"tramped" poems
A new day, press play, a challenge for one.
Solo for I, never won.
Spawned like magic, 100 people? That’s tragic.
Less would I prefer,
From the bus, I jump and glide
From the wailing heights, I go to a bush and hide.
Found a camp, a player I’ve tramped,
One closer to being a champ.
Many people less, beginning to stress,
Loot everywhere, what a mess!
In this battle, I thought I would be fine,
But in the distance, I saw a white line,
With the numbers of sixty-nine,
A soccer skin! A soccer skin! Oh God, oh why?
Building fast as the speed of light,
All I knew that it could be a hard fight.
Because, with death in my mind, I didn’t know what to do,
Thoughts boggled up, like the texture of goo.
I placed a trap on the wall of wood,
I waited suddenly, wondering when they would,
Yes! I caught them with my trap!
One closer to being a champ.
Found a vehicle of an interesting shape,
Bouncy like a ball, all around, on the landscape,
A Baller! Yes! Now I’m glad,
But no need to use it, I got a launchpad!
However, I could bounce around, Boom! Bam! and Pow!
Then I could tell them, “who’s laughing now?”
However now, I’m in the final two,
I shot his build down, if only he knew,
Now it is over, show off with a ramp,
Now I’ve become the champ.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 8:26 PM UTC
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.
Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.
To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.
What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
4.6k
'Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor,
Set at euchre on his elbow,
'I was on the wharf at Charleston,
Just ashore from off the runner.
'It was grey and ***** weather,
And I heard a drum go rolling,
Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,
Awful dour-like and defiant.
'In and out among the cotton,
Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,
Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows--
Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!
'Some had shoes, but all had rifles,
Them that wasn't bald was beardless,
And the drum was rolling Dixie,
And they stepped to it like men, sir!
'Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,
On they swung, the drum a-rolling,
Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,
And they meant it too, by thunder!'
2.4k
When our names were smeared
with dust and kicked
butt-naked into the streets
tramped upon, squashed by dancers
revelling on the song of our shame
We take all in saintly fate
Poverty has diverse chairs
all which are glued
to the heart of hell
upon which we sit
pipped with jears
Our pains for the tithe
we never paid
untill our lives are almost spent
We aren't bearing with us
our sack of shame to the land
were we shall endly rest
Laugh not out of you breathe
we shall mend our broken past
and pick up the moon we left behind
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
I remember a story, it starts at fourteen.
I had a crooked back and low self esteem.
I was afraid I was gonna end up in a ditch somewhere.
I had to devise myself a plan
of which direction to go if **** hit the fan
and I knew my mother wanted a prodigy child
So I figured I could sing or get really smart,
but my voice would crack and my mind was dark,
so I decided, in this crazy world,
that I could rob graves.
So I left home when I was sixteen
my boredom peaked and my senses keened
I grew with a morbid fascination with the dead
It started out
me figuring that
they wouldn’t miss their dimes, their shoes or their hats
I tramped on the dusty trail with an evil eye
As I ended up along the borderline
I met another young man who had gone insane.
He just got back from the war.
Like he said: “I’ve seen some things.”
So we rode together for quite a while
in the dust on the trail for a thousand miles
until one night, we came upon an unmarked grave.
My partner fumbled around in his pockets
evading worms and maggots from his sockets.
He turned around and looked at me with his crazy smile
It turned out what he found was a letter
and with this smile he said: “The dead have it better.”
So i reached out to grab it while the stench arose.
He handed it to me and on front and back
I read about this lonely, old, sad sack
who, being sick of life, ended up hanging himself.
This really put things into perspective for me
for the attention me and my partner was giving, you see,
was often more than these people received in life.
But one windy day the law caught on our path
and with a holstered gun me and my partner had
we stopped by a local tavern to wet our throats.
The law had converged in the front door
my partner flinched before I could do more.
And before I knew it he had bolted down for the gun.
Before I could say another word
he dropped to the floor and his fingers curled.
He rattled and faded away while I was restrained.
As I was lying on my stomach on the ground
I looked over and I heard a sound
It was my partner whispering his final words.
“The dead have it better.”
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC
I have tramped around the vineyard
Watched others toil in the fields
When called I never answered
Someone else can harvest the yield!
