"footwear" poems
To be a good writer or a poet
You have to be good at wearing shoes other than your size
Size 1, 2, 3, up to size 10
Even if it falls off your feet or too tight, you just have to try
Not only shoes, also all other kinds of footwear
From socks, sandals, flip flops, and slippers
High-heeled, boots, flippers and sneakers
Even barefooted, if there's nothing else to wear
Then, walk with it, run with it
Feel the calluses and feelings it brings
Up until its soles are wearing thin
Then, write the experience
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
Cinderella had her slipper, which was made of glass.
Something so small, yet, so delicate.
And I, much like Cinderella, have something made of glass.
Something so small, yet, oh so delicate.
It’s my heart.
And I think the clock just struck Midnight.
But only one of us can get our happily-ever-after.
And here’s a spoiler:
It’s the broad with the wacky footwear.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
bespeckled, blotched & blokey
feminine in aspects
only little ****** hair patches
two chins,
or rather a sloped one
the front evenly declining to the middle of the throat
a gradual slope from the tip, for juices to run if his manner and situation allowed him to be as casual and sloppy as his laziness chose,
torso without form, so there was no curvature on the buttocks or the fly region.
a mass
a blob of bulges on spindly legs
he leans on the wall
stubby in hand he balks
(he means jovial but unintentionally he vocalises mockery)
at the suggestion that the Pies will do better
& that Eddie is a clever man due for thanks, who has done his club well (apparently a straight Aussie arrow tried and true!)
the man ***** his head back & cackles
(the trebly popping bubbles of a gala crackle outwards as the man cackles)
& decides his arms need a rest,
(a long day of up and down they have had indeed, they deserve respect, or rest (or a benching))
so he places his beer down
on a sloped surface,
& therefore it slips down….
he sees it plummeting, he stretches toward it's tragic trajectory,
…..but he is too slow
it smashes
on his foot (the shards) the beer bottle it transfigures,
and the shards they impart their misery on his toes.
The shards they intrude on his relaxed state of wellbeing, they intrude on the security sanctioned within the casual footwear of a man at a barbecue; taking it easy.
he swears and hops, reaching in indignation for his bleeding toes
he holds the wound cursing; resisting the impulse to begin convulsive throws
(an oscar worthy performance from a usually suburbaly urbane individual)
the moisture feels degrading
(as it would within a man's pants)
the pain from the cuts it is worsened
by the smirking gazes of others about
he hobbles, disregarding his thong in the wreckage of the scene
off to retrieve a band aid
to mend his ego
and his foot
simultaneously
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
As the sun rose up and the stars came down,
Morning dawned upon the town,
but the darkness didn't fade, as something came along,
To finally right the drought's wrong
Temperature dropping, birds chirping,
Thunder roared, as the aves beat wing after wing,
The scent of fresh mud clouded our nostrils,
and the crashing of water droplets had our ears filled
We ran as our footwear pounded the drenched land,
Only to notice the street dogs huddle under shelter,
Shaking themselves to get rid of body sand,
and expose their glossy fur
Soon enough, mother nature ended the delightful downpour,
Leaving us craving for more,
but the best part is the fact that monsoon has just begun,
So leave a smile on that face, for things are still great without the sun!!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
I’m not quite sure, yet everything I do
appears to me as being viciously half-assed
yet sincere.
I write this mid-winter [I guess?] on the RTA
with twenty dollars on me and I don’t want to know
in the bank, with cold feet, both literally and metaphorically.
The future looks decent from a distance in bar light.
As I feign some resemblance of being classy and
collect more sodium on my footwear,
I ponder the passing of an officer who flashed a light
to look at me in the dark on my way from home.
It makes me glad I speak English, where there
are such hard, sharp and unsympathetic undertones
to phrases like, **** off”.
It’s dark on the way through Cleveland.
Try to stay warm.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
Looking for another acting award
An actor asked one poor, what his shoe looks like
The unfortunate caught off guard
But he smiled, then answered with no fright
Well, today it doesn’t look so well
You see I don’t wear it now
Looping sun and rain hurt it like hell
But it is tough and survive somehow
It stands tall against the mighty storm
I really appreciate its endurance
But as time goes by, its look deformed
I don’t know if it can take another resistance
So here I am now walking on the street barefooted
But may I ask you sir, why are you asking for my shoe
You see I can’t buy one, my pocket is so wounded
Hence believe me about my footwear, it’s all true
Looking for another acting award
An actor asked one poor, what his shoe looks like
Now he got the best trophy reward
A teary eye, a lesson that deeply strikes
9/17/2015
Mysterious Aries
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Polka Dot, Polka Dot, a one pony show
Strange name for a child, but she loves it so
Cheerful wee girl with sweet smile aglow
Adores all round shapes, expects you to know
Her twenty one garments sport assorted dots
Basic eight pairs of footwear, orange and green spots
Gaudy bows for her hair, with colored rings, lots
Dot sees spheres imbedded in her eyes and thoughts
Blankets and curtains, guess what, dots and lace
The spotted mouse toy for the cat to chase
Walls with orbs and specks on all space
In the right light they reflect on your face
Dot's off to school with a polka dot hat
Coat, umbrella with circles, imagine that
Polka dotted notebooks, pencils and backpack
Rides pink spotted two wheeler, parks in bike rack
Poor Polka Dot started feeling sickly ill
Sent to school nurse where she refused a pill
Saw the Doc, calamine lotion and advice to chill
Spots! Chickenpox! Polka Dots notable thrill
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
I'm not Little Miss Muffet
From a spider I won't run away
I'll just squish you in a tissue
Or grab a can of bug spray
If that won't be sufficient
If that would not do
I'd just take off my footwear
And smash you with my shoe!
Spider, Spider there I see you
crawling upon my bedroom wall
You give me nothing but the creeps
with every single inch you crawl
You may weave interesting webs
But don't think I'm making nice
If I were not human (but a fly)
I'd be an entangled, delicious bite!
I hate your figure-eight, rounded body
I hate your dangly legs, eight
Is there anything about you I like?
No, I think everything about you I hate!
Jul 31, 2010
Jul 31, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
Oh, oh Oreo
Oreo the cat
Who makes of ripped up paper towels
Very fancy hats
Oh, oh Oreo
My silly little friend
Who through ridiculous antics
Amuses to no end
Oh, oh Oreo
Sniffer of all shoes
Faced with the choice of sniffing strangers
It's their footwear that you choose.
Oh, oh Oreo
Speaker of cat tongue
I pretend to understand your words
But my translations are far-flung
Oh, oh Oreo
Warmer of my lap and heart
I promise now as I did before
We will never be apart.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
For sustenance we trudge on
Just to sustain
This callus equilibrium of fragile crystals
swaying in the wind, falling constantly
Employing the cleverest techniques of fleeting upward momentum
Short-lived displays of affection bleeding the small offering received at birth
endlessly replayed to our children's eyes
Despondent indentured servants scribbling through skin and tendons
Just to feed their families the rice they can no longer grow
And sending these fairy tales to the rosy-cheeked offspring of their oppressor's store bought dreams
To keep the oppression alive .
To operate at peak efficiency.
To transfer honest muscle through wire mesh.
And fatten.
And enfeeble
Enforce the prerequisites to match the scale's testimony.
Testify! Oh, Lord. We thank you for this meal stolen from our inferiors.
Please Please Please.
We demand pleasure. IT IS REQUIRED.
For if we feel sadness, then we have failed.
And we'll lay down what we don't have space in our engorged bellies for.
It will be placed, with all due honors, to our greatest shrine.
Where we are honest with our real Mother.
Where the proud, twicely worn, footwear of our warrior-spiritless cows rests
Where erections limp as collapsed towers, respected by false jihads, sleep.
Where dream's plastic refusal composts never; nourishing nothing.
Where potential is pure impotence.
