"tromp" poems
Beep-beep.
Beep.
Bee-bee.
Water splashes as it bubbles over,
steam rushes out from under the pot's lid,
Tender pasta arcks out into a strainer from the waterfall of boiling water.
The aroma of fresh cut vegtibles pollutes the air,
Herbs and spice fill the *** as cream fills the gaps between pasta,
Chese coats the top.
Children make a muck in the garden's grass,
Caked with soil they tromp past the hall,
So much bleach will be needed tomorrow.
Smooth jazz comes from the apple shaped speakers in the kitchen
A spiral of spices flit through the air.
All sit,
The sun setting low,
Lights luminate our table's surface,
puppy licks at your toe,
The food passes round,
And there's a happy glow.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
I beam when leaves stick
To the bottom of my heavy leather boots,
As I tromp from one place to the next,
Irritated yet pleased when they're STILL THERE,
After every sticky, wet step.
I think leaves are meant to bustle and blow
In Autumn as they do in Spring,
And that leaves have a yearning,
(After rooted so long)
To see the world.
The wind whispers to the leaves,
“I have been here to caress you all along,
And I am here to carry you now,
And bear you to beautiful new places.”
And the leaves sigh and surrender,
And flutter to the ground,
Then back to air,
Then to ground,
Laughing merrily,
Tumbling,
Enjoying the last few moments alive.
When leaves stick
To the bottom of my heavy leather boots
As I tromp from one place to the next,
I have the satisfaction of knowing
That these leaves would not have seen
The places I have taken them.
They would not have left
Pieces of themselves in the concrete.
That somehow I have helped fulfill a dream
By moving their dying fragments,
Like scattering ashes,
And showing them a new world
If only a hundred feet away.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
Go on, young soldier
Go where we say and die.
Take this gun and shoot,
Don’t bother to ask why.
Carry on this war we wage
Though it doesn’t make sense.
We invade anyone we want
And then call it all defense.
Go on, airmen and women.
Climb into expensive planes.
Fly over countries, drop bombs.
Don’t expect anyone to explain.
Line up ground targets well
In your high-power sights.
We have declared them enemies
And they don’t have rights.
Sail on, you navy people.
Turn their seas into ours.
Help our country reduce them
To rubble and dead in mere hours.
Transport equipment and personnel
And help them change things,
Then go to free ports on R and R
And buy your sweethearts rings.
Tromp on, military machine.
Make the world into the USA.
After all, they’re just wogs
And don’t have a thing to say.
If they were worthwhile people
They would be from back home.
Places like Akron, L.A. and Nome.
But they are not real people or
They would not get in our way
And try to stop our holy advance
To be the only people to stay.
When this endless war is done
We will be all that remains.
Be part of the American way, and
**** or get killed for your pains.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
This is the time of the year where
seniors in purple fly through the halls
riding on scooters
as per school tradition.
Where I play "Pomp and Circumstance"
twenty-eight times in a row
while they tromp sloooooowly down the aisle.
The days are scalding
and the nights are balmy
the sky is too blue,
the earth burned slowly brown
the trees green
the grass gold
and the air still.
These are the days when phone book bags
saw at my fingers while I trudge from house to house
raising money for next year.
Next year will be my turn.
The nights will be alive with the music
of my prom
and my graduation;
the halls will be aflame
with the purple of my spreading robes.
Next year I will leave, turn away to the river-blue mountains
the icing-white crests and go.
To Canada, to New York, to Seattle or Portland --
the throbbing quiver of life
of people experiencing one another --
where I go doesn't matter. Next year,
this time,
I will be gone.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
That little girl was up here a few weeks ago,
She says with as much enthusiasm
As the hourly ad hoc ambassador
For her small, unremarkable corner can muster,
And she laughs, *I mean she played that little girl--
Zuzu, that's the name-- in the movie.
Poor thing moves pretty slow now,
Had to tromp around with a cane and all.*
I smile, not much less weary myself,
(Not quite halfway from Toledo to Boston,
Miles to go before I sleep and all that)
Having pulled off the Thruway in the hope
The village supported something
Which might be open on Christmas Eve.
She chatters on, noting she pulled this shift
As a favor to a younger counterpart,
Since her children were old enough to stay on their own,
(Not to mention old enough to refrain from bouncing out of bed
Before sunrise on Christmas morning),
Mentioning that Capra visited here once and only once,
But was somehow moved enough to center his tale here
(To be fair, the place is quaint enough,
But no more so than any number of burghs just like it)
And so the village fathers have tried to make hay
While the snow flies, as it were,
The town's main street done uo in the spitting image of the movie, Although it seems different, even mildly unsettling,
When the tableau is not in two dimensionial black-and-white
The waitress and I, all but marooned alone
In this small-town Upstate bar and grill,
Exchange pleasantries (*More coffee, Hon?
