Best Square Foot Poems
FINGERTIPS (( collaboration MICHAEL J. FALOTICO ))
by~ MICHAEL J. FALOTICO
I reach in the dark with my hands stretched out the window..
My fingertips feel your vibe as the breeze that carries you starts to grow..
I close my eyes so tight and can almost feel your breathe..
Only way to hold you without taking a step..
With my mouth wide open I can taste your kiss..
What I can't see or touch is left in my head to miss..
Certain nights can almost feel the sensation of your tummy,
being shaking in pleasure.
The warm salty taste that forever is my treasure...
by~ P.D:
Finally! I feel your breath, I got you all to myself.
Some how thousands of miles feel only a square foot away.
Imagining you in arms distance comes with a tasty delight.
Please my darling rest your weary head on my legs!
Slowly massage your fingertips upon my shoulders.
In hopes that I may give you more to explore.
I surrender and value your gentleness ~ wanting more.
I want to feel you with my eyes close'
Gliding your fingertips with a touch only I desire;
Your tenderness ignites me with an eternal fire.
Greedily we will feel not wasting a single thought,
including deep breaths~ you nor I cannot stop.
Switching and opening the kisses you treasure!
A Collaboration with * MICHAEL J. FALOTICO
~MY COLLABORATION CONTEST~
The weather will soon be getting warmer.
Watching economics and politics,
I’m teaching myself to be a farmer--
Anticipating an Apocalypse.
It’s time to rototill my backyard lawn,
And remove decorative plants and weeds.
My ‘raised bed’ ‘square foot’ garden plans are drawn;
Ready to plant heirloom vegetable seeds.
It’s time we start providing for ourselves!
The government’s nearly in bankruptcy.
It’s foolish to expect grocery store shelves
To have food during a catastrophe.
Go buy your trellises and garden string.
Plant your future meals, because here comes Spring.
America By the Square Foot
We here in this part of the country,
love God and stand for the flag.
We here in this part of the country,
honor the military,
help widows and orphans...
and tar and feather,
lowlife liars,
posing as Politian's,
for the betterment
of erasing all things
worth believing in
or standing up for.
If you want to know my state,
my county, my city or town,
it is not far from where you live.
Where you have taken up residence,
behind walls that we paid for,
and think we will be okay,
with continuing to dish out cash to,
as you put US(a) out into the streets,
covered with the dung of humans.
Creating new jobs in your neighborhood,
is to apply for the cleanup squad.
They should have called the Ghostbusters,
and consumed the ectoplasm that has
invaded ALL of the golden state,
taking away its shine forever.
Read your history,
silly rich folk.
It did not go well for the elite of Europe,
as they fell to plague and disaster,
at the hands of their own stupidity,
now repeated...
embracing leprosy,
typhus,
hepatitis,
measles,
and the new sickness,
racism and hypocrisy rampant...
among the elite,
currently in office.
Fingertips - Michael J, Falotico -
Written by: ¥ Destroyer ¥ Poet
FINGERTIPS (( collaboration MICHAEL J. FALOTICO ))
by~ MICHAEL J. FALOTICO
I reach in the dark with my hands stretched out the window..
My fingertips feel your vibe as the breeze that carries you starts to grow..
I close my eyes so tight and can almost feel your breathe..
Only way to hold you without taking a step..
With my mouth wide open I can taste your kiss..
What I can't see or touch is left in my head to miss..
Certain nights can almost feel the sensation of your tummy,
being shaking in pleasure.
The warm salty taste that forever is my treasure...
by~ P.D:
Finally! I feel your breath, I got you all to myself.
Some how thousands of miles feel only a square foot away.
Imagining you in arms distance comes with a tasty delight.
Please my darling rest your weary head on my legs!
Slowly massage your fingertips upon my shoulders.
In hopes that I may give you more to explore.
I surrender and value your gentleness ~ wanting more.
I want to feel you with my eyes close'
Gliding your fingertips with a touch only I desire;
Your tenderness ignites me with an eternal fire.
Greedily we will feel not wasting a single thought,
including deep breaths~ you nor I cannot stop.
Switching and opening the kisses you treasure!
