Best Fleet Footed Poems
Somewhere beside the myrtle rose blooming white
By nutgrass overgrown, a palm tree sways in soft moonlight
Like an angel from the throne, and somewhere there
In your long forgotten bed sleep your bones alone
And though distant, for childhood I almost feel a tear
Benbow lies forgotten there, the first dog I ever owned
Some evening when the light was dim, without a call
He took his place at the front steps, surveying all
No more bones for him, no more sleight of teasing throw
No more joy to see him stand, fore legs paddling the air
Hind legs secure on the ground, then spinning to show
Dexterity, rolled on his back to our gleeful cheer.
My father named him for the English admiral those days
Gave him as hero, the sea dogs of Great England’s praise
Are but distant mist to me, but not my dear Benbow
My trusted dog, my loyal friend, ran over by a car
And leaving vacations behind returned a little low
Benbow was not there to leap and greet, his only czar.
I never owned another dog since, never could replace
The love I bore for my Benbow, a scrub exalted by its grace
When hunting mongoose in pingwing patch, or scaring
The clever kestrels from its swooping flight to spare
The hen house its tragic day. The time staccato barking
In four-part harmony is gone, the porch is sadly bare.
No Benbow will ever chase again a fleet footed boy
Gurgling fountains of joy, O how these memories annoy
My soul, time reaping our happiness first, and then us
Stripping our best possessions away, making us naked
Before returning us to barren bowels of brimless dust.
What had my dog to do with sin or fate among the wicked?
O Benbow, and old man needs a friend to walk at nights
A little boy needed a dog to be undefeated in all his fights.
Feeling a bit scaly
and my usual fleet-footed
I followed a lizard
into an evaporating wash --
somehow, all living critters
eventually enter the wash -- the
lizard looking for insects, and the
coyote looking for lizards
and to drink from a puddle
of water -- more like
a thimble full, the sun reclaims
quickly when 120 -- dwellers learn
to conserve, survive on less
in the desert; did not see
one environmentalist though;
probably in a comfy college
dorm, or staff lounge, sipping ice-tea,
writing his or her next hit piece, main
focus on how he or she suffers along with
a greatly abused planet. Gulp, gulp!
Honestly, I prefer the company of lizards,
coyotes, and an occasional rattler -- always
having found the desert far more hospitable
than Arid intellect.
Fiona, fair beauty, fleet footed and fancy free,
Flits over the field,
Full of life and fun, a joy to see.
She’s my Bonnie canine, sweet and good,
Loving and loyal, a regal golden,
Her tail held high, 'til coursing the woods.
Wild is my Heather as her namesake flower on the hill,
Pursuing bunnies, squirrels and birds,
Though only for the chase’s thrill.
Nairne, in Gaelic means “dweller by the narrow river glen,”
Which is she, when resting from her adventures now and then.
Oh, Fi, my darling girl,
How you’ve blessed my life and set it in a whirl!
MRT/4-27-10
The morning sun showers its rays,
Standing between two mountain's way,
The valley of flowers opens its eyes,
And washes its face with melting ice,
The yellow glow slowly surrounds,
Like a majestic king's glittering gold crown.
The shinning dew drops down,
To kiss the scented lemon grass ground,
The raising enemy melts them out
But the green lady never worries about,
She is in high demand every night,
And the virgin dew never get a first night.
The cuddling Cock feels so warm,
Unfurl its wings and crows nature's alarm,
The longing sunflower raises its head,
To see her lover and plead for a wed
The pine and spruce frozen in cold,
Shakes its head and opens it's fold
The lazy river deeply snores,
Beneath the blanket of frigid ice floor,
Awakes from sleep and flows with elated joy,
And announces the summer to the tardy school boys.
It carries the logs on its back
To help the suffering Lumberjacks
The serf warm winds blows across,
And clear the snow on the uncovered cars,
The tiny droplets stick to the panes,
On which the naughty kids write their names,
It mobs the roads clean and bright,
For the frozen ice flakes to turn it white.
The moving sun stands at top,
Shadows falling on the afternoon back drop,
Sober nature alerts its friends,
To work for their living before the day ends,
Flora and fauna like fleet – footed bees
Hurries to gather the Vitamin D
The evening princess Golden Crown,
Wanna kiss the hottest Day light's Sun,
The nature's beauty blushes for million eyes,
Waiting to see the romantic skies,
She drops the night screen to make her hide,
Behind which two lovers peptide.
Murkiness fills the cosmos space,
And the dancing clouds falls into place
The resting time for the Sun,
The crescent night lamp glows with fun,
The sentinel stars shield the gate
And the Gorgeous universe hibernate,
Strolling thro' the zoo today, gazing at the various creatures,
I marveled at their shapes, colors and other distinctive features.
Some were graceful and sweet, others were cute and cuddly;
Others were grumpy and clumsy - some were downright ugly!
The ungainly giraffe, for instance, altho' much maligned,
Is one of the most graceful beasts that God designed.
But I saw no glamour in Godzilla the nine-hundred pound gorilla,
Scowling and holding the hand of his homely mate, Drusilla!
What splendid lions, tigers and other cats pacing to and fro!
And is there a more elegant animal than a fleet-footed doe?
The camels, elephants, kangaroos and yaks look mighty weird.
The buffalo isn't all that handsome with its shaggy beard!
Tho' 'tis risky with sneaky snakes, 'gators and crocs to coexist,
Even they are beautiful, according to the adoring herpetologist!
I suppose only its mother could love the lumbering rhinoceros.
For what purpose did God create the sinister hippopotamus?
Some seem to have been desisgned by an ad hoc senatorial committee,
And, alas, the results did not turn out to be all that pretty!
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder to savor and enthrall;
For each to treasure all of God's creatures, be they great or small!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Peregrine falcons are built to terrorize the sky,
Fleet-footed cheetahs meant to run down prey,
Insulated penguins with the harshest winter vie,
Through the deep sleek orcas race without delay.
Hummingbirds steal nectar, suspended in flight,
Meerkats stand sentry on sturdy hind legs,
Silverbacks reign with awesome shows of might,
Camouflaged chameleons with the local flora mix.
At a purpose each animal is designed to excel,
And man with an outsize brain equipped to think,
Yet from the state of the world one hardly can tell,
Ours is the race chosen to do any such thing.
I love to visit the church; to wander in the graveyard…
Flitting fleet-footed amongst the copse of corpses,
The grey stone groves of death –
I love those humble long-suffering tombstones,
They rear their bleak blackened heads towards the eternal sky
And remind me of the redeeming comfort of oblivion
I find it soothing, to wander in their company, to reach out –
And lay a soft white hand upon their immortal chill
Each footstep of mine cushioned in bone-rich moss,
Each breath adorning the air with gauzy veils of fog;
I love too, the churchyard chorus, of robin’s peep
And raven’s haunting harmony
And the audible acrimony of ghosts, sitting amidst the trees,
Watching me with curiosity…
I love to consort with them, the silent silver spirits here,
Those who drift, lachrymose, beneath boughs bedecked with blossom
With the pretty pink buds of May
They seem to embrace me as I wander, seem to hold my hand,
And their cool breath upon the nape of my neck comforts…
Soothes away the stresses and strains of this insufferable mortal life
They understand my pain you see – for they have seen it all before,
They learnt life’s cruelest lessons and took them to the grave,
Where they pondered and reflected upon all the reasons why…
Now their worm-eaten wisdom drenches the soil underfoot,
And hangs from the stones themselves in silver trails of starlight
Waiting for me to pluck them like cherries,
To devour the flesh of their knowledge,
And then swallow the kernel of cunning consolation the dead have left –
The ghosts have left – for me…
And so you see, I hold the graveyard dear, and love to sit there
Among the wakeful dead, my feet cushioned by corpse hands
My heart cradled in a nest of ghostly fists…
Churchyard child I am, at home among the amorphous,
And sometimes it seems to me that when life becomes too much to bear,
And poisons my heart with dread,
Then I can come to the graveyard – and find my cold eternal bed
Evening of life when struggles are over
Living without luxuries on a small monthly pension
Never needing the ferry back from Calais to Dover.
Fleet-footed days driven from season to season;
No clutter but the essentials with access to Internet,
A telephone landline, and a flat-screen television.
One spare room to accommodate the sure guest
Family or friend, who'll be pleased to drift in,
Claiming their turn for a holiday and rest.
Neighbours invited for a tonic with gin
Discover the shops where the price could be lower
But cart away the empties to the recycling bin.
Some may believe that our lives are in clover
Depends whether you like it less fast, or much slower.
Eons ago I felt my birth,
as my two parents collided,
and I arrived -crumpled and folded upward
rugged and jagged with a body of ever-changing rock.
Unlike the ordinary human child,
I don’t ever get to reach my final full height.
As I grow, I am assaulted by wind-blown sand
chewing away at me. Streams of water
carry chunks of me beyond the base of me.
