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samara lael Apr 2019
i laughed at all those jokes you made about falling
yet here i am feeling tears fall because i realise
i tripped at every sweet sentence you said
& now i can’t tie my shoe laces to stop myself.

my shoes were dancing with yours
to a song i associate with you now
& although i know someone kicked you before
& that you’re not ready to throw out those old sneakers,

my laces are getting ******* with yours.
you’re kneeling down to undo them,
& i want to do it, too, to protect myself,
but my heart laces are making me fall.

& then they wonder why kids take off their shoes.
oh, the irony; they don’t get hurt.
L B Aug 2018
This woman I know
quite the old hippie
gave me this lovely gift

A softened silk and denim dress
Folded loosely
just handed to me, unwrapped
(We felt the same about the waste of paper)
“This is for you.”
Opening it, I saw its gentle gathers from the shoulders
almost elegant, its drape
and the rough
but soft and dark of it
Real indigo dye
with silk laces from bust to waist

...then the tiny stitching...
Not by machine!
Knew the labor was – intensive
Every edge
was finished, sewn
by her caring hand!

"Oh, lady of my dream

whom I do not know
From my soul"
I would have made this in another life –
of hope and longing

And then I saw that seam!
along the side
that wasn't... really...
just those thicker threads
a silk macrame
of knotted net
so –  bold
to hold that one inch open
to hint at nothing –
and everything –
in between

“Oh hell! Oh ****!
Does it come with an occasion??!!”
She smiled
somewhere between shy and sly
You get them when I get them.  This from a month ago.
Caro Jun 2016
On the tip of my tongue you burned like hot coffee,
With a hit of my blunt you’ve undone my lofty,
made me a softy,
I wont forget.

Denim jacket leaning down, you’ve got room in your throat,
You’ve got words in your coat,
Pockets full of notes.

Ink on your arms that wrap, wrap around me,
Words pushing on your teeth like braces,
Up your shoes that walk all around me,
I won't forget.

Maybe whisper it now or tell me tomorrow.

Denim jacket leaning down, tippy toes to kiss your nose.
You’ve made me a softy,
I won’t forget.

Sweet and simply say it from behind those curtains,
Smoke in your nose from my fire lungs,
Stain my breath with your words,
Blessed syllables,
I won’t forget.
Rich Hues Nov 2018
In quick-step and in air-cushioned silence,
With the drumbeat threat of mob violence,
All those laces were quite absurd,
But to us 'Jo-***' was just a verb.

Now the Alts stand in plain sight,

            "It's OK

Hidden by our new dress code,
An Oxford collar and a Derby brogue.
Bored of beauty.
**** and ***
blizzard white teeth
insertable parts switched out like lego blocks.
Inching away from this faulty form
with which I was imbued in genesis.

Long live that junk, ******!
Gimme those thighs!
Let free that emotional magma
boiling up from beneath, ready to burn this world
or at the least leave your laces singed.

The tip of this iceberg will bring you all down
so ready the life-rafts.
Gimme that.

Don’t give me blizzard teeth, silent in a quaffed muzzle.
Be the jaws, the howl, the tender tongue on young necks.
Great stories don’t read “one day I was beautiful”
they say “the world seized me and tore off my limbs, and I toppled end over end til I came to rest between the legs of the Colossus

and that’s when it got interesting.”
Spenser Bennett Jun 2016
I've got vines for my veins and roots for my laces
Leaves for my hair that hangs over empty eyes, graceless
It's coming from up under my branches
All this air could've been wasted on dead faces

Tell me what you're thinking
Put it into words for my inkling
Tickle me with jokes
But watch out for my ribbing

Power only consumes
But love it always feeds you
And I love it
When you breeze through

And I'm moving
To windy grooving
As you sing me
All your favorite musing

So baby won't you cut me
Down but don't you burn me
Wear me as a locket
Don't you ever lose me

Or I'll lose me
I'm not really sure.
Lyn Senz 2 Apr 2018
by Danny Smith

The old man rises from his chair
gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones
when he wasn't looking

His slippered feet scuff the carpet
making a journey they know without him
to the window

