Best Wheeled Poems
A view of the ragged woodland from
The window:-
Slender branched trees that shed
From high above to low below;
The faint, mauven peaks
Smattered with barely visible
Scatterings of drifted snow;
Across the matted undergrowth
A bronzed carpet of copper coloured
Leaves
Whose rusting hue,
Momentarily ignited by stray
Sunbeams weakly smouldering,
Briefly refurbished -
Deceives with all the colours of a
Rainbow...
From vibrant red through to shy
Hints of indigo;
Those vague outlines indicating
Receding hills;
Here, arising, long ago, every waking
Dawning,
The creaking structures
Of groaning and imposing mills;
Soon a slow thawing that quickly
Spills
Into the trickling replenishments
Of many gushing and silvery little
Rills.
Enchantment gripped me!
And I found myself wistfully
Thinking...
Maybe, perhaps, maybe, somewhere,
Just behind where the great
Flattening Orb
Is now rapidly shrinking,
That I might, by perchance, find,
If I did so hope to bravely dare,
To happen upon a hidden and
Sedentary way of life up there?
That, forgotten, has turned its
Back on the social conflicts
Plagued by the curses of ingrained
Vice;
Encumbering a soul with its petty
Squabblings,
Imposing upon with demands and
Avarice...
When placing unnecessary burdens
On a honest bodies daily call
Of grinding toil and wearisome
Strife!
And still stood,
With hands outstretched upon the
Painted sill,
At the waist half-bent,
Now troubled by quiet mutterings
In an inexplicable sorts
Of self-imposed discontent,
My staid consciousness almost
Unawares,
As, momentarily distracted,
I hesitated, and, unseeing,
Inattentively stared...
Until...
A ragged chapter of cawing Daws,
Loudly jabbering overhead,
Suddenly wheeled -
And upwardly soared!
Whereupon, in murderous haste,
Awkwardly fled
When laboriously stealing away
Back inside the stubbled fields...
Thus causing me to slowly straighten;
Whilst, with a singular heartfelt pang,
Liken a moorland mist slowly rolling
Over
That indivisibly conceals...
Drew shut the sullen curtains, which,
Heavily embroidered with indeterminate
finality,
Dejectedly hang...
Each draped aside of the cold
Reveals.
A country yearns industry
from assiduous minds revolutionary,
cities conceived with mind set and skill
yet lay insipid in the body of Britannia
those in need of life’s blood,
akin to human organs
served only; by arterial veins.
The first sod to lift an unfolding nation
the first cut the inauguration the call,
have a thought pleasure seeker
enduring men with pick, shovel, some did fall,
his sweat given freely or not as the case may be
to mingle with earth removed
or deep within copse ghyll may well be for a tree.
The Dales emptied, of its men
famine ravaged Ireland too,
drawn towards the rush of new born adrenaline
a creation of foresight
when the need for this an artery to flow
through lock, tunnel aqueduct,
transforming her virgin land
albeit out of trades of old,
an era steeped in tradition
tools an extension: of one’s own hand.
Adverse weather geography
this realm having found fame,
complexity from above, below,
the elements the environment
nothing to stand in obsessions way,
from soil to solid rock, energy sapping
clods of clay negotiated all
amidst many tongues, yet same laborious conclusion
wheeled away by the barrowman;
horse and cart.
This precious land host to many heroes
those upon columns stand tall,
our sons live on in remembrance
a memorial for them all,
so to this symbolic structure
craved through hostile terrain,
a burly navvies sculptured cleft
within the very earth
his body one day to lay.
Oh the city Leeds, city Liverpool and those in between
the bargees upon the cut there now do dwell
living within the ideals of another time sown
but of ease it is with just a memory
conservation the historic debt on loan!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Abandoned flowers placed against the wall,
stems bent and twisted, limp and on display.
In long, straight row they line the gloomy hall;
these wilted gems now spent, no role to play.
Some showing with their blossoms barely raised
and others hang on weakened stems so low.
In varied ways, their languishing is phased;
decaying flowers lined up in a row.
Abandoned flowers there against the wall,
their colors dull and dry like winter grass.
What once stood straight now lies in wilted sprawl;
they stab the heart of visitors who pass.
Abandoned with no sunshine in their skies...
in worn wheeled chairs, awaiting their demise.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premier Contest: Poem Ending With A 'Chilling Twist'
Sponsor: Frank Herrera
Judged: 09/11/2016
...Now I ain't without notoriety,
Fact is.. I'm an old stalker with a walker.
