Trudging Poems

Crumm

An anonymous artist had named the painting:
'Bertram Crumm'
it was simply a depiction of a man
trudging over a blank Landscape.

No one had heard of this man,
but this enigmatic fact alone was intriguing,
and now he was perfectly framed.

After many years
an art critic tracked him down.
Crumm claimed to be a meatpacker
who worked in Allen Town,
yet no one could see him as a meatpacker
working in Allen Town.

Some saw nobility in his gait and posture,
some saw a furtive mindset, most declared
emphatically that Crumm was definitely
a poet!

If we had known
that Crumm had often confessed to his family
that he loathed poetry and was indifferent
to art in general
then that landscaped/portrait
would still be gathering dust in a Goodwill shop.
However, a billionaire owns it now,

and ironically,
he also can't write a lick of poetry either.

I Failed

Trudging down the same path
Present equals past
Red clay
My problems outlast
The runes have been cast
Astray
A delayed forecast
Emotion outcast
I failed

Kundalini

In the opaque night across the space of silence, 
enfolding the languid landscape of my existence,
bereft of the beguiled essence in indolent life,
my pathway meanders in the labyrinth of torment.

Trudging at the fringe of trying forbearance,
I hear listless the whispering wind of wisdom 	
tell me, this journey has no meaningful end.
I’m entangled in the nebulous mesh of ambiguity. 

The ill-conceived venture of the errant mind 
finds gloomy dead end in the introspection path.
That’s when the serpentine force opens the innate door,
releasing the feminine energy of yogic awareness.  

My soul shines then with the ethereal radiance
in the infinite depth of the discernment space,
like the flaring brilliance of dormant tantric power,
flashing through the seven chakras of perception. 

In my self-searching spiritual odyssey 
toward the edge of the enlightened eternity,
I perceive the acuity centres configure consciousness
and turn it into living beacon, lighting my inner self.

Warriors

Mothers don't let your children
grow up to be soldiers
and march off to battle
without remorse or of course
a thought of regret
to get in the way
boys playing follow the leader
'We're only following orders'
the young may say
yet greed and stupidity
is the name of the game
either for land or in God's name
history has taught nothing
on judging it seems
and trudging behind the herd
in a word
it's 'insane'
but what if the Generals held a war
and on the day
nobody came

Subterfuge

Detecting deception,
our eye nonjudgmental 
and blissful heart tranquil
but saw a weary soul,
slowly trudging uphill.

Detecting deception,
in a drop that rebelled,
we but saw its soul’s light,
seeking greener pastures,
to feel bliss beat’s delight.

Detecting deception,
by egos gone astray,
driven by dark instinct,
all we could see was their
yearning to be love inked.

Detecting deception,
by poets seeking praise,
all we saw was their dread,
resisting love and light,
head not by conscience led.

Hallowed Soul

Inspired by Ronnie James Dio Song : Sacred Heart



In the dark opaque night 
across the space of silence, 
through the wasteland of your ravaged existence, 
you take the ordained journey forsaken,
but the track of travail in illusive time you lose
within the gloomy labyrinth of torment.

Trudging at the edge of tolerance you hear
the sane spirit whisper, this journey has no end.
In the fold of the desolate soul in agony
you see the dismal sky crash down.
Buried in the dark debris of mystique hope 
you pray for the light of the almighty.

The broken dreams don’t return,
for you can’t mend their wings to fly
in the recreated sky of the mangled mind,
but time restructures your daydream, 
raise you free from the ruins of desire,
you drift through the rainbow arch.

You travel liberated from the clutch of evil   
on the blessed inward journey.  
In the sanctum of the devout essence  
at the edge of the enlightened eternity,
you perceive the divine glow of the inner sun,
ethereally illumining the hallowed soul.

Home Is Here In Me

I lost so many days,
Trudging through that battle field,
Struggling under the weight of armour,
Tired of putting up my shield.

Precious time lost stuck in turmoil,
Always at war with my mind,
Looking for a way to take control,
Seeking the peace I craved to find.

I chose to take the torch,
Relighting the spark burnt out inside,
Fuelling a brand new way of life,
One that I now live with pride.

No longer a hostage of my history,
Taking the pen to write my own story,
As I live, present and in the moment,
For the first time ever, I feel free.

I'm still a work in progress,
Piece by piece, slowly becoming whole,
But self acceptance now fills my heart,
A warming glow now lines my soul.

For years I thought I was lost,
Convinced that's how it'd always be,
Until I became confident in my authenticity,
Realising all along, that, home is here in me.

Life is but a Stamp in Time

Life is but a stamp in time
Daily progressing but holding back its rhyme
We travel lightly never looking inward
Until the day the past is splintered
With thoughts and regrets of time wasted
Living life to the fullest thinking it was well crafted 

But time marches on relentless and sure 
Leaving your footprints on the path obscured
Trudging ahead but looking behind
To the past thinking life was well defined

For life is but a stamp on time’s grand page
A fleeting glimpse, a fleeting stage
Let us cherish and live it to the fullest
Through the easiest times or even the cruelest

©Deborah Kelly
2025

Thinking About Daylight

"Album Daylight by Jonathan Patterson" - Quote by Poet


In the precinct of sprawling emptiness, 
curved out by the contours of desolation,
the spreading daylight of prime promise 
bursts with the brilliance of magnificence, 
creating the serrated shadows of silence, 
where I'm consumed by illumined calmness. 

