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Rob Rutledge Jul 2014
We worried so much about sticking our head above the parapet,
We forgot the stagnant water underfoot.
We forgot the stages of stalemate
The terror of trench foot.
cast off
they never wanted us
they just want what we've got
I decry
because I must
before what I remember of liverpool
is ground into dust
of a conservative government
determined to sell off everything
that makes us
we must what we must
its time to take back
what was ours in the first place
its in our blood
ordered liarbility
Shifting, sand underfoot
and the moon bent
in reflected splendor, up from the sea, and from the
tresses of your hair;

black, in that time
of dreaming.

The stars,
innumerable in their glory,
wink down at
us gently as we walk,

their mysteries

for in your eyes
lie the sum of
their light.
This is a draft I put together in 2016 and promptly forgot about. I've edited it some, but I'm pretty sure I've just polished it up a little, meaning intact. Figured its about time it got some air.
Ted Jun 2018
When I was 10, I had a hamster.
It's whole world was in my room,
It's life in the hands of a child.

My whole world was on 10 acres of land,
In the hands of two grown children.
Their hands as reckless as mine.

How does something grow within a cage.
Does freedom have a place in it's mind.
How to acquire the thoughts of freedom,
Of peace.
Will it know when the cage door is gone, nothing holding it in.
How will it even recognize grass underfoot,
A world beyond 10 acres,
and the hamster wheel gone.
Emma Sep 2017
The dry crunch of a dead leaf crushed underfoot
The season's first, I make sure to step on every one
Leaving behind a soft brown dust
For the growing winds to blow away

Autumn: leaves in orange piles
Huddling for warmth by the garden walls
The cold that climbs your spine
As you walk through the night, beautiful and alone

The reluctance to go inside, as your hand stops
On the icy metal of a door handle
The redness of her cheeks as she laughs
And you stare in tortured love
Natalie Sep 2018
Tiptoe so as not to wake the dead
Who slumber underfoot,
Their empty heads
Resting on mossy pillows of stone;

All their gelid dreams sour with time,
Beneath linen of soil and grass,
Under pounding paces of passersby.

At night, hear them snore and brood,
Chattering, gnashing bare bone gums;
At dawn, they roar and call and hoo,
They whistle through a naked cheek,
**** long-forgotten tunes
Through combs of dry and brittle teeth.
Vexren4000 Jul 2018
A trapdoor placed,
Underfoot in the brush,
A hunter waiting with baited breath,
For some prey to fall into snare,
For a simple campsite meal,
For one.

zero Nov 2017
Ashen doves float within the waves,
slinking like silent demons in the night.
They curl around my body,
jaws operating like steel machines,
gnashing at my limbs.
I begin to scream for help,
but they ****** my breath,
they drag me under their tides of black,
unleashing my unremitting fear of water predators.
their teeth, sunken into my flesh,
gnawing at my mind,
painting me my new mortality.

These are my demons,
the sharks in the bath when it comes to hygiene.
the fear of the below and the depths of human mentality,
the untraceable percentage of human worthlessness,
the detestable attraction to the demise of our minds,

I float lower into the aqua,
pressure building,
unforgiving and foreboding
I close my lids, and dream of the sand,
praying it to be underfoot when I open my eyes,
but when my lids open, the doves loom closer.

The irony of a hydrophobe,
dying at the hands of the sharks.
The fear of the ocean is the greatest fear I know.
Sarah Clark Apr 30
margins as     thin
as air.  gyrations of

     flight resurrecting.

- - -

cerulean feathers
strewn     underfoot

dazzling the      way

Sophie Aug 2018
The world gives us gifts everyday
Sometimes hearts are blinded by loss
When the autumns tender touch calls
And an amber carpet falls underfoot
The skies answer with cries of splendour
Sweet sugared chimney stacks fill with smoke
Whilst light flickers through iron and stone
The cold doesn't bite so much in beautiful places
love on Meadfoot beach can feel euphoric
And goodbyes in Budapest mark the beginning
Of the end of an exquisite dream
Evan Stephens Nov 2017
Silver-sided rattle,
a humble streak climbing
the hill in small doses.
Blue teardrop seats,
steel and yellow poles,
broad-eyed windows that offer
the view of things that the subway
will never give.

I've seen fistfights,
a baby born, overdoses,
old women falling asleep,
old men screaming wordlessly,
junkies scrambling for pills
dropped underfoot,
tourists grappling with the geometry
of this unknown language,
all of it.

Vibrating with a menacing stumble,
it attracts everyone. It promises
a view and a destination.
It's better to go through the world
than to sink below it.
English Jam Apr 30

Luke 12:49
“I came to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!”

This wasteland, desolate vegetable garden
No crops will grow, no sun will shine
No cool breeze to clean the air
of the smell of decomposition
Just dead things, the decay of man and dreams of hope
Which my black boots stomp on
I walk the ruin in silence

I walk past a monster sleeping by a tree
Turning, frowning
The monster is me
Its eyes are as red as judgement day
As red as the faces of the condemed
Those who stare at the 144 000, wondering if they are worthy
As red as the blood ******* in this ancient garden

This is a battleground
Oozing with pain, pleasure, splendor and misery
Even if Pythia already circled the loser's name in bright red
Allowing the victors to trample holy ground underfoot
Before they disappeared
But me
I stood here
Feeling all feeling being drained out

I have lost thrice
The first, an earthly one
My body unwinding into a fatal ******
The second, within
The sun inside me diminished
Leaving me hollow bodied and alone
The third is a ghost outside my window
Caught between reality and fiction
A wisp of thought I can never touch
An unattainable solution sneering at me
Beautiful, **** and inspiring in all the right places
And ever so patient too

I walked past a monster weeping by a tree

“Everything good must come to an end,”
Mystery says
Pursing her lips
“And so must everything wicked
But the memories
Those which encircle their victim
And slowly tighten like great snakes
Suffocating their prey
Those last forever
And if those memories last forever
Then how can one remain pure in heaven
Without thinking about sin
Temptation must surely creep in
Poisoning the mind until it is consumed with the idea
Who is pure anyway?”
I know she is lying
But her words are surreal, slurred, seductive
I look inside my heart to reassure myself
There is hope
But there’s nothing there

(And the monster is me)

In the vegetable garden
A ruin
A wasteland
I stand
Not really existing


Butch Decatoria Sep 2018
The impetus
                     Of being
Always on the run
               Through pinwheel eyes
                              Those standing by
                                          The mystic roadway :    River
Blues yet to be brushed
                      or in blush
                           Of evening chill's breathing
a canvas like windows dreaming felt
All mindful
And chockfull O'
Then ponder
                Yonder "window breaks"
                         Past the wilderness' sleep
Bone heavy wood
                             Umber earth

                             Past whoosh and rush of liquid
Folding on itself / a soundtrack

      Listen now
      Pedestrian be

Mindful of the cautionary whales
                                               Old Ahab’s yell
                                   Or loathing.

If one is drowning in one's sleep
Look wildly
                                    Down river  
Or up there beyond finger's point
                      Sidewinder snake journeys
Until sky and below it
All meet

The distance
        Now only a line
                 Coalescing what is beyond
                      Our ability to see
Far and away
                     Ever after      
                             River.     Life.
Here we are
And proud
     The free spirit is fluent
           With the rapid rivers loud
                            Always on the run
Currents like a child's curiosity ...
How then,
When or why
                        does it end ?
Where do we go?
Like most things existing,
           Will lead to the high art /
love's deep oceans...
We often forget to seek
                              And mind
                                     the sublimations/
                                                            d¬¬r­ift wood.
So then,
Begin with a dot .
A speck of dusk
                     A burst of light
                                        A starry sky,
pieces to mastering
                   Raging fragility of water

Liquid undulations  
                    Folding itself in / volumes

Or falling from on high
       A droplet cry

Then the lightning
                   (crash or bloom)
From the heavens
                                 like electric rivers
So brilliantly

Where do we go (so low)
       There and here / underfoot /
                   Over north / southern sleep
                                   To oceans twilight deep?

Go wrapped or map-less
Or no.
       Up yonder
There up there
                    All without fear...
My heart like the river yearns
                 To go toward the sun
                       A flow /
                                     the beating drum
Always on the run
ottaross Dec 2018
Melting away the crystalline snow underfoot
I spread crystals of salt
Scattered across the icy walkway.
Overhead Bohemian-glass icicles
Hang like stalactites
Like for the tenuous Damocles.
My beard is frozen, encrusted in the blizzard
But indoors soon I'll shed my layers.
And sit to warm my throat
With a bit of Scotch whisky
No ice in mine, please.
Vicki Kralapp Sep 2018
Inside my dreams, I found a house,
a place I came to know,
a dwelling unattended that
the second class called home.

For all those years t'was but a shell,
of grey, decaying wood,
and floors collapsing underfoot,
on each board that I stood.

While wandered the halls one night
I found within that home,
it's heart: a mansion, unsurpassed
in beauty, left alone.

But too afraid to stay, I thought,
it was too grand for me,
so each time that this place appeared,
I turned on heel to leave.