A Collaboration with * Poet Destroyer
~MY COLLABORATION CONTEST~
VIDEO/AUDIO now on YouTube
Whatever Weekend
Being humble common pathways ere,
I ought traveled nearby that lea,
Past the margin of my home there,
Where the daffodils fickle sprightly,
As I shared the natural trail lead,
General impressions befall o'er sunlit,
E'er lighthearted to the bird's melodies,
I travailed the character of it,
Simple yet well organized,
Amongst the laughter, ere rumored whisper,
Neath a yellow sky, midst squinting eyes,
Masses traverse and heed a rise to prosper,
Yonder the verdant meadow rest,
Spreads of marigolds and violet folds,
Concerts of pleasantries and greets confess,
A myriad of countless told's,
Ere me, couples digress,
In accompany of solitude,
Tis a time out that be abreast,
A sea of people floats a multitude,
Be it so accordingly,
As time drifts in emptied homes,
Consequently, there is aplenty,
As crowds trends above the loams,
A tad of clouds sparse the sky,
Disperses a legion directly afoot,
The grassland, not shade as far one espy,
Groups forward motion advances e'er square foot,
Gleaming sunrays whips into action,
Clouds impart a rainbow into the landscape,
As they convert into a diminutive and fade into a fraction,
And a colorful fancy fulfills a dreamscape,
The call of an afternoon squanders the present,
As Sun of a constant drops e'er so slightly,
Fingered flip-flops drape backsides, marks a day well-spent,
Chorale of winged birds past a flung open door, gradually,
As dusk crowned heaven undresses the night,
And a sequined of stars sparkle a whirling, whereat,
Slumberous thoughts transpire while well-kept dreams ignite,
Midnight's slide into a twilight that trips into dawn's golden chariot.
2020 February 22
*3rd Place*
STRAND SELECT Y ,any form ,any theme
~~Brian Strand
Well I was feeling stir crazy and I needed to move
All juiced up you could say, with something to prove
So I strapped a helmet to my melon and headed for the door
No telling where I was heading, just feet to the floor
I hopped on my bike, closed my eyes and sped away
Letting go of all the stresses that led up to that day
To unwind I ride blind, and when I ride, I ride the rind
The watermelon kind, in the unexplored of my mind
So uphill to the clouds I inclined launching through fluff
My tire seeds flying from speed, the skies rough
The faster I pedaled the more seeds hit the clouds
Mixing with raindrops, growing like unruly crowds
These air born watermelon vines suspended in the sky
I couldn’t explain if I tried so don’t ask me why
It began to rain, but not your regular precipitation
Green and white orbs hurdle down without hesitation
Now I’m riding back home on a falling melon mountain
Exploding everywhere like a fruity citrus fountain
Sweet pink pulp showering the earth as they land
More seeds take root now and isn’t it grand!?
There isn’t a square foot not sprawling with melon
And if loving this is bad, well, call me a felon!
An endless supply of the sweetest summer slices
Who would have ever thought, if left to my own devices
My scenic bike ride up above would leave an orchard
For the whole world! And if you think that it’s absurd
Then YOUR bike is probably made of metal, and rubber tires
And maybe you are the one that has some crossed wires
So listen up honeydew, you may say I’m out of my gourd
But you cantaloupe being married to an idea you can’t afford
Squash the misconceptions and you just might really find
You’ll close your eyes, open your mind and love to ride the rind!
June 28, 2022
A Watermelon Fantasy Ride Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose
They tell them the reality of yesterday is their tomorrow
Save the cries for different versions of sorrow
The world is hash but there is a God who is omnipotent
The world has abundance if they choose to be content
If their dwelling is a square foot, they should think about a refugee
If their bowls are empty they should fast, prayer is free
They traded their votes for hope and empty promises
Their offertory is a subscription enticed with a forebode blessing
They should not question their poverty, for religion extols it
They should not question the system, if they are patriotic
The system was designed for the poor to determine who rules
The system was designed for a few rich to rule over the poor
Their poverty gives the powerful power over them
Their ignorance raises few questions
Their starvation hungers for crumbs
The desperation of the governed inflates the egos of the government
Dwarfing the people into fear, inferiority complex and indoctrination
These are the bars of the gate of the prison of poverty
She said,” hurry tommy before the old lady sees”,
Take care not to touch the gate, or you will freeze.
Our goal tonight is to teach her, we are not too scared.
Never to be scared of anything is what we declared.
Each day the old ladies mansion, we all did tease.
Cautiously he did go closer to her front door.
Ogling every square foot, that was for sure.
Listening for noise or creak, deep in his core,
Donning Halloween costume, she wouldn’t adore.
Gently he rang the door buzzer, and then he did run.
Amazingly faster than any other that had already shun.
Zealously he yelled back, the spell we had spun.
Everyone still sees her stone cold gaze in the midnight sun.
written by
Cecil Hickman
written for
Sponsor Constance ~My Dear Heart ~
Contest Name A Creepy, Scary Haunted House Poem, Please
Square feet are the hit of the day.
Everyone measures the very same way.
Each square inch tacks itself on,
To a square to which only feet belong.
How many inches in a square foot?
As many squares as you would care to put!
Hello so quickly turns into goodbye, in my last 39 minutes on this earth,
Memories swirl through my mind, starting at my birth.
Childhood dreams and meeting my Prince Charming,
Days of rising early turned into years, quite alarming.
Playing house with tiny feet’s patter,
and laughter’s sweet sound,
In our modest 900 square-foot home, love was found.
Bursting at the seams; hope filled every nook,
Through lean years and hardship, I kept turning the page in my book.
Running full speed ahead, by leaps and bounds—reliving moments so precious,
The race against the clock saw me searching through nooks and crevices,
Celebrating many milestones—everything was right,
Ignoring the inevitable, staring me in the face was the fading light.
The mirror reflects the lines in my face, etched by years’ demand,
My hands, now worn and frail in braving life’s commands.
Reflecting on the dreams and hopes I once held dear,
Cherishing the laughter that wiped away each tear.
Taking each laboured breath, savouring life’s last song,
These 39 lines echo as the end draws near— time to say so long.
Soon, I will be making my way come nightfall.
Where my loved ones await, I hear the homecoming call.
One last feeble smile, one last tender kiss,
Surrounded by family I will forever miss.
My heart swells, my hands relax on my last embrace,
My time is near, as I leave with grace.
Oh, if only I knew—when time was still in view—that 39 minutes would be so very few.
If I could turn back time, I would hold you so much closer.
If only I knew, I would have been so much wiser.
I would have slowed down the days, let each moment unfold,
I would have walked in the rain, danced through the storm of life, and been bold.
I would have tasted each sweet kiss, and drunk from love’s sweet vine,
I would have treasured your embrace that was so divine.
A lifetime’s worth,
Here on earth,
Showtime’s close,
My final rose.
I would have written a different chapter, though now it’s coming to an end,
I will hold close the memories and make a few amends.
As I take a bow, right on cue, let the curtains fall.
My last breath, the final call.
Chocolate bars full of nougat and peanuts,
Sour gummies that get stuck in teeth,
Chalky fruit-flavored tablets,
Things coated in colorful candy shells,
With metallic wrappers I constantly hear crinkle,
Covering an entire square foot of countertop.
The smell of coffee brewing at late hours,
Messes of creamer and sugar left unclean,
Mini donuts and cookies to dip in,
A constant sweet tooth that is never satisfied.
Better than cans and glass bottles overflowing the trash.
Better than the yeasty smell stuck in the air.
Sticky spills in the refrigerator,
Stains on carpet,
Broken lamps and vases,
Falling down the stairs,
The loss of someone still living.
Better than a drink before dropping off the kids at school.
Better than sleeping during the day.
Acting like this is normal.
Growing to an age where you start to notice the signs,
Constant crying and wondering why,
Never inviting friends over, they might notice,
Pouring things down the drain that I’m not supposed to touch,
Empty promises of quitting.
Maybe if I was a better daughter.
Staying up on school nights making sure she gets to bed safe,
Remembering to lock doors for her,
Taking care of her child only four years younger than I,
Losing hope.
He ventured from
the wooded square acred forest that remained
in search of food and a companion or two,
there was neither;
down along the rows of $600, 000 homes,
5000 square foot monoliths for two and a child
fenced in against the surrounding world,
traveling along, alone on a desolate
macadam paved roads
and the concrete stepping stones
that ached
in the touch on his swollen hooves;
it was the three o'clock hour
the darkness surrounding the early morning hours,
no traffic sounded on the pavement,
he stepped cautiously listening
straining to reach the other side
as the car reared its fender against him
it raced away pushing him to the curb
where he lay slowly dying
stretching his life into extinction
lost to the progress of mankind.
What I remember about this day
was first waking and forgetting
about the time of doing in this moment
as I look forward to just being present
Brewing coffee of pumpkin spice
with cream and cinnamon
Lounging to see the daylight rise fast upon
windows to the patio and palms
then quickened tempo of going off to work
a small detour to the mechanic first
and coffee at Taza Negra to go
The class of musicians arriving ready
strums and hums of tuning
welcome richness of songs played fully
…something I love about Fridays
Miles walked in my 800 square foot gallery
people come to appreciate this place…
artists creativity and a chat while browsing
Then the buenos tardes traded as I bicycle home
our smiles radiate acceptance
Friends gathered in our courtyard
games at tables challenging brains as Van Morrison
engulfs his smooth voice in our tropical vibes
The day ends out there in a pink blaze of good-bye
waves like a blanket of rich hues of blue
My steps hurry back along familiar woven roads
Dusk deepening with stars over my head
the smell of soup simmering from beyond my door
of the beckoning glow of a lamp to read by
Blessings felt in my sigh as I climb into my soft bed
and the light is finally turned off
to drift into the night of geckos chirping
1-7-2022
A heaving, grieving mass of humanity
All afflicted with the same insanity
To cross the bridge in Brooklyn Heights
For one square foot they impetuously fight
What has caused this hopeless plight?
Love of money and dishonest gain
Is the root of their discontented disdain
These days, without further detection,
Are the last of imperfection.
(Written when NYC had a transit strike in 1979?)