Long Trudges Poems
Long Trudges Poems. Below are the most popular long Trudges by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trudges poems by poem length and keyword.
A lone knight slowly trudges across the snow-covered land
Shooting pain raced down his left arm, for nothing went as planned
Blood poured from a large gash on his leg that had expanded
Winning yet broken, he wished for a death that had felt grand
Approaching his stronghold, choking thick black smoke filled the air
Dancing across the Barbican were wild red orange flares
Realizing they marched not to war, but into a snare
Quickening his pace for there was not a moment to spare
Arriving to find nothing but death inside the fort’s walls
Wine colored land told of the violent fight for the fall
Fighting back tears, he wore each slain’s memory as a shawl
Vowing before God he will avenge the deaths of them all
Crashing loud noise informed the knight that he was not alone
Pushing aside the pain, he moved swiftly from stone to stone
Seeing his foe, drawing his sword, he soon would stand alone
Praying, he charged for the enemy’s woven fate was sewn
The footprints of an ant
as it trudges in the dust
The fluttering of leaves
stirred by a windy gust
A stratus cloud
silhouettes against the sky
There's a flock of coral red head brolgas
in casual formation as they fly
The stunning streak of rays
as the sunlight breaks the dawn
Signals that another magic day
once again has just been born
The billowing of large clouds
suggests an imminent storm
The arching of a rainbow
a constant structured coloured form
Ripples on the water
of a tiny bubbling stream
All these enchanting patterns of nature
mesmerised, time to rest, just daydream
Bug Destiny
Round tiny bug moves slow along the garden path
Avoiding traffic as it trudges along
Carries the hardened armor of its ancestry
Down there too, through the centuries
The weight of that nobility
With it, on its back, through history
Portals of time laid out in its direction
Its lineage developed skills for battles
In darkened bitter caves
With aging somber rocks in far off lands
And along the seasoned shores
Over millions and billions of years
Ants search day and night for this small creature
Little round bugs are a staple on their menu
They will not rest until
This morsel is served up in honor of their queen
Solo insect as black as death
Stands by in armor ready
Ants take their forces onward against the drop of day
Their tiny march relentless, endless and grave
Black bug hunkers down in his encasing
Waiting In case bad things should happen
And to survive another day
The army attacks
Storms in on solo bug in stark surprise
With concise incisions ready
Sharp mandibles set to dissect it on the spot
Little bug has one last trick
It tastes of sour and stinky feet
The ants retreat defeated
Round bug makes its rounds about the garden gate
In its cultivated aged defense makes it to another day
Future generations will praise this day
That kept their kind alive
Depriving queen ant of a nasty meal
Of destinies surprise
Burbling stream starts it's journey joyous and happy
Soon finds life is not that easy
Terrain is hard, uneven, dirty
People around selfish
Everyone tells it "Once you reach a river, your problems will cease"
Joyous at this thought, it endures it all
Dreams of a rosy future makes it all worthwhile
Small stream now a part of big river,
its joy knows no bounds
Initial euphoria ends soon
Path is harder, obstacles bigger
Everyone tells it "Once you reach ocean, you can relax"
Once I reach ocean I will peacefully enjoy life
It trudges along its arduous journey dreaming of blissful days
It reaches ocean, weary and tired, desperately needing rest
But it is tossed about again and again harshly by waves
Unable to bear the pain it prays to God to take it away
One day God takes it up.
Happily it göes up thinking
finally all problems have come to an end.
It is thrown back to earth!
Once down it starts flowing again,
same life, same struggle, same agony
It just keeps moving endlessly in circles
The love it was told about remains an illusion
The happiness it seeks again an illusion
Peace, calm and rest it seeks all illusions
09.04.2021
Contest Name : Open Poetry 3
Sponsor : Charlotte Puddifoot
for her sister's one hundredth birthday
a new sweater purchase from a store blocks away
a goal coveted, though for the aged, no such thing
as risk-free walking
she believes
self help springs from iron determination
anchored by her walker,
she trudges,
dismissable pain from battered knees
that grind in bone shrapnel
sapped by the demands of her quest,
her return walk of measured step affliction,
fatigue eroding
"Should I call police to usher me home?"
her thoughts like fabric fraying
in the ruling wreckage of movement, willfully overcome
she wraps her sister's white sweater that
ribbons their legitimacy
that hold them together
curbing minds drifting
daily quest to fight fading
two sisters, resilient blooms
to rage at pulls to brokenness
to slip what traps the aged
their undimmed merit in the slow lane
hardy hearts still beating
pivoting
in life flourishing love
that holds its footing in this world's
detachment
Poem composed: October 3/21
The rottenness of it all is no less foul for having been bleached white. This is the conclusion I come to. I walk with a scarf covering my mouth through the dimly lit catacombs of the faithful. The arched ceiling holds a dangling string of incandescent bulbs which cast a sickly yellow glow on my shoes and the cavities full of thighbones. “Why are all the bones the same,” I ask. The guide smiles. “Tens of thousands of heaven seekers wish to be buried here. There’s only so much room,” he said. “Even today people pay for holy ground.” Ghostly, armless, rib-less, headless, specters seem to rise un-braced, oh the indignity of it all. I picture them searching for the missing parts of themselves. I sneeze through my paisley scarf, stumble back; back, following the arrows in reverse, seeking the way out; just as frantically as they had sought the way in. The rest of the group trudges on; after all, they had paid their coin to Charon.
