Best Rutted Poems
Upon this yearly powdered dale,
where leafless birch in talon-ed stance
come begging in their circumstance,
the snowflakes fell in silent veil
as thick as densely woven cloth
to gale a new year's behemoth.
While seeking warmth to no avail
I hunker in my hiemal sleigh
when through the rime in gleeful spray
a fulgid sun does spritely hail,
goes dancing between limb and twig
and waltzing 'round each wizened sprig
to glisten on my rutted swale.
Each pixel glitters on this path
in afterglow of winter's wrath.
Upon this yearly powdered dale
the snowflakes fell in silent veil.
While seeking warmth to no avail
a fulgid sun does spritely hail
to glisten on my frozen swale.
Categories:
rutted, snow, sun, winter,
Form:
Rhyme
On a walk after the worst of the Sandy storm
I slogged down the still dampening
Green grass valley rutted between
The moldering fences of the shadowed alley.
Under the low, ominously rushing, soggy gray clouds
I saw so many black birds silently
Clinging against the stiff breezes
To the broken branches of the skeletal oak on the corner
As if they relished the fate of the cruelly stripped leaves.
I saw a hundred crows there.
How many make a murder?
Black pointy wraiths;
Scattered commas lined up like
Iron shavings stuck
To magnetic branches.
Dull steel skies slid in vast arcs around them.
Sprinkling windy foreboding,
Their clouds reached down
To Collect their talons.
So many eyes I know they see
Spiny black needles poking out of me.
Bloodless murder, muffling gray gauze No need to caw…,
A hundred crows see it all.
Categories:
rutted, green, weather,
Form:
Narrative
Wearily I walk this rutted road
Knowing this life led yet is mine
Due is all ransoms for my soul
To every witness I leave behind
Lift my heart to spare no love
To be a light for shadows cast
I draw my strength from God above
With hope that seeks the will to last
Categories:
rutted, inspiration, journey, prayer, spiritual,
Form:
Rhyme
Old men in blue jeans
Dungarees – that’s what they were called,
heavy, blue denim, metal button fly -
form that followed function. The “cuffs” were
rolled up because inseam sizing and “pre-worn”
softened and frayed only occurred if you got
them from an older sibling.
Time has a way of softening things, Dungarees
included. They shaped themselves to your needs,
became one with your movements, stayed with you
through the tough times, went to town with you,
wore the scars and tears of youth moving forward,
taught the lessons of toughness and tenderness,
of reliable, responsible, dependability.
The clothes did not make the man, the man gave
meaning to the clothes, imbued them with his ethic,
his love, his success and failures, stood with him
in welcome rains and barren fields. The jeans,
flannel shirts, boots, weathered face - caught
between an ever present grin and grimace -
awaited each sunrise with a purpose.
The blue jeans are now faded by age,
highlighted by wear and tear, creased
in the rutted way of old roads – necessary
but untended. They offer the comfort of memory’s
warm embrace, the unspoken bond of a friendship
shaped by the demands of life.
They still walk together, these old men and their
blue jeans, more slowly but no less proudly,
for they have grown old together and know
that “the clothes did not make them men”.
John G. Lawless
1/1/2015
Categories:
rutted, mentor, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
Walking from the field, snow heavy on my boots,
the sound of water whispers beneath the thawing blanket
so tenaciously clinging to fertile mother earth.
Ancient furrows of past season's hope
plow through frozen dirt,
the veins that now flow gently
with blood of red clay and dark soil.
Patches of green I see, formed from lost seeds,
sown by invisible hands as winds reaped life
from last evening's sowing,
before mother pulled her white sheet
tight over hilly breast to sleep through winter's dream.
Green like season's beard to be shaved
before new seed can be planted.
The gate swings easily as I push it, the snow has melted here.
Looking back the awakened ground shimmers
like tomorrow in the morning sun.
Yet, there before me the rutted path
filled with frozen boot prints from years of fading memories
reminds me from where I have come.
04/22/2018
Categories:
rutted, earth, remember,
Form:
Free verse
Posting early on a dozing suburban
hill
Mays warming morning rises and
Gently wakes.
The dewy hares move through the
Earthy till,
Small dry twigs the nesting pigeons
take.
Blue-high sky clear as an Ocean
Layers the heat upon red brick
streets;
Roads built over stubbled tracts
Deeply rutted from the ploughs
devotion,
Where once great fields of swaying
wheat.
Covered by neat gardens of square
disproportion
where blackbirds scold and tumble
Between the breeze;
Rushing madly through the tangled,
Variegated fauna,
Dashing around lines of neatly
Planted trees.
Quietly strolling the waking hour
Comes brightly,
Tripping like the splashing, pebble
Washed stream:
Wistfully recalling the woodsman,
Elk, and otter,
As it flows away,
Forever lost in dreams.
Categories:
rutted, may,
Form:
Rhyme
I saw an old wagon wheel in the antique store the other day.
What type of vehicle it must have conveyed, I couldn't really say,
But I let my imagination roam as I studied the old wheel,
And pondered its odyssey and what secrets it might reveal.
Its iron tire was pitted and rusted due to age.
The wooden spokes were intact but their age was hard to gauge.
Its diameter was about five feet and its tread six inches wide.
Ah, if it could only speak to me, its mysteries to confide!
Could it have carried a pioneer family in a Conestoga wagon west,
With the anticipation of a new beginning in their relentless quest!
It with other wagon wheels rutted well-worn trails along the way,
And traces of those treacherous routes are seen to this very day!
Could it have graced an army lorry drawn by cantankerous mules,
Driven by a pugnacious trooper to deliver hay, grub and tools?
The wear and tear was evident due to many military campaigns,
Crossing perilous rivers, mountain heights and endless arid plains.
Or could it have borne a farmer's wagon as he plied his trade,
Hauling crops of wheat, corn and oats once the harvest was made?
Oh, the many miles it endured through the mud, dust and snow!
I left the store still musing about its odyssey of so very long ago.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Categories:
rutted, nostalgia,
Form:
Rhyme
alone he stands behind the plow
in footrace with the lengthened dawn
a shadow figure in the now
pursues the where and when and how
of unseen reins so slowly drawn
alone he stands behind the plow
each furrow’s end a prayerful bow
an homage paid – dark soil turned fawn
a shadow figure in the now
a twisted plowmans daily prowl
his dream - horizon’s distant pawn
alone he stands behind the plow
as rutted field and furrowed brow
leave in the mist the endless song
a shadow figure in the now
in answer to where, when, and how
sweet memories dark furrows spawn
alone he stands behind the plow
a shadow figure in the now
©1/16/2018
Contest: Villanelle Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Categories:
rutted, dedication, family, life,
Form:
Villanelle
My avaricious appetite for life,
Provides the fuel to ramble ,
Through this ripened world I roam.
I'm driven by unrelenting hunger.
This greedy, vicious beast,
who calms with continuous feeding,
Consumes my soul and waking moments,
and propels me, salivating, onward.
Unfed, my compass needle spins in panic,
My thoughts chaotic, I lose my focus.
I travel roads, pitch black and rutted,
Just to quench the rabid thirst.
The paths at times,
Are filled with fog,
Obscuring my sight,
Bringing me to my knees.
I seek illumination,
To know what it is to be sated.
But this knowledge is for others,
I've not yet found my way to light.
Through this land I'll wander,
Eyeing fruit laden landscapes,
and white caps on the ocean waves..
I need to savour every luscious moment .
Categories:
rutted, life
Form:
Free verse
Not a flag was unfurled,
and no cornet trilled,
as the rain-swollen clouds,
the bleak valley filled.
The wind blowing cold
with a chill that pervades
as the caisson's old wheels
creaked through the glades
where leafless Live Oaks
their limbs upward bent
as if to acknowledge
the young soldier’s lament.
A tousled lone drummer
in tattered old grays
led a dog and three mourners
to the dead soldier’s grave.
The muffled rataplan
of his red and tan drum
was beating forlornly
rum-dum d’ dum-dum
And along the bare hillock’s
long, rough-rutted track
both mule and cart
were carrying him back
to the land that he left
to fight a grim war
tho’ he ne’er understood
what the fighting was for.
When one fateful day
in a field of smoke
a fusillade violently
tore through his cloak.
His battle had ended
as he fell to the ground
his lips mouthing something
but ne’er uttered a sound.
Now his casket was lowered
in an uncaring grave
as the sad words were read
his poor soul to save
whilst a single red flower
was forlornly tossed
upon the young warrior’s
funereal box.
Unseen by the mourners
yet a color guard stood
a bugler and flagger
peering down through the woods.
Then high from that ridge
at the hillside’s top
the bugler rang taps
and all motion had stopped.
Each eye in confusion
turned looking around
in search of the source
of that sad, mournful sound.
Though ne’er to be seen
the bugler still played
the keening that echoed
down through the glade.
Then just for a moment
the sun had now shone
as if angels descended
to take him back home.
The mourners and drummer
filed out of the glade
except for the old dog
that steadfastly remained.
The elegy was over and
all farewells had been bade
that gave honor and glory
to his last parade.
John Henry Gardner
© 2015 – All Rights Reserved
Categories:
rutted, america, death, introspection, loss,
Form:
Epitaph
Memory is my fading friend
of millennial days transpired—
faithful scribe and guardian
who measured mercy and intent
and gauged love’s joyful glint—
yet never turned from rutted path
when sorrow’s specter, tinged
in mottled shades of gray and black,
sought only to inveigh.
Dissembled memories puzzle,
viewed dimly from afar—
where motes of recollection dust
swirl in thoughtless disarray.
I stepped within to query,
asked what’s to be done,
but rueful silence was
the sole reply of ones
not only deaf but mute.
Then appeared a trove of treasured books,
pages crisp and white, without a crease—
gatherings firm, oblivious of age.
I lightly touched the gilded words,
their selfsame title: Wisdom: Gift of Time;
the Author’s name was mine.
I nodded, smiled and then withdrew
aware at once of where I was,
secure in all I knew.
1st Place, Portrait of a Poet, Gautami, Phookan
Categories:
rutted, introspection, wisdom,
Form:
Free verse
Hear the clip-clop of iambic beats
Sounds like Shelley with a side of Keats
Is that the scritchity-scratch of a goose quill flickin’
Or just the tippity-tap of some mouse you clickin’..?
So you a prophet poet, regular Marley meets Dylan
Writin’ about oppression and unjust killin’
Shootin' the Sheriff with a Reggae song
Inspirin' your generation with a sing along
A shot of tequila with a wedge of lime
Saddle up and bide your time
Every line don’t need to rhyme
I can give you a million examples
You don't seem like the lyrical type
Kickin' cold turkey with oranges ripe
That's the fruit that rhymes with nothin’
Fresh squeezed it's good for somethin’
Citric flashback, Tang for the brain
Hyperspace wormholes one cannot explain
Sun dippin' below the rim of a rhymeless plateau
Cow skull and cactus, a timeless tableau
In the twilight gloom, a weather-beaten sign
Free Verse Ranch is the place to dine
Gorge on rhyme-free wordplay victuals
Linguistic linguini and cage-free visuals
Specialty of the house: lemon chicken couplet
With a side of mashed onomatopotatoes--plop!
Gravy sloppin’ down slopes like molten lava
Washed down with mugs of fresh-brewed java
Buzzards circlin' the sky in a lazy ellipse
Moon moseyin' in for a total eclipse
Flee in the dark, take a steed for a ride
Jump the split rail fence to the other side
Leap back in time to a buzzin' hive
Looks like the vortex, circa 1995
Can barely think amid the din
Perfect time for the ‘shrooms to kick in
Tie-dyed girl where I left her spinnin' in place
Band still playin' a trippy Drums n Space
But how strange that I cannot feel my face
How did twenty years vanish without a trace?
Tumbleweed twirlin' down the rutted street
Empty rocking chair swayin' skee-reet skee-reet
'Taters still steamin' like a mini-volcano
Room reeks of whiskey stronger than Drano
Spilled orange juice tricklin' a fly-food slurry
Someone cleared outta Free Verse Ranch in a helluva hurry
The clip-clop of iambic beats, Sheriff on my tail
He wouldn't shoot an unrhymed man, would he?
Categories:
rutted, adventure, poetry, word play,
Form:
Rhyme
A faint outline appeared in the early morn
a full moon still shed its light, dark shadows
spread across the land casting an eerie
shadow over the far distant hills.
An old buckboard clattered along a dusty
road bumping roughly over pot holes
washed out by an early winter rain.
The old mule plodded along - ribs
showing from a life of hard work prolonged,
a rather tired animal trudging slowly along
tugging at its heavy load.
The old man sat humped over on the seat,
nodding as though he was asleep.
A low hanging branch served to awaken him as
it slapped sharply against the side of his head
causing him to sit up straight, grabbing his hat
that was about to be shed.
A road traveled more than once,
from the old farm down to the general store,
bumping along on rutted roads, filled with
holes, not a friendly ride it was, but
one that both the rider and mule
had made many times.
On either side of the road rows of tall trees standing straight
with leaves long since gone, the trunks
appearing as gaunt ribs rising up from the ground
much as the old mule appeared,
as it pulled its heavy load quietly by.
The day was cold, a north wind blew, chilling
both with icy fingers that cut to the bone;
but the old man and the mule just plodded along,
going silently down that dusty road bumping
over the ruts and pot holes worn by time and use itself;
two old friends working and waiting, serving out time
as they repeated their daily chores.
Time and work takes its toll,
as man and beast move along
worn and traveled roads
doing never ending chores of old
until the end of a road is finally reached.
Categories:
rutted, life, old, work, old,
Form:
Free verse
("I know full well, if I can tolerate her spirit, I can with ease attach myself to every human being else," so said Socrates! The title is inspired by a proverb)
He married to the fairest of fair shepherdess
The shepherd was much older than the dame
But the fairest of dames was not headless one.
Was given the charge of the house with little money.
Folks knew well she was not quarrelsome wife
But the husband ignored his duties day by day
Wasted time, roaming in the country with sheep a few
Wandering with friends, wondering at God’s creations.
But that didn’t fetch the livelihood of the family
He was in heaven as his wife never scolded him
Silence was her fair jewel, which she always wore
But she kept her sharp tongue intact, never to rut.
A day came, she bemused her silence, mused tongue
Obviously he has to face a wife much younger than him
With rutted tongue, tolerated her tantrums and tongue.
So that with ease he can enjoy his daily lazy routine.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Date 12-16-13
Dr. Ram Mehta
Second place win
Form: Free Verse
Contest: Relate your poem to one of the quotes by Giorgio Veneto
Chosen quote: 1) "By all means, marry. If you get a good wife, you’ll become happy; if you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher."
- Socrates
Categories:
rutted, humorous, marriage,
Form:
Free verse
Big hands taxied me up
to the seat
I took for a cradle
on a back already bent
and filled with rutted lines and bite scars,
his hair was still brown
but in spots,
where the skin panicked for cover,
age sprang up like the General’s venerable gray
and He stood there laughing with the crows
about how regal I looked
with a toy whip in one hand
but how I looked
was unimportant
as we moved my smell bled through
and two aggressive rings flared
and figured me out-
a few more feet and I could feel the unsettling shift
of unhappy weight beneath my reach.
So I held fast
to the great Van Dyke brush
(its fibers and bristle
magnetized from front to back)
with a handle carved
from thick muscle,
that clung for life to the bones
but He did not notice
the flex in the gelding’s arcing neck,
and He must have sneezed, or blinked,
through the vital twitch
that shook
and dissolved into
hyperbolic, bay curves:
when it upset the Dauphin’s new throne
with a weak kick,
everyone was surprised.
Categories:
rutted, animals, forgiveness, nostalgia, me,
Form:
Narrative