"trooped" poems
Limbs littered the earth, her negligee no longer lay in his soldier’s
world; he would do anything to smell her perfume
once more. What day was it? Ahhh…Monday,
the perfect first date, a moon-
lit walk on a beach. He felt like a train
about to crash and nobody was dancing.
She felt alien alone in their home. Dancing
was impossible and she stared at the photo, a soldier’s
face, not his own. Limbo was a train
journey that never ended. Billboards advertising perfume
and the never ending sun, the never ending moon.
The name of the days changed but Monday
was no different from Tuesday or last Monday.
She wondered if disabled people thought dancing
ridiculous. He could return disabled…the moon
was full tonight, she wondered if he in his soldier’s
uniform would be admiring it remembering her perfume
and not side stepping dead bodies feeling like a train
wreck. How many poor driver’s of trains
were haunted by suicides, faces looming out, the Monday
blues? And some women will never afford perfume
and would never be taken out dancing,
it did not console her. She was one of thousands of soldier’s
wives all gazing wistfully at the unhelpful moon.
She dreams of werewolves howling at the moon,
of him passing through a dark forest on a train
coming back to her, having thrown his soldier’s
gun, stamped in the mud, rejected. But she was the gun, Monday
and no letter had come and her nerves were dancing,
she knocked over her most expensive bottle of perfume.
He was dead, she would never replace the perfume.
She would smash bottles sticking her tongue out at the moon
throwing herself around in life, dancing
like a boat in a storm, occasionally consider suicide by train
but she would never do it. Saturday, Sunday, Monday
all days trooped past like the heavy march of a soldier.
The word soldier stank of cheap perfume and
everything was mundane especially the moon.
People hurry her by like late trains, only a few whirl past dancing.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 4:10 PM UTC
ARISTOCRATIC CHRISTMAS
The goose was plucked for Christmas
Not a feather was in sight
The butler cleaned the silver
Cook baked with all of her might
The aristocrats in the morning room
Sipped a sherry or two
Whilst waiting for their dinner
It was the thing to do
All dressed in their finery
The children there as well
All except for Grandpa
(The stories he could tell!)
No one alas was listening
And no one noticed there
He’d on one foot a slipper
And the other was quite bare.
Below stairs was quite hectic
Upstairs all serene
And all along the passageways
And sometimes in between
Servants rushed as servants do
To make things run with ease
Tending fires fetching things
Aiming just to please
And Grandpa sat and nodded
His head sank on his chest
He remembered long ago
The Christmas he’d thought best
With one foot in a slipper
The other one quite bare
He waited for his dinner
Sat there in his chair
And soon the gong it sounded
Its boom rang loud and clear
They all trooped in the dining room
With those they held so dear
The table was resplendent
The glasses gleamed and shone
The cutlery was sparkling
The goose it weighed a ton
The master carved the mistress smiled
The children looked in awe
The butler served the vegetables
(Cos that’s what they are for)
The pudding was amazing
The brandy sauce was ace
They ate and ate until alas
No more could they face
All except for Grandpa
He was sat quite still
And no one noticed him not there
As they all ate their fill
With one foot in his slipper
The other one quite bare.
On Christmas day he died alone
Sat there in his chair.
© Pamela Brooke 2009
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 9:32 AM UTC
It was only the shape of the mushroom cloud
That gave the game away,
It’s not that we weren’t expecting it,
It could happen any day,
But when it came on a Sunday as
We all trooped out of church,
We wondered, where was the Saviour,
Had he left us in the lurch?
By chance, the missile had missed the town
Fell thirty miles away,
Up in the distant ranges
In the vineyards of Cathay,
So much for the vintage of Semillon
I thought, with barely a frown,
Will anyone miss it once we’ve gone
And scorched that fertile ground?
It’s strange, with imminent death you feel
So suddenly detached,
Go in, and shelter from scorching heat
And shards of broken glass,
That’s all there was with the Cathay bomb
It fell so far away,
I looked at Jean and she looked at me
Was this our final day?
