"booties" poems
i am not your ******
nor your sister.
i do not know the meaning
of these words, mister.
except
in instances where
i hate us
like
they hate us.
a putrid loathing
sprouting from different
colored grounds
but a dangerous flower
nonetheless.
they are not just words,
they are drops of blood
spilled from the lashed backs
of our enslaved
triple grandfathers
and mothers.
our slang replaces
hoses
pushing us back
during marches
and righteous riots.
aggression
equals regression
equals deppression.
and now,
it's all our fault.
now it's
black on black assault.
now it's
fly shoes and ghetto booties.
poppin' bottles and
poppin' caps,
running through nights like
street ******* rats.
what would
W.E.B. DuBois say if
he'd seen this
backstep taken
after we'd come this far,
after reaching for stars
and dropping
the ball?
now
i love this color.
i love this color
and prefer no other.
all i'm saying is,
let us pick one day
when we put the negroidian away
put ****** back in it's roots.
no, not the movie,
don't me toby.
let us get the dream rollin'
Mister King style,
not Master P style.
no big rims, or leather seats.
none of that ****
for awhile.
i'm saying takeover.
i'm saying african-america makeover.
i'm saying,
let's take
our pride back,
like our
homeland lions.
let us make black
a taste not so sour.
i'm saying,
Black Power.
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
Five minute street artists
and insomnia mongers.
****** drunk blondes
and finger snapping phat booties.
Street geniuses
bred by Machiavellian philosophies
cypher dreams over tokes
of marijuana smoke.
Color worshipping narcotic traffickers,
and bread winners
parole corners
sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers.
Senile war veterans
beg for change in cardboard boxes
from the American dreams
they afforded.
Hard workers with every ethnicity
molded into each pore of their face,
rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops
barely escaping tires crushing their feet.
Sartorial geniuses with no pants
switch hips in knock-off stellos heels,
selling the origin of the world on avenues
next to Arab Halal food.
Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways.
nodding in and out of Daily News articles
while oxygen blessed by asparagus ****
pump through their noses.
Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies
From sky-crapper offices,
And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter,
With no apologies.
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
Oh the cringing demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than *** lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.
Oh, mere *** be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.
I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your ***********
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial nudity?
I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?
Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.
Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!
There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?
Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see *********** then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
As excited as I am about the end of the semester and Christmas approaching, the bitter cold this week has almost frozen me. Don’t get me wrong, winter is a great time for fashion, but the cold weather is not for me. I would prefer to stay inside with a huge glass of hot chocolate. Aside from cocoa, he secret to staying warm is to dress in layers. I’ve tried to do that with this outfit but I’ve failed a bit.
The majority of this outfit comes from The Yellow Rose, which is a locally owned boutique in my home town. The blanket scarf and shirt are both from the Rose. These boots are from Maurices, but could be swapped for converse or duck boots. The coat is from Aeropostale.
It’s safe to say that I have fallen in love with the blanket scarf. Not only are they adorable, but they also provide ample warmth. They can be worn with nearly anything, including this great shirt. This shirt has a tassel tie underneath the scarf which means it could be worn on it’s own, if you aren’t as big a fan of the blanket scarf.
This jacket is a life-saver to say the least. The reason it works with this outfit so well is because the green in the scarf is the same green on the jacket. Army green goes with just about anything. The sleeves are a sweater material which makes them warmer than normal. You could dress this up a bit which a nice trench coat or long cardigan. You could also change the boots out for black booties or flats.
This outfit is perfect for Christmas parties or Christmas dinners. It has all the traditional Christmas colors and it will keep you warm.
However isn’t only for Christmas. You can easily wear this at any time during the winter.
Hopefully this has given you a bit of holiday wardrobe inspiration. I know holidays can be a stressful time for some, but the outfit you wear should be one thing you don’t have to stress about. Stay warm and stay comfortable.
I hope your break is wonderful and filled with joy. I know we all need that after those finals. I’m sure we’re all ready for present, family time, and much needed sleep. Spread Christmas cheer this year and enjoy the time off. May your Christmas be merry and bright, and don’t forget the Christ in Christmas! He is the only eternal Gift that keeps on giving.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane | www.marieaustralia.com/vintage-formal-dresses
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 4:22 AM UTC
Rocket red robots and tincan screws
Light up the night with sparks,
Which I love.
The workers work and the sleepers,
They sleep forever.
Making rye for the breadwinners,
Making toasty socks for the children,
Making copper caps and wee brass booties,
But won't let them take a wee stroll,
Not in contrary Mary's garden.
The kettleheads squeal and the bronze bucket chests,
They hum with drums in their stomachs,
Candygloss paint trickles onto
The sprockets below with their sharp teeth,
Teeth that creep over the outmodes and candy red.
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
What she saw stole her innate calm.
She could see from across the room that he was in trouble. A kid, stumbling towards her. Desperate for her.
Eyes wild with fear and fatigue. 14, 15, maybe he's 16?
She knew from experience gained over a few months that he had an hour--maybe--before the weakness she saw stole his primordial drives.
A life is on the line
She wraps the plastic gown around her, she bends the metal of her timeworn mask against the bridge of her nose. She hides her hair in a net. She covers her feet with booties. All done with purpose. All done at full tilt.
His name is Paul. And he is scared.
She is by his side when his eyes roll back in his head. He's still breathing, still holding her hand but his eyes have gone white from the work of it all. His head swivels on its axis from north to south. "Please " is all he can manage to exhale.
**** she thinks, as his oxygen saturation registers at 20%.
A life is on the line.
10 days later. Countless like him have come and gone.
But, it's the exhausted exhale exchanged in
his final plea
that leaves her breathless now.
A life is on the line
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 2:54 PM UTC
If you're really good I might let you see them, that is, if I can find the pointy-toed knitted pink preemie booties some coworker's wife gave my parents....
(sonnet #MMMMMMCXX)
Suppose I'm but a nymph whose sprite in frail
Excuse wars, tangled by long cherished thence
Auld loves, and sorrows which I canna hence
Shrug off. My father aye, and brothers hail
Me as so oddly wont to in betrayl
Don effervescence, whiles griefs own my sense
Of whither, glad to see this warm eye whence
These yellowed fields bask, dead, as if'd avail.
I dabble in the thought of Death as twere,
Like twould thus ransom me from here, though blue
Skies whisper to my soul of yonder fer
All that. Yea, I hate aught, but love each too.
Or praps I hate myself cuz joy is poor
And crimnal, left a prisner, whence I rue.
01Feb17b
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
how many steps must I take
joints grind and bones to break
this is for your sake
regrets follow in my wake
your face and smile fake
poker table I'm the rake
Nicki, Kanye and Drake
like filligry on my cake
like edgewater on a lake
real estaste will always make
dem big booties shake
to make the earth quake
and when will you flake
and make my heart break
It's then I realize you're my only mistake
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
"It's a girl" they said
Ooooooh think of all the pink things
Like booties and bows
Dolls, and toys that aren't for boys
"Sweet sixteen, and never been kissed"
Blow the candles out love
Your mother spent hours baking
Your mother spent hours labouring
"She's a woman now!" They cried at her 18th
"We'd better watch them boys!"
But what about the girls?
Why aren't you watching them?
Is it because those girls are at the kitchen sink ?
Awaiting a boy's wink of approval?
Through buttermilk sweetness these
Pink girls think.
You men are ******
Full of tricks
That send half these girls to a shrink
But it's time to have a rethink
We fair maidens view you
Through basilisk eyes
We fairer *** are
Crueller than you
It's time to drop kick the pink
Permanently into the kitchen sink
And slink behind you
With a candlestick
After all I'm just a pink girl
Who would believe that the
Pink mess on my dress
Is your brain?
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
ol' factory swirling of disinfectant and decay
and the arising sliding vision that brings me to my knees,
presence like you...and you...and
...you....again.
( ( ( ( ( (scope) ) ) ) ) )
( ( ( ( ( ( (like) ) ) ) ) ) )
a paralysis of fear
that grips an exhale
...like, serious,
for real, for real.
DJs spinnin' tunes like yarns,
blanketed cocoons
and scoring golden booties.
Divert into another duality,
- split -
( ( ( ( ( (scope) ) ) ) ) )
( ( ( ( ( ( (like) ) ) ) ) ) )
a past, present, and future
>>>>>>>>>>shakin' it, shakin' it<<<<<<<<<<
like an Oxford comma weekend.
A love like, < >
and a tsk like, < >
for who sells integrity on a dime?
Slo-mo tracers.....
diss....appointment.
Unconscious tallies of an inhale or exhale
that arises with the all
unfiltered
now hesitant
but, yet,
here
we
are
in absolute wanderings.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 9:18 PM UTC
For the lucky, a million chances are granted
before their first day sleeps.
Unnoticed - mostly unspoken to the
screaming, restless, 'just wont settle' infants -
they are to be carried on the shoulders of
protectors and handed down as time presents.
The chance to grow attached to that first teddy-bear.
The one in the attic with just one eye and
an off-white coat of the softest fur;
It holds all the heat from the nights you
nuzzled, before your imagination was clipped;
To wear your first little booties and
plod your first steps holding fingertips sky high;
To run headlong into the edge of a table
you could fit under but a day before;
To cry with your face scrunched up
and your eyes closed, mouth hanging ajar, after
falling from your bike;
And the chance to be embraced and told it will all
be okay by those same protectors, then handed another chance
with one less stabilizer.
Now let's replace the embrace with a thought -
For her;
Her protectors couldn't carry her chances.
When she awoke and filled her lungs
the chances handed down were a cold plastic bag and a
chance encounter with a passer by on the Steelstown Road:
Her chance at a first day, unnamed.
Given half a chance I would give her all of mine.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
I am addicted to the street life,
The street girls that wont make a wife,
The head lights flashing in my eyes,
The tall ****** having glossy waxed thighs;
I am accustomed to the police chase,
The constant fear of sitting in one place,
The drugs and smell of cigar-weed in the air,
And the disgust in the eyes of passers-by as they stare;
I am acquainted to the quick cash for fancy cars,
The possible bullet wounds and permanent scars,
The big booties in the clubs across the street,
And the VIP seats that usually comes with it;
I crave for the knife fights and gang wars,
The fake ideas that i will die for a just course,
The hijacked lamborgini i wil bring to grandma,
The idea that ****** in my neighbourhood will call me master;
Indeed i am fooled by what i see in music videos,
The gangsters turned musicians acting in these videos,
Who end up broke,shattered and in dismay,
Naa, i will stick to the deligence that brings the good pay.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
DIY DISASTERS!
Once upon a lifetime,
I knitted a disaster line,
My sister was expecting,
So, I thought I'd be creating,
That first ****** looked beautiful,
Second, third and fourth not so dutiful,
They turned into footy boots size,
So I bought socks in Kmart--surprise!
I never found a baby with four different feet,
For DIY disasters, booties can't be beat.......
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 1:40 AM UTC
DIY DISASTERS!
Once upon a lifetime,
I knitted a disaster line,
My sister was expecting,
So, I thought I'd be creating,
That first ****** looked beautiful,
Second, third and fourth not so dutiful,
They turned into footy boots size,
So I bought socks in Kmart--surprise!
I never found a baby with four different feet,
For DIY disasters, booties can't be beat.......
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 1:40 AM UTC
Debt Threats tie in
Short arms, deep pockets?
This hand is empty,you’d best fill it up,
Fat cats in in suits better cough it up,
Im broke but not brokedown
I’m fit and and full of the the venom and rage of
An entire age of wage slaves on who’s backs you fed
So we’re fed up you better cough up like syrup,
Before we erupt and melt down,
This whole town,
My home town...
The only way to turn these angry frowns
Upside down is for YOU to dig deep down in your boutique booties
And cough up
Before your face feels-my bootheels,
Are you listentin? Ya better,
Cause we’re fed up and bitter,
You think its getting better? HA?(echo)
Maybe for you…but open up your eyes,
See the cries of those you secretly despise,
And abuse,
And then wonder at the crime rate?
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
if you had died
i could have kept your love
and bronzed your memory
like little baby booties on
the mantle over the fireplace
instead you lived
and ran with love away
and left me with an urn
the ashes of your love
whose form i can't discern
(C)2001, Christos Rigakos
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 10:12 AM UTC
I've been blazing through these pages, a daily duty
Wit withered away with daily doobies
These ladies with beautiful names
I use to make use of any human, I met who moved me
But these ladies, these brainy beauties
With grace and ageless folly
With so much to give
And so much to take in
Plainly makes me amazed
And jolly, I guess in a way they taught me
Awe,
And to never waste waning words with
Vain and cocky tales of some form of me
I’ve felt, but never comfortably
Presented
Especially not to these brainy beauties
Jaw dropping dripping hotties
Hot chocolate melting on top
Of a fugde sundae
Hot and cold, every sensation felt
As they enter and escape from me
The best blend
Blessed I guess
Nevertheless
Best left to rest
These brainy beauties
With grace and booties
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 12:14 AM UTC
to the world's woes elude me
from down here spinning around
trying to make sense
while making cents into a dollar
or writhing lonely
while a billion stars
glow in the sky
and the pizzeria
right next door
I find the neon distracting
the clown delivery cars
delivering to the hungry
while I starve
right under the glow
ironic
until I noticed the old woman
at the washeteria,
watching
the washer spin to a stop
slowly with her walker
stoop down in pain,
unload her knitting of booties ,
with a faint beauty
a smile on her wrinkled
eyes and lips
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
What will they do with Grandma, now that she is old?
No longer able to fend for herself, by her home-help they've been told
She's always been there for her children but now none of them want to know
Keeping a roof over all of their heads, not all that long ago
She's been the peacemaker for all of her kids, when relationships hit a bad patch
They've all forgotten just how much she did, though their partners she thought a mismatch
She put home-cooked food on their tables when their cupboards all were bare
Helped them to pay their bills, though none of them cared for her
She cooked them all good hearty meals, served them up on their own table
Sometimes she went without food herself, putting them first when she was able
Often she would dread the ringing of the phone
A sound that would usually be welcomed by someone who lived alone
But whenever her phone rang, she would feel very daunted
Wondering who the caller was, and what it was they wanted,
Would it be for money or babysitting duties?
Or maybe her knitting skills, making numerous pairs of booties
Grandma had to live somewhere but refused to go into a home
Frail and unable now to live on her own
Jim was asked to take her in, but he said that he couldn't
He'd always been a selfish man, it was more likely that he wouldn't
Katie said she had no room, but conveniently forgot to mention
That her husband, a bricklayer, had just built a new extension
So it was decided, Grandma would go into a home
The family went around and told her, she could no longer live alone
The greedy lots inheritance in their minds was already spent
But every penny that Grandma had saved, for her keep at the care home it went
Grandma did all sorts for her family, so she couldn’t understand
Why now she's in a care home they never go nearhand,
We now know of Grandma's fate, her story has been told
A lifetime of caring for family, unwanted because she got old
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 3:49 PM UTC
Swiftly flow the years
Like foam upon the waters
Leaving memories of songs
And girls with juicy booties
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Friends are running a marathon in it today with raingear handy.
Ducks were racing and splashing without a care.
How waterproof are their feathers?
Others walk their dogs soe dogs wearing their fashionable raincoats and booties.