I would support those who worked
Trying to meet their needs.
Outside the fence line I lurked
Keeping down the weeds.
Maybe I'd drive the truck
Loaded to the brim.
Or dance, stomping in the muck
Juice so deep one could swim.
But into the vineyard I will not go
Beautiful as it may be.
Watching the vines as they grow
From outside I will be free.
Then one day it happened
I was pushed over the fence
Upon the ground I'd flattened
And found I'd been so dense.
Inside was so much more
Than I had ever dreamed
There was truth behind the lore
I truly am redeemed.
The vineyard is my home.
I never want to leave.
It is for those who only roam
That I will always grieve.
*Songs of Solomon 7:12
let us go out early to the vineyards, and see whether the vines have budded, whether the grape blossoms have opened and the pomegranates are in bloom. There I will give you my love.*
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
Shine or shower, we bend forever
Bend to see if the path talks to us
Bend to earn a nickel with a foreign face
Oh! How it bleeds, to walk on the gravel
The stones are crushed to confess their stories
they could be frozen tears of
my colleagues and my fellow countrymen
Who tramped here before!
How it pains, to sleep on flour, which is not mine
Lack of family affection makes us half humans
It has been an infinite urge to
Fly away on the wings of breeze
Just to escape the scorching sun’s torturous smile
We extinguish the fire of anger
No fire, but the flames in the breast
Endure between ambition and desire.
We see light in soldering electrodes everyday
But can’t see the bright eyes of our children for ages
Oh how it torments, a faithful heart that’s broken
To avenge the sad tale of labourers on a foreign soil
For us who experience all the ravines of Life
Night returns with dark chocolates
We continue to lift and bend ourselves
With fragrant bosoms near our feet
Theme : We get to see many labourers working in the Middle East and East Asian countries like Singapore, Brunei etc. These workers, as construction labourers or as grass cutters, toil a lot on the road exposing themselves to Sun and shower. Most of them are from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka etc. It pains to see them working under very unfavourable conditions. This poem is an appreciation of their commitment to look after their family back home.
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
Quick pace across the room
Worry spreads angry lines from eye to eye
Jaw tight, eyes intense, hands clenched
Like a lioness about to unleash furry
Heartfelt pain from times before, nonexistent
Swept by the strongest of tides, absorbed by love
Distantly follows via lines on a page, words scattered
Like a grenade, explosive, unheeded yet written
Reasons of physical tenseness are valid
A portion of life is falling to the ground
Yet life finds a strong one, as a Tulip Tree
Roots spreading deep watered by love
Breathe child rest in the unfailing arms
Concerns are known by the Maker of Heaven
For times such as this you were born
Like a flower midst a tramped battle field
Grow unmoving through storms and fear
Changing times and shaken souls you heed not
Like a house build the very foundation of the earth
Shall your soul be upon the Father’s Word
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 4:59 PM UTC
He’d been away with the army then
For almost twenty years,
And walking back to his village he
Had expected smiles and tears,
He thought his wife would be waiting there
Though his son, he knew, was grown,
He’d been away and protecting them
Though the soldier, now, was home.
He saw the village had barely changed
Though the people stood and stared,
He thought that they were in awe of him
Could it be the village cared?
They took in his battered breastplate and
The dents that marked his greaves,
The helmet that had been battered and
The blood on his chain-mail sleeves.
He’d walked for several miles since when
His horse had collapsed and died,
It weathered many a battle but
Fell foul of the countryside,
But soon he’d take off his armour when
He would meet again his bride,
And she would make him a pottage, and
Rejoice that he hadn’t died.
He’d tramped in the lands of Burgundy
He’d fought in the land of Gaul,
He’d taken the Cross to Saladin
And wept at the Wailing Wall.
His face bore scars from the sword and lance
And a mace had raked his back,
From a knight behind who had been struck blind
In a frontal, forced attack.
He’d waded deep in a sea of blood,
He’d trampled a field of bones,
And helped to bury his comrades there
Marking the place with stones,
But now his body was tired and worn
It was leave the field, or die,
His horse had brought him wandering home
To the village of Burton Rye.
His wife came out from the cottage door
And she blanched, and shook in fear,
‘I don’t know where you are coming from
But you don’t belong in here!’