The sound came rumbling over the hill,
In a long, unbroken sigh,
I clung to her and she clung to me,
There wasn’t time to cry,
A moment passed and a moment more
And still we stood our ground,
I thought we might get to live some more
While God was looking down.
We’d lost our friends in the vineyards
They’d been vaporised to dust,
Jean said we’d better not think of it,
But I replied we must.
We both were seized with a single urge
As we clawed our way to bed,
And thought we couldn’t be doing this
If both of us were dead.
An eerie glow in the sky that night
Kept all of us awake,
We didn’t know where the bomb was from
Or what more we could take.
A second cloud in a mushroom stew
Rose up, there would be more,
From somewhere else where the evil grew,
The day of the mushroom spore.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 5:17 AM UTC
so well choreographed the performance
spectacular shapes they perfectly make
soaring up then dipping down this sky dance
synchronized on a collective feather's take
outstanding describes every single formation
orchestrated with an amazing flight's wing
over the countryside you'll see the murmuration
on staying together it repels a falcon's ping
utilizing the waving motion's code of sway
unbalancing any hungry prey by such skill
utmost this inventive pattern's display
undulations devised in an expert drill
the ballet on high is ever so terrific
trooped starlings cleverly will bluff
they'll outsmart predators prolific
trancing them with adept birdie stuff
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC
Watch as the world turns a cold shoulder
Watch as the man stands, hands on head
dead, silence emits a deafening roar
Watch as the kids pick up guns
suns expiring, darkening
the day before it's hour
Watch as the woman morns
the one she'd adorn means nothing any more
another 'x' on sheet
Watch as the world numbs itself
Watch as the coward next to you smokes himself
To Death, too afraid to do it quickly.
He has no passion watching the cherry lengthen
Watch as the humans demean their existence
Persistent to vacate the throne
"Long live Technology!"
Watch as the world takes everything back
Watch as the television melted minds
fall fast, in-adept
survival of the fittest on a grandeur scale
frailty unveiled
Watch through the window
afraid of life
...just keep watching.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:40 AM UTC
The news came into town like the flu,
rubbing the sleep from the eyes of the people,
Clearing them to see the words in pixels of ink
spelling out what had happened.
Mothers dropped plates,
car brakes screeched,
the cats and dogs
stopped in the middle of their whims,
and the gums got to flappin'
in the hospital-sheened caskets on wheels
where forgotten old folks were left
to feel forgotten.
The collective energy of
all this dude’s friends and family
rose and pushed the clouds in a mushroom,
A rude intrusion into the heavens,
where little old ladies
and blindsided grammar schoolers
had convinced themselves
he was sitting, looking down
in somber remembrances,
happy thoughts,
shared joys,
and all that jazz.
They piled into cars
and trooped to the viewing,
to cry and behold a waxinine figure
with a painted smile.
Then they kicked dirt
into the hole in the ground
and left him to rot.
Jun 22, 2014
Jun 22, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
hard is trying to make pillows
of river rocks and hard concrete
abutments fo' covers
and drinking the ***** river down stream
of the corn crops and cotton
quenching thirst
in the available,
like ten zillion
camels trooped through
your mouth,
and who knows anymore
the runoff
might soften the eggs
again
and I may be
extinct
unlike the eagle who
got lucky.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 5:15 PM UTC
I walked or sauntered or dashed or stumbled, no...
staggered! or swaggered, or was it stepped, no...
I jogged or, bolted, no stomped or slid no...
hopped! or was it skipped no hop skipped and jumped...
or sauntered! no i said that one, it was swaggered! no....
I stampeded or dogged or shlepped no bounced or was it...
I stamped or ed or rolled? no strolled! haha yes Strolled! no...
I stalked that was it or was it followed no no it was sojourned
sojourned! sojourn? no it was galumphed or marched, no charged...
aha sauntered! no! ****** it was ambled or slogged, trounced? or tromped, no rambled, yes I rambled on! no no thats not right, I plodded, trod no tread! no strided, thats not even a word, sloped, no...
govereetted, or persnicketied, or skreed, or preened, no no no none of that is right....
