trim and finishing
   the paintwork will reveal no matter how spackled
if the planning and footings aren't square.

custom  millwork and artsy craft
   do not hide the lack of deft blueprints
and engineering

Correctly spacing the 2 by Fours and !/4 Rounds
   without plumbing  and building on solid ground
leave many a stair to be climbed

Upper floors are where it's at when we are designing our houses.
  If a temple or an apartment, a plan,
is our solid foundation.

All of the moves on a
chessboard of which
the permutations are
infinite, have been
witnessed at Camp-
Nou by the G.O.A.T.

Upon hillside tracks
and mountain passes
where herds pasture
on unsure footings at
cliffs edge in all types
of weather is the Goat.

Think of a goalkeeper
waiting for an indirect
free out of vision from
behind a wall of players,
imagine the thoughts-----
between predator & prey.


          ................
         |˚             |
         |              |


Tribute to Lionel Messi
Barcelona on his 7th Balon D'or.

My last pair of boots, sit by the back door,
Faded yellow and black, via asphalt and straw.
They sprawl where their thrown, spread-eagled with socks,
The steel-toe caps are showing, through all the hard knocks.
I've worn out dozens of boots, by the score,
But these are my last, I won't need anymore.
Grafted all my life, sweated and bled,
Wrote a heart-wrenching poem, in a felt-tip of red,
On the back of a letter, from the Hospital, to my lad,
Just a change of appointment, addressed to me, his Dad.
But the words are unreadable, I can only guess at a few,
It was probably a masterpiece , though I haven't a clue.
Written through frustration, written through tears,
At Three in the morning, after too many beers,
About a change of career, getting a worthwhile job,
There must be an easier way, than to work like a dog.
Staying inside in the winter, not out in the fields,
Digging trenches and footings and dying on shields.
Dressing up smartly, using brain not just brawn,
Rising at noon, instead of teeth-chattering dawn.
But I forgot why I wrote it, the mind has many routes,
So I've just been out to buy, a new pair of boots. . . .

Were I given a life to return
To hold again my newborn son,
I'd take time to be present,
Really "there,"
Beside, behind him,
As he learned to run.

Instead of the tower on the hill
I tried unsuccessfully to be,
I'd walk beside him on the path,
Reminded of my boyhood memories;
I'd leave the sermons to the priest and be the dad.

I'd get us shovels,
Deep to dig our conversations,
Embrace the work and sweat and look for more,
Pick and bar our way to Rock,
Drill and blast our anchors to the floor.

Before the storm surge of his teenage years,
I'd strive to see strong footings were in place,
Weld strong the structures while the girders rise,
Pray the work would stand the weather's cruel face.

The past, now present has me chilled;
The distances are lost in haze;
What I see now from my distant hill
Reveals broken structures to be razed.
God grant us time to renovate and fill
Remaining years to bring Him praise.

An old mans regatta,  ancient ships bound for the park , reflect on wartime America in 1944 ! Cheerful for the most part , lips quivering occasionally ! Patriotic . Reflective . Your the same young man regardless of rebellious ways , I was the captain of my ship as well in 1938 ! Four years later , fighting for my life on Guadalcanal in a bayonet charge against a bold , determined enemy force ! The internet and the current culture , the world appears smaller , actually divided from within courtesy of religious faction , fascism and greed , now more than ever ! You may find yourself in my shoes in sixty odd years , convincing young people such as yourself of the fine line between war and peace ! Countries forever on battle footings , leaders pose with smiles while they plot against one another , mutual assured destruction they only thing keeping them from firing the missiles ! Each day more dangerous than the last , soldiers without uniforms , indiscriminate killing of civilians , **** of historical monuments , it's all quite familiar within this war torn mind !

Barreling through town
in the depth of night,
earth’s colossal magnets
hurled jagged fire spears -
flashing and ripping the midnight sky.

Whirling torrents whistled
and lashed against the glass.
A blinding fire bolt
Shattered an old rock maple -
quaking our shelter to its footings.

Cosmic strobe-lit concussions
stuttered and roared across the nightscape
like a feral timpanist gone mad.

The frenzied cacophony
subsided at last -
rumbled off  in the distance
as the storm lumbered on
like a barbarian horde
off to sack another village.

*July, 2007

Moon,Oh! moon
'tis a shame upon you
you failed to give full light
when the hunters needed you

They all lost their footings
and fell to the ground
their souls made to wander
no longer ****** bound

What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.

Is it destiny? What do you see in your life? A light line defining your footings and basis- where do you look at when you said, "I have everything I ever needed".

Where do we go from here?