She was big in the Purple Hat Society
and broke her hip,...while playing soccer.
When I met her, she was on the mend,
and she knew.. what I was after...
and I said I'd catch her when I can,
She said to push that walker a lil' faster.
She had her a "lectric wheel chair,
I just had my old walker and me,
she was pretty fast for a blue hair...
"till I crashed into her I.V. tree...
Well, they fitted my leg with plaster,
and I kinda forgot what I was after...
"till one day,
she wheeled in to see me,
Yep. Said she'd come ta free me!
Now we sit together,
cozy up and talk about the weather.
We compare wrinkled tatoos,
and guess what they are,
we may share a shot of booze,
we don't go too awful far...
We keep our orthepedic shoes
under the same bed,
and I retired as a walker stalker,
meals on wheels keeps us fed
and we keep our teeth...
in the very same locker.
("Nite Nite, Darlin.")
First of Ike and Jane sequence...Reposted to help PD with smiles request. : )
Call me not a child,
Treat me with adult words,
Eyes that scan the essence,
And see the centuries I have lived.
Ancient soul though young flesh,
Half my heart remains in an older existence.
I wish to feel the gentle,
The tenderness that comes with love,
Finger tips soft and feather like.
I yearn to feel the rough,
The firm grip of a lover,
Hands grasping hips in a fury of need.
Lips rubbing together in absence of a kiss.
I need to speak of higher things,
realms that others fear to not believe,
And visions that we both have seen.
Lie with me in clover beds,
Stars sparkling bright above our heads,
Birds swooping to deliver prey to young,
Eyes filled with awe at the world's cruel beauty.
Lie with me in open thought,
Minds roaming over hills and sea,
Connecting to the world.
Releasing raw unadulterated energy,
Through just a simple touch,
Conscious spreading to the sky,
To flit like hummingbirds.
Call me not a child,
For the things I have seen,
The memories I hold within,
Through one life to the next.
Falling, falling, down to the sea,
Bright sky, rolling green,
sharp waves black, crash against the rocks,
Awaiting our meeting of fatality.
Flowers high in weeds,
Grow up to itchy gowns,
And crunch beneath slipper-ed feet.
Corsets pulled tight,
Tight enough that I forget to breathe,
When in the presence of a man.
Blame the corset for my lack of breathe,
Though he steal it from my honeyed lips,
With not even a brushing kiss.
And a wedding band surprised,
Beneath a weeping willow,
With barely family enough to witness the event.
Four wheeled Slow rolling machine,
In comparison to today's technologies,
To ride a get away in sun lit heat.
Black with shinning seats and room for four,
Or even five if they would squeeze.
Two women, a daughter and a son,
A life of running, identity hidden,
Bolstered weapons for protection,
And an unending flow of cash.
Life seemed easy - at least when not being shot at.
So call me not a child,
For I have seen many years,
Felt the touch of lovers hands,
The cool of friends tears,
Felt the crashing waves,
As another life came to an end,
Spoke of many things,
And made otherworldly friends.
Kiss my lips with fierceness,
When I have yet again died,
I fear not the otherworldly,
So tell them not to cry.
Light BaggagE
O P
V O
E H
• *
P *
E E
A A
C S
Life’s baggagE is weightlEss, so handy
If packed with prayer, hope, positivity…..
God makes it light to carry effortlessly….
He gives convenience, a smooth journey.
Travel with Christ with faith and delight
Bring patience, kindness and joy in flight
Always take courage to do what’s right,
Give smiles, make each day clear, bright!
Go in peace with someone…love, forgive,
A heavy heart heals, no loads to heave.
Ground wheeled gear will just roll away,
Empty-handed tour-like life night or day.
f t r l
a s o l
By a little log house that I used to call home,
In the hills and the woods that I once used to roam,
There the seasons would dance with the grace of a swan
Till the music was stilled and the curtain was drawn.
And the dance of the spring filled my heart with delight,
From the rose-tinted dawn to the sweet-tempered night;
For the blooms of the rose were a gossamer gown,
While the carpet of flow'rs was the softest of down;
And the warm, gentle breeze was the touch of a hand
That from heaven had quickened the land.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the little log house by the old oaken tree,
And I wish I was back there again.
There the dance of the summer was pleasant and long,
All the streams and the rivers were bursting with song,
Every sweet berry bush was a wonderful friend,
And the garden a feast that I used to attend;
Flocks of birds wheeled as one like a cavalry drill,
And the butterflies danced on the hill.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the cool mountain stream 'neath the old oaken tree,
And I wish I was back there again.
Then at summer's last fade stole an autumnal wave,
Both as quiet and swift as an Indian brave;
All the leaves on the trees were transformed into gold,
And the warm summer days turned to frost and to cold;
It was then that the apples were blushing like girls,
And the rainbows that fell shone like pearls.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the leaves that fell down from the old oaken tree,
And I wish I were back there again.
Cloudy winter was filled with the dance of the snow,
With the faint smell of smoke, with the firelight's glow;
And I oftentimes walked down the path to the hill
Where the snow-angels danced round the old cider mill;
And the house dressed in snow, and in icicles too
Was a cave by the seawater blue.
Oh, the dance of the seasons is dear unto me
As the snow-covered woods by the old oaken tree,
And I wish I were back there again.
By Isaiah Zerbst on the seventh of October, 2013
I came across a Jumpher
A jumphin’ up at me.
It wasn’t very springy
As far as i could see.
It tried to do someothersault,
Impressing like a tree,
But landed with a thumping thud
And hurt his only knee.
‘How come you like to ravel so?’
I bellied like a navel,
While on the other hand i plied
Some custard on a table.
‘I’m only giving all I’ve got-
A hundred miles an hour.
But if you take it at a trot
It soaks you with a shower.
‘I see,’ i said, came out my head,
And nodding fully clothed,
I asked if he’d seen Ninnynook?
A nose that knows no prose.
‘I likes to smell his gravy soup.’
He jumphered like a sweater,
Then driving like a five wheeled horse
Left home wrapped in a letter.
‘Good luck, you leaphing lunging loon.’
I mouthed in Granny’s gums
Then smiling like a holiday
I went to see my chums.
...Now I ain't without notoriety,
Fact is.. I'm an old stalker with a walker.
She was big in the Purple Hat Society
and broke her hip,...while playing soccer.
When I met her, she was on the mend,
and she knew.. what I was after...
and I said I'd catch her when I can,
She said to push that walker a lil' faster.
She had her a "lectric wheel chair,
I just had my old walker and me,
she was pretty fast for a blue hair...
"till I crashed into her I.V. tree...
Well, they fitted my leg with plaster,
and I kinda forgot what I was after...
"till one day,
she wheeled in to see me,
Yep. Said she'd come ta free me!
Now we sit together,
cozy up and talk about the weather.
We compare wrinkled tatoos,
and guess what they are,
we may share a shot of booze,
we don't go too awful far...
We keep our orthepedic shoes
under the same bed,
and I retired as a walker stalker,
meals on wheels keeps us fed
and we keep our teeth...
in the very same locker.
("Nite Nite, Darlin.")
Composed and Written by-
Robert A. Dufresne
Harness Racing ( Poem )
Horses pull a two wheeled cart
If it breaks you will depart
Place a bet before it starts
Good wager wins if played smart
Riders ready at the gate
Fans no longer have to wait
Athlete sport with high speed
Is a skill you surely need
At times a horse can fall down
Sad to see that come around
Last turn has crowd in a roar
We wait to hear close end score
If your looking to explore
My playlist has so much more
http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLWSq_PMWxD9qWvCBxeC8ROFuuf8kPmmaN
By: Doris Anne Beaulieu
AGE OF TEN
Way back then when I was ten
Things were so very different then
I wrote with ink in a fountain pen
Whenever we could we would build a den
And I loved to help my dad in the garden
Way back then when I was ten
I walked to school and was never late
Always ate everything on my dinner plate
Played hop scotch by the garden gate
And was not allowed to go to bed late
Way back then when I was ten
No television colours only black and white
Real Christmas trees and a glass fairy light
We all had a different size of trike
Then I got my first two wheeled bike
Way back then when I was ten
We had so much freedom to roam
But must be in for meals at home
Only a phone boxes with a dial phone
And no phone in many a home
Way back then when I was ten
Latest craze was roller skates
And hula hoop with your mates
Skipping ropes and Meccano gates
But lots of fun with wooden crates
Way back then when I was ten
Coins were in pounds shillings and pence
Mothers talked over the garden fence
Scooters that you could make go at such a pace
Noisy steam trains that always seem to race
Way back then when I was ten
With friends you played out doors
Toys for your imagination scatted on the floor
Skipping ropes, skates and many things more
Sledges of wood, a dolls house with opening doors
Way back then when I was ten
Fun was had with blackboard and chalk
Clay dolls that you could walk
And new plastic ones that wouldn’t talk
Then babies came by way of the Stork UNSUPPORTED CODE
firkins and gherkins and whistles and shoes
cluster bombs, punji stakes, death in the news
choppers chattering
napalm splattering
a carpet bombed mind with asian war blues
cracked vinyl records and medals unworn
black and white photo, ex-soldier unshorn
wheeling chair
graying hair
a beaded necklace with peace sign well worn
tobacco stained fingers shake with a curse
lips pull a drag with help from a nurse
flares ignite
will he fight?
