Long Trudging Poems
Long Trudging Poems. Below are the most popular long Trudging by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trudging poems by poem length and keyword.
What is love?
The North Star guiding
a lost seafarer home,
Or the Siren song luring
him to the rocky shores?
Is it frolicking in the moonlit night
in a field of flowers
Or trudging across
an arid, scorching desert?
Is it a freeway to bliss and joy
Or a meandering trail
through a rugged terrain
of grief and woe?
Is it a cup of hemlock
Or a chalice of nectar?
Is it a snake pit
Or a bridge over the chasm
of hatred and bigotry?
Is it an ever-elusive mirage
Or the rock of Gibraltar?
Love is all that and more,
And yet it’s nothing,
A mere emotion, a feeling –
At first blush, irrelevant
And yet,
It’s an impetus, a catalyst –
An euphoria permeating our entire being--
"Love is a many-splendored thing!"*
*(P.F.Webster / Sammy Fain)
~"Types of Love" contest by Nayda Negron
My world on a piece of paper
Drawn and felt under the Moon's vesper
Simple life I rended
Under a tree I shredded
Early in life I staggered
Held only a pencil and a paper
Walking with shoes of a cobbler
Trudging many roads that bantered
At sixteen my life turned and spinned
In a world not mad, but splinted
At eighteen my world tuned in din
Like a song in a jukebox, worn and tinted
Years passed and my world stayed the same
To act and strive without shame
My thoughts that broke me in two
In a world that honed me to be true
The world is full of mystery
Stand up and walk over misery
God opens a way to relive a life
His name I praise all my life
Past will always be a history
History of any man with clogged stories
Stories that can break you or mend you
Stories of you, all but one in you
An anonymous artist had named the painting:
'Bertram Crumm'
it was simply a depiction of a man
trudging over a blank Landscape.
No one had heard of this man,
but this enigmatic fact alone was intriguing,
and now he was perfectly framed.
After many years
an art critic tracked him down.
Crumm claimed to be a meatpacker
who worked in Allen Town,
yet no one could see him as a meatpacker
working in Allen Town.
Some saw nobility in his gait and posture,
some saw a furtive mindset, most declared
emphatically that Crumm was definitely
a poet!
If we had known
that Crumm had often confessed to his family
that he loathed poetry and was indifferent
to art in general
then that landscaped/portrait
would still be gathering dust in a Goodwill shop.
However, a billionaire owns it now,
and ironically,
he also can't write a lick of poetry either.
As if in thoughts the quiet road seemed lost
As evening shadows looked longer and dark,
Young winter’s chill felt like December frost,
On tall treetops Sun still looked somewhat stark
But smaller ones were all wrapped in darkness,
Grief-like I felt the sombre shades of grey,
Birds hurried home to their nightlong address
To rest and recoup, fresh for the next day.
In no undue hurry to reach back home,
And trudging slow I saw a sunflower
On a farm’s thorny fence muddied with loam
Bringing to mind’s view a bright face turned dour
Along sad memories of my sister,
Of sunflower looking more sinister.
________________________________________
Sonnet | 11.12.2025 | allusion, sad, sister, sunflower
Note: The reference is to my youngest sister who lost her husband some time back. He was a busy oncologist with directorship of a cancer institute. She too with her own work in the field of education, and only now the two had the time enough to cherish a ripe, mature company of each other to continue with their hobby of literary work. All memories he mind from time to time. Alas, sad memories leave a deep-set scar.
golden bright light spears into the night
shattering the darkness and breaking into blue
pinpoint bright colors fading away
heralding the dawning of the new day
children’s bright laughter sounds on the lane
girls and boys chasing and running away
too young yet to be chasing dreams
seeing just minutes into the day
shop keepers opening draw back the blinds
unlocking the treasures for customers to find
seeking the music that fills their hearts
coins that shingle sounding so bright
fathers and husbands slip out their doors
unto the cities to travel again
selling their skills and losing their time
that they might tend to their family’s needs
mothers do straighten and clean their homes
doing their that never will end
some are singing the joy of their day
others weary trudging just marking time
days can so quickly brightly fly
filled with the joy of each passing day
dreams that do sparkle brightly in view
hopes in the tomorrow that will surely come true
yet in the darkness of rooms that are closed
soft sounding cries of hopeless dread
breaths that do struggle to bring in life
lie broken pieces of dreams that do end
bright colored birds passed windows do fly
singing bright songs of cheerful joy
knowing no needs and seeking not
simply just living a another day
I don’t trust the angels
They must have stolen my sun
I have worked so hard , done so much
I am so tired I am on my last blood
No sweat left, If I cry I Die
No luck left, I traded it for life
No shelter , No moon, No Love
No God, I am always cold
Trudging towards death
The sands are not halfway done
If I meet the angel who stole my sun
I will strangle them with my bare arms
I will not listen to whatever lessons I needed to learn
I will hang them at the pearly gates
To appease those ho lived in darkness
And to protect those who are yet to lose the sun
I don’t trust these angels
I am sure they stole my sun.
In this arid plain of perennial drought,
as I stand transfixed with vexations rising in my spirit
and sadness lying mute as a stone,
I discern, I am alone with none to hold my hand
or share the burden that weighs me down.
Trudging through rugged paths
with my mournful shadow, tottering along,
the past sneers at me, breaking open
bottled up memories- of years spent in unbridled passion,
the smell of cigarettes, ganja and beer
wine and women, bet and gambling,
and the thrill of having won and lost
I used narcotic drugs many and they kept
gnawing into my psyche!
Once I walked with stilted gait
with friends and fans, amid laughter and haste
eager to please and to praise
Inebriated and effervescent were we
Fancied money could buy all we yearned
and turn this Earth-a virtual Paradise
But how swift was the twist of fate!
With no condiments, life suddenly turned bland.
The gorgeous castles I once built, burnt down to cinders
like dry leaves blown by the wind,
Friends, I thought never would desert,
flitted away one by one!
With dejection and despair warping me down
a rabid dog I strayed.
Grew irritable and vicious,
fled away from bond and bondage
spitting the saliva of my angst,I barked… barked at everyone;
“Where did vanish all the fabulous dreams
Whither gone life’s ritzy splendors?
But the wildfire burnt itself down,
now a passive stillness has settled in.
In this inert hush, as I grope,through murky corridors
with the sound of my footsteps falling like a thud,
a single query breaks out from within
‘Where shall I hide unseen
from this horrid loneliness staring me in the eyes?’
In the dark opaque night across the space of silence,
through the wasteland of my ravaged existence,
I take the ordained journey forsaken,
but the track of travail across the illusive time I lose
in the gloomy labyrinth of torment.
Trudging at the edge of my tolerance I hear
the sane essence whisper this journey has no end.
In the uncertainty fold with the desolate soul in agony
I see the dismal sky crash down,
from hope’s debris I pray for the blessings of almighty.
At the fringe of the fleeting forlorn moment,
I see the new sun rise with the divine splendor
in the horizon of salvation of the inner sky.
As God’s golden rays of grace glow in dark abyss within,
the devout soul gleams with the heavenly grandeur.
My prayer kindles the candle of God’s benevolence,
in its halo I perceive His supreme power and presence,
repulsing from my revived life the miasma of misery.
As I discover the new me I find the holy path ahead,
paved for my soul to reach nirvana and attain divinity.
A plethora of attention
focused on twentieth anniversary
regarding terrorist attacks
upon American soil nine eleven
two thousand and one,
thus Schwenksville poet
opted for his best métier write.
While riding atop a yak
both feet went wickety wack
trudging beast of burden a throwback
to the brainchild
of John Mauchly and J. Presper Eckert
devised Electronic Numerical
Integrator and Computer
otherwise dubbed ENIAC
cumbersome invention
programing machine no easy knack
also impossible mission or fit in pocket
book versus handy to tote
laptop perfect fit inside day pack.
As an aging long haired
pencil neck geek baby boomer
who reckons himself
as schleppy (snoop doggy dog) self groomer
cannot escape scornful passersby
sneering, snickering and snorting
at me, an utter embarrassment to humanity,
who also sports sophomoric humor.
Unfair for yours truly
to saddle anonymous readers
which travails of mine
analogous overburdening
an old decrepit ass,
hence lumpenproletariat
marxist (brother) fellow,
whose insensitivity
could be interpreted as crass
subsequently aiming figurative sights
upon fresh fields,
where leaves of grass
harvested by me one
Norwegian bachelor farmer wannabe
ofttimes dashes off to Lake Woebegone
to escape madding crowds who harass
him, cuz he accentuates whole foods
with plenty of fiber to avoid
experiencing lower gastrointestinal impasse
acquiring moniker windbag
courtesy humongous formed rectal mass
necessitating the expertise of Nass
(another name for Nishga -
a member of a branch
of Tsimshian people
of British Columbia inhabiting Nass
River basin and/or dialect of Tsimshian
spoken by Nishga)
homeopathic remedies outclass
those of 21st century medicine,
said indigenous people
interpret objection toward their
age old medicinal practice as sass
even consider disagreement violation,
a figurative criminal mind to trespass
and the subject in question
a veritable, (albeit harmless) wiseass.
I thought I’d have to leave my favored spot
and go inside this warm and humid day.
My pleas for respite must have been perceived,
for Nature sent a lilting, soothing breeze.
My car took out the worst day of the year.
I shivered violently while trudging home.
Then, welcomed by my loving family
and fireplace flames, I felt so richly blessed.
But Nature’s Air and Fire aren’t always mild.
When they unite, they devastate with fear,
destruction, and dismay. Wildfires will spread,
for many miles encouraged by high winds,
destroying lives and homes. Recovery
will come quite slowly, if it comes at all.