"footings" poems
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.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 6:20 AM UTC
Conflict resolution is like a field of mines where shrapnel explodes and uncertain footings pervade their way through the flesh of our workplace relationships.
Professionalism has crossed invisible boundaries beyond the realms of Saturn, don’t you think?
Please, will you consider having political interactions on the territory upon which I reside? You will then truly understand the mechanics of being.
I can correct you. But you must be willing.
Come on, babe! I dare you to venture outside of the box of predictability, because we can then truly arrive at a mutual understanding.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
A solemn wasp invades personal space
It’s buzzing – annoyance in stereo.
Trapped, alone, impending death confronted
It’s passing – a just journey.
Bonds are formed, the wasp’s brothers and
Feelings of naïve permanence
Fill the air.
Lost.
Unjust.
Perhaps dearest wasp truly travels alone.
Why is it this pestering beast?
Itself not a compelling creation
Creates hate with an air of such ease
And when gone, vacuums ensue
To extreme, unexpected sadness
The next life will see done, on equal footings made.
The wasp will be a true friend with a
buzzing friend buzzing relative buzzing girlfriend
buzzing boyfriend buzzing son buzzing daughter
buzzing home buzzing you
Oh dearest buzzing life please release me too.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC
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. . . .
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 4:02 PM UTC
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.
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 1:05 AM UTC
Norway maintains a Viking history, where longboats travelled to the Scottish island of Iona.
Torch the abbey in the name of paganism, and you will be exposed to galactic prohibitions which have a flavour of eternal questionability. Can I please urge you, oh Norseman of ceremonial undertakings: If you ensure that you ride the sonar waves of superiority, then you will find beauty in those haunting chants of the Celtic glens.
Forgive me for being uncertain of my footings. I believe in classical symphonies.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
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 !
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
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
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:35 PM UTC
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
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
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 Hard on 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*
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 10:47 AM UTC
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.
Jan 28, 2020
Jan 28, 2020 at 9:17 AM UTC
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
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 10:01 PM UTC
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.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
(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
Jun 14, 2011
Jun 14, 2011 at 9:14 PM UTC
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
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
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.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
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.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 3:26 AM UTC
Sunken screed below me as I run on the wooded path
The path guides me through the light and darkness
My footing is uncertain
Mucky soil below as I run through the copse
The path guides me through the ups and downs
My footing is more firm
Solid tarmac below me as I run on the pavement
The path guides me safely from oncoming harm
My footing is founded
The paths of life are there for us to take
The footings may be different
But the destination is the same
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 6:14 AM UTC
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)
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 9:38 AM UTC
The new 950-ton bridge would beat
down time dashing to classes cheat
ting vulnerability asper thick traffic
putting life at risk,
thus laudatory alternative
intending to offer Sweetwater
to last a lifetime would make fleet
(installed at Florida International University,
with eager pedestrians ready to greet
crossing grand opening,
where local dignitaries didst meet
viz Miami-Dade County
Saturday (March eleventh 2018)
witnessing ghastly collapsed
Thursday (March fifteenth 2018)
afternoon onto Southwest Eighth Street.
An unknown number
of fatalities surmised,
while several others
were hospitalized.
Prior to groundbreaking
with placement guised
of the attendant pomp
and circumstances exercised
setting cornerstone,
the projected
general estimation apprised
sans building costs totaled $14.2 million
and funded as part of a $19.4 million grant
from the US Department of Transportation.
The fact sheet boasted the sheer intensity
comparable to withstand strength of a
category 5 hurricane, and supposed to last
for more than 100 years.
Within the blink of an eye, no ifs ands,
nor abutments squared with ratiocination
earning civil engineers bragging rights,
which boastful, delightful, fanciful stead
fastness touted thwarting titanic tenable
taxing shock waves.
Now only a scattered pile (formerly comp
rising beams footings, and piers) of rein
forced concrete capped with a bent ele
ment defying hallelujahs, karaoke kudos,
and bobble headed nods,
now impish jinns keep leering, mocking,
and naysaying to fading echoing reverberations
leveled at the laughingstock of an architectural
(duff) feat. Further scrutiny will attempt to cap
chore structural weaknesses. Amidst snapped,
crackled, and popped strewn cables entwined girders
(whose premature destruction) will also warrant
any arresting tell tale signs of unusual stress.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
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.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
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.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 1:17 AM UTC
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.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 5:19 AM UTC