"touchdown" poems
As the Mohawks straddle the goal line
We hold our breaths.
We need a win under our belts,
And this is the most important game of all.
I feel the tension in my stomach,
Now in my hand,
As you take it into yours.
Normally I would be thinking of you
But we are so focused on this touchdown
"Hike!" Shouts number 7, and there it goes.
Caught by 22.
Almost intercepted,
But not quite.
We go wild.
Hearts pounding
Mohawk fans cheering
We won.
You grab me in a huge embrace and
I can't breathe
But its not because you're holding me too tightly.
Together.
Without thought:
Thought of consequence
Thought of the future
Thought of pain
Thought of who is watching,
You kiss me right there and then
And even though your eyes are closed
I still see the blue in my mind from moments before,
Letting me know that it is okay to dive in.
As the cheering roar dies out
I see that blue again
Confused and happy
Or is that me?
On this homecoming night
We won
And I'm not talking about the team.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
All the stars as one in unison
Make up the galaxy we're in,
Floating around a white celestial
Being on this planetary ship.
We'll wind up in the "path of Gods,"
A self-made volunteer appears with an
"Informative" plan to share "love's book,"
To speak of "things we'll find on this journey,"
No future planned stone can be pre-overlooked.
And in the skies float the particles
That started out light years away
Have finally made their touchdown,
Leaving the express universal highway
A rocky chunk of history found it's way to town.
A story that is so ancient, so in tune with time,
That it even has developed a star-struck
Lightning fire in the backyard of galactic life,
And what sprouted from the ashy rubble is us,
Eyes hands and feet and all to experience,
To explore the many creations of natural love.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
we love a guy with a black eye blood shot
those cute five-finger dimples in his jawline up in millennial graphs
of x-time and y-self worth
increasing steadily in units knuckles and palms
lips and prods in a smooth
arching crescent down-facing hieroglyph of his swollen socket as
the plane descending for Cropper and kudos
touchdown
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
Signals cross dissonant chills along the surface of my skin,
Prickled hair rises up under the brush of my touch.
Warm sensation waves attention
as flags fly high warning shots into the sky.
My eyes wide shut abruptly
in case the wind blows particulate
along the curving arch of my vision,
flipped back open upon collision,
batting down waterfalls in between curtain calls
as clapping hands of a broad audience
pass the winning touchdown play onto poppy seed fields.
My Love runs long and deep like the river through lost canyons,
hiding unknown along the moist horizon of dew drop mornings.
...*Oh, me?
I'm doing just fine fair weather,
Light as a feather, am I.*
But look!
...how the Earth shakes proudly the rocks upon her back.
Cast no Stones, She moans
...and you?
How do you do?*
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
Hard on_____
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -
Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone
Wait!!
Don't rush me
I love everyone______*
Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))______
Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray____ speed lover
No homework
All game
Sunday____
Candles burned
The House flamed
"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress
He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!
Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit
The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology
So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday
The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling
Mad Men hungover
Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower
Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night
Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday
Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free____
She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low
Times Square
Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
What will the news say about the girl
dark skinned and frail in your arms
removed from warmth in the dark of night
as means of debt collection?
Impact
Car wreck
Dim teeth
To dash
Retreat
Through pain
In rain
For her
protection
Steal back living, stolen property
mistakenly signed away
for the means of living, eternal
by backs reset to zero.
It's all right, honey, I'm here to save you
She'll turn white before the media
you've known since your acceptance
money hides the child in its green blades
pulled through kept grass hiding glass.
It's all right, honey, They'll keep you sleeping
Chopper
Blade cut
Touchdown
Escape
Brown face
Crying
Screaming
Breathless
Reaching
For his Blood
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC
not since nor silk.
Mother's milk for the generations.. yes she was .
Greeted Lindbergh on touchdown.
Society clone. Rich ************* could not leave her alone. Tall tale teller.Paperback
construct. Stepping into the ball with no invitation and stopped the music and conversation.
Pale skinned poser.
Gettin over.
Her daddy was a man of means.
Hired by the Majesties to count jellybeans.
He loved the local **** to the tune of
Poppa was a rollin stone.
