"foolhardy" poems
What am I?
Just a boat on the sea.
Sailing softly with the winds gentle breeze,
I have seen rough and calm.
Soft and chaotic,
With no rest in between.
What lighthouse guides me to its safe shores?
Am I destined to ride the waves with no light?
No, maybe not, but I cannot tell the future.
You who travels paths less taken,
Those who seek refuge from the rain.
Take haste and seek quickly,
For the storm comes without warning again.
And if you cannot see, will you hear?
I am not wise but foolish,
Destitute and foolhardy.
But I will seek the lighthouse,
In order to get in before the storm.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 7:48 PM UTC
Life is full of mischief and artful trickery
The way through never made easy for the foolhardy
Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract
Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract
Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning
That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing
When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections
Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations
Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes
"Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some
Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand
Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned
Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat
Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat
The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic
You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music
Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand
Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
She said:
I am neither witty nor a beauty,
nor illustrious nor an actress
so if u take me u must be either
a ****** or reckless.
He said:
Well, you see i have met countless sleeping beauties
all of which utterly enchanting and bighearted
but not one such a dauntless daredevil
that she leaves a spartan fainthearted.
Never described as prejudiced or foolhardy
she would faster swim the English channel naked
,and she will do so sublimely,
than see a crime or sin go unstated.
If all you have to offer,
is what you are now
then let me tell you that is no bother,
and only say Wow.
Cause you are totally original
nothing short of awe-inspiring,
absolutely phenomenal
and so worthy of this ring.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 7:03 AM UTC
A view of you only these eyes can see,
As lungs do fill and fall, to give and bring,
New life to me, as dreams may hear me sing.
But just for now, enamoured hope runs free.
Two destined paths amalgamate as we,
Plunge into bold, foolhardy happenings.
Le grande cascade. Vintgar. A constant spring,
That never stops sprouting abundantly.
But hurried mornings twist and bend my heart,
To expedite the time I must derail
My consciousness and fall back to the start,
To dreams of distance lost so I can't fail.
To find my thrill, admiring breath, like art;
The rise and fall of life and it's details.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
Endearing is the quest
to sing of the morning sun,
when you know only the words to the song
of night.
Absurd is the notion
that you could saunter across the lake...
Just to touch the moon when it is only a mere reflection.
Foolhardy is the assumption,
that your words could matter enough
to outweigh the consensus of most.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 10:13 AM UTC
What am I to do
Oh my fair skinned sister?
You are family to me
Yet I fear I may be forced
To bring the news
That I'll not be returning
I fear that if I do return
It will be on my shield
Not with it
As the Spartans used to say
Here I stand as Leonidas
Foolhardy and bold
I watch as I crumble
As my phalanx fold
So what am I to say
Oh my fair skinned sister?
How long will you mourn my absence?
Before you forget
And carry on?
What am I to think
Oh my dark haired sister?
What am I to feel?
You have been my guide
What am I to be
Oh my bright eyed comrade
My cheerful compatriot
My dearest friend?
Sing to me
Oh my fair skinned sister
Some sacred sonnet to save me
Play for me
Oh my fair skinned sister
Some long and lingering lyric
Some sweet melodic line
Some hypnotic harmony
To save me from my mind
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Bravery isn't about foolhardy acts of honor
it's admitting you're afraid
and still having the moral compass
to do what's right.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 7:03 PM UTC
we tracked
her gyrations
on the weather
channel for days
eyeing the graceful
pirouette of her
cyclonic spin
incessant
bulletins of
the exploding
super storm
on a collision
course with
home, piqued
fear, kindled
fascination
drove fatigue
the day before
Sandy arrived
I followed the
flight of clever
birds lofting
away to the
safety of
inland hills
the foolhardy
mistook hubris
for intrepidness
lifting beach front
margaritas to
the roiling sea
unaware their
jolly libation begets
tomorrows sober
realization that folly’s
miscalculations have
calamitous consequences
The Doors
Riders on the Storm
Oakland
10/29/13
jbm
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
All is still.
