"galoshes" poems
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
The man in galoshes with the world on his back,
strolls along the broken track.
Weather beaten,
Fighting the rain.
It's lashing him.
He's tied to the kerb.
Anchored only by the weighty boots on his feet.
He's out there fair weather or foul.
Desperate to keep his public happy,
With a timely siren,
the arrival of an infants birth.
He is the performer up the garden path.
At least the rain's outside again.
So is he poor sod.
The postman, nearly demi-god,
or nearly dead.
He's tramping through the rain and the snow.
He had to let you know,
you know.
The latest news and hot reviews,
a little bit of useless information.
There's nothing better than a letter,
unless it's from the revenue.
Our fair weather friend he has so many uses.
A warrior, he fights wild dogs.
He's churning up the grass,
his only means of escape.
He's wearing an orange hat,
it's curled up at the edges.
He uses it to fight the rain.
The orange hat so luminous,
he's looking rather fruity.
He's forlorn and in pieces,
because he's getting washed away,
He has one every morning in his place,
each and every day.
Stacks and stacks of bits of paper,
Life and death wrapped up in his sack.
(C) Livvi
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Distasted disaster dooms
Truehoods falsely spoken
Falsehood & true galoshes
Numbrella mousetrap
****** void twice
And More And Morel eels
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 11:14 PM UTC
You may not know it by looking at me
But I live life on the edge
At any given moment on any given day
I laugh in the face of death
Why, just the other night I didn't brush my teeth
Before I went to bed
That may shock you beyond all belief
But that's just the reckless man that I am
And if that isn't crazy enough
I remember not so long ago
Going outside in the pouring rain
Without my galoshes on
Can life be lived any more daring
I know your dying to ask
When you live life on the edge like I do
That my friend is a simple known fact
So don't say I didn't warn you
That I live a wild and crazy life
It may put your head into a spin
But that's just how it is that I ride
When I'm feeling extra spunky I refuse to use blinkers
And use hand signals instead
That's how it is in the business
Of riding in the fast lane with death
Your probably thinking with all of this madness
How can one man even survive
I guess I need to clarify I'm very careful
With a lot of things in my life
I do wear my cars safety belt
I've read up on all of the facts
Speed kills even at the top end of twenty
Which I do to save on my gas
And anti-bacterial lotion
I don't do one squirt but two
Don't let that change your opinion of me
Being Mr. Daring to you
Cause one thing that I always do
And I know your going to say "NO WAY!"
I sometimes ride the city bus
Without having the correct change..
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 7:38 AM UTC
*One warm day in May
It started raining Orangutans
Which in itself would be deranged
If it wasn't so very strange
They puddled up in the street
Which made walking slippery
Don't go out without galoshes on
Stay inside and hide if you have monkey phobias
Cause they're coming down rather hard
In the trees and in the yards
You can hear a certain jungle beat
To Orangutan pitter patter under feet
If you have a boat to row
It might be good to set sail now
It just so happens one day in May
It started raining Orangutans
Which in itself would be deranged
If it wasn't so very strange*
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
I've talked about things before that people consider to be dark
I've never thought of them that way
I guess I would consider them gray
before any other color though
but when I think about beautiful hues, I remember heather
and when I see clouds in the sky
and I scrunch up my face real small while the rain flies
I think it's beautiful weather.
So while everybody puts on their protection:
raincoats and galoshes
umbrellas that sheild washes
I'll put on a cardigan and get covered in shivers
and I'll lay in the middle of the road
and pretend I'm floating in rivers
Goosebumps will be my second layer
They'll make my skin thicker
and the rain will wash the tears off of my face
and nobody will be able to tell that I was crying in the first place
and I'll laugh all boisterously
and hardiness will fill my diaphragm
and I'll scream for no reason at all
I'll scream that I would rather love that I hate how I am
than to hate that I love how I am
I will look at everyone around me
staring at me
arms folded and crunched
hidden under their plastic cape
afraid of being cold
okay with being weak
and reliant on umbrellas for protection;
shadowing faces that are disgruntled and meek
I'll realize they have no idea
how it feels to grow thick skin of goose pimples
and to have agony washed away
and to float in rivers in the road
and to be the only thing in a world of complexity
that is lowly and simple
They probably think that they know how it feels to laugh
because they do it at parties and gatherings
But those are only chuckles
Because they never release their knuckles
They're always clenching them in restraint or force
Everybody should laugh in the rain
and not be afraid of tears in the eyes of the sun
because they'll only get washed away
nobody will know
I promise.
