Best Trundles Poems
You are alone on a deserted island that has been filled with overgrown fruit
and bare essentials. The water is so clear you can use it as an honest mirror
of truth. Over in the distance you spot a lovely hammock that has been hung
between two sturdy cypress trees. You decide to walk over and give it a try.(b)
Its soft material hugs you and before you know it, you are fast asleep in that
lovely makeshift hammock. The sound of the ocean rocks your ears in tranquil
motion to and fro. (b)
Passing clouds glide over your head without making a sound. They are watching
you breathe as they go by. Breathe from your diaphragm, your chest, your throat,
Breathe in and out.
You smile cuz you are in a place of inner contentment. A little green turtle trundles
along moving side by side close in , circling your little soft hammock.
She is heading for the ocean for some seaweed, jellies or tunicates. The little rosy
seashells are sitting at the edge. They call you over for a barefoot walk. You smile
as you rise and go to the edge of the water wetting your feet and holding spaced
with the dolphins and the fish (b)
You are going to live here for a little while. Long enough to receive your fitful rest
You are going to stay her for a little while, cuz you know it is the best place to be(b)
The End.
All night unto dawn
a gentle sadness
a comforting...
there is a dreaming rain falling
it is younger than morning mist
it is the first and last teardrop
as the world recalls its ancient roots.
I rest in the backwash of my own ebbing waves.
My breath cleansed in the light-stepping rain.
Distantly I hear soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
I listen as a mail van trundles-by,
hear it pushing messages into gawping spaces.
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
Plants fold fronds and leaflets
while dripping blooms bathe.
All is well, all unspoiled.
The world is a child again.
It rains gently now within.
Noise, Noise, Noise
That’s all I ever hear
It’s getting so loud and intrusive, that I begin to fear
How much more noise can my ears take
As I live in fear for my mental state
What happened to the bird song that I used to hear each day
The sound of waves upon the beach as excited children play
The chuff, chuff, chuff of steam trains, from a bygone time I loved
The cows a mooing
The sheep a bleating
And the cooing of a dove
I love to hear my blackbird as it sings both day & night
And even screeching seagulls surpass the din of a building site
With noise that comes from traffic as it trundles through the town
I stay at home my windows shut clothed in my dressing gown
At times when I can hardly hear the sound of my own voice
I have to shout
I have to shriek
I really have no other choice
The noises and vibrations are the sounds of daily living
They make me stressed
I feel so bad
They are so unforgiving
I fear with all this noise pollution
There is no cure, there’s no solution
So to deafen the din drink a bottle of gin
And to stop my decline drink a bottle of wine
And by then everything will sound fine…
Written April 9 2018
Contest Strand no 700
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st PLACE
[starboard port]
the ocean—an onyx plate predawn—
somnambulant ships preen with a swag of
warning lights
massive hulls: cargo ships, flotillas, tankers,
passenger liners loll; red lights buss
the somber slate of sky—spangled strings of
bawdy bulbs on the riggings—pole dance
beside the quay—ridged, behemoth smokestacks
toy with the flames of gold and white
[cabin’s lav—occupied]
waiting, my mind trundles to funeral pyres
Viking ships, then returns to marvel at
on-coming airport pot lights which
upstage the walled gasps
[very occupied]
the exodus to Singapore crescendos
we land—manned the plane performs
a ritual slide—ash and steam spew from
stacks of the other perpendicular
members
Touch down.
[the door opens]
First Published by Shooter Literary Magazine Spring of 2017
Neath shimmered strings of starlight’s breeze, crepuscular in night
on trodden soil he lay with slumbered eyes.
Lashed to oak, his chestnut mare in dream just out of sight
snaps free as lightning flashes; flares the skies.
Bounds to foot with double stride; yet late his capture earns
a feeble grip on equine hoof afoot,
his trusty steed, as mist might drift through juvenile sown ferns,
has vanished like dark ebbing motes of soot.
Miles from home, no transit back, bewildered by events
considers how to forge his journey home,
perplexing state, a quandary, unravels and presents
the only choice he has, which is to roam.
Through thicket thick, forest green, cross arid plains of dust
unto the homestead poised for his return,
discordant thunder stills his heart; wriggles in as thrust
compels him, for he knows they too do yearn.
For passage spry and safe, and quiescent nights on swag
now rolls his bed with reins onto his back;
through sheathes of rain, in startled fright, a lonely Sambar stag
hoof striking ground, preparing to attack.
Muzzles drawn, the beast is felled yet antlers gore both arms
as motion peters awkwardly apace,
bandages his wounded wings as parent-like alarms
resound upon the visage of a face.
Hidden by the brush, the physiognomy not seen
now trundles to its father’s fallen side,
its death is beyond doubt, lest his hand does intervene
to raise the fawn the way the buck had tried.
A careful snouted nudge from the fawn as sunup blooms
arises him from sleep, but only just,
passes over arid plains then through the vista looms
the iron gates of home bedimmed by dust.
Collapses through the gates on the soiree of her birth
returning home disheveled and delayed,
bent on being present so she’d never know a dearth
of every night, his whispered serenade.
Strength, in time, would vivify, recouping over weeks
the erred reason for his sullied trip,
remains on blocks, left un-repaired, despoiled by the leaks
and placed the fawn forever by her hip.
Eyes well up recalling, every year from that day on
his little girl’s elated monkeyshines,
when the gown was given her, how happiness had shone
into his heart his journey’s worth entwines.
NOTE-Right now Scotland is suffering it's worsed winter since 1963.The severe
weather has put the whole country at a stand-still.....
Polar bears in kilts, it's now minus fifteen.
Ice cube cars and wellies and our frozen windscreens.
Roads are all at grid-lock,schools are closed across the land.
Whole communities shovelling snow, all working hand in hand.
Where are our gritters and our snow-plough's, is oor salt in short supply?
All my poor winter pansies, bet your boots there going to die.
My snowman's got the flu, my sledge has two buckled blades.
And now i've slipped a disc out and i've broken three good spades.
People wearing earmuffs, snoods and scarves, no skin to bare.
But i am in a Glasgow Betting Shop, not in Moscow's Red Square.
My wee car's like a bobsleigh as it trundles through the snow.
My toes are cold, my bum is numb and my cheeks they are aglow.
River Clyde has all iced over, cancelled trains and frozen locks.
Leggings, gloves and thermal undies, woolly hats and soggy socks.
All my gutters have collapsed and caved in, my snowman's head.
And the birds, they are all starving, better throw them out some bread.
Penguins play the bagpipes, carol singers join in too.
Susan Boyle sings White Christmas in the icy morning dew.
Scotland.... Shivering to a stand-still, this winter really is a corker.
Stuff this vicious winter weather's am away aff tae Majorca.
I love my rusty dusty car,
the most entrusted car, by far;
a sort of hey! Come out and play,
both here at home and far away,
a last hurrah, a real star,
my mighty, flighty, motor car.
I’ve had it now for quite a time,
I bought it new and in its prime.
It rumbles, crumbles, trundles on,
through life’s eternal marathon.
It is my friend, the best by far.
Just me - and my old motor car.
~
For Suzanne's 'Synathroesmic Cat' Competition.
How busy, busy is the life
Fat-arsed but Oh so humble Bumble Bee
He has no worries. What a simple life
Unhappy. How can he be?
He trundles round my garden where my roses grow
He is so gentle and slow
He always checks each blossom missing none
He drinks the nectar. Even stops to hum
Not like his cousin the Honey Bee
Which dashes here and there Shaped like a wasp
and therefore most carefully watched
Is safe in his hive and lasts the winter through. From cold he is free
The temperature tumbles
Alas the Bumbles
No hive as such
The Queen her Workers and the independent Drones
Will die
Mind you, the drones live high wide and handsome
Once hatched they leave the nest in mid summer
Their only function is to fertilise the Queen who bids them welcome
The baby Queens live with their mother
Only the newly mated Queens will live
And start the cycle off again
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part One
Lone gold Venus nears the sickle moon in the late autumn sky
She lies naked dreaming with one leg tucked under her thigh
The pallor of her silvery skin simmering with tide
A lone white swan trundles on one webbed foot heaving a sigh
Her tiara of amber and halogen loose by her side
The gold-braided brocade and studded raiments on one side
Gushing tresses hang loose by twinkling broaches on her back
Heady scents from pubic island and dark armpits fester inside
Wintry winds sweep through weeping willows tickling her fancy
Sway clumps of yarrow stalks huddling fearless coots in colony
She turns and heaves a sigh thinking of Old Khayyam’s ardour
Stars in his eyes and ruby red wine coursing through glory
Over the mobile hips and seductive slopes of her hills
Come calling Canada geese and wild duck in squawking trills
All messengers from Tundra’s ever clasping hoary past
Will she remember you O! Omar! when freezing water kills
The hoar frost wheezes under-foot along her silken robes
And the lone otter dares not venture out in his last throes
Even the sea gulls swoop no more for deep hugging blind fish
While she slumbers through blared Canada geese trumpeting oboes!
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
All night unto dawn, a gentle sadness,
a comforting...
a dreaming rain falling,
as the world recalls its ancient roots.
I listen to soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
The mail van trundles-by,
sparrows bathe in warm puddles.
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
All is well, all newly
washed
the world a child again.
The train trundles on, leaving behind at each station a soldier with his own past
Heavyweight in its endeavours portraying its only passengers as its un-holy cast
Each face a palpable grey, their blackened eyes sunken within their vast sockets
Each sat at their given seats characteristically sullen, with their hands in pockets
One only feels the coldness, within each carriage that descended upon them all
As not one ice breath plume emanating from the mouths, or nostrils did sprawl
Lifeless grey of their eyes gave nothing away of their hell, or of the horrors seen
Of a war where no real moral understanding is ever found for any of us to glean
Each un-sung hero now taking his last journey home, each to its own eternal life
Each one given their own time to offload their burdens of the unforgivable strife
Only once the reality of what has happened did the train lessen its speed to halt
As the one last soldier left his seat, then upon the platform made his last assault
He was going home now, but with no lessening of the grey pallor within his eyes
His home a cold grave now, lying under the darken un-forgiving, harrowing skies
He had fought for his country with an unquestionable honour, lay now as forgot
His remains under a white ensign Portland headstone buried within its own plot
A young man with no wife, or child, just parents themselves long gone deceased
His secrets of the war held within this mound of earth remains to all unreleased
So if passing a graveyard, and upon your eyes a lonely regimental grave you see
Place a flower of remembrance and set a well-earned soldier from his sleep, free
A day in June.
Tuesday.
Week’s worst day!
Twenty to five.
A wintry sun,
Low in the sky,
Casts long shadows,
Emits no warmth.
I’m in a dorp
With tired shops,
Bank and church,
GPO and a Court.
Tucked together
Along a street,
With bumpy tar
And dusty holes.
Now and then
A small bakkie
Clatters past
Carrying ‘boys’.
A thin veil
Of dust rises
And wafts
To where I sit.
On a bench,
On the stoep,
Of the old
‘Royal’ Hotel.
As I sit I see
No hustle or bustle;
Just a person or two
Moving listlessly by.
Across the road,
An Algemene Handelaar
Stocks and sells
Assorted goods.
On its stoep
Amongst other things,
An ancient plough
And three-legged pots.
An adult ‘boy’
Shuffles out,
Begins to take
The things inside.
Exiting the Bottle Store
Ou Cronje sways out
Sipping a half-jack
In a paper packet.
Church clock
Marks the ‘quarter to’
With a dull
Ding, … dong, …ding,
Enough already!
No waiting till five.
At other stores
Doors begin to close.
Doef-doef-doef !
A tractor bobs past
Pulling a trailer
Loaded with bags.
From Rita’s Fashions
The assistant emerges,
Pulls on knitted gloves,
And heads for home.
Three youngsters
From rugby practise
Sidle past with the
Scrunch of studded boots.
From the Kafee
Two clients emerge;
Half a loaf each
And bottles of Fanta.
Three farmers,
Wearing shorts,
Enter the bar
For brandy and coke.
A car trundles by.
Again there’s dust,
From unfixed holes
That pepper the tar.
Quiet returns.
Sun is lower.
Shadows longer.
In Enniedorp.
Now wisps of smoke,
From chimney tops,
Signal day’s end
And a wintry night.
This cute little creature trundles along,
He cannot speak, nor sing a song,
He cannot run, for love nor dime,
Nor decipher day from the nighttime.
To labor the point, he can barely see,
He only wishes to be free.
He asks no money, nor food or drink,
For he cannot like us think.
A worm or two is all he seeks,
He’ll forage alone, he’ll forage for weeks,
And yet we poke him, just for fun,
Laugh and joke once the deed is done.
His spikes intrigue, we cannot help,
The sad thing is he cannot yelp.
He cannot cross the road in time,
For we see the evidence of our crime.
What has he done? He does not deserve,
This precious creature, we must preserve.
He cannot ask to let him be,
But if not, the hedgehog, we may not see!
Waterfalls of colourful lights
pour from your heart into mine
as a read across the page.
I long for the feeling of your
hand in mine while I sit alone.
The world stops turning
as the lights start to dim
and I wonder what kind of place
this would have to be for
the lights to completely disappear.
The realization of reality sets
and I let the light shine from
my own waterfall of color into yours.
These colors paint the sky with
intense luminosity of light.
Until the sun starts to die down
the sky obfuscates until the twilight.
The stars shine with anticipation
and the planets align at the
site of our first confontation.
The way the moon trundles across the sky
going along on its course of operation.
Traveling love, from one side of the earth
to another, it's pulled.
Electromagnetic activity starts
with the touch of your lips to mine
and the static electricity forms
raising the hairs on the back of our necks.
The clouds start rolling in and the
friction causes a storm to start forming.
This storm quickly erupts from the
depths of my heart to say
"I love you, with every thing I have
to offer you, more than anything"
This fallen halo trundles on way down the road
Leaving in its wake, the ray of sparks bestowed
Had she even noticed the glow above her head
Now parted from her, no longer lit, its life shed
She's left running into the darkness on her own
Leaving behind everything she has ever known
I pocket the disregarded halo, as mine to claim
Until one day I find its owner to merit my name
So, I can replace the halo back above her head
Maybe tarry on her for a while and on her wed
Carry the burden of her shame; as I will not fail
With no one as to be the wiser of her sorry tale
Keep this once tarnished halo lit upon her head
The secret of its downfall, never ever to be said
Never ever be said . . .
Never ever be said . . .