"soled" poems
Cherokee woman , distant smile,
Cherokee woman it's been awhile,
let the warm winds carry your voice to me,
hear the rustle of your hand made beads,
smell the hint of jasmine in your hair,
soft soled foot steps, I can feel you there.
Cherokee woman, distant smile,
Cherokee woman it's been awhile.
Catfish sunning in the morning light,
splash of ducklings, signs of new life.
Feel the need to close the miles,
move a little closer to that Cherokee smile.
Snow is melting and the rivers run,
days are longer with warming sun.
Cherokee woman, shake your beads for me,
let the wind carry your scent of jasmine.
Distant smile come closer then a dream.
Cherokee woman no longer needs to wait for me.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 2:06 PM UTC
Those Chicago kids danced till' they were teary eyed in them **** crepe-soled shoes
He said to me, "Mamma I walked my little crepe-soled shoes into the heart of the South and said 'Hello World!'"
And God be ****** if he wasn't wearing crepe-soled shoes when we beat the man out of that ****** trash
His body lay there
lacerated and bruised like goin' ten rounds with Rocky Marciano. His face was like a sack of potatoes with holes in it. On his feet were spats, no, crepe-soled shoes.
Did you hear the news?
Black boy's struttin' his stuff in his new soul-shoes
As we lit his things on fire that ***** bastard's crepe-soled shoes just wouldn't burn but once they did, the flame would not go out
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:40 AM UTC
I got the small room.
I am winning the day.
Finally, I can breathe.
except, the walls are stained,
the mattress, too.
thick brown streaks;
a hundred men have sweated
The Fear
in these walls, I think.
the mirror
in the shared bathroom
sees the blood in my eyes.
a fly, a small black, buzzing
fly,
crawls over my fingers
as I am writing this letter.
and the fly crawls
over me,
Over the table,
Over my dreams.
crawls over cheap, thin-soled shoes.
my words on the page.
my whisky, too.
the fly crawls across the dents in my soul.
the handkerchief
I use to wipe my mouth.
and so, what do you do?
I swing my pencil at its soft dark body,
failing,
I flail my arms,
as crazy men do.
would anyone rescue me
from my hell and understand.
the fly and I.
isolated I am.
through the window
pane,
under the full haunted moon,
I undress myself.
to the bed
I lay myself soon.
the single-sized sluggish bed before me.
bed of a hundred men.
one hundred dead men.
one hundred dead-drunk men.
me, now as I am.
Oct 17, 2023
Oct 17, 2023 at 3:56 PM UTC
Every day you see him on the streets
His lifes possessions in his cart
You look at him and turn away
Is that the way you want to start?
He walks around the streets all day
HIs world is only where he walks
But, when he gets too close to you
You find that you're the one who balks
He's never done no harm to you
In fact your lives may be the same
He may just feel the same for you
And you're the one who should feel shame
His life is in that shopping cart
It's full of years of where he's been
He may not have a home like you
He may not have a next of kin
He may live like this willingly
Though you look at him as mad
You see, he's not the issue here
It's you and that's what's sad
He's searching for a better life
Or is he...no one knows
For no one takes the time to see
Just where this poor soul goes
He doesn't want your pity
But a hand up would be kind
A hand out he's not looking for
But they're so hard to find
He lived up in the ivory towers
With a family, working hard
Now he lives among the forgotten folks
With his boots re-soled with cards
You can ask him if he needs a hand
But you wouldn't dare to speak
Because that would put you near him
And that's not ground you seek
Is he harmless, well you just don't know
Is he mad or lost his way
Is he loony, well that's doubtful
He found a cart to push this way
His life is in the boxes
And the bags inside the cart
Next time you see him, don't avoid him
Show him just a little heart
I knew a man, this independent
He showered at a self serve bar
While he cleaned, I'd leave a coffee
And then I'd attend to the next car
He always smiled as he was leaving
A whistle always on his lips
You never knew where he was headed
As he left to go out on his trips
Three times a week, just like clockwork
He would show up just to wash
Three times a week I'd leave him coffee
And each time he'd leave feeling posh
You see him daily in your travels
He's the king of where he's been
So if you see him while you're walking
Give a smile, don't look so mean
For, he's the one who has no problems
Maybe he has got it right
It may not work for you or me though
But it works for him tonight
Each day you see him with his old cart
But you turn away from view
Handicapped...he isn't..but just maybe
The handicapped one here is you..
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
On the left side of due diligence
by the lake that's called
impermanence,
is the one they call,
His Eminence,
and he stands
alone in ignorance.