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
Rotted soul of good intention,
mine is an apple core
on an old black road
in a holy heat.
Sinner, slow down!
Sinner stop your dancing
and start praying
for your people
-mmmyes-
that they start praying
for you
child.
'Cause it's gonna take a churchyard full
of bake sales,
mmmhmm
and it's gonna take a winter full of galoshes by the church door
whoowee,
it's gonna take a village to save you, child.
Heathen, pull your skirt down!
stop them hips swaying left, slooow,
swaying right, sloooow
as you walk down that dirt road kicking up dust
like you was a young colt running.
Oh it's gonna take a lot saving,
Yessum, it's gonna take a lake a dunking...
Oh but Lord! It's gonna take a lot of praying,
Hallelujah, gonna need a lot of rosaries
to save your eternal life, girl
I am as rotten as a pit of peach,
dried and without yield. no value, no good.
Child, it's gonna take a revival to save this soul.
Mama, start that revival and save your babies soul.
sahn
2/6/15
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
we are taught by the rain
the soft water,
the heavy tears
a mother who runs a bath, without asking
she just knows
trench coats are worn only if you care
about getting wet
when you swim in the ocean,
you do not know the difference
learn
to float
to catch the droplets
on your tongue
to run naked through puddles
forget your galoshes at home
and you will understand
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
She stepped out
One foot at a time
Steam rolling out from behind her
Beams of fluorescent light spearing through
Only to amplify her presence
She was wrapped in a white towel
Held up delicately by her *******
Silhouetting her waist, her thighs
My personal goddess, I thought
And so she left behind these little footprints
For me to hop in with yellow galoshes
Dancing in the fog of our love
Rain down on me
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 4:02 PM UTC
We dance in the wetlands:
Hopping tree to tree in galoshes,
In snake boots.
We can hear the rattlers and
Crying crocodiles over the
Buzz buzz buzzing of our chainsaws,
But the bossman says stay down.
So we wait and watch, and when
A snake snaps to bite, we touch it
Just so: on the back of the head
With our buzzing tools. Then
We go right back to dancing
Tree to tree and rock to rock.
Step in the water and scaly babies
Will cry out for mother,
But bossman will say to stay
And shoot the mama if she snaps to bite.
We drive them from their homes,
Scaly devils, with our buzz buzzing saws
And our snake boots. We clear the land.
Where they shall go, we shall follow,
Always there is more to clear
More to cut and haul away
But we must be prepared for
Attack, always awake,
Always ready to shoot and touch
The back of their heads, just so,
With our insistent buzzing saws.
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
To quarry a foe is
not unlike a boa constrictor's badge of honour,
even better on guilty birthdays!
Gulp like a Landlord,
his galoshes wears thin carrying
the weight of occasional flooding in cellars!
Bev looks good in her Onesie,
only because she likes her time less marked ,
but she sleep 24/7 in it anyway!
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 5:13 PM UTC
well acting is a metaphysical assertion of the physical act of theft, in Cartesian terms: a part of the extension is stolen, for example an object passed down via generations, your grandmother's wedding ring... acting is in a sense a theft that defines creating a civilisation and eradicating tribalism: galoshes, guttering, sewers and irritable bowel movements.
some said acting
was a subtler form of
defining theft,
given the term
doppelgänger;
i.e. i stole your shadow,
all you have is a hand
to mimic a shape of a hare's head
to please children,
deal with it.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
These murderous galoshes will tear you from the knee up.
The other children stare as your ****** caps are exposed.
Twenty minutes more and you’d have been long gone.
Leaving only behind black rain boots, stained speckled red.
Jan 1, 2010
Jan 1, 2010 at 11:25 PM UTC
An umbrella's erected.
Will maybe keep the raindrops from her hair.
Before they turn into heavy flowing tears and storm into the drain.
Change the umbrella's position, it guards her body from further assaults.