The magistrates and potentates in the republic of bananas. Pinkys up tea sippers .
Could not get hold of collective zippers.
Faded portrait. long dead poser.ball buster. Pretty as crystal.Tough as pig iron.
She was high flying flapper. Cutting a rug. Charleston,Jitterbug. Short skirt flirt. Grandma ?
Smokin hot and smokin when women did not dare. C.O.P.D. and a hacking cough came the pipers toll. The Wages.
Just keeping it real.
Slip sliding away.
Drove a Jalopy.
Aiee Pahpi chulo. Bestin May West with a smaller life jacket.
Turn the century.
Trench warfare.
Over the top.The war to end all ? shiiiit. Great Grandma
was a show stopper. To the very end.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 12:41 AM UTC
President Reagan sat by himself in the White House
Trying to understand what had happened.
He heard his wife scream
What have you done with my husband?
I want the real Ronnie back!
He sighed.
This is what happens when you listen to experts.
Reagan had been in debates before.
From Kennedy to Brown to Buckley to Carter.
He did it his way.
He won his way.
Reagan always liked stories and humor.
Details and data, not so much.
He always thought that statistics don’t feed people.
Because people can’t eat an equation.
But the experts said that he should have more knowledge.
Reagan listened to them.
The thing was, it was too much knowledge.
And Reagan had to be president.
So when he debated, he was tired.
The youngest looking 73 year old man.
Just looked ancient at this point.
He held onto the podium
As if it had answers.
But the podium gave him nothing.
His actor’s instinct called up an old line.
There you go again.
It worked against Carter.
But Mondale neutralized it.
Mondale was good.
Not like Kennedy, who was more passionate.
He remembered Bobby very well.
He would have made a great president, if he had lived.
Or like Buckley, who had the scholarly instinct.
Because he read books when Reagan played football without a helmet.
Reagan defeated both of these men.
But he did not beat Mondale.
Because Mondale had answers for everything Reagan said.
Reagan pondered to himself.
I must have something for which Mondale does not have an answer.
I must make something that Mondale cannot answer.
But I cannot tell the experts.
They are nice people.
But they don’t know debate, I do.
So I can file it away.
It would be a break in case of emergency punchline.
The phone rang and it was Roger Ailes.
Ailes said, Mr. President you were not at your best.
But the sun will rise again.
Use a laugh line as your life line.
Rely on personal experiences, not dead data.
Remember Mr. President this is your re-election.
Reagan took that to heart.
And the second time around, Ronnie was back.
He grinned because this time it was fun.
But Mondale was still good.
And then the question came.
The question for which Ronnie was born.
It was about President Kennedy’s working hours during crisis.
And if Reagan had the stamina to match Kennedy.
Reagan smiled.
It was time to pull out the joke.
He said, I will not make age an issue in this campaign.
I will not exploit for political purposes my opponent’s youth and inexperience.
Reagan delivered it perfectly.
And suddenly, he heard laughter
Laughter from the questioners.
Laughter from the audience.
Even laughter from Mondale.
Tears of laughter.
Reagan drank his water and smiled.
The Gipper scored a touchdown again.
