tide of fortune, swinging to reverse,
began to drain him of all certainty.
The bridge was now his lifeline, and his curse,
his last hope and his vulnerability.
Persepolis lay far away, fenced off by sea.
XI
So, despots kneel before their own adventures,
become the playthings of their crazy schemes,
contract with Fate, creating wild debentures,
condemn themselves by sure-to-crumble dreams.
Unhappy with mere wealth, they seek extremes
which bring no comfort: sick ambitions bloat
and fester. Most familiar of themes,
Great Xerxes’ boasts grew more and more remote,
until the day his restless minions cut his throat.
The teacher got up on the stage and welcomed one and all
We're putting on a dog show and we'll hold it in the hall
We're laying on some fizzy drinks and lots of lovely eats
And the winner of the dog show gets a great big bag of sweets
Now Spud was struggling to survive on breakfast, lunch and dinner
He had to nab that bag of sweets, he had to be the winner
But one small detail blocked his plan to satiate his greed
His own dog was a tatty mutt of some unknown breed
Someone told him Franky's dog was la-de-da variety
Like the ones that film stars have in la-de-da society
If Spud was gonna win those sweets to stay his rumbling gut
He'd have to borrow Franky's dog, he'd have to nab that mutt
And on the day the show was held and each kid brought their pet
Spud was not too bothered that he had no dog as yet
He looked around to find his victim, Franky, by the door
A vicious looking Doberman behind him paced the floor
Spud snuck up on Franky and he growled into his ear
I'll have your dog, I'll need its leash, so hand it over here
I'm bound to win because your dog is quite an awesome sight
But one thing that I need to know is does your posh dog bite?
Franky said, I wouldn't bring a mad dog to the show
And yet you ask if my dog bites, my dog is trained, so, no
Spud grabbed the leash and tried to clip it on the studded collar
The dog chomped down on Spud's right arm, which really made him holler
Spud's arm was torn and tattered, it was quite a gruesome sight
And Spud cried out you must have lied, you said your dog don't bite
So Franky stroked a wrinkly dog, which looked more like a frog
Then eyed the snarling Doberman...
That is not my dog!
Jabba the Hutt has a spur up his butt
that makes him as mean as a wasp
If you stop for a look, at that glutton of glop,
his looks will not help him a lot!
His rotten demeaner, gave Vadar the radar,
to hide out in deep outer-space
Hutt's face and his figure could fracture a mirror
...and the glass of a whole universe!
There are millions of creatures, with much better features,
that Jabba can never embrace!
Jabba is gruesome, a big gooey nuisance!
He looks like a big wad of gum!
He grossed out Chewbacca.......
who likes his tobacco,.....(this may be a slip of a tongue)....,
But... a wad of his chew, missed the spittoon,
and hit Jabba, in his hut, with a zoom !
To view this unsightly, gruesome character:
_https://www.google.com/search?q=Jabba+the+Hutt&rls=com.microsoft:en-US:IE-Address&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=sU4dUpjQG4HViwK1kYCoDQ&ved=0CEAQsAQ&biw=1920&bih=897
_____________________________________________
For P.D.'s Star Wars Contest:
By Carrie Richards 8/27/13
Star Wars Rules !
When the dusk bleeds
epitaph roses,
and the blackbird sings
wilted elegies,
I search for a glimpse of gold
beneath tender ingrains of
soundless tears and sightless fears.
But to feel the broken wings of life,
must I breathe coffin-laced vows
amidst the haunting air
that tastes like stone-sleet sorrow?
For I’ve long been a phantom bride
to the deadliest fangs of the devil,
veiled in vicious violets,
throned in the tempest of torment,
plagued by a curse
spelled as lethal love,
concealing threefold threats
between vampire verses,
with moonlit musings
stuck in the ice-cold
embrace of death…
O raven heart, what am I to trust
when bluest bruises are believed
in the figment of fog’s fine art,
cornered in the catacomb cacophony,
choking the chorus of mourning?
I walk on sharpened eggshells,
afraid of the unwelcome fist of abuse,
with ashes of promises~
fed from the claws of
the beloved Satan,
cloaked in Romeo’s ruby ruins,
reciting sepulcher chants,
confusing the sun in my soul,
constricting the tunnel of trauma,
exhaling the naive
rhythm of my name.
As I am the essence
of collapsed crystals,
a whimsical wreckage,
ostracized and strangled,
while silence knows
the seething symphony of shame.
As tomorrow is a sickening cyclone
awaiting to condone patience,
humming heinous hymns
to soothe the scarred cracks
that grew within the hellish haven
of wicked wilderness,
that homed corpse flowers of fragility,
oblivious to the pain
hanging on hollow walls,
highlighted with
gruesome glows of glistening grief,
when truth is
obscured in strained stains
of clandestine chaos...
