Footholds Poems | Examples

Footholds in the Brine of Sea

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

Born To Walk On Waves

I was not born to the moors; my roots are planted
by wild running seas,
even so, a rolling heath is a green tide heaped
into wind-sculptured waves,
low breakers that may tug you deeper,
or crash upon any too certain a mind.

March is a good time
to be a thin branch in a treeless landscape.
You can catch hold of a wind-serpent
in your upheld hands,
a sea-creature born to be the innards of the sky.
When a high rain surfs mountainous air,
you can be pitched pell-mell onto thrashing shores
shorn of any footholds.

I was not begot to be native to these moors
yet they deliver me into that wild ocean
counterpoised between land and sky,
and there, you may also wave-walk
or be born again.

The Edge Is Where Life Leaps

Waves break their rolling heads
on faceless cliffs.

The wind is lost,
it turns this way and that
only to crush its own voice.

Turmoil is lovely,
the howl of chaos
clears the mind,
sharpens both elation
and fear.

Standing on the edge
of a crumbling land,
footholds flying away
like storm-wrecked gulls

we are ALIVE
in the grave of this world.

Rip Ann Leslie Cook, Nee Turner

*Image of Original Gerber baby, Ann Turner Cook by KTVU.


R.I.P. Ann Leslie Cook, nee Turner


Ann Cook
Her look

Not name
Became

Households
Footholds

Aspects
Effects

Neighbor's
Favors

Charcoaled
Turned gold

Adored
Reward

Threshold
Behold

Quest and
Destined

Become
A mom

Four kids
Amids

Teacher
Writer

Thank you
Trueblue

My face
By grace

Glass jars
All-stars

Trademarks
Remarks

Sublime
Lifetime

Apprise
Demise

Gerbers
Furthers

Bless you
Adieu

Godsend
Ascend


*R.I.P. Ann Leslie Cook, nee Turner*

At five months old, she posed for their family's neighbor, Dorothy Hope Smith, who drew a charcoal sketch of her for a Gerber's baby-food contest.  That charcoaled sketch became Gerber's iconic label when they opened and produced their products in 1928. For nearly ninety-four years of her lifetime, she has been in American homes, as well as, abroad.  She died in her St. Petersburg, FL., home, (11/20/1926-06/03/2022) at 95.


2022 June 11
*6th Place*
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE
~~Brian Strand: Judged 2022 June 12

It's Not My I Can'T Cry If I Want To

One eye opens quicker than the other, so cute,
but who'll spearhead you home, me or the Neanderthal
host? Party goers head for the exit.
I seem to have sat down on a preset remote;
your laugh echoes the empty house mute.
White rain is a flat-screen,
crystalline-chilled, melting pixels.
Your other eye, I swear, winks at the storm.

A breaker, somewhere, thumbs a ride to the red zone.
Shadowy reflections of his indoor lighting
vanish from his TV
and abandon the glass of his aquarium.
Goldfish swim undisturbed
above the sediment of jagged, tiny stepping stones,
footholds for drunks to surface when bubbly

as with our host, brushing 'gainst you.
He toggles your dress by its fished out price
tag. Not my place to scan,
I blink like a readjusted lens off focus.

He sets us both out on the porch;
he's done with milking you to compliment him.
We're Banner milk bottles, side by side on the stairs.
Rain pelts milk-shiny, glassy sides. You shiver instead of going
numb and bottled up in reflections

The Myth Carriers

Before I first crawled from a mythical ocean
light years before history began to take itself seriously
I was told to spin new myths.

The dead-not-so-dead gave me buckets of myths.
“This is your mission,” they said, “carry these buckets
one by one to a place called, solid footholds."

The buckets had water in them
for myths need an aqueous environment.

Because they swam in the same bucket
the myths became mixed, some copulated
spawning more myths.

In a dream I was told that if the place called
solid footholds ever ran out of myths
it would blow away in a cloud of dust.

Until now the buckets have not run dry,
been spilled or wasted
but the place of solid footholds
is drying up for want of more mythical tales.

I am not the only myth carrier, there are many.
If you are one of those then carry buckets
to the place of solid footholds
before its footprints are gone forever.

Now, Falls the Snow

Heavy laden this mix of rain and early March snow
  listing in the wind down to the un-expecting earth below.
At first, a barely visible mix, cold and chilling throws
  where once peeking daffodils and tulips grow.

A tease set deep upon the earth
  when spring was thought to be rebirthed
but now comes the wind, the chill, the bitter cold
  blinding white scenes of stories of old.

Children will remember this
  where ice and snow chiseled an icy kiss
and footholds are carefully tread
  beneath the trees snapped and widely spread.

A flash of light, untethered blue
  followed by  thundered rumbled stew
snow thunder heralds loud and through
  the fall of eight inch drifts accrued.

March surprise, entered in like a lion glidinf
  storm adventures brewing undenying
wait for the warm, chill factor disappearing
  spring will return with  blessings more endearing.

Partialling the Truth

Listen here!
I am hurting up all over
Lying here undiscovered

Papparazzi cumulus are jostling in my street
God is taking photos of the remnants of His sheep
Climbing footholds and gripping on the rungs
Heaving and panting I'm a-aching in my lungs
Ascend this twisted ladder of my helix
I'm not the father of this mutant DNA
Help me Hiroshima,make it go away

Panties on the washline hip-hopping in the air
Headbanging jackets dancing with no hair
I tried to speak , stutter, spitting out the truth
Joy the dormant factor in my spittle and my sperm
Followed you through crooked mile
Tracked you through the non-return
Nowhere to go now, just following my feet
Like an unpaid hooker walking on her beat

Oh, my bedside lamp begs the question mark
I do not want to hear
Sprinkled in baptism
Ah! Salvation ...hanging in the air
-the petrichor of rain

Betwixt Straddle and Poised Precarious

Straddling is safe with grips each side secure,
    but progress requires the flip flop position, 
    secured on one side or the other, not looking down or back.
It’s iffy to lift a foot implanted
    with footholds secure in straddled camps.
To poise precarious with return annulled
    to go binary with uncertainties, with flip or flop.
It’s yeah or neigh, not betwixt nor between,
    for or against, not poised procrastinating
    nor straddling serendipitous with free fall.
Like a climber, securing three firm grips before
    letting one grip go, and reaching up for next handhold.
This keeps ambivalence under control,
    stepping adroitly and securely,
    without looking back or down,
    making assertive progress one step at a time
    on a three-legged stool.

New Zealand

The dark, drenched forest
was tinkling with tuis and bellbirds,
blind to the ledger book,
the bill of lading,
the glint in the eye of the ax.

Pious settlers wired the land for religion
and switched on the lights.
The natives were dazzled,
but loved the portly man in the red suit
who gave them everything they wanted.

On the Historical Society outing,
we struggle for footholds
in whirlpools of organized ennui,
clutch at the slack rope
that cordons off irrelevant ancestries.

‘The end is not nigh,’
the Dom-Post tells its readers.
Doors are bolted against the wind,
the tick, tick of the electric fence
around eroded pastures.


First published in Southern Ocean Review

Fabulous Friction

Fabulous friction,
Your magic transforms 
The steep rock into footholds.
In delicate balance
We dance on invisible
Stairs to the summit.

To a Ring

In you I trust. You symbolize a promise.
If self-reliance fails and footholds crumble
You’ll keep us safe from harm. You will protect us
If handholds break, if we lose grip, or stumble.

With you in reach I dare release the tension.
Your solid metal roundness will inspire
New confidence and faith. I can exhale now
The bated breath and, with relief, climb higher.

Spiced Pains

The rock that to the climber reaches out with
jagged arms
And to the sore foot of a traveler turns a tough
rough back
Holds within its harshness
The promise of swift marches
To they who aspire towards its summit.
And to each of them it someday proves
That in the roughness of the way lies the 
smoothness of the journey—
For only amid coarseness can footholds form
And only to jagged rock can a grip bond fast.

It‘s the same with the affairs of men:
They who walk us on oiled paths, 
Who smooth the way to soothe our soles,
Soon see their care turn to a scare
When upon its glossy form no crack is revealed 
where seeds of hope may lodge
Nor any gaping holes seen through which golden
beams may slip and light the darkness ahead.
For fortune draws her breath through cracks
That make coarse the route
That to success leads—
Cracks that soothe our soles with spiced pains,
The pains that herald victory
Which barren comforts bear not.

A Year That Was

The year began with my dad's fall
Being bedridden and passing away
Followed by his death anniversary today

Seeing my aged mother suffering
From pangs of loneliness
Choking in pain and declining health

Properties forsaken to next patriarch
Daughters divested of paternal love
Torn, tattered, teary without fatherly head

In retrospect wisdom of seasons fails in truthful reality
Knowledge or ignorance one is never really prepared for death
The grand patriarchs demise made us all live in a life of loneliness

There were sparklers of joy in my dark clouds with dad's miracles
My  daughters found stronger footholds in life and profession
I came upon poetry soup and found a ray of hope to colour my passion

December 27, 2015
Contest: My Abiding Memory
Sponsor: Viv Wigley

Stand By Your Man

I Hereby Salute!


Those were the days........
Uncle loomed in many ways............
More joy at home ..........
With the cards well played...........
Life has become lonely.........
Yet he takes it very cooly.............
Sits tall in his chair............
Undying spirit is his flair.........
In a house emptily........
Adulated by kin many.............
Some shy to express.............
His impartial heart not digress..............
Fathered hand.........
When shelter was anon..............
His door they knocked............
Their life was so blank.......
Knowing he was in there..............
Footholds found everywhere..........
Revered by those ..........
Whose hearts silently rose........
To a Man of integrity........
I hereby salute!



September 12, 2015
Contest: Stand By Your Man
Sponsor: Silent One

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