The bishops look much finer with
their bibles bound in
China and feet soled in the
markets of God forsaken
foreign places.
Faces look towards him
and the penitent adore him.
but a score or more would take him
to the lake and then
desert him.
And on the cold fields of a calvary
where the saints survive,
it bothered me,
that the only thing that I could see
were the bishops in their finery.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 3:01 AM UTC
Do you remember that night?
The night you died?
You ran to the sea
Almost unconscious.
Your body craved to be exposed
To the cold winter air.
You could almost hear
As your bones were trembling
Underneath your dry frosty skin.
The waves were calling you,
Beckoning you towards your future.
They stole your future.
As you were embraced by the water,
Your head was already filled
With nothing
But dread.
You almost fought for survival.
Submerged underneath,
The water was singing your name.
And you were dancing to the melody
That had you drowning.
And you were willing
To give it your last drop of air.
Your body
Was not yours to control.
It was already consumed
By the Sirens of the sea.
And your purple lips
Were singing
In sync with the Water Nymphs’ song.
And you were enjoying every second of it
For you have had enough
Of everything going wrong.
Your attempts
To go above water
Were more than plain hopeless,
For you had already soled your rightful place
In the world of the living.
Your skin was not yours anymore.
It was hardly even human flesh,
For it was blue like the sea.
You almost looked like a Nymph yourself.
Your teeth cracked
To the exposure of the winter air.
You were not welcomed above anymore,
You were to be endlessly in water.
Your whole naked body
Was chained
With invisible shackles,
Pulling you down,
Showing you mercilessly
Where you were now belonging.
Last attempt.
And the bottom cried your name,
Melting your fragile
Naked young body
In the icy depths.
Do you remember that night?
The night you died?
You ran to the sea
Almost alive.
And you seem to be pleased
With how the waves play
With your unsteady corps.
You seem fine
With the way they spin you around
Until you can’t understand anymore
Where is up
And where is down.
You don’t seem bothered
By the way the water
Mashes your head in the rocks.
You seem okay
With the sea draining your blood.
And you don’t seem to care
How the cold winter water
Takes your empty life.
Simply
You reached to Heaven.
And it reached to you.
You were endlessly searching
For something
More Than This.
And that consumed you.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
Acidic music flowing through us,
From the stage and down into the floor
Vibrations' thin tendrils
Swarming up through thick soled shoes
And into our spines,
Forcing heads to nod
And bodies to sway.
Eyes close in the ecstasy of forgetting
For in that moment
Nothing else can take your mind.
There is sound;
And sound alone.
And you forget that you are all alone
And you forget that you felt anxious
You forget people might be watching
You forget how many drinks you had.
Staged puppet masters,
Make a crowd of grown-up kids
Sway before them.
Children with ******* and beards.
Youths in go-nowhere jobs,
Sleeping on mattresses on the ground
Reading poetry aloud at night
Planning travels in their minds.
***** the young professionals.
We are the left overs of a power hungry generation;
We are just here to hear
And feel
And move.
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
There's not a sun that rises by
That dulls her opulence
For every day my heart beats on
I fancy I'm her prince
My ardent lust may never cease
Mind, heart and soul know this
Black rolling waves with curves so soft
Sign in winter solstice
Indigenous blood with values true
Her traits my soul extols
With duties carried both out and in
She stands firm heart, firm soled
Soiled sanctity is not my wish
For once, and just this once
Entombed in full by your embrace
Your enraptured, enamored dunce
May 2, 2023
May 2, 2023 at 2:43 AM UTC
My soul
is getting older,
the nights are colder
and the soles
of these soft worn out
doe-skin boots are thinner
every day, way too thin
to keep the thought
of a frozen plot at bay.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
Rubber soled trainers broke the brick
Like the boom of the people tether the streets
Tight strapped caps wander and roam
Strolling the daylight for a place of their own
Screeching and whirring filling the room
Monoxide smog frogs that cling to their moulds
We the people; hardened in soul
A splash in the distance tearing a hole
Enoch and Edna turn in their grave
Darkened cobble flattened; all glazed
Mirrors and cladding click into place
A village that weeps, constant refined
Express the formidable now done and alone
Never your own
EST marks the alleys; so nuanced, so cool
If you knew the truth; that's a tenner!
You fool
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 5:18 AM UTC
Rain weaves weary paths on the
old Aurelian stone busts
like lilting music in a
deserted ballroom.
Yellow cobblestones echo
underneath black soled shoes and
sickly noses sing.
