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.
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.
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.
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
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
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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.
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.
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