Long Trampled Poems
Long Trampled Poems. Below are the most popular long Trampled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trampled poems by poem length and keyword.
The old country vet traversed Henry County over hill and dell.
He was a familiar sight in his buggy pulled by his horse, old Nelly Bell!
He served farmers and ranchers for nigh on two generations,
Deliverin' calves, foals and lambs and performin' tricky operations.
He left the comfort of his bed on many a cold and blustery night,
To help a cow deliver her calf by the mellow glow of a lantern light.
He'd been kicked by cantankerous mules and butted by grumpy goats;
Spat upon by numerous llamas and trampled by chargin' shoats;
Bitten by mean old junkyard dogs and clawed by feral cats;
Gored by irate bulls and pestered by stingin' gnats!
He witnessed the miracle of birth durin' his practice of many years,
And won the confidence of his clients and the esteem of his peers.
Though he had some book learnin' he mostly taught himself.
He never aspired to become rich and had little of the world's pelf.
He recognized that God created all creatures great and small,
And suffered the hazards of the job to treat and love them all!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved
Amongst the buttercups and daisies
Afore the early rising sun
Is where you’ll find wet fairy tears
Glistening on your lawn.
They lay as drips on blades of grass
They soak your shoes and feet
They’re where you’ve trampled once again
Then gone indoors to eat.
Then fairies they come out to play
And dance under the stars
And mischievous elves will prank around
While firefly drive like cars.
But when they see how much that we
Have damaged their small world
The fairy drops to ground and weeps
Their magic’s been unfurled.
The little dew drops gently left
Are fairy tears my friend
For with sun and magic of natures hand
Comes repair to make amend.
Be carful where you put your foot
A fairy might live and care
So be polite when you are asked
Keep off the grass walk there.
She came dressed in the finest of green
To tell the story of a mighty Queen
Who once lived in the hills and vales
Of a distant land;
Where robust rivers once flowed
And game was plenty.
Where children once
Played on grassy knolls
And swam in pristine pools.
Where songbirds sang in sweet refrains,
And eagles soared over bountiful plains.
She painted a scene
Of a fairy tale dream,
Of meadows green,
And skies ever so clean.
Then, she lashed out,
Hot blood from her veins poured,
Her eyes ablaze,
Her blistered skin,
Turned red with rage.
Her voice full of anger and hate
At those who came and stole it away.
What more do you want,
She defiantly raged?
You planted steel in my vales,
Drilled wells in my meadows,
Dug holes in my mountains,
Trampled my grassy knolls,
Took away the green and
Filled the skies with ash.
No longer do the eagles soar.
No more can I give.
No apologies will I make
For you raped my soul.
I gave you a chance
And you turned it to ash.
It is time you paid
For the havoc you’ve wrecked.
My parched skin
I must reclaim.
My breath made clean.
The fruit of my life turned crystal clear
No apologies will I make
For what I must do.
For justice is due.
With that, a bolt from the heavens
Struck a mighty blow
To the earth below.
The thunder roared,
The wind raged,
The clouds turned black,
The oceans heaved,
Tornados ripped across the plains,
The blood of the earth turned red.
On a distant hill stood the Queen
All draped in black
A chisel in her hand.
On a tombstone she scribed,
Here lies the men
Who turned my rivers to rust
My soil to dust,
My skies to ash.
No apologies will I make.
“Mother Earth”
In the pediment of the blue hills rolling down from the horizon
the young sun of the east spread surreal splendor on landscape
with the carvings of meandered streams, verdant meadows,
transparent blue ponds, thriving thickets and emerald vales.
My youth embedded in the naïvety of juvenile exuberance
fluttered on wings of indigo birds scaling the cerulean sky
like my multicolored kites flying at fringe of fleeting clouds,
in their adrift enigmatic shadows sweeping the meadow
I saw my freak fantasy take nebulous shapes I marveled,
wondering what they meant, they were so artfully expressive
in the intricate interlacing of the opposites, light and shade,
like the patterns smoky sunbeams created piercing the foliage
in the forest where I ventured chasing the motifs of butterflies,
or like the dancing design the lengthening sunset shadows
the trees made on the pond rippling at sailing swan’s wake
I followed swimming away from the seething summer heat.
The infantile images deeply engraved in the ductile young mind
trampled by the footsteps that have walked me so far away,
lie buried under dust of time that blew across the uprooted life.
Now at the edge of falling night I trace the faint footprint trail
to search beneath the dust the frayed tapestry of my youth.
(Note : The world events uprooted me and my family from our native
land which I still miss. This poem is a nostalgic trip down the memory
lane to the lost root and to my youth, and hence is significant to me.)
May 6, 2019
This poem is written in response to a horrific incident that happened in Unnao in India.
With fragments of dream in my gaze
I too longed for a lotus to blossom
With nascent wings cresting my sky
I too longed to rise high from bottom.
In cruel slaughter, a doormat trampled
in dark of night gleamed sneaky smiles
a body in terror all frozen and numb
deceitful words bleakened evil eyes.
Rape survivior, you called me Unnao girl
pining to live my days, to forget my past
blood dried on legs, cheeks wet in tears.
knocking doors for help, in pain overcast .
Civilized countrymen, burn candle flames
lecture human rights on my life of grime
as iron fists of power, burned me alive
that I cried for justice, was my only crime.
Dated 8th December 2019
Sponsor Emile Pinet
Contest Name : Your Best New Poem
* Unnao is a small city in India.
Five men, including two who were accused of raping a young woman set her on fire while she was on her way to court for the hearing. Her last words were, " please save me...hang my killers"
Used to jab the raggedly tagged faggots b/c sad crabby lads have had their tags grabbed badly yet wagged their drab as stag shabbily as it was dabbed from what came from the tab that came from the lab too reserved to gab at the slab of the drab of the somewhat cab like scrap that gave somewhat of crap before it shat itself after meeting the scapula that became like Dracula before it whacked half a spatula sized radically habitual, mystical ridiculously perpetual medically perpetual cyclically repeating ritual that happens to coincide with the Tik Tok enabled cellular tested, wrestled, meticulously meshed, caressed, messy radical, half-hazardously sexual, wrecked ineffectual, critical, still not quite literal, but mimical, of a cylindrical, syntactically, sporadically, lackadaisically, unanimously, fastened to the meticulously dastardly, massed, blasted, gassed, wrestled, brass, brash, bastardly, bass-like, mass mighty, hat-having, hiss-heaving, bereaving, belief-bound of a be more than beneath the beat up and bleak beak bitten breezy bean and cheese pile of raked leaves style bowl of chips and dips script that the lady with the bloods and crips lip gives as people sit with a ship to New York style trip seem to forget as they lose their because of the tip that hits one when instead of their mitt that would grip somewhat of a catch in a fit that would lick the one who sits with the kit of the fictionally fit mystery that blissfully bit into a tic while it in turn was lit with the mix of the hysterically, rarely, heretically, medically dissed fizz of some **** that would knit a new tit because of an antipsychotic, moronic blip on the screen of some that geographically, sporadically, masterfully admittedly mentioned, could cause retention of some invention, that one would mention if only and if one was sick, with a little grit left abreast a messy Mexican directionally challenged malice but talented callous chalice wielding balanced rally style for a carousel encampment trampled on and possibly tampered with tampon treated, bleached, beaten...
Autumn, like an Indian classical dancer, dressed up
Arrives with soft rhymes and quickening steps
She comes aglow, aglow with a rare beauty
Dancing to the anklet’s tinkling song
Her floating robe falls in deep folds around her feet
As she mesmerizes all with her moves full of grace
Viewing the flaming colors in assorted display
We are apt to wonder if Nature carefully saved up
All that is best for the closing grand finale
Autumn tints look enchanting all through the land
With pervading green, offset by crimson, citrus yellow
Flaming red, lustrous gold and a faded russet
The air stays crisp and sweet in the ripening fields
While stray clouds ramble in a flawless turquoise sky
When autumn is thus all agog like a frenzied dervish
It gives us morbid pictures of death and decay
The trees wrestle to free themselves of their worn cloaks
Causing a cascade of withering autumn leaves
Now they fall scattered in endless stream and lie in piles
Like charred carcasses after a fierce forest fire
The rustle of dry leaves blown by the wind
Falls in our ears with the gabble of migrating birds
Pale sunshine sifts through leafless trees of maple and oak
All those leaves once stayed regal in stations high
Now tossed out like worthless chaff
They come nose- diving and fall several meters below
Spreading a hazel curtain over the moist earthen crust
When trampled mercilessly by careless feet
They silently mourn their thankless fate
Graying that comes at the end of each autumnal fall
Reminds us of the pall of gloom that awaits
It is disturbing like the parting song of birds
As they fly southward before the onset of winter
June.15.2022
Poetry Marathon Mile.2.Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Mark Tony
Originally posted in Sep.2021
...The months that followed were not kind,
a recall soon took his post from him,
and the angry eyes of the grieving kin
weighed so heavily upon his mind.
And word had gone out ’cross the land,
that Cyril Flint, he lacked real grit,
and people had died because of it,
nobody would hire such a man.
The next year would not go by fast,
Cyril spent most of his days dunk,
got by doing odd jobs, fit for skunks,
forever haunted by the echoing past.
In his despair he found himself asking
why he’d thought himself fit for the star
when couldn’t boast of a single scar,
was bravery such a hard-earned thing?
It seemed so clear to him in retrospect,
his ego hand hungered for the prestige,
he’d never been much for humility…
so much hubris on which to reflect.
As he puzzled on this one half-drunk morn,
a team of horses on a wagon stout,
jolted and reeled at the sight of a mouse,
and away with the wagon they tore.
They sprinted straight for widow Allandale,
Cyril threw himself hard into her side,
struck by the force, the widow did fly,
in wild circles did her arms flail.
She struggled to stay on her feet,
quit angry until a sickening crack,
Caught her attention, turning her back,
from her lips leapt a panicked shriek.
On the group lay Cyril’s bent shape,
trampled by hooves and iron rims,
half the bones in his body broken,
bloody from his shins to his pate.
Folks rushed up quickly to surround,
made no move to help, it was clear
there was nothing a doctor could do here,
his last moments in agony profound.
As he wavered in that morning’s light,
the very last words that he ever heard
was,”At least he didn’t die a coward,”
then on came that cold, endless night.
Swinging on a pendulum in some random place moves people; like me.
Clocks in general are quite the intricate workings.
Telling time must be of up most importance as much time spent on the making of itself.
Time making time that swings upon a pendulum of wisdom comparable with life and life in itself is beyond mysterious.
I stand in a place at times.
I swing at places sometimes.
I may be—at times—a pendulum.
I am life—as wisdom is not always to be wise—
I am like a pendulum that is like life and displays wisdom when it swings that fuel life and also death.
Back and forth we repeat our own ancestors actions as we ignore the advice we are unmistakably gifted.
Books upon books have the answers.
Person after person ignore these books and make up they're own answers.
Lies
Truths
Where lies truth?
Truth lay upon the heart of ignorance.
Lies lay atop the trampled grasses of egotistical pride.
Thoughts matter.
All of them.
Thoughts shape our actions.
Think about your own thoughts.
For me, at first, it was unreal.
My thinking wasn't the good guy..."He's a good guy"...they'd say.
Well, my thoughts would beg to differ.
Judgment
Good
Or
Bad
It's going to happen.
By us all...
The very ground we walk upon is judged.
Judgment is in our brains.
This ability to judge is a blessing.
Choice is freely given to you.
I decide to choose what's best suiting for me.
Me
Me
Me
You
You
You
Both are incorrect . . .
This place we live in together is called Earth.
This life we are so lucky to live is shared and not our own.
This pendulum of time is just a metaphor instructing us to keep pressing on and moving forward.
You
Me
The answer is us and is we—Having a time, together in one place, fixated on a pendulum.
May 17, 2017
A tree is a tree,
whether small or tall, but free,
touch it to feel its vibes,
watch it to feel its hues.
Spring delights trees,
Blossoms bloom, fragrance teems,
Bees and birds taste the nectar so sweet,
Touch and feel the hope of future meet.
Oblivious to summer heat and wind,
shelters the birds and bees in kind,
Stands tall for selfless service with elegance,
Keeps engraved love message forever with grace.
Autumn trees display glamour of falling colorful leaves,
gloom and doom of loneliness intensifies,
The leaves get trampled, twirled around in swirling wind,
Get close to a tree to feel the lonesome sadness in mind.
The winter trees, standing bare bones,
Cold rain and snow freezing its bones,
With branches raised, reaching for the sky,
Inviting divinity, survival spirits fly.