Long Kicker Poems
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My palms would sweat. I’d get physically sick.
Why was I always the last one they’d pick?
There were times I would not be selected at all,
for a physical game, I was pretty darn small.
I watched as they’d point, whisper, and scheme;
avoid if they could choosing me for their team.
My Dad told me, “Son, God made you this small,
to prove it’s not height that makes someone tall.”
So, he set up a goal post, and bought me a tee.
He told me, “Success would be all up to me.”
I practiced my kicking whenever I could.
I worked very hard ‘till I got pretty good.
I’ll never forget that hot summer day,
tryouts for high-school to see who would play.
The teasing began as I stepped on the field.
My jersey so big, they laughed and they squealed.
The coach even grinned, as I heard him say,
“This is not a good sport for peewees to play.”
The practice was brutal, even more than I thought.
But then, towards the end, at last came my shot.
Coach explained how important a kicker would be.
Last season they had lost four games under three.
He placed the ball down on the thirty-yard line,
forty-yards from the goal I had claimed to be mine.
There must have been twenty or more who had tried,
all woefully short as the coach merely sighed.
With hands on his head he looked to the sky.
I was the last to step up and ask, “Can I try?”
Everyone laughed, ‘till he shouted, “Enough!”
then mockingly said to me, “Show us your stuff.”
As I carefully positioned the ball on the tee,
it seemed the whole world was laughing at me.
So, I called on the power that God will provide,
then glanced to a nod from my Dad on the side.
Three great big steps and my toe struck the ball.
I caught it just right. I knew how after all.
It seemed like slow-motion as the team stopped to stare.
The ball gently tumbled as if floating on air.
The looks on their faces I could never replace,
as it split through the uprights with plenty of space.
I looked towards my Dad now beaming with pride,
then turned to the coach with his mouth open wide.
Cheers were replacing the laughs I’d revered,
on the day that hard work overcame what I feared.
I went on to college and professional ball,
but that was the kick I enjoyed most of all.
I don’t think I’d ever have worked quite that hard,
if I wasn’t picked last on that old school yard.
Writing effortlessly and I faint
first thought was dreamscape
I can recall every single detail
To the T.
Twelve fenestra foggy glass,
a paining of a woman, Egyptian,
classy loft style apartment,
with a fountain in the center,
tree growing up and through the ceiling,
at its base a pool for a fountain raining above,
this is the only light source, an azure blue,
light pulsing on the fountain edges,
I don't scare easy,
surrounded by coyotes I ran at them,
Only two things have made me feel this way,
I was in a shark cage and a great white appeared,
baleful aura, best description,
And here when a doppelgänger pops out playfully
Giggling, sinister, fancy scarlet dress, lithe to body
Like if I chose a life and became a model,
For the dream lovers, here is the interesting part…
At the time I am writing hardcore macabre,
taboo dark stuff, it had obsidian eyes,
kicker — it had silver eye-shine,
That’s how I knew the fountain was the light source
Was it moved the shine in her eyeballs
My first thought was that’s too detailed….
For a dream… Followed by.. that’s too coherent
A thought for a dream…. I was in the shark cage
And I turned to run… Everything mirrors
Perfectly
I mean perfectly
What was left is now right with excruciating detail
Except now she has a knife, the fountain is red
And pulsing one second intervals, she blows a kiss
I wake up shaking like a leaf, and she is there
In my home just staring at me…
Doesn’t move.. She did this for 24+hrs…
I remain calm-ish and I stare back, I stayed in my seat
Dozed off and she was gone, but her eyes weren’t
They were in every sliver of cabinets slowly opening
Under every door
And a new term I learn… Sweet nothing
Just murmurs and whispers of… Horrible things
And last day she tried to kill me…
I am very… aggressive… I ripped her throat
With my teeth… she had a look of surprise
It was weird I then woke up again puking tar
And in the mirror was her laughing
I suffered thoughts of cannibalism and necromantic
Four weeks after…
I have been writing about rainbows and flowers
Ever since that day — and I always will
If you ask me what is was…
I will tell you without hesitation and I don’t know why
It was older and darker than demon
Does happily ever after really exist?
Is it a cruel joke with a sardonic twist?
When the girl gets the boy, or boy the girl,
Life seems so good, a love affair in a whirl;
But the fairy princess dream, prince charming scream
Escapes the heart and blows the mind
As the whole fanciful delusion you’ll never find;
Watching the chick flick on an extra-large screen,
Can you feel the favour as you join the scene
That shows the hero marry the girl,
Then see him run away with the best man?
There are no happy endings in this world today;
The joke is the kicker in the face that blows away
Every thought of romance, rather escape to France!
But you continue hoping for that fairy tale end,
When the prince rides in on a charger and steals you away;
Are you blind to the passion that burns in the head,
While the heart beats faster, you could end up dead
As the perfect amour breaks in to your soul,
And stirs up the hornets that burn you whole,
Now the happy ever after can fall into the abyss;
Stop searching for happy ever after, the prince has left
And the dream is over, while you discover you are bereft
As the lover you thought was the prince of your dreams
Turned out to be the extorter of screams
And stealer of hearts, who smashes the happiness into the park
Leaving you wandering the streets after dark,
Hoping to discover it was never your part to end this way;
Happy ever after never happens in real life,
There is crying, there is pain, and so much strife;
Reach out with your heart to the only true love,
The one who stretched his arms on a cross and said,
‘I love you this much’ and gave you his life;
With a thunderous roar the grave gave up the dead,
And the Prince of Heaven rose up and lives no more departed;
So stop trying to find your prince in your dreams,
The only one you need has seen your scenes
And reaches into your heart to take out the pain
From losing the hope of true romance, all you need is a second chance,
And the hand of the Son of the King, who will give more than a ring;
Crown is received if you will bend the knee,
In homage to the only Prince where happy ever after is seen.
Man the way people boast, can't miss it, it's on TV radio, plus they post coast to
coast. We love poking out our chests, boasting I'm the best, to hell with the rest. Laughing like it's a big joke when we rag on folk, a very heavy yoke.
I remember life being more clear when people would lend an ear or this I would hear. May I be of assistance, what do you need, what's been allowed to supersede? That monster greed. Now we all have an emptiness that need to be filled, we try pills, thrills and even ill will, going down hill.
Then get pissed when in life we remiss, some fall into the abyss, trying to reach that state of bliss. All they can foresee is misery, even with a college degree, misery, do love company.
So we make up contests trying to reach some sort of success, nonetheless, we digress trying to find who's the best. Although we do have our super powers, we're taught never to cower, you're a beautiful flower but things do go sour, living in Ivory Towers.
Now if you want to boast about who's foremost, check out this bloke who wasn't blowing smoke whenever He spoke, the man was no joke. The man was shrewd, He fed the multitude, never rude nor would He delude, minds and bodies, He renewed.
A healer of the sick, a peacenik without the politics. Never a squatter He's called the Potter, The man even walked on water. He's the real deal in witch you can always appeal, if there are storms in your life He can make "em kneel, Peace Be Still.
And hears the kicker more potent than liquor and quicker than any city slicker. You see it had been aforesaid so He knew what was ahead and He could have fled, instead, He was nailed to the cross where bled, then was raised from the dead.
For all those who think they're hard, check out The King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Where you shall stand in total awe with the rest, every knee shall bow, every tongue shall confess. Now Who's The Best?
So if you want to boast about who's utmost, then we can all give a toast from coast to coast to The Lord Of Hosts and receive. The Holy Ghost.
