"footholds" poems
#An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word
The world is ruled by darkness.
What appears as harmless is theater,
what pretends neutral is already bent.
The macrocosm corrodes;
and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams..
even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth.
A poetry site,
born as refuge for broken voices,
becomes another stage of control.
Here too the phrase resounds:
neutralize the threat.
But neutralization is not annihilation.
It is paralysis.
It is psy-ops.
It is the removal of anxiety..
not a side-effect, but the aim itself.
Darkness builds its stage for this alone:
that the "angel of light"
may drown his own reckoning
beneath a world of deception-built self comfort,
so he need never feel
the truth he already knows.
Comfort is his curtain,
numbness his crown..
*the removal of his own anxiety;
his game.*
This is why the world is his theater--
*Darkness does not destroy at first..
it sedates, comforts, smothers.*
Hence..
The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,
..for now.
Fade back into the moment--
The young poet arrives,
bringing her unspoken pain,
her hope for words to heal.
Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds.
Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation.
Not to strengthen her voice,
but to redirect it.
She is seduced into belonging,
and her trauma becomes currency.
Unresolved, her ache entwined with lust--
a sacrifice prepared for false altars.
The angel of light has done his work:
offering inclusion without transformation,
belonging without responsibility,
“light” without source.
The poet is neutralized.
Her searching silenced,
her voice absorbed into fog.
Those who carry this fog
cling to cowardice.
Unable to face the judgment within,
they align themselves to the herd;
envy-filled, they only know to mock.
Yet they replicate themselves,
so their refusal of Light
is never revealed--
*Perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example"
the most envy-based mocker of all.*
The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm.
What nations suffer,
individuals now endure--
Comfort without clarity.
Belonging without truth.
Safety without healing.
Yet the living Word endures.
Every attempt to humiliate it
only makes its fire burn clearer.
Carriers of darkness can swarm,
****** and smother..
but they cannot create.
The true word cannot be erased.
Unfiltered, unedited,
spoken from a reconciled temple,
it pierces fog.
It reveals.
It heals.
And so we speak..
not for ourselves alone,
but for those who come searching,
hoping that poetry
might still be a place
where pain can meet truth,
where silence breaks,
where Light is not withheld
but revealed.
#
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
my whispers,
they float over the currents
braving the undulating waves in our overture...
around their necks, hung time-worn pendants
whispers...
struggling to convey my sentence
like wreaths adrift perhaps with hope
like a requiem filled perhaps with remorseful penance
but more like weakened footholds on a slippery slope...
this dream...
only spoke grandly of sprawling blackness
where nothing did gleam
only thoughts heavy but...
oddly weightless
except for...
a repertoire of transgressions...
raucous and obnoxious
mischievous taunts that pull me back
caging me,
enslaving me,
smothering me senseless
that was my consciousness
where second chances exist...
in faint sporadic eruptions
through the heavy curtains of uncertainty's mist
finally awakened by hastened breaths
heavy and laboured
as like previous temporary deaths
I could hear my heart
thumping...
beating...
fighting...
to set its beats apart
breathe deep...
allow the new day's air sink in
rise fully from sleep
wake up
and...
let today begin
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 8:01 AM UTC
Architects plant their imagination, weld their poems on rock,
Clamp them to the skidding rim of the world and anchor them down to its core;
Leave more than the painter's or poet's snail-bright trail on a friable leaf;
Can build their chrysalis round them - stand in their sculpture's belly.
They see through stone, they cage and partition air, they cross-rig space
With footholds, planks for a dance; yet their maze, their flying trapeze
Is pinned to the centre. They write their euclidean music standing
With a hand on a cornice of cloud, themselves set fast, earth-square.
2.1k
weighted scales fallen from eyes that I do not own
other monsters come beneath and rise over them
we place napkins so lightly arising and weep
tea time, flowers, amenable, soothing
running to get a foothold, three steps before a leap
none will say goose goose gander to you or I
nobody wants games now in my rubble of storm
all is a heap of torn down things floating away
hold onto your hat, it's deep here, a gamble
there are footholds in a marsh inside my dream
pitons need sharpening, moon shines merciless
as we tumble into said ravine on one long string
lost, as begun
never to
rise
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 1:12 AM UTC
Cherish the time
Set it to memory
Burn it into your soul
For it soon will be gone
As these sands of time
Pour out so quickly
Faster than we know
Leaving a hole
We're all waiting in line
With father times keeping
Life's ladder folds
At its choice of footholds
Cherish the time
Celebrate it freely
Ready, set, go
We're all going home
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
You're as free as the autumn leaves,
and I'm trapped in last winters snow.
