"footie" poems
If you seek to Kindle passion,
but your mate is always cold,
You should buy a Hoodie Footie
from Pajama- gram I'm told..
The Hoodie keeps her ears warm
While the feeties warm her toes.
Toss in some wine and music
as her mood for passion grows.
Then you pull down on the zipper
that covers groin to chin
the girl is now on fire
and the romance can begin.
Except there was a problem
that derailed my new found luck.
My seduction didn't figure
on the zipper getting stuck.
Now she's ***** and unsatisfied
and feeling like she's fried
and I'm here sleeping on the couch
( at least I'm not outside)
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
After a long boring
science lesson
I had my sandwiches
in the lunch room
then went out
on the playing field
to find Yiska
hey Benny
Goldfinch said
how about a game of footie?
no I can't
I'm meeting someone
o not the girl again
leave girls to the soft heads
come play football
he said
but I walked on
and looked for her
and then saw her
with some other girl
plump girl with dark hair
and a green bow in it
I stood and waited
for her to go
Yiska saw me
and the other girl went off
giving me the cool stare
sorry just chatting to Mary
she's having problems
what problems?
I asked
girly problems
Yiska said
o right
I said
well where shall we go?
let's go to London
and see the sights
she said smiling
I mean now
here on the playing field
I said
up near the fence and woods
she said
so we walked up
by the fence
passed groups of girls
sitting and chatting and laughing
and the sound of boys
playing football way back
how was your morning?
she asked as we sat
on the grass by the fence
boring as hell
something about gases
and air or something
I said
and you?
netball then maths
then geography
where I nearly fell asleep
she said
did you miss me this morning
when I wasn't by your bus waiting?
yes I thought you
might be off ill
I said eyeing her eyes
no I was in the gym
getting ready for netball practice
yes I saw the short skirt
she smiled
you would
yes guess I would
wish we were at my place
she said
having lunch and such
but my moaning mother's home
and my big brother
comes home some lunch times
and I try and avoid him
why's that?
she looked at me intently
he tries it on
tries what on?
can't say but I prefer
not to be there alone
with him and he'd
tell Mum if he
saw us alone together there
she touched my leg with a hand
say nothing to anyone
why would I?
just in case promise?
of course my lips are sealed
I said
she leaned forward
and kissed my lips
then moved away
then we talked about other things
her mother's moans
and migraines
and depression
and I talked of my interest
in cars and birds
(feathered kind)
the school bell rang
and we got up to go
back to class and lessons
I wanted to kiss her
one more time
but with others there
I didn't dare.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
The cover of the night.
My haven
Like the werewolves,
Like the vampires
Beams of sunlight
wrap me in chains
of daytime normalcy,
of the mundane
*Sleepwalking
actually happens in waking hours
And darkness
clouds the day*
The moon rises
to take the place of my other captor
and to release
the Lunatic in me
Free to roam,
with the North Star
guiding my footie-pajama-ed feet
down starlit paths of wonder
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 5:11 AM UTC
dear you
before you take my mother out after work
keep her for three and a half more hours
than she would usually be
please remind her
that she isn’t like you
and has a family at home
waiting for her
with hungry bellies
and open arms
please remind her
that she has a son
that has literally not seen her
for three days
he needs her
and he wants to know
why she can’t even look at him
he needs to know
where his mother went
the one that used to
let him wear his favorite purple
footie pajamas and rainboots
as they walked down to the store
for ice cream bars
and held him
when the nightmares got too bad
dear you
before you take my mother out after work
and send her home
in your bright orange jacket
reeking of you and liquor
please remind her
that she has a husband
who has loved her
for seven years
even though she continually drove him away
she has a husband
whose eyes light up when he sees her
she has a husband
who broke down his barriers
so he could hug her
and hold her close
without that ever-present fear of
her slipping away
again
please remind her
how happy he makes her
how happy she makes him
and the house that he lived in alone
for so long
is finally more than just a shelter
against the elements
it is a home
but it can’t be that without her
dear you
before you take my mother out after work
please remind her to at least
call her son or her husband
to tell them that she won’t be home
to make dinner
and that her son will get to eat
a store bought dinner
for the second night in a row
and then it just sits there
and stares at him
screaming that she isn’t at home
please remind her
that she has people to
come home to
a husband
a daughter
and a son
please remind her
that she has a family ******
and we need her
please remind her
that even though
she can’t look her son in the eye
anymore
he will always need his mother
please remind her
that even though the liquor is
warm in her she has a son at home
that is so
sick and tired
of raising himself
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 10:54 PM UTC
I am from Saturday morning cartoons and giant bowls of cereal
I am from footie pajamas and cozy blankets
I am from late nights, and TV screens
I am from broken locks and and shattered window panes
I am from broken homes and shattered psyches
I am from belts, and hangers, and spikes
I am from good days and bad
I am from happy
I am from sad
I am from places where the sun tries to hide, but
I am also from places where we always find the light
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie...
