"bootless" poems
SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
Book down both my idleness and memories,
Come the 52nd summer, through ship to ship
The last sail from city to city, the perturb To Contempt
Thy will at time remain snub, hath my time being
Hoaxed with an irony to bare my dream, for my family,
my slug Hit the deepest of my wish, with an arm to an
Armor, though my gentle verse never indulge volitionary,
What’s Worth in me hath grown, neither my dream
Extant, to whom shall I sell? Thy portrait reckon without
understanding The captivity my dreams, to whom
shall I cry My bootless fate?, Hast thee forsaken me?
Thou art trouble me not , Thee Succeed anyone
In an unflagging quest for a word, though art’s will
For sinners, saint and believers never change
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
He wore a purple knitted cap.
He had a carrot nose
This snowman figurine wore skates
with black buttons on his clothes.
His cheeks were daubed a cherry red
His bootless feet looked cold.
His smiling was perpetual
His was a hopeful soul.
Yet now he lay out near the curb
He was destined for the trash
His mistress found a figurine
that had a bit more flash.
He looked back sadly at the house.
The only home he'd known
His colleagues, perched on windowsills
looked out at him alone.
The trash-men came
and grabbed the bags
hydraulics crushed and smashed
One trash man took the figurine
and put it with his stash
The trash man and his little girl
since Spring had lived alone.
It was hard since Emma's mother died
but he tried to make a home.
With no insurance and one salary
his house this year looked bare
Where once they'd had a festive Spruce
now a pitiful fake stood there.
Such decorations as they had
were pilfered from the trash
of folks with little sentiment
and too much spending cash.
In his workshop in the basement
He made the snowman shine
His silver skates were polished
He repainted every line.
Little Emma loved the snowman
When she saw him near the tree
He is no longer called unwanted
since he found a new family.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 10:19 PM UTC
When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
2.6k
A Blossom fell
To the breast of earth,
Not ever knowing
its true worth.
A blossom fell.
It made me weep,
That beauty
is not ours to keep.
A blossom fell,
and tears like rain
could never make
it whole again.
A blossom fell
from hand to bier
accompanied by
my bootless tears.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
I saw her just the other day,
But, not knowing what to say, I turned away.
For she has lost her only son,
off fighting in the war.
A bootless war that lingers on
Like a chancre sore.
There are others like her;
Gold stars in windows shine-
For brave boys brought home in boxes
for “no one’s left behind. “
There’s no word that refers to her
Who has lost her only child.
A remnant who lingers here
the last one of her line.
I’ve seen her tend his graveside
like she once made his childhood bed.
She keeps the flowers watered,
trims the grass above his head.
In her Living room, a folded flag
A grateful nation’s gift
To remind her of one she loved so
Whose death left her bereft.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 1:14 PM UTC
Feet striking the stone,
Hauling this cross on my back.
Wounds from the chains
That once whipped not too long ago.
And I carry not just the cross,
But the weight of my world.
and not just my world, but yours.
Thorns dig into my head,
Ripping my flesh.
The clouds roll in.
Rain pounds the world one drop at a time.
My feet slip atop the mud.
The forest in the distance;
The only sign of life
In this desolate, abandoned town…
So far away.
This journey is utterly bootless.
Suffering for my sins and yours,
The knife in my side is proof.
I saw in my mind, the altar;
The pedestal once revered.
And now, as I trod to my demise,
All I can envision is my crucifixion
As just another story in your book.
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC
Standing under a waterfall fully wet
Mind was upset, now totally set
Drained all my tears with the water that fall
Now nothing can make me feel small
Fresh water falling from my head to toe
Cleaning my body and mind from the woe
Promising never to give up my dreams
For the sake of some bootless screams
Walking forward with perseverance
Leaving backward all my indolence !
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
Grad me footless,
World class; fruitless,
Jumping backwards,
Three steps; bootless.
Call me stupid,
Call me smart.
Call me funny,
Fire for the dead head-start.
Breaking windows,
Crashing cars;
Wasting nights,
In dead-end bars.
Losing grip,
Of jaded souls;
Ditching all our,
Larger goals.
Flying solo,
Through the void;
Running low,
On blood-steroid.
Washing freshmen,
Clean of youth;
It hurts, I know,
Like sugared- tooth.
Growing up,
Is tough, it seems;
But through the thick,
A bright light gleams.
Nov 21, 2010
Nov 21, 2010 at 9:55 PM UTC
What a torment! Cursed, genetically
Inclined, a loyal slave to her majesty,
A fat striped bottom and little stink for life,
Sent out to push nature’s browned iron wheel,
A pirate looking for the blinding hue,
An endless hunt for that yellow jewel,
I dare you to come back empty handed.
Have you ever heard an infant’s high cry?
Is it hungry for love, is it...is it in pain,
Or is it just an intricate mind-game?
Like a sponge it ***** everything in, but
it’s a sponge, one squeeze is enough, and all’s
poured out, the love, the milk, and the relief,
And the cry is even louder this time
When will the cycle end...only god knows when?
All for the good of the queen, the hive a
Maelstrom of golden words a buzzing non-
sense, I want to be a moth like Crane was,
magnetized by the light of the flame, vice
Versa, either way a courtship divine.
‘One of these hunts!’, I tell you, ‘These **** hunts!’
Like a bombed plane whirling around without
a tail. A pirate spat out by the sea,
dazed and glazed, naked and tangled in sea weeds
Bootless, and his crippled toes chewed off by *****
Plummeting! What a relief! The last buzz!
Let gravity do what it does best, and
crash the brown little treeless leaf on the grass.
.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
once said, “Poets are ****** but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run
dry…
Can you hear him?
(LOUDER!!!)
Are you even listening?
What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?
A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
(who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
As I walked this earth to find you
I also found myself.
On my way to you, I understood that
this path is so long, though,
it could never unflame my heart
for my steps, toward you,
were never bootless;
beneath the act of loving you
I also learned to love myself.
Beyond the search of you, yet I never sought,
I also learned the now of my present
for in you, I am bondless
yet boundless at the time.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 5:43 AM UTC
'Twas eventide of a dead summer's day
Whilst prostrate by shores of loneliness
When a violent tide of love swept his way
And drew him into a sea of pure ecstacy.
Effulgent stars all decked in flocks bright
Sprinkled their timelessly ethereal glow
Upon a vast shadowy looming veil, night,
While floods of kisses showered his brow.
Dreaming of lands beneath the rainbow,
Lands where blossoms of love never vade
But ever as fresh as dew upon the bough,
Or sweet aroma of flow'rs by a glade.
Alas! Little the swain knew how to swim
Hence dreamt never turning back ashore.
But this, all this was but a bootless dream
For as thee and me all truly dost know,
Long ago, in that sea deep his soul fell
Doomed to sight shores of bliss nevermore,
For of swimming, love she knew well
Hence decamped out of sight evermore.
©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros, Kampala, Uganda. 17th.July.2018.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:25 AM UTC
The day they knocked the Towers down
He thought he heard his nation's call
He signed his name on the dotted line.
Off he went to train for war.
Just five days into his first tour
insurgents, in a fire fight,
put a bullet in his spine
in a war commenced by George's spite.
He never after walked again.
He felt a burden to his wife.
Time and time again
he lay beneath a surgeons knife.
Until at last he said "enough"
I've had enough of this half life.
No food or drink would he accept,
his only path to that good night.
Before the soldier's "final tour"
Before he joined our honored dead.
He wrote a letter to George Bush
and this is what the soldier said:
Ten years have passed now since the day
a bullet left me half a man.
A victim of an unjust war.
Your vendetta I can't understand.
I hope someday you can accept
some blame and guilt for all your crimes.
For spending young Americans
on bootless wars in foreign climes.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
It is bounded by the gyre, this sea without a shore.
It once was but a sea of weeds but now there is much more.
Here are plastic bags and cups discarded thoughtlessly.
Refuse from our teeming shores comes here eventually.
In another time and place these waters were deep blue
crystal clean and beautiful as when first Columbus viewed.
Dappled sunshine lit these waves in this sea without a shore
but now it is a garbage dump ( as if we needed more.)
The plastic and the Styrofoam are scarcely changed by time.
they'll still be drifting in the sea when breath is no longer mine.
The salt sting of my bootless tears I've add to the sea,
for all the creatures great and small who drown in Man's debris.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 11:00 AM UTC
I have, as of yet, avoided caducuty.
Emotionally, creatively, I feel younger,
not older. Is it true that the older we
get, the more wisdom we accrue?
It seems that way to me. My scope is
broader, my vision paradoxically
keener, my understanding deeper,
my tolerance for intolerance
virtually extinct. I have never been
able to brook unkindness, cruelty in any
of its manifold manifestations. The
notions of differences among members
of the human race--e.g. degrees of social
status, the poor and the wealthy, one
IQ better than another--all and others
are specious, bootless. We all are one.
Our shared worth is within, not without.
I have gotten wiser, not older. While my
life has gotten longer, my patience for not
knowing right from wrong is shorter.
The years of my living that remain will be
like dances of insight and joy, not lugubrious
ones. I shall live them in the sunshine of
caring and sharing.
Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 11:32 AM UTC
We strike up conversations,
A spark of dying flame.
Kindle built from imitations,
Glee is folly and a game.
Bootless is our falsity,
No one knows our name.
****** be outward chastity!
****** be this wretched game!
My only joy is being true,
My only sorrow lame.
Lame I am, and lame it is,
I'm crippled by a game.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 2:41 PM UTC
Breath, it comes, with a heaving drain,
For this night, it bores, through my brain.
Sight, it peers, bootless, vain,
The melange of silence keeping me sane.
So here I sit in the darkness, seeping,
I exist, not happy but at least not weeping.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 5:44 AM UTC
***I'm dying in vain,
I'm closing my eyes with pain.
all the thirsts and all the stuggles I gain
will still remain.
those fame I dreamed of,
those Game I played,
those struggles I take
I will leave them and forsake.
to thee I struggled so much,
thy roaring sounds still bothering me.
to thee I cried so hard,
my words at this pass were vain and bootless.***
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
Stay with me for a short time,
Just for a couple of words,
Just for a couple of smilings,
For a couple of easy nods.
Stay with me for a couple of strophes.
I’ll pour two glasses of wine.
The one that, remember, used to prepossess
You and me both for a while.
Stay with me for a short time
For a couple of sportive jests,
For a couple of bootless guitar accords,
For a couple of stupid shy footsteps.
For a couple of silver-tongued tender breathings,
For a couple of sweet and tremulous words.
Stay with me, please, for a short time,
At least for a couple of epochs.
Jan 23, 2025
Jan 23, 2025 at 4:11 PM UTC
a wolf cries under the moon's dying breath
he bleeds for his muse; art lost, enticed by regret
midst the bending of light, a rueful half-smile lingers
memories of their love-lost, felt like salt on splintered fingers
the flowers that grew in their hearts withered as fast as they bloomed
by ice-thawing promises that led to their doom
shooting stars were wasted on bootless wishes
by a heart that refused to take the mind as a guest
cheeks engraved with downward railways was tinted in black and blue
the soul's oasis was awfully shed for one hue;
a shade that had been washed out, like an acid-dipped thread
a love once vibrant; turned dull by uncertainty's dread
the wolf cried under the moon's dying breath
he lost his muse before the sun could take its nest
the tears were a residue of his nightmare's banquet
a horrifying dream under the torrid glow of his darkest secret
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 3:59 AM UTC
Thankful for what?
I've lost myself and gained an insight into my own stupidity, my own arrogance. I think that I think too much. I think that I know too much. I think I'm right much of the time. (I'm not.)
What am I? Who am I?
I feel like I know who I am.
But, I need to be something too.
And, that, friends, is the lizard-faced terror of our Capitalist society.
Some of us know who we are and that is definition enough.
Others of us need more than one definition.
Poet.
Writer.
Raconteur.
Able to stave off poverty,
socioeconomic savior?
Survivalist instructor to the less-fortunate?
What am I now?
Not very much at all.
This is not a good line of thinking.
My self-talk is not very good these days.
I want to make something happen.
Doors opening or closing,
is the hell of this particular hallway.
There are no open doors.
Every one of them is locked.
My kicking is bootless
as are my cries.
(Positively Shakespearean!)
I'm waiting for someone who carries a key.
This is not my style.
I want to wreck some rooms.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019
Nov 25, 2019
Nov 25, 2019 at 1:06 PM UTC
No more words. You’re right, it’s enough
Of mussy clusters of meaningless phrases.
All thoughts are chilled and are wrapped in pain.
It’s not an interesting story for us.
Colors have faded, cleaned out with time.
The beauty’s become decrepit in whole.
The past has been a depressing burthen.
An emptiness’s hanged over us in full.
There’re no more words.
Feelings are rootless.
We’re free of each other.
Our love is bootless.
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 5:53 PM UTC
Groundlessness is not to be tamed.
Certainty is not an achievement.
A tension deeply ill-famed.
Its presence a call for bereavement.
pondering my future is bootless.
No more thought shall spring actions.
Ten thousand words are fruitless.
The mind fragmented into factions.
The milk of uncertainty is thought.
Only stillness discloses the true.
Creativity cannot be taught.
From chaos it shall brew.
Groundlessness cannot be tamed.
Nor shalI I try to resist.
Let this tension be named.
And on my life shall persist.
Jul 24, 2025
Jul 24, 2025 at 8:03 PM UTC