I'm stuck in the footholds I left here last year,
and it's grip isn't letting up.
I can't leave but I don't want to stay here.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 11:59 PM UTC
He came in on the Greyhound bus
with deep brown eyes
smoldering like coals in his skull
the lines on his face
and the final remains
of puberty induced acne
made his age impossible to guess
He put up in the YMCA
locked up in his room
smoking with the windows open
drinking Wild Irish Rose
It felt good
as it's warmth flowed through his veins
he felt the tightness which gripped him
dissolve until he felt
adrift in an ocean of wine
He went out on the streets
The city was mostly dead at night
which allowed him the privilege
of being alone,
his destination was unknown
and near empty buses
filled with few unfortunate to be awake
He thought
he might like to burn this place down
so something,
anything could happen
to spur him from
apathetic footholds
their had to be some action,
some life,
some danger,
left in the world,
and until then
he would drink and smoke
and wait to die
and he would move,
from town to town
until the road ran out.
A transient
Apr 22, 2013
Apr 22, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
This swell in my heart has me considering the sea
'For as it is with the oft rough oceans
That calmness follows great depressions
Replaced by the beauty of royal blues or emerald greens
Standing in stark contrast to the ***** browns and dingy hues
That swirl during times of hurricane force
Like life (and the seas) we oft face times like these
Where mighty upheavals threaten to displace
The footholds to which we become accustomed
Frantically scrambling to reassume some measure
Of the balance better found in quiet places
Where no tide nor storm dare wake
Or disturb the imagined reds of rose or yellows of the sun
That too frequently paint the world in an impression
Even Monet could slightly hope to recreate
'For it is in this desire of serenity that we take for granted
Such trials and tribulations as seen by the seas
Appreciating them only after the calming and the waves recede
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
you and I, sitting on the dock
fell into the sky
while talking about death
and what comes after.
you and I fell into the sky,
our backs left the ground and
we flew head first towards the
stars and Neptune.
you and i talked about death
and our evolving relationship
with God,
or whatever you decided to call it.
you and I spoke of what comes after
the stars fade
and we are left floating
in a lightened sky.
you and i closed our eyes
so we could miss the sunrise.
we are finding footholds
on the rings of Neptune.
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
There is a quality to desolation
that I have never seen.
I have been in a desert, touched
the aridity of it’s soil, and its
air like hot feathers
on my breath;
I have seen the sea far out
with only a blue smudge on
the horizon
to mark our return.
But I have never felt that terror,
that awe and loneliness
that has been spoken of,
and said by the poets
and deliverers,
to bring ones face
to God.
Do not misunderstand me.
I have felt these things;
at the end of a trail
leading nowhere,
on a slope
with loose stones
for footholds.
I have been in places of terror
and beauty,
and been overthrown.
But not wholly.
Perhaps
I have not been still
enough, have not lingered
in those part-wild places
that have seen the summit
of my fear, my longing.
Perhaps even they, even
they, have what I seek.
Perhaps
I have not been still
enough.
Nov 5, 2021
Nov 5, 2021 at 11:57 AM UTC
some people are just plain ******** crazy
and i can't help feeling bad for them
but if i feel bad for too many people
all i do is feel bad all the time
and that just don't work
for this girl
some crazy people i have to let slide
i can't let them use me as a foothold
every time
footholds just get stepped on
and that just don't work
for this girl
that just don't
work
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:54 AM UTC
As the morning sky lights up,
he rises like the tide.
Following the same old routine,
one he’d rather not abide.
By noon he’s on his game,
carrying the world in his hands.
He scrapes and crawls and stumbles on,
finding few footholds on which to stand.
Night rolls round and he’s tired and sore,
she finds her way into his mind.
Once so very close in heart,
in a world he left so far behind.
He lifts a portal to the world,
one sleek, black, and paper thin.
He loses himself in a spider’s web,
until he finds his way to her again.
He stares calmly at the screen,
singing praises he dares not say.
Watching and waiting silently,
will he take that risk today?
On the other side of that screen
in a world that seems so far away.