He watches down on the cars
as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey

Leaning forward to rest his forehead
on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all
his prison wall

The cars seem to softly merge
as fragments like a broken mirror
tease and torment

A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows
that somehow became painful yesterdays
much too fast

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed
he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek
a perfect imperfection

The laughter and cries of children
running to him with chocolate smeared mouths
grown now, gone now

All of them to different worlds
ones where he was afraid to travel to
out there

Plenty of time to make it through
but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days

he shuffles back to the chair
lowering himself with limbs that can't be his
removes his slippers

Reaches for the polished shoes
years old but hardly worn and still uncreased
laces them

Moves slowly through the house
turning of lights, collecting a wallet
a pack of cigarettes, a photograph
pocketing them

The old man stands at the open door
just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks
into the rain

©Danny Smith
one of my favorites. it may be the only
copy on the internet. I couldn't find it.
it used to be on the 'Poemish' website
which is gone now. He had maybe only
12 poems in all that he submitted, and
they were all good, but sadly this is the
only one I decided to save. He lives/lived
in England as I remember.
Kevin J Taylor Aug 2017
Raymond shifted his weight forward on the coffee
shop chair and leaned his cheekbone into the heel of
his palm. A childhood verse chided him in his
mother’s voice of over fifty years ago.

“Raymond, Raymond, if you’re able,
get your elbows off the table.
This is not a horse’s stable,
but your mother’s dining table.”

It didn’t immediately connect to any
pictures in his mind but he had heard it enough
to know it was real. An hour ago he had been
at his mother’s side in the palliative care ward.

She had appeared smaller than he liked to think of
her—had looked almost like he was seeing her at
a distance. She hadn’t greeted him, only closed
her eyes and said, “Feed the cats, will you.” It wasn’t

really a question. “Yes,” he answered, but the cats,
whoever they were, must have left or died years ago.
The only living thing she owned, he suspected,
was the small Christmas cactus someone had brought to

cheer her up. He looked at her again, waiting for
her eyes to open. They never did. Her jaw dropped
and that was that. Raymond hadn’t wanted to be
in the room when the nurses and orderly would

come to take her away. He stopped at the reception
desk to say that he’d be in the coffee shop
waiting for his brother and sister-in-law to
arrive. They were late and he was thankful to have

a few minutes to himself. From where he sat he
faced the open entrance of the café. There was
a couple sitting tiredly off to one side.
A man in a shapeless blue hospital gown and

slippers shuffled in pushing an IV pole ahead
of him. Raymond heard steps echo sharply down
the hallway. Here they are, he thought, hurrying
needlessly. Bill and Marijke had been fast asleep

at 2:30 am when Raymond’s first text message
came in. They never saw it until 5:00 when Bill
reached for his cell phone as he did every morning
right after Marijke turned off the alarm. “****,”

he said, “No time.” Bill, “William” on his realtor
business card, and Marijke, were used to demands
on their time from potential home buyers. But they
usually had early mornings to themselves—

breakfast, coffee, catch up on current events. Not
today. The text had said, “ASAP.” They hit the drive-
through at Starbucks on their way to the hospital.
“Hey Bill. Marijke,” Raymond said. Bill nodded. “Hey,”

he replied and paused to look at Raymond, to see
if he’d say something else, “Is she gone?” “Couple of
hours ago,” Raymond said. “Should we see her?” Bill asked.
“Can if you want, I suppose. Maybe later,"

Raymond said, "Did she have a cat? She mentioned cats.
I haven’t seen any for years. Did you take them?”
Mother might have mixed him up with Bill again.
Raymond looked at his brother who didn’t seem to

be listening and then at Marijke. "She used to
feed the neighborhood cats before she broke her hip,”
Marijke said. “That might be it.” It seemed odd that
Marijke knew more about his mother’s life than

her sons did. “Maybe you’re right,” Raymond said. “What’s next?”
“I’ll call her lawyer and get him on it,” Bill answered.
Raymond suddenly realized that his brother
had been listening. Marijke started to cry. 
Raymond pulled some napkins from their holder and pressed
them hard against his eyes. Bill looked down and away.
Over the next few days life seemed to stop. Nothing
more than daily routines and only as long as

they didn’t require much effort or attention.
Coffee, whatever was in the fridge—dishes sat in
the sink. Gradually he began to feel alive
again. It was as though he had been wrapped in blankets,

hearing distant, mostly muffled voices, glimpsing
unfamiliar rooms and spaces when he closed his
eyes to sleep. Marijke had startled him this morning
when she called and said to the answering machine that

