#lfp poems on Hello Poetry

Left Foot Poet 4m

will follow;
this battery pack
changed but unchained

#lfp

Left Foot Poet Sep 2

YOU,
one of the  mainstay sails of this ship,
a timbered main, like so many others,
who come here to pray and be blessed
daily, sometime twice, and rare absent
from this battlefield of word worthiness,
where so many fall, unattended, but you
are not one of them

you cross my mind,
and bring me a smile,
all the time. line by line,
your bedlam blue, is our custodian

I repost what intrigues, makes me gasp, jealous and desiring
why and how you found these words, that trick my eyes,
in disbelieving belief, that you got there first,  com~bo~ing
craziness delightfully,  and says me ****, how could have I
missed this, the that, where you are at,  a missive missile firing
in a million directions, hitting every target...

so I thank you, twice times over, you
are the sailor extraordinaire that keeps our
leaky (bad gateway?) afloat, and it is you,
X 10,000  that I wish I could repost, this worthy cause,
but here I must pause, for you have given me a pleasured
insight, in right, it is us who should be shy, for not
honoring
you ever so much more.

with affection,
even I, Left Foot Poet
get it righted, sooner,
but never, is not permissible
so let us sail on...together...

#for #omni #x #10000 #leftfootpoet #lfp

Left Foot Poet Aug 30

griseous risibility (the shrinkage of me, the hard way

griseous risibility (the shrinkage of me, the hard way)

of course you're clueless
what the hll this means,
well, let your own fingers do
the pressing, cut & pasting,
my version, is the mockery
of me who grows grayer
daily, in every place, even
in the oddities where your
eyes cannot go, fingers can't
swipe, nor touche caresse,
alas, when I tell you, it's felt
in the tightening of the belt,
the squeezing of the vigor,
pressure on the mental vim

hiding under bed, doesn't
help the head, in fact, hesitate,
when you anticipate the congress
of neighbors called to get me
our from underneath, me, laughing
stock, the only stock I own that's
actually going up, yield to the
overwhelming defeat by the
totality grayness becoming
what's left of my shriveling self

cuddle, stroke pat & pet
what's left, of my disappearing
existential marking of the spot,
in this ha! expanding uni-verse
of the shrinkage of me…
the hard way

the way I am feeling with two rainy says, unleashing every ache

#griseous #risibility #shrinkage #lfp #leftfootpoet

Left Foot Poet Aug 22

my son is ill (schizophrenic}

I've been aware
for many a year,
but cut off by him,
for crimes he accuses
for crimes undisclosed,
his silence is wider than
the great oceans,
with no means of passage.
till one day a word,
his brother uses a word
that makes no pretense,
that shocks, stuns, and
force!admits me to a reality,
I, knew but couldn't admit

schizophrenic.

here I am sundered speechless;
as a new form of sadness now
internally prevails, and I am
even more quiet than usual,
contemplative, they call it,
but
I recognize sad/mad in every one
of its manifold disguises, and wonder
just how much, own ingenious genes,
the paucityof my impoverished down~
bringing brought, bought, caught,
contributed to this loss, this onus,
this cross that has no answer to the
                                   *only question that matters,
                                     how much,
                                     am I the guilty party
                                                                         the disaster father

#lfp #schizophrenic #son #nml #disaster #father

Left Foot Poet Jul 15

Squalling and Squabbling

Our temperate country roasts and burns flesh
with Apple devices cheerfully
advising that the temperature is
currently a three dicey digit affair

walk in the 100 degree overheating
atmosphere, where sluggish slugs,
once mobile New Yorkers, search and save shady places that proffer
a handful of degrees relief from the
brutalist sun, who was heard smirking after a wet Juno,
"oh yeah,
I'm back baby with the vengeance
of a squalling and squabbling infant!"

and to harmonize on our lack of immunity from the terrors of weather, and yes, it's still June, the quiet nighttime skies awake us a thunderous slapping of sheeted rain, squalling and squabbling,
rat-a-tat large caliber bullet/droplets drilling holes in our
template temples expecting early
morning serenity;

the Newspaper rags in search of pithy witty declaim:
Rainstorms To Crack The Heat Dome In NYC

neglecting the cracking of tempest tossed tempers,
furthy discombobulated composure
of forced sheltering in place
more, again, uhh,
as if parched thirst or drowning are a choice

ok rant over!

the displeasure was all mine

#squalling #and #squabbling #lfp #leftfootpiet

Left Foot Poet Jul 11

Grace is at the Table

Grace at the table
<>e
Grace is at the table
sitting quietly
observing, contemplating, collating
She
is shapely & invisible,
inviting, inspiring, intriguing,
absorbing her fill of each of us,
asking no questions, for we tell all,
and all tell,
for her visage is comely, pleasingly, despite
her transparency

Wistful Smile
Single Tear,
Grace
Is At
The Table

come partake,
of
Grace
for she
will follow you
everywhere
take her home,
ask her to stay,
invite her to stay,
you will be pleased, by pleasing her,
indeed,
She will spread her
embracing wings, sheltering, protecting,
for when Grace is at the table,
She is everywhere,
Inside Out
Outside In.
and there is no
The End

july 2025

#grace #table #lfp

Left Foot Poet Feb 28

“one wild and precious life?” (1)

first, please see the Mary Oliver poem below
<•>
Oh! you you puncture me with your words,
direct to the sticking place, where the insertion wound cries out,
but does not bleed

my life punctuated by the, no!
punctured
bye absence of wild,
did this permit it precocious
preciousness to deteriorate?

The safe route, the wrong Fork chosen,
The tings impale, my pretend satiation,
My life is nearly over,
should I get plan?

this poetic life struggles within and to get out,
but there is no plan to let it escape,
me remake,
turn me to a peripatetic bee,
pollinating a wildflower as a mere messenger,
a carrier, only to return home to
deliver and die
precious poem
on my lips

February 9, 2025

(1) Poem 133: The Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver

#leftfootpoet #lfp

Left Foot Poet Jan 16

Twosday

i place my head beside her thigh
as if to sleep in her warmth,
I say Twosday,
she says,what?

I repeat, Twosday,

Yes, she say, it is,
pausing to consider
and connect
my dots:

Ha, you’re writing a poem!

“head connected to my thigh bone,
drawing from within me,
the necessary ingredients to
inspire, perspire,-and respire
this agglomeration of the
in and out of your surroundings
contacting pulses”

I think, ah,
she’s got it,
but all I say and
state with definiteness,
by repeating,
and breathing out

Toosday, Twosday!

Tues 1-14-25

#twosday #lfp #leftfootpoet

Left Foot Poet Jan 14

so much to believe in

Dec. 2024

this woman is my destiny,
so much to believe in,
she loves me when the
world disbelieved in the:
the who,
in the,
we~hope,
of a
we~too

on the fusion continuum
we slide, on playground steel,
shiny, hot, not caring, playing
grown up~maybe, one behind
the other, gleefull  shrieking &
screaming upon falling into
a pile, a jumbled unity, of
tumbled older bones

now decades later, we play
at forever, when we early morn
seek out the empty places,
and play once more, now shoes off,
but slip~sliding full of
undignified noises at the top
to the
all~the~way~down,
we wake up
tbe neighborhood,
and once in a while,
people cone running
to see who are these noisy
usurpers identity, and we
climb up to the top,
lungs expelling a shout,
     ”so much to
          believe in!”

#lfp #leftfootpoet

Left Foot Poet Jun 21

This, For You: "One wild and precious life”

“We’ve engineered the world for comfort and ease. Most people rarely step outside of their comfort zones these days—we’re living progressively soft, sterile, temperature-controlled, overfed, under-challenged, safety-netted lives1. And it’s slowly limiting the degree to which we experience our, as the poet Mary Oliver put it, “one wild and precious life.””
Michael Easter, Substack

<>><<>

five months have expired
from when this notion
1st caught my notice
but fallow lay,
unattended, unremarked
unforgiving

of my ignorance and inattention

but it freshly, rightly,
core challenges me

guilty of the underbelly softness
so well described,
I
choose to scribe,
wrestle with angel and devil,
two~on~one human,
and yet, still a
fair fight

"wild and precious!"

how rarely we employ these
adjectives,
that conjure the edginess of an
existence

lest you think,
that we are here to implore, urge,
skydiving, remote wilderness trekking, or other physical states
that set adrenaline on fire,
I am not
afterthat for them

oh, my
wild and precious
is far more treacherous and enthralling

what I beg you to embrace is
no farther than
nubs, knobs and stubbled nibs of your fingers,
the taste buds flowering invisible
on the wily, twisty tongue,
the  tiny-vibrating little hairs of your nostril,
two extra large  eggy pupils of your two eyes,
here lies danger,
your customized throbbing throbbing your drumming,
leadings
access to the garden of
The truly wild and precious,

the poems you will scribe,
from the safety of your captains chair,,
Throwing caution to the wind compose and depose yourself with bitter questioning,
For which the answered answers must be truly be
wild and precious

  cyan sighs,
oaken cries,
furious colorless invasive tears,
steely stabbing personal truths,

yes those wild ones,
in your. chest close held,
spill them like cold coffee,
surrender the precious, and
inward confess your
shame, gains  and the relit
that you are not merely
wild and precious
but a sea borne sailor,
a navy voyaging to
to where
danger enthralls
enlivens!

Commenced Feb 9 2025
Completed June 19 3025

#lfp #leftfootpoet #wild #precious #life