"rut" poems
Guess what I'm writing about
Deez Nuts!
No seriously,
Not the thought we were going for?
So let's go a little more;
Maybe about the presidential candidate
Or the family jewels on my plate.
I'm trying not to laugh
Or bust a gut.
Maybe I can use Deez Nuts!
To bust in your guts.
Let's just rhyme.
I like big butts
(And I cannot Lie)
Or I might get in a rut
If you play with my nuts
And don't let my kids
Kiss your back or your ****
Or reach those guts.
Sidenote: I'm tan
Like a pharaoh, King Tut
But first,
Get Acquainted with me
Unless you're a ****
Than you're more than welcome
To meet Deez Nuts!
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
Liquid courage to numb the pain.
Intoxicated to forget.
Offbeat blood, sent from heart to vein.
Returns with a guest, she just met.
She closes up, leaves the bar clean.
To her apartment, around three.
In bed she lays, counting some sheep,
That mock her, thinking she will sleep.
She hears the crickets’ lonely beat.
Reminding her of creeps she meets.
Sometimes they have a potential start.
But never truly go that far.
Each night dealt with some other cards.
But slowly starts to build up guard.
She puts less time in her makeup.
But drunks continue to pick up.
She joins in shots, hopes to pass out.
But in her head she hears the shouts.
Her heart’s hunger for real love.
Her clouded thoughts rise above.
A newly turned insomniac.
No longer sleeping on her back.
Till curtains peek with starry eyes.
So bright, leaves a forceful rise.
Her sobs like strings of violin.
A void no liquor can fill in.
Despite how much she tries to drown.
The aches resonate with shrill sounds.
Another night, still found no one.
A man enters, two drinks and done.
She questions him, “What is the rush?”
Always pulled into a quick crush.
But never really tends to last.
As he mumbles about his past.
A bartender, like therapist.
As alcohol reveals the gist.
Now drunk and loud, he starts to shout.
Before his crash, he raises doubt.
He talks about, the best he lost.
Always at home, waits for the toss.
She cheers him up, when in a rut.
He gets up again, “That **** mutt!
To see her hurt, curled up in bed.
I held her paw, up till her death.”
The next night, slept pretty early.
He was perfect, brown hair curly.
Her eyes were lost, but not with lust.
Enjoyed his smells, delicious must.
A piece of her, became a part.
Happy to save his sinking heart.
Rescued him, he slept on her rug.
Named Milo, her three-legged dog.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
*Apni Dhun Mein Rehta Hoon
Main Bhi Tere Jaisa Hoon*
**Roaming within my own tunes I am
O’ just like you I am**
*Oh Pichhlee Rut Ke Saathi
Abke Baras Main Tanha Hoon*
**O’ friend of the past season
This year completely alone I am**
*Teri Gali Mein Sara Din
Dukh Ke Kankar Chunta Hoon*
**Whole day, in your street
Collecting the pebbles of sorrows I am**
*Mera Diya Jalaye Kuan
Main Tera Khali Kamra Hoon*
**Who will set my lamp alight?
O’ your vacated room I am**
*Apni Leher Hai Apna Rog
Dariya Hoon Aur Pyasaa Hoon*
**My own wave is the malady
Ocean I am and yet so thirsty I am**
*Aati Rut Mujhe Royegi
Jaati Rut Ka Jhonka Hoon*
**Coming season will weep for me
O’ breeze of the ending season I am**
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Poet Nasir Kazmi, Sung by Ghulam Ali
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Prophesies of impending fall
creep stealthily over the Great Divide.
Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze
like leagues of fibrous wind chimes
serenading the mountain slopes
with aires of shimmering gold.
A few distant bugle calls echo
across the Big Thompson valley
as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.
Sudden early gusts of frigid wind
bring waves of sleet and snow -
in tune with the turning polar axis.
The greater chill is soon to come.
The animals know it as do we.
Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.
Elk and deer drift down from the heights
To show their young the ways
of the plains and river valleys.
We pull our sweaters on
and toss another log on the flames
and greet the harbingers of approaching fall
creeping stealthily over the Great Divide.
September, 2018
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
they stained the back deck today (with a hard to match 7 periwinkle)
400 square feet of knotted pine (in a striking rivet sequence)
red ant drivers (who can forget those little ******
caked fir needles & feather cone
bug hologram & cedar moss
graffiti crack & cut joist
wheel rut & pick
pike stain (s)
sow bugs
electric
blower
purple
fueled
washer
missing
foul bits
and two of
its former pins
somewhere near
the erratic 9th stroke the
side kick (and his sloppy dullard)
fell sadly in a cacophony of sick laughter
anxious peckers, poinsettias, grub box, rail stems
lacewings (ladylike in their task), third door down windows
old ergonomic chairs (so highly touted in the checkout isle at Lowes)
all for not, I guess ~ seems they never reviewed the Homestead Manual on Fine Deck Painting ~
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 3:55 PM UTC
She is young. Have I the right
Even to name her? Child,
It is not love I offer
Your quick limbs, your eyes;
Only the barren homage
Of an old man whom time
Crucifies. Take my hand
A moment in the dance,
Ignoring its sly pressure,
The dry rut of age,
And lead me under the boughs
Of innocence. Let me smell
My youth again in your hair.
7k
Haqiqat hai yaqeen karlo,
Men usko bhool kar khush ***
“Muhabbat marr chuki hai ab,
Men usko bhool kar khush ***
“Badalti rut ki waja se tabyat,
Kuch hai bojhal see….
“Yun mera haal na pocho,
Men usko bhool kar khush ***
“Tumhen kia weham hai kyn,
Raat bhar milne nahi aaty.???
“Aye mere nennd ki paryon
Men usko bhool kar khush ***
“Udasi sary ghar men,
Pheeli jati hai ghum bankar….
“Tum har dewaar par likhdo,
Men usko bhool kar khush ***
Translation to Malay Language
Aku gembira untuk melupakanya
Amanah ku ini adalah realitinya
Dan aku gembira untuk melupakannya
Cinta yang telah meningal dunia
Dan aku gembira untuk melupakanya
Translation to English:
I am happy I am not sad to forget
He is mine, that's reality
and I am glad to forget it all
The love has died
and I am happy to forget it all
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 1:30 PM UTC
i will carry your body from the flicker
i will lose my eye
four houndred and fifty seven times
before i jab back.
all this makes a sister look weak,
but this is what i know of patience and loyalty.
and we will stare into the souls we drain everyday
and drown in the woes of alcoholism
and suffocate in the smoke
and go bankrupt from the weekend rut.
and i am happy
that i know
i could be doing this alone
but alas
i have a twinsoul
a twinflame.
for vinagar girls,
full of *** and vice
and all horrible things,
somehow we manage to hold more value
in each other
in people and parents
and newcomers
than any one any where
can relate.
my partner in crime,
my fellow feline,
i will follow you into the flame
and drag you back out.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
I bet I am
More sad than you.
I know I am
That's all I knew.
I know I will
Be happy but.
Right now I'm stuck
In this sad rut.
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 9:12 AM UTC
Probe me antagonists,
For I am no longer afraid-
Of your shunning or your lynching,
Or stoning, or blade.
You all stare with luscious eyes,
Jealous, cruel-fiends.
Malicious and vindictive,
Hating by all means.
Under the sheets-
Gasping beyond belief,
You kick me,
I can not breath.
No longer am I easy,
No longer tease to please.
Sick with rage and frustration,
Consumed like a disease.
I know when you lie to me,
The only question is why?
Who said you could judge?
Who made you GOD when they died?
Stare at me, look into my eyes!
Oh how I trusted you and you made me cry!
Let down, alone
I crumble by his side.
Running from reality, he holds me at night.
When silent sobs seep from inside.