see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man
turning phonetics upside down
using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed
and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore,
footie can be american slang for football: or ensure a bag of
flour explodes while i get scalped;
otherwise footie means football:
you know it's round enough to be kicked
rather than thrown for a touchdown...
never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means
as much to me as does excess of hair
on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard,
and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned
beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop...
baldy over here met elvis and in levis took
to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he
(mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond,
like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice
the musical... now the encore... signature the
sound of applause);
so this married man is rebelling...watches football
till midnight, rebel...
watches the footie...
a. foot, i.e.
b. foot, e
c. foot eeh
d. footy
e. foo' tea
f. foo' tee
now you guess the accent...
cumbrian? glaswegian?
north london or brick lane? which?
a, b, c d or e or f?^
see what happens being judgemental and sober?
you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good
not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms.
the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english
obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of
a middle finger longbow stylistic for the v long
before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling...
about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now...
so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt
superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo:
or simply curl the famished tongues
that were silenced for man to speak in spasms
of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth
of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze,
if not snorkel or a gesundheit.
^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds
show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
Rocket-ship footie pajamas and stars from the galaxy on his bed
Running 'round the yard with a fishbowl on his head
He'd stutter the names of the planets and stars
with no desire other than to walk on Mars.
The boy created his own ship:
cardboard box, crayons, and a paperclip
3
2
1
BLAST OFF
The roar of the rocket drowned out his nemesis' scoffs
Days, months, and even years past
His big chance was here at last
He looked upon Earth with shock and awe
A bluish green dot was all he saw
Distant lights and strange color specs
No sign of alien lifeforms to detect
Everlasting darkness engulfed him
His life-long dream is actually quite grim
With the stale taste of toothpaste food
His heart sank with the lonely journey he had pursued
He longed for his loving mother and his dog
He'd had enough of the Milky Way's fog
He pined for the place he had aspired to leave
That blue-green dot forever he'll cleave
With a homesick feeling he reached for the throttle
Unfortunately the fuel was at the end of the bottle
With tears in his eyes and hopelessness in his chest
He decided to try a deadly quest
With the last of the fuel he blasted his jets
It was his last possible effort and he had no regrets
With a million to one odds;
He had to contribute his success to one of the Gods
He hit the atmosphere and exploded in flames
Busted the cardboard and ruined all of his games
The boy rushed back to reality
Relieved he didn't reach his fatality
Exhausted and satisfied
His adventure had only just been outside
Looked upon his fishbowl that now had a big crack
The little boy decided his journey warranted a snack.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
As we were young,
we couldn’t wait to grow up.
We thought it would be great.
We were wrong.
Soda became *****
lollipops become cigarettes,
detention become suspension,
and the innocent ones turn into *****
Kisses become ***
tick-tacks turn into prescription pills,
training bras become push up ones,
Footie’s become lingerie,
and taking naps turned into blacking out.
Saying “no” simply doesn’t exist.
Don’t we remember?
When the only drug we knew of was cough medicine,
when your mom was your hero, and your dads shoulders were the highest place on earth.
When getting high meant swinging in the playground,
when grass was something you played in.
when protection meant wearing a helmet-
and the worst thing boys could give is cooties.
Birthday parties become house parties,
Zip-lock bags become dime bags,
and a “pen” isn’t just something you right with.
Sleepovers turn into sneaking out,
Truths become lies,
and laying on the edge of a toilet at midnight, isn’t any surprise.
We thought growing up meant
things become fair-
but
we what we want now is to go back to the days
when there weren’t any cares.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
My heart skipped a beat
as she walked down my street
and this cynical soul was ablaze
I stepped to her side
filled with foolish pride
and asked her to go on a date.
She smiled oh so sweetly
and whispered discreetly
The Farmers Arms at 3 pm
theyre showing the footie
upon the big telly
So be there and I'll see you then.
I floated on homeward
a Goddess I'd found
with a love of the beautiful game
I showered and suited
and cologned up and booted
to see this fair lady again.
