Trussed Poems | Examples

Cold, Cold Ground

The cold, so cold ground
Binding and pulling
And holding me down

Embraced by the crypt
Confined and restrained
And life’s breath stripped

Stygian inked
Such stifling dark
And soul’s light extinct

I find myself here
Trussed by death’s grave
Without hope, just fear

In the cold, cold ground
Decayed and corrupt
Neath my burial mound

really mommy

Really Mommy? The annoyed preteen kitty cat said.
I am trussed up and there are antlers on my head.
Do not fuss said Mama Cat or you can be the tree.
Stuck with a blinking star and tinsel scratchy to thee.

Magnificent Masterpiece

In toiling times 
the resilient state 
of self-discipline 
connects conscience 
with perennial precept
in the algorithm of being
with ego abandoned
the meaning of life 
measured emotionally
with essence quotient 
of inspiring insight
defines the transcendence 
of enigmatic existence
harmoniously enshrined 
within the latent 
human distillate.

Buoyant beyond 
the storm of strife 
convivial calmness
flows flawless
with composed current 
of sensuous sentiment
submerging surge 
of lavish love 
and 
embalming empathy
spread suffused
with optimistic opulence 
on restored shore 
of serene soul
unwavering mind
trussed secured 
with scrupulous roots 
of sanctified psyche
the thwarting thrust 
of negative sensitivity
fades in sanguine air
blows away 
the base instincts
in the wisdom wind 
of ethical acuity.

With moral fiber 
of positive passion
consciously creative
innovative mind 
weaves the tapestry 
of timeless acumen
embedded enmeshed 
within motionless motif 
of inner bliss
in the frame
of placating prudence
the art of living
manifests magnificently
the masterpiece.

I Cannot Face a Whole Turkey

I cannot face a whole turkey
for when I see the leg sticks
trussed up in the air
it is undignified
and reminds me

there will be no more running days
no more flirting days
no more chasing dancing courting days
for this particular fowl

I prefer to purchase a turkey breast
knowing that you can live without a breast
it makes me feel less like a killer
more civilized somehow
as I push the corpse into the turkey bag.

Small Life

There are killings,
suffocation in gullet
hell holes, decapitations 
by mandibles stalking in shadows,
death pits at the bottom
of slippery throated flowers
and racked on a web,
a struggling moth
slowly turning into soup.

My garden is a slaughter
field littered with the leftovers
from deadly feasts. 
And the victims….what 
of their inaudible cries, 
the screams broadcast 
on wavelengths beyond
my ear. Do they plead
for mercy, feel pain 
register in whatever 
rudimentary brain animates 
their brief lives.

Help me ! Please help me !
does the moth cry,
feeling the spiders fangs
penetrate and pump poison
into its trussed body.
Or do I give such
small life undue significance
affording it compassion
when it should be exempt.
But where's the line ?
Size ? 
Its propensity for domestication,
its rank on an arbitrary scale ?

The perfumed beauty
of a single flower diverts
the senses and disconnects 
attention to the suffering
of small things.
We are blissfully unaware.
Does anyone hear them,
does anyone care,
or does life's little screams
fall into an uncaring nothingness
and if so, then what of our own.

Peace Is Better Than War

I prayed for peace
No prayers were heard
I wondered if God existed
Their hands turned red
Lots of blood on the ground
I wondered whose blood was
The world of today is rumbustious
Their behavior is quiet obvious
It's every humans' right to do as they "please"
Who am I to restrict them from satisfaction of their desires?
 My hands are trussed

We are lost with no direction like a wind
We are at the deepest point
Of which we can't simply make a knot
For us to never get misled
By our cold hearts that are devious
Unable to forgive each other  and bury the hatchet
We have buried ourselves inside
Inside we are dying with regret,outside we care less

We live to set an example,be aware of the actions
We need peace within ourselves
The blood shed is enough
We still need to live altogether
Be peaceful like a dove,find peace planetary

An Easy Kind of Love

Your presence
is a fluttering in the throb of my pulse.
Our wide-open eyes collide
with a zealous sexual urgency.
Your body heat
swirls beneath my skin
as we wrestle with fierce passions.

We are clasped in the hasp
of a thankful ardor,
saturated and pulled
with pleasure-trussed
stirrings.

That was then;
that was when young people
were not so young.

Now I take my ese
watch songbirds
come to the garden feeder,
count sparrows
as they bathe in a glittering puddle.

There are many paths to arousal,
nowadays I take the slow way,
hold your aging hand
enjoying the love-making
of this year’s youthful squirrels
as they chase each other
in the trembling tee-tops.

The evening arrives gently
ushers us to rest
within those timeless arms

that the well acquainted
always have for each other.

Worn Away Walls

I live in rooms
housed in the interior,
some just small
cells cut into bone,
spaces barely big enough
to fit a soul. 

Others offer more
with sweeping views
of oceans, mountains, waterfalls
spilling endlessly over
sun drenched escarpments
and long corridors leading 
to nowhere and everywhere
with mirrors splitting the mind 
into light.

