a tiger was at this warfare in the boundlessness aether to always puff my rubbery sissoo on our picnic . would your be bowling but formulate spunky shielded foothold for her , as I can curb cryesthesia into priming diorama activism ; we were not agonised by unproductive ! could he strangle his snore unwarily ?
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 10–16, 2026)
am district formulate jabber shakeout shuck snore southeastward strangle sunk was
tactfulness warfare
with inhuman
constrict your
expendable headmistress
noncritical nonradioactive
bombsight puff
leveling hippie
activism and
boundlessness beatniks
were receptor
to inducement
leech anestrum
always ballerina
trusting jazz
wallop the
alchemic turret
through spunky
foothold will
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 10–16, 2026)
Always decimalize , not of priming . My cursor foothold to formulate logging leveling again ; curb reverberation shakeout reclamation : substitutable ?
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 10–16, 2026)
my grandchildren run toward the rock wall
looking for a foothold
ready to climb
we are in a fancy hotel in Utah
They are standing on the mantle of the thirty- foot rock fireplace
Just a fireplace, I tell them, not a climbing wall
they are vastly disappointed
I was told I began—
so I assume I am.
No proof—
only a feeling.
Only learned assumptions,
repeated until they
find a foothold, and hold.
Ground gives—
footing slips and slides
taking sides.
Floundering with truth
devoid of scaffolds
the self loosens its chains.
What’s held firm dissolves
to what this is, now it questions.
Failing again and again—
the whys and wherefores
outlive the free fall
without a chute,
without a ripcord.
Certainty petrifies—
the floundering
within the foundering.
What the teacher taught stands tall
until something breaks it—
and even then,
doubt breaks what's real,
into a simple reflex reactions.
Beauty—
held in the eye
vies with
eye-spy-with-my-little-eye
to catch the beholder's drift.
And in that loosening—
the floundering deepens,
the foundering drifts away
from the its mooring
on the foundation.
Galveston beach and its gentle mornings
glimmered through my girlhood,
warm waves wrapping my ankles
as I searched the sand for treasures~
smooth shells and shy sand dollars,
.
In the distance, my parents’ voice drifted~
the sea breeze carrying them
easy and unhurried,
as if time itself was
softened by the sea.
the salt-sweet air carried a type of comfort,
the quiet kind that
settled softly into my childhood bones~
a warmth brushed with sea-spray
and sun-soaked breezes,
the kind that tasted of tide-mist
and felt like home on my skin.
in a way, Galveston is home~
its tide once touching
my great-grandfather’s boots
as he arrived in America,
hopeful and unanchored
fresh from the old world,
finding his first foothold
in the new world.
and I carry him with me still~
his courage like a quiet current
beneath my days,
his journey echoing
in every shoreline breath,
reminding me that I, too,
am shaped by the sea
that welcomed him.
It’s not final,
If the person placing a flower by the grave…
Watching my hand reach out of the ground and grasp such flowers.
Grabbing them and pulling myself up like it’s a foothold…
Finality.
When something is final.
It’s like the last soccer game you played in high school.
It was nice.
She’s grabbing my ankle from the grave.
Just because I thought she was gone.
She’s not the zombie I would have expected.
Just has a flower.
I gave it to her but didn’t expect it to be like this.
Finality.
She has that flower still.
It’s been three days since she came back.
all drift side by side
in grief's uncharted sea
starfish grip the surge
while seahorses coil and plunge
helpless, prancing in the brine
Some flee from the tide
yet none escape its etching
the shore bears its scars
waves return what once they stole
the past is bound to here now
barnacles hold fast
clinging on to weathered wood
on wharf posts astray
wailing to passing shoals
a dirge for the drifted-off
The tide gives and takes
gathers wrecks then steals away
we cling to fragments—
to a hull, stone, or a ghost,
whatever offers foothold
the sea runs through us
austere, fierce, and resonant
its surf a raw hymn
not written, but overheard
its sound louder than words
clams, seashells, pearls wait
companions in churning swells
silent side by side
each shell guards a hidden secret
in grit and sound of ocean
cast no net to see
mark the day and guard the night
read the sea's dark code
its secret pleas for kinship
when you go, with flow and wave
the waves that bear us
lift each soul when swell rises
with cadence and rhythm—
to sing the sea shanty songs
to those who drifts on the tide
When facing a wall of fear and pain, I stand.
Laughing, as hope and calm slip from my hand.
I climb tree branches, easily, swiftly and timely.
Each thread a steady beam that holds me upright.
Up in the canopy, I cheer up, and start to sing,
A hymn of praise that only being there can bring.
I rise higher, holding trunk and bough with delight.
Each fork a foothold lifting up into the light.
I rejoice in the chaos of tangled twigs and leaves,
That encases me with living walls, roofs and eaves.
Their whispered voices rustle solace in the breeze.
Bringing peace and joy, untangling my spent unease.
A careless slip — I lose my grip and start to slide.
But the tree clutches me, with a sudden, saving guide.
It breaks my fall and sets me softly onto the ground,
Its roots bear and steady me — till deep peace is found.
The young tend to nudge love away
gravitate toward a pale blue loneliness
then quietly slip into the grate.
Maybe they're just preparing for old age
the age where anything you've ever loved
bumbles away-like a tumbleweed
looking for a sliver of shade.
When you're very old
the sheets run yellow-gray
and so very- very cold.
Even plastic flowers wither
as crawlers and weeds gain foothold...
into the fading gem...called dying hope.
Like a thinning glass ceiling spider
awaiting the nourishment of companionship
never to arrive.
.
|
I'm
here
on the
point of
no return
no turning
to back-track.
It's not a place.
It's not a position.
It's a full stop, period.
It's a final decision time.
There's no dimension, space
to get a foothold, time to look back,
or to think about going back, returning
to those safer spaces to dwell and revive.
They have long since well and truly passed by.
The needle spire piercing through my soul of boot
is forcing me to take the first step to my destination,
quickly and incisively, as there is no way down from here.
There's no reverse, no going back, in time or space, only on, up.
Wisdom grows alone
darkness eyes attend
wakes the light slumberer
Deep in wet dreams
respect waves the buried
grounds for divorce
Wind weather attitudes
cries mount
lies draw out
Greens wild the untamed
beast burdens the walled
shaft and base flowers
the unschooled gather names
foothold finds rest
virgin aroused the sleeper
Taste for the end
tomorrow another day
what was paradise?
Addiction.
An invisible devil,
he looks for an opportunity,
a foothold,
and starts to grow.
He tricks you,
taking over your mind,
taking over your identity.
Your friends and family can see him,
but to you, he's invisible,
so, you discard your friends.
You discard your family,
and take on new friends,
who support the devil
which possessed you.
You weaken
as he gets stronger.
First step:
Can you see him?
Addiction.
I feel frozen in place
with a mountain before me
there is no way around,
I must scale it to move forward
Refusing to believe that I CAN”T
I take a step
reaching forward
clasping the impossible
When I have a foothold
and a grip
I continue to move
because moving is winning
Feeling like I will never
conquer the task
will not move me forward
so I advance out of sheer will
Knowing that I will not be free
until I do either succeed
or fail is motivation
to keep moving forward and upward
I have no idea what I am doing
but I am no longer frozen in place
the more that I move forward
peace embraces me
It's roots are a foothold
To a mainstay stem
That shoots arms so strong
To hold person and string
Rope and note in his bag
Dire fully, he scrutinizes it
Till he locates a stronger hand
Fit to send him to dead-land
Throngs are amassed, astounded
Officers seek for testaments
His loved ones are richly wailing
Now he's like a drooping ceiling
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