No more “Chase” or “Eggheads” from Tuesday.
Everything is shutting down.
The Winter Break is soon upon us.
Our “Festive Season” it is called.
Even Winter is having a rest this year.
Sixty Fahrenheit outside now.
I feel like hibernating ‘til the Spring.
Yet some brave blossoms think the Winter over
Already!
Foolhardy flowers indeed.
Our services are stumbling to a stop
Like a long Bank Holiday.
Sports facilities are shutting their doors.
Cafes shutting soon.
If only this stillness could pervade
Those warring factions
Throughout the world,
All through the year.
Peace to All Men
We say.
Amen to That.
Paul Butters
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:40 AM UTC
<|>
“***IF we are each created in His image,
how glorious is the diversity of our deities***,
*each of us a tiny drop of paint on a tableau
of a small planet, insignificant but
uniquely beautiful intelligent species of godlike creatures,*
“deities~human”*
<|>
wise enough to know mine philosophical shortcomings,
for they are many,
insufficient wisdom, more than sufficient laziness,
but sometimes even the o b v i o u s
strikes a rhyming chord,
even so, delving into God’s image
is for the foolhardy,
ergo ipso facto,
I am that,
that fool
but the boundaries of common sense poetry,
offer healthy delimitations,
and as rhe day wanes, eyes go blurry,
I am content to laurels~rest:
I do not count the times,
I’ve called out my beseeching deities,
I do not count the numbers of names,
we have designated and available for them,
or how many I’ve employed, and which replied
or the varied shapes they assumed,
to get my attention,
but this is a poem,
cannot leave you hanging,
if you paid your dues for joining me this far:
the due is due you:
them
(their ONLY pronoun),
keep their answers
short and oft inexplicable,
yet strangely satisfying,
for being a deity
they employ common sense,
and the answers frequently found
on a list of Frequently Answered Questions (FAQ‘s)
the most common response,
“but you already knew that!”
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 8:26 AM UTC
I have only seen myself as a beautiful artwork once in my life,
It had been the advent lovely Spring of sweet sixteen,
There is a photo of someone else’s mind in which I am the subject, rife
With calculated gorgeousness, the white blouse and powder blue skirt
And I had been wearing black ballet flats; a day upon my feet had left me hurt
But the enchanted, oil forest before me had healed my eyes and entranced me
That pose, holding onto myself with ribbons in my hair, someone could see
A beauty that which I have never known since.
Into the heart of the Prince
Into the hearts of all the folk for she was a fairy tale heroine,
Cinderella, lovely lady of ashes, had glass slippers
And upon such toity-toity footwear, she had slipped
Yet, it had been such fragility that would unite her with her love
Will I be united with such grace, such love for myself, if I hold onto my ballet flats?
After all, I have not once seen this grace, such love for my own self since sweet sixteen
Since the foolhardy winds of chilly, oceanside Spring;
Where upon the Museum modern, I saw myself as timeless artwork
Admired and appreciated by all; much like the lovely lady of ashes whose slippers
Have walked her beloved soul into the hearts of all; into the best of time
Yet, these beloved shoes of mine
Have seen so much better of time
For I can see through the soles wherein holes
Have shown where I have worn my own souls
In bitter wanderings and light-hearted adventure; so many type of walk
For a single lass, I could not talk
Of all the places and thoughts these shoes have led me astray within
Of the beauty that had once sunken in
How am I to part?
How am I to part with such faithful companions through all my wanderings of
Yonder years soon to come asunder as I am no longer sweet sixteen,
As I am no longer before entrenched trees of oil, elevated in buildings upon
A chilly, Springtime by the sea I’ve only known in passing afternoon
In black ballet flats; not unlike the glass gussied slippers of lovely cinders
Am I not unlike Cinderella?
For whom would she be if she had not received the night of her life
As carried upon the fragile spurned glass of her magic slippers
For whom had reunited her with her love, the foot fetishist Prince;
Lovely lady of ashes would be just that: lady of ashes,
Worked to beyond the bone; dressed in rags, head in clouds,
Dreaming of opportunity squandered in her slippers of magic glass
She would be like me.
She would be like me, contemplating her toes in birdsong prose
She would be like me, wondering when she would feel as refined as a classic artwork
A beautiful timeless painting with grace and poise without rival supposed
If I part with these worn soles which have born my souls cross
My journeys long, will I ever be at loss
Over mine own image rendered beautiful: my own body rendered beautiful to my eyes?
How can such skin-deep bliss exist without my black ballet flats?
How will mine own eyes recognise my beauty
If it were not for dainty small feet slotted into impractical, magical glass slippers
In want of my dear and precious black ballet flats.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
Lonely part of me,
Sex-starved and kamikaze,
Will need only you.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
One tick
Time goes by
A cup of coffee
100 and 10 strength
Working foolhardy
Chasing the sun
Leaving the moon
Two ticks
Getting tired
Stuck in deadlines
More cups of coffee
Reaching goals
No friends
No love
Three ticks
Unconsciously
Wrinkles around the body
Thousand cups of coffee
Feeling numb
Acting like a sword
Time stabs through the brain
Freezing the heart and senses
Turning human into working robots
No song to sing in the end
No memory to remember
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 10:10 PM UTC
What price adventure
When the risk outweighs the venture,
No dishonor not to start,
Merely you just being smart.
If compunction is the cause,
That adrenaline rush which draws,
Take a breath and think it through,
Is the only one affected - you?
Does bravery need be so foolhardy,
With reason as an afterthought and tardy,
When blind desire clearly trumps all thought,
For ego trips that can be simply bought.
Extreme tourism knows no other name,
Never quite the path to everlasting fame,
At best it gives a sudden winded rush,
At worst with Death itself you'll surely brush.
So many have regardless met such fate,
Gone far too soon before their fated date,
For every mountain peak or ocean deep,
Lie countless graves where mothers sadly weep.
Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 9:38 AM UTC
*hazard of counting time and words
~
stoops to foolhardy pacing
wit-clogs hardly ever silent*
1.
how seconds fall flat on its innocent face;
loss of hands - clock no help at all
as feelings croak in embrace of premature words;
rig a string tight, not long after your first day
2.
you didn’t know that where you were sent
all in good faith
put you plain on a danger-path ….. what sick traps awaited
(and yet, exculpa non-fini)
for, how could you fathom
that trusted hands and friendly eyes
coaxed your trust,
engaged in
what they never should...
*the only sane thing to do
is to live by
the second….the minute….the hour …..
no more
failing which, is
scraping by
on the leniency
of
second chances*
S T, 22 aug - thur
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 7:09 AM UTC
You know what's harder than falling for the bad guy?
Falling for the others
The seemingly nice ones
The good guys
The signs are all there afterall,
Everyone can't stop raving about how wonderful he is
The ideal nice guy
And for a moment
Just one moment of blindsidedness
You believe it
You let it consume you
Revelling in the positives
Lacing together each moment spent together
Into a beautiful story
The perfect beginning, middle and end
Designed intricately by yours truly
A potential work of art
Destined for greatness perhaps
Isn't it?
The pride of your masterpiece
destroys you
Engulfing your sense of reality
Blinding you from the truth
The falsehood of it
A piece that depicts nothing
Nothing but an illusion
Another dimensional reality
One you don't live in
And probably never will
And sometimes
In those rare moments of silence
It comes back
The crushing harsh reality
Your foolhardy choices laid bare
And you admit
Quietly to yourself
For who else can your true self be revealed to?
Maybe
Just maybe you were wrong
Those masterful strokes of perfection
The gleaming knighthood of it all
Just a lie?