Visitin' family out in Boston?*)
And I pay at the register (cash only here,
And I make it a point to tip very merrily, indeed)
Then stroll the couple of blocks to the municipal lot,
The bridge that may have launched
A thousand angels clearly visible in the distance,
Passing by a large, gray-brick building
Which have been George Bailey's mixed blessing
Now bearing the logo of a large multi-national financial leviathan
Based in Hong Kong.
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
I follow a lonely procession to my car, shoulders stiff as I can manage
Tunnel vision focused on the safety of my vehicle
Passing the people who still breathe easy, passing a few in silent accordance with my anguish
Almost to my shelter when I'm stopped mid tromp before my haven
Someone yelled something, cutting a new scar into my now unfeeling flesh.
I tread quicker, flustered and incredulous, as I can feel any sort of thing, wondering,
"Have they no respect for the dead?"
I wrote this for all the girls who have recently committed suicide due to excessive bullying. They don't realize they're trying to **** someone who's already dead.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
Beginning needs end, yet no end in sight.
For journeys of this sort, end not tonight.
Demons tromp round the room ere I be,
Yearn I do for days set free.
For hide I not the depths I've dove,
nor hate the road upon which I drove.
The angels and demons led me thus far,
leaving behind a memorable scar.
Gnashing teeth and fiery swords
Battles wage between the hordes
Spirits at war demanding this heart,
End not this day, written from start.
In darkness I walk in search of light,
And at son’s rise I seek the night
Both sides call like Sirens song
Confused I am to whom I belong.
Sway I do like the sea
To and fro which side to be.
With smiles ajoy I choose now this day,
To join the heavens at this game they play.
I thank thee my Lord for the battles you wage,
Defending this pawn through out the age.
Cannons thunder and demons dost fall,
Lord I fight this day for thy call.
Force me this day this decision to stand,
Take this heart for what you’ve planned.
Jan 18, 2010
Jan 18, 2010 at 1:16 PM UTC
Who do you think you are?
Waltzing across my heart?
Leaving your shoe prints all over it
The soles of your shoes leaving impressions on the red tenderness where love is kept
You tromp through the corridors of my heart
Your feet leaving a wake of addictive pain
I cannot live with out you burning your imprint upon my heart
But there is no living with it either
My heart yearns for your painful presence when you are gone
But it revolts against the idea of you prancing around inside the sacred walls while you are near
There is no secret key to my heart
No perfect sequence of steps to make me open up to the pain
I will forever and always be at war with you and your waltz.
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 3:54 AM UTC
I just want my life to feel like my own,
To remember I shine as much as I've shown.
I want to move through my day,
With grace and the biggest smile on my face
Filled with those feelings you used to give me.
When a walk in the rain and Popsicles
Where the building blocks of perfect days
And the sun shone on your wrinkled face
And there wasn't anything you couldn't do,
There was nothing you wouldn't say
To make me smile,
I haven’t felt that way in quite a while.
You have been gone, for so long,
Your memory’s a bit fading like the bathroom tile,
In that old house.
They clear cut the forest where we used to tromp,
Thinking about it makes my heart ache and breathing stop.
And your old glasses still sit on my desk,
One of the lenses popped out.
And I sobbed like I had never cried.
Grandpa I miss your silly face
And all the crazy **** you used to say.
You make me love all the darkness in people,
You were a big white place in hell's highest steeple
And I just want to say
That as time passes and nothing lasts
I still think of you when I want to sink.
And it’s in bits of my past
That I remember who I am and how to smile,
And to say I love you, because it’s been awhile.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:53 PM UTC
i klump in mod galoshes
among the enigma of raindrops
and catch metaphors
on the tip of my tongue.
Swallow into my soul
the beautiful unaccented verbiage.
as fragments of poems
wash down from the sky
in streams of kaleidoscopic complications.
As i tromp in puddles of letters
as i run down the wet serendipitous streets
of visionary realms...
Griffens hide under the umbrales
of trees glowering for they do
not like to be pelted
with the symbologies of deluges.
This make griffons mystifying
glowing leaves flutter chanting,
and skinny dip in the trellises of rain drops.