Throughout the years that house has changed,
rebuilt with wings attached,
though new, the halls were blackened by
the ghosts of memories past.

Then one great night, a fire broke out,
in rooms left unprepared,  
and all I knew, burnt to the ground,
and I alone was spared.

When I awoke, it was quite clear,
and could not be denied,
this house was me, who lived before,
my heart was what survived.

For all my life I’d seen myself
dismissed and set apart,
I hadn’t seen the grace within
that lived inside my heart.
Self portrait

All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Steve Page Nov 2018
Blessed are they who are conscripted, when they are dragged into wars not of their choosing - for they will be remembered.
Blessed are they who are convinced by politicians' rhetoric, when they are shamed into service by posters and speeches - for they will be remembered.

Blessed are you when men shell you and seek to **** you.
Sing and be brave, for you will be remembered.
Blessed are you when leaders lie to you and lead you to your slaughter.
Sing and be brave, for you will be remembered.

You are the salt of the earth, thrown out and trampled underfoot.
You are the light of the world, placed in darkness and buried.
But truly I tell you, until heaven and earth disappear, not the least drop of your blood will by any means disappear from the soil.

Therefore anyone who sets aside one of the least of these and encourages others to forget will be called least in this kingdom.

But you,
will be
I have mixed feelings about war. Just wars are few and far between. Men's egos and power plays are more common.  But the soldier fights for those on their left and their right, not for ideologies. Soldiers deserve our respect.
KateKarl Jan 15
scratchy and damp do not harmonize underfoot
and fear and the ocean should not coexist
but like this elevator missing the thirteenth button, my comfort sinks with tantalizing, lethargic anxiety.

the boards are a smokeless fire underfoot,
grit rolling between me and chipped brown paint,
as i beg for cold, thirst for salt, but do not run to the provocative, promising body beyond the dunes.

and my clothes are underfoot,
and this lemonade pink towel whose corner grabs at the sand,
and the hot dry fades into something that is sturdy and packed down by bounds like mine.

carbon slices at my underfoot,
the sharp home of a long-dead thing,
as my heel strikes the iron, water-pat shore, and the shock of it stuns my bones.

shock! cold underfoot
lace between my toes, smoking from wood and run
and then my face is in the sea, because who needs air when life is the sun trapping itself in the pink of my shoulder blades?
I haven't written poetry in a very long time, but am putting together a small portfolio for a writing class assignment. Any and all advice is more than welcome, even if you're the type who can't say it nicely!
gemma Aug 2018
cold and alone i am
where you touched me.
bees crawl my skin
and burrow down
to my sorrowful heart.

magnolias, crushed underfoot -
this was once a happy place -
but all that remains is
the stench of your lust.

i think my limbs were snapped
by your
sheer force
as you claimed my innocence
as i cried out to a god i don't believe in.

ghosts walk these gardens:
ghosts of the children
you leave broken
amongst the trampled magnolias.

i start,
gasping for air,
choking back sobs.
but this is not a dream.
copyright g. wilson 2018
Steve Page Sep 2018
The forest of legs swayed in the moving shadows beneath the chatter over head, each threatening to block our path and crush our attempt to get to the first fallen crisps of the party season, which as yet laid undisturbed.

We weaved and advanced as fast as their legs allowed, eager to scavenge the waiting bounty before they were trampled underfoot by the oblivious adults who were intent on a seasonal ritual of their own that went on high over our heads.

We emerged unscathed at the edge of the forest and raced across the open parquet to the cover of the drapped, white topped trestle tables catching our breaths and crunching our snatched crisps planning our next move toward the plateau above.

Our scout had reported rich pickings, but when we looked around, seeking signs of our brave advance party, we could find no trace beyond a half eaten volovant and what might have been regurgitated mushroom. We shook our heads in despair at their folly. Every kid knows to stick to crisps and to processed meats, avoiding anything that might contain vegetables. We saw an open French window just beyond the trestles and heard plaintive heaves that had a distinct 6 year old strain.

We checked each other's resolve and saw on each other's faces that we believed our mission was more important than any one stomach. With a maturity that would have surprised our parents, we pushed the plight of our friend to the back of our minds and focused on the task at hand.

We each reached up with practiced stealth, taking only a second to check the food on offer and with a speed bred into us by the curse of older siblings, we each grabbed our prize.

Acknowledging the hazards of the return journey we devoured the meat at hand and with hyena grins savoured our just rewards. While our fallen friend heaved once more, we saluted one another: the season had started better than any of us could have hoped.
With thanks to Poetry Journal for the inspiration. And, yes, I acknowledge it's not poetic.  But it was fun to write.
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