Many drive to their Saturday plans which are now indoors.
Hearing lyrics to every song about rain from film to rock to theater.
Left tunes home since umbrella and hood get in the way and impossible to get a clear signal.
Rain brings drop zones.
Walking in the the rain.
C@Rainbowchaser2023
Sep 23, 2023
Sep 23, 2023 at 9:44 AM UTC
When i was a little boy
and my booties could fit within
a small couplet of square metal
to which I had been given
I did not question, I did not complain
I existed the sights and smells of simple place
I licked the mist that watered plants
Crushed coffee beans in the employee
lounge
for they laughed at such a little boy.
It was 2002
and America was still somewhat free
When movie theaters had plastic seats
Empty exits
Then I sat the edge on watching Pokemon
Living in an electronic simulation
Taming, Creating monsters in my spare time
Travelling the tri-valley
Commute of a thousand years
Today,
It only takes minutes
And my soul drips strange when I see the house
Devoid of lavender,
Cut of oak tree
The park that once held the promise of a century
Diminished into brief obscurity
As new developments
Shaped like matchbox
destroy the grass
And raise land prices
To end the american dream
Paved roads that sang of free
take their toll
now I cannot see why this could be
What interest could there be
To paint our chided memory
Out of mind, out of sight?
Now the place I bought grilled cheese
Dipped in sharp tang of pickle juice
Bought and sold to an optometrist
To continue questioning the vision
of our adults
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
.
( we're starting to get boring )
::
Illuminati Night
CULTURAL HEROES !
the way that babe
can shake her booties in my face !
Should make her father proud !
••
**** star high
Ain't it great (?) AMERICA !
//
)(
Little words
Grafitti footsteps thru the night
The boy , his feet wrapped in
Rags of blood
His mother's crying in his ear
& his little sister's face
In their last midnight
)(
Mystical sight
---- HERE ----
---- ALL OF US TOGETHER ----
•
Looking to see
Truth
( at last ! )
;;;
FROM SEA TO SHINNING SEA
TO FINALLY SEE
TRUTH AT LAST
X
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
no more does my mother knit
half finished scarves, tea cosies
and tiny shell like booties
sit in forlorn piles
awaiting a hand that
is no longer deft
or interested
her conversation is now not
accompanied by the soft rhythmic
clicking of needles, tapping away
we are no longer halted in questions
by the phrase"just let me finish the row"
now, pattern books are filed away
wool paased on to others for their projects
groups of women no longer gather
my mothers hands lay idle and listless
in her lap, finger bent and curled
in painful submission to age
she is some how smaller, diminished
as tho the k itting needles gave her strength
to battle to stand stoic, against the tides of misfortune
that battered the island that was her life...
my mother no longer knits
and in me that creates a sadness
that is deeper than words explain
and often as I sit with her
I long to here that rhythmic clicking
that was the back ground to my childhood
knit one purl one.....
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
Fluttering fingers flicking
the wisps,
Scattered particles helplessly
staring like zombie.
Denizen of dispersal !
Scattering without gathering ?
Littering innocent sleeping shore
with specks, refuse and
wastages,
Preventing the marine beings
from feasting on unsolicited
booties,
While reigning over the aquatics
casia.
Fishes glorying beneath your
stool,
Celebrating in their splendid
splendor,
Cherishing your inordinate
habitat encroachment,
Relishing the cool bustling
breeze,
Stuttering intermittently over
natural abuse while your
fingers beating the tombola
drum of indifference.
Legion of blue blunting busied
parading over the army of
the waterbeds,
Savouring the delights of your
majesty.
But why scattering the wisp
on the river bank?
Devouring the hearts of the clean
axis of the river bank.
Fresh air oozing from the gallery
of neighbouring vegetation
aromatized your bustling
breeze, refreshing hearts,
Clear away your stink.
Evacuate your nuisance.
Dec 19, 2018
Dec 19, 2018 at 2:36 AM UTC