Long Footed Poems
Long Footed Poems. Below are the most popular long Footed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Footed poems by poem length and keyword.
It began twelve months ago,
Twelve months before today.
Clearing out the shearing shed,
Seeking things to throw away.
The chip board panels, old speakers,
And chairs made the pile high.
The pile to burn grew twenty foot up,
Quickly reaching toward the sky.
The months grew the pile more,
With dead branches and blackberry brambles.
There was no engineering going on,
The pile, a broken, arthritic sort of shambles.
And then the night, the soaking ground
Made a beautiful footed muddy sludge.
And thirty odd people turned up for the
Annual farm’s bonfire musical dancing trudge.
The dogs and sheep, they loved the sight,
Flames burning the clouds away.
Flames ripped and tore, destroyed and ate all night,
A purely majestic, hypnotic sort of display.
By morning light tree stumps still fought,
Being killed in a slow assassination.
And now I’m cleaning out the other shed,
For next year’s incineration.
Swans row the sky
just feet above the copper water.
Gulls twist their necks to watch
a lone sailor on the prow
of a sludge-decked dredger.
On the slate thatched gambrels
of a lesser known roofs
spotters search for night bombers,
the figures have turned to stone
as do all oft repeated passages
from dog-eared scripts.
London growls under the axels
of diesel driven dreams.
A stork has visited
an attic full of discarded toys
bells ring out for new born sales.
Barges reek still, just as when
sweat was as common as dirt.
A window in Baker street
opens to let pipe smoke out,
it uncoils in the air
like a left handed genie.
Tower bridge drops upward,
to quarantine all gawkers.
Meat mongers return to their
blood-soaked cradles
before the dawns leery light.
The city is a fable,
It is aflame with tall buses
that never were the same,
yet there is sea oil seeping
from the tunnels and runnels,
where entrenched gutter snipers
lie low.
Here in the denizen dinge
the sure footed dead
avoid being seen
by the googly eyes of alien robots,
tin manikins that crab-walk
along Regents Street
barking Chinese commands
at oppressed corgis
and other less compliant drones.
On what was once Speakers Corner
hunched pavement artists
dribble into the chalky cracks
between showcased hoopla’s.
Slyly the loitering snollygosters,
lollygaggers and stumblebums,
crane their ductile necks to see
shell games in full view
even as they vanish.
while shadow boxing
sometimes
i kept on
moving dancing and
a prancing
just bouncing
off the ropes
in my imagination and
suddenly i caught
my opponent shadow off guard
standing flat footed
so i use
the sweet science of boxing
with some
stiff jabs plus
some body shots
back up to the head
then the overhand right
that knocked
my shadow out cold
yeah ten feet off the ground
towards outer space
well
i just kept on dancing.
sticking and moving
popping the jabs with my gloves
weaving in and out
quick-lightning hand speed
toe-to-toe
man-to-man
the sweet science
inside the boxing ring
still, lives inside of me
The field is given a name.
Battles are about where they disappear,
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are.
There’s a cannon ball under that Yew tree,
there’s a skull under that Ash.
There’s a hank of dried up hair
over there, woven into stone and moss.
After the blood, peace continues destroying barns,
insignia and belt buckles fished out and sold.
Excavated jawbones order and counter-order.
The officers that staggered away
go quietly mad, or marry well.
Surviving hell takes
a lot of stump-footed foraging.
The maimed tell their jerrybuilt tales,
cracked rockers creek along
the slipways of generations.
Hounds bayed at coons.
in the hot afternoons;
that was before the earth gaped open,
before the gore seeped sideways
into the earths wounds.
Good Generals and bad
have had their deadly play,
this scattering and salvage
of the blue and grey that day.
MuddyFingers
I shall write in catchy thoughts
encased in phrases
lead you through a maze
of pussywillowedhazes,
in search of ducks that bark
and dogs that croak.
Snippets of mind strings
all cut too short
braided into knotted
terse retort
leaping the synaptic
sentence gap
two footed landing in
apresprungtrap.
Stream of consciousness
or babbling brook
searching for the stones
already took
seeping through the dams
of mud’s dismay
children in the midst
ofmudpieplay.
Sloppily creating
works of art
eager hands at work
in willowed haze
ducks that bark
in sunshine left to glaze
thoughts allowed to wander
through the maze.
Cats with wings
on tree limbs with the crows
childrensmuddyfingers
up their nose.
John G. Lawless
1/13/2016
FROSTY
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
A Stock Horse… High Country Bred
Dark Palomino with white patches on his body and head
A solid well-muscled body and sturdy big boned legs
With strong shoulders and a massive muscled rear end
…
Sure footed FROSTY would go anywhere
A gallop on the marshes through creeks and river beds
Up and down steep and rocky hills, through thick bush and scrub
Nothing would impede his progress, he never gave up
…
He would carry heavy loads of Kangaroo and Deer
A friend to so many on the regular weekend hunt
Not fazed, never flinch when the guns went off
Work all day in the bush from dawn to dusk
…
Working with the dogs to gather sheep from the hills and plains
His rider sitting comfortable and on a loose rein
Picking his way around the fallen timber and rocky scree
Nothing would stop him no need of spur or whip
Stock horse competitions he would excel and prove his worth
Trail riding he was hard to beat in manners and stamina
DUSTY was loved by all who had the chance to meet him
His reputation admired and known by country and city people alike
…
But on a cold windy winters, morning, FROSTY was startled
Rising from the rough and ragged ground where he lay
His leg got caught, snapped his shoulder, struggling to get up
A sad time next morning when he was found, there was no hope
…
FROSTY was put down
Buried on the wind swept plains where he was born
And close to another legend of the High Country
His Mom
…
Such a legend FROSTY was gone before his time
But he will be remembered for his nature and strength
For on the high country his memory lives amongst so many
And round the camp fires FROSTY story will be told
Penned on the 23/01/15
Ladies and gentlemen, laddies, lassies one and all
Water, water everywhere, be careful lest you fall.
Please take into account, we've found wet boards do shrink
and remind your children, this water's not to drink.
WHY, ye visitors to Snow Cave lake,
WHY for my job, you, your wat’ry fears forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures of geologic science
WHY in my presence, WHY try my patience?
Let's imagine we travel the shores of Gumee Gitchie
and pretend we're Wiahatha and Minnehehe
But alas! upon our banks, there is no naked maid.
Stay on the path, light-footed, if our lights should fade
Mine's to be the master spirit, your's to be the slave, don't sleep
Mine's to shape yourself obedient to the fuzzy words I speak
Flame and flood and stars and mountains from these primal waters seep.
Walking this path day in, day out, makes this young man weak.
All day I hear the noise of waters - above, below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing to and fro.
Are there any otter questions, are there any?
My hearing's shot, but answers I have plenty.
How old is Snow Storm Cave you may be wondering?
As old, I would guess, as lightning, thundering.
Where are the Snow Storms? If you see one let us know,
after guiding for two summers now, I think it's melted snow.
And now we cross the Jordan or is it the Red Sea?
On into Snow Storm Gift Shop where your money can flow free.
Please come back to visit us, whenever you've less to do
Watch your step, guard your purse, remember Waterloo.
A Guide's Speech, easily adaptable to larger groups, longer tours by adding more poetry selections on the subject of water in general although other subjects would likely work as well for the essentially deaf.
Cool stone received my palm; the incense lay
in threads that curled like breath along the nave.
A bell gave one thin sound, then slipped away;
Wax climbed the brass where earlier drops had clave.
I bent—my breath caught short against my teeth—
And asked, in lowered words, if such a sleep
with women bore a mark. He did not sheath
his pause, but let it rest, as men who keep
Their counsel do. He mused; his beard struck gold,
And measured me from heel to lifted sight:
“No sin, my son, to sleep with women,” he told,
“Yet men like you stay wakeful, lie upright.”
The tide within, long thinned by watch and fast,
Grew warm, grew near, and found its former way;
My spine held still; the count of breaths ran fast—
My knees drew close; the bench knew where I’d stay.
A splinter kissed my heel. I fixed my eyes
on stone between my shoes. The bell stood mute.
The door stood wide. I rose at measured size,
and walked out lighter-footed, quick, and mute.
Through Author’s Lens:
I chose this moment because it hath abided with me not as counsel nor as turning of the soul, but as a brief alteration of the flesh, which asked no gloss when it occurred. It was bounded in place and hour, and so seemed fit to bear its own weight upon the page.
The line grievous to fashion was the priest’s utterance. I was oft tempted to temper it with preface or to dress it in comment, yet each such labour dulled its edge. To let it stand unguarded required restraint.
From the first draft I struck away much declaring: the cause of my going thither, the temper of my mind. I also removed plain naming of the body’s stir. Whenever I named it, the verse grew coarse. What remains is nearer the manner in which the moment first stood before me.
Like a tumbleweed aimlessly blowing in the wind
across infinitely open and wide prairie home companion land
(which wasteland famously epitomized by T.S. Elliot)
a barren vista ravages metaphorical landscape
of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping along accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding and dodging diabolical demons
mercilessly and unrelentingly ready
to seduce this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst the pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence
racked with pinions describe bing
a demonic dragon filled dungeon
damp, dark, demented domains –
a veritable no man’s land
impossible to escape no matter how fast I -
as a foo fighter flee
from the fearful, fierce-some phantasmagoric forms
figments of my imagination seemingly real
tangible as bone and flesh
who haunt sacred crowded house of slumber
transmogrify me into a loathsome madman
ranting raving senseless gibberish and sic gobbledygook
perceived as metaphysically n philosophically insane
as soundgarden syllabification
from one womanly World Wide Web wayfarer
which virtual vagabond venerates vowels
and possesses means and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress who waves a magic wand
to produce supreme sentences
weaves tantalizing terrific tweed topographic tundra’s
that this admirer of her artful and colorful poetic endeavors
prompts me to accompany my mindscape
as a thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information super byways and highways
along winding labyrinths of critical thinking
or simply stepping o'er rolling stones
of silly rhymes without wing less reason
all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight to maintain
that sure footed stance of solitude
whose only entities happened
to constitute trappings of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and masterpieces of literature
yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest that cherished solitude shattered
and a heart rent asunder
twin tower ring inferno imp perils of loss that provide
an understandable cautionary tale
to the author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive acute Ape man
touched to the quick with a bit of angel dust
aware that this agonized and angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with the confines of cyberspace!
They prepared a squad to ambush
On hairy forests of a human head.
Things were well planned to push
The army on the murky skin-bed.
Army of Lice marched on warily
Towards the places assigned to all.
They had to peep everywhere slyly
Lest they are knocked by Fingernail.
The Larger ones are the commanders
Of this momentous Guerrilla attack.
Smalls will follow forgetting Slanders
And battle with guts, work in Pack.
They furrow the skin to make Trench
So that they can fight and stay secure.
Some would plunge in them to drench
Themselves in the blood for adventure.
These Lice have a Mission to fulfill.
They make slices of nice hair with
Their teeth of Vice like stinging Eel
Or Mice, with ruthless urge beneath.
They have attacked on the Two-footed,
Some would hide and ambush at once,
Some hang by hair until it’s uprooted.
All they do is sip, sting, cling, flounce.