"heeled" poems
your little voice
Over the wires came leaping
and i felt suddenly
dizzy
With the jostling and shouting of merry flowers
wee skipping high-heeled flames
courtesied before my eyes
or twinkling over to my side
Looked up
with impertinently exquisite faces
floating hands were laid upon me
I was whirled and tossed into delicious dancing
up
Up
with the pale important
stars and the Humorous
moon
dear girl
How i was crazy how i cried when i heard
over time
and tide and death
leaping
Sweetly
your voice
84.3k
*You don’t make me sad
It’s those monsters in my head
That tell me hurtful rumors
About what one girl said
I listen and I wonder
How could someone say those things
When not a one is true
Yet look at the pain it brings
You don’t make me hate myself
It’s those words on that screen
The ones that say I’m *****
When I couldn’t be more clean
Cyber bullying is not a joke
Yet no one does a thing
They let it happen constantly
And I feel the pain that stings
You don’t make me give up on life
It’s the fists that give my bruises
I’m not strong enough for this life
My pain it bleeds and oozes
I tried to be brave
But this life just isn’t for me
I gave up on this life
And there’s no place I’d rather be
She was a lovely girl
Who cared so much for others
But the ones she cared for most
Are the ones that watched her suffer
Her bruises are visible
Her heart is broken in two
But no one did a thing
Because there was nothing we could do
Now the rumors are dead
The words are deleted from the screen
Her bruises are heeled up
And now she’s forever unseen*
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 5:50 PM UTC
when you're young
a pair of
female
high-heeled shoes
just sitting
alone
in the closet
can fire your
bones;
when you're old
it's just
a pair of shoes
without
anybody
in them
and
just as
well.
19.6k
I've come by, she says, to tell you
that this is it. I'm not kidding, it's
over. this is it.
I sit on the couch watching her arrange
her long red hair before my bedroom
mirror.
she pulls her hair up and
piles it on top of her head-
she lets her eyes look at
my eyes-
then she drops her hair and
lets it fall down in front of her face.
we go to bed and I hold her
speechlessly from the back
my arm around her neck
I touch her wrists and hands
feel up to
her elbows
no further.
she gets up.
this is it, she says,
this will do. well,
I'm going.
I get up and walk her
to the door
just as she leaves
she says,
I want you to buy me
some high-heeled shoes
with tall thin spikes,
black high-heeled shoes.
no, I want them
red.
I watch her walk down the cement walk
under the trees
she walks all right and
as the pointsettas drip in the sun
I close the door.
15.4k
some dogs who sleep ay night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coimng down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
rotten
past, and
you finally got
out
by dying,
leaving me with the
rotten
present;
you've been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
life;
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
carped
nonsensically about
nonsense;
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here's a drink
to your bones
that
this dog
still
dreams about.
12.8k
Sometimes it feels so natural to let a man's hands run over my body, feeling every dip and curve and bump and bruise that exists. It is almost as if his hands and his longing are physical manifestations of my new-found womanly confidence. I have reached a point where I am comfortable in my own skin and ready to celebrate. I want to celebrate like there is no tomorrow and do something a little crazy, a little stupid, live one more breath of this night and one more kiss of this dream. Right now everything just feels so real and raw. To feel a man's touch on a body still so young is nothing to be afraid of - it is something to cherish and hold dear, for it only happens a short while.
Sometimes it feels so natural to wear a short skirt and walk with a sway in my hips, each step with my heeled feet and long legs echo across the floor. There is something in the reverberance that acts as a fire in my soul, the flames within as courage on the outside. The sway of my hips work wonders as tickets to concerts, the pass to the front of the line, filling my empty hand with a full drink. It is a drug of sorts and something that I cannot get enough of. I take what is handed to me for the short while that it is available. Wearing my short skirt and tall shoes, I sway my hips to the beat of a different drummer while I can.
Sometimes it feels so natural to drink to my heart's content and my stomach's contempt. I drink to make the pain and the thoughts and the worries and the stress melt away as my body melts on the dance floor. I become one with the music and one with the night. Carefree and unconcerned I drink until it is dawn. It feels so wonderful to live like there is no tomorrow with no regrets. When I drink I drink to darken the past and brighten the future. The sultry sway of my hips become the sloshing of a boat about to be capsized. The running hands over my body turn into drunk fumbling and clumsy fingers. But I drink while I can and enjoy while I can.
Sometimes it feels so natural to be so bad - defiant and strong and a will to do whatever I choose.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein
he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms
dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash
trouser trout fish,
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos
sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades
the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense
witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
Time to leave these ******* behind
and delete them all from my mind.
All had gone except for one.
He was the worst for hanging on.
He should have been just like the rest,
who didn't like how I was dressed.
Not to mention my high heeled shoes,
well I don't care, It's them who lose.
I'll need to find a brand new friend,
not like these who all pretend.
One who'd say "I don't care, do what you do.
I'll put the kettle on, you fancy a brew?"
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 5:32 PM UTC
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
I'm Bailey.
I sometimes forget to recycle.
I'm from singing camels and trigonometry.
From soap bubbles and yellow scarves, Irish hymns and Zucchini the ferret,
piano keys, bluebonnet seeds, and DO NOT ENTER signs.
From salt.
I'm the color of hosed off sidewalk chalk.
I'm all summer in a day.
I'm a conglomeration of artistic thoughts that make me look more profound than I actually am.
I'm your infinite playlist.
I'm from elephant necklaces and rosemary bushes
from high-heeled taps and Camelot
threadless socks, shopping carts, and impromptu salons.
I'm the fifth ninja turtle.
I live where you laugh so hard you cry.
I'm from carrots and ranch.
I'm a happy cow from California, a fortune cookie with your enchilada, a drill team skirt over marching uniforms.
I'm from unfinished crossword puzzles and forgotten dead languages
from pixie dust and snapcracklepop
from actually-it's-pronounced's, because-i-said-so's, and that's-not-my-name's.
I am Nancy Drew with a Peter Pan complex.
I come from honeysuckle candles and sunroofs of pickup trucks
broken-down fences and peach salsa
the second you step onstage.
I'm from in between.
I'm Bailey.
I don't drive the speed limit.
And I'm from you.
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 6:08 PM UTC
We had well-heeled days
With sprawling village,
Glowing crop field, homestead,
and flock of cattle !
We worked day and night
Made our life accomplish with fruits of toil!
Those were the days of amiable knot with everyone,
Spring was echoed with the sound of ‘Dhol’ and ‘Bihu’!
Summer was fragrance with wet soil and mud of crop field!
Autumn was resonance with ‘Aoi-ni-tom’!
Winter was mirrored with golden Paddy!
Now, we are like a vagrant!
We work in other’s field
We are living on our landowner’s marshy!
“Have you seen that boat on the river?
Our village was there!
Mighty Brahmaputra had carried away
Our home and glee!”
Now, we depend on our land owner’s marshy!
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
i
girls with guard dogs at spike-heeled feet
lips to kiss fire, still semi-sweet
ii
dirt black coffee on a fine tipped tongue
and spiderwebs only half unspun
iii
dead roses in flowercrowns and tangled thorns
and white bedsheets, handcuffs, lingerie unworn
iv
tempest springtime to summer’s rest
and flowers of lovers laid on deathbeds
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
A piano plays softly through my ears
My fingers waltz along the keys
Splaying my life out into a symphony
Every note
Cool
Calm
Cultivated
A captivated audience is a blind one
They can't see what's going on behind stage
The puppets that rise along their strings
Forever to be suspended in space
Controlled and motivated
As long as I'm behind this piano
Mesmerizing the audience
No one will ever see the pool of blood
Arcing along my high heeled clad feet
No one will notice my strained smile
Or the flashing glint
Knives of bone
Protruding from my finger tips
Pray tell
Might I play a song for you?
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
Here I am; waiting,
Waiting for an old friend
On a deserted Railway Station.
She’s late; knew she would be.
Time behaves differently in
Such public places; very differently.
I stood waiting alone,
Then a gaggle of women
Clattered up the subway.
Stilettos and thick, heeled boots,
Beating out an echoing tattoo,
On the broad, concrete steps.
Now we wait together,
Myself and a Hen Party.
Blending of emotional alloys
Fused together, forming
Excitement; then I see her
And all heads turn to look.
Amongst the flower boxes,
Silence blossoms on the
Platform as my old friend
Glides serenely into the station,
She’s late; knew she would be
Even so, she’s on time for me.
Steam unfurls around her,
Billowing majestic clouds
Crowning this, ‘Queen of
The Rails’, last seen when
I was a boy, now in manhood
Her unsung glory is truly revered.
Steel wheels clatter, a rhythmic
Tattoo, then she draws to a halt.
Old friend from a previous age
Escaping through to this century,
Thronged by beautiful women, I
Smile, and step aboard a true beauty.
©Paul M Chafer 2014
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
There were four pines,
Straight, that branched
Out over the hedge
With holes.
High beside
The cement goldfish pond
They stood, near the fence
And alleyway.
From our rows
Of potatoes,
And needed weedings,
A hedge ran across
The back, connecting
The Tehtercotts and Taylors;
We worked the garden
Beneath the line
Of drying clothes,
Throughout our summers,
Beneath the shade,
And the intermitent shadow.
***** blades heeled
Into mounds,
We five posed
For this poem
Half a century ago.
Over the hedge
Carriages and bikes
Rolled between houses
With porches,
And patios,
Leading to lawns.
Near Kevin's *****
A red and white rubber ball
Had landed,
From beyond the hedge.
He turned it over
With a shovel of dirt,
And broke the sod
With his blade.
He was distracted,
Singing us a Beatles song.
But it wouldn't have mattered.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
Your Feet precarious
heels into high heels
into high heeled shoes
the stilted amazement
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:04 PM UTC
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
and something reminding us
this is like all other moving days;
finding the ***** ends of someone else's life,
hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,
and burned-out matches in the corner;
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day. . .
in ordering our lives, we will discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.
And we have plans that will not tolerate
our fears-- a year laid out like rooms
in a new house--the dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves
sagging with heavy winter books.
Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of books and food,
anxious as we always are in winter,
and looking for the Good Life we have made.
I see myself then: tense, solemn,
in high-heeled shoes that pinch,
not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,
but looking back to now and seeing
a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl
in a bare room, full of promise
and feeling envious.
Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward
into the future--as if, when the room
contains us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.
The room will not change:
a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint
won't make much difference;
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath our suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.
I look forward and see myself looking back.
3.8k
I should be thinking about things that normal girls do
like homecoming or prom or high heeled shoes
i shouldn't be thinking about you
i shouldn't forgive you for the things that you do
when you should've been inside my head
you were on top of her bed
i shouldn't be thinking about how great it'd be to be dead
and i won't sleep until that hunger is fed
i can't get you out of my ******* head
i shouldnt be thinking about you
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
differentiate themselves
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye
Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.
No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
plump peaches
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss
So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer ! Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
New York penthouse
room service
french perfume
satin sheets
gold etched dinnerware
sixty-one pairs of high heeled shoes
diamond earrings
crystal goblets
antique art
picturesque window view
of the homeless on the streets below.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
I have a vision of you,
Fresh shaved legs,
Smooth as silk,
Nylon stockings,
Gartered neat and snug,
Gliding effortlessly,
Across your skin,
Your slow moving hand,
Feeling your legs curvature,
Clean well-oiled scented skin,
Ready for a soft touch,
Of gentle hands soft caresses,
Velvet black high-heeled shoes,
Slipped upon your feet,
Dressed in black velvet dress,
Clinging like hugs,
Everything is just so,
Hungry red lips,
Outlined perfectly applied,
Disguised a sultry smile,
Of one not yet kissed,
Eyes lined dark,
Shaped like night,
Made up in dim lights,
Bedroom eyes they say,
This way no tears are seen,
Sleek painted red nails fingers,
Reaching for courage,
Brushing across your lips,
Wink of your eye,
Blow soft kisses across backroom,
A fresh spray of perfume
Long strides across a stage,
Music starts to play,
Fresh shaved legs,
With glittered oils,
Gleam with every move,
Closing misty night eyes,
Getting lost in trance,
When music stops,
Open your eyes,
Once again your still waiting it seems,
High-heeled shoes,
You are not alone,
Your smile wide,
When music stops.
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
She broke her grip on the strap of my heart
Lipstick stained, pale faced caress
Sultry gone long in a high-heeled daze
Slaps of fright in a lost fight
The strap of my heart ***** loosely in time
To pulses of desire as they beat dimmer
Pushed down swagger of hot sighs
Lost cries to last lies
Broken grips on heart straps
She broke me down in fueled up lies
Broke me down in that last caress
cc2011
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 8:56 PM UTC
so this is where it ends
still drunk, in a shabby room with half full bottles of liquor
last night stuck in your hair,
glitter like snowflakes of a single night out’s winter
this is where it ends
heart broken, shattered in two
hung up and longing two years after
his name a poison on your lips you refuse to stop tasting
this is where it ends
wallowing in dreadful self-loathing,
contemplating your idle blues, your black hole of sadness
the smile you wear is but a painful reminder
this is where it ends
with your small group of girls, fellow high heeled warriors
lip glossed and pretty, shiny hair and perfect skin
dressed to the nines, miraculously young and fearless
intelligent, outspoken and strong and far from empty
too broken to do anything but go on
more nights will be filled with hollow, tinkling laughter
more nights will be spent lying on floors than waiting in towers
all because you forgot them all
your forgot his harsh whisper
you made up you mind and decided
“i love me”
and laughed at the sheer terror,
the insanity, the undeniable ridiculousness
at the end there is just you
this is where it ends
this is where it ends
This is where it ends
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Long table laden in lace
mismatched silverware
chipped plates
cloth napkins and crystal cups
beneath a canopy
of knotted branches
framed between two hallowed trunks
snaggled twigs cling
to lanterns and ribbons
strung across the foliage
for the Moonlight Feast.
When the sun sinks
the guests begin to arrive
with their flowing gowns
thin veils and hats
lace gloves
masked faces
shaped like wooden birds
slender heeled black boots
daintily stepping through grass
to find a seat
at the Moonlight Feast.
As they sit
drinking their wine
tittering through
frozen smiles
one man walks
wearing a frown.
the woman by his side
pale as the moon
hair like the sun
they sit at the head
of the Moonlight Feast.
They look nearby
at the less traveled road
where a young man
walks with not a penny
they run like wolves
on their hands and knees
and strike him down
limb from limb
he is torn
and brought
to the Moonlight Feast.
The frowning man
gave a toothy smile
and as well did his queen.
The guests all ate
of the flesh of a beggar
who they slaughtered
alone on the street.
Their titters all turned to
shrieks and howls
while the moon shined bright
over these Moonlight Beasts
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC