Sometimes we take a turn with others in the dance club.
It’s fun and friendly but when it’s over - you know it.
He stepped on my foot
and I winced in pain
he’d stepped on my foot
and then he did it again
That's the danger in dancing
a slow dance - being too snug
his hands on your back
and you're pinned like a bug
I should wear combat boots
when cutting a rug
with guys I'm not sure of
I’d finally had enough
The last guy ended our dance
by adding a hug - I don’t know,
a bit extra, but I went with the flow
Why am I sweating in strange men’s arms?
Then again, what exactly is the harm?
The social oddity of public touching,
of course, is that if we weren’t dancing,
would I even stand close to them?
p.s.
If you’re looking for a Summer, French-café coded, it-girl drink to put out your fire of thirst, try a ‘Diabolo menthe,” it’s made of lemon soda plus mint syrup and obviously non-alcoholic. Pair it with a vanilla Madeleine, a petite, shell shaped pastry with a lot of charm. YUM
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A song for this:
I'll Call You Mine by girl in red
August by No Vacation
I was brought before you
Suddenly, in perfect flow
I declared NO MORE
And my thoughts began to slow
I saw our history of war
Fighting against the unknown
I always faltered and fell
But now, TRUTH erected in the shown
WISDOM passed me in flight
As a whisper on the wind
I winced in execution of light
As fear chained me in never again
I heard the formation of thought
I am a poet not skilled to create
Even with all of the support
Failure of trust is what I ate
Ah, but now, unity is my might
And LOVE is my perfect guide
I am who He says I am
TRUTH is established where Pride lied
No thought shall exalt itself
Against the knowing of LOVE
The essence of authenticity
Is the substance of what creation is made of
...and I am balanced
Written by Trudy Schrader on 05-05-2026
As creative energy
And matchless voice
Stood on the balcony
Of pure possibility
She winced
...wonder
They spoke of
The continual flow
When a question arose
What is the effect
Of heart in motion
...vibration
Once voice spoke
Every question
Gathered at his feet
She surrounded
In supportive presence
...momentum
Something formed
Inside her, and grew
Until the fruit
Flew out of womb
And desire found
....expression
The security of LOVE
Could no longer contain
The growth and expansion
Happening without permission
She had to go
....explore
Pattern
Written by Trudy Schrader on 02-28-2026
When things don't work, I panic
I call the plumber or the mechanic
the electrician, or appliance repairman
without them I would despair, Man.
I can't fix my bike when it blows a tire
To be competent is a dream to which I aspire
But I was born all thumbs, and though I read tomes
When it comes to troubleshooting, I'm no Sherlock Holmes.
So I respect the people who make things work
But I wonder if in our government such people lurk.
Could politicians change a light bulb, fix a car?
splice a broken wire, get my bike to go far?
Could I trust my mayor as a babysitter
Or for that matter, a sweater knitter?
Can a college student clean a dorm?
Are mindless slogans the new norm?
When the power goes out, and it gets cold
Will we find a bill of goods that we've been sold?
Do we use the same criteria to trust an orator
That we do when hiring someone to wallpaper a corridor?
My Dad was told I'd make a good soldier, because I looked strong
My Dad winced and said "Sir, you got that wrong"
Maybe I could be a writer, or maybe wash the floor
Can someone shoe me how to mop? for help I must implore.
Newspapers once were fine, I am convinced.
Since Nixon left the stage to newbie Newsom,
each time I went to open one, I winced.
The policies of Hillary? No chance!
They’ll tell you where her hair is cut and rinsed,
the salsa classes where she goes to dance!
What stock investments will I need to go for,
If Trump gives way, one day, to J.D. Vance?
The papers teach me more about his sofa!
My interest inevitably ebbs.
The suavest slingback and the latest loafer
do not enthral me. Even less, celebs!
Some starlet’s Oscar outfit, voted ‘gruesome’?
What do I care? The same for wifi, webs,
or if some actress has enhanced her bosom.
I didn't fill out any paperwork.
There was no memo, no consent form.
Just a nameless morning when the mirror refused
to acknowledge anything above my collarbone.
After that, people entered me carrying grief
in cardboard boxes. Pressed buttons
for floors that didn't exist.
A man from 4D requested the roof,
as if it were still an option.
On Thursday, a child in a yellow parka
whispered a song
I recognized from my sleep paralysis years.
It all arrived sticky and wrong
though I tried to hum along,
my cables winced.
By Sunday I was hosting more
than traffic. Something moved
inside the machinery, something
older than ballast or balance,
and it wouldn't stop licking the grease
from its own teeth.
It told me to smile more.
I jammed the doors.
hummingbird—
someone's mouth
in my throat
The chilly breezes of winter,
As I walked by,
A man glanced at me,
And smiled,
It wasn’t creepy,
Nor was it nice,
It slowly disappeared,
Replaced by a look of ice,
The closer he came,
The faster I walked,
Only to be stopped by an unstable rock,
I stumbled and tripped,
Crying out in pain,
Alas, the man caught up before I could get up,
He looked at me with wide eyes,
Whilst I winced in pain,
He pulled my arm forcefully and threw me across his shoulders,
Carried me as I whined in protest,
People around stared blankly like I was a test,
Not bothering to help,
And that is how my story ends.
Leeza, Lisa’s 14-year-old little sister, is anxious about the first day of school. She didn’t tell me that, I’m not sure 14-year-olds talk anymore.
Now that I’m almost 21, I can roll my eyes, like everyone else, and say, “Teenagers.”
