Best Footsore Poems
Golda and Goofus.
or how a young Baer lost his luncheon and found that man need not live by bread alone.
Deep, deep in a pine-wood in the Adirondacks,
the Baers owned a cabin. [Offset against tax.]
Daddy Baer, it was said, was a Wall Street tycoon.
Red-Hot Momma Baer never rose before noon.
Their son, 'Goofus' Baer, was a no-good lazy bum;
always scratching his groin and chewing pink gum.
On a fine summer's day, the Baers went for a stroll,
left the lunch table set. [which you may think is droll]
Meantime, up wandered Golda, a pubescent blonde lass,
in a bright gingham dirndl and brim-full of sass.
Lost her way in the woods; she was hungry, footsore,
so without hesitation, she knocked on the door.
No answer, walked in, saw comestible display:
Daddy's cold chili 'carne, she passed sans delay.
Momma's limp spinach salad met with sheer disdain,
But Goofus's jelly doughnuts! She couldn’t refrain.
Washing down the repast with the Baer’s best root beer,
she felt so damn' tired - almost fell on her rear.
Climbing the stairs for much-needed repose,
she passed Daddy Baer’s chamber just wrinkling her nose.
Momma's chintzy boudoir was too outre to suit,
but Goofus's macho haven was darling and cute!
[Papered with Harley posters and pneumatic nudes.]
Golda dropped off to sleep - dreamt of muscle-bound pseuds.
Hungry from exertions, the Baers slavered for food:
adults - minor tampering – Goofus’s wakening was rude.
“My favouritest din-din’s been gobbled!" was his whine.
"They only nibbled yours, left the mere smell of mine!
I'm going to bed: don’t expect to see me soon.
There’s goodies stashed there: I'll work-out all afternoon."
Captin revisionist Cat
Form:
My comfortable shoes are full of squeaks.
An unrelenting sound I can't possibly ignore,
Like an old wooden rocking chair that creaks
Or noisy wet sneakers on a tile floor.
It's quite loud and not only noticed by me, eek!
I've tried tip-toeing but it's causing footsore.
I'm aggravated beyond belief with these squeaks.
LEST WE FORGET!
KOSOVO
Frank Halliwell
You must give us all your money. You must leave your home and land.
If you're not gone in five minutes, we will kill you where you stand.
Women go and take your children, but the men must remain here.
...So they gather up their children, and depart in deadly fear!
Fleeing from barbaric terror toward a future dim and bleak.
Tramp the widows and their children, and the tired, old, and weak.
Through the lonely empty valleys and the passes white with snow
Stream the footsore, cold and weary dispossessed of Kosovo.
Past the shattered shells of houses, and the ruins of others' hopes,
Past the rubble of a village and the smell of acrid smoke.
Toward the border of their country, and perhaps a helping hand,
Toward the hope of their salvation in a friendly foreign land.
Who could watch without compassion as this tragedy unfolds
Untold thousands on the borders cower in the rain and cold.
Down the road that leads from Kosovo, they come in endless streams,
People stripped of human dignity, possessions and their dreams.
A woman moans in labour, her distress is ill-concealed
With her baby's life beginning in a wet and rainy field!
No place dry to place the infant, no place warm for there's no fire.
Nothing dry in which to wrap her in this field of mud and mire.
Here a Serb and there a Muslim, they have shared these lands for years.
Each in turn has been the victim, each in turn has known the fears...
If you stood them up before you they would look about the same,
But each man detests the other, for their gods have different names.
Two different superstitions of two different deities,
So mindless hate will propagate down through the centuries!
Will justice long delayed seek out the beasts in business suits
And pitiless barbarians who rob and execute?
What will be the final outcome, will the force of arms bestow
A peace to stop the winds of hate that flow through Kosovo?
***
Just in case you wondered...
Yours truly, (i.e. I) quickly
became hypnagogic afore
subsequently segueing soundly
into autohypnosis booklore,
while binge reading courtesy
regarding aptitude chore
treasure trove books galore
five dollars as many
paginated fictitious stories ('bout deplore
hubble basket cases) fit into authorized bag
infernal challenge sifting evermore
alum skid more or less
bending and reaching skyhigh
toe tilly (ejaculating
what the heel) footsore
compromising writing, rather heretofore
indulging insatiable knowledge
(surpassing narcotic fix),
the world wide web hide ignore
engrossed various and sundry
enchanting, kickstarting, and revelling - bonjour
dear reader buzzfeeding...
Till chief hankering
(regarding appeasing passionate
word loving aficionado,
albeit temporarily ceased
(think intellectual fancy feast)
getting imagination (mine) linkedin
outspeeding lightning greased
experiencing cerebral capacity increased
virtual make believe
terra incognita leased.
insatiable jabberwocky yen
countless hours elapsed when
inconvenient wont head sleep
wracked courtesy (bowling) ten
pins nabbed mettlesome ambulation
often found me - hen (pecked) hex pen
sieve dishabille scattered brained brute
somnambulant analogous awake burning ken
kindled smoldering cognitive tinder even...
