Unmercifully Poems | Examples

UFO chased us into the sixties

in 1966 the UFOs were so plentiful they chased us town to town
Back when our mothers vacuumed in pearls and an evening gown.
We were terrified we would be lifted up and probed unmercifully.
I think I feared UFOs and alien surgeries until about 1973.

Dance with Delusions

Dancing with delusions, sparks of hellfire
Course through my lugubrious quill pen.
Distorted words igniting fear,
Anxiety fills crevices,
Encircling, silencing,
Asphyxiating.
Walls closing in,
Compressing.
Hope fades,
Doom.
Dread
Runs cold.
Veins poisoned,
Sanity slips
Unmercifully.
The angels are mimicked.
Light dimming, darkness descends
As demons mingle with the dead.
Apocalyptic skies crack open
To wash away all that you held sacred.

But not the mountains

But Not The Mountains

There is no sound from the mountains
Unlike that of  the Magpie
The kereru or the Bell birds
Or the tractors rumbling across the paddocks

There is no sound from the mountains
Like the Nor Wester racing through the trees
The bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the cattle 
the bark of the working dog

There is no sound from the mountains
As the Southerly snow whips them unmercifully
Save the sound from the waterfalls 
as they race towards some unknown destination

There is no sound from the mountains
As the braided rivers wend their way to the sea
As the big jet planes fly hither and yon
There is no sound from the mountains
Save that of peace and tranquillity

pink teapot is angry with her

Blue-haired faerie Frisky had fallen into a land of weird.
An angry teapot was the one giant thing she feared.
He was irritated that the dress she wore, washed in Tide
Was the same exact color as his paint on the outside

He yelled at her unmercifully, wanting her to take it off
But she had no other clothes, so she merely scampered off.
His voice followed her all around the place, as did his magic cat.
She was thrilled when she finally woke up on her own bed mat.

Four White Walls

"Reality" is a terrifying concept.  
Unescapable, 
It looms unmercifully. 

They want us to live there,
Walking around in blind misery,
Breathing in their truths. 

But we refuse to comply.
Instead, we dance beautifully,
In the rain of our delusions.

Rumblestone

Rumbling earth offers it's own baseline
Bones of the underworld crackle thunderously
Concussive forces driving Gaia's ecstasy.
The man watches as her eyes crackle menacingly
Mortal flirtations lusting for battle
Stone and Crystal, immense and fragile.
Booming, resonating, radiating, alive,
Conjured rumblings otherworldly
Each threaten alternately
To burst his chest
Or to implode it.
With each pulse, each soul-searing challenge of her gaze, 
Every aching breath
Yet he remains, agonizingly still
And there is nought but to wait for her to move first.
It is a reaper's die cast in darkness
Uncalculated gamble of unwitting fortune
So he must wait.
Her almar might yet give a wary soul rest
Hiraeth, and hope.
Or unmercifully rend him hapless.
So lingers his being, languishing in exquisite agony
Hoping desperately, and rumbling as eldritch runes 'neath horrors unknown.

A Father's Day Poem

I wish I could write a Father’s Day poem
Telling about my father’s great love for me,
Maybe sharing a story about his dedication, 
His making a loving home for our family.

A poem that would suffice if it were true
But, alas, it would simply be make-believe
No kind, loving, fatherly things can be said
Of the kind of father my mind can conceive.

I cannot recall a single happy time I spent
With my father when I was growing up a lad
He never gave to me a loving gesture, or
Said, “I love you, Son” or acted like a dad.

I remember many times he made me cry
Times when he threatened and bullied me
Times when he was deliberately abusive
And, forced me to do things unmercifully.

When I observe a happy father and son
I feel incredible surges of pride and joy
For their beautiful, coveted relationship
I never experienced growing up as a boy.

Written June 18, 2021

A Rebel

Somewhere in the wilderness,
Among the barren deserts,
And under the swarthy clouds
Lie the dilapidated destination
Of a poor homeless rebel,
Victimized unmercifully to fall
Like a drop of rain waited long!

There is a burning sand, 
Perforating his bootless heels
With each prick eat up and engulf
The rest of blood from his dry veins
And does challenge his undanted will
Not to subdue and fall in subjugation
Before the sway of mighty domination.

He stays unabated in his determination,
With every sigh sobbed and blubbered,
Every sweat evaporated from his flesh
And every voice raised like Rustum's war cry 
That shall crumble down powerfull states
And teaches the lessons of sufference to the foe.

Just Floating

In my next life I plan to be a hydrozoan.
Living in the water, floating aimlessly.
No thoughts, no feelings. 
No muse bugging me with new poetry ideas.
No muse annoying me unmercifully 
Screaming in my dreams, 
Begging me to get up at 3:21 a.m. to write poems!
Just floating away,
A happy little hydrozoan,
Carefree and silent.
No dreams.
Just floating…..

Neanderthal Soup

The hairiest arm came out of the pot and slapped me.
I slapped it back, angry now, for without a head, 
How could the arm do that?

My husband jumped out of his recliner.
What are you making? He asked.
His voice was shaky.
It is always shaky when I am inventing food.

Don’t worry about it, I told him.
A foot came out and kicked me in the head.
Damn Neanderthal soup!

“What IS THAT?” my nosy husband asked, running toward the hallway
Where he hid like a yellow belly.
His voice was soprano.

“It is supper,” I informed him.
“Go away.”
The hairy arm came out and I whacked it hard with my soup spoon.

“I am not eating that!” He whined.
The pot laughed.
“It is Neanderthal Soup,” I informed him, and you will eat it in droves.

Neither of us could eat it actually
As it slapped us unmercifully 
knocking the soup spoons out of our hands.

Here She Comes Again

Here she comes again,
That clip-happy, snippy crone who fancies herself a gardener.
What?
She is doing such a horrible job of it.
She clipped two of us unmercifully yesterday,
And we both had potential, talent, and gloriousness
These other buds can never hope to achieve.
Duck, my friends, hide.
The thorns are not doing a good job of snatching at her.
We need her cut up, and bleeding
So she will return to the house.
Love it that she has on a new straw hat with a gay ribbon.
Leopard spots; makes sense for her.
She is a leopard, leaping and crushing us, under her
Silly garden shoes with the decorative owls.
She is snipping and singing.
Hey!
Watch what you are doing you old hag.
Uh-oh. She is cutting this way.
Dhramn!
She got me!

Shrieking and Wailing

Madness has come to get me today.
She whisked me out of the food line, and told me 
I did not have a chance. I am a loser, a dupe, a pawn.

She put nails in my head, and drew blood from my teeth.
She kicked me unmercifully in my tenderest parts.
I was shrieking and screaming, trying to get away

But Madness had me pinned, and terrified.
She revered my shrieks, she encouraged me to thrash and scream
"You are noting!" she told me. "No one. A non-thing."

Frightened, I began shrieking more loudly, 
Within myself, despising myself more than ever 
Hating my inability to boot her out of my life.

"You can do better than that!" she coaxed me.
She tore my skin off, and punctured me with unhappiness.
It was painful, but not the worst I have endured.

A terrifying wolf's howl rushed out of the bowels of myself.
I expected to see madness turn tail and run.
Instead, she laughed, pleased.

No one came running. 
I looked around the cafeteria. 
No one had stopped talking.
No one had heard my silent shrieking or my wolf plea.
I am alone again, not one of the pack at all.

Charger One and Charger Two

They call me the charger I told white string haughtily.
Then who am I? White string asked.
Sticking up her aluminum cubed nose,
Refusing to be plugged into my adaptor.

"Daddy calls Mommy the charger!" Sadie defended me.
Sadie is four, and I am her she-roe, teaching her the art of charging.
"I call her that!" My mother-in-law agrees from the backseat, where
she prefers to sit, where it is "safe" according to her own snootiness.

I want to take my daughter and run back into the store and charge
more stuff now, feeling slightly irritated. Charging always puts me
into a much better mood. It's like not paying, rather like stealing as
I never see the bills. My husband pays them after grousing unmercifully about them.

"I am the charger or I am not going to be plugged in today," Charger One says. I rapidly realize I am surrounded by enemies here, so I back down and say, "You can be Charger One, and I will be Charger Two, okay?" 

Darling One from the backseat calls out, "Lunch is on me. Let's go to McFrizbee's," making her now the ultimate favorite in my Sadie's world. Assuming she will be using plastic, she has slyly snagged the Charger 2 position. I am livid.

If We All Had the Same Ideas

If we all had the same ideas,
How boring would life be.
If we all had the same thought,
What would be interesting?
 
If we all had the same grandchild,
How would we share her?
Would she have to go from house to house,
Spending but fifteen minutes with each of us?
 
If we all had the same taste in men,
Would we find him and chase him around unmercifully?
If we all had the same religion, and the same politics,
Could we get along?
 
I doubt it.

The Texts Were Horrible

The texts were horrible, vile, and mean.
They were from the kind of person none of us had ever seen.
They were graphic, and horrible, a picture came that was crude.
We all could guess who sent photos of themselves in the nude.
 
We had suspicions, and we had them for quite a while
About these texts, so horribly awful and vile.
We began to congregate, and we whispered about him and his sad little life.
Determined to make sorry and horrible his weirdness, we were mean to his wife.
 
We shunned them unmercifully and put our noses way up high.
We wished them an awful future, one hoped they would die.
We were horrible, and angry, and we became bullies.
Our minds threw them in dungeons, stocks, locks, jail cells and gullies.
 
We were angry and awful for a year and a day.
Confident it was him, not caring what he had to say.
We were the avid, upright accusers, and we did not play.
Many of us were shamed to our core, when we found out today
That it was not him at all, but one of the accusers, a man quiet and meek,
A silent monster, who had riled us, whose forgiveness we did not have to seek.

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