First Published in Inwood Indiana January 2014
There is a brush of wind sweeping roughshod over the shore
Festering foamy white caps on the crest of the waves
Disembodied voices I think I've heard before
Are rising from the mist of the liquid haze
White-feathered angel wings spreading wide and low
Swoop down below the angry crimson wide
Welcoming home the trollers, row by weary row
As the beacon skims the waters, and the coming of the tide
The sun is clinging helplessly, on the edges of the earth
As one last vessel, trudges in, looking worn and spent
Lagging far behind, and longing home and hearth
Yet with sense of work well done, after long day's sweat,
It burrows in, at end of day, from all those travels, far
The one last vessel, weary worn, cuts a furrow in the stars
For Francine's Contest :"On The Ocean Waves"
“when that that never was dies ~
consciousness flies to new highs”
we walk on a lonely road
alone in the midst of a crowd
each soul trudges under a heavy cross
fake smiles camouflaging destiny’s dark shroud
we seek solace but there’s no safety in numbers
inane game of one-upmanship now dreary
heads or tails, either way we lose
our bones have grown weary
from dark dungeons of despair
where fear of freedom has us bound
we beseech the gods in far away heavens
to show us the way how ethereal bliss may be found
our entreaty unanswered, we find ourself again alone
with all hope lost, we cease to struggle and strive
turning attention inward in the void of silence
we find within our heart a divine bliss hive
as affirmed in all the ancient scriptures
we recognise we are love and bliss and light
unbound is our delight beholding our true essence
self-existent light, pulsating unendingly by day and night
When bodies turn to ash and float in the wind
When whatever makes you, you follows
Floating.
You left your body, a hollow shell
Not you anymore
Just bones.
We couldn’t get your wife to leave your body
Couldn’t watch her grieve.
It sickened us the way she held your imposter
Which looked like you, but didn’t
Which was nothing anymore.
She pretended you were still there
Unable to understand.
She stroked your cheek and touched your hair
She hugged you as if you had not left hours ago
Leaving your body with a final gasp.
I could almost see you there, above your body,
Watching us cry, watching your wife as she clutched your corpse
Delaying reality, trying to collect you in the air, piece you back together
Put you back, bring you back.
I knew you were gone though,
I knew it months before you even left
Days before.
I acted as if each day was the last,
Because it was
Because it could be.
Where are you now?
Are you gone?
Nothing but ashes that float in the wind
Are you elsewhere?
Somewhere just out of reach?
Are you in the park, where she goes to sit every Saturday
To be alone, to escape her house, to grieve, to fight, to cry, to laugh
To watch the weddings.
Are you there with her?
Or watching my father, your son as he trudges through daily life.
Are you watching me?
Are you reading this over my shoulder?
To whom do you come?
To whom does this letter arrive?
I’m sorry.
I’m not grieving enough.
I’m too happy
I go weeks without thinking.
I hope I told you enough how much I loved you.
There’s so much I never told you,
So much I never asked.
I’m dating someone,
Just so you know.
I never told you because I didn’t want to talk about it
Would you have cared?
Should I have told you?
I’m happy.
I’m really happy.
I hope you know.
Off to Kaduna my mind flies,
Off to Zaria my soul first alighted,
Gently ! Gently !! Gently !!!
Echoes the man behind the wheel.
He trudges on day-dreaming
Concerned not about our hues over cries
His pace was like that of a snoring bush pig.
We yawned , jawed but move up
Our faces full of displeasure
The Lagos lady banker took him up
As Alhaja and Alfas added flavour
Can he ever gear up even without bump?
Nothing changes his old leopard nature
I tried spice it up when I woke up
But to the face of him I met no favour
As he shrug off, and belt up
He returned to his snail-crawling seizure.
At the abysmal of his mind
He must be feigning fulfillment
Cat-walking at a speedometer of a tortoise
Fast like an archaic “Loko” train.
To the driver whose forehead reads . . .
And whose lips echoes endlessly
“Its better to be late than to be a late”
For a Life is duplicated not
Nothing is as sweet as cat walking
Snail-pacing in all sojourns.
Alayande Stephen. T
1.10am
21st ,July, 2006.
En-route my way to an NCP meeting in
Kaduna, the luxurious Marcopolo boarded
Merely cat walked all thorough.