Deep within the city park
stood Barnaby, a highly
grumpy, semi- sentient apple
tree.
He absolutely despised
when children approached
with fawning, goofy faces to
steal his fruit.
Whenever kids giggled and
reached up, Barnaby would
furiously shake his wooden
branches.
THWACK! A barrage of ripe,
juicy red apples went flying
like heat- seeking missiles.
He pelted the screaming kids
right on their bottoms, chuckling
a low, creaky laugh.
The children thought it was a
hilarious game and ran through
the park intentionally.
They made ridiculous,
exaggerated kissy- faces just
to trigger the tree's flying fruit
defense.
Barnaby snorted woodchips,
launching a rapid- fire green
Granny Smith straight at a
nose.
The park echoed with loud,
joyful snorts as apples
bounced harmlessly off
targeted bellies.
The grumpy tree finally
smiled, realizing his thrown
treats made everyone incredibly
happy.
On the bus we heard a thwack;
The driver kept on going.
I couldn’t really see out back,
But soon, the bus was slowing.
The driver stopped and went to check.
A vehicle, parked double,
Had had his mirror hit the deck;
Our ride could be in trouble.
One woman left the bus and yet,
The rest of us just waited.
No one began to moan or fret,
Our outcome not debated.
A minute passed and he returned
And shrugged, “That car skedaddled.”
If there’s a lesson to be learned:
New Yorkers don’t get rattled.
It didn't begin, abruptly
Like a thwack in silence
It began as determination
To rid myself of all violence
Yes, I hated those sounds
Of tether smacking skin
The deep layers of hurt
That resides within
Satan was never my enemy
All evil is shelled up in fear
Once the egg is cracked
The yolk is orange smear
I'm no baker, I'm a cook
One who dumps and stirs
Taking the storm of the moment
Making a dish out of whatever occurs
I find myself in quite a pickle
My peace has taken over my kitchen
The dwindling down to non matter
Has left me nothing worth fixin'
...so, I begin again
Written by Trudy Schrader on 05-11-2026
The grub is a fraud, let’s be honest and clear,
A beetle in diapers that gardeners fear.
He’s C-shaped and creamy, a squishy delight,
With a big orange head and a monster-sized bite.
He lives in the dirt, just a subterranean guest,
Turning your lawn into one giant mess.
He wakes in the summer, a tiny white speck,
By autumn he’s thick with a bull-sized neck.
When winter arrives with its icy-cold breath,
He tunnels down deep to avoid certain death,
Then returns in the spring for a root-heavy lunch,
Giving your fescue a satisfying crunch.
He treats your backyard like a five-star buffet,
Till the grass turns to brown and the green fades away.
But his life isn't always a feast in the shade,
The skunk digs a hole for a protein-packed snack,
And the robin descends for a mid-morning thwack.
If he avoids the beaks and the sharp, furry claw,
The Milky Spore bacteria might lock up his jaw.
Or nematodes find him—a microscopic crew—
To turn his insides into biological stew.
But if he survives every chemical spray,
He grows a hard shell and just flies far away.
My body braced my brain
as Nature
replaced that rain.
Ping! Pang! THWACK!
I trembled from each teasing
of those deep pops
that smacked the supermarket’s roof
and pounded the parking lot.
I gazed out the glass door
and eyeballed the glitter
of cold and bald hail.
The opaque ice
littered the concrete lot,
disturbing me with
oddball beauty.
CRASH!
Thunder threatened
my inner calm,
ringing my ears with rage.
CRASH! WOOSH!
Wind joined the thunder,
sweeping past the entrance
and slamming filthy rain
into the ground.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
silence thick
smothers midnight’s breath
shapes shift slow, unseen
streetlight hums wordless bisque hymns
bus brakes sigh
bus halts, waits
exhaust fumes taste sharp
wipers thwick-thwack-thwoc
blades clearing what eyes can not
squeak. blink. gone.
Crunch. Crunch.
"Oi— look
there's a caterpillar munching on my vegetables!"
Thwack.
Wearily, the caterpillar wriggles upright
as he's brushed into the dirt.
Again.
Picking up his countless green legs,
he makes the agonisingly slow journey
back to his mine of greenery
and the wreckage of cabbage.
How nice
would it be
to have a holiday?
Right. Now.
To sit back
and rest these jaws,
lay flat and watch the sky?
With a sigh,
he continues munching
on the cardboard leaves,
dreaming of the day
that he could fly through the world
as a butterfly,
and not a pest.
Life’s walls remain as high as the clouds
Covered by shrouds of thunderclouds
Looking up I awe in vast wonder
Mental impasse envelopes by the hour
Hour after hour
I grow more dour
I knit a suit of doubt
I only see myself with rout
Still on the battlefield
Inside I aimlessly yield
A crack appears
The wall has fears
A fraction of a win
I sneak a grin
I smack at the crack
I laugh as I thwack
Time is my weapon
Grit is my gun
The hole widens
The bleakness weakens
The wall can time-worn
And I can become reborn
Time is my tailwind
One cold November, in the not-too-distant soon
the echoes of these shores will ever silent be
as fewer come each year to where their pals were strewn;
on Omaha, among the rest of war’s debris.
Fewer again will hear cannons roar, a rifle’s snap,
a bullet’s thwack, the screams of pain, the corpsman call.
And yet they come, the few, in regimental cap
across from far and wide, to stand, salute, recall.
One cold November, when the last of them has gone
will we still hear the echoes of the silent shore?
Will we remember what it is for us they won?
Or is it just the closing of another door?
Sandy sat staring down at the cracked photoed frame. Two little smiling princesses playing in the mud. She loves traveling in her dreams, imagining glowing and bickering in Juane's sweet sweet nectar as in the framed photo.
But the hornet came buzzing, bringing forth a reality of pain She knows not if Juane was more of a lime or a bitter leaf With a scorching desire to thwart her lustres and thwack her wounds while she sang a song of purity on the streets. Confusing all with her orange scent and ravishing strides.
How Sandy wished to travel once more
Where Juane could never pierce a dart to her heart, Where she could once again be a smiling princess together with her beloved SISTER Juane.
There’s a constant hammering
Alongside my bedroom window
Repercussions of a corrupt gutter
The maddening drain
Obstinately and persistently has refused
All rehabilitation efforts
There are no
drip drip drips
Only
Pound Pound Pounds
As water clashes with wood and metal
The clangor must be amplified
By a loudspeaker
To make such minute water drops
Sound like a crazed gongsman
Locked in a metallic chamber with a battle mace
With no distinct pattern
The piercing pattering
Thwack Thwack Thwacks
Proclaiming,
“You will find no peace here!”
And yet
Its constant monotone irritation
Somehow
Lulls me to sleep
ZAP: I declare that he was the best
ZONK: For no-one could beat Adam West
On TV most nights
Blue-grey vest and tights
THUNK: And a bat right there on his chest
KLUNK: Perhaps I was easily led
THUD: Accepting whatever was said
For then unlike now
His fists went KAPOW
SPLAAT: He wore two bat ears on his head
CRASH: Adam West impresses my gran
BANG: He’s much more than merely ‘Batman’
WALLOP: Kicks go BAM
THWACK: As fists go WHAM
CLANG: He’s Onomatopoeia Man
While waiting for a parking place,
Our handyman was stumped
To hear a giant thwack
Upon his roof, which something bumped.
The “something” was a squirrel
Which had fallen from a tree.
His first reaction (as was mine) was
“Man, how could this be?”
He stepped outside to check it out –
There was a major dent –
As the squirrel scrambled to get off
And then, away he went.
Though squirrels leap from branch to branch
And climb to store their nuts,
Apparently there is, at least,
One squirrel who’s a klutz.
A burg in a vale,
Amassed stones and rocks as bulwark,
Assembled stones and rocks as a stack,
Stones and rocks stopping the waters from losing the track.
Waters thrusting behind the concrete rock,
Forcing the stones and rocks to slack.
A slit on a rock transpired,showing a way to break,
Waters dripping through the rock with a crack,
Droplets leaked out of the chink with a knack,
Turning the slit to rift and the rock to wreck,
Moving winds aided the waters to go out of the rack.
Slowly and steadily
Droplets leaped into Water streak,
And the Water streak into a creek with hack,
Waters flowed with fiery speed breaching the barriers with a hefty thwack ,
Stones and rocks were crushed with a great knock,
People shook out of fear when the waters spurted with whack,
And the burg in a vale was flooded and destroyed in vain without any speck,
Like the words in rage from the clefts of lips which are bicker and stark.
It's straight, I think, and gladly start,
Faith and hope and trust fill my heart;
Flora and fauna and fields fresh,
Climbers and creepers crawl enmesh...!
Trails with bushes and choke and block,
I twist and turn and thwack the lock;
Hills and vales and mountain- cliffs curl,
Way unto way many ways furl...!
Dogs and cats are part of the way,
Could cattle and hogs keep away;
Mild and wild are beasts of jungles,
Seem perplexed as though in bungles...!
Men and women rich and poor join,
Good and bad seem sides of same coin;
Yet, when Jesus says: I'm the way,
Who will, with him, succeed to stay...?
24 April 2023
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