"gamely" poems
Hi! I’m a hamster on a Wheel!
Gamely running on my bony little legs
[I’m getting somewhere! I’m getting somewhere!]
Every once in a while, I look left or right
See my **** and my compressed pellet food sitting in the same positions
as an hour, a day, weeks ago – and I realize:
IT APPEARS THAT I’M ACTUALLY GOING NOWHERE!!!!!!!
Which surprises me each time it crosses my little hamster brain, until I’m distracted
By my pellet food, the call of the Wheel, and other sundry carnal desires
Roiling superficially in my hamster-angst
While working the Wheel, surrounded by the detritus of my saccharine prefabricated life
I fail to notice
Outside my cage
Hands, lifting, carrying
Thousands of miles traversed
Steaming deserts
Steaming jungles
Steaming cities
Brutality, kindness, sensuality, love, hatred, atrocities, age, youth, heat and cold
All flashing by my glass shell as hands carry me towards a final resting place
Until
A jarring, toppling blast shakes my world
Tearing me from my Important Work on the Wheel
I look up, pellet crumbs falling from my mouth
Just in time to see my cage tumble from hands
Over a rail
Down
Down
Flash of blue
Flash of brilliant light
Flash of blue
Down
Smacking into a vast expanse of water
Unimaginably immense
Outside of my realm of comprehension – I mean, I’d never seen it in my hamster cage before, so why should I even expect it to exist?
What is it’s purpose?
It makes no sense!
It has no place in the world!
And as I slowly drown in the secret withheld from every hamster since the beginning of time
I take one last longing look at the Wheel, the cage, the pellets
And curse them
Curse the Deception that told me they were all that mattered
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
He sang a tenor’s part-
No more a tenor really
Though aging cords may gamely try
It was disaster- nearly.
He lost the lyric line.
Poor fellow –must be blasted
Too much North Fork wine
Or maybe he’s just past it.
A singer lost for words
is clearly up against it.
A staircase that’s collapsing
can only be descended.
Some forty years or more have past
Since he sang at their Wedding
A rose cheeked boy with strong clear tones
He was, then, worth the hearing.
With time his talent vanishes
He cannot compensate
For lyrics he’s forgotten
And notes he cannot make.
His hopes to leave on a better note
Then disappeared completely,
Only a swan- at its last-
can be sure to sing more sweetly.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 7:46 PM UTC
There were tales told of mighty storms that oft battered this coast.
The howling gale that struck this night was more powerful than most,
The lifeboat crews had been stood down, Who would venture out in this?
They gratefully all headed home for a night of fireside bliss
A girl stood on a towering cliff her heart was filled with dread
Somewhere in that maelstrom was the one that she would wed
The sun had shone when he’d left home before a steady breeze
A day so full of promise, but nature gives no guarantees
This normally astute sailor did not see the sky turn grey
His mind was on the woman, tomorrow their wedding day.
He was dragged back to the present by the sudden icy rain
The boat steadied, then surged forward, a ****** at the helm again
He quickly trimmed and set his sails to run before the gale
The speeding boat fighting gamely under the minimum of sail
Ten miles out man and boat still face the wrathful sea
With storm jib filled, and main full reefed he raced towards his bride to be
The man can see the lights of home, he’s just five miles from shore
With a fearsome ‘Crack’ the hull was split. Man and boat could do no more
Standing on the lonely cliff the girl sees his boat go under
She screams her pain into the night as her heart is ripped asunder
She takes a slow step forward towards the cliff edge high and sheer
Facing a life without her lover the drop can cause no fear
Her other foot moves forward, She is on the final ledge
Another tearful shuffle forward has her on the very edge
One more step. Into the void and she plummets like a stone
The sea has claimed her loved one but he shall not lie alone
As a wave approaches the stony cliff it draws a watery breath
Before crashing, straining, weeping falling above the lovers joined in death
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 12:49 AM UTC
I may have been the slowest child
to ever run in track and field
I was a foodie even then
with not the fastest set of wheels.
I still have the medal that I won
for finishing in second place.
awarded to our relay team
In a two team relay race
I was the anchor(aptly named)
they could have called me 'ball and chain'
The other three were none to spry
We were well matched those three and I.
By the time the baton reached my hand
My competitor neared the promised land
I set out full steam(for me)
as he crossed the line to victory.
I gamely tried to speed in haste
for what I knew was second place
and I was genuinely surprised
when they gave medals to us guys.
I never after won a race
nor finished either show or place.
I prize the medal that I got.
If I was a horse, they'd have me shot.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
What is the substratum of each day
but mere
filler,
the in-between?
The contours roughly
pencilled in, we simply
flesh them out,
gamely connect-the-dots,
paint by numbers.
This, that we wake to
each day, that we reconstruct,
dumbly enacting
each scene, each encounter,
actors
simply wanting
to please, to cover the cost
of each curtain, the ushers
to soundlessly herd you out.
Every last one of us
apprentices, frenzied
cattle -
the grand performance,
back by popular demand!
Fodder for our
flighty
attention
spans, meagre
senses of self.
Nextstoppleaseholdhow
areyouicanhelpyouhere
ithinkineedfindeverything
youneededtodaygoodthanks
pillowed against the brute
fear
of boredom,
of silence.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 5:38 PM UTC
Time is the biggest
Word of All.
It lamely, gamely
Tries to act like
Olympus Mons,
That Great Mars Mountain,
Thunder-towering three times
Mightier and Grander than
Our Nepalise Everest.
