Long Trundle Poems
Long Trundle Poems. Below are the most popular long Trundle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trundle poems by poem length and keyword.
Spenserian sonnet
To Trundle Beach we turn to find our fun
with fam'ly on vacation ev'ry June.
Relaxing, romping, ready for some sun,
we traipse the trails with youngsters before noon
then nestle down for babys' naptime croon.
We find the time for each of our four boys,
yet treasure time alone, a honeymoon.
It's tough adjusting to the constant noise.
When adolescents share their digi-toys
we feel our age; they show us how to text.
No way we can compete with cyber joys.
We've pondered year by year, "What can come next?"
When June has passed and gone, we beg for rest
with mixed emotions, we leave Trundle blessed.
April 2, 2012
She will take a bus to work,
it will trundle through her mind
an old bus, long recycled into
washing machines and utensils.
All the spare parts of her mind
ride that bus and arrive together
at an old factory gate.
She smells viscose oil and
a ghostly dereliction,
yet the armored ranks of machinery
thunder and hiss
inside a grey vault of over-printed silence.
Hands twitch in her lap,
they know where to go, remember
what to do. The machines whine and spin
as her dream body tends.
The foreman glares
through the oily interface between
his thoughts and hers.
The boss is a mustache in a suit
that undresses her greasy overalls.
Eyes nailed to her work,
she labors on.
This evening,
she reaches out for the mechanical cat,
it has batteries
for its ticking heart and voice.
Smalltalk wanders around her room
as she listens to her elderly brain
opening long boxed-up days.
Strands of memory
struggle to delineate the sequences
between then and now.
The cat purrs on, its feline vocals
throb and sometimes rattle
like the engine
of a work-bus returning home.
Can remember an ember from being a boy
Off for a trundle little me just a bundle of joy
Dream I am Roy of the Rovers or Rob Roy
Admit never did behave like Lord Fauntleroy
More up for a caper than being a paperboy
Dressing up always more Indian than cowboy
More bow and arrow shun the gun not my toy
Messing up older a bit bolder got first playboy
Each page teenage hormones rage their ploy
Confessing at some stage wore dodgy corduroy
Not a fave gave colder shoulder to sage Tolstoy
More plot thickens heart quickens Dickens envoy
Who's ever told sold better tales of the hoi polloi
Artful dodger that insightful and spriteful decoy
Delightful a bold cheeky and sneaky barrow boy
BUT
Liars & deniers stoking fires while we're choking annoy
Pariahs empires of desires requires knaves to employ
Craves those culture vulture raves which then destroy
Waves stroking cage of wage slaves to graves deploy
Don’t subscribe to tribe’s lust it must just surely cloy
Paths to Mars paves all caves in as did for Helen of Troy
SO
Won’t snaffle the health raffle... folks selling saveloy?
Or crickey chat to that spiky pikey prat yelling “Oi Oi”
We maybe all at sea but lets believe land’s nearly ahoy
Street food snack some heat... pak choi chilli and soy
Suss don’t ever be coy telling us what you dearly enjoy
The fuzzy warmth you feel clearly is the real deal mccoy
True birthday treat got to finally eat yearly at the Savoy
If beset then really never forget the reset for regret JOY
A billowing sheet of white geese
Trundle across the street
Onto grass rich and green
From winter melt
Black river rolls like a fat man
Trying to get outta the way
Stumbles and falls
On smooth gray rocks
And tumbles merrily away
Sweet scent of decay passing
Cemetery opposite the river
Headstones flowing over hills
To distant and future days
Feet ache a little on the asphalt
I'm old not dead
Walk the water down
Geese eating cemetery grass
In my wake
Probably raining in Arizona
But I'll stay here a while
Maybe go to Boston
Easy in North Country
And won't be family here
To visit soon
So, yeah, probably hit Boston
Then I don't know
Be grass to cut when I get home
Say hi to the bars for a week or two
And I'll be looking for
Somewhere to go
Something to do
My mom’s favorite flower
And when I catch the wafting shower
And imbibe the smell of them
My thoughts of Mom start up again
While she rests under a lilac bush
She has visions of a Monet
And her thoughts and the moths
Inhabit the lilac in a romantic foray
It’s more of an adorning (as with a crown)
This purple fountain of pageantry
I’m putting them on a pedestal
But please don’t think any less of me
She loves them so, this is how lilac’s trundle
Outside a trellis, inside, in water, in bundle
But as soon as these beauties had renown
They die slowly and turn to brown
But it’s the memories
That keep me coming back
I will think of my Mom often
Every time I smell a lilac
Dedicated to My Darling Son, My Kyle the Smile
There was no joy when I gave birth,
scary words kept getting worse.
When my baby boy was born
every face was quite forlorn.
He came fresh from our Creator
to be placed in an incubator.
I could not take him in my arms
or shelter him from any harms.
Doctors all had dooming words.
Negativity was all I heard,
“He may never… and he may not ….”
Oh, how I prayed this would stop.
He was two days old when I was told
I could finally lay eyes on his face.
Tubes and wires were every place
in a sterile, see through trundle,
where laid my precious bundle.
Suddenly, I felt a sign and less sad
because my son looked like my Dad,
who had amazing, sure willpower.
I couldn’t have heard God any louder,
saying, "like your Dad, your son’s a fighter."
And fight he did, my beautiful son,
my heart, my love, my special one.
For three months he grew and thrived
defeating all odds of staying alive.
Then on hospital day sixty-five,
he came home on his first ride.
Naked to Nurture. Naked, to Nurture.
Why not naked into woods?
We yank up gumboots.
Enshroud our piggies in wicking and itching sockbags.
Hoping to holdfast against the forfeiture of bought heat.
The city slickers in their shiny slickers
clasp and buckle, zip and bundle
before they trudge and trundle
into the Great Unlabeled, the alien birthright.
An undershirt, a tank, a tee, and then an overthing!
And this in Spring, in Summer. Winter's another thickening:
strappings wrapping trappings, coalgulable clottings clogging
scarf-shrouded and unceremonious cerements.
The gloves, if cold or wet. The hat and muffs, if blustering.
We insulate ourselves from the uninsulated.
Remove ourselves from that which we aim to enter.
To re-enter. To be received by. Naked as we came, now
at our peril, apparently apparelled in unparalleled antiferalelry.
Each civilized entrant into sylvan realms-
textile banished for fear of cold,
for fear of wet, for fear of dirt.
The mind must first give up its notions
of propriety to hope to slake the self in the
sunlit and secreted shimmerings of sanctity.
Be bare of sole, skin to wind.
Be bare of soul, Yin to begin.
Why not naked into woods?
they do, so certainly, come naked...
into us.
Ah, the "daily grind" ...
spin, spin, the big stone wheels,
the weighty rollers of life trundle on, inexorable ...
the intense churn of actuality cares not what finds its press -
Grain or chaff, peril or promise, all at its mercy.
But the painful grind is necessary ... crucial, even.
The crushing weight of verity, growth and wisdom,
creates a process as elemental as breath itself.
The fruitful heart is often hidden ...
within shells of bad habit, error, affectation, and pretense,
so the glorious honesty of a spirit, often bears a hard exterior.
Society and happenstance create phony skins ...
Brittle but strong husks of falsehood that we hide behind,
that we tend to use incorrectly as tools of ease and deflection.
Only through the braying of truth and reality
is the resistant and distorted hull broken down ...
And the wealth and bounty inside, set free.
Yes, the daily grind is real ... and not to be taken lightly,
but it is, as life itself ...
our brutal and beautiful blessing.
~ 4th Place ~ in "The Gristmill" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "June 2018 Standard Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor.
I listen to my neighbors toilet flush,
it takes a long time for the sound
to drain away and refill,
I settle deeper between my ears
cognizant of the cadence
of its slow rise and fall.
The trash compactor chews on
for a grinding stretch after I switch it off.
Uncomfortably heated body-bellows voice out
as a hurried meal speaks on.
This is not silence
minor notes trundle and tumble,
heightened by being weighted
to a lower registry.
Sonic trickles detonate into auricular
spouting’s.
The distances between
unremarkable moments
eavesdrops,
listening to its own earthly poetry.
I long to fold my eyes and softly creep
beside the brook of fancy, as it flows
to tumble off my trundle bed and sleep
and dip the stardust with my drowsy toes
within the world of reverie and dreams
I cast my cares, like nets, upon the sea
so woven as the moon, within its beams
imagination's breadth, now comes to be
with all the dreamy pathways that I stroll
the routes are always varied, always new
and still, each destination brings its toll
as all my sojourns find their way ... to you
but I would ne'er deny my heart that ache ...
if only you'd come with me ... when I wake.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Most Comments Received Poem 2018" Poetry Contest, July Morning, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Sleepwalking" Poetry Contest, John Hamilton, Sponsor & Judge.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Contest Number 470 Any Form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor & Judge.