They sat at the table
Casting lots for my demise
Totally unaware of my Master
With many connections and many eyes
He had already sent agents
To observe and make reports
Gathering the TRUTH
About what the deceived purport
They accepted her presence
But their plan was to use and pay
Obligation would run her legs
But the bit of money would make her stay
They had no idea she was bought
Paid for by the sacrifice of LOVE
All of her work on territory
Is never what the user is thinking of
"She's here to do our bidding
We say move and there she goes
Poor little slave girl with no money
Tossed about with every wind that blows"
In the midst of the brewing storm
A tornado of dust arose
The little slave girl, safe in the closet
While the fear kings perish in what LOVE knows
...TRUTH stands
as a little slave girl
Written by Trudy Schrader on 09-21-2026
For all of those who make a point
To comment on my rhymes,
No matter if it’s only once
Or very many times,
I want to let you know how much
I treasure your support,
Since even though in other poems
I’ve managed to purport
That all my writing’s just for me
(And mainly, that is true),
It’s such a lovely boost to hear
From readers such as you.
Now most of you I’ve never met
And likely never will,
But please accept my thanks and know
The joy you do instill.
The tapestry of the indigo sky,
weaved with lattice of silver cloud,
merges with the still sea in the blues.
The dislodged boulders of cognitive debris
strewn away from the waterfront of desire,
the broken dreams epitomized.
The anchorless empty boat
drifts away from the shore of longing,
harboured by desolation,
lodged lonesome in the sanctuary
of the rocky ledge of fortitude.
In the ruins of my splintered heart,
I listen to the voice of the anguished soul,
the mutilated construct of recluse precinct,
encasing the stifling loneliness of poignant prison
where the psyche languishes relentless
within invincible travail,
negating the hope perspective
in the clutch of mental affliction.
The cauldron of dissonance,
remote from the rhythm of life,
its void filled with drops of depression in adagio.
My dormant desires are demolished,
the malleable mind yields to nostalgic purport,
melancholy swathes the remnant yearning.
Inspired by Melancholy, Edvard Munch.
This is the action to hide genocide, war.'
Its the answer, to economic troubles
To the child abuse revelations..'
To the plan-demic of twenty twenty
How does war get more promotion
Than calls, and parades.' For peace..?
Also the same people who purport afinity with
Lasting peace..All end up dying of their conviction or end up dissapeared.? Or are carachturised.
Daisies twisted into fantasy crowns and jewelry.
Honeysuckles permeating the nose, golden-buttery.
Sweet Honesty, when I was fresh and summery.
My spirit was the frenetic wind, a new storm exciting.
Shades of purple-yellow-green-pink polish, engaging.
Loose, the elbows-knees-hips-ankles-neck, sashaying.
Belly flop onto a gorgeous garden spread, a teen’s bed.
A record-player, all my own, spinning vinyl, ‘fore I wed.
What’s for dinner, left up to my mom; memories embed.
When wishes, were strewn in every direction, the seeds
of dandelions…when a natural glow, not internal, beads
lit up my face. Life before me, without a glimpse of weeds.
Now, I see clearly, the fresh trek of my progeny, assessing
various paths, as if there’s a purport that they’re following.
The fragrance of a bridal train; wisteria of vibrant blessing.
______________________________________________________________
Will I descry my consort before I settle?
Always ecstatic but never got a medal
Abide by the authentic route, even if slowly
I purport to originate, although closely
No difference in inducing if I am late
As long as I reach my destination, sedate
I won't strain to delight everyone I meet
There's always someone who goes deceit.
Instead, I contrive on my own fate
Leaving no whiff of evidence, a cold case
I strive to stay relevant, to clutch weight
Learning from past experiences as I retrace.
No one has sustained anything from me
Nobody ever got out with it, do you foresee
Justice won when my door was kicked in
Justice revealed the culprits were jailed within.
If you can't stand the heat, avoid the kitchen
Since the kitchen stove is waiting.
My hand folds in awe with every sigh, God-given,
I grasp and cherish life's depth relating.
The tapestry of the indigo sky,
weaved with lattice of silver cloud,
merges with the still sea in the blues.
The dislodged boulders of cognitive debris
strewn away from the waterfront of desire,
the broken dreams epitomized.
The anchorless empty boat
drifts away from the shore of longing,
harboured by desolation,
lodged lonesome in the sanctuary
of the rocky ledge of fortitude.
In the ruins of my splintered heart,
I listen to the voice of the anguished soul,
the mutilated construct of recluse precinct,
encasing the stifling loneliness of poignant prison
where the psyche languishes relentless
with invincible anguish,
negating the hope perspective
in the clutch of mental affliction.
The cauldron of dissonance,
remote from the rhythm of life,
its void filled with drops of depression in adagio.
My dormant desires are demolished,
the malleable mind yields to nostalgic purport,
melancholy swathes the remnant yearning.
Inspired by Melancholy, Edvard Munch.
Like art, hope is the cradle of life
with zeal, this cruel world
from frustration, our haunting zones
ours' are tormenting chapters untold
when tomorrow has nothing to offer
while soothing music shadow all the misery
And alarmingly ours to perish
mother nature's angry fumes
her rage great and highly infectious
without hope, fading of tomorrow's blossom
despair in rise....clued
into tomorrow's uncertainty
such haunting, I reluctantly quit
In finality, my pen bleeds
I shall feign the smile...you purport
as I ponder of a blank future, I dare quit
Arid, bony-shanked carapace.
Shiny, weathered patina
tells of desolation,
Belies any promise of richness;
Yet when inverted,
Becoming regal.
A tatty, crown implies
The ancient purport.
Tough, yet easily-torn in avarice.
Revealing, inner passion
Shrieks fecundity and blood,
Gleams with shiny liveliness;
Yet when sundered,
Serried jewels.
A secret, inner-order shows
The abundant warrant.
Red, a study of translucence.
Deep-hued, each perfect gem
Fades to stalk-umbilicus,
Foretells the unborn orchard;
Yet when amassed,
Bitter-sweet.
A fruitful sumptuousness gives life
The noble pomme grenate.
Hands of the piety
Phalanges of work and charity
Driven to spearhead not stoop
Enliven and share not droop
Fingers we dip on stoupe
Churches of the holy in troop
Our faith we lathe with pride
Strongly we hold not stride
Images we fond and draw
Murals we touch like straw
Gentleness in open hands we pave
Roughness in helping hands we stave
Our works and thoughts are one
Over thorns and bouts of man
Skins and colors of faith
Fins and winged colors of the laith
You are a work of art
Embellished with paints of heart
Filled with a well of hope
Influx of worth in the hull of rope
Ropes are extensions of hope that purport
Strengthened by faith and hands of support
Darkness and radiance
frolicsome purport
and access of
visible world and
inconspicuous world
heart to grace
spawn the shades of truth
redeemer
between
contest of awareness
and the depth of the ocean
concealed
beneath the shackles
of humankind
Written: September 30, 2022
Ah, King Biden, thou dost lie to me!
When thou blamest Putin for everything from sea to sea!
Dost my head look like it’s made of wood?
Your thieving son, Hunter’s, probably could!
Why not tell our kingdom of the three houses in Delaware you own?
Of course, on CNN, these facts....shan’t ever be shown!
It’s said you have much charm and charisma?
Did you learn such grace, in the halls of Burisma?
Your progeny’s laptop, some purport has never been found?
It drowned, one moonlit night, I heard in Puget Sound.
4-1-2022
It barely vanquishes my quenchless spirit of inquiry.
To what exactly reason have I sledded so wildly?
Boasters and swindlers sprang up a treaty vigorously.
People are queuing to sway slated on a promontory.
It's plodding to incite thugs by misleading people.
Your genuine assertion is both witless and guileful.
By discerning purport, you may be pioneering.
As though a doleful mistrust was typically unfurling.
Why is it crucial to recur an idyllic shade?
It's time to hoard the dart and glittering blade.
Valorous braves are slogging toward the staid.
Everlasting zest is not a squib and never fades.
Yet we must swither in waging truth and moral virtue.
Truth and equity can't alter insight on specific bestow.
Written: December 24, 2021
Memory engulfs us,
absorbs, regurgitates...
but never returns
the true feeling
purport
of reality...
The Conundrum of Adam
David J Walker
Having forgone my claims
On sainthood
I stand naked for all of
Nature to see
I am Adam and the
Part of me that is Eve is
Missing and may be
Reclaimed only in
permissive sin
and contrary to reports
the purport of my innocence
is exaggerated
I am a willing sinner
Unaware of snakes or apples
Unable to remember
The words of God
Only the odd meaning of the
Conundrum resonates
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