"galling" poems
Get lost on the trails
Bumpy rides and turn
Be careful wipe outs happen
Bumpy rides full or wild turns
Jumps and twists taking risk
Dangers and risks shake off the stress
Bike of blue
Together as one having fun
In the forest nature can't keep mr back
Ride fast get past fear
Up hill down hill take on any skill
Bike riding has a thrill
Not afraid in the zone body aches
Bike galling don want to hit the breaks
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 1:48 AM UTC
Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white *** come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
****** the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token ***** of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I **** and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !
3.2k
*My acute dementia
Seems to precipitate the need for immediate euthanasia
A hurried departure
Through the aperture
Deep set in the hollowness of time
Because essentially life’s been a lackluster mime
Imbibing flawlessly flawed ideas
That inform my capricious
Nature to various stimuli
It’s a life story based on a true lie
Frivolities interspersed with grave concerns
The myriad adjourns
Futile attempts at mitigating
A self-imposed galling.*
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 5:06 AM UTC
Her ugly salmon sneakers
hang by ratty shoelaces when she takes them from the vendor.
I tell her to toss them lest she get a disease
from her gross salmon sneakers.
Her garish salmon sneakers
pitter-patter gladly, mocking me and staying forever.
She says she won’t ever buy another pair since
she’s got her salmon sneakers.
Her silly salmon sneakers
stay on even through our reception, our vows, and our wedding.
Though I do finally get them off that same night,
her wondrous salmon sneakers.
Her busted salmon sneakers
trip her up before she steps in front of a speeding driver.
As I scold her, I don’t even think I’m grateful
to her old salmon sneakers.
Her galling salmon sneakers
always stay two steps ahead of me and everyone she knows.
If only they outpaced the ones she didn’t know,
her ******* salmon sneakers.
Her stupid salmon sneakers
never grace her feet again, and I know she’d have hated that.
I don’t care because that’s all I have left of her,
her ****** salmon sneakers.
Her dreary salmon sneakers
seem so lifeless without her because she was what gave them life.
And I wish with all that’s left that she was there, not
her hollow salmon sneakers.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Waking tired, but not sedated
And feeling calm, not agitated
Alarm's a gentle wake up call
And not a galling mental brawl
No regrets from the night before
No blackout I need to explore
Safe and sound and in control
The contents of my bag still whole
Hearing the birds, but not cursing
No pounding head in need of nursing
Seeing the sun, not trying to hide
But flinging the curtains open wide
Washing my hair without spacing
A steady heart, not one that's racing
Brushing my teeth without gagging
Getting ready, my feet not dragging
Pouring cereal into a bowl
Feeding my body and my soul
Fruit and juice pass through my lips
No cold pizza and leftover chips
Getting out the house with ease
Not scrambling round to find my keys
Leaving early, not running late
My brain able to operate
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 4:28 AM UTC
A brightness bathed the night:
Spectral corollas flecked the slick,
Damp sea – shoals of languid light
Mourned in planetary shadow play.
Bloodless bronze effigy,
Son of Sirius, hastened earthward
From the jaw of an untamed brute:
Swathed in an amorphous, turbid
Cloth, he fell – stark as crimson
Amid the dull, wan air. A death
Most uncouth: lain now on a pillow
Of galling shell and abrasive flesh.
A rare trinket plucked for my memory.
©Thomas Gabriel
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
My newest hobby is telling people
that I have a prom date, watching the drift of mouths
and listening to the refocusing
of eyes. I'm sure they don't mean
to be rude but they certainly make a good show
of their unkempt reactions.
"Really?" comes the pestilential chorus
as trains of thought rapidly switch tracks.
One stalwart, you may shudder
to hear this, expressed profound
disgust when I disclosed the girl's identity.
"I wasn't aware they let lesbians go to the dance.”
he says and I: "Well, you'll find
they cannot bar the doors to any
sort of trash. You're going right?"
Not a thing about this business seems (to my joying eyes)
quite belonging to its proper world. Yes, it's really me.
I, the wandering virgin-shaman,
must look quite at odds in their view;
despoiling the *** ritual
by stepping out from behind
the moon's galling rind of half-light.
To beat at my own tides? Oh, god!
The quiddity of my queer mind
is sacred like a water-walking rumor.
I find myself betrothed behind my back,
my role is sealed ere tightness shows a crack.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:16 PM UTC
watching for air a mad thing of static to do
unwashed i hold it all foreign my perspectives clothed as the enemy
an agreed muscle of tension with pockets fracked into my hands
i look out the window wide agape guidance invasive drills of heat the giving sunlight ; punishing,
a tree, the grieving buildings
the whinging of cicadas
and here i am watching for air
one point for the weather
one point for the view
one big point for my ****** condition
one point for the passers by and their galling dramedies
and there it is ; the wiry plan that's built
from one small tickle of wild thought
formed long ago
trickling to the current day
some whipped wit of poisoned psychology
fed to the inbreed (welcome you panting imp)
decades of saved up fatty layers
a deed of habitual sediment
retching until the tide laps become still
a cured and congealed gladness
marbled, a butcher would say
i am full and hearted and heated and padded senseless
turned under a heel with my wastrel history
i’ve accomplished this a stifled condition
of poisoned obscenity
seated deep almost fully incapacitated
in my armchair on this chummy day
my leisure clothes greasy sluck against my blemished hide
a packet of cigarettes to my side
rounded upon by sounds of the neighbours affairs
with a gasp of energy i 'skin one off' vigorously
my system trembling with years of hard liquor
borderline to a state of unconscious whelm
retained final prime for ignition
i could manage a spectacle
a blinding flare
a glorious incineration
and the release
of my true oder
i light a match for my cigarette
May 29, 2023
May 29, 2023 at 6:54 PM UTC
solicit the galling thoughts
those obscenities rigged gorily within
victim concepts taught distortion forbidden carcass
in the persisting sully of night
padded dreams pace ******* at a fed distance
it's all in sight and held racing back and forth out of reach
some sloven mystery
under a cower of skin
one day free of your agent cover
and you'll stand vacantly able under eye of the morgue creator
mating together life habits gracious goodness gratefully seeded
you could maintain a patient pattern
with practice you could go mainstream
-with practice
Nov 20, 2022
Nov 20, 2022 at 1:50 PM UTC
I awoke to prized tastes swimming tributaries across my lips;
tiny trickles of sighs stretching skin tight chasing last nights kiss,
last nights embracing dreams falling off eye lids stripped of
cognition and it’s the ignition of ten thousand eyes watching
blankets rise and fall next to my resting naked form.
Fingers’ nails attach to linens stitch, searching language
whispered in early morning nights passing out and around
made up words and tortures to galling laughs and insipid
shakes of bodies rocking together, mid-nights haste to
be first to drop off the edge without slipping.
I want to wake the blanket,
Oh! How I want to wake it! Shake
it and break it’s dreaming mind to
slumbered reality.
I listen to the ivy growing through the windows closing me into
homes close to wooded enclosures, chirping gnaws in my
eye’s veins twitching beats chest deep. I sigh over blankets
tossing form and watch with smiles that have forgotten to
remember the smiles reason.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 5:19 PM UTC
She sitteth still who used to dance,
She weepeth sore and more and more--
Let us sit with thee weeping sore,
O fair France!
She trembleth as the days advance
Who used to be so light of heart:--
We in thy trembling bear a part,
Sister France!
Her eyes shine tearful as they glance:
"Who shall give back my slaughtered sons?
"Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."--
Alas, France!
She struggles in a deathly trance,
As in a dream her pulses stir,
She hears the nations calling her,
"France, France, France!"
Thou people of the lifted lance,
Forbear her tears, forbear her blood:
Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood,
Back from France.
Eye not her loveliness askance,
Forge not for her a galling chain;
Leave her at peace to bloom again,
Vine-clad France.
A time there is for change and chance,
A time for passing of the cup:
And One abides can yet bind up
Broken France.
A time there is for change and chance:
Who next shall drink the trembling cup,
Wring out its dregs and **** them up
After France?
1.3k
Falling
sprawled and appalling
on my face,
drooling disgrace, galling
Falling
in love and above, tall in
a flood of enough
smoothening rough, or mauling
Falling
down a dire spiral calling
tired warnings
fired down and bawling
Falling
on deaf ears boring when sure in
death near and above all, or fawning
Falling
in line and recalling
confines and rules in forming
Decisions, once and for all
Falling
The wayside supporting
weight and tired eyes, squalling
*But the feeling of falling is deceiving when believing that the subject moves around the ground
Which is dawning the befallen
When in feeling fallen I feel more than
I am moving but that the world has proven
That I am stuck while it rushes up
And I cannot catch up or take much
Protection from the projected connection
Of the rocky bottom on my rocked cheek
The breath inside me left to hide in a better guest
For life's essential and potentials
Falling to me is not easy humiliation, or needy contemplation,
Only lungs devoid from the impact deployed
And the same dirt, on my tongue and gums, curt
My eyes, unhurt, can never avoid*
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
It is in the midst of strife
when the burden weighs most heavy,
your innards writhe and twisted;
the discomfort tugging at you so intensely
you cannot help but feel the tightness in your throat.
It is in the thick of this black mist
when your hands pick and pull
upon the wisping thread inside your head,
unraveling the rabble of cowardice voices
which spill like venom on your thoughts.