My dad built a house on a hill. How exciting to climb to the tippy-top then look down upon the roof, and dog home, the bean garden, and to sled the slope in Winter white.
eyes delirious
dazzled, dizzy, delighted
dopamine kicked in
A truck gets stuck at the bottom of our steep driveway, blocking local traffic on our rural road. I wonder if this sticks in anyone else’s memory? Then like ants, industrious, sweating for donuts and coffee, my dad’s friends work their quads, up and down this unexpected hell.
our walls carried up
unfinished planks, like a cross
friendship marches on
We’d help spackle the parts of the wall scored by nails. Dad would use the saw to cut a wooden floor, like his rest-in-peace dad, who surely stops in to measure his son’s progress, to see his grandkids placing the unstained wood.
this home has no ghosts
brand-spanking new on old hill
but the past’s with us
While constructing, Mom would open a can of Dinty Moore stew, cook over a portable stove, and serve over rice. We would order Pizza from Salvatore’s - my mouth waters at the thought of this New York pie with Italian sausage, sauce and cheese. They’d occasionally order a submarine; I can still taste the fresh lettuce, tomato and thin-sliced deli meats on yeasty bread.
what we remember
is funny; the senses touch
childhood memories
The builder, of the house’s frame, was called one day. He was told my dad went through the roof. Later, they came, standing outside and sizing up the roof, when my mom questioned them as to what he was looking at. Mom rolled her eyes as she told him, what was meant, was that my dad was mad.
screwball translation
the heated conversation
is lost in humor
Shovelling the driveway, in Winter, in my plaid, woollen, hooded coat. My face can feel the chill, the briskness of the wind, and the warmth of mittens. I miss my childhood, even the arduous times, those wonderful family times.
a surprise arrives
at this address; a newborn
unplanned, a kicker
Never pass up a good cartoonity This an encouraging stick about punting Charlie lay on the ground inflatus position Wondering why he lies at the feet of the pundit kicking this idea around in his head Why he is the receiver and never the punter and the kicker is just a squib, scrambling for the goal Flattening a big head is always funny Who can aaurgue with that Lucy’s swift kick in the pants, a lasting romance Tribute to Charles Monroe Schulz (November 26, 1922 – February 12, 2000 1986: “You look forward all year to a special moment, and before you know it, it’s over” to the inspirational
(my friends i wrote the piece below in one long exhale. i did not change a word but
rather let it sit as it fell. could the writing be improved. yes it could but why try to
create a masterpiece when finger painting is so much fun. you have greeted me with
wide open arms. you have been a great support at a stressful time in my life. so here
it is from my heart to yours.)
they are those who ride us on their backs
send us on journeys to places they built
one chess piece at a time
they put into words
what we knew
but could not say
why am I telling you this
there are wonderful poets here
choose a dish
visit their buffets
taste more than one feel
give it a whirl
experience worlds you'll never find on a mac
visit their vivid dreams
drive one of their soap bubbles
ski on the end of a needle and thread
discover the barely open doors
the naked flesh between the creases
displays lined in scrap paper
that one can absorb eyes closed
crawl under and over the sea
tunnel the milky way to a brand new galaxy
witness a sky that like curtains part
peak at what is on the other side
life is short play nude
spend a bitty bit of time
with bitty bits of folksy folks
on a striped colored blur
they are special the poets who live here
so do yourself a flavor
put on your roller blades
and go for the tricycle ride of your life
here is the best part and get this
(i hope your holding your breath
and turning red white and blue)
some of their poems rhyme
some of them even use styles
here comes the huge reveal
( unlike me who is not really a poet
and doesn't actually know it)
they use good grammar
extensive vocabularies
and here's the kicker
capital letters
and proper punctuation
go figure
which they also use
well that figures
there are great poets here
you do yourself a disfavor
if you're only here to write
and not here to read
Fridged temperatures bite at exposed skin,
Icy cold winds pull and tug on coats, looking for a way in.
Naked trees expose their frozen bark,
It has arrived and leaves a snowy mark.
Silence deafens the ear as nothing stirs to make a sound,
Bark clad skeletons stand all around.
Seas of white are often found,
Where blades of grass and flowers once covered the ground.
Heavy snowfall filters sunlight to cast a temporary hue,
As ice crystals divert wavelengths creating a landscape with a hint of blue.
As the snow falls, it builds on the ground,
Wrapping the terrain in a blanket of ice all around.
Snowfall clings to branches with an icy grip,
Holding steadfast where leaves have been stripped.
Frozen moisture rides the wind and dances in the air,
Creatures sense it coming and are keenly aware.
Animals are hiding to escape its wrath,
A semi-lifeless landscape is the aftermath.
Formidable and nearly uninhabitable as it may be,
Reptiles and amphibians hide underground, waiting to be set free.
Birds go into hiding or shelter in place,
Not able to fly with style and grace.
They fluff their feathers to keep warm,
A puffed-up pose is their sheltering form.
Mammals burrow underground or nest in trees,
They seldom venture into this environment to risk hypothermia or freeze.
At the solstice it is at its peak,
Days of warmth seem most distant and bleak.
From this point forward, it starts to decay,
Though still distant, Spring is on its way.
Days grow longer and nighttime starts to diminish,
Circadian rhythms change, waiting for it to finish.
What once was frozen begins to thaw,
And from their icy tombs, creatures begin to withdraw.
More sunshine and rising temperatures are the kicker,
When animals emerge from surviving another Winter.
We sat in clusters, on couches, giggling at the antics of the wild ones, the PP’s.
Aka popular peers, who were dancing with self confidence that oozed into the walls.
The PP’s were gyrating to folksongs, flinging each other over furniture, laughing also.
Their laughs made our laughs sound muted and staid until we had a bit more liquor.
Suddenly we were up dancing, part of the PP’s. No, better than the PP’s because….
Our extrovert-ism had dissipated; we were now glib and extravagant, glitzy and glamorous.
My best girls were kicking their feet into the air with a natural loss of inhibition.
I was the highest kicker of all, felt like a Rockette at Music Hall, only prettier.
Some guy laughed and pointed to our group of dancing Barbies. I smiled big time.
Flashing him my best “who gives a cranium” look, for my cranium was now dancing.
I had turned fluid, my appendages were flipping and flopping. I was unleashed.
A wild fox in the middle of a barely lit cavern of wild foxes. There had never been such a party.
Best party I ever attended, someone said in my ear. It was my friend Sadie.
She was totally utterly unabashedly in the world of Alice; and this was the tea party.
The mad hatter was the next person to catch my eye. I threw back my head like a pony.
Dancing so hard, that my heels made the clopping sounds of a seventeen hand high stallion.
If I never attended another party as long as I lived, it would be okay now.
For I was fifteen, and this party of all parties, made me feel joyful and pretty.
These feelings were terrific. This party gave me enough enthusiasm to last for the rest of my life.
A Cheshire cat was grinning at me from the couch. I gave him a flippant happy wave.
Written 12-6-2020
Contest: Party Folk Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Our past relationship, whatever the boundaries, can we consider being activity partners at some point in time. Capable of giving support, in the form of wellness updates, at times to the other, or are we still both parts of”projects” uncompleted. Feeling heavy weight, depression, and workload, so not in a position to give anything more. This is necessary to close the doors of expectations, when in a position where there is no chance, for original hopes and plans. But what I can’t understand, is why the symbol of an open window in spring that lets in and allows us to hear notes of songbirds, feel new air circulating to breathe, can’t be warming, and dissipate the chills of past seasons, past memories of “projects, we took on, and couldn’t see the effect within ourselves, how ultimately draining family support can become. What happened to the partners we once loved freely , seemingly without effort. Bottom line; can the timing ever be right again, when we can say and feel, we’re in a position to be more ”partners”, then, “projects”, to each other, and ourselves. Even when too many projects are on our plate I think we deserve to have touch base partners in life. Only a few words is all it takes to open the door, to find out if someone is a new partner, or one lost and now found again. How will you know A partner versus a project? Partners won’t require much work, just feel supportive. A project will cause headaches, heartaches, and weigh on the spirit, simply net negative. Here is the kicker, we’ve all been projects to ourselves and others. So If we learn to back off, understand we’ve all been projects, maybe we can help and find a partner within a project, in an unexpected place, at an unexpected time, never considered or thought possible before.