"tromping" poems - Hello Poetry

A Tribute A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind…. The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush. The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins. The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor. With that, Steve Jobs is dead.

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Oct 22, 2012

Oct 22, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC

billy-b

A Tribute

A Tribute A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate, he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind…. The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush. The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins. The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow. The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor. With that, Steve Jobs is dead.

6

moving inland far away from the coast temptation doth bring deeper in land the head seems consumed by everything nearing the coast it's the heart that sings though inland, my love, you will find me away from the bogs or the shoals o' herring holding you at bay with ***** keeping me next to me wanting tomorrow to be the better day my mind, an island for tromping shores different from desert sands when the tide of your concern reprimands on this island the shells are smaller and there are no dollars, the sea, a shrunken plastic expanse of syringes and lip balm containers, soft fluid-filled bodies turned into sopping brown-bag skeletons, revenges of modern life. there is a rivulet further up shore do you feel it? follow the inlet wind near a candescent pond there is a house open the door if you fall in a home can be found.

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Jan 12, 2017

Jan 12, 2017 at 1:37 AM UTC

jiminy-littly

inland heart

moving inland far away from the coast temptation doth bring deeper in land the head seems consumed by everything nearing the coast it's the heart that sings though inland, my love, you will find me away from the bogs or the shoals o' herring holding you at bay with ***** keeping me next to me wanting tomorrow to be the better day my mind, an island for tromping shores different from desert sands when the tide of your concern reprimands on this island the shells are smaller and there are no dollars, the sea, a shrunken plastic expanse of syringes and lip balm containers, soft fluid-filled bodies turned into sopping brown-bag skeletons, revenges of modern life. there is a rivulet further up shore do you feel it? follow the inlet wind near a candescent pond there is a house open the door if you fall in a home can be found.

28

In a steady, illiterate static this room is my study. And you are my book. Legs spread 'cross my lap hands firmly upon my frame. I lean in to see the words. Your soft lips graze mine like branded cattle in a glen. Wet and cold we sit there. Then your tongue begins flickering beguiling like the serpent of Eden. How could I resist but to bite? I kiss you sweetly and you kiss me back. Minutes pass in the study. My tongue examines your mouth like a cartographer mapping a new world. Each slick and slope is wholly new to me. Teeth clink like crystal glasses during a wedding day toast. Eyes shut tight make the black of mourning. The noises dribbling from our mouths sound akin to a murderer tromping through the forest mud. Shovel dragging hard. ...Plop...Plop...Plop... Our hands run over each other's bodies open-palmed like a child examining the globe. I want to feel you from pole to pole. I pull back and run my fingers through your hair. Your color is rushed with red and you wipe saliva from your lips. Your smile is without flaws, and you taste like ambrosia. I love being literate.

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Mar 9, 2012

Mar 9, 2012 at 9:00 PM UTC

brad-lambert

A Note On Literacy

In a steady, illiterate static this room is my study. And you are my book. Legs spread 'cross my lap hands firmly upon my frame. I lean in to see the words. Your soft lips graze mine like branded cattle in a glen. Wet and cold we sit there. Then your tongue begins flickering beguiling like the serpent of Eden. How could I resist but to bite? I kiss you sweetly and you kiss me back. Minutes pass in the study. My tongue examines your mouth like a cartographer mapping a new world. Each slick and slope is wholly new to me. Teeth clink like crystal glasses during a wedding day toast. Eyes shut tight make the black of mourning. The noises dribbling from our mouths sound akin to a murderer tromping through the forest mud. Shovel dragging hard. ...Plop...Plop...Plop... Our hands run over each other's bodies open-palmed like a child examining the globe. I want to feel you from pole to pole. I pull back and run my fingers through your hair. Your color is rushed with red and you wipe saliva from your lips. Your smile is without flaws, and you taste like ambrosia. I love being literate.

