The ice-cream parlor
is just across the road
from a small white clapper-board church.
I sit in a window seat,
watching the little town
and the sidewalk
as it moves people around,
thought-reading their directions,
as they go to, or come away
from predictable starts and arrivals.
Now the congregation is filing-out
of the narrow church door.
The pastor, has somehow
teleported himself,
to get up in front of them,
he shakes hands and pats backs,
knowing them all,
perhaps knowing too much
about some of them.
Kids are corralled quickly,
strapped into booster seats,
or marshaled across to this store
for ice-cream treats.
It's just a little township,
on a side-road to nowhere special.
The ice-cream is homemade and delicious.
I could trash-talk this hamlet,
these people, these families,
I am naturally cynical by nature,
but I am in love with them all,
and the ice-crem is always so good.
Categories:
marshaled, poetry,
Form: Free verse
We go to the Golden Palace:
We set out the jade cups.
We summon the honored guests.
To enter the Golden Palace.
You enter through the Golden Gate
And go to the Golden Hall.
In the Eastern Kitchen, the meat is sliced and ready.
Roast beef and boiled pork and mutton.
The Master of the Feast hands round the wine.
The harp-players sound their clear chords.
The cups are pushed aside and we face each other at chess:
The rival pawns are marshaled rank against rank.
The fire glows and the smoke puffs and curls.
From the incense-burner rises a delicate fragrance.
The clear wine has made our cheeks red
Round the table joy and peace prevail.
May those who shared in this day’s delight
Through countless autumns enjoy like felicity.
Categories:
marshaled, celebration,
Form: Prose Poetry
A mother of eight
Left to raise them on her own
Damn that man...for dying
And leaving her lost, alone
A soldier of valor
Stood his ground in the face of fear
Now, he is court marshaled
For the lies they wanted to hear
A child hides in a closet
Hearing every thwack of the belt
Fighting the concern welling up
To be experienced, processed, felt
.......no grid
Pain beyond measure
Racks the prisoner of war
Trying to get through the moment
Til there will be no more
.......breath
Relief doesn't come
In fact, it builds and festers
Til the filters, ideals, beliefs
Are sequestered
.......to show themselves
and .........Give an account
to WHO?????
If one has no reason
And finds no need to question
Life is just a series of events
A journey without suggestion
Hmmm....what's that like?
Written by Trudy Schrader on 01-06-2019
Note: I have always had a grid. My encounter with TRUTH at 18 months set my path. Here I am now, faced with a truth I had never considered...it's a gift; therefore, compassion is necessary for understanding. I hope I have entered into the Grid deep enough to provide insight.
Categories:
marshaled, truth,
Form: Rhyme
Faking a heart attack
last July
was an event.
Even the feds were
marshaled for action.
Cow bells.
Whose got cowbells?
Words can’t harm you.
I’m restless.
Turn on the channel;
click on Oxford.
Turn up the volume;
Let’s play baseball.
About.
About what?
There’s a thriller.
Toot your horn.
Bring the station wagon
around front.
Business as usual.
Categories:
marshaled, word play,
Form: Free verse
The days go by
as I walk around the man made lake,
churning the tides of time backwards
making butter from the gold and brown broth
a solitary wanderers on the same gravel path.
Always a person for whom the flow meant danger
from spring to summer, I walk the scene
with cheery “mornin’s”
popping the insular bubbles
of self imposed
Silence.
The days go by
as spring returned to my aged step.
The flow lures the weary mind tired of treading water.
Glassine eyes cataract dimmed clear and lift to blue skies.
Familiar faces grin back hooked
on a cheery “mornin’”
Marshaled resources clockwise turn.
Forward thinking, right sided, occasion walks
from summer to fall
popping the insular bubbles
of self imposed
Silence.
Categories:
marshaled, friendship, hope, introspection, life,
Form: Free verse
Bravado and gaiety,
Marked the laity,
They were intoxicated,
From the problem they had been extricated,
There was a man,
Who was the swan,
Among celebrating also swams,
He gesticulated victorious,
And puffed and smelled the air,
His chest was pulled out,
As he marshaled his winning army about,
The folk jumped, danced and laughed,
Their future was free and well graphed,
Their year long fears were buried and dead,
This man had braved and stemmed the rot,
The drunken day went on for its 24 hours,
The man was lifted on shoulders that day,
And on the next there were suggestions to “lift” him in society,
However something was not right,
His lieutenants were not feeling bright,
They thought they had as much fought,
And deserved the “trophy” sought,
They conspired and brought the hero down,
His opportunities were stolen,
As juniors sighted not a pint but the full gallon,
They grabbed all that was offered him,
And became the controlling generals,
They let him be,
And run errands to their fancies and whims,
The hero had won foreign unknowns,
But in his own land he was brutally drowned.
Categories:
marshaled, inspirational, life, philosophy, hero,
Form: Free verse