Long Trundles Poems
Long Trundles Poems. Below are the most popular long Trundles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trundles poems by poem length and keyword.
About the end of times when
Carts were hauled by Shires,
Coal was king and homes
Were heated by open fires,
A seemingly huge dark figure
From my early childhood days
As he drove his horse and cart
Through the country byways
From village to village to village
Delivering sacks of coal
To feed our coal fires, then
Each home’s heart and soul.
One hundredweight of coal
Measured into each heavy sack
Which they’d hoist off the cart
Onto a waiting broad back
To be carried to the coal shed
To be skilfully slipped
And with ease of movement
Very carefully tipped
Not a black lump wasted
As it piled on the coal heap8
For money was tight
And coal wasn’t cheap.
His horse patiently standing
By each house’s kerb side
Waiting to be led on or
For him to climb up and ride.
Hours they must have spent
Huddled on that cart seat
Muffled up for winter’s cold
Or soaking up summer’s heat.
One day suddenly, progress,
The Shire retired out to grass
The second hand liveried lorry
Shelter behind steel and glass.
Still a hard dirty job but warmer
As the world moved slowly on
King Coal was coldly murdered
And the job was virtually gone.
Just a figure from history
From a simpler, slower age
Not even meriting a foot note
On a social history primer’s page.
Is there a niche in time and space
Where a coal man and his horse,
Waggon piled with sacks, eternally
Trundles his once essential course
This cute little creature trundles along,
He cannot speak, nor sing a song,
He cannot run, for love nor dime,
Nor decipher day from the nighttime.
To labor the point, he can barely see,
He only wishes to be free.
He asks no money, nor food or drink,
For he cannot like us think.
A worm or two is all he seeks,
He’ll forage alone, he’ll forage for weeks,
And yet we poke him, just for fun,
Laugh and joke once the deed is done.
His spikes intrigue, we cannot help,
The sad thing is he cannot yelp.
He cannot cross the road in time,
For we see the evidence of our crime.
What has he done? He does not deserve,
This precious creature, we must preserve.
He cannot ask to let him be,
But if not, the hedgehog, we may not see!
Noise, Noise, Noise
That’s all I ever hear
It’s getting so loud and intrusive, that I begin to fear
How much more noise can my ears take
As I live in fear for my mental state
What happened to the bird song that I used to hear each day
The sound of waves upon the beach as excited children play
The chuff, chuff, chuff of steam trains, from a bygone time I loved
The cows a mooing
The sheep a bleating
And the cooing of a dove
I love to hear my blackbird as it sings both day & night
And even screeching seagulls surpass the din of a building site
With noise that comes from traffic as it trundles through the town
I stay at home my windows shut clothed in my dressing gown
At times when I can hardly hear the sound of my own voice
I have to shout
I have to shriek
I really have no other choice
The noises and vibrations are the sounds of daily living
They make me stressed
I feel so bad
They are so unforgiving
I fear with all this noise pollution
There is no cure, there’s no solution
So to deafen the din drink a bottle of gin
And to stop my decline drink a bottle of wine
And by then everything will sound fine…
Written April 9 2018
Contest Strand no 700
Sponsor Brian Strand
1st PLACE
"I shall be telling this with a sigh"
Robert Frost
Mother's Moody Blues
When she’s tired, she’s moody,
Can be dangerous as well.
Gives looks enough to kill us,
Yes, she really gives us hell.
She shouts and says she works hard,
Then cleans house, and has to cook.
Says, none of us would give a damn,
If we lived in our lives in muck.
She also goes to work now,
Needs to subsidise our way.
Since I got made redundant,
And now get lower pay.
She trundles through the kitchen,
And stamps her way up stairs.
She shouts and moans and groans a lot,
Says, no one really cares.
We sit here saying nothing
It’s safer much that way.
’Cause if we dare to say a word
She’d really make us pay.
She’ll get up in the morning.
To start another day.
But then because she’s rested,
She’ll be happy, nice and gay.
She really is a lovely mum,
A wife and grandma too.
And if we ever lost her,
We would not know what to do.
Its only when she’s tired,
That we're careful what we say,
And even then we love her lots,
But... stay out of her way!
Ivor G Davies
All night unto dawn
a gentle sadness
a comforting...
there is a dreaming rain falling
it is younger than morning mist
it is the first and last teardrop
as the world recalls its ancient roots.
I rest in the backwash of my own ebbing waves.
My breath cleansed in the light-stepping rain.
Distantly I hear soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
I listen as a mail van trundles-by,
hear it pushing messages into gawping spaces.
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
Plants fold fronds and leaflets
while dripping blooms bathe.
All is well, all unspoiled.
The world is a child again.
It rains gently now within.
All night unto dawn
a gentle sweetness – a soft rain
a comforting...
slow dreaming droplets
in a watery falling.
I overhear soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
The mail van trundles-by
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
then a solicitous quiet
as the land listens to itself
breathing.
The sky is wet but not drowning,
it floats on flowing wind-waves
that wash against my mind
as a tender caress.
All is well,
the world is a child again.
You are alone on a deserted island that has been filled with overgrown fruit
and bare essentials. The water is so clear you can use it as an honest mirror
of truth. Over in the distance you spot a lovely hammock that has been hung
between two sturdy cypress trees. You decide to walk over and give it a try.(b)
Its soft material hugs you and before you know it, you are fast asleep in that
lovely makeshift hammock. The sound of the ocean rocks your ears in tranquil
motion to and fro. (b)
Passing clouds glide over your head without making a sound. They are watching
you breathe as they go by. Breathe from your diaphragm, your chest, your throat,
Breathe in and out.
You smile cuz you are in a place of inner contentment. A little green turtle trundles
along moving side by side close in , circling your little soft hammock.
She is heading for the ocean for some seaweed, jellies or tunicates. The little rosy
seashells are sitting at the edge. They call you over for a barefoot walk. You smile
as you rise and go to the edge of the water wetting your feet and holding spaced
with the dolphins and the fish (b)
You are going to live here for a little while. Long enough to receive your fitful rest
You are going to stay her for a little while, cuz you know it is the best place to be(b)
The End.
All night unto dawn, a gentle sadness,
a comforting...
a dreaming rain falling,
as the world recalls its ancient roots.
I listen to soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
The mail van trundles-by,
sparrows bathe in warm puddles.
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
All is well, all newly
washed
the world a child again.
Clad in Kevlar on some forest land leased,
big saw in his hand, engine idling,
gets put to the tree and shatters the peace,
works it just right, and the tree is falling.
Adjusts his visor, then lops off the limbs,
the yarder comes down, cables cinch up tight,
makes sure it is a good distance from him,
then yanks the logs up as if they’re in flight.
A claw grabs them there, loads them in the truck,
down rough road it trundles with its cargo,
off to the mill, so they can make a buck,
on to the next tree the lumberjack goes,
knows if he screws up there’s a chance he dies,
the risk you take working the mountainside.
Herons fragment the mist,
appear and disappear while remaining motionless.
The skiff rocks as a coal barge trundles past.
A dewy sky shivers.
Nowadays he just sits in a boat looking at Ohio.
This morning the sun reached the top of a willow
and got stuck.
He rowed toward the bank thinking to get under the tree,
filled an imaginary pipe full of tangy river smoke,
sucked on the wet air
as he watched the tree struggling with the sun.
For a while it was a tussle, then the willow shook itself
and the sun slipped away like an unmoored ketch.
At first, the sun just hovered like a blanched balloon
then it found a window above the mounded smother
and it rose up like a Choctaw bass
about to mouth a trill of small fry.
He was near to the shore now,
Ohio slanted down to meet him
cattails and reeds scratching the aluminum hull.
A couple of mallards jumped out of nowhere
and flew over his eyes. The clatter of wings
ruffled the chill bank where a dank light had sunk.
His mind followed them for some time
until they settled deep down
amid a wraith-wrapped Kentucky.
A heron slowly rowed the wind
stirring up the vaporous air, Patches of clarity
drifted across sky-high filtering puddles.
Ohio becomes a river town, the huddled houses
have scuttled their roofs upon soggy pathways.
The mossy hulks of an abandoned industry
wallow in a foggy backwash.
Castaway wharfs drip a spatter and smear,
a hand me down script of a yesteryear.
A small blue-collar marina,
beer cans roll on swaying pontoons,
a couple of dry docked rowboats
and canoes.
Truck tires thump harbor chains.
Someone is up early, someone else watches him
gut and clean a large flathead.
On the damp dock cats circle the bones and scales
creep through the miasma
their fur wet and glistening eyes flashing a liquid silver.
The catfish is naked and shorn of the river
a thing to be watched least it return to life
as something beyond the ken of cats and fishermen.
On the ramp he hitches up his straggling life
and drives away from a berth awash
with the haunted cries of Loons and Redtail’s.
Soon he will be back in the patched-up pockets of Ohio
where corn husks snag hoarfrost and rattle
in a fresh rinsing breeze.