Long Tromping Poems
Long Tromping Poems. Below are the most popular long Tromping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tromping poems by poem length and keyword.
A Threat of W A R
So weep, dear world, as
The bear advances.
The bear with his trainer named Putin,
Loved by none, now not even his own.
So end your roar, dear bear!
As Putin thrills to cause disarray,
Loving his terror — that weapon
He’s loosed again, yet again —
On the world’s lesser…
His finger on a trigger,
Making the world tremble…
Against all sense, all reason,
Whipping the bear forward
Out of his rest,
Resisting, but
Still tromping forward, growling
And the world wailing.
Stay struggling, dear world,
To keep the mystery of peace working
Against more than a war to end all wars:
A war in these days, which would become
A war to end our world.
———————————————————
(c) sally young Eslinger 1/24/22
In life when I’m running a marathon race
on the rough and rocky road traversing the heath
across the rolling mounds, low and high,
I remember my childhood days
that flew away far in the virtual space
on the wings of an astral dove,
disappeared like a star in the galaxy.
I now search it in the milky way
as starburst chunky clouds float on the sky above.
In the good times like that of the jolly rancher
still alive in me in wraps of whoppers,
with my pockets full of goobers
and my hands grabbing bars of Kit Kat and Tootsie Roll
I got from the shop of Mr. Good Bar,
I still see me as one of the three musketeers
of the 5th Avenue whom people called smarties
tromping the streets in fancy snickers,
who played skittles and acted as lifesavers of the nerds,
telling them to not empty their 100 Grand pockets
on spending spree on pay day.
As my time approaches the zero hour
I go back to those candy days,
try to live in the sweet memory
lest I lose them now and later.
September 26, 2018
Contest : How sweet it is
Sponsored by : Carol Connell
Number of candy names used : 27
Carnival without merit, affinity, and association
Brash, bellowing band bleeting notes in oscillation
Circus creatures cavorting about with every unseemly provision
Cascading, carnival chorus clanging through every subdivision
Haughty, kilted henchmen trotting in front of the procession
Decadently-dressed damsels fawning at mock adulation
Coarsely-clad clowns tromping along in derision
Freaky, festooned floats fluttering through every alley and intersection
Ghastly garlands strewn about with every drunken petition
Teaming, throbbing townspeople on marauding mission
Corrupt Councilors culled and paraded about in degradation
Frugal, free-loading foragers scraping up every token donation
Vacuous, votive vendors profitting from their abnegation
Ebullient, enterprising entrepreneurs scalping without aversion
Tromping through the trenches of life
We have to emphatically make ourselves fall in love
Over and over and over and over and over again
For we begin to fall out of it if we do not make it a daily mantra
We must polish up our weapons, and have them at the ready
Enthusiastic gleaning of things I Ioved about him in the first place
All of the wonderful things he has done for me year after year
I take out the photo albums and reminisce
We get our orders from the big guy in the sky
Who wants us to honor our commitment,
We fight for our union,
the one we pledged we would honor forever.
We are soldiers of love.
I kept the stegosaurus hidden because I do not trust neighbors
They call if the cat jumps over the fence
Police have been here twice about me putting my garbage out
ten minutes early
I bought Steggie off a pirate who did not have much background information
I do not care; he is the best-behaved pet I have ever had
He mows the lawn, and he does not hop all over people like the baby goats did.
The neighbors were always calling about those two!
What do you have back there? My great aunt Louisa asked, peeking out the window.
I said, "fat dog".
All I need is a bunch of newspaper reporters tromping around.
When you live like a hoarder, it’s best to keep your stegosaurus a secret.
That way, he can come inside when the weather gets colder
And the health department will be none the wiser.
“What a pretty dog!” Aunt Louisa said, calming my fears.
If I was gone people would pretend they knew me
They would come to the house and annoy my husband.
He would keep the door locked and not let them in
The dog would bark her disapproval.
If I was gone they would tell jokes about me.
They would embellish the truth, so it would be funnier.
I would be sitting in the eaves, listening,
so I could correct them if any of us got to heaven.