And hit it out of the park.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
Mondays are like when the cops come to shutdown a party that is approaching the highest point of the night
Mondays are like when you found out your prospective prom date is interested in going with you
Mondays are like when you find out your other half is splitting themselves into more than two pieces
Mondays are like when you find your savior for the first time
Mondays are like when you fail a test you spent all weekend studying for
Mondays are like when the leaves change color on trees in autumn
Mondays are like when it rains on a day you planned a picnic date that you could not reschedule
Mondays are like when you find your purpose for breathing daily and using that as motivation to constantly progress
Mondays are like getting a broken ankle after scoring the game winning touchdown
Mondays are like when you find a pond of fresh water after traveling by foot through a desert
Mondays are like talking to your celebrity crush with spinach stuck on your tooth
Mondays are like buying your favorite pair of sneakers
Mondays are like waking up early for a class that was cancelled
Mondays are like when the flowers bloom in the spring
Mondays are such a buzz ****
Mondays are like a fresh start
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
Just wonderin’… if surrounded… as you are… by the ramblins… of visitors… and the offerins… of hangers-on… and the jokes… of the wanna-be-funny… and the excitement… of your beloved basketball… and the rowdy… of your down-and-dirty football… even tennis… when it’s Venus… and her earthy growls… and ya girl Serena… with her thigh-strainin’ swing… hell… even hockey… if that’s all there is... playin’ in the background… mixin’ just fine… with children laughin'… and he still flirtin’… after all these years… talkin’ a little ***** after all this water… under the bridge… makin’ you smile… coaxin’ you to… hang in there baby… to take… just one more bite… to take… just one more sip… to smile… just one more time… I’m just wonderin’… how are you gonna do… when they put you in that place… for sick people… with no loud children… no beloved husband… no bad jokes… no fried chicken in the air… no sports commentators… no big band drums… no somebody screamin’ TOUCHDOWN… for you to… if only for a few precious minutes… wake up to… how are you gonna do…in all of that silence…?
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
Jet sets all corners
Neither here nor there
Touchdown low profile
Flashy car speeding past
I use to live there as a delinquent
The sounds of the sirens got them hooked hopeless wanton
The incantations echoes in minds
That feeds the Insomniac
Our new hellos And goodbyes
Are only apparitions
Partly clichéd partly prodigal
Until we see them concussed
shredded in colours of shade and shame jolted by our own pain...
Slain into a state of compassion
Our hearts prepare a banquet
On a budget of prodigious love
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
Throw a tomato! They're squishy...
Snails are too though, but you can't
Toss them too well.
You could use them like a baseball?
"Hey, batter batter. Swing!"
Touchdown!
But...
T
H
I
S
Isn't high school.
And we aren't jocks.
We just throw cabbages and rotten potatoes
Po-tah-toes.
Tomatoes.
To-mah-toes.
Lets call the whole thing off...
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
Some want to be remembered
for their touchdown record.
Some want to be remembered
for their body count.
Some want to be remembered
for their brilliance.
But I want to be remembered
for my kindness.
I will admit, I look back and remember the boy who always scored the touchdowns that always made our student section roar and fill with happiness.
I will admit, I look back and remember the girls who told funny, yet repulsive stories about their adventures of sleeping with random guys.
I will admit, I look back and remember the brainiacs and how they could make something as minuscule as a piece of gum a deep conversation starter.
But I will also admit, that looking back they have no significance to me.
Looking back, I remember the people who were kind above all else, I think of those people more frequently and hope they are doing well.
I remember those people and admire them for staying positive in a world so hopeless and full of hate and negativity.
I remember those people and feel a little less alone and know that they would be there if I called.
I wonder if those people are out in the world right now, spreading even more positivity and making others feel a little less insignificant.
I aspire to be remembered by kindness.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 1:33 AM UTC
The smell of the turf on a warm September night
The roar of the crowd as the team scores another touchdown
It doesn’t matter; we don’t even react
For our purpose here is something entirely different
The buzzer sounds to end the first half
We take the field, excited and numb from nerves
Our hearts are pounding, the drums are beating
Our feet move mechanically to the beat
Quarter notes and half notes practiced for many long hours
Finally the reward sending chills through our bodies
Our feet stop; our horns come down
We smile at a job well done
Most people don’t notice us
They are so wrapped up in their technology
If they would only take 5 minutes and escape
Into a world of beauty and passion
This is marching band
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 10:31 PM UTC
He's rattling off again about the final touchdown;
You think about her jeans. . .
The way she fits in them:
Tight, yet ready to be ripped off.
You think about her hair. . .
How it falls in a cascade of curls--
In the morning it smells like basil and cotton,
And at midnight,
It reeks of whiskey and desperation.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
I live my life with aperçus. Formal education seems to be de rigueur, but when it comes to living my own life, the one I need to live, the one everyone needs to live, it is not a fake existence to placate others thus becoming an apostate to myself, but always being true to my real self. Aperçus guides me. What I decide, where I go, what I do, all are decided by my intuitions. The process is unconscious. It’s like a great running back. Gale Sayers come to mind. His magical moves that resulted in long touchdown runs, twisting and turning at the precise instant, all were the results of his intuitions. Truth emanates from aperçus. Follow it always.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 11:04 PM UTC
Do you know the bird?
Of course not. each
updraft a soaring appreciation for
worldly things, textbook happiness
drowning distraction in a pond plump with water
lilies and tadpoles, sinking down to the
dirt, belly raw on dizzy ground, feet
scrabbling for a safe touchdown, sure this day there
must be a rock or a tree trunk, some natural end to the in-
between where a bitter desperate aftertaste singes the mouth, certain
nothing else will be known, that this sour tang is only to
remain on this tongue forever, no
asking you if you can relate is like expecting the sun to
rain down and openly weep itself out, quite
impossible, come on - remember, you
must see clearly - here
comes the lift again, fondest flying above, fully
forgotten panic until winds falter once more
I know the bird.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 8:14 PM UTC
Caught lying down
The violet kiss
The twilight's wisp
At April's end
Resonates in lungs
Here is to calling emotions
Here in the green grass and the wind
Here is to culling memories
It's no lake, though,
It's too late, now
Chest pull, brain float
Alone in the motionless ocean, so cold
We turn black, earth and I, partners of stars caught staring up
What man made slow bleeds from the world as I sing
Wary, weightless, spinning in white flecked purple, in orbit or free fall
Orbiting free fall
I found elation, but can't find connection
I could have grown mushrooms on touchdown
I traded memory for medicine
Twilight, violet, orbit, all words I've used before and always, tightly, weave into the living picture painted years and years on all alone on reset honing torment to the self as if as if perpetuating involuntary EVA will translate to a skill that will well elevate me from the cave, the only connection, that I've built by locking up all my insides in taking pills that I fell back on for happiness and to get a rattled head settled to the ground rather stripped me of what history I lived and put my weary body in the open for all the universe's bitter energies to infinitely catch me floating lying down.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
What’s Your Water
*If you talk to Wallace J. Nichols, Ph.D., a marine biologist and the author of Blue Mind, a book about the physical and psychological benefits of water, for long enough,
he’ll eventually ask you*,
***what’s your water?
And as it turns out, nearly everyone has an answer.***
<>
Having lived longer
than I had a right to expect,
through decades of lost years, pain imbued an attitudinal of:
‘I do not ****** care,’
find myself perplexed now by my near
escapes, death misses, graceful landings,
and now,
the fortune tellers ply me with
predictive prescription possibilities
of a good many more!
So I write this missive,
mine own “Guide to the Perplexed.”
for a longest miserable
drove me to deep despair,
and even the littlest do was a wasn’t undone,
to insure any extension, even hurry up a clusterfk,
and here I am
yet, wander-in-g & wonder-in-g,
Why, what
accidents of fortune reversal,
made my prior life a rehearsal
for a hopeful long end run,
before a Mahomes miracle touchdown
Knowingly
looking for the X Fsctor,
discovered that the solution was
W2
W squared)
where W is a
(Woman,Water) multiplier
Found a woman who
lived by waterways,
upon island bodies and seas of rivers
that led to
this little island that
gave me
the solitude unsolicited
to see inside my
history
leaving me with
no imperative imperial resources to resist,
but to make it
just one day more,
to let the celestial sun
celebrate a new daily saluted calculus,
Of
*the sum total of
every grain of water
in this world
evaporated to be rebirthed
in a million raindrops
just like me and
poetry*
writ over the spring & summer of 2024
Sep 9, 2024
Sep 9, 2024 at 11:59 AM UTC
there, in those strawberry fields of dreaming-
those blooms of a season long since dead and torched-
i swore i found you
and you were speaking sweetly in a smokey room
with a crescent smile
and a cheap long-neck bottle
and a blue ball-point pen
that you'd only pry from it's waltzing
to chuckle with (and charm) the bartender
an older lady
with muddy-water curls
and poision ivy eyes
and...there's something about her that reminds me of my mom...
then the moment's gone
and now, all i can wonder
is how it is that she's counting change when she hasn't got any fingers
the captain must be on the mic again
with ******** banter about the weather
or our eventual destination
or something about the turbulence to calm the unfortunate un-drugged
his monotone monotony
sneaking through my sleep to me
and coming through like the voice of the radio host
as my head's beneath tepid bathwater
your ellegance uneffected by his audible intrusion
into my sub-concious dellusion
you pull at the tides of your brew
and wink
then back to a busy pen
i have to get to you
you've got to remember
come back
but dreams don't work like that
it's as if my feet don't match my body
or my legs are facing backward
or i'm in that godforsaken hallway scene of "The Shining"
and i'm finding this to be far more frustrating
than remaining concious through the flight could have ever been
and again
somewhere over nebraska
the ride gets increasingly shaky
not obnoxious enough to wake me
just enough to take me to the part of the nightmare
where my teeth start falling out
like precious little gems of vicodin and nicorrette
t a p p i n g out my fragile skull
and now i'm wearing some bloody-gummed grin
and that charming lounge is feeling like "From Dusk Till Dawn"
and all of the friendly faces are gone
except for yours
and you look horrified
how come now i've got your attention?
touchdown at o'hare
and i wake in the window seat next to a vacant chair
alive and well
except that you're not there
and to think
when i was a kid
my nightmares all had fearsome beasts
then i grew up
and found the monster to be me
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
Falling
That's what we are doing
Slowly spinning out of control
The masks drop
Like bodies hanging from a noose
The turbulence
Of a hundred lives
Coming to an end
Throwing our hearts astray
Along with the wreckage
Strewn across this valley of despair
Wings
Ripped from our backs
As we lose altitude
Along with feeling,
Numb to our loses
Ears popping
Like celebratory bottles of champagne
Commemorating our near future deaths
The fuselage
Comes in like a missile
Prepared for utter destruction
Touchdown
The landing gear didn't deploy
You were unprepared
As were those watching
In pure terror
At the scene of our death.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
One minute I laugh
Smile stretching my face taut
A sideways glance stolen from the prejudice mirror reflects
MASSIVE pupils like all consuming black holes
4 hours ago I was a ******* Tomato and I know you will mis pronounce it miles above the planet Earth I crash down only to land on venus (Cuz there's girls there)
3 hours now the clock above this moniter is orange purple no wait it's yellow well when it was a clock now its turned into a pile of ants ********* they ruined the picnic, just like people they scurry about to interfere and get all up in my affairs
are not straightened out at all on the surface I remain calm and collected but inside my conscious is scattered sporadically across 12 ******* dimensions of lysergia And then the jet lands gradually touchdown to reality. Deep breath full of marijuana smoke okay houston we're back in the air Right on brutha peace love unity whatever man do your thing I could really not care less
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 11:52 AM UTC
He’s sitting there, Beats on music bumping
Losing himself in the rhythm letting the flow
Psych him up, his coach walks over and yells
At him GET YOUR *** OUT THERE. He takes
Off his headphones the final beat bringing
Back a memory
He was sitting there, the coach told him to
Take the bench, the other starter was out
There, where he should be. Gym class picked
Last again told he ***** no one wants him.
He’s tired of not being good enough he vows
To never let it happen again. And so he dedicates
Himself, pushing, driving, putting in the work
Needed to be a star, almost giving up
He never did
The ref looks at him and tells him to step up.
He steps up to the mat, he skates to the line,
He breaks from the huddle, toes the invisible
Line, steps up to the plate, steps Up next to his
teammate, steps up to the foul Line
The whistle blows
He shoots for the legs, he passes the puck
He throws the spiral, he throws his hands up
He swings his bat, passes the ball, takes the
Shot…..
He pins him in 30 secs and wins the championship,
He puts the puck in the back of the net for
The win, He throws another touchdown
Pass, He pulls down the most amazing catch
He crushes the ball for a homerun,
He kicks the ball into the net, he swishes
The ball, nothing but net
They call him the legend, champion
The monster, invincible, hall of famer
They ask how he done it?
He never gave up on that vow and he
Step up
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC