Tumbled Poems

At Mile Thirteen

The crowd is gone.
Even the banners have tumbled,
damp scraps collapse against fences,
glued there by storm and breath.

Here, at mile thirteen, 
the body speaks its own dialect:
ribs clattering like loose screen,
calves stuttering,
lungs threading sparks through the fabric
of my chest.

Still, I keep faith with motion.
Each footfall a defective prayer,
each muscle shivering,
but unwilling to betray me.

I remember the child I was,
running shoelaces through fields,
believing the world boundless,
believing endurance implied joy.

Now I know endurance
is the art of carrying grief
without letting it drown me.
It is learning to trust
that a horizon recedes
only to teach patience.

The audience disappears.
Even shadows seem to lag.
The only voice left
is the one I forge
between heartbeat and breath.

I do not race to conquer distance.
I race to prove
that I am still becoming
that even when torn open by fatigue,
the soul can strike a lantern
from pain.

And if the finish waits, let it wait.
Let it wait.
Here, in the thirteenth mile.

When the Stars Looked My Way

rain fell with riddles
chalk dust tumbled from my hands
I loved the schoolyard —
learned questions I had not asked—
left un-quenched thirst in my mouth

seashell in my hand
I pressed it hard to my ear
I heard sea strumming —
calling me like it knew me
until tide drew my voyage

clocks ran without me
their teeth grinding daylight down
turning gold to dust —
the clocks ignored me this time
grinding unfazed without me

shadows curled inwards
I traced darkness in my pulse
then folded the chart —
the stars no longer led me
to go gently into night

The Little Thunder

I saw a streak of living flame,
with no regard for rule or name;
It tumbled through the morning grass,
as if the sun had come to pass.

Its paws struck earth in tiny drums,
like thunder where the daylight hums;
The wind bent low to kiss its ear,
the sky leaned down to watch it near.

It charged at leaves, then spun away,
a knight without a war to play;
Its tail a banner, bright and free,
declaring joy for all to see.

And when it stopped, and caught my gaze,
all breath was gone, all time erased;
No crown, no sword, no sky above
just two small eyes, and endless love.

Happily Ever After

Once upon a time long gone …
The reigning queen let out a yawn,
And stood up from her regal throne
To trample down the hall alone

She ripped the crown from out her hair
And flung it out the window there,
It tumbled down the castle wall …
No knight or king did hear it fall

And off the ground it did bounce
The crown rolled out into a flounce,
Tumbling down into the moat
And thankfully it did not float

A queen no more and yet she smiled
Chuckling, whooping and skipping wild,
Saying goodbye to the castle rafter …
She'd found her happily ever after.

A Poem I Should Have Written But Didn't

I walked a quiet road at dusk,
Where frost lay silver on the grass,
And in the stillness, words I sought
Some startled birds would rise and pass.

They brushed my cheek, they touched my hair,
Then vanished into fading blue;
I thought of you, old friend of snow,
Who spoke to silence, stern and true.

Your lines were fences in the mist,
Your rhymes were lanterns in the pines,
You caught the whispers I let go,
And bound them fast in perfect lines.

I should have written of the stars
That tumbled in the river dark,
Or of the leaf that dared to fall
Though winter had not yet begun.

But I was weary, closed my eyes,
And in the dark they fled from me,
Those tender syllables of night
That begged for immortality.

So here I stand, with empty hands,
The poet who has come too late;
Your voice endures where mine grew still—
I watched my lost words, fall from her pen.

MIDNIGHT MUNCHIES I'm in a Terrible Jam

MIDNIGHT MUNCHIES! I’M IN A TERRIBLE JAM….
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At midnight, my stomach grumbled
With snacks in the pantry, I fumbled
     On the shelves high and low,
     Chocolate cookies. Say no!
But tripped on my cat and then tumbled!

Toward the fridge I tiptoed with glee,
For it holds a treasure trove for me.
     There's a jar of sweet jam, tight
     I’m stuck with tasteless yam, terrible plight!
With spoon and my cravings, an eating spree! 

Oh, the brownies were calling my name.
They ‘made me’ lose the dieter’s game.
     Each chocolate bite I took,
     My belly constantly shook,
Now my waistline will never be the same!

fool of a poet

the times I've been here, words in hand
      mind-sculpting verse of phrases, grand
         that speak of that, the cruelest school
   those moments, rife, I've played a fool ...

laid bare this soul, with one broad knife
      sweet dreams of romance, love and life
         my heart bled, staining some girl's feet
   whose care for me was ne'er as sweet ...

and shared in poems for worlds to read
      midst hopes they might just fill a need
         while all I've done, with sheet and pen
   is prove I'm that damned fool ... again ...

the deepest feelings - spilled for those
      I loved and lost, who thumb their nose
         at odes brought forth, or all such gems
   so polished smooth with tears, for them ...

it's always me, this pining schmuck
      that's tumbled down on lover's luck
         now writing chiseled stanzas, meant
   for some fair lass whose love I spent ...

why won't the sweetest phrase impart
      some love to make those longings start
         for ME, this fool with chances, slim ...
   some sweet girl writes a poem ... for HIM?

Falling Leaves, Fading Chapters

I watched a leaf release its breath,
A golden sigh upon the air.
It tumbled softly into death,
A quiet dance without despair.

The wind, a gentle funeral song,
Caressed it with a lover’s grace.
It drifted, weightless, swept along,
No bitterness upon its face.

I thought of all I’ve had to leave,
The hands, the homes, the hollow years.
I thought of how we choose to grieve,
Of all we bury in our tears.

I saw myself in autumn’s fall,
A fragile thing, a fleeting name.
Each chapter closed, each silent call,
A softer ending than I claim.

I let the stillness speak to me,
I let the branches bend and sigh.
I let the leaf teach how to be—
To let things go without goodbye.

The leaves fall not from spite or fear,
But from a life that must renew.
Their fading paints the earth sincere,
A quiet blaze in every hue.

I whispered thanks to every breeze,
To every stem that dared release.
I whispered as the shadows seized,
And felt within a tender peace.

The leaf, the loss, the letting go—
All part of something vast and kind.
A truth the autumn leaves still know:
We lose, we fall, we rise, we find.

What Stones in Rivers Remember

Stones remember,
the first cold plunge 
in ice-melt currents
hurling the sense of fear.

They remember
each bump, each grind,
each sudden collision,
that carved their surface
to soft compliance,
yielding to the drag.

They remember
the murmuring bobble,
as gentler waters
tumbled them together,
stone on stone mumbling
in the cobbled bed.

They remember
the drought years -
sun cracking their dried backs,
leaving flakes and crack lines,
on once-smooth sides.

They remember
the roaring flood -
how it tore them loose,
spun them helpless downstream,
to settle again
in some strange, swirling eddy.

They remember 
this when lifted,
when held in the warmth of hand,
that their surface, shape and feel,
reveals the legacy,
of every touch, gentle or jarring,
of every bruise, bash and bump,
the river has used to shape them thus.

Intusive Thoughts

Often quiet evenings, when I read,
Memories of you softly intrude
Times when you were my only need
Heady days of a love we pursued
and saw only in glasses rose hued.

Thoughts surface I wish would move on,
as unknown others invade my sleep.
They are interlopers, quickly spawned,
spreading fantasies that grow and creep,
like tangled vines invading my sleep.

Dreams of you lie easy on my eyes
memories tossed and tumbled with time.
Although the past may wear a disguise
discarding thoughts we'd like to decline
I like thoughts of you caressing mine

Memories are stored of long-ago past,
as your sweet face invades my mind
with sunshine days that will always last.
They're a treasure we happened to find
while intrusive thoughts are left behind.

The Unexpected Plunge of Reginald Cluck

"What are you all quacking about?" squawked Reginald Cluck,
Peering from his coop, quite out of luck.
A drizzle had started, a timid, soft weep,
While others still snoozed in feathery sleep.

"A little rain never hurt anyone!" chirped Pip,
Whose splash-prone spirit rarely would slip.
He’d eye every puddle, a shimmering pond,
With a gleam in his eye, quite remarkably fond.

Reginald scoffed, adjusted his comb,
"Such soggy affairs! I prefer my dry home."
He’d seen the contest poster, a splashy delight,
But preferred his reflections, all polished and bright.

Then a gust, unexpected, a mischievous sigh,
Tumbled Reginald forward, right under the sky.
He landed with grace, in a puddle so grand,
A most dignified splish across the wet land.

His feathers, now plastered, his dignity skewed,
He blinked at his image, delightfully new.
"Let's do the chicken splash!" he suddenly cried,
As the "Mystic Rose" whispered, "Don't hide your wet side!"

And so Reginald Cluck, once a skeptic so stiff,
Discovered true joy in that watery whiff.
He kicked up a fountain, a most glorious spray,
Proof that a puddle can brighten your day.

Jumping

Arisen, she tumbled into a dream which, replicated a
memory of one previously.

Uncertain and still, like the tiptoe of a newborn finch on the
branch, a world of chaos lay before her.

The only certainty was the risk itself.
The tree loses its leaves but stands tall, embedded within its
roots.

She took a tumble; the sudden reality of a harsh end
ironically, saved her from it.

Fly away new homebird.
Our roots will stay strong forever. Do not be afraid to fall...

We will catch you, always

Anthem for a Traumatized Youth

What thou shalt be wasted? 
With the ship of sorrow harboured.
Like it gives thee an unexpected explosion,
And the heart of trauma and darkness is implanted.
It clouds into a season of bloodshed and pain,
But all thy life seems to be bludgeoned.
Tumbled into a canvas of time,
As thou shalt find a euphoric heart abused.
No description of fear was given,
With thy face bashed and muddied.
It shalt not be a publicized cry for help, 
Nor shalt it be a dark horse murmured.
As a hard and stone-cold sadness torments thee, 
And thy emotional feelings go unnoticed.
Memories would put thee in a chokehold,
And thy mutual senses are blurred.
Thou would find that thy pride is thy worst nightmare, 
In thy skull is a slug that is slightly planted.
That, my friend, is a trauma that can drown in thy sorrows,
And it can get thee wasted.

Lone Petal

The petal of a rose once fell 
then drifted slowly through the trees.
Upon the wind it tumbled long
until it drifted up to me.

At first, I saw no value there
in just one petal all alone.
But then I stooped and picked it up
and found that it was still a rose.

I felt its velvet touch my skin,
as its aroma filled the air.
I breathed to take the fragrance in,
and suddenly I was aware

of every moment it had lived.
I felt the roots from which it came.
I seemed to speak without a word -
that all of nature is the same.

How blind we are within this shell,
we ride along so ignorantly. 
We waste our time with buy and sell
and miss what otherwise would be.

It’s hard, I know, to just let go
and not be drowned with day-to-day.
But take an invite from the rose…
and smell the flowers along the way.

fortress

fortress 
. 
he built a fortress with his hands 
then climbed behind its walls, 
and shouted to those in command 
“you better run before it falls!” 
 . 
he played alone amongst the stones 
of false security, 
and when the fortress tumbled down 
the people came to see.   
.
they chopped the wood 
and rolled the stones 
that formed a bundled mess 
. 
and when they got the fortress cleared 
they stared in real distress. 
. 
for there they found no body 
stretched beneath the rubbish heap, 
but only a book that told of fools 
who cleared a man’s debris 
.
© tolbert

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