The most sorrowful and gruesome story ever told
begins with the man who crossed the waters and heights
carrying thirty and some unquenchable suns on his head,
the man who walked in the rain and wind with thirty and more moons on his shoulders.
For he looked like a slim and tender early spring shoot
that is rooted out from a rough and dry soil, and, therefore,
having no beauty to attract others, he was rejected;
having no majesty worth honoring or respect, he was despised;
and because he was acquainted with no comfort but suffering
he was ousted to the hill named Skull at last under pouring lashes with a cross on his back.
Although the stories of his own that he told to the mountains were sad and painful, and written on the waters were sorrowful and lamentable, he enabled to hold himself by the faith he held
in his friends who were always close by and shared a day’s burden with him. Although the cup he took at Gethsemane was bitter and stringent, it enabled him to take it through friendship
he was reassured through a broken piece of bread and a cup of wine he shared with them, surrounding the last banquet table
that is beautifully shaded in red from the color of setting sun.
It seemed impossible though,
under a most disgraced humiliation,
he gave out himself to the pain that was unbearable,
he upheld a wooden pillar high in air with the spike pierced hands and feet at the hill called Skull. And it was possible only because he held warm memories in his heart, the remembrance
of a loaf of bread he broke and dipped a piece in the reddened evening sun and drank it from the one same cup with his beloved friends.
After a man of such tragic life has gone,
after a man who lived through such distasteful life had left,
the most sorrowful and gruesome story ever told ended as a tale that year after year,
since then, the man returns as a dew-landed lonely lily
in an early April morning on the other side of the footmarks
he left behind, smeared with a drop of blood darker than
the sunset ray.
Yielding Himself
a living sacrifice
midst gruesome crucifixion*
upon Calvary’s Hill
Christ* magnified
compassion
graciously at work…
His blood offered
redemption’s ransom
as divine payment
acquitting those trusting Him
the sin-condemned
including me
to own eternal life…
Sealed with pardon-freedom
God's believers gratefully
soar triumphantly by faith
propelled midst obedience
empowered through the Holy Spirit
while blissfully reaching-out
to share love and peace.
*1Corinthians 1:23 …We preach Christ crucified.
August 23, 2021
Edited on March 25, 2022
1st place, "A BRIAN STRAND" 1096 Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 3/26/2022.
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
I lay wrinkled and knotted, trying to iron my crumpled self...
Vibrating with those ugly, gruesome resonances, I relive those horrors each day.
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
I walk yet I feel crippled...................
I can see my inner self but why do I feel blind.............
I can hear my internal sobs, but deafness seems like myself...................
I am not dumb but where my laughter is lost, I am not sure.................
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
What was it that caused this ABUSE, I try to reason out?
Perhaps my silly heart or my funny face..............
Maybe my ugly hand or my miserable mind..................
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
It was the depth of that ABUSE that set my soul to choke into breathlessness!
I AM DEAD BECAUSE I FEEL SO!
The First Texian Macabre Arena Ballad (The extended free-fallen edition)
In another life, is where I first saw your face!
One summer afternoon, lying wounded next to the dead
Unopened gun powder, mass destruction, a land of disgrace
A blood thirst battlefield is where I first saw your face
The sound of war, hidden behind bleeding hands
Crawlers, render their lives giving grace
Jaws of steel, broken, embracing, warm feelings
Summer rain, lungs filled with blood, one last post
Glorious by numbers, screaming blades
Gemstone in touch with the Holy Ghost
Soldiers come in a little close
Crawling, missing limbs,
Twisted nightmare with no ending
Macabre reminder, retracing the aroma of eternal life
Secrets buried like a treasure under walls of sudden death
Revolutionary tears found on a rusted Bowie knife
Lanterns, crackling against the dying wind
Dirt piles of crushed windpipes -- sudden death
Rummage like garbage, the dead Texian
A Falling Alamo Star, taking one last twinkle upon the sky
Forgotten Patriots, I can't remember the names
Written on walls, I can't remember the names
A folktale arena is where I first saw your face
Fairness of stuttered surrender slicing through iron brace
Crawling, with the hunger to live, a clean finish with grace
Exposing, scars needing mother's hands, mothers face
Across infested meadows, the aroma of burning skin
Distant, before Texas and her annexation,
Gruesome, before I lived, Texas and her mortal sin
I pledge, my love, the honor, a legion, I'm a full blown Texian
To Every Forgotten Texian Patriot----- We Win!
By: PD