No matter the insults.
She will protect herself, hold close her being.
No matter what.
The galoshes she wears slosh through the puddles.
Mainly for a little fun.
Mischievous chick, she kicks the puddles back at the inconsiderate arrogant drivers as they pass.
Without a care in the world.
Maybe just maybe there's a little pebble that may ***** the ignorant drivers armour.
Then the driver may stop and think.
Before they take another drink.
The umbrella can never save her from roadside splashes.
(C) Livvi
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
I am small in my galoshes
the sun reflects into rivers
of light, we are adventurers
my fried and I, lost boys hidden
under our lace and braids, together under
one second star to the right umbrella
the hale gray sky overturns in our eyes
We gather moss under our nails, dark hairs
tangle with violet march thistles
birds are dark spear heads thrown
from the earth. The world is raw, flawless
against our chapped lips splitting
into grins. We smear the red away like war
paint across rocks and bark, our arms
and cheeks. We are fierce and do not know
what it means yet, to give our blood
so freely. The rivers of light fade
into the evening. Shadows slide
from our backs and grow in silence.
The blood dries and flakes away
into nothing.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
Maybe I'll write a poem
That totally rocks
Like maybe one about
Pick-up trucks
And good-old boys
Who drink and make noise
And ogle the girls that sashay by,
Leering and giving them the eye
For nothing but tosses of their heads,
Snarky sneers and icy "Drop deads".
Or maybe I'll write of high society,
Given to extravagance more than to piety,
Dressed in their finest, parading the street,
Deferential to all, light on their feet,
Dancing through life toward their urns of ashes.
Or maybe about old men wearing galoshes,
Smoking cigarettes in the snow,
Maybe there's more future in that:
Some things you never know.
Or maybe I should write about lovers and haters
Or apple pie and mashed potaters.
So many topics out there to choose:
The seasons, bananas, fantasies, the blues...
But maybe its not the subject you select
But how you present it that has the effect?
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
if there were clocks that would send me back
before the time when the neighborhood
was full of toddlers and dying men
when the rain puddles still fell lightly
beneath my still-small galoshes,
i would use them and bring you with me
we'd look at each other with hazel eyes
dripping with the stars and the memories
of our distant futures, far from our miniature grasp,
and talk about flowers and their place in our hearts
and crawl through the mud without our raincoats
to find the worms in the dirt, to build them a
kingdom of sticks and dust
with a moat running through it and we would rule
despite our ever-changing bodies
and our once separate lives
i'd make sure to place you in the empty house
right next to mine
and we'd start again
as brothers
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Puddle of blood on the floor
I'm sure it's the perfect size for you to splash and play in
Sorry for the mess;
I just hope you remembered to bring galoshes
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 6:38 PM UTC
beautiful like a rainbow on a cloudy day
She twirls in her bright yellow galoshes and coat
that angelic face towards the sky
Her bright blue eyes bring the sun but her dark black hair continues to praise the rain
beautiful like the dazzling lights on the stage
light brown eyes twinkle as she curtsies to the audience
perfect golden curls making her shine
Silky music resonates from the cello and she seems to be suspended in time’s strong arms
beautiful like the strokes of vivid paint across her page
brilliant green eyes intensely stare at the paper
the brush end in her mouth as she smudges a line
her handsome red hair is in a simple knot at the nape of her neck, all speckled in red, blue, and yellow
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 6:34 PM UTC
1. Listen. Look, I know I talk too much and I may rant a lot, but if you just listen that's enough. I don't want advice, just acknowledgement and a hug.
2. Laugh. I may drop all the contents of my purse when I flirt with the cashier. I'm never perfectly groomed. I trip on my own two feet. I sing at the top of my lungs off key to the Frozen Soundtrack. I will use you to smack when my laughter gets me. I love cheesy puns and terrible anti-jokes.
3. Mean it. I'm both cynical and passionate. Don't take my **** but don't leave for no reason. My heart is broken. I'm not asking you to fix it. Just don't lie and hurt it worse. Please.
4. Kiss. Don't be afraid. Grab me and kiss me and pin me down and have me. Love me. I don't believe in simplicity. When we make love, make love. It's supposed to feel like something.