I get shorter, but then my parental plates collide again
and I regain my former stature or even get taller
until severe weather assures I will not remain
the tallest I’ve ever been.
They say I am rock, so I am not alive,
but humans do not know of feelings I have.
Do I fear death? Much longer do I live
compared to you.
I live to see generations of you come and go,
come and go, moving about in the valleys
beneath my feet, ever changing my view..
With sharp tools, you clutch me as you climb my cliffs.
Do I cry out in pain? You tread my rocky bones,
creating pathways upward to my head,
where you breathe the freshest of air
and where snow adorns me. I wear many caps of snow
as I stretch for miles across boundless land.
Trees and plants and grass also adorn me,
sweeping across me with wild abandon,
making me a habitat for creatures large and small.
In my cleared spaces, you sometimes build cabins.
Enticed by the fleet-footed deer, you arrive with weapons
whose sound is loud and whose aim is deadly.
I watch with amusement as you speed down my slopes
when snow upon me is powdery and deep.
Yes, you humans come and go, and I,
the mighty mountain - with my many siblings
and baby hills - stand like sentries,
seemingly ever-lasting to you, who look up at us in awe.
You can never know my simple pleasures.
Nor can you fathom the suffering I endure
as so very slowly I crumble away.
Angels And Their Friends
All along the forest winds desire
Angels fly from side to side beguiled
At attention to the young running child
Allowed to frolic free between the trees awhile
Born to breathe below branch and leaf
Chronicled are beginnings and child’s ends
Charmed, fleet-footed with playful friends
Charging past the forest to the open glen
Boundless energy, into the arms of parents with relief
Created on 8/27/14 for The Lady Of Shalott Poetry contest
In an open meadow, on a path carved just for me between the wildflowers,
I stand breathing in the scent of pine needles, crushed by fleet-footed deer,
as the birds sing a melody uninterrupted by the world.
I am lost momentarily in the softness of the moss beneath my fingers,
while the
waterfall
rushes
to kiss
the earth
finally pooling at the bottom,
like the peace that comes to rest in my soul.
Blessed Hope, Rays Of True Light, And Silent Prayer
An ancient man in darken and morbid cloud
no longer full of vigor and foolishly proud
Constant lashing winds, setting heart aghast
as rising black and purple waves cry of the past
Beseeching heavens for signs of relief
from darkness in the marrows, sorrows in the grief
Aching bones that magnify colder chills
fleet footed shadows dance around fresh bloody kills!
Accursed dreams, their vengeance harsh and real
each from darkest dark, into brightest sunlight spills
No clean water to wash away his curse
as both agony and misery becomes worse
Single ray of light breaks through each high noon
from weakened promise, salvation rain may come soon
For decades, that dear hope has stayed alive
within its fleeting happiness, his soul survives!
Death has danced forward and its blade sliced in deep
A young and truly innocent soul, fast asleep
Lo! Fate's wicked companion, may next my soul choose
In that dying moment, I my composure lose!
I had prepared, with courage born of true heart
With my faith seek, much sweeter realm for my restart
Death is abject darkness, its great destructive waves
Accepts only victory, denies Light that saves!
R.J. Lindley,
January 6th, 1979
Rhyme, ( Hope's True Arrow, Shot Straight As The Crow Flies )
From deep within, we feel bliss rapture rise,
too fleet footed to be tracked by our mind,
so leaving imagined knowing behind,
we feel each breath as first rays of sunrise.
Poised in peace in the cave behind our eyes,
entwined with vibrant heart, loving and kind,
God’s grace releasing us from desire’s bind,
whence soul’s light shines and wayward ego dies.
Recognition of Self, sets our soul free,
requiring but our eye to be single,
that beholding ourselves as living light,
we dance breath by breath, joyous and carefree,
cajoled by bliss pheromones that tingle,
bestowing upon us, gift of clear sight.
A deer in my cabin roadway
regards me curious
like a painter at his easel
As twilight flickering, catches its coat,
dappled patches of brown.
"Are you okay?" It nods, a neck swoop down, in flourishes.
"Do you want more apples?" It bobs again
before fleet footed to the woods away.
My cabin mate would have gaped in wonder
but he's not here.
He fell in love with barley whiskey.
Kidney failure
Cirrhosis
That took his apple grin away.
But not before his body screamed
a spinning form in spasms
to miss the fleeting hooves of deer.
Poem composed: October 2020
A singular beast is the moose
And said to be quite a recluse.
Fleet-footed, it seems
It's only in dreams
You'll capture a moose on the loose!
05.01.23