Across the street, children laugh
like the breaking shaft of a
silverish door key in a
cold iron-clad lock.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 1:26 AM UTC
On these frosty mornings,
I sip on black coffee
and gaze at the dawning.
Today's a new journey.
I take one more sip,
let the heat warm my digits.
Boots laced for a trip,
toes feeling less frigid.
Crunching blades of grass
sound like porcelain glass,
as shattered, frosty dew
covers the tops of my shoes.
I look back at my footprints,
tracing my chosen path.
And I realize, they're just hints
of the impact one does hath.
In that moment, I decided
that my path was quite misguided.
The pilot of my wanderings
was nothing but rubber and strings!
So I sat on the ground
and untied my laces.
My purpose newfound
with barefooted paces!
Yes, my toes were quite cold,
but I didn't care.
My feet no longer soled,
my mind's fully aware.
Now I choose my own way,
with no feelings of dismay.
My soles are a la carte,
and my soul is full of heart.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 11:48 AM UTC
How did I walk 37 miles in 19 hours?
How did I bike 90 miles in 11 hours?
...
Inhale in nose, exhale in nose 4x
Inhale in nose, exhale in mouth 4x
Inhale in mouth, exhale in nose 4x
Inhale in mouth, exhale in mouth 4x
And repeat.
You just need enough food and water and a pair of soft and hard soled shoes.
Jan 8, 2021
Jan 8, 2021 at 2:21 AM UTC
It can all be found down on Strutton Ground, or on Victoria Street,where the Angels meet up once a week to seek out worthy causes,
in between and between the pauses of the traffic that rushes past,eyes are cast among the cats eyes that sprawl on roads so lazily and look to see the racing of humanity.
Fleeting are the fleet of foot that shut away ,what, but only if they knew are people just like me and you.
And tanks tread leaden legs and heads no longer full,pull doleful souls to where the Angels stand and lend a hand.
Victoria has many palaces but palisades they'll all become,importuning what light there was and opportunities are light because,
the work has dried up,tied up in the red tape of black crepe soled shoes that use the halls of parliament and only to abuse the lost,the friendless and the night seems never endless for this section of society.
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
Soft soled shoes skipping silently along sun scorched sidewalks of Sacramento
Singing sad songs of sinners sinning
Slinking into shadows of sky scrapers before the sun has soundly set
Scowling at the sound of sick screaming children suffocating from the smog covered streets
Spectators sighing, seeking shelter from scoundrels scavenging cents for smack
******** clad ***** soliciting STDs to self loathing suckers
Smouldering remains, secreting Satan's scent on 2nd
Sunken sailors slitting throats with sharpened sabres.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
I’m a gal of fine sensibility
apt to demand credibility
for my choice of man, he’ll be no sham
with notions conceived of nobility.
He denies himself nothing of luxury
the cut of his suits suggest much to me
his grooming precise, **** he smells nice
a cologne of his own secret recipe.
He’d never countenance faux
all accoutrements must be “just so”
he’ll not partake of anything fake
he’s quality from head to toe.
Leather-soled, tweed-wrapped pure gold
when they made him they sure broke the mould
dyed in the wool, no fashion slave fool
such style is to have and to hold.
This gentleman’s rituals suffice
to see him sartorially through life
with manners divine, this husband of mine
Lord, I’m so proud I’m his wife!
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
We wear prices to work,
The cost of being a success or failure.
The confident strut to the sixth floor,
In Jimmy choos and Hermes.
You pass by her, cowering at the elevator door.
In thin soled Bidcos and patched lesu.
The tea lady you don't really notice.
Her pale skin matched the dust on the window panes.
Brought on from watching the world pass by in a blur.
She pushed the button for the ground floor and watched the walking label go to the top.
We wear prices to church.
Our bible and hymn book easily preserved from the top shelf.
Unworn from weekly visits to the Holy place.
The priest wants a new house,
Your neighbor needs a car,
You need to eat more.
We wear prices to a match.
Will our country qualify this time round? Or is it just a farce?
Buy a ticket, buy a drink.
This establishment must see many a buck.
We let prices define us,
We are bought for a song and sell each other out.
Mother said set the right price,
And so i stand at the streets,
waiting for someone to pay my worth.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:51 AM UTC
my brain is a garden in the fall
cold and dry and lifeless
bright prospects, once blossoming are long wilted over now,
throughly stomped by thick-soled boots
and discolor sets in.
filled with the fallen, it has been throughly raked apart, spread across the front lawn and scratched into lumps. they’re run over and jumped on and i just feel twinges in them now
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 9:00 PM UTC
She stands—
every few minutes turning abruptly to no object.
Hips pushing forward, shoulders sliding back,
red soled sneakers and plaid flannel slacks
beneath a dramatic black trench coat,
in the grey shadow of a gothic church.
She smokes the grey and blows white,
and scrolls through the neon screen
with her one ungloved hand,
a bun perched stiffly on her scalp, unheeded,
an afterthought, if there was one before.
Her backdrop—the heavy iron fence of a graveyard,
and centuries old glorious stones watch
as she spends her minutes
engrossed
in the luminous green of infinity.
it would feel normal if it was a bus stop,
a grocery line,
a hospital waiting room,
even a lonely bench.
But she stands,
and periodically pivots,
meanders two steps and stands,
and jolts three steps back,
glitching through slow time,
anxious and unresolved—
yet so engrossed.
Finally now she is following the fence out of view, slowly,
and I hope she finds rest.
I feel grateful as the sidewalk carries her now
away from my puzzled gaze
The great stones and I exchange long glances,
and perhaps they are more compassionate than I,
for they seem not phased.
Oh stones, teach me patience, teach me rest.
For you are glorious in endless rest,
and I am still anxious and unresolved.
Dec 10, 2018
Dec 10, 2018 at 9:47 AM UTC
I remember false hopes
They bloomed within my wrists
Stripping down my veins to nothing
How easy it may be to cut those hopes
I remember heavy boots
How they pulled me down hard
Like thick soled Doc Martins on cold concrete
The cement I have spackled with is weighin' me now
I can't remember the letters I wrote
With song lyrics decorating the envelopes
A letter full of words that run together in font
My commitments to you on every other line
I just can't remember
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 12:31 AM UTC
I cupped the cool, refreshing, water
pulsing down from the shower head
in my palms
trying to imagine how the
First Americans felt as he or she
cupped the pure, pellucid, untainted water
drumming down
from pristine waterfalls, snow-fed mountain streams
and Heaven itself
Looking out with spacious vision
upon an innocent, nascent America
prancing like a young buck across
the ****** frontier,
expansive, unsullied wilderness
Robed in white feathers of angels
our Native Ancestors guarded and protected
the precious resources of this land with Eagle Eyes
and soaring Compassionate Spirits
Their soft soled moccasins walked in beauty
and left no scars or tracks in the winter snows
under full corn moons
Council fires crackled while
animals and men sang praises to
The Great Spirit and Mother Earth
promising mutual cooperation and respect
From every point on the planet the Sun's voice
could be heard:
"The journey of Life though this world
harmoniously follows a path through the stars"
www.sairapture.com/blood-brothers.html
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 2:35 PM UTC
We could walk the craggedy side-
Walks
stubborn old Trees sending their roots
beneath them to better prop themselves up—
looking out over cascading rooftops and through
our Smog—
so they could make out the orange hum of a
California Afternoon sun reflecting off
the distant ocean.
joyous Willows drawing the lanes of the neighborhood avenues
tried to entangle their dancing threads in our hairs
As we traversed the mountainous sidewalks
onto which our melting 65-cent popsicles dripped
dye-drenched cherrybombs next to our plastic-soled sneakers—
And we snuck past gardens overrun by passionately-blossoming
Vines and wild rose bushes, where the paths changed every day
And wind chimes sang listlessly from sagging walls with cracked paint,
Our backpacks jingled despite our silent curiosity.
Forgetting the things behind us and things ahead,
Sunshine sloshed through tree-tops onto our happy pink cheeks,
all full of sweets,
as we slowly made our way back home,
along familiar streets.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 2:05 AM UTC
Every day is a struggle
to keep my heart in tune
with the heartbeat
of the earth.
My feet are soled, not souled.
My eyes are shaded, not blinded.
My mind is busy, not clear.
I leave when the sun is rising
and return when it has gone.
I will find my clarity in the
crisp
cool
early morning hours.
I will sink my feet into the frost.
Hello, soul.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
spit out sanctuaries in graveyards of skeletons decomposing in summer closets next to ripped denim and tank tops.
let glass crunch under canvas rubber-soled shoes and examine how rubber your soul is, easily bent to fit the mold.
how can you expect to get anywhere if you're scared of what the future tells you?
autumn leaves and candles dripping wax ghosts as flames of dancers reach high for sunrises that they don't remember.
chalkboard chills lift mountains of goosebumps in your skin, textures clashing like swords in a war not worth waging,
indents of pencils pressed too hard to pale tree skins.
make marks wherever seen fit.
hearts of gold are hard and cold,
but hearts of ice can be melted and boiled.
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 9:11 PM UTC