31

tiny twirling yellow leaf suspended in mid-air, you bring me down from my tirade about the all the ******* light from the neighborhood houses. when did so many become so scared? or just want to show off the house with stupid landscape lighting? leaving it on, all night, and all day. 3 deer stand up and leap off, disturbed by our tromping, bringing a smile to the eye. walking along, eyes cast down, head looks up, to find a still, little deer, looking back. magical and sweet chills rise up spine and heart swells with wonder. just for a moment, no artificial glare.

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Sep 15, 2015

Sep 15, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC

amiee

Lighting Tirade, Early in the new Day

tiny twirling yellow leaf suspended in mid-air, you bring me down from my tirade about the all the ******* light from the neighborhood houses. when did so many become so scared? or just want to show off the house with stupid landscape lighting? leaving it on, all night, and all day. 3 deer stand up and leap off, disturbed by our tromping, bringing a smile to the eye. walking along, eyes cast down, head looks up, to find a still, little deer, looking back. magical and sweet chills rise up spine and heart swells with wonder. just for a moment, no artificial glare.

33

skin slightly paler and just trusting enough the younger twin by two minutes explained sometimes mom gets this way standing at the open trunk of the ‘84 Mazda 626 feeding the feral dog old bologna somewhere in the deepest humid South late summer, two-thousand two – driving her home from school the oldest sits double uncomfortable with cramps and an upset stomach while watching me doing the strangest dance of delicacy as who knows the mystery of the first moon cycle …safe! – tromping through the stream bed string-less sneakers barely remembered against all odds and laws of physics face still ***** with a sugary ring smiles fly as the biggest agate of day lay in stubby strong fingers – strange prompt without limits on this second day of poetry month two-thousand sixteen invoke old memories of strangers becoming a family…. one day their children will call me Grandpa, and Sam will quietly slip away –

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Apr 2, 2016

Apr 2, 2016 at 8:38 AM UTC

s-lyman-temple

brand new family

skin slightly paler and just trusting enough the younger twin by two minutes explained sometimes mom gets this way standing at the open trunk of the ‘84 Mazda 626 feeding the feral dog old bologna somewhere in the deepest humid South late summer, two-thousand two – driving her home from school the oldest sits double uncomfortable with cramps and an upset stomach while watching me doing the strangest dance of delicacy as who knows the mystery of the first moon cycle …safe! – tromping through the stream bed string-less sneakers barely remembered against all odds and laws of physics face still ***** with a sugary ring smiles fly as the biggest agate of day lay in stubby strong fingers – strange prompt without limits on this second day of poetry month two-thousand sixteen invoke old memories of strangers becoming a family…. one day their children will call me Grandpa, and Sam will quietly slip away –

27

When he was revealed to you to be naught but ash and stone his eyes burnt dusty grey that of a thousand campfires grown cold to feel not to hear not draws likeness to hell on earth the leaves so brown and rusty pay no attention to the girth of his unnoticed masochistic sorrow so tomorrow may be better than the rest but in his roving endless mind he will find the greatest unrest In all things he finds beauty and in all things he finds lonesome boredom so that is why he roves in search of endless pleasures to quell the restlessness he finds when he reaches home Too much time he has been stuck in one place he grows weary of the endless thoughtless race to places others hate and where on one wants to be so on his feet he flees to the lands devoid of life to camels rocks and the occasional bubbling cree The shoes too tight the hurt his feet they leave an aching, tingling feeling They yearn to begat themselves of his heel Plead with the sweat between his toes to never grace the skin of any man again yet he still wears them He knows they cause blisters he knows that in those shoes an ever hardening, hateful fungus grows His wandering feet cannot remember the grass the heat of asphalt the agony of sharp glass What is he to do? his entire life he has worn some sort of shoe to walk without? absurd he laments He dreams of the day when he will spare no expense when the shoe he dawns will be the finest in the world Another 10 years another 10 he hopes When his tromping up floors will finally pay off Will that day ever come? a bigger car? a bigger house? a bigger safe for all his guns? He pleads he wonders blindly through life he blunders hoping for when things will get better he was raised not to wonder raised not to dream into suited glass himself he must ream Wanting not of the beautiful himself he will cry on his deathbed he will see but lonely sky Too late to fix now he wished he had realized younger even fifteen years would have worked Now he sits old and broken feeding breadcrumbs to flightless birds wishing someone would have spoken Told him to cast off the shoe that left his foot choking and unable to breathe His eyes fiery heart masked with rage he screams ever upward bent with age Broken Heartless Mourning the loss of his life

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Mar 21, 2012

Mar 21, 2012 at 7:58 PM UTC

tyler-ling

To Live

When he was revealed to you to be naught but ash and stone his eyes burnt dusty grey that of a thousand campfires grown cold to feel not to hear not draws likeness to hell on earth the leaves so brown and rusty pay no attention to the girth of his unnoticed masochistic sorrow so tomorrow may be better than the rest but in his roving endless mind he will find the greatest unrest In all things he finds beauty and in all things he finds lonesome boredom so that is why he roves in search of endless pleasures to quell the restlessness he finds when he reaches home Too much time he has been stuck in one place he grows weary of the endless thoughtless race to places others hate and where on one wants to be so on his feet he flees to the lands devoid of life to camels rocks and the occasional bubbling cree The shoes too tight the hurt his feet they leave an aching, tingling feeling They yearn to begat themselves of his heel Plead with the sweat between his toes to never grace the skin of any man again yet he still wears them He knows they cause blisters he knows that in those shoes an ever hardening, hateful fungus grows His wandering feet cannot remember the grass the heat of asphalt the agony of sharp glass What is he to do? his entire life he has worn some sort of shoe to walk without? absurd he laments He dreams of the day when he will spare no expense when the shoe he dawns will be the finest in the world Another 10 years another 10 he hopes When his tromping up floors will finally pay off Will that day ever come? a bigger car? a bigger house? a bigger safe for all his guns? He pleads he wonders blindly through life he blunders hoping for when things will get better he was raised not to wonder raised not to dream into suited glass himself he must ream Wanting not of the beautiful himself he will cry on his deathbed he will see but lonely sky Too late to fix now he wished he had realized younger even fifteen years would have worked Now he sits old and broken feeding breadcrumbs to flightless birds wishing someone would have spoken Told him to cast off the shoe that left his foot choking and unable to breathe His eyes fiery heart masked with rage he screams ever upward bent with age Broken Heartless Mourning the loss of his life

65

Throw open my closet doors and don my best business attire, I am fueled by coffee and motivation to succeed. The youngest of my colleagues, I have excelled in the pursuit of the american dreams. I am supermom. I am superwoman. Hear me roar. The fall came on without warning. This mental prison confined me and I could not escape. Spiraling down, down, down until… CRASH. I am no more. The alarm blares and I hit snooze for the umpteenth time. I roll out of bed, slither into day old sweats and smooth my hair with a greasy hand. Did I feed my child today? Who cares anyway? I am the middle-aged teenager, tromping around town in pajamas. Bad decisions, yeah, I’ve made a few. But who are you to judge anyway? 1/6/2016

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Jan 6, 2016

Jan 6, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC

dawn-richardson

Regressed

Throw open my closet doors and don my best business attire, I am fueled by coffee and motivation to succeed. The youngest of my colleagues, I have excelled in the pursuit of the american dreams. I am supermom. I am superwoman. Hear me roar. The fall came on without warning. This mental prison confined me and I could not escape. Spiraling down, down, down until… CRASH. I am no more. The alarm blares and I hit snooze for the umpteenth time. I roll out of bed, slither into day old sweats and smooth my hair with a greasy hand. Did I feed my child today? Who cares anyway? I am the middle-aged teenager, tromping around town in pajamas. Bad decisions, yeah, I’ve made a few. But who are you to judge anyway? 1/6/2016

19

distant foothills in the pre-dawn haze draw my memories back to youthful exuberance pond fishing under clear sky creak tromping in the search of the perfect agate pockets full of jasper and quartz as if pebbles were treasure pleasurable day-dream measure of peace – wafting peppermint transports me to a snow covered logging road schnapps and a trap line bobcats lured with carcasses tied to trees scent jar in a vest pocket and a 22 ruger on the hip smooth clean strokes hide on the shoulder another carcass in a tree rinse and repeat – long barren abandon railroad lacking ties lies cinder rock sunbaked sage and Juniper mule deer and pronghorn lonely cottontail narrowing avoiding hungry coyote gaze sunsets cast purple shadows orange and pink streaks stretch the horizon flat backed in green grass smiling into infinity

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Jun 4, 2014

Jun 4, 2014 at 11:57 AM UTC

s-lyman-temple

exit-seeking on the job

distant foothills in the pre-dawn haze draw my memories back to youthful exuberance pond fishing under clear sky creak tromping in the search of the perfect agate pockets full of jasper and quartz as if pebbles were treasure pleasurable day-dream measure of peace – wafting peppermint transports me to a snow covered logging road schnapps and a trap line bobcats lured with carcasses tied to trees scent jar in a vest pocket and a 22 ruger on the hip smooth clean strokes hide on the shoulder another carcass in a tree rinse and repeat – long barren abandon railroad lacking ties lies cinder rock sunbaked sage and Juniper mule deer and pronghorn lonely cottontail narrowing avoiding hungry coyote gaze sunsets cast purple shadows orange and pink streaks stretch the horizon flat backed in green grass smiling into infinity

29

Every time I return to your new home, it's a chilling affair, as I roll in on four wheels and a prayer, my hair stands on end, and dances in the wind. Stone cold silence greats me each time, when I emerge from my car, and sift my way through the yard, tromping above the dead, shoes filled with lead. It's a stone and granite garden, marble here and there, a stiffness in the air, that hangs right around your feet, holding you in place like concrete. I kneel before the dirt and rocks, and press my hands in deep, in an attempt to try and feel, your touch reaching back, through 6 feet of disconnect. And I swear I feel your warm touch, and hear a bad joke whispering in the wind.

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Oct 2, 2016

Oct 2, 2016 at 1:36 AM UTC

barry-pietrantonio

Stone and Granite Garden

Every time I return to your new home, it's a chilling affair, as I roll in on four wheels and a prayer, my hair stands on end, and dances in the wind. Stone cold silence greats me each time, when I emerge from my car, and sift my way through the yard, tromping above the dead, shoes filled with lead. It's a stone and granite garden, marble here and there, a stiffness in the air, that hangs right around your feet, holding you in place like concrete. I kneel before the dirt and rocks, and press my hands in deep, in an attempt to try and feel, your touch reaching back, through 6 feet of disconnect. And I swear I feel your warm touch, and hear a bad joke whispering in the wind.

22

scars tell stories how the ones on my right knee say that i was a fun loving kid who skipped down a gravel hill how my brother carried me back to my parents how i felt proud about my scar and could tell all the kids on the playground how i got it how the one on my right shin shows that i love tromping through blackberry bushes at camp with friends trying to find the biggest ones it makes me relive the memory of being there with them how the one on my left arm shows that i was a stupid kid and that i turned up the speed on that treadmill too much and fell and got stuck with it burning my back and cutting into my arm how the ones on my left wrist show that i am fighting a war with myself everyday that i am trying to feel something besides nothing that i want to be in control scars tell stories each one is a chapter in my life that i am going to remember forever some dark some light but they’re mine

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Jan 2, 2018

Jan 2, 2018 at 3:46 PM UTC

alex-34

Scars

scars tell stories how the ones on my right knee say that i was a fun loving kid who skipped down a gravel hill how my brother carried me back to my parents how i felt proud about my scar and could tell all the kids on the playground how i got it how the one on my right shin shows that i love tromping through blackberry bushes at camp with friends trying to find the biggest ones it makes me relive the memory of being there with them how the one on my left arm shows that i was a stupid kid and that i turned up the speed on that treadmill too much and fell and got stuck with it burning my back and cutting into my arm how the ones on my left wrist show that i am fighting a war with myself everyday that i am trying to feel something besides nothing that i want to be in control scars tell stories each one is a chapter in my life that i am going to remember forever some dark some light but they’re mine

24

Do you recall rollicking through cultivated country lanes ? Playfully tromping down our gravel drive in the afternoon heat ? I held you to prevent a stone bruise on your tiny little feet .. Can you recall late Summer evenings on the front porch swing ? I read you nursery rhymes until you fell to sleep .. Do you remember tents in the living room , Captain Crunch cartoon mornings dragging a gallon of milk to the TV ? Playing hide and seek in the house , jigsaw puzzles and parakeets ? Remember the puppies and kittens , lavender mittens and the Blizzard of '93 ? What about climbing up Stone Mountain nestled in your papoose , just you and me !!

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Jan 24, 2016

Jan 24, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Amanda

Do you recall rollicking through cultivated country lanes ? Playfully tromping down our gravel drive in the afternoon heat ? I held you to prevent a stone bruise on your tiny little feet .. Can you recall late Summer evenings on the front porch swing ? I read you nursery rhymes until you fell to sleep .. Do you remember tents in the living room , Captain Crunch cartoon mornings dragging a gallon of milk to the TV ? Playing hide and seek in the house , jigsaw puzzles and parakeets ? Remember the puppies and kittens , lavender mittens and the Blizzard of '93 ? What about climbing up Stone Mountain nestled in your papoose , just you and me !!

10

Cackling Mister Crow Why do you make sport of me Making fun of the very hand that feeds You shop this yard at every morn for- a free handful of cracked corn , relaxing atop a public birdbath you've declared to be your very own Tall pines to bask in the ten o'clock - sun Cool grass to hunt , hop , skip - and run .... Cackling Old Crow You son-of-a-gun Tromping through my garden for - afternoon fun You're a pirate with wings A thief that sings Hiding in a blackberry thicket with - easy pickings Standing at the feeder , scaring my chickens .... Goodnight Mister Crow Find a tall oak to rest This farm would not be the same - without my favorite pest Do crow's dream I oft wonder Dreams of airborne pillage and - plunder

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Apr 19, 2018

Apr 19, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

Mister Crow ...

Cackling Mister Crow Why do you make sport of me Making fun of the very hand that feeds You shop this yard at every morn for- a free handful of cracked corn , relaxing atop a public birdbath you've declared to be your very own Tall pines to bask in the ten o'clock - sun Cool grass to hunt , hop , skip - and run .... Cackling Old Crow You son-of-a-gun Tromping through my garden for - afternoon fun You're a pirate with wings A thief that sings Hiding in a blackberry thicket with - easy pickings Standing at the feeder , scaring my chickens .... Goodnight Mister Crow Find a tall oak to rest This farm would not be the same - without my favorite pest Do crow's dream I oft wonder Dreams of airborne pillage and - plunder

25

*Juicy Fruit chewing gum , wren singing Saturday , cool day tromping buck trail , whitetail byways Over red hillside , wild onions grow tall over frosted - scenery , eagerly encircling lakesides natural machinery Pausing by a stump to watch - a "Hartford" jumped Geese on the move on a course to the moon Herons holding still to get their fill , 'Grays' scampering from Cottonwood to Sycamore , Swamp bunnies breaking on the cattail shores* ...

0

Nov 27, 2017

Nov 27, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

The Mill Pond Trail ...

*Juicy Fruit chewing gum , wren singing Saturday , cool day tromping buck trail , whitetail byways Over red hillside , wild onions grow tall over frosted - scenery , eagerly encircling lakesides natural machinery Pausing by a stump to watch - a "Hartford" jumped Geese on the move on a course to the moon Herons holding still to get their fill , 'Grays' scampering from Cottonwood to Sycamore , Swamp bunnies breaking on the cattail shores* ...

13