I wanna scream, but instead I hide.
And sedate myself from your hellish wealth,
And your perfect life,
And your easy ride.
I'm alone and I'm fine.
I do not need you to pry.
Or to pity me as I die.
Twisted and dismayed;
I am ****** but definitely unafraid.
Foolish and used,
Ill live to see another day.
And the pain you caused will finally fade.
And the love we knew will be replaced.
I'm moving on and out of place.
I don't need you, or your approving face.
And all of its grace.
Your drama and chilling pace-
Graphic and slow, savor the chase.
God what a waste.
People just love to hate.
'Round and 'round,
Stuck in their rut of a mental state.
Dyeing, hell-bent on leaving a trace,
On hurting and watching me break.
Karma neither is predictable,
Nor is it fast.
One day you'll bear the burden
And the pain of an outcast.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 2:35 PM UTC
Since time unknown I wanted a mutt
No Lego, No Hershey , would make me stop
A golden lab, only, could break the rut
Which i could feed and sit atop.
Mother worried for the allergies and the fleas,
the constant bark, dirt and spit.
I swore to keep him up in trees
and silent like a lonely pit.
We got a pup and named it Edison,
he did not explicitly, discover electric light.
All he had was poo and medicine
No wonder his tummy was never right.
Every time a **** he let away
With each paw he dug to dig.
At midnight as others lay
He ate on like a pig.
One night a robber, dull and round,
hauled himself across the yard;
And then onto some furry ground,
where the cur lay, his fat splayed, somehow, somewhat, on guard.
A brawl ensued, boy, there was blood!
the thief bit him and he bit back.
Now, i have two graves in the mud,
of Edison and of Jack.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
To often we fail to tune ourselves in.
We get caught in rut after rut,
Morphing into puppets... just going with the motions.
Too fixated on all we could lose to recognize each win.
So weary of love we keep our hearts bolted shut.
We are so afraid of change we cringe at the notion.
Sometimes you need to runaway from reality,
Take a leap off of comforts shoulder…
And dive into your intuition.
Free yourself from that corrupt mentality,
And smile to keep the world from growing any colder.
Your soul will sing a melody of bittersweet honesty…just listen.
That is where true beauty lay…
In each untouched corner of your heart,
Beneath each unspoken word of your inner voice.
It is never to late when you are blessed with another day.
To live simply, take a breath and let the past part…
And confidently make happiness your choice.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 1:07 AM UTC
there’s no magic to be found
on peaceful garden paths
whose every rock and rut are worn
by footfalls from the past
adventure lies in wilderness
and stories never told
the magic made by pioneers
unafraid to tread off road
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
“I don't know how to take this
I don't see why he moves me
He's a man, he's just a man
And I've had so many men before
In very many ways
He's just one more“
<•>
ladies
you know ~ I know
these lyrics and the deep cut
and the familiar rut,
they unsecret in our inner chambers
and there is no bandage to
rip off, which/why the cut
never heals
despite your careful care to never
actively seek out the
irritant
but it finds you
in a rom-com
a particular intersection
a advertisement for half zip sweaters
when saying no to a
particular restaurant automatically
and the emotional shake,
not a smoothie,
part horseradish sweet sad,
part bitter herbs, tasteless bread,
spiced with a blend of
angry, self-loathing, regret,
and rage that your emotions
abduct your composure,
and that it still happens
way too often
a pale of regret,
that it was a lost chance,
the kind that come more infrequent,
and you mourn
the building up inside,
an intolerance for risk taking
which once
was your
most favorite
single characteristic
you liked,
about yourself
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 3:07 PM UTC
We are a global society
When we want oranges in the fruit bowl,
When we want out of our rut
Just long enough
To brown in a patch of Spanish sun.
We are a global society
When the Japanese car breaks down
And we are in need of a cheap fix
To keep food on the table,
Some Latvian mechanic
Who helps us find our way home.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When the zeroes run low
And there are spaces,
Foreign faces,
To which we can point
And blame.