It is the unsettling notion
you are alone in a vast and empty ocean
sinking, suffocating and claustrophobic,
your mind is brimming, overflowing,
afraid it might just crack right open
It is knowing
these thoughts which come pouring
from that fractious bore inside your skull
seethe with undisclosed emotions
and their exposure to the air could crush you whole.
Will you allow this shameful wave
to crash atop you with all its galling weight
and drag you under grain by grain?
Or-
Will you battle back the coming storm,
standing above the surging tide
a rampart refusing to forfeit a single inch
of your distinguished shore?
I say battle.
Battle with the erosive waters rising inside you.
Battle knowing fully at first you are destined to lose.
The hero must be humbled
before others see him as the hero too.
So battle **** it, battle you glorious fool!
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 8:49 AM UTC
#Sarah Josepha Hale (1788–1879)
We bring no earthly wreath for Time;
To man th’immortal Time was given—
Years should be marked by deeds sublime,
That elevate his soul to heaven.
Thou proudly passing year—thy name
Is registered in mind’s bright flame,
And louder than the roar of waves,
Thundering from ocean’s prison caves,
Comes the glad shout that hallows thee
The Year of Freedom’s Jubilee!
‘Tis strange how mind has been chained down,
And reason scourged like branded sin!
How man has shrunk before man’s frown,
And darkened heaven’s own fire within!
But Freedom breathed—the flame burst forth—
Wo to the spoilers of the earth,
Who would withstand its lightning stroke,
And heavier forge the galling yoke;—
As well the breaking reed might dare
The cataract’s rush—the whirlwind’s war!
Ay, thrones must crumble—even as clay,
Searched by the scorching sun and wind!
And crushed be Superstition’s sway
That would with writing scorpions bind
The terror-stricken conscience down
Beneath anointed monarch’s frown;
Till Truth is in her temple sought,
The soul’s unbribed, unfettered thought,
That, science-guided, soars unawed,
And reading Nature rests on God!
This must be-is-the passing year
Has rent the veil, and despots stand
In the keen glance of Truth severe,
With craven brow and palsied hand:—
Ye, who would make man’s spirit free,
And change the Old World’s destiny,
Bring forth from Learning’s halls the light,
And watch, that Virtue’s shield be bright;
Then to the ‘God of order’ raise
The vow of faith, the song of praise,
And on-and sweep Oppression’s chains,
Like ice beneath the vernal rains!
My Country, ay, thy sons are proud,
True heirs of Freedom’s glorious dower;
For never here has knee been bowed
In homage to a mortal power:
No, never here has tyrant reigned,
And never here has thought been chained!
Then who would follow Europe’s sickly light,
When here the soul may put forth all her might,
And show the nations, as they gaze in awe,
That Wisdom dwells with Liberty and Law!
O, when will Time his holiest triumph bring—
‘Freedom o’er all the earth, and Christ alone reigns King!’
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 9:49 AM UTC
Stringent to lilly livered
Toxic if afraid,
galling to goers
Who thrive on being brave,
Enthralling to observers
Who see finer tones,
And fatal to loiterers
With shrapnel in bones.
Loose lips in the war zone
An anathema to we
Who strive for control
In adversity.
Loose lips in the war zone
A systems relapse,
Which preceeds establishment's
Rapid collapse.
Marshalg
@the bach
11 May 2011
May 10, 2011
May 10, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
purple, hazy hues.
yellow nuance, murky blossoms.
where are they?
azure tinge mixed in the honey.
canvas is blank,
with only galling white scribbles,
grey and ebony ink written.
enter, my darling
let me **** your fangs.
press. press. press.
my locks swathed in your fingers.
hard, my love, hard.
into my bones. film. upon layer.
upon membrane.
the blemishes,
your art.
tonight, we are animals,
so no time for serene.
passion.
howl with me,
consume me.
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
The words just don't exist,
To describe my feelings for you,
The day you tell me you love me
Is the day my dreams will come true
My love is strong and unbreakable
And that's a solmen vow
I'm so god ****** in love with you
yet I still don't understand how
How did It come I'd fall for you
Because I didn't even know I was falling
I can't bare the thought of not have you
So much that it's become galling
The extent of my love,will last forever
and it will never end
I just wish you would love me back,
And more then a bestfriend
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
the wet weather was most galling
Teddy had to stay inside all day
the rain kept pouring and falling
he couldn't go outside for some play
a game of Red Rover he'd so enjoy
Teddy had to stay inside all day
how he wished to see his friend Roy
around the backyard they could run
a game of Red Rover he'd so enjoy
on this rainy day he'd have no fun
his electric train set didn't suffice
around the backyard they could run
Teddy thought the rain wasn't nice
he'd just like to see a little sunlight
his electric train set didn't suffice
being in doors was of no delight
he'd just like to see a little sunlight
the wet weather was most galling
the rain kept pouring and falling
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 5:35 AM UTC
Oh well.
(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXXVIII)
Earl Grey and biscuit for a proper sense
Of yonder ist? where blue skies fringe clouds' veil
Known as white racks that keener eye'd wax pale
Through as how orange paints bits and pieces hence
Whiles yellow flutters to the sidewalks whence
Tis trod whilst fills aught cracks in sheer betrayl;
La, bony limbs cast 'gainst these heavns look frail,
How vines run riot in deep reds' intents.
Hot soup for dinner, I wear plaid now fer
Ah kicks, a kilt to boot, as if being new
Might salve the galling void I can't endure,
Yet must. Talk of espresso gadgets to
Think ya, the French Press grand. And tea. What's poor
Is blindness cuz the LORD's our life, ne brew.
19Oct16b
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
Two new ladies walked into the project kitchen for morning tea, one was lithe, petite and attractive, smiling, welcoming, the other, tall and lumpy, plain and withdrawn with eyes averted.
Clearly the planet treated these two women differently. Their different auras could not have been more stark, more reflective of how the brutal game is played universally..
This great eternal injustice meted out to all the plain Janes, everywhere.
I greeted them both, then, recognising the hurt, the galling expression of the expectation of another rejection, reflected in the big girls downcast gaze…. I reached out, made a gentle fuss of her, drew her into the group, gave her warmth and equality…all in a very human, non- demonstrative way ……
And, do you know, I was rewarded, with a miraculous emergence of dancing, alive eyes…. and really, the loveliest smile in the room.
M.
Hamilton,
NEW ZEALAND.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 10:57 PM UTC
From the twist
Came a fractured wrist
It was a fragrant tryst
Lived through a clenched fist
As an abhorrent cyst
Ambition was ******
Opportunities were missed
Told to desist
That they couldn’t exist
No need to resist
People came calling
Through suburbs sprawling
Temptations galling
Or, better yet, appalling
They tried stalling
Conversation crawling
Speaking of balding
The inevitability of falling
Then came the brawling
From memories they were hauling.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 3:03 PM UTC
Poets Like Me..
Suspended at portals of rigid
and well-defined
thought reclines most whimsy,
which poets like me
welcome and use to un-stick
rusted up vision.
Freeing the mind we care not
where reality ends.
Wonder notices even the tiny
and gasps at gross,
the newly dry gossamer wing
seen as fillagreed
diamonds with eyesight, night
versed with ghostly
metaphor, the tides as emotion.
Humanized nature
allures the inventive in scribes
bent on perception
where real meets make-believe.
Awe, understood
as a lever appeals to romantics
like me addicted
to all ethereal's seducing fancy.
Idealized love
presents realms of impassioned
expression, themes,
versing spirit personified holds
complusion, creative
vision awakens to other worlds
where, finally winning
utopia becomes no mere illusion.
What feels real merges
and mixes with linguistic flights
of beguiling imagery.
Life through the eyes of all poets
like me changes
at will from the galling mundane
to that which excites
inspiration for evocative writing.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
An endless trap neglected to be seen
I find myself clinging to the scheme
Conceptual romance, called lunacy
Better things are coming rather slowly
Like the clothes folding
She orchestrates, collecting mishaps in jest
She rose beige and benign into the sunset
On the steps of my home, I noticed a little presage
She then sends galling annals in one text message
Hovering on your lawn
And wretched calls became a bad quest
Soft clouds traipse vastly like coy insects
Sloom the week, stapled to the mattress
My whole life has been nothing but this
Restless, princely, and a sad mess
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 6:36 PM UTC
Shall we stay for a while in the midnight on the bridge, the river beneath is dried?
Without you disturbing me further, annoying, or injuring my heart.
Shall we?
Shall I ask you don’t say even a word about being cruel or galling of love?
Neither do I expect the romantic situation with burning stars, or smooth blowing breeze to pamper cheeks inwards…nothing … I expect for nothing.
What I wait for is only staying for a while. Be patient and calm enough to look at my eyes, someone whose crime is only loving you and ask yourself …why?
Why nightmarish tortures appropriate to her?
why?
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 4:37 AM UTC
We often hear about radical Muslims,
And some do pose a threat.
But there are other dangerous radicals
About whom people forget.
Radical Christians and radical Hindus:
Both have been in the news.
Yes, there are even radical Buddhists
And also radical Jews.
Radical WHATEVERS can be a danger--
No matter the crusade they declare.
The problem is not one certain group,
But radicals everywhere.
To see extremists twist religion
Is especially galling;
To see it used to justify cruelty
And hatred is appalling.
All should follow their conscience but must
Let others do the same.
The freedom to choose one's path should be
A universal aim.
If people use religion to condemn
And to stifle query and thought,
Today's relevance of their religion
And values amounts to naught.
- by Bob B
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC