Best Trundling Poems
A walk through the meadow seems in order
The sun is peaking through some wispy cloud,
Coreopsis is in full bloom along the border
While verbena and cosmos are standing proud.
I make my way through the overgrown path
Pushing aside the wild carrot and floss flower,
Knowing I’ll have beggar’s lice as an aftermath
Causing my nosy neighbor to snicker and glower.
It’s a fine, fine day; butterflies are everywhere
And the mockingbird’s are tweetering melodies
As I get closer to the tree line a-way over there
Where the squirrels will jump between the trees.
I do not expect to see deer since I’m rather late
And they are generally feeding in early morn,
So they’ll have bedded down in hidden shade
They have long weaned their early spring born.
Surprisingly, I see an opossum trundling along
Three or four young’uns clinging to her back.
Picking a bouquet of flowers, I break into song,
And hear scuttling noises, I’ve disturbed a pack
Of nesting quail, fairly close, and off to my right,
Streaking in a flurry their white underbellies flay
I locate them just in time to see them take flight.
I’ll get on home to vase my wildflower bouquet.
Written August 6, 2022
Categories:
trundling, animal, bird, flower, nature,
Form:
Quatrain
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.
Categories:
trundling, nature, summer, sunshine,
Form:
Rhyme
The moonbeams tripped my pillow, gently, softly
kissed my cheek. My roof a Weeping Willow,
through which a gentle breeze did speak. In the
Tulip bowl I quickly washed my face, Damsel
Flies dried me with beating wings of lace.
Slurp ! Slurp ! The Snail came trundling by,
along a silver trail he came, slowly, surely,
slowly, Silas was his name. Heading for the
cabbage patch, his one and only aim. I climbed
his silver shell and lay back for the ride, my
pockets full of golden seeds, to sow the
countryside. Poppies, Orchids, Bittersweet
and Cuckoo Flower, Pimpernel, Primrose,
Pansies and April Shower. Whilst on this
journey distress did catch my ears, Silas came
to a halt before a pool of tears. Down the
shell I did slide, kissed him on the cheek and
thanked him for the ride. Against the moon a
lonely Rose it cried, come child confide in me
a friend is at your side. The Greenfly he sinks
his teeth, my tiny buds they bleed, ripping at
my petals in his urge to feed. I dressed her
wounds with herbs and love, caressed her petals
with golden glove. Have no worry to her I say,
for I have friends at light of day. They will come
when they have heard, the flowers friend the
Ladybird. Five spot, seven spot, eight spot,
nine, on the Greenfly they will dine. Softly,
lightly, his feet will tread, standing guard
around your head. Time is late I must go,
fields and pastures I must sow. At dawns
first glance I must fade, to the safety of the
secret glade. Under the arms of the magic
Willow, my bed of moss and Lavender pillow
Categories:
trundling, fantasyfriend, silver,
Form:
Continued from Part 1
The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
of dreams where death redoubles.
They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
and faces, full of rubble.
But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
evaporate in bubbles.
The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
while pacing in the Palace.
Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
and lips of painted callus.
And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
will fill her empty chalice.
The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)
is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
of moments lost or stolen.
They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
with trundling eyes patrollin’.
The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
with plastic flame that sputters.
They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
behind the bolted shutters.
They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
and overflow the gutters.
End
Categories:
trundling, fantasy,
Form:
Rhyme
Moggnome was a wee little soul from Tashee,
standing on tiptoes, he might reach to your knee.
Pomegranate face, fringed by dandelion fluff,
a thickly thatched head, and like that wasn’t enough,
for it grew on his hands, and his ankles and feet,
bird nest like brows, it also clung to his cheek.
If he’d ever given thought to a cut and a shave,
there would be enough clippings, to fill up a cave.
For Moggnome had much more hair, than most,
it would stick to the knife, as he buttered his toast.
If he washed from a sink, it would clog up the drain,
so when storm clouds appeared, he’d shampoo in the rain.
It was wild and unruly, with a mind of its own,
like a candy floss head, crowning a paper stack cone.
But below the surface of this savage, dense mane,
beat a stalwart heart, tempered by an astute brain.
Strolling one morning, Moggnome’s mind gave a lurch,
for swinging from a bough, like a bird on a perch,
sat the fairest young maiden, of gnome lore it seems,
a charcoal haired beauty, he would seek as his queen.
With a smile kissed by angels, she gave him a nod,
and his spirit soared skyward, as though sunk in a bog.
Her eyes glimmered like emeralds, imbedded in moss,
but how to woo this sweet vision, he felt at a loss.
At that very moment, a troll charged out at full gear,
his aim was that pendant, now screaming with fear.
Moggnome rolled at the troll, like a tumbleweed mass,
the impact as he struck, even felt by the lass.
They twirled and they spun like a trundling wheel,
and as they came to a halt, attack lost its appeal.
Shaken and bewildered, the troll bolted retreat.
Not a word would he mention, of this humbling defeat.
As Moggnome brushed off dust, from head to thigh,
his breath whooshed out, in the form of a sigh.
The maiden stood anchored, in the shimmering light,
While she gazed at her hero, with awe and delight.
She advanced like a vision, a nymph from his sleep,
and with a kiss to his brow, his hair curled like a sheep.
Some say they were wed, at that very same place,
where Moggnome won honour, and his sweetheart’s grace.
Categories:
trundling, fantasy, imagination,
Form:
Imagism
I was never born a poet
But a pauper standing on a pulpit
Penning words in spring tide dings
Ritzy scribbling like trundling rings
Talons of my feet
Seething grounds I scratch and leet
Feathers I preen and wag
Over my scruff I rip and gag
On rivers and wells I soak and dip
Shimming on reflections I gobble or sip
Over hills and cliffs I hover and skip
Your face I slip over my lip
"Poetry brought life to a dreamer as a penner
But why is life more important than poetry as a winner?"
(Prosebite)
Categories:
trundling, life, poetess, poetry, poets,
Form:
Verse
Hostages, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Otages* by T. Wignesan
This blood will never dry up on our land
and those felled will lie there exposed.
We’ll keep grinding our teeth for fear of blurting out
we’ll not cry over these crosses upturned.
But we’ll remember these laid low devoid of memory
we’ll keep count of our dead as hours were numbered.
They who weigh heavy as a scourge upon history
tomorrow one’ll spurn them low will they be surprised.
And those who kept quiet for fear of being caught
their silence too will not be pardoned.
Those who stood up to argue and to pretend
even the less pious will have them condemned.
These deaths these wanton deaths are all our heritage
their poor bleeding bodies will not be separated.
We will not let our recall of their faces lie fallow
orchards will bloom on meadows lush green covered.
May they lie exposed naked under the sky like our land
and may their blood be mixed with our origins cherishcd.
The wild rose bush will cover them with the roses of ire
with their blood fierce spring seasons will be enlivened.
May these spring seasons be so cool beyond all words
songs of birds and children trundling paths be they filled.
And like a forest surrounding them heaves a sigh
a great people pray in subdued tones with arms raised.
Rhyme scheme of the original quatrains : abab, cbcb, dbdb, ebeb, abab, fgfg
( La liberté guide nos pas, O.C., t. I, p. 420)
*First published in the review Traits, in January 1942, and again in L’Honneur des poètes, in 1943. According to Anne-Sophie CONSTANT, the editor of Anthologie Poétique, « Hostages » evokes the execution of hostages in the Chateaubriant Camp on October 22, 1941.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, October 18, 2014
Categories:
trundling, death, patriotic,
Form:
Elegy
Limerick: Once a pretty Pole psychologist
for Ewa
Once a pretty Pole psychologist
Who preferred fast pedalling cyclist(s)
Kept a velo d’apparte*
And a Tour de France dart
Found trundling Bone-Shaker* merry twist.
• Velo d’apparte(ment) = exercise bike
• Bone-Shaker = first French bicycle, invented and manufactured by Michaux during the 1860s, whose framework was made of wrought iron and whose wooden wheels were bounded by iron tires.
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Categories:
trundling, humorous,
Form:
Limerick
Their one lone cow has broken down the fence;
we see her trundling down the dusty lane.
Milo's mind remembers 'bout the milking.
Dad's face, a fiery-red, storms from the shed
where feisty kittens spat and sparred o'er cream.
Milo's feet meander back to the scene
as words of fire enflame dad's bulging neck.
"You'll wear the shoes that spooked the cow!" he roars.
So Milo moseys off to dad's bidding.
The cream a'squish-squish-squishes from the seams
of shoes like steam escaping old train wrecks.
Milo mumbles, "Guess I'd best be moving
along that dusty road to bring back Cow,"
with no concern for who will mend the fence.
written March 13, 2018
Categories:
trundling, 11th grade, 8th grade,
Form:
Blank verse
DOLPHIN
Dolphin! Cheerful funny sea-animal.
Amusing cute under-water mammal.
frolic and fond of music,
witty creature to mimic,
tumbling, trundling, toppling, phenomenal.
Most attractive type of wonderful whale,
can be properly trained to behave well.
Dolphins like human being,
make sound like giggling,
breathe in Air, yet choose Water to dwell.
01/07/18
'Sea Tales Limericks' Contest by Carolyn Devonshire
Sixth Place
Categories:
trundling, animal, appreciation,
Form:
Limerick
OFF TO SCHOOL
So you're off to boarding school,
It'll be the making of you, my lad,
Muses the bespectacled gentleman,
Sat behind his morning paper,
The commuter train steaming
Its trundling way
Past opened curtains
Of genteel suburbia.
Familiarly hypnotic rhythm
From the clickety-clacking track
Continues, scarcely heeded
By the carriage's motley clientele,
Disturbed from comatose reveries,
Enduring the drilled strains
Of unwelcome conversation.
Hostile eyes look up in
Bristling annoyance
At a shy, enclosed boy,
Who keeps locked-in silence
On his first uncertain foray
Into the strange world beyond
The comfortable boundaries
Of his homely playpen.
Categories:
trundling, angst, change, depression, home,
Form:
Free verse
After a tedious trek along the rugged path
On a humid sunny afternoon
With no cool shade to rest under
The thought of an ice cream came to mind
That made my mouth drool
I longed for a cone of cream
Blended with strawberries,
Sprinkled with nuts and almonds
A delectable sundae,
Dressed in pink and white
As I desperately looked for,
My favourite frozen treat
Wow, there came an ice cream vendor
With a four wheeled cart trundling along!
From him I bought one waffle cone,
Filled with large scoops of fluffy cream
As its delicious strawberry flavour,
Invaded my tongue
Oh, it was heaven!
I felt its infinite smoothness,
As the texture of satin or silk,
Soaking my parched mouth.
With my taste buds waltzing on my palate,
It slid down through my gullet
And its creamy sweetness
Sent thrills down my throat
Cooling my thummy and beating the heat.
This delectable dish is too yummy to resist
No wonder, to get ice cream, children scream!
June.22.2022
Ice Cream Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Julia Ward
Categories:
trundling, blessing, joy, summer, sweet,
Form:
Free verse
Sandy Times
Trundling over soft
feet deteriorating downwards
Attempting migration
to impenetrable grains
Dramatic curving seas
landscaped for eyes to dance upon
Cloudy lilied surf
circumnavigates at the foot
Colourful daystar
skulks dreamingly away
Big whites enshroud
the navigating splendor
Scattered coral
Impinges the mind
Pebbles placed into
Intriguing decorations
On now rigid sand
Destinations met
The soul refreshed
Remembering
enjoying
Sandy times
Categories:
trundling, mystery, nature, sea,
Form:
Free verse
Your vibrant smile
haunts me every now and then
Sashaying strut like a peacock
is how I remember you
How come I recall only good things about you?
In my present condition,
I'm morbidly disaffected
Clear blue skies look to be dull grayish
In my pond of friends,
I thrash about like a dying goldfish
Ever since we split,
we remain a gossip item
The loss of your personal connection
has filled me with such disaffection
I loathe sleep,
being awake zombies me
Trundling off to work each day
in a coal miner way
So dark,
deep down in the tunnel
of my heart
Three weeks without a shave,
hollow nights of delta blues lullabies
in a den of flashing neon lights
Disaffection
has taken hold of me
Remembering your last words;
they rattle around in my head,
trapped in the throes of misery
Categories:
trundling, angst, heartbroken, love hurts,
Form:
Free verse
Your Long Angular Feet
You don’t know me, but
I been riding here in this trundling lounge car
for two hours now, watching
you and your long angular feet,
while rumbling over these burdened tracks,
to silent Garden City, up there in Kansas
on the high wheat plains, sky bound!
I been wondering what your name is.
Alas, it is really none of my business,
but your silent intuitive look,
your expressive knowing gaze,
has intrigued me with repentant ambivalences, and
guilty acknowledgements within my mind,
far beyond any understandable explanation,
far beyond the passing distant New Mexico mountains,
as they inertly move with silent dogged violence,
out there, in the whirring passing blur,
beyond these curving airy Amtrak eyes,
of blue tint and orange penetrating glare,
wrought with distorting apparitions of yellow
and green wheezing monsters of morning light,
with the Super Chief masticating eastern miles,
like a termite boring ferociously, slashing
into the railroad ties of unyielding time;
And so we sit, staring out this bubble window in the sun,
and I been wondering about you.
I been believing you’re educated, I can tell,
by the look of your pursed lips,
indicative of past heartbreaks and meltdowns;
and I been believing you’re a democrat,
by your descending, unhearing stare,
indicative of past arguments with fools
who sleep near obelisks, set in old stone.
And as you gaze far away
through the lounge car windows,
deep into New Mexico, its heart and rocky soul,
I wonder what you’re remembering there,
smiling, at peace with your intended purpose.
It was really nothing to me or anyone else,
nothing earth-shaking or profoundly circumstantial,
but you got off in Albuquerque,
you and your long angular feet,
and you walked away, like a dead person
in an old film reel.
I
Categories:
trundling, travel,
Form:
Free verse