He glanced at the short and thickened form
That he didn’t recognise,
‘Are you the wife I’ve been fighting for,
If so, my memory lies!’
‘You went away in another life
Leaving none to warm my bed,
I took a shine to the blacksmith here,
Fell in love with him, instead.
It’s twenty years since you went away
Did you think you could return?
You’ve lived the life of a soldier, all
You do, is pillage and burn.’
‘I had to go to protect you here,
Out there, it’s a world at war,
I’ve fought the enemy everywhere
To keep the pain from your door.
I loved you when you were slim and young
And your eyes were bright with cheer,’
His shoulders slumped and he turned away,
‘I see I’m not wanted here!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
There is nothing between us anymore
Not even those three yards of cold linoleum
As we walked on opposite sides of the hall
The distance has dispersed and now our silence exists there alone
Not even mused by a dream of further endeavors
There is a dead end plopped betwixt us
I cannot raise my glare to meet yours because I know
Somewhere, deep in my heart
There is nothing there for me anymore
*How can a flame sparked in the damp
Ever survive without being tramped?*
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 9:04 PM UTC
did you become a monster trying to be like me
love found,
our bitter catastrophe
I announce in small tongues
because I am far past shy
I dwell below the medium of discreet
I fell for that
that
which will never fall for me
secret bliss shared in corners of my mind
to be gazed upon by wolves
devoured in the late night sky
I travel with your mind in my mind
I do understand none of this will ever
be redefined
but I carry you within me regardless
of the bad times
touch the ill pale stricken love side
dive in midnight incubus pools
we lived in the most blackened of times
we drank what was not
but to me, the most red of wine
I sink into the thought of you
you do not love me anymore
I was torn behind you
shredded like pieces of cloth
buried deep into the cemetary in your soul
lost that woman who believed in romance and goth
I smear the dirt from against my cheek
you should see the sadness within me
the ****** blood tangent
the ****** of naked torture
I cover my privates
there is nothing left to hide
prisoners try to escape
I dwell here, numb with the thought of you
my hands trail behind me
Im going to die
Im going to die right here
admitting this beneath me
tonight
a few hours
man
haunted
kissed
shoulders
hair
trailing
age
there is something hidden between the refined
lips of a staggered feline
tramped like irony against my soul
a birthmark
a cure
hurt
hurt
no escaping
trapped
whole
the understanding
the love that gives out a sigh of death
a sigh of disowning
a sigh of painful living
endured upon me like knives
punching
peircing
reminding
every single drought stricken day
I lay upon my pillow gently
oh yes
I give into all this pain
what else can I do with my small hands that were left
wrinkled and have become prune from living in your rain
what has become of the sickness
the splattered guts and the vain
suffer
detachment
drunk
comfort
drowning
smile nervously
smile hesitantly
smile
remorse
beg
hurt
how can I ever come to play
simply spread my meaning
simply tell the tale of where my soul went when you had gone astray
packed your bags and got on the closest highway
with the word
gay
dripping out the side of my brain
hands curved next to my cheek
fingers twisted
heat overwhelming
panting
screaming
I have learned you
stitched lips
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 7:59 PM UTC
One summer’s eve in Spain,
I fled through an open window,
Butterflies aflight
In the very pit of me,
And I tramped the streets,
My heart abrim
With such a love,
But a love now long gone.
With my final matches,
I forged a heart
At that maiden’s doorstep;
I was like a thief,
On that torrid night,
My heart abrim
With so much love,
But a love now long gone.
And what of the maiden in azure?
O! What an inferno raged
Within my soul for her,
But that love
Never bloomed beyond a dream,
My heart abrim
With such a love,
But a love now long gone.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 4:59 AM UTC
Couldn't find her in the States
US or those I was in
From Maine up to Mania
From Hypo down to Sin
I scoured the Vol State
She wasn't even there
Remember the one I spoke of
I was choking on her hair
So I tramped out to Texas
Sandbags were all I found
Drove up to Collyrado
Crusted Butte, Drunk Unsound
The wrong color Orange caught me
Where the Gators turn blue
Didn't make No ****** sense
So I left abused without truth
Up to recovery
From the Damage that I've done
I lost my fears in Knoxville
Even though I still have some
Couldn't find her in the Ivy League
Nor at Oxford, UK
Caught my Baby down in Nashville
She has the Stones to Swing away
Pyreneaic granite told me
That French was the Langue
Even though I speak Spanish and Italian
I think I've found the true Romantic tongue
**** what a woman
What a spirit indeed
I'm gonna shed my last coat
Forever cause she's my Queen
I found my higher power
Linguistics it used to be
I might drop off this continent
Because Saving's what I need
Chirping like a som'bitch
Is that Aviary Queen
of my globe/world/universe
My Archaeoloverix, Baby
Kisses Hugs Baby Bird
i can hear her coo at me
I'm gonna quit my scribbling
And call her heart to me
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
The clink and clatter
Of oyster shells neath my feet
Gulls shrieking above
Waves pounding and hissing back
With salt tinged breezes
I tramped along the shoreline
Till the sun dropped down
And quenched neath the horizon
Then phosphorescence
Shimmering, lively and cold
Edged the briny surf
I stopped and turned to the deep
Wishing you were there with me
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 11:45 PM UTC
Elijah was going to meet God
He grabbed his wallet
Zipped up his hoodie
Set his phone to “vibrate”
Stepped outside and hailed a cab.
When he got to the theatre
He made sure it was the surround sound
3D picture with the reclining seats
Extra butter on the popcorn
But God wasn’t at the movies.
So he plugged in his headphones
And he cranked his Spotify playlist
And he laughed at his favorite Youtube videos
And he texted the smartest people he knew
But there wasn’t an app for this.
So he ganged up with his friends
And tramped from bar to bar to club
And he danced and drank and ate chicken wings
And the bass nearly shattered his ear drums
But God wasn’t at the party.
Then Elijah found himself alone
And there was a sheer silence
A screaming silence
A whispering silence
The neon faded and the noise died
He hid his face
When there whispered
A still, small voice
The question of God,
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
When I crack a smile the whole world breaks into laughter, the
afternoon is the best time to wallop a punch line and grin as the grins begin getting wider and wider and the world is beside you and laughing along.
I saw the night watchman a Scots man move on a ***** who then tramped down the street and his feet beat a tattoo of pain and dismissal although his shoulders held square and his hair well kept and windswept told a story of a proud man and the watchman had gone,
no one in Argyll cracks a smile about that.
Some always get moved on
can't get their groove on and
they spin down the spiral or
fall through the crack and
laughter's not the same when you're flat on your back and down on your luck.
Anyway, before I crack a smile
I crank the engine and idle a while
and
give a thought for the ones who
have nothing to laugh about,
the war-torn, the still unborn,
the refugee,
the ones who have less than me and
sometimes the laughter lines are not laughter lines,
but are the scars that tell a different story
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:14 PM UTC
Sometimes I can go to that place where everything
Is beautiful
Or fascinating
Or wondrous.
Even my father's encroaching depression,
Following us
Up the green sweeps of the golf course
As we tramped together
With the words slowly failing
Between us
I could cry at that now.
I could not cry then.
Finally it stood beside us
Baleful.
Then coldly with us
In the back seat of the car
All the way home.
Jul 23, 2010
Jul 23, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC
Beyond worth
Knew it at a glance
Never had a chance
Verdict-stuck and public scorned
Hardly noticed, never mourned
Beyond hope
Always them to blame
Father was the same
Ruling-locked and villain stained
Nature surely deep ingrained
Beyond thought
Pointless waste of time
Never mind the crime
Cover-judged and rubber stamped
Name and image rumour-tramped
Beyond help
Judges sit unmoved
Felonies unproved
Stigma-sword to reputation
Vanished view of approbation
Beyond sight
Don’t avert your eyes
Recognise the lies
Tarnish-washed and shame-suspended
Approbates with hands extended
Repeat until we’re justice-mended
Sep 19, 2024
Sep 19, 2024 at 5:10 AM UTC
i take words in my hands
examine their nooks and crannies
lay them on a page
shuffle their assembly
manipulate their meanings to suit my needs
roll them around my head
taste them on my tongue
the bittersweet of a perfect adjective
dancing before a noun
the metallic tang of a callous word
shoved into a sentence against its will
***** of it's innocence
purged of all meaning
lying helpless on structured lines
tramped by uniform TO BEs
i treat every word like a lover
savoring each fleeting minute
i have with such excellence
marvelling at the countless wonders
performed for my amusement
sometimes i'll wake up
and a love i've never known
drifts in the wind forgotten
while i am utterly oblivious to the slaughter of language
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
The ***** house for me
The great bay for you;
This means the one world!
