mark-goodwin - Hello Poetry

I am The Shoes of Shoes, which are Solomon’s. Let him polish me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss is better than sunshine. Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed upon me, thy name is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes love thy feet. Stretch me, with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run & rejoice with thy feet through gardens & woods, and across mountains alike. I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon. Look not upon me, because I am leather, but put me upon thy feet for I am thy soles. I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces. As the strong shoes among thorns, so is my love among The Shod. As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is my beloved among The Shod. His left foot is in my left purse, and his right foot is my right, tight. The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet. Looketh fourth through The Round Window of Wisdom, through The Lattice see him shoeing himself with my flesh. Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil, for our shodding is tender. My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his. Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains. Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon. Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun & woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak. Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle the seeds of the pomegranate. Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely. Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been fashioned for Achilles. Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters that fish among the lilies. How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters, the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler. O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals upon thy feet, for Love is as strong as The Road to Dead we must follow. O my Loved Shod! for every one of thy steps you make in me is my bliss.

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Feb 8, 2012

Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC

Song of Shoes

I am The Shoes of Shoes, which are Solomon’s. Let him polish me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss is better than sunshine. Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed upon me, thy name is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes love thy feet. Stretch me, with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run & rejoice with thy feet through gardens & woods, and across mountains alike. I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon. Look not upon me, because I am leather, but put me upon thy feet for I am thy soles. I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces. As the strong shoes among thorns, so is my love among The Shod. As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is my beloved among The Shod. His left foot is in my left purse, and his right foot is my right, tight. The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet. Looketh fourth through The Round Window of Wisdom, through The Lattice see him shoeing himself with my flesh. Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil, for our shodding is tender. My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his. Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains. Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon. Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun & woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak. Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle the seeds of the pomegranate. Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely. Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been fashioned for Achilles. Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters that fish among the lilies. How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters, the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler. O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals upon thy feet, for Love is as strong as The Road to Dead we must follow. O my Loved Shod! for every one of thy steps you make in me is my bliss.

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soft larch needles I sniff wish thin dangling larch twigs hold raindrops christ & pagan wrapped to tinsel autumn light has projected Borrowdale’s matter a work crafts growth I peer at a twig’s knuckles a needle’s green edge a tiny globe dissolving landscape Borrowdale is a mass of details full a vastness of minuscule high resolution beauty immense numbers of bits of leaf-frames pebbles daddylongleg claws for an instant I spread let a moment explode as I climb through woods by crags every detail of me follicle bone-cell grease shatters or slicks amongst Borrowdale’s infinite tiny details one of my gasps stretches wetly with the beck others entwine with white fibres of gills unravelling gravity the calcium atoms of my teeth jumble along drystone walls moss green-gleaming my meal of Herdwick meat passes through my gut whilst Borrowdale’s details digest my soul

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Feb 8, 2012

Feb 8, 2012 at 8:20 AM UTC

Borrowdale Details

soft larch needles I sniff wish thin dangling larch twigs hold raindrops christ & pagan wrapped to tinsel autumn light has projected Borrowdale’s matter a work crafts growth I peer at a twig’s knuckles a needle’s green edge a tiny globe dissolving landscape Borrowdale is a mass of details full a vastness of minuscule high resolution beauty immense numbers of bits of leaf-frames pebbles daddylongleg claws for an instant I spread let a moment explode as I climb through woods by crags every detail of me follicle bone-cell grease shatters or slicks amongst Borrowdale’s infinite tiny details one of my gasps stretches wetly with the beck others entwine with white fibres of gills unravelling gravity the calcium atoms of my teeth jumble along drystone walls moss green-gleaming my meal of Herdwick meat passes through my gut whilst Borrowdale’s details digest my soul

15

She's on my shoulders, her chin snug on my crown; her hands; little-strong, clasp my neck. My man's fingers & thumbs circle the glass bones of her ankles. I am her daddy. Hers. I imagine the feel of me through her feelings. She chuckles at the roughness of my whiskers. I'm the stuff, in this moment, of her childhood memories to come: The faint crispness in the beginning-distance of her life. These are the days before her brother will be born. He is due in August. These are my last days of this particular closeness with her. Quickly a glisten in the corner of my eye builds to clear silvery wobbles, suddenly pigeons clap up from the corn, the smooth heavy-blue sky sheets electric-flash, her hands cling a little harder as the dark clouds rumble. My cheeks itch with trickles. As the storm hovers above her she says with her small-voice clarity - 'Daddy, I won’t cry.'

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Feb 8, 2012

Feb 8, 2012 at 7:18 AM UTC

July Storm

She's on my shoulders, her chin snug on my crown; her hands; little-strong, clasp my neck. My man's fingers & thumbs circle the glass bones of her ankles. I am her daddy. Hers. I imagine the feel of me through her feelings. She chuckles at the roughness of my whiskers. I'm the stuff, in this moment, of her childhood memories to come: The faint crispness in the beginning-distance of her life. These are the days before her brother will be born. He is due in August. These are my last days of this particular closeness with her. Quickly a glisten in the corner of my eye builds to clear silvery wobbles, suddenly pigeons clap up from the corn, the smooth heavy-blue sky sheets electric-flash, her hands cling a little harder as the dark clouds rumble. My cheeks itch with trickles. As the storm hovers above her she says with her small-voice clarity - 'Daddy, I won’t cry.'

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