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trf Jan 9
the darkest nights blame the sun kissed moon,
and we're paralyzed by the weather.

above stormy skies we lie fragile and wait,
as the time flies by like our pleasure.

blankets of bourbon, wine & cheese plates,
shooting stars wish us to forget them.

my thigh rubs gently along your soft suede,
answers beg question's forgiveness.
Poetoftheway Aug 2014
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*

when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town

when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet

when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me

so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,

a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed

Father Christmas came and slipped
through the cracks
of my poorly constructed home
so quickly
and quietly
that I hardly marked the date.

I suppose it's my fault
for spending so much time
listening to angsty
drums and guitars
scream my name
that I can no longer hear
his voice in the tear
of wrapping paper
and Mr. Crosby's tunes.

But I caught a glimpse,
between the blinking
of red and white
on my tree,
when my mother smiled
as I opened my new suede shoes.

He's out there, hiding,
that *******:
old man Christmas.
Hiding and trying
to make me change,
make me surrender
my joy to the jaded
state of adulthood.

I will not.
Anecandu Sep 2014
My nine inch heels aren't easy and sure not cheap
I have high “values” and **** my morals sound steep
Don’t fall off your chair cause I’m stepping while you try to “creep”.

I’m the lyrics in every soulful hit song,
My ma was a wonder bra and my older sister a thong,
I'm the one you slow down for when “stringing” you along.

I’m a must for the ***** bedroom uniform,
I come out when it rains but baby never in a storm,
Ranked way above the jeweled purse in the closet so warm,

I prefer carpeted limo’s lined Suede Blue.
You don’t like me? honey that’s why your just a shoe,
I’m not in this for walking or “tips”, get a clue.

So next time you see me lemmie say this so you know
Be grateful I’m only ******* with you, not stepping on your toe
Just lean in, see my polish as I glow.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 5
letter to elana

for the poet elana bell


in a different cafe,
on a Manhattan streetscape where once, years earlier,
violence was the purview of West Side Story gangs,
ruling their internecine non-intersectionality territorial blood lines supremely

nowadays, violence replaced by the frenetic
noises of Lincoln Center theater goers,
student dancers, actors, musicians and poets joining the throng
of those who sup and run,
all hearing their own frantic
curtain calling, saying, announcing,
music dance voices words require your obeisance,
needy for a mutual worshipping reassurance fiat that:

life can be made transcendent
if even for just 90 minutes or 120 pages,
or a 3 minute poem reading

this city of millions requires billions of poems that spoon stirred  
and yet, almost always fail, to squeeze, all of the human essence that is in its ultimate source, clarifying nyc tap water,
containing the storied remnants of a hackable continuous,
single human stanza cell osmosis - a blockchain like no other

two poets sit side by side each in their own lapsed dreams,
she, a published poet of prize and rank, ^
he, a rank amateur whose only prize is his unpublished anonymity,
poetry, is his just a nightly soul cleansing,
an imported remnant of his Marrano piyyutim ancestry

one turns to the other,
in the inexplicable daily crazy miracle
of city fashionistas

in a city where stealing a parking spot, or the
forced squeezing creation of a subway seat space
where physics proves none exists,
are oft the roots of slashing and stabbings faithfully reported
on the 11 o’clock news,  
and trust and/or other encouraging words
are seldom heard and even less demonstrated,
the make-no-eye-contact of Camus’s L’Etranger anomie is the
normative, paranormal, paralysis cloak of we city separatists

“Can you watch over my electronics and stuff?”

Sure says the grayed and grizzled,
an all life long veteran of nyc,
judged to be trustworthy
based on a few seconds of being upsized and downsized,
a car wash (exterior only) perusal
despite a
“no direction home, like a compete unknown, a rolling stone,”  
this signage, yellow star permanently chest-affixed,
conveniently ignored, as it seems impossible
thieves don’t look like me,
don’t likely in their possess,
a distinguished head of gray hair (yeah, sure)

a thank you reward of (or did I imagine it) a lean-in,
a momentary head on a shoulder,
the chit chat now grows earned and earnest,
she confesses her cardinal poetry profession,
eliciting an ‘Oh Boy’ utterance from the poet
of a thousand names
and a thousand textual emendations

a fastidious nyc boundary is brief crossed for one short meal,
till the end when time sensitized IMRL intrudes and
the showtime calls out,
if not now, when? if not me, then who?

I read her poetry later in the praying supine first position of
three AM, and laugh with delight, at the contrast and no compare,
the styles clash and tho the stories told
are both writ in the aleph bet script,
there ends the Ven diagram overlap and
into the night’s coming of a Elvisian blue suede coverlet,
we both disappear, and if not for this recording,
history says, you old man confused, never happened,
just an imaginary poetry ink blot dream breaching...


another poetry book is no longer homeless,
comes to shelter upon my shelf, close to Angelou, far from Whitman,
now all the book’s nooks eyes collectively
reassessing the new old-owner, parsing his syntax,
undecided if his readership is worthy of them,
concluding that all these books are the
man’s owned roughened stones,
to be placed by human hands on the
serpentine curvature of his literary tombstone,
and until all stones fully read,
they all agree,
will they and he
be fully freed,
smoothing his legacy’s edges
Feb. 21 -March 5, 2019
another true story

Savannah Oct 2018
Pastel skies came crashing down,
Watching sugar coating fade.
In darkness sat sapphires,
Wrapped in soft suede.
Frosting covered words,
Poison puff pastries unpaid.
Seraphic stranger unmasked,
In my honey lavender masquerade.
THAT' small step. .  .

