Gather In Poems

Untitled

Rising from dunes of despair after desert storm of strife,
I gather in the vase of quietude the strewn shards of life.

Morning Comes to Huatung Valley

Mist feathery drifts
last night’s breath loosening
above basalt slopes of Huatung

Pacific swallows trace morning brushwork
over Fuli’s rice paddies
new green scented with rain.

Xiuguluan River flows jade mountain-born 
among ancestral stones
white willows in Ruisui weep
dew-kissed
cycad fronds catching first sunlight

Leaf pearls gather on my thatched sandals
Walami earth holds stories in its coolness.

Bihe Pond rests hidden in Wanrong’s stillness
waters reflecting the tribe’s quiet prayers

Bamboo leaves in green and gold
crested mynas gather in quiet repose
wind moves with the chime of a temple bell.

Ancestral path wanders into the Central Range
oolong tea clouds drift
above Qilai’s blue ridges

A white egret lifts over Guangfu’s terraces
air clear as poured Longjing.

A bulbul calls
blue magpie glides
the slow unlayering of day

Huatung Calligrapher’s span warm to newborn light
time unspools—
bright
unmeasured.

Light widens

dawn follows Yu Shan’s shadowed valleys

the world in quiet promise
soft light
drifting into morning.

Setting of the Oz Moon

So, as the Crazy Train hits the last stop 
down that long Randy Rhode, 
let's gather in the dining car, 
put a fork in the War Pig,
 and feast on bat heads. 
               RIP Prince of Darkness.

And So You Write Poetry

Poetry is the one place
where people can speak
their original human mind.
-  Allen Ginsberg.
        ..........................

You can get lost sometimes
in the mind's obsessions,
its need for order, to gather in
what spills out
from the ruptured sides of certainty,
the comfortable surrounds 
of routine -
and so you write poetry.

Then there are those moments 
when all descends into panic,
when you lose control 
and the world spirals inward,
winding itself up into an ever
tightening catastrophe -
and so you write poetry.

And when something
in this world or beyond 
wants to speak and finds
in you an ear in which 
to whisper and you 
are gifted a tiny spark
of the sublime -
you write poetry.

And even when the cogs
and levers of your life click
into place and run like clockwork,
and yet leave a fear 
that the ticking sound
you hear is the countdown 
to a final detonation - 
you write poetry.

red robins mothers song

red robins eggs are in her nest
as she warbles her mothers song
melody flows from east to west
red robins eggs are in her nest
song birds agree her songs the best
her neighbors gather in a throng
red robins eggs are in her nest
as she warbles her mothers song

PEOPLE OF PROCESS

There he sits
In a cell of choice
Paying the price
For shattered voice

She stands on a stage
Belting out words of hope
Inside, cowering in a corner
With a frayed rope

They hold their signs
Gather in crowds
Shouting powerless views
To attempt a break down
...of numbers

Isolated in countries
Without a proper home
Everyone comes in
But leaves them, alone

Humanity straddles the knife
Begging for a peaceful life
Finding division and descension
While prophesying ascension

Those who follow LOVE
Have no beginning or end
Flowing through process
Even when...

        again and again

Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-17-2025

Fireworks On Victoria Weekend

When  it is the long weekend for the fireworks 
The fireworks begins when the sky is darken
Some people gather in parks to watch fireworks 
 Others just watch fireworks from their homes
It last till the early morn
When people try to sleep
Noise on pets
They are scared
Whining 
Scared

Kingdom of Silence

In gilded halls where oil flows deep,
The people toil, the royals reap.
Voices muffled, dreams erased,
Truth walks veiled, and fear is laced.

A pen once bold, a voice so clear—
Khashoggi spoke, then disappeared.
"Even princes taste the whip,"
He warned before they sank his ship.

The riches lie in chosen hands,
While common blood dries in the sands.
A crown of gold, but hearts of stone—
No justice lives beneath this throne.

But silence cracks beneath the strain,
And storm-clouds gather in the plain.
For tyranny, no shield can keep
When waking lions cease to sleep.

One spark, one cry, one final shove—
And kings may fall from skies above.
What’s built on fear cannot survive
When truth and fire come alive.