Bill and she were coming over with something from
the lawyer and hoped he would be in. She didn’t
wait for him to pick up. She’d have known he was at
the kitchen table. They arrived mid-afternoon.

No knock at the door. Bill was the older of the
two and was the most like their dad. And Dad had not
been the knocking sort. Not with Raymond anyway.
Bill and Marijke each carried a bag of groceries

which they placed on the kitchen counter. “Thought you might
need some things,” Marijke said. “Nice to see you, Ray.”
She took a bag of groceries and made room in the
fridge for its contents: milk, BBQ chicken and

eggs. She placed the bananas in a wooden bowl.
“Saw the lawyer yesterday,” Bill started. “He has
the will but it doesn’t amount to much except
for the house,” he paused, “The equity has mostly

been ****** out of it. God knows what for. And there’s this…”
Bill dropped a large manila envelope in front
of Raymond. “I’ve already opened it. There’s an
envelope for each of us in there. Marijke

says we should open them together because we’re
all the family we have now.” He tipped the envelope
on its end and let the two smaller envelopes
slip out. One each for William and Raymond. Bill picked

his up and tore the corner of the flap destroying
most of the envelope in the process and
extracted what appeared to be several sheets of
neat handwriting. “It’s just a letter,” Bill said. He

put it into the inside breast pocket of his
suit jacket. Raymond waited a moment then picked
up the other envelope, turned it over and nodded
almost imperceptibly. He stood, walked to the

shelf between the window and the back door where he
had made room for the Christmas cactus instead of
leaving it behind. Not sure about the light, he
thought, and leaned the unopened letter against the

earthenware ***. “Not you, too?” Marijke shook her
head. “It’ll be like…” Raymond said, he paused, looking
at her, “It’ll be like not hanging up the phone.”
Marijke understood—he’d never open it.

“I get it,” she said in a softer tone. Bill looked
blankly at his brother. And Raymond smiled a little
for the first time in a while. By six the next
morning Raymond was already dressed and brewing

coffee. Usually he would head down to Timmy’s
Donut Shop for his caffeine fix. “Double trouble,”
he’d say, meaning “Double double,” as he always
did at Timmy’s. It amused him and often made

his favorite server smile. “Too much trouble, you mean,”
she’d say. Human contact. Raymond guessed that some of
the guys at the corner table would be wondering
how he was doing. They’d know what had happened, of

course, but they’d ask just the same. He poured his first cup
and walked out onto the back porch. Still a bit cool
out here, he thought as he leaned against the railing,
sipping his coffee as his eyes wandered around

the yard. He’d have another cup in a while but
first he had something he needed to do. Raymond
sat down on the porch steps and slipped his feet into
an old pair of shoes. He tied them and flicked the loops

with his finger to see how the laces fell, to
make sure he had not tied them backwards and would not
work their way loose. Someone had taught him that a long
time ago when they had seen his laces come undone.

He stood up and walked across the yard to the back
lane and the narrow picket fence, missing a picket
here and there and much of its original coat
of white paint. Some boys had probably pulled the missing

pickets off decades ago and with galvanized
garbage can lids for shields spent a Saturday
morning sword fighting. The gate was leaning and half
open, held there by uncut grass, weeds and neglect.

He stepped out and onto the lane that led between
the two rows of houses that backed onto it. Raymond
looked at each fence, each set of stairs and window as
he passed them by. A block later he turned and headed

home satisfied that he had seen at least one cat,
maybe two. Another cup of coffee in hand,
Raymond sat on the top step. On his way out of
the kitchen and onto the porch he had stopped to

turn the cactus in the morning light, stepped outside
placing a saucer of fresh milk by the porch door,
and sat down.

Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry with common things.)
A Henslo Dec 2017
When a poem comes alive
I might be like Pygmalion
Not sharing her with anyone
Gently adoring her all my life

Yet, relieved from her laces
Doesn't a poem's magic lie
In that through the reader's eye
She may reveal her many faces?

So I charily hand her over
To the public domain
As however much I love her

It would be a thoughtless sin
Not letting you discover
What I never did put in
AH 2017
With the frailty of a butterfly

Books for warmth, fading out like old photographs

Antique white skin

Brassy bloodied cheeks

A swarm of dragonflies laces  my face

Ancestry nightfall, ghosts of the drowned

Faded gnarled patchwork, eating away my  mind

Limbs of the tree growing out of me

Divided from everyone else

Inside the pinwheel blindfolded
Wading through hours and days

A slave to this disease

It's the only one that I breathe
For someone who travels, and enriched at that
Placing Terra's Waistline at your own feet
Should you learn the Language by Notes avast
And Shout to your Hosts whenever you meet
I would expect your Lexicon wide-read
And Allowance savour their Expressions
Then, at Home, to your Record's Writ be dead
Sprinkling only your Time-Favoured Seasons
With all those Doors your Blessings have opened
At least with Trine Sentiment you should Thank
Each and every Dress; Their own Design meant
Not just those Laces where you should be frank.
Commonly, they shout and sing with Respect
Then by Flap-Jack's Turn, your Acknowledgment.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
life's jump Aug 2016
a subtle touch
took my spirit for a closer look
warm and dead
impossible yet
depends how long you been,
hands right to left
this order best
unless you're trying to get up       
in the rain
removing sin
maybe just water falling    

skinned my chest
tapped for depth  
till my soul feels conflict
licking my laces
the eyelets frayed  
it's better for knots
but not the taste

i feel fine
like getting by
maybe to compete with morning  
honest enough
to get some rest
but i wake early
just in-case
Woody Sep 2018
After the storm
had crossed
over the coastlands
I found a glove
wondering whose hand
and a child's shoe
with blue laces
still tied
and small, silent
smiley faces.
Holed up in a hotel inland for now waiting Florence out.
Belle Jun 2019
The night flies
As we exchange phrases
That exuded colorful emotions
Dousing ourselves in laughter
Entwining ourselves in laces
Tomorrow does not matter.

Just this moment in frozen bubble.
No one falters, no one stumbles.
Those late nights of deep conversation.
Nico Julleza Oct 2017
Pretty Pictures; as you are embracing me
Lost in an earthly mood of tranquility
Evident than the shadows fusing my feet
Obscure like pretty lies melodically
Pretty Pictures; sailing, forever will be

Rhapsodize; vividly crossing in my mind
A face of cherubim winged up the sky
Cascading through visions abrupt
A star shoots afar than any distant eye
Longing endless of her passionate touch

We are novels, with so much stories to tell
Red laces, stamps of gold, a lush lullaby
I was the house you painted white
Agitate the deepest hues, then we'd fly
Midnight kisses, Dawn and trade goodbyes

Blithe; for we need nothing to pretend
The clearest blue water, a heaven's scent
To the grass wading courteously
Cloud nine's hanging then lifts my feet
Showering up above washing all anxieties

Pretty pictures; like ribbons untangled
A touch of silk as my heart would lilt
Inner feelings frolic then they'd tremble
For in you the excitement is always a thrill
From the simplest to a goddess divine
Pretty Pictures; moments as you were mine
#Pretty #Pictures #Love #Deep #Sansatuion #Eternal

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Nico Julleza Nov 2017
In all ado
ten months in misery
It wasn't me
nor was even you
shrills at the back
of my aging doors
I mind my business
As you—
you only mind yours

Red laces tied to leave
forget twas before
nothing was concealed,
we leered in uncertainty
As we're losing—
losing our vast imageries
our bond was never—
just never denote to be

Cease by now
of these tortured schemes
lashing out and say
"wish it was all a dream"
departing to nowhere
as each wing soars
and all of we— all of we
used to be lovers before
and all of we— all of we
used to be lovers before
#Love #End #Cease #The #Misery #Bond

Poems for a Cold November

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
zebra Nov 2017
after a week of dried paint chips
and plastic shoe laces
the starved little mouse
ate the dainty aqua blue food pellets
near the big red door
through spider webs
behind the refrigerator

finally full
his guts in a knot
he keeled over hemorrhaging
but at least he wasn't driven mad
with hunger anymore
although he was tormented
with writhing and choking up ****** tidbits
towards his final destination
a knotting rigor mortis

he could be seen
laying flat on his back
frozen in a suspended flutter frenzy
his little limbs clawing frenetically
to the heavens

having dared the sin of gluttony
he paid his penitence
and last absolution
for living large
as a house mouse
in the cruel wilds
of a treacherous world
on the crucifix of the human kingdom
land of the roaming
where solace and kindness has no quarter
for a starved hard lived little mouse
who died
as providence would have it
by Gods infinite wisdom and glory
like a rat
when we make a mistake its called a sin
when God makes a mistake its called nature
Heavy Hearted Nov 2017
Dear Someone listening in the shadows;

there you've always been,
indifferent to my fails and faults
refusing to be seen.
You've watched me spill the water from
my ever-shaking grasp,
watched it rise above my head
listened to me gasp.

Poor Little Rich Boy, is that you?
maybe Genius next-door, too?
how bout The Man - A Thousand Faces
or the Lady, laced in laces?
could it be the Meanies? ...Michael whispered about?
or even Human of Years?- Ghost of corporate doubt?

To you, listener of the Shadows,
who you are I'll never know
both Samson and myself are stuck
in 20  Years of Snow.
references Regina Spektor's 'Aquarius, as well as a handful of the other characters from her songs.
A roach came to work with me
in my shoe.

It's a true story.

I shook him out of my laces

And he joined in with a new group
of bugs on the ground.

He can get renter's insurance for
$10 a month.

I'm back, eating lunch in the car
by the path.

And cake.

That's a start.
Logan Robertson Nov 2018
In a shoe box he sits
Quietly watching the darkness
Sitting forlorned
He's a sneaker
A loafer
Tied in laces
And hidden in shine
As his eyelets sag
With hopes the light peeks in
An envelope
Finding his leather
If only he could feel a touch
A foot
A women's toes that wiggle
On those cold and lonely nights
Where inhabitation brings comfort
If only
His shoes
It could be fitted and fulfilled
Tailored and shined
And not be a beaten path
With wishful thinking
Of a women's toes that wiggle
For now though
A shoe horn would be the panacea
His hope
From being shelved
In a shoebox he sits
Looking at the darkness
At the four walls corrugated
In lost time
Of walking

Logan Robertson

For some, life isn't roses. Red blossoms on sunny days. And others, him, sit watching the barren trees of the fall. In their obscurity they are torn.
Zoë Jul 2015
I don't remember how many cars passed,
Or if I saw Orion's belt.
I don't remember the night's smell,
Or what shoes I wore on my feet.
All I remember,
Is how much it hurt.
Tears rolled down my cheeks,
Soaking through my jeans when I neglected to wipe them away.
My sudden disbelief,
Hung in the soggy night air,
Like cigarette smoke.
Reality's hands tightened around my neck,
Choking me with the truth.
At some point
In that dark hazy hour,
My trust slipped through my fingers,
As quickly as a Sunday evening.
Nothing was "to be or not to be"
Between you and me.
For there is no such thing.
I simply tripped on strings of promises,
And sweet words that unraveled my sneaker laces,
only to bleed my trust all over you.
Sore and delusional,
I wrapped my heart up with a bow,
And gave you my love over and over again.
Although I didn't even consider for a moment,
That you would use it
to destroy me.
She comes in colours
blowing the wind for her cares
Everyday is the same
a reign without a brace
satin laces for her hero
Deanne Jun 2019
Tie your laces
Watch your step
Dont fall for a heart
That hasn't healed yet
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