a battle goes cold, memories submerse
wheeled to a corner, he stares at a wall
that others can’t see, for him it is all
locked within
he can’t win
a war without end... unspeakable gall
The old folks at the home, and none at all
of them too fleet of foot in their last years,
came shuffling, some with walkers, down the hall,
including those with aids pressed in their ears.
Then one (whose punctured lung had not healed well)
was wheeled in; she had just turned ninety-three!
They'd all come (when the nurse had rung the bell),
for what was now to be revealed: a "Tea!"
The English lady wheeled in never knew
what they were planning as she lay in bed.
They'd stamped the name of "Emily" onto
The sparkling crown which now lay on her head.
With cake crumbs on her chin, in pure delight,
She sipped the tea they'd sweetened up just right!
April 28, 2010
I've spanned these banks for many years,
made evident in the rusty tin adorning my roof
My sides are scarred , colors been stripped
from angry storms through hundreds of seasons.
My river bed ran dry back in late October
then Winter snows frosted my planks
but I was still fit for anyone crossing over
from one side to the other of the Kanawha River.
Come Spring, rushing water will flow under me
splashing over rocks as it rushes to the sea.
Bird droppings will build along each window sill
when nest-building robins arrive in flocks.
People walk across my wooden floor
some hesitate before taking each step
for my trusses tend to creak now and then
and I swell in places; curses of growing old.
I've been crossed by deer, hoofed by cows,
wheeled over by bicycle's and horse-drawn buggies.
They were all kinder than the smelly fumes spread
by those disrespectful autos that never slow down.
My weathered brows face North and South
making me a tunnel for bold Nor'easters
that swiftly tear through me and chip my paint.
I like to think it enhances my pastoral character.
I might be 'rickety,' but if you call me 'shabby'
that rumbling you hear will be me grumbling.
I'm proud of the state I'm in, physically sound
and geographically, two miles outside of town.
As long as I can stand on my supporting piers
I'll relive memories made beneath my roof.
A covered bridge spans more than the waters
of the gentle river where life flows free beneath me.
August 25, 2017
Then:
naïve, sheltered, shy
what i thought
i wanted to be -
an archeologist, Barbizon model (no proclivity),
a writer, a psychologist, a mom, a wife
Now:
brazen, talkative, traveller, open
what i am -
a Christian, a writer (a poet), a model
citizen, prone to psychoanalyse, a mom, grandma,
a wife
Then:
at 5, under the knife, tonsils removed, ice
cream treat; cut my foot in a bike spoke, no dinner
Now:
Wheeled through airport, whisked to urgent care,
ambulance ride to hospital, anxiety led to prayer, peace
as piece of me removed (gallbladder)
Then: single, not wise, average, well-endowed
Now: married a long long time, know things (experience),
endowment’s gone south
Then:
envision wearing a billowy white shirt, sitting in front of window
facing the sea, writing poetry, ink dry
Now:
Anytime, anywhere, wearing anything or nothing at all,
ink wet as muse sees fit
Then:
face to face friends, cord attached to wall, cell of my own
making
Now:
poetry friends all over the world, poetry transports with
my fingertips
Then:
Mom, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Grandparents
Now:
Deficit of loved ones. Looking
to the future in bright new faces
Then: reaching inward, wanting love Now: reaching out, loving
Going further: reaching ever upward, in word and deed
I am entitled
to die, once,
and see my Lord and God
12/30/2022
Then and Now
Sponsor: Unseeking Seeker