I sing to my feet 

Two feet

with toes a pair of fives

another ten do hands with fingers make.

Arith me´ tic they became

dawn of the digital age

giving measure to the multitude 

of passing days partitioned days

rotations of our mother-globe

moons seasons winters

other names

we have assigned 

to quantify endless time;

for counting crows

or sheep or heads or lucky stars;

inevitably coin to cipher 

useless wealth useful goods

or anything beneath the sun 

we circle round.

 

To feet

on which I sometime 

steady stand

from where my eyes explore 

the slice of world about my head;

but for a closer look 

with tacit nod 

cooperating feet 

join my journey

mobile on all terrain.

 

Downward facing  

a mirrored pair almost these feet

just as almost balance-

tranquil calm inward-turn’d

elusive balance

ever-sought-after 

with rocking weight walking

biased stepping…

(one side after all 

holds sway always)

 

Summertime feet unwrapped

unused to rough ground; 

tender soft-skinned pink squeeze

of warming earth; 

prick of grass spear toe-pinch

buried round pebble bump

in the thatch of the dune edge

on the way to wonder of wonders. 

Burrow my wakening feet 

into wet salty sand 

at the edge of the world!

Boisterous waves and slippery

pull me 

off my feet off my kilter

sucking sand, sinking down

encased at the edge of the deep.

 

Half of me each foot describes

left/right 

right/wrong 

black/white

this dichotomy imposed, supposed 

to simplify life-

does not fit! 

All options fade to grey 

oh, innumerable shades

of grey choice between them in

the battleground of my core 

where struggle my extremities 

to keep me upright;

while oxygenated doubt 

courses through me

keeps time with each beat each step.

Stand feet firm bear my weight, 

my old indecision/poor decisions-

for those not made with purpose 

not made actively are made nonetheless.

Bear me past wasted tears of wasted days!

 

On your feet son

reveille wake up

for God’s sake,

for your own!

 

Spared and safe from 

Vietnam rice paddy slosh

war-boot jungle rot 

landmine maime

agent orange incineration…

Spared and safe from

hateful desperate 

street march scenes;

Freedom Marching:

fire-hose billy-club ear-crack 

mind-cracking hate-words greet-

did my feet march 

alongside? 

No- nightly news TV screen 

witnessed through my propped-up feet

was my only connection to 

those unity feet.

 

But, workboot-bound my white feet walked 

in privileged light

the confusion of which knew not 

where to turn until today;

afraid to speak 

out against itself

against the shame of history.

Knowing no thing I turn down my gaze 

upon my feet and ask forgiveness 

(but they can neither 

grant nor refuse it.)

I have had them wander

carry me aimlessly 

long whiles free

not shackled not kicking

not desperate 

for the ground below the rope.

 

Waiting feet, for something

while ginger-stepping 

sideways through days;

while old shoes walk ruts 

into dreams I forgot.

Seeking a place unclaimed as yet, 

unknown but familiar 

that would shout- 

Eureka!

Mother–FU#&>R !

Where can you take me faithful feet 

that I might be changed?

 

Remember the Christ? 

Who washed filth from feet

himself humbled his fishers anointed

prepared to carry his word on foot

on their lips to the world-

that pointed spikes were pounded through

their teacher’s innocent feet…

simple women and men 

left to decipher

the rage fear 

unfathomable 

depth 

of hate; 

they continued walking 

teaching by their step-

how to live

how to die 

as they did

as we surely will.

Let eternity begin 

here in faith

wailing

in the mud and slime.

 

So I sing 

to my feet and find a song- 

of acceptance 

(the final stage of grief)

of awakening

for it is time-

to stand

with those who demand 

in the street

to shout JUSTICE, for

Silence is Complicity

Complicity is Guilt.