If I was gone they would tear my house apart.
They would burn all of my paintings.
They would dance and sing around the bonfire.
They would debate cleaning my house.
If I was gone I would not care.
I would turn my back on this world
And go tromping into the next one
Or the next life, for I do not think any of us
Is ever truly gone.
Sheer Phawn was not like other jungle creatures. She did not blend into the landscape.
She was not fearful of the unseen dangers, or the dark shadows, or the lack of sun.
The secretive cloak of the jungle and the diabolicalness of its floor did not alarm her.
There was no hiding for her, no secrecy. No reverence at all for her mysterious surroundings.
The plane had crashed two days ago, and Sheer Phawn was existing on adrenaline and anger.
She was furious; at the pilot, the crew, and all of the passengers which had died, and left here.
She was tromping through these unknown grasses, in a furious way, glad that she had an axe.
It was one of the few things she decided to grab as she left the plane. There were only two survivors.
Jim something was the other one.
She was mad enough to stomp and tromp, but these vine-encrusted tree trunks and grasses
Slowed her progress, increasing her furiousness to almost a frenzy point. Was no one looking for them?
She cut a little niche out of some grasses with the tiny axe, and screamed a war cry as a snake slithered
Under the spongy jungle floor at her feet. She did not see his head, but if she had, she would have
No doubt cut it off, she was so mad.
This jungle from hell which had been so foreboding and intimidating two days ago was irritating now.
“AH! LEE-OH! YAH! HEY!” she screamed, pretending she was tough, while she was really just sad.
There was no echo, as there never is in the jungle. Jim, the only other survivor of the crash, suggested she sit.
Sheer Phawn laughed, maybe a bit too loudly, and she caught herself.
Jim had been looking a bit suspicious of her lately, she did not want to give him fodder, so she sat.
She did not want to give her plan away, but she was never letting her axe out of her sight.
She kind of thought of Jim as a possible future lunch, and it was not good to let this out.
Cannibalism is a lot more difficult if you make lunch into a friend, right?
She sat down while boring Jim told her things she did not want to hear. He droned on.
She pretended to listen, too angry to hear the words. Neither heard the tigers until it was too late.
The loud fastest growing
non-thinking hand-it-over
flowers are abrasive
to some who feel they are truly weeds,
just messing up us real flowers
Their gnarly appearance is
off putting because they
are not the approved people, they are clover.
They look different, they dress
different, they advocate giving
away stuff to so-called poorer flowers.
They are way too giving with our flower seeds.
This is our seed; we made it.
You cannot take it away from us.
Our gardners purchased it online or in stores.
it is ours until we throw it in the garbage.
We do not like the
abrasive irritating selfish
non-thinking hand-it-over
flower weeds who
are screaming for our seed,
who want our well-earned pollen.
Sit in the sun yourself, you poison ivy leaves!
These give-it-all-to-us weeds sometimes become
abrasive in our gardens. They are overbearing,
disrespectful, trotting over us flowers in a mean
and arrogant way.
We are so irritated with them,
they are covering us up quickly and thickly, loud and proud.
We stick up our noses and try to push through their
hard-headed, do-it-our-way-and-give-us-everything ranks.
Then when we are mortally wounded, and we see
little hope, when we lose our fight, and become weeds
ourselves, our perspective changes. We become the
arrogant and rude take-over types, tromping over each
little marigold and lavender slice, silencing them.
We are now the desperate, take-over weeds,
screaming for our due. We become the bullies.
I have no idea how to rectify the approved
flowers with us weeds, but we weeds soon
get our own way, we become
incensed, and crafty, and our dendrites kick in.
Some of us dandelions have developed magical powers.
We figured out how to look and sound less weed-like.
Some of us are running for political office,
telling the loveliest most naïve flowers what they need
to hear to get onboard and give us their seeds.
Knowing they will soon be joining the world of
weeds, and loving the knowledge we have done
it with little bloodshed, only craftiness and stealth.
Oh, it is fun to be on the bad side.