I sauntered! no no, swaggered! no was it promenade? prowl. no patrolled, parolled, no no thats way off...
I trekked, trudged, no fudged, no dogged! like george! he dogged it all the time, no I said that one, slogged or sashayed no trooped, no perambulated, or moseyed? or hoofed it? no it was definitely sauntered, no no it wasn't sauntered it was a dawdle, no lurched, or hawked, no stopped,
no no it was definitely movement, thats it! it was a movement! no no no that can't be right I paced, yes i paced back and forth and thought about life for a awhile....
no no that wasn't it either it was really more of a strut, or a saunter, yes saunter! no swaggered! no no
**** you words....
I wandered or was it roamed, no limped, gimped! no...
minced.... or no yes! minced... wait.... no it was a hike, yes I hiked up a mountain with friend of mine, or was it climbed, no no thats not right...
I slandered, no.... pandered! no... I meandered, haha actually no i think it was a peruse, or no a beat! no.... I cut a rug! or actually i think it was more of a stumble no....
ah yes it was walked, I walked about sixty blocks today
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
Emma Lazarus (1849-1887)
A brackish lake is there with bitter pools
Anigh its margin, brushed by heavy trees.
A piping wind the narrow valley cools,
Fretting the willows and the cypresses.
Gray skies above, and in the gloomy space
An awful presence hath its dwelling-place.
I saw a youth pass down that vale of tears;
His head was circled with a crown of thorn,
His form was bowed as by the weight of years,
His wayworn feet by stones were cut and torn.
His eyes were such as have beheld the sword
Of terror of the angel of the Lord.
He passed, and clouds and shadows and thick haze
Fell and encompassed him. I might not see
What hand upheld him in those dismal ways,
Wherethrough he staggered with his misery.
The creeping mists that trooped and spread around,
The smitten head and writhing form enwound.
Then slow and gradual but sure they rose,
Those clinging vapors blotting out the sky.
The youth had fallen not, his viewless foes
Discomfited, had left the victory
Unto the heart that fainted not nor failed,
But from the hill-tops its salvation hailed.
I looked at him in dread lest I should see,
The anguish of the struggle in his eyes;
And lo, great peace was there! Triumphantly
The sunshine crowned him from the sacred skies.
'From strength to strength he goes,' he leaves beneath
The valley of the shadow and of death.
'Thrice blest who passing through that vale of Tears,
Makes it a well,'-and draws life-nourishment
From those death-bitter drops. No grief, no fears
Assail him further, he may scorn the event.
For naught hath power to swerve the steadfast soul
Within that valley broken and made whole.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
The old songs loved from long ago
come to me from my long gone past
On winds they caress me tonight
whispering from dreams I had last
The old days trooped by in glory
paraded across my life's field
Displayed in panoramic view
how many dreams they have revealed
Faces long gone look out from mist
to this once wandered man to be
Speaking from my past adventures
beloved friends long a part of me
Oh how they flood through my mind
to speak of days that've gone by
Forcing me to look to the one
that came from acts I can't deny
We are not each one right nor wrong
we are the result of our times
Held to account for all the good
as well as for all our crimes
Mystic chords of my memory
look back on the road I traversed
Remembering moments I loved
as well as those I have cursed
While each loved soul has given time
to pursuit of living pleasures
Only by reflecting on life
do I recognize its treasures
Tate
original version with my own art work accompanied by music
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/504688/
All three of my books can be viewed here
http://www.writerscafe.org/aristate
They are available at amazon ,createspace and barnes and noble
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 8:53 AM UTC
in an ice-age we all searched for warmth.
cold nipping at our chest to reach what is underneath we trooped on-to warmer lands,
to find the cure to what seemed to harm us the most.
and in loneliness i searched for companionship.
sadness crept up my shoulders and shoveled under the layers of skin of my wrist to find the pulse,
but i kept searching blindly for someone i could call dear to me.