Working ******* it…
I run like I’ve never run before
But I’m still on the same spot
I walk like I’ve never walk before
But I still wait on the same path
My feet have swift a fleet
Into my hands travail and sweat


Confuse About my Fate...
Plethora of resources in the rivers
Pots of gold are everywhere
Clean slate stay at the riverside
Where my foot prints lives
In the water you see clear
And nightfall of no fear


Mediocre life…*
Middling avalanche
Falls like heaven and earth
Half arc of bending rainbows
Into opposite direction the wind blows
Sounds ranging, echoes stirring
Only a few… looked and listened

There it is, a wind from the East
A motion of warmth returns home
It moves, and something flutters
It moves, and I elate

Vacillant being, do not delay
With trite footings and teased notions
Here is the eclipse
A pinpoint light on you

Annexed streams, flow with the ghost
Who swells up our fervor
Who holds premonition
As we study the other

With the mood of the currents
Trees concave and vex
Leaves are fickle things
When the wind is cold

Dearest wind, whisper then laugh
Froth the waters, dismiss the clouds
Curl into these sails
Curl into me, do not delay

It isn’t as if
I must put on
the Queen’s English
to be around you.

It isn’t as though
I should feel
the need to rebel, or
that my solitude

is a luxury
instead of a right.
Rather, these are
the whale-bone songs

of a well-worn battalion,
poised as I am
at every solstice,
footsore at the door.

This is simply
the ebb and flow
of ambrosia
that sets the pendulum

to swing
in different arcs
of fool’s gold,
the soft footings

at the edge of my radar.
This is the culture shock
of living dead girls
undergoing a seismic shift

in the round
mother-of-pearl
mountain ash,
insinuating

themselves
in a sea of voices,
while shadows cast
a romantic screen.

For every one that succeeds,
millions of others fail.
So tell me
how it should be,

that I could live
on my knees
and weep honey tears
as my dreams escape me.

Because this is
a death of sorts.
The phoenix rises,
only to burn again.

Poverty
is a personal Shanghai,
and just as vast.
I want to believe

that wealth can be
weathered beauty,
Elizabethan colouring,
and a pirate smile.

You get my most
gorgeous parts,
although
my flaws,

innumerable,
hidden
in blind spots,
hidden in ivory,

are discovered
again and again,
as I live between what was
and what will be.

(For my old mate Kevin Blackburn)

Bentonite is magic
When mixed in slurry form,
And injected into apertures
Where earth worms are the norm.
The slurry forms a barrier
Which holds the concrete, wet,
Quite apart from earthen surfaces
To give exactly what you get.

YOU GET NO CONTAMINATION
YOU GET CONCRETE DRYING CLEAN
YOU GET SMOOTH GREYISH SURFACES
WHICH COULD BE PARCELED TO THE QUEEN!

So when constructing tunnels
Or massive footings bare
Or reinforced deep piling
Which extends way down to there,
You MUST pour in the Bentonite
In slippery, slurry form
To keep the concrete looking
Sparkling clean, as is the norm.

Then....
YOU GET NO CONTAMINATION
YOU GET CONCRETE NICE AND CLEAN
YOU GET BEAUTIFUL GREY SURFACES
SHINING BRIGHTLY FOR THE QUEEN!

Marshalg
Lurking near the Bentonite tanks
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 June 2011

Creative actions are more than enough
To convince me that I am working hard
Blooming flowers prove the point
That nature has a method of showing the world
How amazing we all are.
Dedication from each of us can portray
The effort of clarification from results
Mornings of sunshine days are also great ways
To feel we are on the firmest of footings and cups
Of our enthusiasm drench us as our excitement bubbles
Flesh is weak they say but not so
Eliminate our thought process
Just leave the muscle and the bones of the plan
By any respect the job will be done
Sometimes dwelling on an evaluation is fruitless
Gain some notes in your tune
Misalign your face and just work at it.
Develop your space and live
Don't think too much
Enjoy the life with which we are blessed

when i want
to build a wall.
i take the stone,
formed by,
anger or hurt
from my gullet.

wash it, so it's
dark facets shine.
then place it,
in the footings,
of my insecurity.
find another and repeat
til they form a line.

using as my mortar,
pain, embarassment
and indignation in equal parts.
mixed with tears and bile.

and then, i begin again
buttering bricks and
offsetting, them.
i want, no need,
my wall to be strong.

tho i never build,
my walls too high
three or four courses,
never, no more.
i want to be able to,
step over them
and be free

i have seen those
and watch them still,
thoese who, built a high, formidable wall,
a fortress, it does become,
with them, still locked, imprisoned inside.

so i learnt to build,
walls strong, but squat
so i can,
when ready,
emerge.
righteous and graceful.

but this is my folly,
the flaw, in my scheme.
my walls, they run
*****, nilly, everywhere.
and over them i trip
**** over beam..

so now...
i must find a school
to teach me the art
and give me the tools,
of how to deconstruct a wall.
with out the haphazard use
of a wrecking ball.

purple path
commemorating an old foundation
long gone
wisteria and violet
aura hues
march steady grow
towards
concrete footings that once held
desire
like peat moss ripe
petal dew
before the
clots of madness  grew
unlike the dead in a vase.

City lines illuminated by animated street lights reflect off of your skin.
Images of infant filled houses
and hospitals with new born fetal babies, juxtaposed fatal mothers,
emit off your body
in black and white stop motion,
slicked by this canvas of fluid blanket
And you, victim of lifelessness
lie cold and waterlogged
inhaling liquid, the new source of oxygen,
your eyes fogged and inverted submissively.
What was sung to sleep by hymnal chants  
of incredulous mourning moans now lies
Dead
on a forgetful Sunday Evening.
The street lights give no respect
as they ponderously encroach,
Leaning in to hear your fleeting birdsong.
These lamp poles, tender and limber,
flex to form prayer circles, forgetting their rightful footings.
And with each inch bound tighter,
the circle emulates a power emitted through photonic light beams
bending irresponsibly to get closer to truth.

They then see it, and so does woman
Stopping by this wooded mausoleum.
She stands with inquisitive mittens, palms open and receiving.
Flecks of skin lift off your sinking vessel as what was you leaves into better places.
They drift, forming a clouded colony
crawling  up webbing left to lead them correctly.
Each inch spreads more purity,
each meter strengthens recent weaknesses.

Woman notices a cloud gather above you,
and each particle refracts the whole galaxy with increasing detail and accuracy.
As your body turns to skeletal structure
you seep faster into the silt-heavy waters below,
your bones creating playgrounds and Eiffel Towers, hospital white in hue,
so clean it hurts.  

The cloud moistens with rain,
it becomes heavy and starts to drift,
rocking,
in futile attempt to birth again.
And each fleck takes woman.
She spreads eagle and takes flight.
Toes lift individually and with lessened pressure,
she stretches each appendage as your flesh meshes with woman’s in unconventional ways,
every crevice and crack blanketed by you, what was.
The street lights pulsate as they observe in amazement
your transformation.
All is forgiven while the lamps induct you into purity
and absolve woman for witnessing this connection to God.

and to them small feeling
indifferent in a way, the rabbit when he finds his self
swooped into the sky by the owl's talons;
or maybe the owl when no rabbit for dinner can he spy
or the small lion when his prides ruler roars 
the smalls only defense his
brave mother, or the mountainside when so drenched with rain finds its footings slide out from under her;
or the elephant when he no longer remembers;
the caterpillar with no larvae
or the alligator when the water dries up,
or the skyscrapers with planes in their side;
or the warship taken down by a small boat;
the big brave man drunk by cancer-
does prove: no matter how big, all can  feel insignificant
and find their self whether big as a mountain, or strong and wild and roaring as a lion
or meek and peaceful as the rabbit,
what comes does.

Love demands Truth.
Love that bends and lies to pacify feelings
When Truth stands, resolute, cannot be
True Love.

It may be frightened, maudlin, corrupted,
Or many other things, but it cannot be
True Love.

Some, hoping to change the shape of Love,
Would pummel the footings of Truth,
But they haven't shovels enough,
Nor dynamite powerful enough,
Nor lies lasting long enough to dislodge
True Love.

True Love stands resolutely with Truth.
This relationship has always existed, always will,
While the Resistance has a beginning,
It must eventually meet its end.

      (DB, meanderings, July 10, 2023)

the days of heaven gold

are coming to its end.

are we the children

of the fall, those of us

who dance in the leaves,

who fail in the cold or the

brashness of summer









read about the courage of others,

about the closing of doors,

against the rain and the wind

blowing.

read about the loss of brothers,

about the moving of house

escaping pain,and remember

these golden days of autumn.

going







read about the perfection

that never is, the quality that fades

in time, with crosses,

people’s minds.

read about the rain in the cwm,

that blinds and blinds,

and loses paths and footings





**





read about the days

in the old house

the days that are, and were,

and may come with dreams,

and fortitude.

read about it all, and i ask, why do you read here? here?

sbm.

-

on the Sea of Tranquility sits
evidence of alien visitors
to this world ;

underneath one of the footings lie
the crushed remains of an indigenous
being who was delivering a message

inside a six-fingered metacarpus
entanglement is a wrinkled sheet
of aluminum with the following
etched in broken Earthling—

"we never sent invitations
and we never asked you
for anything–

Please,
               go home..."


s jones
2021

.

the days of heaven gold

are coming to its end.

are we the children

of the fall, those of us

who dance in the leaves,

who fail in the cold or the

brashness of summer


read about the courage of others,

about the closing of doors,

against the rain and the wind

blowing.

read about the loss of brothers,

about the moving of house

escaping pain,and remember

these golden days of autumn.

going

read about the perfection

that never is, the quality that fades

in time, with crosses,

people’s minds.

read about the rain in the cwm,

that blinds and blinds,

and loses paths and footings

**
read about the days

in the old house

the days that are, and were,

and may come with dreams,

and fortitude.

read about it all, and i ask,
why do you read here?
here?

sbm

Stranded without a line
to pull me back in time
Blinking through snowblind
to try and see a sign

As I stumble through the snow
Where loose footings follow
With my panic held in tow
I cry out my tears of woe

I survived the fall down
Tumbling along the ground
I don't know if I'll be found
This far away from town

Taking shelter in the trees
Away from the piercing breeze
Fashioning my broken skis
To take the weight off my knees

I'm scared that I'll hear a howl
Of a creature most foul
Hiding teeth atop its jowl
As it seeks me on its prowl

Or does something else await?
A slow and more frozen fate
Now that the day turns late
The cold night does not wait

I push the thoughts from existence
For I must be persistent
Or else be gone in an instance
Oh, what is that in the distance?

I was at the end of my tether
As I breathed the brutal aether
But I was found in the weather
And now we're back together

O search me, inside and out then heal me.
I beg You. Search me to heal me.
Save me. Hold me. Don’t let go.
Take a good look at the place that I dwell,
See how my plight is being engulfed with great floods,
the waters swirling in even unto my soul;
Sinking into the violent sinkhole where nothing but doom awaits,
drifting away from the lighthouse, rock house.
Storm-proofed. Or so I thought.
For it seemed unable to withstand continuous, raging storms
Could it be that it was made from sand after all?
I ponder to know; but how could I know?
I have become foolish, as though, I know You not;
I have forgotten Your face, longing, but I see You not.
my heart is dull for my loyalties are wrong;
I’ve forgotten to eat daily bread, Your Spirit groans.
My throat is dry and parched,
My eyes shed streams of tear, all too harsh
They say, “Ask and you shall receive”
But I’ve been asking, searching, slamming the windows of Heaven
Yet it’s as if I'm still ever more drowning in depression.
Oppression.
Same old transgressions.
Wrestling with wrong questions;
Suffering in suffocating silence
with emptiness and nothingness as loyal companions,
Scarcely breathing in an ocean poisoned with my own thoughts
It taints my heart with unbearable numbness
Holy. Crippling. Sadness.
My life is in need of the Anchor,
the pseudo-anchors I’ve had are now shaken from their footings
My vision fails as I wait for Your deliverance and saving.
“Hear from Heaven!”, sweet, Lord, this is my 900th prayer!
I’ve begged You.
Still, I am begging You.
I am exhausted, too desensitized, traumatized to swim.
Come again to my rescue, teach me once more to
tread, stay afloat, or stroke. Better yet
pull me back to the safety of Your shore,
for I still believe that in this life and to the next, there is more
But only in Your presence will I see, what’s truly in store.
While life may now appear desperate,
nonetheless, I wait upon You.
I cannot afford not to.
For who is a pardoning God like You?
Or who is Mighty enough to save but You?
Who understands a thousand sorrows
and guarantees unending joy tomorrow?
Who can breathe life to the dead and
render death stingless?
I know no one — not even one — but You.
Your sovereignty over the storms that grieve me
will sustain me in my tears,
it is Your grace at work even through my shallow fears
And it’s not that You have not heard my cries. You have.
You have answered a thousand times.
Just that it’s not how I pictured it most of the time.
But in the midst of grace denied, I got daily grace supplied.
I know now that You truly know best
When, where, and how to apportion your infinite grace
to me and all the rest —
So, Dear Father, grant me the grace me to trust.
Satisfy me day and night with Your unfailing love,
as you have sworn to my fathers from the days of old
Cast my sins into the depths of the sea and
let these sufferings work for me,
Teach me to expect no less;
rather pursue faith in the midst of distress
for You are using it to shape me into Your image.
I am appealing to Your zeal for Your own name.
Quietly, I wait for the timing consistent with Your good pleasure
Praying without ceasing, I will wait ’til You finally come for my
eternal pleasure and saving, endless safe-keeping.

'disremembered recordings,
footings undeveloped,
dissolved its gravitational splash,
into a void enveloped.'

They lay shadows across downtown escarpments
They offer secure perches for timid birds
Their footings are photo -ops for passersby
Plaques tinged in green,
Flags flapping in the breeze ...
Period oaks that rattle & mourn
Marble avenues , granite stairways ,
Brick fences & wrought iron railings
Holly, rose , gardenia & daffodil
The patter of acorn , sweetgum cone ,
brown leaf , winter grass & pebblestone ....