This means the value!
What can we say about two ways?!
One goes to nights, one is to days!
Just when we wake and see we are
Tramped in themocracy! All ways in War!
One gives the life, to farewell arms
One takes the life, to make the arms
You give snacks and chips and knife!
I ask a bank to keep my life
You sit to set the game over
I leave my home, to the nowhere...
You shot me dead! Yes! With cry!
I will go on with last try!
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 9:57 AM UTC
" How far the crow flys they say .
I watched intently as the crow suddenly took flight ,
above dense grey clouds it flew ,
far above chimney tops ,
and the smoke that billowed out heating comfy homes ,
and little boys and girls dreaming of Christmas toys from Santa .
Where air was thin ,
Somewhere between heaven and earth !
Where night and day , sun and moon ,
and rain ,
are somehow forgotten .
The crow landed on a branch ,
below a most beautiful garden .
Streams of living water gave life to its plants ,
Where no **** could be found .
No rain ,
No Sun ,
No moon by night .
Something more splendid ,
Holy ,
Walked this place .
Why have you brought me here I cryed ?
What right do I have to stand in this place ?
I. Was born ,
Not of love ,
But of lust .
Hated by my Father ,
Left for dead by my Mother ,
Dragged up from the gutter ,
Bread and cheese .
Yet my Woman and daughter I loved ,
Begged , and tramped for bread to feed their pritty heads .
Crushed to death ,
With no grave to rest my head .
Then I saw a naked man reach up to grab some fruit ,
Without a thought he took a bite ,
and a sneering snake took root .
'" Where are you what have you done ? "
I heard a voice did say
My bird took flight from paradise ,
I watched it fly away .
Far above the starry night ,
above where angels sing
and lead to far greater things
Than I could ever dream .
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
Our rails embarked
on differing rolls
cast about to
meander through
questionless hovels
weigh-station trials and
points compulsatory
yet gaining steam for
longed assignation
coupling cars on
single track
someday.
The tick tick clack
of each mile
count was to bring
the exodus nearer
to terminal
wrestling the locomotive
to our will
the whishing
as stale air parted
more rapidly to
our rendezvous junction
someday.
Engineer engaged
pauses points
jerk-water halts to
re-fuel re-fresh
re-new re-track
and the miles
tick tick clack
and the tramped
porters too late to see
that each mile passed
was one mile less
for someday.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 8:48 PM UTC
"...THE POSSIBILITY THAT HAS BEEN
OVERLOOKED IS THE FUTURE..."
( for Michael Hartnett )
found
penny in a puddle
year of my birth
I pocket it
as the poet passes
cap in hand
this brilliant man
sculpted from sadness
loneliness falling like rain
he goes to greet me
knowing he knows me
but my face escapes him
I only ever meet him
when the drink has
taken him prisoner
inside his head
haiku breed
"..like maggots!" he says..."...like maggots!"
"I don't want your company
or your pity!" he snarls
"Just the price of a pint!"
I have only
the old puddle penny I've found
I give him my coat
he puts his hat on
his head
at a rakish angle
the tree flies away
the bird hangs still in the air
neon scribbles on the puddles
***
The title is taken from one of Michael's poems as is the idea of a tree flying away leaving the bird in mid-air! It always greatly amused me.
The only other time I had gone to hear him read and he was too drunk to perform. I had to get a last bus back to the Curragh and by then I think he finally got around to reading.
It was absolutely lashing rain and he carried his hat scrunched up in his hand and had only a thin tee shirt on.
He put my coat on and tramped off into a future that was falling before him.
I never saw the coat or Michael again. He had asked me if I wrote poetry too and when I said I did he said: "Ahhh then....I pity you!"
Nov 8, 2021
Nov 8, 2021 at 5:14 AM UTC