(Or so the
Philosophers hope)
Time seems so looming,
So enlongated, stretching
Summer-like, back when
Summer was more than six
Measly weeks long;
Time is measured, and sweet,
Like sugar,
Being with the one we love
When time seems to slow,
To languish, like the non-
Breezy lassitude winds
That the sails of ships
Hate most of all.
But when the one we
Love, like, tolerate;
Are indifferent toward,
And absence does not make
The bitter water leaking
Out of our eyes,
Brows furrowed in visible
Pain, Time
Becomes a different
Breed of beast;
Time is salt, bitter, hard,
Crystalline, sharp-edged,
Not a poultice, nor a
Salve, but fresh seawater
Reigning down upon the
Open wounds of our broken,
Shattered hearts.
Each intake of breath
Like glass poking
Our insides, each
Exhalation
Yet another reminder
That time spent away
From love isn’t
Time at all.
Time is what someone
Had to call something
As yet so infinitely
Indefinable, yet-
Define things, categorize things,
We Humans do, because of
Our strange natures compel us.
Time is absolute, and
Absolutely nothing,
And absolutely
EVERYTHING.
And, to the still-beating heart
That can bear not one more
Oxygenated globule of red
Red blood, time
Becomes the clock which
Could not bear to fully
Show its face to us
Whilst we lived, and,
Upon the dying of our bodies,
The drum in our chest
Beating its beat no longer,
The twin-air-sacs
Now vacuumed:
Time announces itself as only
Becoming real when we
Aren’t.
Time is better defined
Irony.
The most genuinely
Phony collection of
Individual and barely-connected
Symbiotic symbols
Ever conceived by a
Single collective mind.
It’s all we have
And then all we don’t.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
Tis quiet now.
This day is done
A busy day
Chalk full of fun
Walks with the pups
in grass so tall
They leaped to see
or move at all
Flea markets toured
once junk ,now not
Now treasures prized
and gamely sought
We shopped a while
had stuff to get
all shops were full
On Sunday yet
Back to the camp
on busy roads
of folks and campers
Heading home
But no so us
Our time to play
two weeks is ours
on holidays
A charcoal fire
With cast iron grill
Dogs, fries and steaks
All bellies filled
While sipping tea
a book is read
the tired pups
sent to their beds
My lady too
Is fast asleep
so to the internet
I creep
While of the day
my mind does roam
I take a sec
to write this poem
No work of art
on silver tray
just simple verse
of one fine day
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 7:58 PM UTC
i found this little poem
sitting unattended,
alone,
on a bench at
the bus station.
when i said hello...
the relief and elation,
on this little poem's face,
made me feel protective
of this, orphan creation.
so i took this little poem
home...
no longer lost,
it thrived
from three lines to five
and before
we wished it
happy cinquain
it had doubled in size,
again.
full, rounded verse,
in cursive copperplate.
as it entered puberty
its moods swung,
between...
love, anger, hate
and then struggled gamely through
depression angst and fear..
all jots and tittles,
with future, unclear.
but eventually it matured
as we all do....
into a thoughtful expression
of beauty and love,
a strong and independant
statement of grace.
and then it was time,
to say goodbye....
the little found poem,
needed to leave
and find it's place,
in the wider world.
needed to find
and impress a girl.
it said it needed,
to make a splash...
grab some cash...
it promised not
to become, just a jingle...
and to write when
he could....
but til then.... anon...
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:58 AM UTC
ticked generations
gamely pencil me
into sun
carbonized flecks
of minute hours.
years,
peel perceptions,
light night
gloomy day
save me, if you can,
more time
to end my crab scuttle
in this sour mash sea.
ended like
the rest of them,
free.
Jul 23, 2025
Jul 23, 2025 at 9:07 PM UTC
She chose to die to be with him
A love so dear but ended in grim
For she thought he was the only one
Who had the passion like a thousand sun
If only her parents weren’t busy
Fighting with the others so gamely
Then maybe they could have told her
There was a love greater than the other
She had eyes as beautiful as the sea
But what is the use when she could not see?
That beyond the spring of forbidden love
Someone had loved her from above
But now it is too late
For us to tell dear Juliet
And hope to stop and make her see
That before Romeo there was He
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
The seasons change, and so do people
The beginning never lasts and the middle just gets dug up
The end is always
I lay my chest to rest, down
As the gamely few follow the footsteps of window reflections
The wind chases the leaves; the fire spreads beyond the glass
The bread to feed your bones has burned what you are
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
I may have been the slowest child
to ever run in track and field
I was a foodie even then
with not the fastest set of wheels.
I still have the medal that I won
for finishing in second place.
awarded to our relay team
In a two team relay race
I was the anchor(aptly named)
they could have called me 'ball and chain'
The other three were none to spry
We were well matched those three and I.
By the time the baton reached my hand
My competitor neared the promised land
I set out full steam(for me)
as he crossed the line to victory.
I gamely tried to speed in haste
for what I knew was second place
and I was genuinely surprised
when they gave medals to us guys.
I never after won a race
nor finished either show or place.
I prize the medal that I got.
If I was a horse, they'd have me shot.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 10:48 AM UTC
The children place the cheese;
The father gamely nods,
For he knows there's no chance
To catch the little sods.
Nov 6, 2017
Nov 6, 2017 at 1:07 PM UTC