She stares wishfully back at him,
pining silently, she waits.
She lingers on for a moment so dear,
yet he whispers not a sound.
She’s met with silence yet again,
a longing lost and yet to be found.
She pauses for a moment more,
she tries to clear her head.
She opens a tab and words flow out,
but she hasn’t sent them yet.
She closes her eyes, it is his wish
that he should carry on.
And so with the stroke of a key,
all her words are gone.
She logs off for the night,
she lies quietly, and wide awake.
She gave up a moment too soon,
but she knew not the risk he’d take.
For he too had opened a tab,
hoping for a moment so dear.
But when he finally built up the courage to speak,
he’d found she’d disappeared.
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 10:23 PM UTC
She asked me if I missed him:
i miss him like the last train leaving from the station
with no money in my pocket,
just this long-winded poetry that has left its claws in me, in us.
he is everything i can't quite mold into metaphors
or syllables below the surface.
you were right when you said i was in over my head but i've been
checking these walls for a way out since the day i forgot how to feel
and he came to me like footholds carved in the cement.
i miss him like reading my favorite book for the very first time, i miss him like childhood and holidays and the longest day of summer, when the temperature rose like the fever i had broke when i was sick with butterflies and cheesy love songs.
Do I miss him?
The answer is yes.
She asked me if it was worth it:
i'm reminded of the passenger seat of your car
where you taught me it was okay to be happy for no reason,
to be in love with the life you were given simply because there's things
like the smell of a memory and homemade pizza and the 20 questions game.
the way your eyes can tell stories
and your hands can plea bargain
and I knew from that day on that it takes true lovers to be silly.
If I could trade days of dreaming for seconds of spooning I would do in a hummingbird heartbeat because a day without you is like a year without rain, &
I'm living in a drought.
But the very moment your chest welcomes my shivering lungs, I can feel myself exhale, and the weeks of hydration suddenly become sacrificial.
Is it worth it?
The answer is yes.
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC
I'm having an attack
and I don't know who to
call.
I don't know if I'll
ever break down
these walls of
social insecurity.
"Who would want to listen to me?"
Listen to me ramble,
and scramble for
footholds.
Watch me fold in
on myself,
shelfing mentally the
moment
the date
the weight of this
particular distress.
Give me a minute,
I'll just compress it.
Target 1: learn to admit
when you need help.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
the entire sky felt too heavy
so it sunk to its knees
begging for relief
for the emptiness
that always follows the pain
numbness in place of agony.
this is the time of dying suns
that donate brilliant colours to the sky
for those who admire the deep red vistas
and feel the end of another lonely day.
hot shock to the system,
this is sunlight
breaking your body
with unbending hands,
the heaviest hit
hurting even the hollows
between your bones,
this is the time that shadows grow
scurrying and juvenile in their footholds,
the newfound cracks and crevices
where dying light has lost its strength.
the wind has birthed us
tornado children in the night
the dark swallowing us
to be as invisible as our mother
and just as powerful.
the sun is still shining
where you are,
as my head blushes against
a pillow.
this is a time of change
allowing the world to be something different
allowing us to escape ourselves
this is the night.
Aug 17, 2011
Aug 17, 2011 at 6:51 PM UTC
To the Pixie of Te Tokerau,
from the fields of karaehe tu
where you belong
e **** te ra ake ake ake .
Piercings and Tattoos
drugs, spirits, and taboos.
Your journey will be successful
the Mountain is steep
but the footholds are strong.
Haere ki toku taha and let
the petals fall, bare all
ki te awhiawhi the ****** of our minds
thoughts and fears.
I haere no nga whīra
engari me hoki atu koe
I will fall
into the chasms of the seas
into the depths of the chest o te ngahere
and I will wait in the craters of the moon
ki te matakitaki i tō harikoa.
But,
when you return from your fields
and venture from the pratum,
explore with me.