A veil drawn over your sense of truth
So strong it blinded you
Completely
Drowning you in its falsehoods
The shores of reality no more than a distant memory
You know what's worse than falling for the bad guy?
Falling for the right one.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
During the long winter the town cemetery is chained off,
Two thick cables across each entrance to insure
That foolhardy drivers don’t attempt the hill that divides
The new from the old sections.
The upper half, the “New Cemetery” as it’s called,
Offers more level ground with polished graves,
As if “new” somehow made a difference to those resting there.
Anyone who knows the difference prefers the old, lower section,
With stones leaning this way and that
And inscriptions that are barely visible on some.
Old stones offer personality, truth be told--
Even the names seem more real: Caleb, Ezekiel, Matilda.
I think of them there through those cold gray months,
Blanketed in snow disturbed only by the occasional deer walking through.
I know it shouldn’t matter but I feel sad for them all
Forced to suffer through that blank desolation,
Denied the warmth of sun or the curious gaze of some passerby.
As if death weren’t bad enough, the white loneliness of snow
Drifting over their one last piece of property
Seems a cruel and unnecessary gesture on the part of the world they left.
As if to say, “You’re still mine to treat as I will, alive or dead.”
That’s why, when the weather turns and the cables come off
I make it a point to pass through each day on my way to work.
The snow, gone now, lets the earth breathe again,
And I can’t help but think that, with the trees about to sprout
And green grass just around the corner,
That life has its place here too, even among the dead,
And that I’m not the only one waiting for longer days and a warmer wind.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 9:36 AM UTC
**** the Heart!....such a bold concoction of two conflicting words.
**** the Heart!..... the sentence, one of them an ***** one of them a verb.
**** the Heart!.....i am finally pushed to dash away hopes of cupids arrow ever piercing my foolhardy lust.
**** the Heart!.....love to me now is but a fairy tale in a funeral book...ashes to ashes dust to dust....
**** the Heart!......hold composure all you want its what beating in your chest that truly hurts.
**** the Heart!.....such a well protected thing behind sinewy muscle and rock hard bone, but nothing protects it from the emotional carrion crows....picking pick picking at you like the reaper for your soul....
**** the Heart!......i say it now and i swear i hold true......i now rue the day i ever started loving YOU!
**** the Heart!....if i could live without it would be an alleviating grace, to survive without it means certain death but i would forfeit my life right now to smother my emotional pain....
**** the Heart!.......Clack clack tick tock......the penultimate sound of the gun before it ends the life of this emotional clock....
**** the Heart!......definition meaning: enough of these pathetic emotional charades, not necessarily anything to do with a ****** or a ****
**** the Heart!....i tire i am spent, time to lay down my ten weary modern day pens.
**** the Heart!.....now is the time for me to apply my nice guy will power and wrench out this scornful body part.
**** the Heart!.....i should just be how i was a simple pressure *** of emotions, no more of this I Love you Stuff!
**** the Heart!....love is blind, nice guys finish last, i know my dark side; i should give him a chance.
**** the Heart!.....Rage and anger, i realised i slowly embrace....
**** the Heart!......i am wearing thin soon those two might just win my better judgement race....
**** the Heart!...people say im crazy, and i truly do believe them, for anger and rage is but a short lived madness, or so some say...this mother ****** might just get a lil crazy one of these good days.
**** The Heart!....now i feel better in this emotionally disturbing tirade, said it very line and i’m not ashamed....FUCK THE HEART!!!!.....worthless, emotionally tormenting body part......
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 10:07 PM UTC
I painted my nails today
For the first ever time
And not gonna lie
I did a pretty **** job of it
But such feminine activities
Were just the things I ran from
As a child
In muddy sneakers and men’s tees
Just like my emotions
Or any real feelings I had
Jealousy, Admiration, Love
For I; all brazen and foolhardy was
Too tough for silver nails
Or pigtails and tears
Even true love
Jul 27, 2012
Jul 27, 2012 at 5:43 PM UTC
go for the chills my boy
whatever the hell it takes -
go for the full body chills,
the ones that start in your ****
trickle down the backs of your knees
drift up into the top of your cabeza
make ya think there's chakras and all that,
kind of chills that make ya think
somebodys standing behind ya
in the best possible light,
hand on your shoulder
watching you make the right decision
over and over and over again.
go for those chills, my love.
go for the risk. where's the risk?
who's got the risk? gimme! gimme!
pshh... selling risk up and down the stairs
like foolhardy can-boys sell miller lite
at the ball games that we coulda gone to,
where i never woulda seen your picture.
selling risk like it's real risk -
saying, hey! hee.. haa.. lookee over here -
we got risk for ya: start a family!
aint nothing more risky than that!
and then boom! your lying on
your back, in bed with an accountant,
and he's a'counting out your finances
planning your pleasures down to the dime,
[won't letcha buy that dress that slips right off.
ya know, one with the black lace all over?
never did a great job hiding nothing from me,
ya little piece uh risky business, you].
*no, err, sorry then...
can't afford that risk...
not in the spreadsheet...
can'tttttttttt compute ....
err... no second opinions...
err... find FAQ's for further information.*
i got a wooden spoon, derr.....
that's me ^^^.
spot the difference.
one makes ya smile,
the other takes it away.
one makes ya laugh,
the other takes it away.
one makes you come,
the other takes it away.
one gives you chills,
the other takes 'em away.
how's about we dine on perrier
and Michelin stars, tonight?
i promise i'll wear the napkin
round my esophagus, but only
if you reach 'cross the table
and tie it tight around me.
mmmn... tie it a bit too tight
at first, then slip a finger in between.
can you feel my pulse?
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 9:44 AM UTC
Routine -- a dastardly habit fed
to control you, and your mind
give your body a boring rhyme
to dance to and not feel tempted
into the lands of chance and reason
letting you decide when to wake
when or how you take your break
because to trust your dedication is treason
and foolhardy, why they must train
you when to go to bed and when to wake
and of course how you should operate.
Oh all the things to teach your brain
but like bleeding out a poison, time
is always on your side, for nature
she likes things the way they were
your natural rhythm, denying it a crime!
That is her insight, as you sit awake alone
the clock ticking faster than before
the coming day a dreaded chore
your days spent sick now like a precious stone.
How is one supposed to go to sleep at night
when they know what comes with day
the hum drum, daily toil and you left to fray?
This is the story of man's modern plight.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 5:03 AM UTC
My friend,
My old friend.
Think of me as a romantic,
Though please do not consider this
A weakness or a foolhardy and
Archaic enterprise.
It is but the pursuit of each flavour
Of emotion.
To taste
Both the sticky sweetness
Of infatuation,
And the hollowed defeat
Of an impossible love.
How the pains of a misguided plea
Can cleanse you
From all of the lies and
Cynicisms you have adorned yourself with.
The life of a romantic is nothing
But freedom.
It is the freedom to be, and to relish
In each dynamism of the heart
And to feel no shame in it’s decimation
Of your activities. A romantic
Is free to sulk
And to indulge oneself
In the theatre of their heart,
To forsake all that
Does not transcend them,
And all that does not lead them
On their pilgrimage
For that consummate love.
And, my friend,
My old friend,
It is the belief in love that creates me.
It animates my limbs
Into action each morning
And motivates my heart
To keep up its business
As shadows lengthen across the ground,
In the simplistic hope that one day,
Love will appear in a wicker basket
At my doorstep.
For now, I shall remain
Studious. Though that word should
Have no real place
In a romantic’s life.
I shall read of the love that escapes
Every author,
That causes them to spill words onto a page,
Hoping that they too
Surpass all of reality
And hold true the feeling of the numinous
That causes men to weep
At their guitars
And women into their pillow.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC