Short Trudges Poems

The Gravity of Train

Lone train trudges along
Over predawn dark rails 
Harsh sounds
And cold dew
Over marsh
Sinks with gravity
To the rise
Taking metal from the sky
Train and earth hold down the ground
To grind out morning
The engine moves on
Dreams of waiting for a bus
To run it down...

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Time paces
-tick, tock-
life trudges between its
tick, tock.

hurry, hurry
-tick, tock-
rush to all the garbage pails
each minute means
another few cents
stalling means
no job to pay the rent
tick, tock

eat, eat
-tick, tock-
slender meals and bitter thoughts
of life and all its tick, talk....

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The shattered stare of the war-shocked
float and fade in the medic's head,

the spasmodic throes of the dying,
the sickening stench of the dead.

He trudges on through bloodied mud,
seeking out the lost and the wounded,

dazed in the gray haze of gunpowder,
slain before the battle even started!

....

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She walks to the door of the inn
Her hands in her pockets, frozen
Through the ice and snow she trudges
To the gates of her home
But only to find them locked and her feet are slowly freezing
Her hands are unmovable
And she refuses to move for she is scared of death
Crying in her sleep at night in the snow, the girl, she has no home...

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I am burdened by the weight of three
One trudges while the other two watch
Hopeful for their destiny is tied to the one
Past becoming fat by his efforts
Future attempting to run ahead
While the encumbered toil over daily bread
Blood and tears sustain the two wretches
Nourished by their insatiable greed
Careless of their effect so long as they breathe
Past, present, future cursed trinity...

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After so many bad things happened
He felt nothing for so long
It was as if he was in a coma
All his pain stopped hurting
Love was something not remembered
And happiness never existed
Still, every day he trudges on
Knowing the future is no better
The present was a symbol of death
And the past could not have been worse
But at least he was alive
For him, even that was too much to ask

© Poem – VII/XXVI/MMXXII...

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In poverty's desperation
She finds the old organ
Where it's stored under the stair.

It belongs to the man who is gone
Leaving her and his children alone,
This cold winter turned into despair.

Frozen air surrounds her,
As she grinds out the tunes
Almost alone on the street.

The warmth of windows watch her,
Their families safely ensconced
As she trudges home.

She knows
Her children will eat only turnips 
again....

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Heir to the throne now turned away
From the house of Liars
And the family of the slain
He trudges through the crowded mire
Left behind a life admired

He climbs this misty mountain top
In search of some means to escape
Castles and Kings and things; the props
Around his life they've been draped

He pulls his sword out from its sheath
And points the blade out towards the east
He welcomes life with humble greets
With no plans to take his rightful seat...

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Alone to witness the crash I
invited the moon to walk with me
on the harsh terrain

of the agony of a poem,
I wanted to give it as a collateral
for a shadow,

who has moved away from me.
The moondrink I will need again
for no turning to flesh

in naked rain of words
which climb and fall on the wet mountain of
my belief: it was crumbling

before my own eyes. The forgetful
age trudges like a tired cow coming
back home in evening.


SATISH VERMA...

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Alone to witness the crash I
invited the moon to walk with me
on the harsh terrain

of the agony of a poem,
I wanted to give it as a collateral
for a shadow,

who has moved away from me.
The moondrink I will need again
for no turning to flesh

in naked rain of words
which climb and fall on the wet mountain of
my belief: it was crumbling

before my own eyes. The forgetful
age trudges like a tired cow coming
back home in evening.


SATISH VERMA...

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Alone to witness the crash I
invited the moon to walk with me
on the harsh terrain

of the agony of a poem,
I wanted to give it as a collateral
for a shadow,

who has moved away from me.
The moondrink I will need again
for no turning to flesh

in naked rain of words
which climb and fall on the wet mountain of
my belief: it was crumbling

before my own eyes. The forgetful
age trudges like a tired cow coming
back home in evening.


SATISH VERMA...

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Slush slips over the tip of her Salvation Army boots
She trudges 
The winter of
Her mind, but not her life
One step at a time, one day
One minute either way

Slidding on the ice, her frozen mistakes
She just wants in out of the cold
The hour of 
Her reprieve never arrives
Over there, over here
Over everywhere

Snow joys of her childhood melt
She now hates falling flakes 
The traffic of
Her adult existence,
Opposition

Slowly, but surely
She trudges on...

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Long-legged ruminant 

So, you think a camel is an ugly animal
with kissable lips and the eyes of
Marilyn Monroe, and yield low-fat milk
I bet you didn’t know this.
When four wheels stop in the sand of Sahara
the camel with padded feet trudges along
The beast smelled like hell, but who cares
when it brings to an oasis.
Sweet dates, cold water and languor under
palm trees, a dream come true
It was the trusted camel who found the way.
Have you ever tasted camel cheese?...

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each day that winter trudges onward
my spirit sinks to a low beyond low
my cold heart
turns away whoever is there
trying to tell me
I begin to freeze from the skin
to the skin
to the veins
of bluecold blood
that take me no where
no 
where
except depression
bring my my blanket
my cup of tea
I don't really even care
whats on tv
I cant read or work
put two thoughts together
I continue to freeze from the skin
to the skin
and long for the healing warmth
of sun
yellow sun...

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trees along the fence line strain
stretched tight by the wind
turning inside and out 
leaves in all directions 
buffeting and thrashing in the howling gale 

sheets of horizontal rain hammer the paddocks 
through the knee deep mud 
sodden cowprints overflow with water
       
still the rain pours down uncontrollably
and the wind roars over the hills
scarred with open clay slips 

raincoat and gumboots 
barely visible in the gloom 
the farmer trudges home 
after evening milking...

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I shall never know how deeply felt her anguish
Too young to sever the roots of her own suffering
Unable to fathom how deeply in remorse she languished
The demons in her mind and soul clutching, cluttering,
Scrambling her ability to sort out the issues of life
In mid-life she departed, too early, too soon was gone
From interminable years of struggle with unabating strife
Somewhere in the spiritual realm of peace she trudges on. 

Written December 23, 2020
Contest sponsored by Levasseur...

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