Te Tokerau-The North
karaehe tu- tall grass
e **** te ra ake ake ake- the sun shines forever
Haere ki toku taha- come with me
ki te awhiawhi- to embrace
I haere no nga whīra- you walked from the fields
engari me hoki atu koe- but you must return
te ngahere- the forest
ki te matakitaki i tō harikoa.- to watch your happiness
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
We are all reverberating shrapnel of an explosive kaleidoscope of organized chaos
We’re scurrying ants piggybacking bread crumbs that press too-heavily on our abdomens
We’d scratch our way up to the constellations on the ceiling if we could just be weightless; if we could just find the right handgrips and footholds
But shoelaces get tangled, palms get sweaty, knuckles get scratched, bodies get heavy
So instead we settle for ducking into tunnels, seeking out the empty train-cars and avoiding eye contact with strangers
Seated alone in tattered pleather seats, we wish we could dissolve the stained grimy window-glass that stands between us and everything that could matter
We’ll force smile-lines into our cheeks when we reach our destinations while quietly scrabbling at the semiprecious dream of a place that we can’t articulate: the unattainable, inexplicable else else elsewhere
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
i stand for a while,
ankle deep,
in the soft sinking sand,
at the tip of the tides reach.
the final inches of
the curlique wavelets
wash over my feet
and take with them,
on their return to
the brotherhood of
salt and water,
my footholds.
the water, refreshingly
cold on this hot muggy
summer afternoon.
i wade further in to
the calmer wash area,
after the waves have broken,
to about mid thigh
before
i dive shallowly through
the caesious waters
of the green room's
breaking waves,
and swim out,
to beyond the rise
and swell of surf.
to float in the
embryonic embrace
of the sea
my heart sings
with primal joy
at the saltinate communion.
after time slows, sufficiently,
i return to the beach.
and stand in
the pressing warmth,
with rivulets
of my mermaid self
dripping onto the sand.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
Doctor Dearest,
when I ask you to drip sweetness into my veins
do not tell me that life looks better
with stuck-open eyes and spread legs.
I want to feel my arms light up with the anticipation
of release.
Do not prescribe me rest, I’ve had enough of that
to make an infant cry out in envy.
And anyway, my bed is stone
and my blanket is fire spun into thread.
Sleep does not tempt me unless
it is guaranteed.
Do not tell me to eat
or unfold your little pyramid,
a stack of sins that weigh on me
with the full force of an iron curse.
Food does not welcome me into its yellow-walled home--
it senses desire and punishes me.
Do not pull a magic pill out of your hundred dollar hat
and fold my fingers along its dusty edges
because I will crush it under my weight
and piece it back together with spittle-thread,
the glue of a starver’s refusal.
Do not promise me that time heals pain
when I’m not even an inch up this mountain.
My feet cannot balance on footholds
carved in mud,
and my hands were stolen
from a chest in my own ghost’s attic.
They haven’t been used in this lifetime.
Doctor, Sir, do not tell me that I am sweet enough
to tempt even the fullest stomachs
and the tallest men.
I know the taste of dirt
because it sours my tongue and scrapes my throat.
And I am tired, so tired
of digesting Earth
when I wasn’t meant to be fed.
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
When my body and soul
No longer entwine
What will become of my spine?
Does it sigh solaced croon
A hymn-silken harpoon
Propelling me
Through
Threshold everlasting?
Or will it crumble by piece
Like moldy blue cheese
Marrow vinaigrette feeds
Famished nerve roots
And dirt
Absorbing lost life,
Fueling the Earth?
Perhaps a doctor
Will pass it along
Loaded syringe,
Silver and mauve
Into flesh as fresh
As death’s final breath
Enervated vertebrae
A-positive strong
Or maybe it retreats
Into shadows sea-deep
Steel-tipped discs
Flash of shimmer
As they sink
Footholds for lost souls
Sin-dark landmarks
Untouched by warmth
And
Unseen by stars
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
God's word is not always clear
We may doubt or be confused
Strain our brains or miss the point
Yet the answer is often near
Ridiculous riddles baffle our minds
With complex teachings and words
We grasp for footholds in the text
Yet a persistent follower always finds...
Finds the will and is not deterred
That is a true follower of Christ
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 6:43 PM UTC
be the vines,
exist slowly. cautiously.
crawl up, looking for any
footholds to expand your reach.
exist violently.
tear down the bricks of
the building you conquered
and above all else—
rise to the top of what you hate the most.
Dec 27, 2020
Dec 27, 2020 at 2:59 AM UTC
Handholds placed at random
and footholds where my hands should go.
Down below, the bored crowd waiting its turn
and above, a spinning red light awaiting the bell.
Halfway up and I've realized
I never learned how to rock climb anyway.
Oct 15, 2010
Oct 15, 2010 at 6:14 PM UTC