Within the light and shadow lattice, 
the fused sunray strands weave 
the tapestry of argentine ecstasy
on the silvery barrenness of seclusion
for me to walk in search of the lost dreams.

Trudging with the forlorn life 
across the shades of grey in the wilderness,
I take a lonesome journey with my pallid heart
across the silhouetted grandeur
of the daylight dwindling. 

Walking the last mile of the journey 
in the remaining hours of the day, 
I long for respite for the last time, 
step into the waiting memory corridor, 
see my dreams return enwrapped 
within the lengthening shadow of me.

Purify

I’ll scrape this mud off of my heels -
That’s caked from years of trudging.
And soak these wounds in orange peels -
To persuade scabs into budging.

This bar of soap, my sword of choice -
Will slay bruises that have haunted.
Replacing aches with citrus’ voice -
Who soothingly tunes the daunted.

This plunge of water, warm and welled -
Will calm my anxious weather.
And put to rest thoughts that rebelled -
As I bathe in crystal summer.

crystal

crystal


she held me captive with her fingers
nails rhythmically tapping on sand-colored stone
like a general marching to war
ready to go but wanting to stay

with my eyes i could taste her sumptuous lips 
swallowing words was easy 
snacking on syllables and punctuation
spilling juices onto her thirsty tongue before a kiss

i nearly drowned in her tears
weighted words pulled like an anchor
as she recounted her story 
with talking hands and dejected eyes

i discovered the birth of tears
when the heart hurts and the mind knows
eyes can no longer endure the pain
and they cleanse the soul with wishes

i could have loved her
during days that allowed a gentle breeze
a quicker step, guilt-free innocence
and a season to nurture the blossoms of love

now we sit, fingers interlocked
the marching general no longer trudging to war
syllables and punctuation consumed
until tears mingle, wondering if love has escaped

why does life unleash prisoners of the heart, 
forever trapped in yesterday
in places where seeds are planted
and in the parched heat of the noontime sun

they die?


 © tolbert

Let's just be friends

We met on a hot summer night, 
The bugs sticking to my legs, I could feel the sweat drip down my back. 
We met during an event. 
We locked eyes while you excitedly spoke about your travels. 
Late nights were spent in your room, 
Speaking well into the night, about everything. 
Words, looks, and lust were shared between us. 
For days, for weeks, we hung out all the time. 
I knew you better than I felt I knew myself. 
Empty, heartfelt promises were made to each other. 
Jealously, intimacy, love was passed between us like cigarettes being shared. 
Casual, but the smell still lingers in my clothes. 
All those months later, I still call you my best friend; 
With a sort of proud, smug look. 
Yet, you were a good lover, not a good friend. 
I hear your voice faltering when we speak, 
Ten minutes on the phone every so often. 
Everything that was once said now goes unsaid, unheard. 
We've struggled a lot lately, with our own problems; 
But we used to struggle together. 
Our hands clasped together, face down, trudging forward. 
Now, when I lift up my face, you're nowhere to be found. 
My hand has nowhere to rest, 
My love nowhere to be reciprocated.

Ultimatum

Trudging through  
a tangled path of ruin,  
dragging the weight of 
harrowing hopes and 
oscillating oaths, 
I shout into the empty sky—  

give me Love,  
or give me Death!

Song of old age

Let me now sing the song of my old age,
All I recount now belongs to the past.
Since the noticed changes are far too vast,
Let this song be sung by a real sage.

This face, now so old, ugly, and wrinkled,
Once shone with a glow, bright and appealing.
Though no longer fine, smooth, and now peeling,
This same old skin was once never crinkled.

These eyes, now drooping, dimmed by poor vision,
Once sparkled with allure and shone pretty.
These hands were once fresh, smooth, and not gritty,
Though now shaky with loss of precision.

The mouth, now sunken and full of gnashers,
Was once bright in the glow of real teeth.
A life once like the vibrance of a wreath
Now whispers in the folds of old tatters.

These feet, worn and cracked, trudging so slowly,
Once romped in the bloom of youthful delight.
Though now calloused and bent, aching each night,
They carried dreams and walked them boldly.

At the threshold

Space flickered and our heart sighed,
since the heartbeat of God spied,
though cognised by soul’s eye chaste,
offered not agape love’s taste. 

Formless presence free from thought,
ego reduced to a dot,
though at peace, feeling complete,
love bereft, faces defeat.

Trudging along heaven’s trail,
savage instincts yet prevail,
which is why, God draws not nigh,
for in our eye, grows lust’s sty.

We’re almost there but not quite,
bestowed not spherical sight,
though God’s bliss boon makes heart swoon,
whenever there’s a full moon.

We wait our turn as we burn,
within this mind-body urn,
setting up an intent wave,
whilst promising to behave.

Grazed by bliss, soul becomes pure
and childlike presence demure,
upon which, we feel a surge
and in God’s heart, gently merge.

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