Chilly cooling off, where
temporal lobed hiatus taken
beefing portfolio in effort to scare
back poetic proclivity despite near
severe withdrawal symptoms
reacquainting novelty here
with effort to jog capacity
to craft poem quite aware...
Unsuspecting readers breathed
sigh of relief interim joker I went absent
posting trademark gobbledygook,
now unnamed fool rushes in,
where angels fear to tread - nay cent
return of native son unequivocally, pinterestingly
digitally... afore written dive versification
brandishing said as unsung literary event
psalm time sacrilegious Jew bull gent
bringing entertainment intent
to thee anonymous
analogously, humorously, and parenthetically
lamely affecting (i.e. poorly emulating)
Shakespearean belles lettres,
perhaps coronavirus pathogen
t'will cut me down, whereby
microbial size Clark Kent,
whoops twas Lois Lane I meant
to empower one meek and obedient
primate even during
but, and, or conjunctive
rutting season quiescent.
Hunted
by Don Johnson
Brisbane-Australia
On a bitter cold and moonless night,
there came a gentle knock at the door.
Only half heard Joe did stir from sleep, alight,
to meet a stranger exhausted and footsore.
The hunted man did look in doubt,
quick eyed he searched this place.
Then he asked "Any traps about?"
Joe whispered "Not a trace!"
Joe made a meal for this hungry man,
of corned meat and damper too.
They drank strong tea from a pannican, ....tin cup
in dull light of the lantern's hue.
Before the dawn could break he rode away ,
this man with the haunted look.
Long gone he'd be by the light of day,
when the Traps did wake the cook. ….....Mounted Police
"Our tracker says he came past here, ......Aboriginal Tracker
it's here we lost his trail.
The bounder flogged his overseer,
we'll take him back to jail!"
These police it's then they rode away,
with tracker and packhorse too.
The tracker searched and couldn't say,
why no tracks, just a blank he drew?
But word did come on the grapevine,
of our convict's good escape.
From the men of the first fleet convict line,
good men make no mistake!
In the 1880's there were thousands of ex convicts
who associated with the deported from Ireland, Irish rebels and local
Bushrangers in Australia - Their natural enemy the rich landowners
and the English/Irish Police.
Shadows lengthen, the landscape dims,
and all that was my rising sun
is drifting out beyond the rim
of life's elusive horizon.
So many times my footsore soul
has traveled following that light,
pursuing the ever moving goal
that sinks into a sea of night.
Seething waves leap in the blackness;
their crashing drowns my feeble cry.
with hope deferred, Fear and Madness,
hard on my heels, snap evil lies.
I cannot voyage on alone;
no craft can weather such a sea!
I wait. I face the dark unknown
till God brings daybreak back to me.
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
My heart a pouch of rich wine overlays yours
a drop of blood spilled over an arum lily
waits with longing intense, retains no tears
as it remembers its cringes of final fear when it
jumped into your chest of steel, smell of fruit juice, water and old leather all around
My soul lays naked in a room of light while your music plays next door
two plumed serpents dance slow dances to rhythms of drums and pipes, notes of knowingness, sounds repeated
I listen again and again
Spacious a white room waits aged and innocent
in a no-zone forest of mushrooms, poppies and pebbles as the piano vibrates with silence
while Goddess does not speak of a mission that never ends, watching for symbols that appear and vanish while progress moves worse than a snail with a footsore over splintered glass
Surrender struggles to be free !
Drops in space hung on Venus threads
breasts heaving and falling, passing tests of temperance, strength, solitude
swallow death and darkened silence deep
in a psyche of five thousand years
Across oceans of space my thoughts travel
not knowing whether they reach your light or
hermit in your head or the warehouse in which
you play with waves of froth on dirty sand
seals and gulls glide and shout
A lighthouse looks on still and sure
muck in the harbour awaits an embrace
fried chips beckon and call to fill my open belly of waiting Sun as love struggles for freedom on a higher plane with yours in ether on a wall I read
Still you sleep a hundred thousand sleeps of
fear and watchfulness
in the distance runs Skeleton Woman with tangled bones to be untangled
knowing that long ago she completed her work
of inner peace with honours
Spartacus and Helen looking on
I wait not for you alone but to fill your Heart
for another work of love, to drink your tears
slate your thirst ~become one, two, three to
ten again as dough rises with surprises inside
eggs fresh full, two yolks and cream to be
eaten on a jetty of harmonious voids
Love lost and found, lost and found
all over again
Don't think I'm anybody special, now:
I'm just an old friend standing at your door.
They said your house was here, and being poor
Of treasure, tired and footsore, I asked how
You might be: Do you smile much, or frown more
Than erstwhile lover's memory allow.
They said you look away with heavy brow,
As though a happy thought that came before
Flew far on promise of a swift return.
But still you wait, chin resolute in hand,
For word of him who by your door now stands.
I hesitate -- I pull the latch to learn
If tears of sadness or of joy I raise --
Or may be blended in lovers' embrace.
Weighty words wasted on the east wind
blowing down Dame Street
they don’t heed or even hear them
the footsore army of suits and students
the new Abraham or Jesus or Muhammad
cries out
but is ignored
shoulder pushed to the side as the bus pulls up
cries out
new truths
replace the old
faith has become comical and morally weak
Bus pulls away and the Saviour is alone
in the crowded city
Screams
as the police move in
no laughter or mocking
just snorts of disapproval and ‘tuts’ of annoyance
eyes back down to the pavement
count the sore steps home
the rosary of the church of the rat-race
must have its homage
He could be the One
One true Saviour – again!
but this world would crucify him
with apathy and loose change
FREE this week ‘URBANIA’ contemporary poetry collection
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00FC4822C
My Principal is forever ready to explore
New things from students who implore
And set a new goal for them to outscore
In their own life. He is ready to restore
Intellect and discipline in school therefore
Stands out and administers students’ footsore.
Cherian sir the one who is fighting war
Against anxiety and worry on door,
Which pester children and occasionally gore
Their morale and self-esteem. They spoor
Away from study which he sojourns before
They reach to larger extent and be cocksure.
Never he criticizes without any reason poor,
As he is a positive thinker. All of us roar
Which is pacified by him but for sure.
He is the man of principles and decor
Whose blessings on all of us ever pour.
Footsore and Weary
We travel these endless roads
On a journey
To our final destination,
Where they lead, God only knows.
W.A CHOLT. Copyright Fergal O Reilly 2018.
2200 E High Street
Pottstown, PA 19464
Upon making a purchase,
yours truly murmurs bonjour
to the man/woman clerk
manning cash register,
(perhaps another day)
maybe soon as tomorrow
January twenty four -
two thousand and twenty,
I will explore
Moonlight madness sale
fifty percent off all merchandise
across the expansive floor
after getting weary and footsore
snagging garments for near future
return home to stock wardrobe (mine)
satisfied with basement bargains galore,
aye attest bang for buck heretofore
wearables specially bought with difficulty,
née impossible mission finding clothing
to fit this hunchback named Igor.
Rather than pay top dollar i.e.
as prestigious patrician wag
hashtagged with extremely
high price tag
(think chic boutiques)
uninviting to token
garden variety scalawag
(i.e. namely yours truly),
who feels more at home
attiring himself courtesy ragtag
garments, particularly scant legal tender
jangling within me threadbare moneybag
plus deformity drawing
less stares when I lollygag
(matter of fact many "Zerns people")
populate said very affordable - egad
even amiable animals
amble along to stash their feedbag.
Impact on very limited budget
affords me more bang for buck
upon locating rare find,
I feel analogous to lucky duck
quacking and fluffing tail feathers
scouting around for usable goods
another shopper did finish
with thence did huck.
The ruins loom and leer
At travelers through here;
And still we push ahead
When all our hopes are dead.
Does anybody know
Whatever makes us go
Through all the doom and dust,
And why we think we must?
The answer’s in the rain,
The answer’s in the pain
Of every footsore mile;
We’ll learn it in a while.
The answer’s everywhere,
The answer’s in the air
And in the grass and sod--
Our journey reveals God.
The gated wall they stood before
No timber seemed awake to them;
no splinter stirred amidst the wood,
the nails now rusty in their beds,
where once brave Knights had deftly trod
on mounted horses,
all bejewelled.
True Knights and Barons who heralded The Cause.
That narrowest of narrow paths,
Where only the Truest traveller knows
The healing waters for his love sick heart
Lay hidden deep within the Well,
and who would ever know its source?
For in disguise it lay vast and deep,
covered in thickets where Lion’s prowl
Only the footsore brave seek its song
The song of sweetest melody
and in every chord a different balm;
to heal, to bind, to nourish and to love
but so faint on the wind is the song -
you would ne’er hear it - even if you strained;
wooed by the sound of The Maker,
and only seen by the eyes of the heart,
echoing in fathomless depths.
The beauteous sound of the waters brings healing to his love sick heart,
and trusses of red blossoms spring forth
And with a sweet pure melodic fragrance,
it bursts into a myriad of colours,
Leading him in a dance, singing the sweet sweet melody,
and as he sings,
the waters of the Well gush forth
and he within the waters is reborn.