yet even when warmth is found on a tropical island near the sea, sun beating down on us hard
do we not confine ourselves to buildings filled with cold
so as to relive the troop, relive the search
to desperately find our own little struggle in aircon bills
and find faux hope in the blankets they sell 20% off?
and yet even when a friend is found
do i not still convince myself they are lying to me
and allow sadness to enter once more,
finding faults quicker than endearing traits;
so as to pity myself, boo-hoo, your so called love has betrayed you
and now you must search again for another
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
FIELD MARSHAL AT THE COMBAT FRONT
By Abraham Esang
The Field Marshal popped in with a brand new red beret
Down to the carcass-ripped front where the combat was;
Alongside with an affectionate General by his noble right hand
He established his path in the direction of the No man’s land,
Afterward a Resilient excellence Lieutenant General there they found,
And a Major General as well, to take them about.
Passing through the trench, their heads bow low,
In the direction of the attentive foe
They advanced through the dusk and the dust stink
Till the Lieutenant General muttered, “one-three-stance gulch!”
And the General repeated “one-three-stance gulch!”
And Field marshal responded-Not in gulch
“Okay, I notice it. “One-three-stance gulch!”
Once more they trooped with watchful pace,
Trailing on where the Lieutenant led
Across the damp and the gunk as well,
Till they popped into a different lateral.
They rested there in the slush and drench,
And the major general muttered “one-two-stance gulch!”
And the General repeated, “one-two-stance gulch!”
And Field Marshal nodded; “one-two-stance gulch!”
Still, as they went across marsh akin to slope
Till they popped into a neat and comfortable gulley
Good mimicry from airship
Where soldiers mounted their guns for firing command
And the Lieutenant General muttered “one-one-stance gulch!”
And the General repeated “one-one-stance gulch!”
And the Field Marshal muttered, “Okay, I notice.
How distant is the foe?”
And the affectionate General the Field Marshal questioned, questioned he,
“How distant is the foe?”
And the Lieutenant inhaled in a lower tune,
“How distant is the foe?”
The quietness placed in tons and piles
And the Lieutenant General whispered, “Just nowhere near.”
And the Major General whispered, “Just nowhere near.”
And the affectionate General repeated, “Just nowhere near.”
“Just nowhere near!” the Field Marshal swore,
“Why in god name are we muttering?”
And the Major General said in a gentle growl,
“Why in god name are we muttering?”
“Muttering?” the reverberation roar;
And the Lieutenant General muttered, “I am freezing.”
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC
Once upon a time I saw a poster
Of a general pointing straight at me
And the words below shouted out
That a soldier I should be.
Yes a soldier now that was a thought
I'd never had before
I didn't fight, I'd never fought
Never mind being in a war.
But like myself, millions of others
Decided to heed the call
And despite the tears of our mothers
We trooped off all proud and tall
Together as mates from our towns
All over these sceptred isles
We left young and happy, but soon frowns
Replaced our unknowing smiles.
In the trenches, the filth, the blood,
The stench of death all around
Half of my mates already gone for good
Shredded and churned into the ground.
This was not how we expected it to be
When we all joined up to fight the ***
We thought we would all soon see
Home again after having a bit of fun.
But fun, we soon learned has no place
On these killing fields of France,
The games played here all have their base
In death's macabre dance.
And in the morning at the rising sun
Once more we go over the top
To face bullets from the machine gun
That are relentless and never stop.
The bullets that cut down men
Like the scythes that cut the corn
But they keep sending us again and again
I now wish I'd never been born.
I wish I'd never been born to see
The terrible things I've seen and done
I wish I'd never been born to be
Sent here to have some fun.
"You'll all be home for Christmas,"
The recruiting sergeant said.
And two years later here we are
With most of us already dead.
Victims of the bullet, the gas,
The bayonet, shell, and bomb
And at dawn we once again will mass,
To attack the enemy on the Somme.
Tom Higgins 13/11/2013
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC