"tenderfoot" poems
emerald, olive, viridian
oh how you perplex me
forest, jade, chartreuse
why do you tease me so
cyan, verdigris, moss
such excitement arises
to be a word
to be a meaning
is there such a thing,
to have a feeling
to see a vision,
phthalo, pine, teal
are you the same
mint, myrtle, laurel
you make me envious
to be blooming, to be healthy
to be young, to be clumsy
are you callow, how about credulous?
but such a conservationist
unquestioning, so trustful,
tenderfoot and common
the tree, the lawn, the willow
though ecological and crude
a sage in all but name
apple, spinach, pea
aren't you scrumptious,
lime, kelly, bice
are you nature, how about luck
you're pungently rotten
though with such dark beauty and hope,
love and lust ensues
you're the jolliness of balance
and the creative intelligence;
of evil, and decay of money and safety,
will you resurrect me, are you immortality?
such jealousy arises
high goals and honor
so so allusive
healing and vitality
you're calming though fast
lush spring stability,
abundant generosity,
vert vegetation; witchcraft
an aphrodisiac I hear,
are you youth or fading youth?
sunrise and life, growth and fertility
sacred ideology,
eroticized though shameful
so romantic and humble
I see the third ray
or is the the fifth ray, the third eye
are you truth, are you vision
it's becoming a science,
so much compassion
the fourth chakra, the heart,
the centre of us all
a higher consciousness
such a harmonious aura
a hunter, a nurse, a solider, an outdoorsman
villains and superstition
misfortune and prosperity
with toxicity, sickness and death,
recycle and reuse
oh so powerful
you exude auspiciousness
just a holiday
mystical fairies and spirits
though also devilish,
cancer in the stars
a renewal of paradise,
biliously tranquil
are you refreshingly soothing,
peacefully restful,
a naive novice,
very understanding,
is there truly a term for you?
what do you really convey,
countless representations
a definition of name,
or do you signify the feeling, the specimen
the aspect?
though some have no locution for you
here I am,
stepping around the issue
you are you, in any word
yet with a different meaning
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
How do you give a cowgirl a valentine?
Do you tie it to her lasso?
Do you hide it in her boots?
Do you tape it to her saddle,
or to the gun that she shoots?
Do you tuck it in her hat,
or maybe glue it to her cat?
You could clip it to the nose ring
of a bull she's gonna rope;
if you miss she'll come to your rescue,
you hope.
Then she'll call you a tenderfoot
and tell you to scrub the cookpot caked with soot.
But if you really want her -
better come to your senses
and lend her a hand
when she's out mending fences.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
The rabbit haunts from a distance, patrolling fields for one to bear witness.
Gracefully the tenderfoot stalks, keeping a watchful eye out for Mr.Fox.
The creature walks with a slight limp, other animals often call him a gimp.
This way, that way, it all seems wrong, keeping time with a lost robin's song.
His home constructed as a single story wonder, located within a large tree laying asunder.
Family life wasn't right, as fleeting an image as a wayward kite.
A field mouse, left without spouse,
Stumbled upon the home in a tree, accompanied by a group of songbirds filled with glee.
The field mouse was asked to go, the creature in response, simply said no.
A man stumbled up, as mad as a hatter, his portly girth made it hard to imagine being any fatter.
He spoke of intrinsic right, boundless visions beyond sight.
Told the rabbit he had a duty to the mouse, saying it immoral to deprive him of a house.
The rabbit, reluctant to accept , found out from the man of the true evils in neglect.
He was told that he didn't own the home, it had simply been gifted as a goodwill loan.
That meant it was as his as much as the rabbits, regardless of any perspective habits.
With that the moused moved in, and brought with him his prized snakeskin.
Over a meal the mouse spoke of danger, coming in the form of a wandering stranger.
He told the rabbit, this creature travelled light, but usually shrouded in the cover of night.
Said the creature was not large in size, though his methods of thievery seemed quite wise.
The rabbit recoiled in his chair, as the field mouse offered up a demonic glare.
