Long Tramples Poems
Long Tramples Poems. Below are the most popular long Tramples by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tramples poems by poem length and keyword.
You are a jackal dripping
A childish cotton candy concoction
From your canine teeth
Though that may be unfair to jackals
Less clever and more desperate,
You are more like a hyena
It's just that it sounds like "cackle" which reminds me of you
Which is how I got there
Really though you are more like an insect
That I have instinctively come to loath
With evolutionary fervor, a lesson
Learned by students in classes that I skipped
A bug of an insidious genus that cloaks itself
In motherliness then tramples its young unknowingly
Not even taking care to savor their meat
Nature is too elegant too intelligent to craft a creature like that
So I will set traps knowing that
You can't beat the house but
Each one of your drones I kill will
Be a tiny Independence Day
In light industrial units, sheet-metal roofs
ping under the rising heat of the sun.
Sounds of tin stretched into rhythm.
He tumbles out of a fuzzy dream
tramples over himself, sucks in
half-digested thoughts.
Morning on the edge
of a medium-sized mid-west city,
Mourning doves throttle a coo or two.
This late chiming morn,
he shares a first-rate breakfast tea
with the chug and chur
of a de-frosting fridge
wallows awhile in flabby abstractions.
Minor keys ding aluminum sidings,
gradually low-grade whispers
stutter into words, a kind of poem
he can almost hear.
Seek sensuous shores
Clever cheer charms
Mindset moves more
Deft deed disarms
Precious plays ply
Sigh spreading sigh
Highs hurling highs
Play plunders pry
Dizzy daze dies
Deed describes dance
Sounds sizzle sighs
Crispy cash chance
Live lovely lines
Sensuous sighs speak
Dare deeper dine
Preach profound peak
Mind motive maze
Lift laughter loud
Halt hazy haze
Play petty proud
Pronounce prime play
Be beyond bore
Stay smiling sway
Meet many more
Walk wonder's way
See sensuous sights
Dare delights day
Live laughter's light
Cheer's crystal call
Fills flooding feel
Gloom grooms grand gall
Happy hope heals
Heap hidden hopes
Let love linger
Calm cheer can cope
Touch true trigger
Time tramples trade
Being bears blood
Gracious gifts grade
Free fickle flood
Now neither nor
Lift lovely lines
Sense soul's speed soar
Delve deep divine
Lovely lines look
Simple stuff said
Browse busy book
Prompt promise paid
Leon Enriquez
26 Mar 2014
Singapore
Fine tussled forelock hides unbridled pain
from stifle-lameness acknowledged too late,
withering lesser those few that remain
watching as Stormcloud takes one final gait.
Soft drizzled rain-drops accompany booms
heard where each hoof tramples dirt into dust.
Mist escaped muzzle while ignorance looms,
glistens sheen gaskins long aching to bust.
Once thought sickle-hock due to fetlocks swelled
above coronets seen infected ill,
was quick dismissed by an owner compelled
to squeeze one dollar more from Stormcloud’s till;
Then came three races, one after the next,
which saw champion-spirit’s finest display;
Torturing sandscapes while weary croup flexed,
determined as anguished frogs made ovals pay.
He gave all he had and had no remorse,
For ended trots brought by one greedy soul –
Stormcloud indeed was a hall-of-fame horse,
erased when friendship went out at the poll.
10/2/2016
It is summer,
and the umbrella men
are selling hotdogs.
A good-looking priest
enters Saint Pat's,
gangly girls giggle,
then make the sign of the cross.
Thursday is All-You-Can-Eat pizza day,
the joints will be too crowded,
the slices rushed out, slapped down
way to early or late.
Office workers flock
from the second floors of everywhere,
huddle shoulder to shoulder,
to spread rumors,
then return to gaze at desktop
computer games
or TikTok –
**** is a compensatory privilege
of the under paid.
The year hurries on,
rats scurry behind neon facades.
Downtown is slip-sliding,
it used to be a place to get noticed,
a gated area for outdoor passions.
Modest ladies now
hold the hem of their skirts down,
and not because
of any up-lifting wind.
Dope is in the air,
thieves hustle to get their share.
Tourists meander dazed,
as the stark exposure of the city
tramples over them.
Winter bites its chill tongue.
Come December’s last glittering moments,
that glass ball will hang by
the thinnest of threads.
~~~~~~~~~~~
(new edit)
True generosity isn’t measured by what we give with ease,
but by what we sacrifice in silence, unseen,
when the help we offer strips something from us.
It’s easy to be generous when nothing is lost—
almost comfortable.
But reaching out when everything is trembling,
that’s when the heart speaks, not the mind.
Being there without calculation,
acting without hesitation because we love,
because we know pain,
because someone’s absence would hurt more than the effort itself.
I gave everything.
Without counting.
Without expecting anything back.
Now, I’m alone.
And those I carried let me fall—
even my own children erased me.
Maybe they’ll remember,
one day.
But I no longer wait.
Too often, those we support
forget we were bleeding too.
They weren’t there when it was their turn,
Being kind becomes a risk.
Giving too much leaves you exposed.
And in a world where ingratitude thrives,
love becomes a weakness to be exploited.
I regret nothing,
but I see it now:
some take
and never look back.
Maybe this time is sick.
Maybe roles are blurred.
But me—
I keep loving,
even the absent ones.
They took me for granted,
as if my kindness were an endless debt,
a faucet they turned on without a glance at the clock,
without remembering they ever drank.
I realized too late
that some only stayed while the dark scared them,
and once they were warm,
they left without a thank you.
But I haven’t changed.
I am who I am—
not a bank,
not a shelter for the passing,
but a human being
who believed that giving
was self-evident.
Today, I expect nothing.
No gesture, no hand.
Just a bit of peace,
and the dignity of never betraying who I am.
Poverty didn’t steal my soul,
ingratitude didn’t strip me of my values.
I’m still standing,
not with arrogant pride,
not under any flag,
but with that strange strength
of those who fall
and keep loving.
Because you don’t change your essence,
even when the world tramples it.
Because love isn’t begged for—
it’s given.
And when there’s no one left to receive it,
you keep it
so you don’t lose yourself.
March 17, 2016
Mary E.W. Stephenson
My Reconstructed House
In my house of reconstruction, it is very well lit under the glory of GOD.
There is a 'No Trespass' sign on my lawn, and a 'Private Property' sign is
hanging from my front door.
Yet I peek outside of my windows and see the misery that tramples the lives of others.
I am a compassionate soul. Yet I know that I must be careful as to whom I let in my house.
In my old house I was ingenuous and allow negativity, jealousy, treachery, and deceit cross my door sill, and it tore down the walls of my house, leaving me with an empty shell of a house.
My heart was splintered and I became plagued with despair.
Now there is a loving spirit that flows freely from chambers to chambers.
The tender yet feverish love of my man keeps my house warm and cozy.
I have given GOD the key to my house, and I feel free to be successful in growth and accomplishment.
People admire my new house and they want to know what they need to do to get such a well-constructed house, and I tell them to open the door to their inadequate house and let GOD in.
I was not carrying milkweeds like a maiden when you met me.
The thunderous blood-red holler my ear yet not been acquainted with.
You rode your moods like a vaquero. In and out of ranges near swirling up motes so thick and far you were nothing but a speck. I like to think I am a queen of our tiny kingdom-- though the monarch you are.
The flowing milk from the mothers breast became the host and breadth and depth of your trough. I am milkweed. You are monarch. You have and endless symbiotic DNA, that dines on energy. I flow like magma and cool to a crust of the earth that man tramples over into dust.
Act III: The Trial Of Varro
PRAETOR:
Let silence reign within these hallowed walls.
The charge is grave: corruption of the state.
Let witness speak who dares to name the wrong.
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Most noble lords, I speak not out of spite,
Nor seek I vengeance, nor ambition’s prize.
But truth compels, and justice bids me stand.
The Consul hath betrayed the common trust,
And bartered Rome for silver and deceit.
CONSUL VARRO:
Thou speak’st with fire, yet bring’st no proof but wind.
Is virtue now a cloak for slanderous tongues?
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
The proof lies not in scrolls, but in the streets.
Ask of the people, hear their bitter cries.
Their grain is taxed, their voices bought and sold,
While Varro feasts beneath the gilded dome.
CHORUS:
O shame! O fall of honor once so proud!
The lion feeds upon the flock he swore
To guard with tooth and claw from harm near or far.
SENATOR:
Let Varro speak, if he would clear his name.
CONSUL VARRO:
I served the state with cunning and with strength.
Is that a crime? Shall Rome be ruled by fools?
The world is harsh, and power must be seized.
Would ye prefer a weakling on the throne?
MARCUS LUCILIUS:
Nay, strength is noble when it serves the right.
But thine is strength that tramples law and kin.
The shield that guards must not become a sword.
CHORUS:
Well said, O sage! Let justice now be done.
Let not the purple robe conceal the stain.
PRAETOR:
The Senate shall retire to weigh the charge.
Let all await the judgment of the house.
CHORUS:
O Rome, thy fate now hangs upon the scale.
Shall gold outweigh the honor of the land?
Or shall the voice of virtue yet prevail,
And cleanse the Forum with a righteous hand?
FIRST CITIZEN:
If Varro falls, let others heed the blow.
SECOND CITIZEN:
If Varro stands, then justice is a ghost.
CHORUS:
Let not the gods avert their holy gaze.
Let truth be crowned, and falsehood cast away.
PRAETOR:
By vote of peers, the Consul is condemned.
Let him be stripped of rank and cast from grace.
The treasury shall be restored in full,
And Varro sent in exile from the state.
CHORUS:
So falls the proud, and rises Rome anew.
Let every heart take heed of virtue’s voice.
For though the night be long, the dawn is true.
You are the dusk that masquerades as first light.
In the stillness of descending twilight,
your spellbinder's expectorant
opens the passageways of the feeble,
weevles like a gloworm
in dark fertile soil.
Whispers of memories that never were,
in a soft lament,
in a lofty raimant.
I am lost in the shadows of yesterday's song,
longing for a love that once belonged.
In risky fantasy,
I play your suspect invitation,
as a night thief with an accordion,
iron lung.
Too powerfully drawn am I,
unable to resist your decisions-
Wringing me dry.
Shift of weightlessness density,
snap-twang, propensity-thick and numb.
If I had just one last guess,
I am the cotton and you are the laudanum.
Why am I the salivary gland and the gum.
The wavering field of rye that a beast
tramples on.
Invisible chains they bind my words,
like a palsy stricken tongue,
grasping my chords with ghastly cords,
poetic enslavement,
thoughtfully borne divided by
my pasts sum.
Rosehips- tea soaked gingerly-
your spell lingers on SOS morose telepathy
morse code, telegraphed, telegaphed
to see your confident smile mockingly know,
peering into the eyes before expected wind-up
and mesmerizing blow.
Your fluiro-essences spores inliquidity,
wetness of morganite,
juices leeched,
leaving me in my parasitic derangement,
unable and unwilling to fight-
familiar arrangement.
Your jaded facet to sparkle
as a trophy against the light.
That which you neon flash to be.
From, for, to, too spun,
I am a sugar crop to make into candy
that you drool upon the lips,
as I drink you in
electroponic abomination splice of caine
and Hawaiian Punched Drunkenness.
Hey Kool aid, break through my walls
and offer your solution.
Stain my lips.
A fermented wavelength I will become,
dialing your frequency,
of restless dream,
silence of my soul's dark night,
moonlight beamer ride of twists and turns.
Some people never learn,
me being that one,
you being my classroom distraction
passing notes of gossiped ink of juicy gossamer,
till you are commanded to "release
this dumb- one, who knows not of lessons,
of touching what burns".