Best Trundle Poems
I long to fold my eyes and softly creep
beside the brook of fancy, as it flows
to tumble off my trundle bed and sleep
and dip the stardust with my drowsy toes
within the world of reverie and dreams
I cast my cares, like nets, upon the sea
so woven as the moon, within its beams
imagination's breadth, now comes to be
with all the dreamy pathways that I stroll
the routes are always varied, always new
and still, each destination brings its toll
as all my sojourns find their way ... to you
but I would ne'er deny my heart that ache ...
if only you'd come with me ... when I wake.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Most Comments Received Poem 2018" Poetry Contest, July Morning, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Sleepwalking" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Sponsor & Judge.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Contest Number 470 Any Form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor & Judge.
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
Dedicated to My Darling Son, My Kyle the Smile
There was no joy when I gave birth,
scary words kept getting worse.
When my baby boy was born
every face was quite forlorn.
He came fresh from our Creator
to be placed in an incubator.
I could not take him in my arms
or shelter him from any harms.
Doctors all had dooming words.
Negativity was all I heard,
“He may never… and he may not ….”
Oh, how I prayed this would stop.
He was two days old when I was told
I could finally lay eyes on his face.
Tubes and wires were every place
in a sterile, see through trundle,
where laid my precious bundle.
Suddenly, I felt a sign and less sad
because my son looked like my Dad,
who had amazing, sure willpower.
I couldn’t have heard God any louder,
saying, "like your Dad, your son’s a fighter."
And fight he did, my beautiful son,
my heart, my love, my special one.
For three months he grew and thrived
defeating all odds of staying alive.
Then on hospital day sixty-five,
he came home on his first ride.
Variations on the Malay Pantun : The Old Man and the Short Story (Continued)
for Georges VOISSET, the "Master Keeper-Nurturer" of the Malay Pantun
Check out: www.stateless.mysite.com/Pantouns-20-Aout-2017.pdf
(The pantun line varies between 8 and 12 syllables and is most commonly found in the anonymous quatrain form. Cf " Poietics of the Pantun ", pp. 49-67 in T. Wignesan. Sporadic Striving amid Echoed Voices, Mirrored Images and Stereotypic Posturing in Malaysian-Singaporean Literatures. Allahabad : Cyberwit, 2008, xix-244p.)
IV
During the intervals of the play the actors
Spy on older folk queueing outside the lone loo
The Wench in the hall twists and turns on spectators
Not so the Youngster his pen stiff in the igloo
V
Middle-aged couples in the audience flick through
The programme not reading even the title page
Long years since they thumbed dog-ear-ed novels stuck in glue
Not so the Youngster who jumps high from page to page
VI
Old Men trundle back to their seats trailing wet patches
Not regretting over-coat flirts with hat-check Wench
Old people read novels in bed but in snatches
Not so the Youngster who throws into works his wrench
© T. Wignesan - Paris, November 10, 2018
RIDING THE TRAIN
Catchin' the train to the city makes an interesting day
Peak hours all the workers going to earn their pay
Many nationalities all different in their own way
And then there's the trains always a delay
I silently watch as I sit alone
Many of them busy on their phones
One calls for a ride they're nearly home
Another rejects a call number unknown
An elderly couple sit near the doors
Shopping trundle in hand, out to the stores
One another they obviously adore
Weekly shopping to them is no chore
A young man with headphones sits down below
Tapping his feet to the radio
Looks like a student with a portfolio
Maybe Art he looks like Michelangelo
A middle aged woman above takes a seat
Dressed impeccably she's extremely neat
As she sits you can see her physique
Very fit but oh so petite
A group of young students are making a noise
Some other passengers it really annoys
One of them says 'Can you be quiet please Boys'
But they just get worse and increase their voice
A mum with a pram and a child in tow
Pointing through the doors at the arched rainbow
The child sits on a seat looking out the window
Mum's in a hurry but the trains' on a go slow
The end of the day and I'm heading home
A busker at the station plays his xylophone
The station manager speaks into a speaker phone
It's amazing the walks of life a train ride has shown!
Fields swayed with golden rye
As on my bike, I trundled by.
A gentle breeze cooled my brow
As I passed some languid cows.
Some lay down, chewing cud
Some sought shade, where they could.
The searing sun stilled the air
On I rode, without a care.
Through the sun drenched countryside
Immersed in nature on my ride.
Sweet sweet music, cheered me on
As little birds sang me a song.
Then a fisherman I past,
His arms aloft in hopeful cast.
On gossamer line his fly sped out
A tempting morsel for a trout.
I gave a wave, then on I went
The sun beat down without relent.
But oh, the joy of a cycle ride
Through the English countryside.
No fairer day could be had
What could a heart be, but glad
To trundle verdant country lanes
On and on, in happy vein.
Café Watch
Sitting in a café, watching life pass by.
People rushing into shops; important stuff to buy.
Groups of foreign workers, stopping, shaking hands;
Local people bustling by – can’t interrupt their plans.
Outside, a lonely busker tries hard to make a splash,
But in these post-pandemic days, so few folks carry cash.
Dads and pregnant mums-to-be battle kids and buggies.
Squalling children at their sides; prams piled high with Huggies.
Faces fixed on mobile phones; hand-held gods adored;
Devoted to devices that their owners can’t afford.
Lunatics on bicycles intimidate, unchecked;
Maximum discourtesy, minimum respect.
Fitness freaks in sandwich boards try to drum up trade,
But no-one wants gym membership – don’t want to be delayed.
Pretentious coffee drinkers sip their frappé-choca-mochas,
While obese men in football shirts spout nonsense about soccer.
Invalids and elderly trundle by on scooters.
Workaholics sit at tables, glued to their computers.
Market traders, thin on ground, do their best to trade,
Looking glum and hopeless at the pittances they’ve made.
People come and people go; things go on much the same,
Slipping in and out of sight within a narrow frame.
For casual observers there is so much to descry;
Whilst sitting in a café, watching life pass by.
Transitional Tears
A r d u o u s day, both sunny and gloomy.
the payment sought — a trundle of great worth.
My tender eyes in t r a n s i t i o n a l tears —
the dew of pink and blue as I give b i r t h.
6/7/2018
Spenserian sonnet
To Trundle Beach we turn to find our fun
with fam'ly on vacation ev'ry June.
Relaxing, romping, ready for some sun,
we traipse the trails with youngsters before noon
then nestle down for babys' naptime croon.
We find the time for each of our four boys,
yet treasure time alone, a honeymoon.
It's tough adjusting to the constant noise.
When adolescents share their digi-toys
we feel our age; they show us how to text.
No way we can compete with cyber joys.
We've pondered year by year, "What can come next?"
When June has passed and gone, we beg for rest
with mixed emotions, we leave Trundle blessed.
April 2, 2012
From claggy Bedders and Hornets hump,
From Cordell, Laws and Radar.
We trundle merry like a thump
To see Fab Adies sock.
In hoodie cloves and clippy breeze;
In Disco Dave we pledge.
I chortle like a tuneless wheeze
To see Bad Adie rock!
On Kunterblanche we make our name,
A pallet one and all,
Then Turb into myself again
To see Mad Adies frock.
Ah, the "daily grind" ...
spin, spin, the big stone wheels,
the weighty rollers of life trundle on, inexorable ...
the intense churn of actuality cares not what finds its press -
Grain or chaff, peril or promise, all at its mercy.
But the painful grind is necessary ... crucial, even.
The crushing weight of verity, growth and wisdom,
creates a process as elemental as breath itself.
The fruitful heart is often hidden ...
within shells of bad habit, error, affectation, and pretense,
so the glorious honesty of a spirit, often bears a hard exterior.
Society and happenstance create phony skins ...
Brittle but strong husks of falsehood that we hide behind,
that we tend to use incorrectly as tools of ease and deflection.
Only through the braying of truth and reality
is the resistant and distorted hull broken down ...
And the wealth and bounty inside, set free.
Yes, the daily grind is real ... and not to be taken lightly,
but it is, as life itself ...
our brutal and beautiful blessing.
~ 4th Place ~ in "The Gristmill" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "June 2018 Standard Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor.
He floats along in his porcelain tub
on an evening sea of gold
and the ruby eyed fish wink at the child
as he shivers alone in the cold
In his nightshirt of cotton
he baits his small hook
with a heart that he picks from a pail
and raises the bed sheet
he dragged from his room
to give his wee ship a red sail
and the dolphins do smile
as they watch the young lad
when he drops the heart in the deep
for he wants to catch a seahorse prince
to ride and gallop and leap
the lady of evening encircles the boat
and strokes the child's soft head
then lifts him right up and carries her charge
back to his warm trundle bed
and dreams of the night in the little blue boat
are tucked away in a drawer
as the angel of sweet dreams tip toes away
and silently closes the door...
Naked to Nurture. Naked, to Nurture.
Why not naked into woods?
We yank up gumboots.
Enshroud our piggies in wicking and itching sockbags.
Hoping to holdfast against the forfeiture of bought heat.
The city slickers in their shiny slickers
clasp and buckle, zip and bundle
before they trudge and trundle
into the Great Unlabeled, the alien birthright.
An undershirt, a tank, a tee, and then an overthing!
And this in Spring, in Summer. Winter's another thickening:
strappings wrapping trappings, coalgulable clottings clogging
scarf-shrouded and unceremonious cerements.
The gloves, if cold or wet. The hat and muffs, if blustering.
We insulate ourselves from the uninsulated.
Remove ourselves from that which we aim to enter.
To re-enter. To be received by. Naked as we came, now
at our peril, apparently apparelled in unparalleled antiferalelry.
Each civilized entrant into sylvan realms-
textile banished for fear of cold,
for fear of wet, for fear of dirt.
The mind must first give up its notions
of propriety to hope to slake the self in the
sunlit and secreted shimmerings of sanctity.
Be bare of sole, skin to wind.
Be bare of soul, Yin to begin.
Why not naked into woods?
they do, so certainly, come naked...
into us.
Oh, happy are the people who
have loads of chums, both old and new,
who stop and pass the time of day,
or join them when they dine and play.
And yet the luckiest, by far,
are those who know this real star;
a noble friend, a real mate;
whom friends and neighbours highly rate.
With head held high, a noble pose,
the keenest ear, the sharpest nose,
his curly hair, a lustrous brown,
snipped at the best salon in town.
Likewise, he’s known, both far and wide,
for all the love he can provide.
A ‘foodie’? Yes. But I prefer
the sobriquet, a connoisseur.
Sophisticated, debonair,
a certain style, with real flair,
a bon viveur, a social cog …..
But that’s enough about my dog!
And me? There’s not a lot to say,
I trundle on, the usual way,
from here to there, with grunt and groans,
supported by these creaking bones.
~
For Frank's 'Self Portrait' Competition.
The old ruin sat near the brow of the hill
it had been there for centuries forgotten
none now knew for what purpose it had been used
not even the elders who had many suggestions
A not unattractive looking building of stone
and that in it's self only added to the mystery
for these stones were not locally quarried
the nearest place being over 170 miles away
Yet here they had been dragged, then hewed
wrestling them into place quite some task
an imposing building nestled in the hillside
and the views surrounding it post card perfect
Inside was airy and light with most of the roof gone
a strange hearth in the corner of the main hall
large enough for a man to walk into upright
Bread ovens built into the walls and a sitting niche
This was all that was left apart from one roofed room
in here it was dry and warm even a single trundle bed
admittedly very rockety but still it was usable
I decided to camp out the following night, it would be fun
The following evening I climbed the hill as the sun set
tonight it would be a full moon, already the air chilling
I settled in with my few belongings and lit the fire
soon it was roaring, with crackles, hissing and spitting
It was a fine clear night and the heat wonderful
so I made up a bracken bed in front of the fire
I laid back enjoying the stars and a comet shooting past
lazily I slipped not realising into a strange sleep
I found the building restored though it's use still not clear
only a long table and chairs in here, beds in the rooms leading off
then a man came into view, he did not seem to notice me as he passed
he stirred the pot cooking on the fire and set the table
Soon more men came in and sat down to enjoy a hearty meal
I realised from their armour that these were soldiers
so the ram-shackled ruin had once been a lookout post
I woke in the morning well rested remembering my dream
As I walked back down the hill I looked back at it
drenched in sunshine it seemed to gleam a wisp of smoke
curling up from the chimney it looked as if once more alive
not an old forgotten ruin moulding slowly into the landscape
I used the word ram-shackled recently and it struck me as a good theme
for a poem so I wrote this.