A A

A.A. 
Gather in a circle 
Fellowship with a drinking problem 
Any age 
Alcoholism recovery 
Share your story 
Chance to become sobriety 
Break down the barriers 
Recovery Alcoholism 
Reach out for help 
Find your way through 
Deep rooted problems 
Survive through the storm 
Everyday is a struggle 
Mental goals through obstacles 
A.A. rehabilitation 
Workshop to reach out 
Join the circle 
Admet that you have a problem 
Drinking to the brink 
Find a way to change 
Alcoholics Anonymous

I, Object

How many stories need retelling 
for this object to achieve sentimental value?

Does importance have an expiration date 
that’s reached when no one‘s left to gather in celebration?

How many years must elapse 
before this object becomes a family heirloom?

Does perpetuating an affiliation to the past 
become burdensome to those living in the present?

How many memories are required 
to turn this mundane object into a cherished keepsake?

Does nostalgia become obsolete 
after multiple generations are gone?

Is my legacy inevitably doomed
to suffer the same fate as this object?

Magical Night

What's left of Mother Nature's leaves
are strewn across her frosty girth.
A solemn bird chirps alone this eve
as fall is laid to rest on earth.

Twinkle, O stars, the gods be at dice, 
and the sky is bursting with riches tonight!
The air's taken chilly, the ground shines with ice.
Outside, we all gather in awe at the sight.

Out of the cosmos at a marvelous pace
a comet unfurls its glittering mane.
There's a hopeful look on everyone's face
that the wishes they cast will not be in vain.

Settling softly, the Queen takes her throne,
her herald now harkened, the court bows its head.
Casting her rays, so serene, so alone,
she laments that her lover lies cold in his bed.

The mirthful King Sun, and lustrous Queen Moon,
can share but one kiss as each trades their place.
The Queen shines at midnight, the King at high noon,
each forever desiring the other's embrace.

Take Me to Where Love Learns No More

Love is the basis of life.
Love of the creator for his creation,
Love of parents for their child,
Romantic love for a life partner
Familial love and Friendship love
There is really no need to differeniate,
although each type of love is unique.
When we stop adapting and changing,
learning how to move forward,
is when love dies.  That is when hearts harden,
friendship ends, marriages end, people become 
estranged from their families.
Love needs attention and care until we 
all gather in heaven and we will bask
in the love of God and others.
I long for the day that love is easy and those
I love are gathered around me in harmony.

Dried Words

When inspiration comes, it spreads its wings,
Then off I’ll fly, as a bird that sings.
I’ll roam through this world, soaring high and free,
Unable to sit still, my spirit will flee.

The future will discern black from white,
So I kept stirring my words into light.
What use are golden words if lost in vain,
When even your partner cannot explain?

Like a gloomy autumn cloud, heavy and gray,
My verses feel tangled, all faded away.
Dipped in clear water, like sheep at the stream,
I’ll dry them like fish on this page, it would seem.

If my thoughts reach no reader, what a disgrace,
I’d be a fool left behind in this race.
Let the dust settle, let them gather in piles,
For dried fish will never spoil, even in trials.

A good thought’s worth never will fade from the view,
Words spoken with care will always ring true.
If you savor the words, like dried fish in hand,
The taste of those phrases will forever withstand!

We Are So Connected, Yet We Can’t See Each Other Anymore

We sit inches apart,
glowing screens between us,
a thousand miles wide.

We speak in echoes,
algorithm-fed replies,
pre-packaged thoughts
we never owned.

I send you a message.
You send back a reaction.
A digital thumb,
a cartoon heart,
a flicker of presence—
then gone.

We gather in crowded rooms,
silent, heads bowed in reverence
to the gospel of notifications.
A congregation of ghosts,
all here,
all absent.

Your voice is there, but flattened.
Your eyes are there, but dimmed.
I reach for you—
but you are buffering.

And yet, we post proof of life,
a curated display
of curated selves,
hoping someone, somewhere,
will see beyond the pixels,
will touch something real.

But no one does.

Because we are so connected,
yet we can’t see each other anymore.

After The Storm

 The day is quite cold,
white scenes I behold;
yet, bird wings unfold,
and their chirps are heard.
I love each sweet bird,
oh, I walk a path;
winters cruel wrath,
and the aftermath.

Yet, our life goes on,
with no woebegone;
soon, snow will be gone.
And small birds still play,
no matter what . . . gay;
on bare limbs they sway.
They gather in groups,
leave like paratroops.

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