Leeza’s a jingli, all-angles, taller than I am (when did THAT happen),
redhead who’s fast becoming a Lisa-like beauty.
School starts, for her, in 11 days and every piece of clothing she owns is draped across the furniture in her room, or the floor, as she organizes her skool outfits.
There’s a pile of rejected apparel in one corner - the outcasts -
and a stack of magazine cutouts showing the clothes she plans to buy.
I wondered into her room that afternoon and she watched
me suspiciously, like I might steal her nonexistent baby.
“These might go together,” I said, holding up a top and skirt as a combo.
She winced, involuntarily, as if exposed to something distasteful.
Apparently, I’m getting old and my teen-taste is attenuated or worse yet - past its expiration date.
.
.
A song for this:
Houdini by Eminem [E]
When you open up your eyes
Is He sitting at your side
With a smile on His lips
That betrays a certain pride?
Does He touch your injured hands?
Does His face go pale and grim
At the sight of wounds you bore
For your loyalty to Him?
Do you whisper “Lord, I’m sorry
You said ‘do not be afraid’
Still I winced when they condemned me
And I trembled as I prayed.
My dear Master, I am sorry
I was terrified to die.”
Does He answer “It’s all right,
My dear Peter, so was I.
Do you marvel at your God:
He who made the world exist.
Does He grin as if to say
Sweetest friend, you have been missed.
When you fall into His arms
Do you know what Heaven is?
Do you heal in His embrace?
Do your scars resemble His?
With a pen she wrote a story,
Stretched across her old notebook.
About a girl who wanted to be noticed,
And a boy who refused to look.
And she wept and wept and wept,
Leaving an inky, tear-sodden page,
But she swept the issue under a rug,
And brought it all down to their age.
With the same pen she wrote,
This time on a newer, nice notepad.
About her dropping, declining grades,
And how her parents were so mad.
And she tried and tried and tried,
To hold her emotions behind her eyes,
And she realised she would never be good enough.
No matter how hard she tried.
With a drag and a puff of smoke,
And something alcoholic between her lips,
She wrote drunkenly on a piece of paper,
About how her life had come to this.
And she winced and winced and winced,
At the messy drawings on her am,
How some were faded, how some were fresh.
How she could cause herself such harm.
With her crimson wrists the subject,
And a piece of broken glass.
She wrote her final story,
Before her body would finally pass.
And she stayed silent, silent, silent.
She was a stature laying in red.
She thought
“What use to words on paper have
When I am already
Truly
Dead.”
Reality crashed - its computer
simply refused to work anymore.
We crawled out of our caves,
the sunlight was bright,
we rubbed dry eyes and winced.
Some suggested digging for minerals,
and other raw materials,
of forging a now box of perception,
we tried re-booting the world
back to the way it was before,
Others, just sat around and starved
in the middle of a natural abondance.
Some sought to fashion,
small straw dolls to worship.
It was a times of indecisive,
bewilderment.
A time when
we had to slowly patch together
the meaning of life.
Notwithstanding
all our combined efforts,
to this very day
we have not discovered
nor found,
any meaning at all.
Devil Dan was a mountain man,
He had a surly disposition.
With a bag of tools and two pack mules,
Headed North on his final mission.
He found his way on a rainy day,
To the base of a mountain stream.
All wet and cold, still panned for gold,
Until he saw some pebbles gleam.
Tho his old back creeks, he panned for weeks,
Till he filled up all his sacks.
With greedy eyes, he seized the prize;
And tried lifting those heavy packs.
With a mighty strain, he winced in pain;
As he felt his low back go.
After dropping down to the cold hard ground,
There began a heavy snow.
All alone, he began to moan;
And with no one to beseech.
In despair and just lying there,
With his fortune out of reach.
Sad and crying, as he lie there dying,
Until he couldn't feel a thing.
No tears would trickle, this huge icicle,
Didn't thaw out till the Spring.
Bought home in a battered case one day
He took it out and and scratched away
Playing out of tune and terribly flat
He scared the daylights out of the cat
The horsehair that ran along the bow
Had escaped and departed long ago
Never mind, he played without a flinch
While next door the neighbours winced
Melodies unrecognisable to human ear
He can't keep time or bum notes hear
'I'm a virtuoso!' he likes to boast
But in truth - he's as deaf as a post
20 April 2023
V words writing challenge poetry contest
Constance la France
A summer wind came barging in
to block two winter storms
I just blew in, she chirped
to keep you big boys warm
The storms ramped up
soon temperatures dropped
The summer wind winced
her initiative flopped
Back home the wind flew
to sunny, tropical climes
'Twas the last time she'd venture
to block icy cool rhymes
Last night a great heaviness
fell through the roof
dropping like a boat anchor into my dreaming mind.
It was sentient,
a being as hard as steel and massively stupid.
I felt its dumb confusion, its awkward alarm,
I winced as it lumbered around my head-space
crashing into my own startled thoughts
though I realized on some level of awareness
that I was still living in a bad dream.
The brutishly bulky being wanted answers,
I wanted answers, the dream had no answers.
Eventually that solid hulking creature gave up
turning my inner-state over and smashing
my neuronal workings over its big stony head.
Oblivion took us both.
When daylight unveiled the long night
I looked about me
the bedroom was not ransacked
but my brain was blinking on ‘check engine’ light,
and something was still asleep
on the backseat of my mind.
Tonight I will take a strong drink and 2 Ambien
incase its guttural snoring, or its chaotic dreams
wakes me up again.
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