I got to the Farmers as kick off was looming
the full bar my eyes deftly scanned
there she stood dressed in red
my poor heart filled with dread
as my feet stumbled back to the door
A united fan? That wasn't the plan
as I picked up my heart from the floor
her beauty delighted but love for United
is a flaw that just can't be ignored!
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
Jeanette was by
the wire fence
leaning against it
her hands
in front of her
resting one
on the other
she watched me
as I came out
of the school door
leading from the side
onto the sports field
her friend Angela
the blonde girl
had gone home
for lunch
why did you kiss me
like that?
she asked
as I went by her
your cheek
was tempting me
I said
so I kissed it
you should have
at least asked
she said
I will next time
I said
looking at her
taking in
her thin frame
and arms
what makes you think
there will be
a next time?
she said
her eyes were dark
like small currents
in cream dishes
I feel lucky
I said smiling
she didn’t smile back
you hang around
with that Rolland boy
don't you?
she said
yes he's a friend
I said
I don't like him
she said
he doesn't like you
much either
I said
he says
you're a titless wonder
she blushed
and looked away
but I like you
I think you have
a certain class
I mean the way you
sit there listening
to all that classical stuff
Miss Graham plays
to us in lessons
while we
are bored brainless
you sit there
in another world
actually enjoying it
she looked at me
I love Beethoven
she said
his music moves me
her eyes settled on me
she played with her fingers
but you ought
to have asked
before kissing
she said
have you told anyone
I kissed you?
no of course not
she said
shame it might do
some good
I said
in what way?
she said
other kids might not
think you so stuffy
and snobbish
I said
she looked
at her well heeled shoes
and white socks
it was only a peck
she said
not a real kiss
it was lips
on cheek skin
I said
wet and warm
she said shyly
there you go
I said
BENNY
Rolland called out
from the sports field
COME ON FOOTIE
best go
I said
see you in class
and I ran off
towards Rolland
and other boys
kicking a ball
maybe a kiss tomorrow
she had said
as I went off
up on the grass
I nodded
and turned away
the sky had brightened
blue skies
had moved off
the dull of grey.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
His mate sent a letter to his girl back at home
All the houses in their road put out flags
They were led to believe that the war wouldn’t last
By Christmas they’d be back at home smoking ****
But it wasn’t so, he was still there on Christmas Day
With others just like him who were terrified
He’d heard they’d played footie somewhere miles away
But they carried on shooting and more men died.
He’d not really known how much a man could hate mud
But when it got in your food, then your eyes
And when you slept in it, and lived in it day after day
When men died in it their blood made dark dyes.
And the deafening noise of the guns just kept on
Till his eardrums had burst and made him deaf
The noise carried on like a dull thumping sound
He’d have run, but he’d got no run left.
All around him his friends were all dying
His mate with the letter had now gone
From the hundreds who’d been in the trench yesterday
Of the twenty-nine left, he was one.
What was this madness, again his heart cried
These men he must **** and for why
He couldn’t understand why the generals back home
Sent here all these young men just to die.
Then a round hit him just under his rib-cage
And the blood that oozed out was dark red
There was no medic nor anyone near him
So he bled out on his own till he was dead.
So another man lay in the mud dying
Still the reasons of why would remain
He just knew that those back at home waiting
Would get the sad telegram of pain.
©JRW2014
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
If my words could paint you in colour
They'd portray no saint, nor scholar
I'd hazard to say
That to paint you this way
Would do you and I no favours
I'll savour- the best of you always
And all your little ways
In all your raggedy, shaggedy
Scrawny glory
Charmless charming, harmless
How you could tell a good story
All the while
That cheeky smile
Broadens wide
Up mostly the left side of your face
At the insulting joke you just cracked
Humour was one thing you never lacked
That scruffy beard that
You'd shave once a year
It was rare you'd be seen
All trimmed and pristine
Your footie shirts all bright and baggy
Hang loose on thin frame- all saggy
I'm always reminded
Of your pose when confounded
Skinny shoulders shrugged up pinned up
to your jaw line
That bottom lip pouted out, image burned in my mind
When was the first time
You stood on the sideline
And ignited unmatched passion?
Flaming crazed enthusiasm
Your supreme love for that game
An infatuation that bordered on insane!
You could have every detail memorised
You could recount, recite and itemise
Every player, every score, you knew it all
My word did you love football!
You loved animals too,
The farmer’s life would’ve suited you
Wish you could go back and stay
Somewhere you could drive tractors all day
It was easy to lose sight of you
Both you and I sometimes lost you from view
Now I won't let go of you ever
But we must let go of guilt forever
Remember good times we shared
Times we both showed we cared
Your good heart was easy to find
When you were clear in mind
The imprint you've left on my soul
Makes me a better me, makes whole
My life now has a hole that I cannot fill
But my heart always had you
And always will
Oct 3, 2017
Oct 3, 2017 at 7:16 PM UTC
I wear my running shoes every day, even when I’m just sitting
I’ve gotta be prepared
For the next time you try to run me over in your SUV and because the last time I only had those sandals you had cut the straps off. ******
But I lost you in the woods and you’d forgotten your shotgun and when I got my breath back I thanked the universe for little blessings.
So the next day I bought running shoes, and that night I slept in them.
But you didn’t try that trick again.
You waved at me over the fence separating our back yards as you mowed the lawn. You smiled, and that made me want to run, too.
You invited me to your Sunday footie BBQ and the rest of our neighbourhood was coming but my mother has a birthday so I had an excuse.
On your birthday I baked you a cake with as much rat poison I could buy without suspicion and left it on your doormat. I watched you closely for days but you were fine so either you were not rat enough, or you had thrown it out.
So I practiced running, scouting out places to lose SUVs and dodge bullets and you smiled and waved at me every day and I wore my running shoes.
Then, in a late November, old Mrs Thompson from down the road told me you were in the hospital.
I tried to think of traps I had laid, of ways in which I had sought to ******* you and found myself wanting. I thought of my running shoes, and whether they were still sitting neat by the back door.
Old Mrs Thompson from down the road said you had apparently tripped in the dark in your own living room and shot yourself in the leg.
I hadn’t heard, hadn’t worn my running shoes that day, because I was at my parents’ house and had stayed the night after a few too many glasses of wine.
But maybe I was responsible for your injury after all.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
It was because no one knew me at home anymore
That I dressed in a different name
It was because no one knew me at home anymore
I chose a different place
It was because no one knew me at home anymore that
I flew myself away
And it is because no one knows me here, still
That I still feel the same
Because no one knows me at all
Anywhere
Any town
Any city
In any smile or
Any frown
In any airport
In any dress
In any suit
In any footie ground
In any raised eyebrow
In some bedroom, now
I blow myself away
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
He lounges in his armchair
******* on a ***
And quaffing beer.
His eyes are glued to the telly,
Watching Corrie
Then footie
Before heading off to the pub.
He feels he’s earned his basic pleasures
As he checks his mobile
For emails and Tweets
And Facebook posts.
Comforts earned by slaving away
All day
For some faceless bureaucrat
Hidden away in his company’s
Ivory tower.
For this is Joe Public.
Ignore him at your peril.
He has lots and lots of mates.
And he is fed up of the “Nanny State”
With it’s, “You shouldn’t do this”
And , “You shouldn’t (or should) do that”.
He’s fed up too with the PC Brigade
Having already escaped the “God Squad”.
But he’s ****** angry
At simply being ignored.
You can keep Joe happy
With Celebrity and Social Media
And sport
And even “Pointless Quizzes”.
He avoids Education
To maintain his “Street Cred”.
But there will come a point
When he’s had enough.
And once that happens
His festering grievances
Will surface
Like killer sharks.
And if he joins a mob of like-minded souls
Who knows where that may lead?
Perhaps to Revolution.
So think on, my friend.
Take care of Joe.
Indeed of Every Joe.
For Joe could be
The Most Important Person
In The World.
Paul Butters
© PB 30\11\2019.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 6:10 AM UTC
You ever wake up with your footie PJs warming
your neck like a noose? Ever upchuck
after a home-cooked meal? Or notice
how the blood on the bottoms of your feet
just won’t seem to go away? Love, it used to be
you could retire your toothbrush for like two or three days and still
I’d push my downy face into your neck. Used to be
I hung on your every word. (Sing! you’d say: and I was a bird.
Freedom! you’d say: and I never really knew what that meant,
but liked the way it rang like a rusty bell.) Used to be. But now
I can tell you your breath stinks and you’re full of ****
You have more lies about yourself than bodies
beneath your bed. Rooting
for the underdog. Team player. Hook,
line and sinker. Love, you helped design the brick
that built the walls around the castle
in the basement of which is a vault
inside of which is another vault
inside of which . . . you get my point. Your tongue
is made of honey but flicks like a snake’s. Voice
like a bird but everyone’s ears are bleeding.
From the inside your house shines
and shines, but from outside you can see
it’s built from bones. From out here it looks
like a graveyard, and the garden’s
all ash. And besides,
your breath stinks. We’re through.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 8:06 AM UTC