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Where some unmatchible ideas
are found
tying missed-match pairs
in knots
of complexities, easily
unbelievable.

--Repairs of missed-matched socks
wear well on chill days when
darning's all we find
worth doing,

and nobody knows how any more.

Thread bare heels and toes

don't send the mender's dancing thimble
through loops and whirls
at fantasy ***** with

grand pianos and flutes and strings,

and angels in mismatched socks,
singing of somedays like
these, we imagine.

Still, we can.

Souls clad in well mended mismatches,
skate on grandma's wooden floor,
as we recall the deed,
and the equipment.

Grandkids are coming today,
why else would I wax floors and imagine
polishing them, with socks rescued
from uselessness after the other one
was carried off to sockland

through the dryer.
All dryers in America have portals to sockland.
And no one knows how to ****, but
we can redeem stray socks and and and

rescue the tradition of waxing wooden floors,
shining the souls of the trees with the souls of our feet,

trippin' with hippie granny, who married the wolf,
who uses the same portal to sockland for ****.

Just once, everybody should paste wax a wooden floor,
and polish it in mismatched socks, with
five, six and seven year old princesses, (some missing teeth)
none of whom ever skated on tree hearts before.

Or you can imagine. It meets the need for reminding,
common to us all, as time goes by.
Had a grand father's day. Such a fine idea for a holiday, from my POV.
I work
One sock at a time
With elbows glued together behind
My back.

I work with
A pencil in each finger
Intertwined, mingling,
Whispering something about me and
The sweaty palms.

I work keeping
My shoelaces untied so
I may trip over them
And fall to the ground so that,
I may,
Perhaps
By some miracle of God
Or a stay in the hospital,
Find a way to

Keep my toes
Warm; work without trouble.
Ella Feb 12
a river of lights disperse dappled
dots on the window  
Static splattered
Spikes of neon beaming into the dark
sky
countless lady birds
pass countless moths
and beat of tarmac below my feet
shake tired heels and toes
The moon smiles as it follows me through the night
and deep voices flow through my socks.
Masha Yurkevich Dec 2018
I treasure the strangest things.
Like the socks you gave me.
To me,
they mean more than any diamond rings.
Their smell reminds me
of your skin.
Their softness reminds me
of your touch.
Their look reminds me
of your beauty.
I treasure those socks.
I got socks from one of my best friends on Christmas. I sleep with her socks, touch those socks, eat with those socks... I love those socks.
I swear, I will put those socks under inch thick glass to protect them.
lovelywildflower Nov 2018
i don't usually wear socks just while i'm at home
but if i do
treat me with care
because it means i'm really hurting
what i mean is
i don't self-harm in places you would guess
it would be too noticeable
people check your arms
your thighs
your stomach
but who would guess to check your ankles?
exactly
i don't usually wear socks
but when i do
it means i'm really hurting
it means i'm hiding something from you
and perhaps i'm hiding something right now
why else would i be writing a poem about this?

Richie May 2018
Black socks
White socks
   How do they compete?
   They don’t - they just go on feet.
Black sock
White sock
   I think they both rock.
Just a poem about socks. Nothing less nothing more.... it’s poetry
Littlest things I'm thinking of you, avocados, toast, a shirt you'd wear, my tears they spout at socks and sandals, my life I have no clear handles.
What can I say but.... These things just, they'll always be connected to you.
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