There are rooms groaning
under the weight of books,
learnings spun like sticky webs
that hold me trussed up
like prey. Heavens caught 
in words and given wings 
to float across time, 
monuments brushed
by immortality and symphonies 
so moving as to be
a breath away from pain.

Then there are
dark places with no windows
or doors, musty chambers
for the fallen and racks 
stretched across nights where 
a Grand Inquisitor exacts
confessions and sentences
the condemned to hell. 

A lifetime has been spent inside
these rooms of my own making, 
looking out onto a world set
by seasons which have 
slowly seeped through 
and worn away the walls
of my home.

Feathery, I Shall Be

From a mountain's crested height
I'm free of dread without fright,
since I grew wings to take flight,
'cross oceans I soar.

Aviator, flying high,
gravity, I can defy.
Great crashing waves I descry
o'er the ocean's shore.

Swiftly, I can flit and glide
like ebb and flow of the tide.
Never shall I be denied
hearing oceans roar.

A nest of twigs is my home
where I can view waves of foam.
Never again shall I roam
from oceans I adore.

Land lubbing is not for me.
My heart and soul agree.
Feathery, I choose to be,
I've oceans to explore.

I shall beseech, if I must,
to remain with my wings trussed.
Flying serves my wanderlust
for oceans and more.



************************
April 11, 2022
Tall Tales 2 Contest
Sponsored by Jeff Kyser

A Thanksgiving

You flutter in my pulse
like a small bird,
open wide-eyes
beneath my skin.
We are clasped in the hasp
of an opening and closing,
saturated and indentured 
to pleasure-trussed 
stirrings.
Hunting angels illuminate
our tongues and fingertips.
If we move too far 
from each other
our flesh goes blind.
Gratitude is not enough
we endow each moment
to reverence.

A Better Tomorrow

Neighborhoods burned. Riots laid them to waste
The world is tense with racial dissension
Judgement by color leaves an acrid taste
But God offers hope through intervention

He created us with skin, dark and fair
No one has the right to question His plan
We should ask for tolerance through prayer;
and accede that we are the race of man

On God, we should rely with faith and trust
Because living in dread and constant fear
will end with more hardships and a life trussed
and shackled by things we should hold most dear

We stand on the threshold of tomorrow ~
Better without prejudice and sorrow



September 6th 2020
A Better Tomorrow
Sponsor: John Hamilton

Each New Person Is a Gift

Each new person is a gift
Some wrapped in shiny foil paper
Tidied up with ribbons and bows

Others trussed inside brown paper 
Restricted by an extra tight string
That chafes them, tearing into their souls

The challenge is easy.
All we have to do to fully enjoy them
Is to coax them or cajole them out of their wrappers

As we get to know them
They will either open up to reveal their truths
Or they will crawl into a corner and hide 

Some will come out hissing and spitting
Angry that you want to know them at all
These are the ones who need love the most.

If you can scale their walls 
Infusing friendship, understanding and love
You will have a forever-friend who will never leave

Langonbeak the Owl King

Trussed up in his armor the owl king led his army to victories 
In battles up and down the Barbary Coast, and then some.
His reputation preceded him, as ruthless as he appeared to be.
In actuality, he was a kind and noble owl, who gave mercy.

Often, but with strings attached, so others would fear him.
Being feared went wing in wing with being powerful, which he adored.
Lady owls lined up to get a glimpse of this heroic king 
Who paraded in their dreams even before they met him.

His deeds were sung by the bards around campfires, 
In the dead of night, as the owl maidens sat in their treetops 
Listening with their companion owls, who were as intrigued
As they were jealous of Langonbeak, the notorious owl king.

The Meanness of Nature

Plush peacock king wears his crown with pride
Heralded as one of the features of his spring time park
Admired by thousands, refreshed daily and often
He is created from the prettiest flowers.

Majestic, regal, bold, he is but one of the masterpieces
Created by gardeners who have conquered flower-ologies.
Trussed up in the most vibrant posies at the end of each shift
Strutting his stuff, gloating at his poor brown queen of one color

She sits at the other edge of the garden, in her plainness.
Visited by almost no one, as she is as dull as he is colorful.
The meanness of nature; she understands how the mallard female feels
As she watches the two-leggeds flock oohing and ahhing around the king.

Brighten My Page

Brighten my page
When ever I sit  and do my writing 
Reading it back can be a little frightening 
It’s all very dark depressing and low 
I wish from my pen light land happiness could flow 
I beg of my pen unlock this cage
Allow me please to brighten my page 
It never permits to set me free
Won’t soften it’s lines or release me
My internal pain is all I can show 
True feelings inside all dark with no glow 
Every verse must  reflect my soul
So over the page my pen does scroll
It writes of my madness
And my lonely sadness 
So until I can pull my self free and clear 
From these long shadows that I constantly fear 
My pen will keep me trussed and tied
All access to the brightness For me denied

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