And at the end of all spelling.
i romp among the rays of the rainbows
that spring down the corridors of clouds
as unnamed poems stir & grow
up into the clouds
and wait for the storm of creativity
to begin again in a paper sky.
and wait for the storms
of creativity to begin
and dispense gems
to hide in heads
of uncanny eerie children
that greetings
fold space into verses
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
Donald trump is a
Baby baby really bad baby
When he throws a tantrum
If he loses an election
You see an election should
Be chosen by peoples votes
But if good old Donald trump
Doesn’t get his way
He just throws a tantrum like a baby
But if you must know
Babies are cute
Donald trump isn’t cute
He is a pain in the ***
He should graciously accept defeat
Like a real adult
At least he would say that if he wins
That man is a baby
A real right wing **** of a baby
And the problem is he is even more like
A baby when he gets his republican friends
To join in
Baby baby Donald trump is a baby
Throwing a tantrum
Complaining about life
What a ****** baby
Why not accept joe Biden is the bigger man
But tromp will never accept that
Anyone is bigger than him
He is a baby a tantrum throwing baby
Get over it trump
Biden is just too good
Nov 5, 2020
Nov 5, 2020 at 12:43 AM UTC
Its just me and you and everything in front of us, or behind
especially if gravity operates like chemicals.
Let's go exploring, if you'd like,
or sit like lumps and metastasize on chocolates.
The stage, the fame, the beer, the strife,
All the things we wanted don't matter in that
wonderful white space ahead. This hill can trail
off to the worlds we'll create, so utterly shapeless
– impossibly white –
yet filled with color and sound and romp.
The airplane we rode, just the first or last few frames of the film
(you should start wherever you want)
it had the new world in its sights to open up the stodgy filth
and land us tumbling into the great unknown.
We walk ill-prepared, like our fathers,
only so far as what they know.
A harsh word.
These legs will take me to Tøyengata or Nieve or Las Ramblas
and that street to the river
to the train or the bus
to a frozen tube of horrifying humanity
to land on familiar runways in New York or Albuquerque
catch you in your mother's Civic
and bound away.
Where we'll speak – concisely.
That's where intimacy lies: in codes and twitches,
and very little soft sweet words;
and, the more we love the less we say,
'cept to remind each other we're ready to go cartograph again.
Then speak endlessly, drunk in each other's words, and move brazenly, tromp the neigh-sayers and know-it-alls,
stumble our way across frail little ropes,
sprint through orchards to catch smoke.
Through the door, into bed.
past the last frame.
past that sweet little line –
to let this placid chaos slide down the hill
and trail off
into madness.
I'll be waiting by the sleds.
You know what to do.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 5:16 PM UTC
There was never the thought
"I should be like them."
Uniqueness was desired
and a distinct path
until a fork in an unworn trail
became a call to another direction.
Unheeded were voices shouting of
things, material goods,
destine to rot behind you
as you ***** through the valleys.
Tromp on a course to mountains
few shall view.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Write about your pain in love
Of the hollow loveless nights
Whine about all your little fights
I can't pay no mind to all above.
Story of a woman, a soldier in war
A real war, not the imaginary ones
A woman that was a mother once
Even my mind can't go that far.
Drowning her crying hungry child
For the sake of saving other's lives
From the real hounds, angry and wild
Silence the child before enemy arrives.
Holding the crying child in her arms
The swaddled child pushed in the mud
I bite my lips and taste my sour blood
For all my afflictions were self harms.
I'm sorry, your story is of lust not love
To me it's all nothing but filth and dust
Is there nothing else you can think of?
For in a fortnight these pains will rust.
We haven't drowned in a muddy swamp
We haven't killed our crying hungry child
So i only ask to keep quiet and tromp
Before hounds of lust catch us in swamp.
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 10:18 PM UTC
Donald trump is a fool
Totally yes he is
He has stupid things to say
About covid 19
Yes Donald Trump ain’t cool
He just sticks up
To his republican mates
He doesn’t care oh no
You see he will think that Biden rigged
The 2020 election oh yeah
He refused to concede
Like a little child
Yes well stupid pain he is
Donald Donald Donald
Kevin ****** Wilson
Says his life is a reality tv show
He used to be on the apprentice
And I bet he was a pain on that
Cause Donald tromp is a fool
Mate jump in the pool
That will be better than you
Donald ya fool
Donald ya fool
Biden is better than you
Donald ya fool
Jan 12, 2021
Jan 12, 2021 at 1:17 AM UTC