Best Tromp Poems
Huddled over that old black radio
waiting for the final announcement
School canceled tomorrow!
Bedtime? We actually have to SLEEP?
Where am I? Is that light coming from...
No-No! Don't look out the window!
Then-how-what-when-where?
Oh me oh my, the door, the front door
Some has swept up onto the porch
And the steps, the steps!
Breathe a deep, icy breath first
Go ahead now, look on out and note
how everything is smothered,
smothered, muffled and quieted
by the blanket that covers all,
covers all but the perfect silence
Breath another deep, icy breath
Go ahead now, step on out
Step out in the yard and note
dainty, delicate bird tracks
And rabbit footprints too?
(How DARE they get here first?)
Fence posts measure how much
Wearing comical, tilted hats
Pesky sprinkles of sleet
tease and tickle my nose
Like a magical wide-awake dream,
familiar yet so unfamiliar
A brand-spanking new kingdom of white
custom recreated just for me
Oh, you BAD little boy!
Will you again tromp out and ruin
Mother Nature's picture of perfection
and forever scar this eternal moment?
Oh yes, I believe you will
Hurry! Get dressed! Now GO
The dawn spoke her name like a silken secret
carried carefree by the tradewinds of lust and larceny
imported from the traderoutes of paradise and pandemonium,
sequined with violet venom she venerates the virtue of volition
her love is unlawful, unequalled in unrest, righteous in conquest,
tender in temptation, torrid your surrender, her beauty a will bender,
Queen of Empire Passion, warrior unknown to submission
her kingdom was not inherited, glory and throne ungifted,
the treasures, stables and territories, battles and crown all won,
rich in intellect, endowed with rare resources, affluent in original passion
bejeweled in natural beauty, she bewitches beasts and men alike,
Poets pen her preciously as Woman Total, Priests implore her pardon,
male servants pander to her anger and ardor, satisfaction she commands,
Sisterhood the symbol and soul of her mission,
I was just a man, a wanderer wading through her reign,
from the unsubdued North I came, a curious traveler with ancient name,
my tribe unfamiliar, underestimated, a Chieftain of steady pulse,
tresspassing towards her roots my aim was direct knowledge of her
woman of renown cunning and learning, woman of exotic ability,
seeking teaching and romance, though I would not be her Subject or victim,
this she knew, this she abhorred, a challenge to her dominance,
I agreed to meet her alone in the open morning of war,
in an abeyounce of gliding fire she comes riding out of the sun
regalia of black roses against red tears flying above her shoulder,
our horses begin a battle tromp, breaths heavy with moist mania
she has leopards in her eyes
poinsettias and death's palms painted on thighs,
scalps of exlovers and enemies slung on sadle
we acknowledge one another with ritual yell
I exclaim, Warrior Poetess, she screams Poet Warrior!
dismounting with mutual vigor our combat erupts
cutting my cheek with her blade's lip
kicking me in the ribs
I clinch her collared throat
and heel trip us to the ground
she snarls, I growl,
a glimpse of rescue in eachother's eyes -
J.A.B.
On the Isle of Skye
Lives Old Man of Storr
A varied and impressive mountain
Featured in tall tales of men of yore
Beauty is all around him
But humble he remains
When one reaches his rim
Miles and miles of glory are attained
Upon his slopes, sheep
Love to skip and romp
Just the environment steep
For their daily tromp
I look out my window
and what do I see?
A blanket of snow
where fields used to be.
This blanket of white
that covers the ground
and glistens at night
is not made of down.
Flakes of snow fall down
from the winter clouds
to form this velvet gown
that lies upon the ground.
You can’t snuggle in it
like a quilt on your bed,
but you can jump in it,
or ride it on a sled.
A graceful brown doe
and a fluffy gray hare
tromp through the snow
leaving many tracks there.
The prints that now show
make a lovely design
in the quilt made of snow,
so fluffy and fine.
You can make a snow angel.
You can make a snowman.
Or you can hold a ball
of snow in your hand.
The stars that shine at night
glisten on the bright snow.
The moon gives off its light
and the blanket seems to glow.
As the sun shines in the sky
and the days grow warm and long,
I have to say good-bye.
The snow blanket now is gone.
Night Garden
On Hollywood Boulevard
Grohman’s Chinese theater, The Walk Of Fame
Awestruck, frantic crowds tromp down the street
A swirl of accents divulge from whence they came
Myth and stark truth clash but rarely meet
A boulevard of tinsel, tourist mecca anointed
Foreign visitors now the sole true attraction
All a hyped-up charade, but no disappointment
Quiet on the set, lights cameras, action!
Remove tourists, hustlers, the Marilyn Museum
Costumed crusaders and peddlers of kitsch
And Hollywood is now just a mausoleum
To a cinematic history dynamic and rich
Just one district out of L.A.’s forty-two
Multi-ethnic, working class, urban blight
Yet in the hearts of dreamers passing through
It remains the movie land of sheer delight
8/1/22
6th Place
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Contest
One of the feelings that I love most, is feeling the sand between my toes.
One of the smells that is precious to me, is the smell of the salt and the sand and
the sea.
Oh how I love feeling the wind, and the sound of waves crashing against the sand.
I close my eyes and still me inside, and just become one with these things.
I yearn most for a heavy forest, with towering tree's and gurgling streams.
I want nothing more than to run with the deer, be friends with the wolf, away from
people, no such thing as cities.
I close my eyes and I am there.
I love nothing more than to tromp through a slough, waist high in mud, and being
warmed by the sun.
To see foxes and and birds and snakes and bugs, those sights and those smells are
things that I love.
Be it ocean, or forest, or slough, those things mean nothing if it means loosing you.
So I stay in this city, a tainted caged place. You're what I love most, and where you
are is my perfect place.
As the storm clouds gather over the sun
A tiny opening lets through beams of light
Still a swirling dark mass like a sea undone
Resting behind are beams of sunlight
Rain is needed and the clouds a delight
They offer protection from the noon's heat
Cover from summer's full sun which is bright
Maybe tonight will be a cooler treat
Despite dark clouds, there's hope for new days
Maybe sunlight for an afternoon tromp
Or some time for water sports and play
An evening filled with much romp and stomp
Dark clouds can be at sometimes aboding
But after the storm life is acclimating
Written: June 30, 2014
Inspired by: Elly Wouterse's Contest
Contest: Encore
...SOUL TUNES...
Regret. It sounds like a drum roll...
Sweat prickling down my forehead,
Leaving the stage now a tempting idea,
There it is…Tuba? Sax? Trumpet!
Outshine? No, just survive is the new goal!
Twice it calls out. Run? Instead,
One arms sweeps, then the other, yeah!
The music sounds, and my body responds.
Don't think. Don't fret. Don't Agonize.
The guitar enters with growing tempo,
Tap. Tap. Kick. Sweep. Tap. Kick. Stomp.
A smile forms, back straightens, arms grow confident.
This is where I belong, that's what I realize.
The tapping increases, and the music begins to slow,
The skirt swirls around as I spin and the stage I tromp,
My feet and music fuse and I can’t help but feel self confident.
Halfway through? Oh my...already?
I am the music now. We are one. Not separate sounds anymore.
Swoosh goes the skirt. Taptaptap. Kick. Stomp. Taptaptap. Kick. Heel.
The trumpets announce the end. Spin slowly.. Arms up. Hold.
My smile broadens. Careful. Keep steady. Steady.
Applause! Powerful, loud…The music I most adore!
It’s not the sounds…But what they make you feel.
Shhh. Just hear it. Let your ears be your eyes and behold.
When one lacks useful experiences
But must keep up with appearances
Tromp on those who know
But soften the blow:
Revoke their Security Clearances!
My wife says I'm her hero
Her knight in shining armor
My tractor is my batmobile
Disguised as a simple farmer
I'll save those chickens from that fox
Each night when the sun goes down
I'll make that chicken coop safe again
For my fame is county renown
I'm known as the garden protector
Those vermin had better take heed
I've even taken a solid oath
To hunt down every weed
My costume is my overalls
Complete with magic boots
I tromp around in cow manure
And kick up stubborn roots
My hideout is a big red barn
Built on bottom land
Protecting all the animals
With a pitchfork in my hand
I met my wife at the farmer's market
She said I was quite the charmer
Of course she didn't have any idea
That she was marrying the Hero Farmer
Christmas dragon got lost on his way to the north pole.
Charming, her crows and her fox tried to help him out.
But he was leery of their seemingly good intentions.
Conniving humans had tried to tromp him and stomp him.
These seemed trustworthy, but he had been fooled before.
IV.
Liesel looked down to the girl by her side,
her brother’s features were perfectly clear,
she hugged the small girl, and her fears vanished,
replaced by a cascade of happy tears.
She look up and cried, “Tell me, what’s your name?
Who is it that care for kids after death?”
The woman replied, “In life I was known
as a Duchess from Munich, Elsebeth.”
Liesel’s eyes went wide with realization,
“I know that name! They say you had twelve children!”
“Thirteen,”she said, “I think that’s why he chose me,
I had experience mothering them.’
Then Liesel frowned, a dark thought occurring,
“If you are dead, and these children are too,
then am I not dead? Is that how I could
pick up your trail and easily follow you?”
Elsebeth saw real fear there in her eyes,
and said, “Do not fear, you are living yet.
He probably let you pick up my trail
so He could find a replacement, I’d bet.
“I have delayed my entry to Heaven,
but even this is a matter of time.
Maybe He wanted you to see all this,
the next caretaker He wanted to find.
“But I wouldn’t let that weight on your thoughts,
you are quite young, and not even a wife,
children and family lay before you,
so go out and live a good, happy life.
“But not right away, we have all this food,
and a bed where you tonight can sleep safe.
Come on children, help me carve up this goose,
another gift of our God’s endless grace!”
And so they did eat, and come the next day,
Liesel hugged her nice before she did depart,
never again could she find that cabin,
though it was never that far from her heart.
And in coming years, when children died young,
and all would sadly tromp out to their grave,
Liesel would look to the woods for the crone,
then give dear Elsebeth a friendly wave.
The redbud covered with lavender
Beauty exposed by a golden sun
Morn's cold damp air saturated
With crows, coos, cheer-up sounds
So pleasant the surroundings
On this cold crisp spring day
Nature offers entertainment
If we stop and look at its display
So grand a visualization
Soft the tunes so grand
Much better than TV's line-up
Mostly the same, all canned
The news either horror stories
Or lies on the political front
A station putting down our leaders
They love to tromp on Trump
Where is the respect for authority
Even if the one who's there deserves none
Should we not respect the office
If you don't like them why don't you run?
I shall not envy the upstart's polished gait,
Or wish myself as old knights in diamonds
Hued to bamboozle familiar souls and eye,
Flattered by aping pals and ersatz blondes.
For swanky gait soon in quiet slumbers lies
In darkest gloom beyond men's urging eyes;
Where kowtowing lip trills no ego-oiling tune
To laud vain legs that all wise sense impugn.
Since old knights and their fabled crystals fall
Into gloomy abysms past all plagiarized cheer,
And their wide glows sheer shifting dreams be;
Which deft poet thereon docks his sailing soul?
As for manipulable eyes and souls of fan-stars,
And idol blondes cued to flatter clumsy knights;
Are not both simple wit and truth strictly averse
To all such visionless ego-trip and short-sights?
Give upstart parvenus and 'knights' whole pomp,
I'll claim the simple logic they so mulishly tromp!
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?
“Why Hast thou”?
My unripe hairy-brain makes its claim
to be the image of its Father.
My vision today
could turn a green leaf brown,
or scorn itself, seeing only
the thoughts that feed it.
Forsaken… The melodrama is delicious.
Why? Why do I tilt my head like a bird
trying to see its reflection in the ocean?
Hast thou, or hast thee not?
In this my ninth hour will I find life
or rot forgot?
How can you bear my accusing stare,
how dare you dare
shatter
an accusatory word with a deep saliferous
silence.
Beetle browed I plow. How can You scorn,
the bully-dog furrow of this my marrow.
I am a borrowed creature poured out
- in water drowned.
Fishbowl eyes ogle the underside
of a mystery leased by onlookers.
Hast thou forsaken
Your own fishing expedition?
Hast thou seen, hast thou fled
the scene, hast thou ever been?
Your quietus plods deadly
upon my waters – my flesh
blooms bad.
Father, my unctuousness bleeds.
Yea, these uncertain breaths
rattle a ribbed-caged bird,
make it sing doleful.
Then as a clabbered lump,
I clump your sacred ground,
tromp it down until I am under it.
As a birds broken wing
flutters now slick with mud, now unbroken
and yet un-fluttering
I am this squelched uttering.
Forsake or string me along - go on!
What is this nothing that attracts
like a woman’s eye’s?
Why don’t You go away,
that I might feel You going,
that I might know
You were once I.
Father hast thou remembered me,
or hast Thou forsaken
your once born?
I hear laughter in the ever-after.
Wilt thou tuck me tight into the long night?
Hast thou misplaced me – unremembered?
Will I blunder yet into the light?