The bed we all share.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
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Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
I have only seen myself as a beautiful artwork once in my life,
It had been the advent lovely Spring of sweet sixteen,
There is a photo of someone else’s mind in which I am the subject, rife
With calculated gorgeousness, the white blouse and powder blue skirt
And I had been wearing black ballet flats; a day upon my feet had left me hurt
But the enchanted, oil forest before me had healed my eyes and entranced me
That pose, holding onto myself with ribbons in my hair, someone could see
A beauty that which I have never known since.
Into the heart of the Prince
Into the hearts of all the folk for she was a fairy tale heroine,
Cinderella, lovely lady of ashes, had glass slippers
And upon such toity-toity footwear, she had slipped
Yet, it had been such fragility that would unite her with her love
Will I be united with such grace, such love for myself, if I hold onto my ballet flats?
After all, I have not once seen this grace, such love for my own self since sweet sixteen
Since the foolhardy winds of chilly, oceanside Spring;
Where upon the Museum modern, I saw myself as timeless artwork
Admired and appreciated by all; much like the lovely lady of ashes whose slippers
Have walked her beloved soul into the hearts of all; into the best of time
Yet, these beloved shoes of mine
Have seen so much better of time
For I can see through the soles wherein holes
Have shown where I have worn my own souls
In bitter wanderings and light-hearted adventure; so many type of walk
For a single lass, I could not talk
Of all the places and thoughts these shoes have led me astray within
Of the beauty that had once sunken in
How am I to part?
How am I to part with such faithful companions through all my wanderings of
Yonder years soon to come asunder as I am no longer sweet sixteen,
As I am no longer before entrenched trees of oil, elevated in buildings upon
A chilly, Springtime by the sea I’ve only known in passing afternoon
In black ballet flats; not unlike the glass gussied slippers of lovely cinders
Am I not unlike Cinderella?
For whom would she be if she had not received the night of her life
As carried upon the fragile spurned glass of her magic slippers
For whom had reunited her with her love, the foot fetishist Prince;
Lovely lady of ashes would be just that: lady of ashes,
Worked to beyond the bone; dressed in rags, head in clouds,
Dreaming of opportunity squandered in her slippers of magic glass
She would be like me.
She would be like me, contemplating her toes in birdsong prose
She would be like me, wondering when she would feel as refined as a classic artwork
A beautiful timeless painting with grace and poise without rival supposed
If I part with these worn soles which have born my souls cross
My journeys long, will I ever be at loss
Over mine own image rendered beautiful: my own body rendered beautiful to my eyes?
How can such skin-deep bliss exist without my black ballet flats?
How will mine own eyes recognise my beauty
If it were not for dainty small feet slotted into impractical, magical glass slippers
In want of my dear and precious black ballet flats.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:53 PM UTC
For my mate Ernest W who cared....
Invisible in silky strands, a gossamer of lethal thought,
Drifting through the nether regions, touching on my mind.
Complication’s vagaries encroaching on the circumspect
Magnifying well beyond solutions I can find.
Nervous in the groundswell now, I feel it all inflating,
Inflating to a curtaining beyond my self control,
Waves of peristalsis in a shrill persistant keening,
Locking out the sanity in holding logic’s goal.
Waves of peristalsis in a bath of perspiration
Panic in a rupture at the coccyx of my spine,
Ravenously eating at the fabric of all reason
Ravenously gnawing at this rationale of mine.
***** in a puddle on the floor beside my footwear
Cloying is the stench of the ***** in my drawers,
Lost are the vestiges of any thought of decency
Gone is the differentiation in my flaws.
Clenching of hands in a bind of blue confusion
Catatonic slowness in arresting the decline,
Vaccilating eyeballs are rolling for the camera
And utter desolation is a flavour on my mind.
Why be concerned with the shaming of tomorrow?
Why come to terms with the maunderings of late?
Why face the music of the mirth and derision
When there’s a more practical direction to take?
Glide to the realm of the smooth overflowing
Slide in the slipstream oblivion makes,
Slip the bonds of your sad mortal tenure’s
Awful array of destructive mistakes.
Glide to the realm of serene independence
Glide far away from the troubled and hard,
Gone to the gossamer web of the ether
Gone to the nether world’s silky facade.
*...........: But what's the guts Courageous,
You happy with your deed?
Are your friends all overjoyed
To see your suicide succeed?
Is your family unaffected
By the loss and guilt remorse,
Your sudden grand departure
leaving kids without recourse?
Did you think about the aftermath?
The chaos and the pain
And the long term implications
Of your shattered families' shame?
The guilt within your partners heart,
The kids who are confused
And the ****** dissapointment
Of your mates.. who feel abused?
The mess you left behind you
And the tangled web you wove
And the bruising of good memories
For which, you once,...had strove.
Your painless, quick demise, you thought,
Released you from all this.....
But the sadness in the silent eyes
Condemns you as remiss.*
Marshalg
In an effort to understand why?
....And explain why not !
9 December 2010
Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/suicide-12/#ixzz17kzvfsTk
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 2:09 PM UTC
I let you go,
like the waves rolling on the shore,
and a little boy who lost his footwear,
crying scared to go back to her mother
where he had lost the gifts.
I let you go,
like a couple of ashy Prinia birds
dancing among the bamboo branches
sing loudly in the breeding season, build nests and lay eggs,
but replaced by the eggs of cuckoos that grew and were cared for with love.
I let you go,
like cities that have long since died
the quiet and lonely
and people left
and no one ever came back to occupy.
I let you go,
like the paintings of pain
from wounds that bleed and lose
displayed at art exhibitions,
and everyone was amazed to see.
I let you go,
like a memory in a photo album
from loved ones first,
yellowed full of blotches of teardrops,
worn-out dusty and looks real.
I let you go,
like an angry poet
in front of half-finished poems
who have been lost for words for a long time
to be reassembled.
I let you go,
like falling rain,
and a boy running around looking for shelter
with wounds on his right hand
holding tightly to the thorny rose.
I let you go,
like a book
and sad stories
which has been left for a long time
after reading all night.
Once again,
I let you go,
as a most perfect poem,
that I have written,
from the remnants of memories in the head.
Nov 5, 2021
Nov 5, 2021 at 12:03 AM UTC
Two posts emerged on my Facebook,
And sorry I could not peruse both
And be one user, long I stood
And scrolled down one as far as I could
To where it went into a long blockquote;
Then read the other, as just as shared,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was classy and about footwear;
Though as for that the likes there
Had rated them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
I believe with no comments written back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever tap back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two posts emerged on my Facebook, and I—
I read the one less thumbed-up by,
And that has made all the difference.
Aug 25, 2020
Aug 25, 2020 at 5:59 PM UTC
The spitfire met the Messerschmidt his back was to the sun.
He rolled away right into blue skies dotted with puffs of
Cannon fire smoke stitched a polka dot trail behind.
Chalk white cliffs glisten in relief. Soon the moment of truth will step forward destiny waited patiently it's turn as the island burned by night
The speckled.sky by day. The chatter and moan the struggle of flesh
against fire and steel.
Against will a death-dealing skill
**** or be killed
A ballet of silver winged coffins filled with fear and courage.
Times that try men's souls.
In the end.
The outcome was in doubt for many who stood
and made stand that spoke of commitment to survival.
That spirit is now past.
But school will commence again
soon. Soon.
Sorry to say.
Read gaping spaces between the lines. Though a different
wolf wrapped in fine garments and expensive Italian footwear
will prance into our nightmares
stoke our insecurities
smile and assure.
No Mustache or comb-over though.
Doomsayer say you.
Chill pill versus paranoia.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
It's the age range that strikes me, sitting here in the semi darkness, in Norfolk, in the Show Ground.
It's the age of the sky - the view consistent with years past, but fresh each day, each minute, ever changing and ever moving through star-scapes which shift as we speed through created space, spinning and moving on on voyages into the unknown, through brave new skys created for us to stretch our legs: us little space people, tumbling with nothing holding us up or down.
It's the age range - the trees standing for centuries, the insects breathing their last before tea time, and human kind, kidding ourselves that we're in control of all we survey, when the truth is quite different.
It's the age range - the kids in their first year fascinated by all they see; school age children, waiting to be amused and vocal when parents fall short; teens fascinated by themselves and curious about boundaries; young adults finding what lies beyond is just as amazing and just as laborious as they imagined;
and then the middle (and not so middle) aged, sporting practical footwear, factor 50, and voicing their conviction that they've moved the facilities further apart this year.
It's the age range of the new day generation - stretching from nought to mid eighties, all under canvas or luxuriating in caravans that, like their occupants, have arguably seen better days.
It's the age range and God's infinite patience with all of us, as he guides our paths, through space, through fields and through our years seeking him and through what he has prepared along the paths yet trodden - whether in practical boots, flip flops or crocks.
It's the age range that reminds me that we're all one generation as far as Father is concerned, cos we're all his children with no room for grandchildren in this family of God, in this field, under this sky that he created for weeks like this.
Aug 3, 2022
Aug 3, 2022 at 2:20 AM UTC
At the fountain
by Nelson’s Column
you met Julie
in mini skirt
and bright
red top
her hair hugged
into a ponytail
a copy of Sgt Pepper’s
under her arm
you in jeans
and open necked shirt
came across to her
standing there
looking into the fountain’s water
sorry I’m late
you said
missed my train
no problem
she said
bought my own Beatles' LP
and she held it out to you
friends say it's neat
and way out
she added
as you scanned
the sleeve
where we going?
you asked
drink I must have a drink
she said
how’s things
at the hospital?
usual stuff: treatment
drugs to get me
off drugs
therapy
psychiatrists
nurses
and so on
you?
she asked
I’m ok
you said
ok is crap
ok is boring
is mediocre
life either *****
or it’s exciting
and over the top
she said
the Square was crowded
people
and pigeons
and water
and sun
and sky
and mixture
of perfumes
and bus fumes
let’s get that drink
she said
and so you went off
to a bar off
Trafalgar Square
and ordered two drinks
and sat outside
in the sunshine
I think the fat nurse
on my ward suspects us
she said
suspects what?
you asked
you and me
and that small room
o that
you said
she took out
a cigarette pack
and took out
two cigarettes
and gave one
to you and lit
them both
think she’s jealous
or envious
Julie said smiling
free love
makes some women angry
Schopenhauer said
somewhere
that wives and ******
despise women
who give ***
away free
it undermines
their contracts
how’s Jamie?
you asked
still locked up
she said
they claim
he was supplying
but he wasn’t
they ******* him up
she inhaled
and searched
your eyes
you still playing
your saxophone?
yes
you said
I practice everyday
annoys
the neighbours
sometimes
but got to
keep up with it
and hone the skills
she sat legs crossed
her thighs exposed
her footwear bright
her fingers holding
the cigarette
the lips red
her eyes
like small mirrors
small **** pressed
against the red top
the memory
of that small room
off the ward
she and you
and brooms
and boxes
and such
and kisses
and ***
and on edge
for the door to open
but not overmuch.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
We never obliged ourselves with any sort of passion or alignment with natures splendor, we just flip-flop'd about like disenfranchized plastic pieces of footwear; Fleetingly and disparingly as we float adrift through a toxic sea of consumerism, entranced with the notion of celebrity, swirling and whirling around until we undoubtabley wash ashore onto the pristine beaches of someones elses uncorrupted, isolated and darkly pigmented subconscious. Ready and willing to establish order in the magnitude of exploitation and apathy. As we scream freedom from tryanny, TV to TV, a bunch of muted and silenced over commercialized under adulterated humans trickle fed lies through screens. Everyone knows but who is speaking up, As Miley Circus flies across the manufactured dream a handful of youth stand up and puke as they throw there hands up like the ones before them and say "this isn't my scene!"
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
Please and thank you,
so curtsy often
to the brown and gold
array arras errat error
and enter
politely,
for a new age-
is much less a new page
turned,
than old pages burned.
To think and dream is not the age we are,
but blatant blatancy
berates the timid temperance of tolerance
in such a brutal light
that tiptoes are required footwear
for all 6 companies that run
the treadmill of deeliteful light.
and it delights in light
and fruitless
useless
brooding
foolishness.
iamtalking of course
about the horse,
the dog,
the cat,
the viral virus of vermin
-
to break up our monotony,
all that is necessary is
to be willing
to shed the opinions of the mass
-ive ignorance
and think,
but more than most,
to breathe in compassion
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
The myriad of possibilities
enliven my ******** semantics
somewhere to go when
my slippers tell me not to
The words that i exhale
are the engine that fuels imagination
something to sustain when
my noggin is void
The vibrancies that rattle me
attribute to the found experience
somehow they strum
when my heartstrings are mute
The mountains that topple me
serve demise to my slippery friends
someways i have adapted
now i listen to blue boots
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 1:54 PM UTC
Chapter 1
-
two aspirin
a coke and bed pan
puzzled a chronic ********
and an upset stomach
Chapter 2
-
a thirteen year old Jewish boy
gets ****** off
by his mother, sisters
and the ladies in the neighborhood
to celebrate
just bar mitzvahed
Chapter 3
-
her blow jobs are Shangri-La
while sky shadowed eyes flutter
a slumber party ******
shimmers lips of **** confetti
finger ****** good
hoping to marry
eight inch packin
tattoo boy
Chapter 4
-
she married a stingy man
and her hopes of love
turned into a book of
instructions
protocols
and
standard operational procedures
Chapter 5
-
she masturbated
eyes bulging
into a scrapbook of horrors
thinking you're so handsome in a mask
with that rusty blade
her **** burned
like hell
Chapter 6
-
the amputee pouted
your knives
look great in a stained basket
go ahead
take an another arm
and a leg
as she sold off her
last gloves and footwear
Chapter 7
-
a starved crocodile
has his belly pierced
by an annoyed lion
turned
the meaty peach abomination
into cat food
Chapter 8
-
God and Satan
makin deals
for souls
burning cigars and incense
just more backroom politics
and strip-poker
Chapter 9
-
a mantra
on a subsonic level
liberates from the ravages of nature
beats back the ugly
of home made sin
when tragic turns magic
-
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC
Why do hackers think so highly of boot camp?
Who pays through the nose to send footwear abroad?
Why use boots and not sneakers nor sandals?
Instead,
Stick with the proven approach,
Used over thousands of years,
Billions of satisfied users,
Faster and cheaper to boot.
Throat lozenges—guaranteed to improve hacking.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC
Confessions of a Goody Two Shoes
At least that's what I had always considered myself
But like a pair of sneakers tied together and thrown over a telephone wire
I'm sure it's only the innocent eyes that see the image without subtext
Strung up by knotted laces tied around the tongues
Hanging just above the mist and missing the point
Because these shoes were made for walking
And there's just no way of knowing how far someone is going to go
As muddy soles beat the ground with every stride as we run from our problems
But can't always outrun the bullets
Trying on everyone else's lives to see if we can finally complete the mile
I've been starting to doubt the label assigned
Associating me with footwear and being walked on
I can feel my arches aching with the pressure of walking in time with the crowd
Of walking to a beat I haven't chosen
Of walking heel-toe-heel-toe left-right-left
Down a straight path
Down a narrow path
There's smoke in the sky from the road less traveled
There's gravel in my shoes from stepping off to peer into the distance
I'm not sure why I want to run away but there's just something about the unknown
Chasing butterflies down aisles of pitcher plants and Venus flytraps
There's something alluring about losing my only pair of shoes in the dust and just running
If I'm not making good choices
I'll make bad choices with conviction
I need to learn to stand on my own two feet but for now
I've been learning to walk barefoot
Because goody two shoes just don't quite fit any more
But I can't seem to break in anything new
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC