"keds" poems
Missing the whistle of the teapot.
A big tin thing, dented, spouting
Warnings, careful baby, I am
Really hot.
The hum of the microwave,
The machine noises of coffee being made,
Them noises just ain't the same.
There is no poetry in
Whirring hum, beans bump 'n grinding.
They don't talk to me.
But in the middle of night,
When I rise, get dressed,
Still put on mismatched socks,
My t-shirts inside out,
The same jeans been wearing for weeks,
Cause they are right handy,
Lying on the floor, feeling so good,
Covering up my old fashioned
Keds.
Someday, I guess there will be
A machine that hoses us down,
Shampoos the mind while your fingers idle,
Then becomes a wind Chunnel to dry us up.
Will it have octopus arms
To dress us, having looked at our daily schedule,
Taking into account the weather channel forecast,
Where n' when we gotta be?
I suppose that if I ask nicely,
The replicator will make me perfect coffee,
And even whistle if that's what makes me happy.
But as long it don't try help me write,
That ****** function, that ****** need,
Human,
And only I can
Whistle while I write.
6:13 AM
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
The new Genre Tourist Punk
is sailing the nation.
Hawaiian shirts and white keds are lining up all around Orlando to see
up and thrifting bands like
Lobster trap,
Lighthouse tour and
Dogs welcome.
Founded in a Starbucks
by Toni and Dash,
two MECA grads one student loan away from selling out and getting involved in
the lighthouse painting business,
The Band: Lobster Trap
gave birth to a whole new genre.
TOURIST PUNK
Toni and Dash decided they needed to provide music that was expensive. niche.
Something unspeakably mundane.
With smash hits like
"This traffic is ********
And "My name still isn't Joe".
Lobster Trap is flying
up the American top 40
faster than you can say socks and sandals
Sales of "I HEART LOCATION" merch has skyrocketed with every launched tour.
Crowds of L.L. bean boots and visors are Moshing, breaking poloroid cameras over each others heads in a salmon rage.
old school punk fanatics were skeptical at middle aged middle class suits getting into their scene.
until it hit them that they could now throw punches
at every pedestrian who ever cut them off.
"Hi thirsty, I'm Dad." By Land of the Polite
Has been played more times in the last year then any taylor swift song.
Money once invested in college-bound middle class vacationlander spawn is being wisely spend on bands like "discount Polo",
and "Local Diner"
So listeners.
if you spend an obscene amount of money on travel fair, and over priced, cheaply made souvenirs;
Or Work in customer service thriving to see those leaf peepers choked out by their own ***** packs.
Do yourself a favor.
road trip into your local bullmoose
sporting your states name on your chest.
And Treat yourself to an exclusive new album
of TOURIST PUNK.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 4:16 AM UTC
Becky turns on her radio
It’s 4’oclock you see
Says she’s got a date with just me
Her Keds dazzled in red
With thoughts of Psychedelic Furs in her head
Thomas headin home
On the floor of ole truck lies his 80s comb
Hasn’t seen old school in years
The thought brings him to tears
Michael’s on a break
Wants to take time by the lake
Thinkin about Sarah
And that iconic leg warmer era
When she hadn’t worn waterproof mascara
Sarah walkin thru the old store
Hears em say, vintage is a good score
Records musty smell
Makes her feel swell
Polaroid on a shelf
Drifts back to a time of her younger self
Instant prints
Memory hints
Friends together
In spring weather
High school dance
Parachute pants
Puffy sleeve print
Tubular and mint
Neon color
Teenage pustalar
This much is true
With a Converse shoe
Glares, stares and dares
Waves in their hair
Synth-pop
They bop
First crush
They blush
Friendship pins
Shy grins
Floppy disks
The unsaved risks
Laughs enter
In present time
Fallen purse
Fate or curse
Hand holds out a dime
Blank look
Like a old good book
Mumble jumble
Who do you see
lookin back at me
In a flash
It all goes past
Familiar face
Of time & place
If you leave
No one would believe
Together again
It was then
When they remembered when
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 10:20 PM UTC
Red was not her colour
But a taste and sounds of her
No danglings, no bling-blings
Not even the style of Harry's.
She wear no stilletos
Neither pumps but fine kicks
Keds trend all over
Rockin' and spinnin'
With her preferred music.
At times, I then look down
Not to face the pebbled ground
Taylor's Red Collection
Became part of my up-to-date fashion.
(6/30/14 @xirlleelang)
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
First up, first out
Adventure.
Life in the street
Awareness.
Running in new Keds
Activity.
Today marbles and stickball
Organizer.
Here's how we will do it
Leadership.
Back for breakfast. Gulp.
Out to achieve.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
The chocolate ringlets on her head bounced up and down,
So innocent and carefree.
It was obvious her mother had picked out her outfit:
Black shorts with white polka dots,
Classic pink trim on her matching white shirt,
A laughing ice cream cone printed on the front.
She skipped down the street.
Her pristine white Keds scuffed from constant wear and tear in her Aunt Becky’s backyard:
Digging in the sandbox with her cousins,
Swinging on the rundown red swing,
Hiding in the tall, uncut weeds they called grass.
“Ready or not here I come!”
I held her small, pale hand in mine,
One of the many things she had gotten from my side of the family,
We had hoped she would have gotten her mother’s olive skin,
But we had hoped for a lot of things, hadn’t we?
I ushered her into the restaurant out of the brisk October air.
Her bright blue eyes reflected light from the laminated kid’s menu
And also deep concentration as she struggled to read it’s simple words.
She would be smart one day, I could just tell.
I imagined her walking down the aisle in her black cap and gown,
Shaking the president’s hand with one hand,
And receiving the college diploma I never got in the other.
“Mac ’n Cheese, please!”
She always ordered the same meal,
No matter how long she debated over whether to get the chicken fingers or the pizza.
But I guess that’s how kids are right?
Predictable.
Or maybe dependable is the better word?
She was my first born,
A trial run.
I was learning as I went.
As she finished off her bright orange pasta,
I handed her a small blue bag,
The words “Happy Birthday!” printed on the side in rainbow colors.
I hadn’t bothered wrapping it.
A bag just seemed easier.
Pulling out the tissue paper,
The single dimple in her left cheek appeared,
The same one that mirrored mine.
I wish that dimple could have remained there forever,
But I knew nothing could last forever.
“Angel, mommy and daddy are getting a divorce.”
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
mousy girl, sitting in the corner, of an american airlines’ lounge
staring out a window, watching it snow
waiting for a flight from frankfurt to dallas
so cute, so demure, how is a boy to resist you
long shiny hair, over sized sweats, black leggings, white keds
sitting crossed, over one leg, slightly bouncing nervously
occasionally catching my eye, then glancing away
are you flirting or just curious, i wish i knew
how do i approach you, what do i say
am i of interest or am i passe
do you know, you’re playing the part, of a little
do you need a daddy, someone to hold, protect you
make you feel special, loved, and cared for
cuddled, kept warm
kissed and touched, everywhere
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 8:23 PM UTC
He wanted tea. She was coffee.
He wanted butter. She was cheese.
He wanted Facebook. She was Twitter.
He wanted Louboutin. She was Keds.
Your flaws aren’t flaws. You are art.
It may be killing you slowly everyday—but just sleep to forget the world.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
I'm tired of being a nobody,
Of siting quietly in crowded spaces Of going unnoticed
A lost ship in a sea of faces.
Making friends isn't hard
I actually do it quite well
But it's never too long
Before those new ships, set sail.
It's not that I am unloved.
I'm valued it's true.
But being thought of first
That's only by few.
Maybe it's pride that gets in my way
But no matter what I do
No matter what I say...
Or if I do speak up,I go unheard
The face of a popular girl
With the soul of a nerd.
No marvel t shirts
Or Keds on my feet
Only opinions that don't matter.
Words I don't speak.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
I'm happiest alone in my blue room
When the new moon
Brings hymns from my blue muse
Curled up in my blue egg
Bought some new Keds
Now I'm spinning blue webs
You didn't mean to do this
But you really blue this
Turning everything so blueish
We may just be two fish
But I don't know who this
Swimming soul is who could do this
I dug up some blue blooms
To fill my blue bath with fumes
While my bottle consumes
these blue veins like reigns how the hurricaine looms
I don't want to play with you boy
This blue pen is my favorite toy
I'm a kind kitten who doesn't **** coy
You can kick me til I'm sick and then make me lick the wounds
And from far away I'll meow to you blue blue tunes
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
o' cinereous city
give to me your blacktops
where on hard white asphalt
impenetrable, grave and square
we play hardscrabble with toughs
who huddle in groups
hanging keds that swing in the air
a pitch of blank gray
a field of kicked stones
ashen, barren
the end of confusing friends
but still a place to go
and run and run and run
when all at once, filled with children laughing, crying, jumping, stumbling, climbing, bouncing,
announcing life in eternal screams - - let me play!
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
Doesn't she look so becoming
With her red lips
And her red Keds?
Echoed the woman--
Or child--
In the mirror
Who lives neither in
Nor out
But she remembers me still.
She and I sat with you
Scarred our hands
Because we like our tea hot
And drank in solemn bliss.
I miss pouring my parents' money away.
When I was recalling
The summer you taught me how to waltz
I did all I could
To inscribe ciphers where our hearts should be
So now we sit
Trying to break love off the corner of a chocolate bar.
And in our want
We stray not from pallid lips,
Though cold,
For it took weeks to wash you out of my clothes.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
he sits on the curb
all twelve years of him,
waiting to be a teen
when he'll have to pay
adult price for a movie ticket
or bus pass
he usually has no cash
for either; but wishing and waiting
are art forms to him
he's learned to move
the brush of time slowly on life's palette
while he watches others whizzing by
on their store-bought skateboards
and Huffy ten speed bikes, while he has
only one gear for two feet
which now are clad in Keds
from the thrift store, and planted
firmly on the cement
by the drain gutter, where he
last saw his favorite possession, a Super Ball,
get ****** into the sewer
when the storm ended, he yanked
off the manhole cover and crawled into
the dark, but the ball was gone forever
when he came back into the street,
yet lamenting his round loss, more boys
on bikes buzzed by
their circles safely spinning
on asphalt, far from the gutter and curb where
he once again sat--wishing, waiting
Baltimore, 1965
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
on the puke and blood painted
walk in front of a Juarez **********
sat a blind mendicant,
his cup half full with pesos, pennies
and a grand FDR dime or two
beside him a cur loused in lassitude,
perhaps the personal, impotent Cerberus
for this den of five dollar iniquity
sixteen I was, an acute expatriate
from a drunken El Paso house home
free to roam the streets of old Mexico,
so long as I didn't wake any Policia
or **** on the wrong curb
an empty belly and nascent love of drink swung my moral compass
from wobbly to dead down
and I filched the eyeless beggar's blue tin
he couldn't see, but the jingle jangle of his coins sliding
into my pocket filled his old ears
"ladron, ladron, cabron, " he screamed
thief, thief, *******
his words trailed me down the alley into an avenue of neon noise,
until I slipped into a bar, nouveau riche
my ***** was better than a buck so I ordered two beers
and a double tequila
feeling fine until I smelled the dung of the dog,
scribed penance in the grooves of my Keds
olfactory justice for stealing from the blind; a small price to pay
for the riches of drunkenness, the sweet taste of oblivion
(Juarez, Mexico, 1965)
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 12:04 AM UTC
They sometimes call me the gray girl.
For most, it's the dye I pollute my ***** dish water hair with but
for few, it's the cold ice water that's replaced the liquid pumping through me.
Sometimes I wear men's golf sweaters in the summer.
The droplets that slide down my back remind me
that even abominable snowmen melt and while
it's mostly sweat, it's partially my inner workings thawing becoming nothing but a pool beneath my wiggling toes.
Deep puddles, never-ending trenches to trudge through,
Shallow puddles, the same ones I used to play in when I was a kid. Splashing and leaping until my lower limbs stay covered in rain water mud and my bangs smell like the outside air.
I didn't seem to melt as easily then.
They sometimes call me the girl frozen in time
Maybe for the '96 edition baseball keds I wear in the fall, mimicking the past, keeping it's stillness locked away in a time capsule along with the same ice princess costume I wore three Halloweens in a row.
Or maybe for the worn out flannel from Pools that always seems to be the first thing I throw on my shivering body when old man winter blows his first frosty kiss
always finding it's way to my cheek.
They sometimes call me rosie
Not the riveter, but always for the hue of reddish pink that accents my nose when spring showers and April flowers grace my passageways and fill my visuals.
It's more than the allergens, it's the intoxication of new life with fresh beginnings that make everything seem smoother than the honey tea dripping down the corner of my mouth.
They sometimes call me all of these things, but I've always been known as the season of dwindle.
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 11:19 PM UTC
Sunshine and
jelly beans
. . . some of the most
common of the ordinary things
Playing cards in bicycle
spokes . . . they could hear us coming , no joke !
No one could outrun me in my red Keds hightop tennis shoes
Staying after school for misbehaving in class
wasn't cool
Playing square ball as the autumn leaves fell . . .
Golden sunshine , Queen of the woods , a magical spell
I was living in my best imagination
I was nowhere . . .
then everywhere , giving it my all to tell
Feb 16, 2025
Feb 16, 2025 at 8:56 PM UTC