Best Trifled Poems
A Time of Bliss
Love’s a mystery to everyone falling under its magical spell,
And it would be natural to think we all know it so very well.
But with emotions ripe and afire in this special time of bliss,
It’s easy for those so smitten not to sense something amiss.
Love’s a most potent alchemy enchanting at once one’s soul,
And when it’s returned in kind it makes one’s life quite whole.
The pure passion that love excites is beyond all earthly compare,
Which makes it an emotive force not subject to any trifled dare.
Love’s a time of bliss when a couple’s very love melds them as one,
And affairs of the heart shape their fate as two souls form as one.
This is the moment when lovers rejoice in such unbridled pleasure,
When each knows they’ve found a love so rare for eternity to treasure.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved – February 1, 2015
(Rhymed Quatrain)
Maternal love is not to be trifled with ~
it's in all little touches and knows no bounds
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Jam roly poly, treacle sponge
And sticky toffee pudding head the top of my list
But apple pie, rhubarb crumble
Or a decent cheesecake are hard to resist
Banana splits, eclairs or brownies
Dumplings, nougat, cheese board or mousse
Crème brûlée. Fruit cocktail. Yoghurt
Serve it up and set me loose!
Rice pudding, Christmas pudding
Let me say it loud and clear
Summer pudding, Eve's pudding
Figgy pudding - bring it here
Cottage pudding, Diplomat pudding
Pancakes served throughout the year
Plum pudding, mango pudding
Put it on a plate and cheer
Hasty pudding, Saxon pudding
Vanilla pudding, chocolate pud
Yorkshire pudding filled with treacle
Make winter evenings warm and good
Sussex Pond pudding, sweet biscotti
Semolina (if that counts?!)
Panna cotta, profiteroles
Gâteaux. Meringues in any amount
I guess spotted dick is a bit of a worry
But to bread and butter pudding, I say "bring it on!"
I could plan on a flan, or a lardy cake
Or butter with glee my scone or scon'
Mince pies, cobblers, baklavas, strudels
Loaves and pastries - all tell a story
Even blancmange has a heritage
To match or beat our knickerbocker glory
There's fruit tarts, jam tarts, custard tarts, egg tarts
Milk tarts, cheese tarts, butter tarts too
Tarts from Manchester, Liverpool and Bakewell
French tarts, Jamaican tarts - to name but a few
Buns from Chelsea, cakes from Eccles
Wafers and muffins from all over the place
Doughnuts filled with jam or chocolate
Made to squirt on your shoulder or face
Strawberries & Cream, Eton Mess
Artic rolls and brandy snaps
Trifles should always be trifled with
If laced with sherry - it's a perfect nightcap
Sorbets leave the palate tingling
Fritters fritter your cares away
Waffles and crêpes warm the spirit
And sundaes are perfect for every day
So, whatever we may call them -
Be it puddings, sweets, desserts or afters
They taste best when shared with company
Served with a spoon, a smile and laughter
Bow the great dragons, unto the mighty,
Ruler under heaven.
The divine master's iron heel, lies upon the
Serpents neck.
For brilliance illusion a golden throne shines,
Blinding those whom refuse to see the truth.
The trail leading unto the river of blood,
Streaming across a ruined country side.
Striking powers scepter against angers,
Weakest point his own peoples innocent
Beliefs.
How did this tyrant usurper create such,
Beauty with arrogance strangle hold??
A rampaging tiger tightly grappling,
All ends of a concord nation.
Tarring it's inner seams until it bleeds,
Internally leaving it unable to breathe.
Push wide the ancient gates, and behold,
The forbidden city of crimson red.
Sky pillars an archway, holding seemingly,
Up the very heaven's themselves.
In awed amazement beneath the great steps
Of China towards Beijing’s southern most edge.
Lies a glittering palace, of opulence greedy design.
Honor bound at royal bidding's commend,
Living china dolls, porcelain ladies of finest
Quality, his majesty’s playthings.
Green emerald eyes, flash enticing mortals,
To venture beyond safety's threshold.
Meet certain doom for those whom,
Trifled between temptations desire to satisfy,
Lusts insatiable thirsts.
Or honors sacred trust between master and servant.
The lion guards his holy temple ready to strike,
With sharp talons drawn.
Drinking the blood of his vanquished enemies.
But falls unto shame as blackness vail descends
Casting his dark soul unto the four winds of
Destiny.
Even in deaths wake, split by thunder, and
Lightning’s mighty quake.
Doesn't the poised hood cobra lie in wait
To protect this his sacred garden,
In the land of the rising sun.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
It was dark and dreary, and the dawn had not yet
begun to break, as I walked down the steps
to fetch the paper while my family slept.
A hint of a breeze wafted through the trees,
dawn's early light was not yet in sight.
A slight movement appeared from the corner of my eye,
something stirred, a slight crunching-like sound was all I heard.
A cat, a small animal of sorts, hard to see,
moving closer it became clear,
another of those nocturnal mammals, armored carriers
of that age old scourge was rooting by my tree.
Back in the house and out again with light and rifle
I set out to prove I was not someone with whom to be trifled.
A shot in the dark went over his head,
caused a sudden jerk out of the bed,
he turned and glared with steely eyes
and lowered his armored head,
and charged straight at me
as though to say, 'you're going to be dead'.
With gravel flying up the drive he came
like an armored freight train.
A look in the eye such as I have never seen
determined to chase me from the scene.
The crack of the rifle, again..and then again -
and he lay where he fell...with no other sound to tell.
No more will this creature from the Mesolithic age
destroy my lawn, but if truth be known;
where there is one......another on his own, soon will come.
Wouldst, such mortal traverse the crags of Ne'ermere tails,
tis a grayest hour whence Luna's twilight flits her crown whipped
freed of mnemonic shimmers.
Hail winds bade the cliffs fond too well,
the forest dwelleth quietude, erring not to wake ired beasts.
The Black fog rose amidst digits crag,
gorging deeply in a slithering bout,
its murky poking hazing to edge's where hast steep crevices befallen
debris burdens.
Forgiven enemies miserably hast to but exclaim vapid
excuse faltering, absent of morals that yield despair
heightens.
Invasive spirit's of Ne'ermere hatha steered lost souls to the steppes,
to the moors.
The ambling blood moon followed a selection of bane thoust chose for
dying, fast coming.
Inky's inscript on columbine petals are guarded riddle,
steeped in thine devil's brew of concoctions.
Constant a stirring from tri-conjurers and duo warlocks
of ruin, loss, and havoc--locals all of Ne'ermere.
A daring wraith bidst the gifts amassed of bless souls,
the voids of trifled entities of a doomsday.
Shortening the navigated souls in their mortal state of decay,
their tenuous grasp of wilted massive fibrous veins.
Remnants of a vigorous life surrender to their authentic demise via a
hall between perishing slow or death's blow.
Truly, a proper act of granting reassemblage their formers,
Earth's finality prompt sail to the sunrise of the ancients,
and a warriors welcoming.
Ghosts are also called Spirits - this is something I know about.
They're part of my Spirituality - in this there is no doubt!
A Psychic can contact Ghosts with a pendulum, Ouija board, or by going into a trance.
And if you are properly attuned - of these Ghosts you could get a glance!
If you're meant to see them - then you assuredly will.
And if you're not really ready - your heart may for a moment be still.
I am not afraid of Ghosts - for they can teach us too.
Or give us messages from the other side - if them we are due.
On Samhain when the veil between the world's is the thinnest.
There are many Ghosts around - in the valleys, mountains, and even the mists.
At the end of the Samhain rituals - we leave these Ghosts food and drink.
To keep them out of mischief - as back to the Summerlands they go with a wink.
Ghosts are not to be trifled with - so keep your wits about you!
Understand Ghosts, do lots of research on them too.
Seeking them out should not be a TV show or a game.
For if you do this wrongly - they may haunt you - then you only have yourself to blame!
BOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!
Love
Love is not a game you see, it can happen to anyone not just you and me.
It can rule your heart and also your head, It can prevail over hate and also dread.
It makes your heart skip a beat and without warning can sweep you off of your feet.
It’s gestures it’s feelings are not to be trifled the look from a loved one can leave us stifled.
I recall our early life together:
we were primitive little savages
when it came to matters of Heart –
needy and wanting, demanding and
all insatiable – the envy of older, far
wiser~ those drained Sophisticates,
reduced to salivating voyeurs.
And though life has
yearly ripened us, you are still
my Honey Pot...and I your dangling
Plum of Sugar.
Finely tuned hearts
are really priceless, and ageless.
And love was meant to be trifled with,
when realized to be fearless, thoroughly
explored, elastic~ sensing tender Eternity
shared....
During
the teadance-
she trifled with
his affections for
trinket
I walk a fine line of love and misery.
As quiet sadness pervades my thought.
And the love I have is a gamble upon my sanity.
But I know this love is no ficklery.
This feeling is more powerful than any drought.
It's the only thing that brings out my humanity.
I hurt knowing I won't be able to be with you.
But at the same time I want to make you mine.
All I want to do is give up, since what can I, offer you.
At night I cry knowing that I've finally found true love just to let it go like dew.
Because I'm not good enough for you I never will be not in a 100 years time.
In poetry, I express the way I know best.
That garbage can be recycled
That burning fossil fuel kills, it's past that test
Pollution, with life it has trifled.
How many words must a poet write,
To convince all, that the world is dying
Life is at the end of the line, too late for crying!
How many miles of smiles I have walked
Gone back to find them all missing
To lectures, I've gone talked, and talked
I don't think anyone was listening
How many words must a poet write,
To convince all, that the world is dying
Life is at the end of the line, too late for crying!
Pollution, I'm sure I've written a book, an anthology
Topics: Recycling, deforestation and fossil fuel
I've no degrees, but I've got a grade in biology.
Whats wrong with man, he should not nature duel.
How many words must a poet write,
To convince all, that the world is dying
Life is at the end of the line, too late for crying!
The end of the line, a Stephen Hawkins write
600 years all life will be gone, burned
Climate change, pollution both killing life!
Will we ever learn, NO, why have we never learned?
How many words must a poet write,
To convince all, that the world is dying
Life is at the end of the line, too late for crying!
O how I wish he is wrong, but why would he be lying
For if he's right there will be a blowing in the wind.
It's not too late, we might just stop the world dying.
Help nature to help her, the threat to life rescind.
How many words must a poet write,
To convince all, that the world is dying
Life is at the end of the line, too late for crying!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
9th December 2017
Entered in 'End of the line-contest - Poetry Contest', sponsored by John Hamilton
Santa Clauses were to be molten and reshaped into Holy Cross bunnies
on a mega 3D printer but then the app somehow went wrong
Chocolate trickled and trifled and mixed with fake season’s greetings
King Kong and Godzilla leaped off the assembly line with
Witches on lolly pop brooms and then the whole show went viral
Mephistopheles aliens with marshmallow ears danced merrily
Suddenly truffle snakes in seductive icing sugar bikinis tested tempted
cotton sugar candy apples as big as paradise vowed and allowed
They all swirled swished and tumbled to cacophonous tunes that had
to be labelled as retro and neo-modern-classical rap-sorties
At the exit of malfunctioning malls the Easter display went a tad pear-shaped
as soon as the rabbits slipped out of their hats and mounted the chickens
The mistress and master of ceremonial clangour had at problem at hand
and some egg on their faces thus they squirted and squinted
They pondered and squandered with no solution untouched for the task
how to make more profits and be politically correct just the same
‘Megalomania’ and ‘Mega-High-Money’ the respective CEO’s of ‘Turn water into
wine’ and the start-up ‘Chocolate Merry Go Round for the Soul’
Could not fail in this venture as not to have their heathen bonuses
dissolved into cocoa mousse splash
After meetings and brain storms pilot studies and polls they decided to craft
a whole new religion (the Independent Unseasonal Reformed Epiphanists)
Fortunately the United Philistines of Consumption were too busy to notice that
the newly created faithful were simply rehashing an old dogma of money
What a shame that those lovely chocolate coins have gone out of fashion and
That Buddhists would not want their spiritual model to melt under the fig tree
09th April 2018 Written for the contest Easter 2018
The Ole Saint,
holy thou-est be,
the Ole Sinner,
caught in wildness, what he sees.
Ye Ole Pietist,
invisible to many, a cross stands out front,
ye Ole Sinner,
placed solely n' back, visible but is shunt.
That Ole Saint,
the Bible in hand, a cabal of covenant they stand,
and the Ole Sinner,
trifled, no supplement, life lost n' feeling replaced.
One Saint, One Sinner,
the latter no soul to save?
former to zeal, holy water embraced,
Can they be one in the same?
Yes, Let the salvation bell ring!
Razorblade © 2012
I have seen this before
A fledgling spark stifled
At birth
I have been here before
When mused words trifled
With no worth
When my knees gingerly fell to the floor
Softly they begged and shuffled
At the slamming door
And I sought the windy south
But the spark waxed weak and worn
Two lovers stood lorn
A spurned poet, and a petulant muse