The field mouse grinned from ear to ear, sensing this rabbit's new grasp on fear.
Pulling the snakeskin from his sack, the dried shell was quick to crack.
The mouse spoke of a brave duel, between him and this monster, which had downed a mule.
He used every ounce of his cunning, and sent the legless beat running.
It wasn't good enough for the mouse, who was certainly no louse.
He tracked the snake for six long hours, through a field of partially bloomed flowers.
In the end he killed the snake, then took its skin so listeners knew the tale wasn't fake.
He held the skin, I mean the mouse, and said he'd hang the shell within the house.
Mr. Rabbit was found dead two days after, his body lay desecrated next to the snakes, hanging from a rafter.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
We drink cheap cider under the spell of the moonlight.
Another round of laughter and it'll be time to head home.
So lost in each others eyes we forget whose turn it is to buy.
I will kindly tuck a tress of your hair behind your ear.
You will kindly glance down, your bashful nature coming to light.
My mind races with an eternity of hopes I want to carry on my shoulders for you.
Our tenderfoot hearts pounding swiftly.
My hand will caress your comfortable cheek.
Your hand will lull upon my wrist.
We will meet in the middle and our lips will collide.
Electromagnetic fields will hold us together as we ignite.
I'm awoken to a barren bed and a hollow heart.
Falling back on forever, each time I fall back to sleep.
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC
Terry the Troubadour,
Tip-toeing tenderly towards terrible tension,
Touches Theresa the Trobairitz's threateningly terrific thighs:
Their two timid tongues -
Those terse types that tend to tie -
Twist together traumatically,
The tricky tips tamely threading through
To tickle their tiny tangential teeth:
"Tap. Tap."
Twice...
"Tap. Tap. Tap."
Three times...
The tender-tongued timpani teases them,
Taunting their tenderfooted tryst,
Timed tantalisingly to teenage tunes too terrible to tango to.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 4:57 AM UTC
If wishes were horses, this baby prince would ride,
to cloud-cuckoo land with chocolates on side.
Would pierce the balloon-like moon-bag
with my magic stick,
bathing in twinkling stars slipping
from busted moon.
If wishes were cakes, this cherub would eat,
to fill the little tummy with tons and tons of sweet.
Would sit inside the angel’s kitchenette
and swallow all the cheese,
chewing all the crispy cookies
even without any teeth.
If wishes were ocean, this baby prince would swim,
to mermaid -fairy land, too deep with princess Kim.
Would rest on the bed of soft and fluffy coral reef,
dreaming of the earthly lands, flower and green leaf.
If wishes were games, this baby prince would bounce,
to touch the ocean bed from surface on green ground.
Would play hide and seek with salmon and clownfish,
piggybacking the seahorse and accomplish each wish.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 4:44 AM UTC
Dear tenderfoot, Don’t hurt yourself here
I am the jagged edges you will no doubtedly cut yourself on
Soft hands grabbing me in the night
Take me for a ride, and just drive
Simple sweet sin in the depths of your shallow soul
Fingers tied into yours
Pull me apart at the seems in the thick waves of your chestnut hair
Dear tenderfoot, you haven't earned your name yet so I will not say it
Late night texts turn the wheels in my mind till turning pages with stanza written acrostically for you
You see you are a lot like the paper in the journal I write in
You tear easy
My dear, I am the pen, I can tear through you with my inked words alone
You see, lovely tenderfoot
You are soft and gentle like a chaser
And I have a ***** personality
You are a teddy bear in the talons of a hawk I call my poetry
But you will stay intaced
For now
The hawk will do you no harm
My inked words will not permeate your skin
And frankly I’d like a chaser like you to dilute the punch of my personality
so my lovely tenderfoot
Are you ready to become words on a page
With a star crossed lovers theme?
Or are you ready to give up all these dreams
And drive away with all my metaphors
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
I am a little boy again
Is the supermarket empty?
I am the ugly duckling
Is there life outside the pond?
I am a cub in a giant cage
Is there a zookeeper?
I heard there was an oasis beyond the desert
My warmth adds up, the numbers don’t
My spirit searches, my mind wanders
There are a billion faces behind my own
Is one of them me?
I clutch my teddy, violated
Looking for a lake to wash in
I slap on a face before I go out
Zane, Zack, Z’karyah, kotch, Psalmspitter,
Tenderfoot, Buddha, Dylan, Matthew, MiaR
I look for shalom, but find chaos
A thousand roads forward and back
Do any of them lead me home?
Where? What is that?
Sides draw battle lines, I am cut in two, or three, or four
As the little boy inside me tries
To figure out what to search for.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
this old heart
wasn’t always so old,
it once was young and
tenderfoot,
wandering through days and
seeking regalement at night.
this old heart
rarely defeated it’s angst,
clenching fists at duelists
only with intentions of
defeasance,
never relegating the significance
of the win but focusing on the
sacking in a loss.
this old heart
played board games with
his sister on snow days after
laying out paths in the white dust
with an orange saucer
while chasing a laughter
only the belly could muster.
this old heart
was once a boy,
with hair like the white hot sun
on an August afternoon,
with bronze skin running about the grass,
chasing an aging brown dog with a ball
in it’s mouth.
this old heart
was once a boy, yes,
but remains no longer.
this old heart grows weary now.
this old heart bears weight.
this old heart stopped asking questions.
this old heart doesn’t laugh.
this old heart has no dog.
this old heart gets lost in the dark
whiling staring into the blinding sun.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Young spark
Slipping on the shoes
Of a thespian,
A walk about
Wonderland,
Yet, in a fog
You lost your father
On final approach,
The twinkle
Of your light went out,
In quiet step,
Tenderfoot,
Turned
One degree
Too far,
And lost you were
Upon a London flat.
Birthday girl,
It's not your fault.
Jan 20, 2022
Jan 20, 2022 at 1:25 PM UTC
You did your best to shoot me down
put two bullets in my chest
but I ain't dead yet
got a thready pulse and
down in dry gulch, the doc done sewn me up,fixed me like a tenderfoot
and now
I'm back
sixgun packed
guess the odds are stacked the other way
gun play.
Bang
dang missed
****** off,shot off more shot,missed again
must remember
take careful aim
sometimes forget
it's just a game
of cowboys.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
Dear tenderfoot, Don’t hurt yourself here
I am the jagged edges you will no doubtedly cut yourself on
Soft hands grabbing me in the night
Take me for a ride, and just drive
Simple sweet sin in the depths of your shallow soul
Fingers tied into yours
Pull me apart at the seems in the thick waves of your chestnut hair
Dear tenderfoot, you haven't earned your name yet so I will not say it
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
Our priests have proven green and tenderfoot
By goggling at our late, ill auguries:
Dumbfounded, counselless, they scan their toes.
For this have I agreed to pawn my pride
In dabbling with questionable cures
By calling forth the aid of sorcerers.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Dread lord, how might your grace with confidence
Place mercenary warlocks in your trust,
Who twist their gifts toward late-night banditry,
It’s said, to paralyze their shaky preys.
Tezcatlipoca, our capricious master,
Might cloud our muddy minds yet murkier
For slumping to such dubious helps as these
If they make mock of his peculiar knowings.
TLACAELEL
Don’t worry. If they cool your fevered fears
We’ll hail their hocus-pocus as white physic.
If not, then as black fiends in iron they’ll rot.
MOTECUHZOMA
Bring in these esoteric ministers.
A guard leads in three Sorcerers
You three obscure and dicing conjurers:
Have you beheld grim omens in the clouds,
Or prodigies upon the earth? You three,
Who fathom ‘neath earth’s black and gem-jammed caverns
To skim atop cold pools of stone-blind fish
And witness those who have not winked at day;
Who sink into the water’s murky deeps,
And loiter drowsily among the weeds,
Mustering fronds and nightshades for your charms.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Have you encountered stray and mongreled men?
Or lightless nooks congeal as dead men’s shades?
Or midnight women, crablike, creep in broods?
Shall we be leveled flat by strange disease,
Or locusts, pirating their greedy shares?
From sudden deaths, from wars or wild beasts?
Shall rainstorms sink our rooftops down to jetties,
And Tlaloc drown us in a tide of bounty,
Or broil us in cruel sabbatical?
MOTECUHZOMA
You must not candy up **** truth for me.
Have you not heard our thirsting goddess cry,
And nightly croaking from the earth’s deep faults?
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
unripe
one slender shoot
growing through the
shadows of serpentine weeds
the blackest of stones
blinded
in shrouds of whole brilliant suns
nectarine fire in tongues of holy flame
in the grain of dormant seeds
within creatures
sleeping, waiting to be saved
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 8:04 AM UTC
In all the days I've come to see
the irony fails me not
expectations as in life, joy tempered in my sense
A few moments early, oh so wise, approach I surely saw
From all directions, my eyes were blind, deceived as not before
A silhouette of pure enchantment, a look that made me melt,
I had the words but not my own, my gift I now have found.
A beauty far too fine for me as charlatans do know
Yet O' so real and more that which cometh from above
My God, my gift, delivered me
A grace not known my soul
She stole it all with smile divine, this true thief of my heart.
My soul she moved, my body quivered at just a simple touch. I know not words, emotions sublime, intrinsic inwardness...
My God, My love, delivered me the good thief nonetheless.
Conceptions of thy Hope and Spirit were so tenderfoot
For I alone could not perceive what He who Is can give.
Thy depths of Grace is unbeknownst when lacking in true faith. Learnt knowledge reveals I grow quite slow
but o the humanness...
We all are blessed with what we need if just unguard thy sense!
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
Forever, you will haul
Against the murus
Against the wall
Go on ahead
Kick white shadows
Until they play dead
Kick us to the truth
The tenderfoot's news
Wait until my lungs cave in
My lust for it is blatant
Tell all the worst lies
Can tuck it all inside
Run to a counterlife
Take your last supply
Leave home behind
Forever, you will haul
Against the murus
Against the wall
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
Please Approximate/Designate Race: check all that apply (if any)
pre employment query (optional ostensibly)
🀆American Indian
🀆 White
🀆Tenderfoot
🀆Half-Breed
🀆Crackers
***
*****
🀆Guineas
🀆Polacks
🀆Micks
🀆Black
🀆African American
🀆Hispanic
🀆 Non-Hispanic Latino
🀆Asian
🀆Ending in ease, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese…
🀆Filipino’s (flips)
🀆Calico
🀆Hindi Indian, **** Middle Eastern, Bedouins, Persian…
🀆Hawaiian, Polynesian, Oceanian
🀆Mixed Plate
🀆Semitic (Hebe’s and Arabs)
🀆Translucent
🀆Freakasoides (human)
🀆Alien, (outer space kine)
🀆Tuna-neck (any variety)
🀆Other
🀆Undecided
🀆None of your biz wax
🀆Beats all hell outta me
🀆WAT
***
🀆Cannot compute
🀆Complete Miscegenation
🀆From whence do we commence this abstruse extrapolation? (anglo saxon)
**** All
©kwr
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 10:30 PM UTC
We track the oblique, sly fireflies
that keep popping fitfully by.
While life swarms invitingly by the side
we remain rabidly hustling
recklessly trailing
those brusque cracking stars
...shifty, deceptive, volatile
in onyx-bronze, raven nights
❋
We: the tenderfoot novice
bulldozed on many a graceless trip
half-cocked, peripheral, ******
and profoundly ill with pitiful
short-sight.
Afterwards, we will dolefully miss our unlived days
and stay vainly entrenched in unskillful, effete ways
to discard stiff hangovers and to naively refill
famished days-before-today
with crackpot mirth and being oddly spry.
❋
Like an enduring remorse, life trickles aside
bequeathing wounds that refuse to cicatrize.
and now towards this passing eventide
there is no volte-face
no dice.
Jan 2, 2020
Jan 2, 2020 at 9:53 PM UTC