We are a global society
With our sweat-shop chic,
American coffee chains
Selling Colombian ground beans,
Frappuccinos in plastic cups-
Made in China
And served by a Romanian barista
In Italian heels.
We are a global society
When the demand is high
And the payment is low.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When hands reach out for help
And our pockets are too shallow,
Our time, too brief
To commit to a unity
We feel is dragging us down.
We are a global society
When the football is on,
When the lager is Belgian
And the supermodel, Greek.
When we cradle that bag of Cheetos
After smoking too much ****
We are a global society
When oppression is overt,
Caricatured in bulletin posters,
Threatening to land
Upon our own front door.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
When poverty seems contagious,
When we have to clean up
Someone else’s mess,
Still we scar the Middle East
Only half-interested in an exit.
We are a global society
When we get sick,
When we borrow another doctor
For our ailing NHS.
When cities of white people burn,
We are a global society,
When Africa is divided,
We are nowhere to be seen.
Prime mover of the commonwealth
Yet we fall beneath the breadline
And living easy is so rare.
We are our own nation,
An island nation,
Under the false flag
Of a golden age
We were conned to believe in.
Our nation, our island nation,
Lost amongst a sea of misinformation.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth’s noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night
To feel creep up the curving east
The earthy chill of dusk and slow
Upon those under lands the vast
And ever climbing shadow grow
And strange at Ecbatan the trees
Take leaf by leaf the evening strange
The flooding dark about their knees
The mountains over Persia change
And now at Kermanshah the gate
Dark empty and the withered grass
And through the twilight now the late
Few travelers in the westward pass
And Baghdad darken and the bridge
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on
And deepen on Palmyra’s street
The wheel rut in the ruined stone
And Lebanon fade out and Crete
High through the clouds and overblown
And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gulls
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shadowy hulls
And Spain go under the the shore
Of Africa the gilded sand
And evening vanish and no more
The low pale light across that land
Nor now the long light on the sea
And here face downward in the sun
To feel how swift how secretly
The shadow of the night comes on…
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Original English version see http://hellopoetry.com/poem/942159/dragon/
Dovah
Gliding asamit ven,
Mirodah lovaas do kein.
su'um Dovah.
Coming wah feymah wah jusktii!
Viing do yolus hellsong,
Drun kun wah himdah.
Vrii ahrk hil adamant.
Wah oblaan lein do jul.
Unon do dovah,
Bo overhead.
Wraiths do volok.
Taazokaan los ko rut,
tiid ru maltiid.
Alduin los coming.
Wah oblaan lein do jul...
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
Scrapers will no longer scrape.
Fighters soon to lose the short fight.
Pilots are forced to surrender control.
Snakes on a plane will bank into a roll,
a scene that really no longer is scenic.
Leaders still read while getting a scare.
Huge landmarks that I swear were once there,
bridges in shortage are counting the tolls.
Dust that eventually will never be settled,
liquid support that used to be metal,
big bad crude that never was good—
things impossible suddenly could.
Answers quickly try to be drummed.
Future conflicts guaranteed to be won,
particles blocking our UV death sun,
days become decades and turkey is done.
Brave individuals are no longer bold.
Families’ histories are quite often told,
a baby’s bottle empty with no one to hold.
Government figures tilted but somehow sold
parades in protest with a circus in town.
A tiger got out, but why can’t he growl?
Seems that the cat’s got somebody’s tongue.
Another channel covers son after son,
numbers mounting, but not the right ones.
Cabbies still nose their thumb after thumb,
training centers destroyed one after one.
We should’ve just played “Drop the **** bomb!”
Fear is good, and of course good is feared;
it’s the only thing that drives us way over here.
Just like the Bible, it’s mostly made up.
The supersonic jet has just hit a rut.
The dirtiest of bombs versus our Smith and Wesson.
“Come on gang, why would you even question?”
Like death and taxes—there’s none that’s more sure,
but then there’s the free upcoming history lesson.
“Ain’t gonna do it” acting just like his pop.
This rancher really means it when tossing the slop.
“Still can’t find him—he’s with boys in Brazil.”
What’ve they done lately to lighten the till?
It’s time for the Allies to storm up this hill.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
I've got a Chopper,
You can have ****** *********** with it if you like
It's got a trug, a Jew's harp that rattles the windows
And creatures to make it mosey around crack
I'd stretch jeans cheesecake abutting you if I could, but I used plastic toast
You're the kind of ***** that thrusts into *** my bodiliness
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a disguise it's a torso of a Irish bull
There's a slit high up the skirt Miss World's bra-burner and gross
I've grappled page—3 girl for bouts
If you think Miss Universe could spasm creamy then I guess Mr Universe should
You're the kind of ***** that slides in with my wads
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** a chimpanzee and he hasn't got a stage—door Johnny
I don't copulate why I cock—a—doodle—doo him Gerald
He's inseminating à la carte geriatric but he's a voluptuous chimpanzee
You're the kind of ***** that stuffs *** my gallons
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I've got a Welshwoman of pornographic Casanovas
Here a Don Juan, there a Lothario, prognosticators of obscene persons of opposite *** sharing living quarters
Beg a bonk if you be on heat, they're on the back of the *****
You're the kind of ***** that spasms indoors using my lump
I'll swag you Joe Soap, lock, stock and barrel if you rut slags
I **** custom—built dead men of doo-wop passages
Incognito Muses, faceless ching, most of them are Barbie
Let's **** into the odd kitchenette and **** landlady creature
Mar 30, 2010
Mar 30, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.
Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;
could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.
"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
SPEAK
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
excitedly,
must listen."
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:53 AM UTC
Stuck in a rut of who i want to be
A constant feeling of being stuck at sea
No where to turn
No lessons to learn
Complete isolation
Is this what i diserve
A raven with no wings
Leaves a bird who wont sing
Waves shake and rock me
But i continue on
My boat keeps me afload
Keeping steady and strong
Thrown on this raft at a very young age
Constant sun burn and dehidration have my eyes crazed
Two people inside my mind
Im in control but struggle all the time
Out of sight
Out of mind
Is the story of my life
Full of fright
Now im blind
Must continue this fight
When suddenly i meet an unsuspecting creature
A very tired wolf with a very high fever
I take this wolf onto my floating door
Lick her wounds and give her compassion
...
Something nether of them have had before
The stranded raven adores the wolf
Infatuated with its being
After licking her wound
Her leg has stopped bleeding
But soon the raven will lick to much
The wolf snarls at the raven and howls to say enough
The raven retreats to his side of the tire
The close quarters would make the raven and wolf very tired
The raven was never raised as a hatchling
Rite out the egg starving
No incubation
No warmth for the raven
He is horrible to the wolf
Without knowing why
Could be his need to die
Could be his constant crying
The raven loves the wolf
This is clear
But he has had evil tendencies for many years
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
He hurts the wolf
He gets bitten
Now the raven is bleeding
Missing many feathers
Looking at the wolf
Stunned
The raven is starting to see what he has done
And he sits on his corner of the raft for months
He walks over to the wolf
Licks her heart
And says i should have been your boat from the start
I should never have hurt you
Drouned you
And im sorry
I offer you my neck as payment
The raven loves the wolf
This is clear
And decides to be a new bird
For the rest of his years
A cardinal appears from the raven
The black carcass falls
And the cardinal is born
And the wolf heals up
Never to be torn
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
These days, not much seems to be working
Words don't flow so smoothly
The patterns are off
The rhymes predictable
The themes, all too common
When stuck in a rut
One can't do much
But ride out the waves of frustration
And hope to your God for inspiration
And hope to your God, for inspiration
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
1075
The Sky is low—the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go—
A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him
Nature, like Us is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.
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