Truss Poems | Examples

Twilight

The corn has ripened.
With it is the wizened laughter of a
Mirthless age, showing ashy teeth
Of dappled cowries.
A flavescence so bantered by the courage
Of wilting bloom!

Sadly, sea waves truss the feet of
Burning skies, loosening the tongues of beaches,
Which, with ague, recline on cold, cringing currents.

Old cats mourn the fall of strafed pillars
Burrowing through silt-buried kennels re-grassed for the
Salutation of new vistas.

In Playground of Imagination

In Playground of Imagination
Us being kids with no boundaries
Just feeling the warmth
Caused by sun for us

Thanking god for his creation
For bearing our clowneries 
With guts to face any storms
Gaining anything with our fuss.

Not caring about duration
Stop being in mouseries
Standing together in all forms
Solving every problem of truss.

Raindrops 2

Lugubrious blue mood skies funereal  and morose shed raindrops,
they unleash tableau vivant torrent’s wet tranche,
blessing,  bane or boon from vault of heaven,
damp pearl blob  bewitching moisture mellow morph form, 
the stuff of less than benign grumpy weather grouch,
whose plight infuses yen for sun-drenched bliss,
haven of the ultra-violet swathe enthusiast,
for others raindrops are  a liquid gem relish firmament bequeathed,
to whet voracious craving of nascent pastures,
whose gaunt green blade emaciating stillborn,
that aqueous honey to hue-blazed floral  garden in situ bloomers,
who swallow cloudburst drizzle meed in muted slurps, 
droplet streak and spiral bubble patten on top hung awning window,
empyrean tear beads that roof top tap dance ritual,
so tantalising to the awestruck spellbound eardrum,
or impromptu downward dribbles on romantic saunterers,
prompting boisterous laughter as they flaunt their dome transparent chromium truss umbrella,
those enraptured red-blooded refugees beneath tilting gust spun bumbershoot,
as mud splatter cherry cheek urchins shriek,
amid the spray and splash globules at agile finger tips

The Ice-Jam Cometh

Creaking, cracking, booming…

You hear the sounds before the bridge,
mountain quiet amplifies it,
step out on the old iron truss,
and a mess unfolds before you.

Creeping, slipping, shearing…

Long breaks in what was once smooth glass,
seams by the shore where current came,
set the center moving slowly,
broken ribbon slowly pushing.

Grinding, pressing, crushing…

Like slow-motion catastrophe,
chunks shift and jostle as they move,
strike rocks on bars, break down small trees,
smears on the ice, stained by debris.

Pressing, straining, slashing…

Ice so blue it’s almost glacial,
piles up on curves and pillars,
jams the path, water bubbles up,
sends swells racing across the ice.

Chugging, seeking, streaming…

Picks up speed as it heads southwards,
to the big rivers waiting there,
the parks down by the shoreline will
soon be buried under the crush.

Bridge

I think of my ancestors building you,
Tying and placing tree-trunks, like girders, in queue;
They constructed you, then, with stones,
Twisted, turned, criss-crossed, hung, dangled in zones;
Road bridge, railway bridge, gate bridge, bay bridge,
You  resembled longest and tallest mountain ridge;
Clapper, beam, truss, arch… you became suspension, 
Cantilever, cable-stay, movable, floating, and high-tension;
How fond designs you are in, today, like miracles,
Magic of marvelous magicians waiting for oracles...
Travelling from place to place, and meeting people,
You build up relationships from valleys to hill steeple;
Though, through you, communication is continually created,
Has communion betwixt hearts clemently elated?
Connecting, interacting, do you construct relations?
Beyond hills and cliffs and national foundation…
Socialization, cultural extension, and environs easy,
You’re sometimes breezy and other sleazy and queasy...
Cognition, senses, sensation, and sensitivity, 
Once broken impulsively, aren’t you in vainly pity...???

15 March 202

Clearing Metaphors

Hay is crinkling in various places
The candle stump stares solemnly
Beyond the moon nocturnal vault
A groan floats in the air, rewon by gag words.

The trees climbed the hill and over it
Golden light shone via withered stalks of the fields
Form a truss around haphazardly spread items
A gray stone protrusion anchored in the soil.

You can grasp soft light before it turns into fire
Embrace the dawn limbs that wish not to leave
Wigwag with guttural grunts and groans
A song is famous for mixing notes.
 
When the moon lights up the forest
Insight vibrates with comfort and grace
Shadows provide healing and nightly perks
After teasing, stars micturate dreams to reality
Crossing the dense green is bliss.

Stamina allows for both movement and rest
The meadow cures you with brightness
Clearing in the woods is a mainstay.

4th place contest winner

Written: February 10, 2023

The Clearing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish

Modern Living

Which social travail must we suffer
Food banks and rampant inflation
Hunger and energy poverty
go hand in hand
We have our Hitler beasts again
Putin in the Ukraine
and discordant Politicians
Chameleon  Boris
and unscripted budget Liz Truss
and a PM who cant come clean on his GP

The world is knotted
El Nino with blurry eyes
Plays havoc
A repeat Summer Scorcher
Greenhouse accidents
Mother Nature cooking Earth on a spit

We live in a conjugated World
where Hunger chases its own tail
and inflation eats our living standards

Liz

A Brit politician named Truss
Became the PM, without fuss
What a fun thing to be
She could go on a spree
Throw all of us under a bus

Ode To Truss

Politics
B*llocks t*ts
Who's in charge
It's all in bits
Democracy
 policy
Who da boss
It's all silly
Economy
The whatomy
Finance for dummies
U-turn Lizzie
Oh dear oh dear
It's near it's near
A Tory implosion
Government erosion
UK explosion

A Prime Minister Everyone Hates

Let the people vote for our leader 
show Liz Truss we do not need her 
a position of power growing weaker 
can you dream if you’re not a believer 

What if the people have lost confidence 
and don’t want the Tories dictating events 
we don’t want leaders who lack any sense 
everyone now has to watch every pence 

Tax breaks for the wealthy who wouldn’t notice more 
that makes you self serving with not a care for the poor 
serving more instability making us insecure 
out of touch with a public who want to show you the door

It’s the Bank of England against political fakes  
taking power for granted not realising the stakes 
since the first day in power you’ve been making mistakes 
we’ve got a Prime Minister that everyone of us hates 

Killing dreams 
Killing Queens 
mad as it seems 
Get out we screams

From 'Lizabeth To Liz

No longer must Brits 
 hold their breath
 for Elizabeth
 
  ~ in Liz, they Truss

It's Liz's Turn

Go Man, Go with Liz.
That girl's got so much whizz.
Say goodbye to sorrows
as she, borrows, borrows, borrows.
Our nation's fortune waxes
the more  she cuts those  taxes.
She relishes a fight,
not she some 'Maggie Lite'.

Macron and Putin shake and shudder
Now 'tis Liz who holds the rudder.

In Liz the Brits Truss

And she won after great deal of fuss,
The son not of the soil missed the bus 
Never once meant for him—
The truth ever so grim,
For, in Liz Tory Brits perhaps Truss!   
__________________________________
Happenings | 04.09.2022 | Limerick

Ergonomic Position

Tensing, and about to move,
Clouds hover twisting with hoof, 
Lingo parapentes this flush body: 
Hurling shavings’ stop the prove.

A whale, psycho or streetlight:
Moss convenes the hefty truss,
Armoured spears fling to the bat,
Frozen in time to lure the buzz.

Naked! Bereft of pen and paper - 
Paparazzi’s might slithers in dipole:
Collision kills this vapour, tribe, vibe;
The soul fraps, flapping a gold taper. 

Whence is thy labour parapet -
Where are your stations and grain?
Why are solid requests paraphernalia?
When adjustments are fisture gain.

How you loath me - the self, soul:
Incanting verse and troth to fight;
Whilst proxy, spread, call, sound,
Legitimise oozing, sore canons - tight.

Butterflies come from caterpillars,
The human comes from trait, said dead,
Poesy loves grammatical technology,
And diversity clothes in personal thread.

O self, worldwide! How do you drift?
The miniature scoops cleaving the spirit:
Fine detail creates the abstract flint beside,
And structure charts float the pixel’s sift.

Dominique Webb

A Cockerel Mayhem, Or Bad Chicken Farmer Joe

When his father-in-law got him
into the poultry biz in Rhode Island

Joe had not fully contemplated that
first day to market when he 

when he failed to truss and bag the birds 
properly, a holy-moly cock-up so

when he tossed them into his ’02 
Honda Accord LX to parlay

the beasties down 95 South RI,
they managed to wriggle free

the chickens did, got loose 
from the burlap sack

the chickens did, flapping anarchy, 
and mayhem, and bad policy about

the Aught-Deux’s upscale cabin,
the mad bastard capons pocking 

fine leatherette and Boze while
Bad Chicken Farmer Joe flailed away,
 
fowl and feathers, feathers and fowl
flailing, clawing, at the faux cherry

wheel, finally rip-cording his failed way
down exit 8A for Quonset Point, 

where, at the light, the cross-walkers froze

glaciating, mightily at the cockerel mayhem
unraveling inside a popular Midclass Sedan.

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