Best Trudged Poems
Biting winds and swirling flakes of snow had finally abated
We surveyed the deep drifts, which lay on the fields
The silvery moon peeped through the clouds and lit our way
It was bitterly cold, but the pitiful sound of bleating spurred us on
Some friends and neighbours had joined us – we had no time to lose!
Grabbing our spades we worked tirelessly throughout the night
Digging out the sheep and tiny lambs one by one
Their fleeces were matted with tiny icicles
As dawn broke we had rescued all but one of our precious flock
Suddenly our trusty sheepdog Shep started barking
We trudged to where he was frantically pawing at the snow
Our hearts lifted as we pulled the final sheep out alive
At last it was time for us to return to the farmhouse
In the distance I could see gold and silver lights sparkling
and scintillating on the Douglas fir tree in church in the village.
I raised my eyes to heaven and gave thanks.
A Winter Poem
Sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Required words
silver, gold, sparkling, flakes, icicles, drifts and spades
12~02~16
The balmy breeze wafted over the prairie,
Where yellow cowslips huddled in patches.
And here and there I heard a whisper echoing:
Love her, love her, love her.
But she seemed deaf and preferred the wounded wind.
How easy it was to forget and never recapture
All my wistful whisper, I would always love you.
Those sweet nothings of past affections.
We no longer trudged the path made up for two.
Forgotten were those bygone days
When we believed that thistledown tufts
Were really friendly fairies in disguise.
Thus she escaped my clutches
And like a unicorn disappearing in an eclipse,
I headed for a dull and empty living
Blaming her uselessly for I still loved her.
Weren't we the product of our time?
We slammed the doors of love in our own faces,
Building woeful walls around us
Painting it with a tinge of misunderstanding,
When we could lead such a colorful life,
Giving our hearts a chance,
Laughing at ourselves.....
And sending a whisper,
a woeful whisper to the moon above.
Placed First
The little girl stood outside the candy store
Pressing her nose against the window
Her lips wet
Trying hard to swallow
What the sight of those candies
Produced in abundance in her mouth...
The liquid anticipation of taste
It had been a long time
Since a candy
Had slowly dissolved
On her playful tongue
Oh, the bliss
Yet she knew….
She could not have one
She looked longing at one particular kind
Her friend had given her just a lick of
Oh…it was so divine
She wanted one…all to herself
Not to share with anyone
To savor…..alone
To savor…long
Tasting every single flavor
That would burst on her tongue
How she wanted it
To fill her mouth with sticky sweetness
To help her forget
The bitterness of her days and nights
A little tear trickled down her cheek
Slowly she pulled herself away
And trudged on past the candy store
Perhaps, she was just not meant
To have certain treats
She smiled through her tears
As she kicked a stone aside
Now that she had seen it
At least she could dream
Of floating away
On sugary cotton candy clouds
Of wispy pink
Savoring in her mouth
the glorious sweetness
Of her forbidden treat
Eileen Manassian Ghali
hanging in the air
humidity’s heaviness . . .
the river’s slow crawl
On the Mississippi lies the beautiful little city where I once lived. How many times I trudged up inclined streets; or leaning forward, red-faced and panting, pressed up slopes with all my might, feet on pedals of my purple Sting-ray bike, urging myself not to dismount prior to reaching glorious level ground! The damp beneath my clothing in those days was a given. Simply stopped to rest. . . sipping pop underneath a tree, I would often feel rivulets of sweat that trickled down beneath my underarms, a surfeit which caused circle stains to appear beneath the arms of short-sleeved shirts or on Sundays, beneath the flowered dresses that I wore to church. However, despite the heat’s discomfort, it was summer, after all!
counting down the days
until the school bell’s last ring -
a fling with summer
Released from stifling classrooms for vacation, I eagerly embraced the sun. . .and how I played! Kickball with the neighbors, visits to the city pool with my sisters and friends, bike rides to parks or into town, where I spent my allowance on records and treats, and hours racing eagerly through the pages of Nancy Drew books in front of a cooling fan - all these things consumed me.
It was in the month of August, and more than a decade of muggy summers later that I found myself transplanted in a desert. As if thrust into a giant pre-set oven with a noose about my neck, I learned firsthand the meaning of “slow roast.” Here, in the new and different place where I've now lived most of my adult life, the heat can leave one with a burn like acid watered down, a deep sensation lingering in skin long after sun has left the sky. Perspiration may just evaporate before it has a chance to wend its way along the body’s contours. Discomfort notwithstanding, there’s no pain. Acclimated to these summers now, I find that it is easier for me to breathe in August heat than it was the first time I’d ever encountered it. Released from stifling work, I go outside into the oven, pen in suntanned hand!
sunshine reflections
so many summers have passed
writing till twilight
He stood shivering in the biting cold
Shreds of dirty, flimsy clothes clung to his frame
All around his fellow skeletons huddled
Waiting for the inevitable walk to that sinister place
His wait had been longer than most
He had been subjected to terrible cruelty
He had seen all of his friends and family go
Yet in his mind he had remained free
His physical torment seemed detached when lost in his memories
His little girl chasing her puppy in the bright sunshine
Friends and relatives around the festive table laughing, chatting, eating
Walking hand-in-hand with his beloved around the moonlight lake
But the freezing wind jolted him back to the hellish reality
He looked towards the barbed-wire fence which bounded his world
There sat on the top wire was a little bird
It sang the sweetest of tunes seemingly just for him
It looked at him as it sang with such innocence
And then with a flutter of its tiny wings
It swooped towards him, turned and glided back over the fence
It pecked at the hard earth before flying into the woods beyond
He knew it was his time
Into that building he trudged
But he had a strange sense of elation
Closing his eyes at last he was free
The morning light shone brightly
The little bird was at his side
It guided him on as they soared through the sky
With the shackles of hell cast aside freedom now prevailed
He and the little bird would never go back to that place again
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To commemorate the liberation of Auschwitz on 27 January 1945.
My ordinary life -
like the plain stretching across the region of my birth,
has been for the most part
rather smooth.
Though sometimes on my path, I’d encounter hills,
they were few and were not difficult
to get over.
One day on my travels when I was still young
I came across a man who, like a majestic mountain,
would take my breath away.
He captured my attention completely,
distracting me from all the normal things
my plain life had entailed.
When he smiled, it was as if
the sun were peeking over him
in golden splendor.
Madly in love with him I fell,
and every day I worshiped at the mountain.
This was a short phase in my life -
a time of pure enchantment but also woe.
I behaved as if I were a stream, a babbling school girl
murmuring with joy for a while
as I meandered
the mountain’s pleasant aspects,
but one day my meandering came to a halt.
Coming to a cliff’s edge, I became a waterfall
frothy with madness as
I plunged
to the rocks below.
Picking myself up, I had to turn my back
to the glorious mountain.
A final look at him, and I saw the red sun sinking
into June’s cool night.
Finding my way back to the plain, I trudged.
At the mountains of madness, I’d known something -
something I had foolishly mistaken for love.
Other mountains wait there, for me, for you,
for almost anyone who desires to find one.
But since my later summer years and in my fall,
I’ve kept walking on the plain,
for it is truly, after all,
my heart land.
for the But it was not real Poetry Contest of Lewis Raynes
For many years I trudged along
(but in my heart there was a song)
through life’s hard game of give and take;
my muse once sleeping is awake.
The rhymes inside were always there,
but never had a thought to share;
kept to myself for prudence sake;
my muse once sleeping is awake.
Then one day Debbie did suggest
these rhymes be shared with all the rest,
to have these thoughts is no mistake;
my muse once sleeping is awake.
Now ink flows freely from my pen,
and graces parchment now and then;
she’s always here with rhymes to make;
my muse once sleeping is awake.
July 15, 2019
Poem of the Day - July 17, 2019
In the crepuscular halcyon sunset, bells tolled urging
the desultory audience to attend the sermon of the new pastor.
Despite their cynical sentiments, they dared not absent themselves.
The look of visceral satisfaction on the pastor’s face
was unmistakable. Outside light became penumbra,
Still, men and women trudged towards the chapel
as the dirge-like bells faded into silence. His audience was silent too.
He spoke in a sonorous voice, in an opulent resonant poetic vein,
an exuberant style which was to be his familiar characteristic:
Unbridled jealousy is a sin, he intoned, so speak no evil, my friends.
The interpretation of the listeners is FICTION. Still the advice is correct.
I trudged to levy height, stood upon the soggy ground
with serious intentions that an answer would be found
To the river's rapidly flowing current, I confided my woes
of troubling things that had me in the doldrums of lows
Haunting problems, compelling me to leave and move on
Leading me to this river as if I were crossing the Rubicon
It's not my nature to feel caught between stay or take flight
but in desperation I stood, entreating the river of my plight
Willows on the bank, limbs swaying in the wind, listening—
weeping for my addled mind? In moonlight, tears glistening?
Do they whisper to the river what they'd suggest to me?
If I cross the bridge, then burned behind me it shall always be
My fate lies not on the telling of tree leaves or a river's flow
Two options I discern— should I cross the Rubicon and go?
Should I submit my heart and soul to the dreams of another
and live with wondering, "What if..." Only to die smothered?
It's the moment of truth — a decision too long have I delayed
Perhaps into the roiling river current, my steps should wade
By doing so, I'd avoid making the wrong choice of tribulations
having no need for explanations for my grievous lamentations
Cold the winter's sun, in haze enveloped
Ice crystal's daggers atop the glistening snow
Still his once-beating heart, portals shuttered
Stopped his proud shoulders, in the face of the storm
Ice crystal's daggers atop the glistening snow
Trudged he onward, relentless, destiny unknown
Stooped his proud shoulders, in the face of the storm
Sought he a sign, an omen, so hope could grow
Trudged he onward, relentless, destiny unknown
Eye-tearing winds gathered around him
Sought he a sign, an omen, so hope could grow
As twilight drew closer, no let-up of snow
What was this, in his path, a flower did bloom
As night descended, his heart beat anew
He inhaled of the flower, his face lit up, all aglow
His shoulders again straight, hope did they show
As night descended, his heart beat anew
Ice crystal's daggers atop glistening snow
His shoulders again straight, hope did they show
Marched he onward, defiant, atop glistening snow
A magic mirror told the queen that Snow White was the fairest in the land!
This put Her Majesty in a terrible snit and to the woods she had her banned!
She hired a hit man to have Snow White slain but he'd have none of that!
He let her go and she trudged along a path and came upon this run-down flat.
She rapped upon the door and hearing no answer stealthily crept inside.
Snow White had never seen such clutter - such a mess she could not abide!
She grabbed a broom, mop and pail and began to swab and dust and sweep.
Weary from her labors she climbed the stairs, found a bed and fell asleep!
The unlikely denizens of the little shack worked in the local diamond mine.
'Twas a 'Grimm' looking lot wending their way home through towering pine.
Dopey the younger, Doc the intellectual, Bashful, he with the coy pose,
Drousy Sleepy, crabby Grumpy, pudgy Happy and Sneezy with finger to his nose!
The little munchkins arrived home to find this beautiful creature in their bed!
She awoke rubbing sleep from her eyes, stared in disbelief and nearly fled!
Eventually, Snow White became a mother figure to that chaotic, motley crew!
She tucked them in bed, cooked their grub and settled beefs when fisticuffs flew!
Each morn the dorks shouldered tools heading for the pit to earn their dough,
Singing a quaint song they made famous, "Hi ho! Hi ho! Its off to work we go!"
Mister Disney made this classic film in 1937 when I was but a mere child!
Even today in my dotage, watching it with my grandkids, I'm still beguiled!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tied for First Place in Linda Marie's "Disney" Contest - August 2011
I wrote a great book, part memoir, part novel
Shopped it around, I ain’t too proud to grovel
Got kicked upstairs to a big publishing head
He invited me in, and here's what was said:
This screed you call Crack House of the 13 Gables
Is one long rant mixed with recycled fables
It wanders aimlessly, but never resolves
Characters pop out of nowhere, then simply dissolve
But the symbolism, sir, allow me to explain
The Victorian parlor represents pathos and pain
In the attic are mothballed broken dreams and betrayals
It's gonna shift your paradigm right off its rails
It’s a thousand-page odyssey into the surreal
The hedge maze is where all 14 sub-plots congeal
Enough! The only reason I called you in, punk
Is to meet the lunatic who scribbled this junk
So I slunk away, not a little dejected
Ain’t much fun being literarily rejected
Trudged back to my grueling, stale coffee grind
Working 15-hour days, going out of my mind
Then one day I met an old pal for some beers
Hadn't seen him in quite a few years
I told him about my rejection slip wrangle
He said buck up, you just need the right angle
I like reading novels, now don’t get me wrong
But writin' 'em, man, that just takes too damn long
And what a huge risk, 16 years you devoted
For no payday at all, just your ego imploded
There's no need to pen the next Moby Dick
Try something short, now that is the trick!
So, I thanked my friend for his most sage advice
And took it to heart without thinkin' thrice
And now I am back as a voice for the ages
Except I'm makin' my mark in far fewer pages
I write sound bites and maxims and pithy remarks
T-shirt slogans and jokes, I just do on a lark
I bang out poems and lyrics at the drop of a hat
Dash off 17 syllables in ten seconds flat
Haikus by the bunch
Cook up a batch before lunch
Put that in your pipe
____________________________
For Humor Contest
Sponsored by: Carol Eastman
when life’s path
was wide and long
our dreams and goals
were one and strong
we got engaged
and then we wed
and opened doors
that lay ahead
and when rules changed
in life’s great game
we changed our ways
but stayed the same
we ran down hills
and trudged up sands
to grasp the new world
in our hands
we brought a child up
to expect
those things in life
that we respect
we basked in fun
and swam through tears
and won and lost
between the years
all
these lines
upon this
page
tell of
times
and
tell
of
age
yet love's stayed strong
the whole way through
beyond that young land
we once knew.
Ode to the Unsung Hero
I salute the devotee of his craft
who diligently pursued perfection
with no recognition
but remained true to himself
and trudged along but lost
to the dynamics of politics and the bottom line
He was not in his time and space
of Fame
I lift my glass to her , the Fool
who trusted them with her better idea
only to lose it anyway
but remained true to herself
she knew not how to play
the devious Game.
To the saints unselfish
who cared for humankind
but were overshadowed
by fanatics religious, emirs and kings
Heaven was not theirs
to Claim
The writer not read
and the artist well dead
the writers of music
and the musicians who longed
to play their songs
and share in their glory
but not to be.
So let us applaud them loudly
they remained true to themselves
let them bask in the sunshine
if for only a brief time
or at least until
the sun goes down.
Mid Summer Standard Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
July 18, 2017
TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE
I’m giving up, can’t take no more, I’ve reached the final straw,
How do you find a flamin’ job when you’ve turned fifty-four,
I’ve knocked on nigh a thousand doors and trudged a million miles,
To find me name pushed into draws, in the unwanted files.
But with all me money run out, and me life stuck in a hole,
Me ego has to disappear, and I must sign up for the dole,
This is the worst day in me life, I’m embarrassed to the core,
Standing at a counter waiting for the bloke to hear me score.
I introduced meself and told him straight “I don’t want the dole,
I really want to find a job, and that’s me utmost goal,
I’m sick of handling regimes, then being told ‘so long!’
Mate I really, really want a job…‘sit down’ money is so wrong!”
“Well! Your timing is amazing” Said the fella with a grin,
“A job that might be right for you, has just been penciled in,
A wealthy bloke now wants a chauffeur, to drive his flashy car,
And you must be a bodyguard, for his nymphomanic daughter”.
“Clothing will all be supplied, and with long hours for this work
All your meals will be provided free…yes, there is another perk,
Three holidays upon the Gold Coast are provided every year,
And your salary will not be less, than two hundred grand a year”.
I must admit that I was silenced by the offer that he read,
But wary ‘bout his cushy job, so that is why I said,
"I think you’re talking garbage mate, and bull crapping quite a bit”.
Then he replied with just a nod. “Yeah, well you bloody started it!”