5. Live. Let's take a walk in the rain so I can wear my galoshes and jump in puddles. Tease me because I **** at being a vegetarian and then buy me some chicken. Hold me when I cry because I'm tired of abandonment. Don't let me go when I try to leave. Ask me to marry you with a hot sauce packet at Taco Bell. Look at my pinterest. Read my poetry. Play monopoly. Be sarcastic. Call me a ***** Dance and let me step on your toes. Laugh when I try to be **** Believe in me. Don't leave.
I'm just me. And I want love. And I'll give you all I have. I can be silly and blunt and a ditz. Please, just love me through it all.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
Puddle of blood on the floor
I'm sure it's the perfect size for you to splash and play in
Sorry for the mess;
I just hope you remembered to bring galoshes
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 1:18 AM UTC
It was back in those days, the elementary school days,
when we were all friends, characters to one anothers plays of nonsense.
When we reigned over puddles with galoshes or brightly coloured gumboots.
When we wore capes and knew all the sing along songs.
And yes, I do recall, fondly so, that big park.
We were all there, whether in soul or in spirit,we explored the butterfly gardens, our parents and teachers were there too,
a school trip of sorts?
Just a vivid but fotgotten dream?
Who may answer these questions but ourselves by eventually succumbing to the universes natural way and forgetting the questions and finding and accepting the universes other answers.
The flowers of the light May day were in full bloom and that glass greenhouse, the one that intrigued me so, stood just like a castle.
After lunch, when the children were running throuhg green grass or wiping sticky hands from oranges upon the damper grass of the shade and while our parents and teachers sat on their coats dilly dallying, I stopped.
Stopped from my playing like a bunny caught in someones eyes. Was it a hand that grabbed mine or mine that reached out? Lead to a rivers edge, a little stream or pond. Ducking under willow and stepping over bushes and creeping through imagined dens of foxes or coyotes. My companion, my little friend, the face on the memory is blank, perhaps we had even more company.
We held hands.
We held hands like friends in our childhood innocence, before the concept of cooties, before the playground held terror. We sat hunched up by the pond poking sticks and reeds into the stream. Poking at the river flies and mud. Lost in a mystic realm of childhood unknowingness.
And then it caught me. A glimpse that magnified. The little water spider, gliding on the surface as though the surface were glass.
Oh water bug, from my bright eyes and blurred warm memeory you stood out to me. Majestically skating in the reflection of my face. As though you were that man mentioned in grandfathers stories from the book he said he beleived in, that man himself, walking on water. Such grace and beauty in you're perfectly casual stride, a quality I later noticed and looked for in people. Oh water bug, slipping your little bug fingers through glassy streams like a figure skater on an ice pond.
Do you remember me little bug? I was the one, the one with the little hands reaching out. I tried to hold your magic in my hands.
I was the one that in awe
reached out
But like a snap dragon,
in a blink, you were gone.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
There's something so enchanting
About a summer rain shower
It transports me back to
The days of joyful puddle-jumping
I'd put on my galoshes
And splish, splash, splosh
Giggling gleefully
As water went everywhere
Yes, there's something so enchanting
About a summer rain shower
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
Poetry should go for a walk at night
Through the park
lay in the due sprinkled grass
and gaze up at the sky lit by stars and a Hunter's Moon
With you
Poetry should put on a crimson red dress
With blackened leather boots
And sing for all of the ladies and gentlemen
Who drove for miles just too hear her voice
Poetry should put on her blue and white polka dotted galoshes
Dance in the rain and jump in puddles with the kids
and let the rain drizzle upon her head
With not a care if she gets wet
Poetry should sit down and curl up by the fire
sip some hot chamomile tea
And read a captivating book that Richard Tyler would befriend
Until she drifts into sleep
Poetry should paint you a picture of love
One that starts with a smile, blue sky's, the brine flavored ocean
And ends with your lips running across my chest
while my hands caress the nape of your neck
and yours entwine with the tangles of my hair
Poetry should make the colors of the leaves turn
as clouds creep into the sky leaving a blanket of crystals on the ground
Poetry should thaw out your forgotten memories
that froze like the once trickling creek
so you can know that every second is worth while
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC