Long Footholds Poems
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*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
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
Barreling down the mountain of forgetfulness,
I raced to Wal-Mart for that last minute gift.
We’ve not seen his children since Christmas.
Despite their quicksand of un-thankfulness,
I want him to have something for this Father’s Day.
His son has been in a swamp of discontinuance
lost in that great, lonely desert called New York City.
His daughter has sprouted sharp thorns of bias
since their mother’s death and dad’s remarriage to me.
Arriving at the store early Sunday afternoon,
I did not expect such a thunderstorm of confusion.
On the trash heap of heartlessness,
clerks were already marking down common items
like ties and shirts, aftershave and desk supplies.
I moved past this obvious marsh of misery
to a safer spot and found myself in a fog.
I spotted an older woman I recognized.
In a sea of hopelessness, the two of us, ended up
sharing doughnuts and expensive coffee in Starbucks
(cave of debauchery) in the front of the store.
We indulged over footholds of remembrance,
the gifts our kids had given us when they were in school –
piles of hand prints, bookmarks, flower pictures and
homemade cards, simple, treasured, special gifts.
Abandoning my valley of sorrow caused by events
beyond my control, I quickly sped to the grocery aisle.
Racing back home I enjoyed fixing my best friend,
a Father’s Day Supper that he would remember,
complete with his favorite foods and dessert -
a gift totally given to pleasure, both his and mine.
August 16, 2019
The stones slipped through the great fingertips of God
Each ligure staked its existence on the four corners of the universe
The quadrivial region began to spin and pull into a sphere
And pathways revealed their footholds
The fourth ligure bravely landed in the midst of history
So that one day the future settlement of the second
Would be moved by the last—by the past
Suffering much it stayed
Manifesting in incandescent words
Thrusting evanescence upon the weak
Selfless, it's sorrow would move the merriest
Would move the unmovable
The third lies in the profound valley of mystical guardians
Star-recruited, they are the very light above the canvas of gray
They embrace the stone—are inspired by the stone
The very reflection of their creator was evident
Upon their unremitting glimmers
Unafraid to stare the others down
Motivated and construed by the glower of death
Eyes move fixedly beyond the simple vast
The second ligure rested upon the shoulders of invisible martyrs
The hopeful power it planted on the sufferers was unbelievable
For spectators used their disbelief to cover their ever-placed envy
They never were part of the battle—they merely watched
Always seeing truth
But they never quite absorbed
Like a rock hitting the water
The inevitable fate was to fly and sink
The first of the ligures settled in the very reservoir of Satan himself
Even the very heart of the devil is marked
Though rebellion embarked
The cold stone landed upon his naked bosom
He despaired not to the pericopal truth the gods had bestowed upon him
He merely despised it
But wished not to lose it
For such a stone to fall upon that dark corner—he felt pride for the gracious wound
In truth, there are twelve ligures of stone
And four were dispersed, dropped into the universe
The last eight the great Eternal wears upon his breastplate
And only He can re-move these ligures
-July 20, 2013-
-For Shadow Himilton's Any Subject Contest-
-Thanks for the inspiration-
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.
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
There's nothing to hold on to
When you begin to slide,
And the walls begin to crumble
And you have nowhere to hide.
I look to find the child in me,
That stranger to anxiety,
But the footholds of my history
Are blurred footprints in the
sand.
I try to hold on to the bars of a
song
But the music isn't playing, the
metre is all wrong.
The stars in the sky are
darkened,
My anchors have all gone.
Like driftwood borne upon the
flow
Of some almighty undertow
I am washed up on the shore,
Cracked and broken like before.
I am under no delusion
This will come to some
conclusion
I'm rattling the gates of
Bethlehem
But I won't be allowed in there
again
So I'll settle for the sanctuary
of sleep
And let oblivion wash this pain
into the deep.
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.
Light years before history
began to take itself seriously
the everlasting dead gave us living myths.
“Carry these stories" they commanded,
for this is your becoming history,
carry them all the way
to what seems to you all
to be solid footholds.
Be fruitful and multiply.”
In the swirling momentum of time
new, more verifiable myths were spawned.
Many dreamers realized that
if the tales we tell each other
were ever to be denuded
by a set and concrete realism
then all muse-makers and their visions
would blow away in clouds of dust.
Even so, 'solid footholds',
grew ever more rigid,
blindness became the only sight.
The spinning wheel of new myths
ceased to turn.
Myths are now beggars
at our closed doors.
The footprints of inner gods
stumble away
as they lean upon
old and broken legends.
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