A common garden

flecked with stars
& seated at its center

a naked moon
bathing her self

caught unawares
without her clouds

a Goddess fallen
among mere mortals

but at my footfall
they all scatter to the heavens

in a splash
ripples clinging to

my right blue
suede shoe.
Luz Hanaii Jan 29
I once had a pair of imported, suede shoes, which fit so nice
Thought I was the most favored girl to display such
Girls envied and admired them so, which made me proud
Took good care of them, wore them with pride
Could not help but to show them off

As time went by they became too tight
Merriment and bliss turned to agony wrapped in distress
Though fashionably esthetic, and how I loved them so
They blistered my feet, made me bleed, caused me grief

I tried pulling, stretching... but was all in vain
As my feet grew, those **** shoes failed to expand
I tried to hang on to them, but they would not budge
Though it hurt me so and it broke my heart
Finally kicked them off
I ran barefoot instead
Metaphorical, my painful first marriage and latter divorce.
Marla Jul 17
floating around in white noise
as the rest of the world has color
barraged by their beams of light
i cry in agony and delight
for i see the unknown
but can only speak
what the rest are shown

walk up to the edge and ponder
how waking up makes us wander
while sleeping quells the curiosity
of an apocalyptic mind
that's razing blazing fire

feel the powder burn
as the shockwave shakes
your bones,
I am in control of vanity
but fall through the fabrics

linen velvet suede and satin
line my soul, lowering itself
into eternity

evil and darkness have my
mind body and spirit sur-
they pull me apart into thirds
only to fight me with gasoline
spigots lit by a lone cigarette

trf Nov 2018
Two loose dimes and a couple quarters,
blue lights bright, better call my lawyer,
rosé red wine and a chimney for ya,
back to the future, hallelujah.

Turn a blind eye, like JonBenét,
let this Louisville wind blow out my escalade,
my fight or flight senses are about to say,
take your suede steel tip shoes and go ándele.

Those Derby blues, ruin days,
that Kentucky green, man I'm bound to pay,
cell phones in your prison's promenade,
they both passed the bars and now one's on the way.
the cell phone service in l-ville jail is top notch, btw
Jackie Mead Apr 23
Vampires gathered in a Brood
One large group, up to no good
The most bad *** kids in the neighbourhood

The Vamps wear their, hair faces and clothes the same
White pallid faces, all colour drained
Against dark tailored suits of silky cloth
Their hair dark and long, the look they favoured was one of a Goth

The brood smoked cigarettes without a care
And the total look was one of flare
Blue Suede shoes upon their feet, with the Devil inside them made the look complete

When the clock struck midnight, they would all gather
Drinking, singing, shouting, it did not matter
Together they were going to Hell down below
To where the Devil would sell them some poor persons soul

They would hand over the price they had to pay
30 silver dollars would save the day
Then off to their lair, they would track
With the poor person they had bought, upon their backs

First, they would play a little game
Teasing the poor person with a burning flame
The Vamps, they had no shame
And did not need to know the poor person’s name

Next, they would eat a rather large meal
Whilst the person remained tied and at their heels
Knowing that soon their fate would be revealed

Lastly, they would stand the poor person upright
Bind their hands to a post, ensure they were bound tight
Then each of the Vampires would take their turn
To drink the blood from the poor person and feel the burn

As the blood poured down the back of their throats
Their eyes would roll, and they began to float
Such a pleasant lovely high feeling
They didn’t notice the poor persons soul leaving

This time the Vampires had won their game
No stakes, crosses or garlic to slay them and bring their families shame
They continued to feed on the warm blood
Until the sun began to rise, and the light began to flood

Now it was time for bed, the Vampires all retreated
To their coffins in the basement where they would lie
For now, they remain without worries and undefeated

They would use the time to regenerate, regroup
Tomorrow would bring the same
They would group together in a brood and follow the flame
a late night tale for all you vampire fans
Jenny Gordon Sep 2018
Italeau...Fiamma--my brother wishes likewise that they'd fit.

(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDX)

Boots.  Suede, Italian, and too small fr'intents,
My toes half bruised from jist one two-hour's scale
As twere of wearing, and lo, for the sale
Which netted me this lux'ry I've naught hence
Save yearning for that glor'ous pair which thence
Must be returned, prayrs for a pair t'avail
Me like these should have, with none in a frail
Excuse 'cept made-in-China boots' defense.
I only text YOU 'bout the size as t'were,
Nor know what YOUR opinion is, if YOU
Care two bits whether I've this pair in tour
Or that, just that Italian boots anew
"Run small."  And um, "I wear size ten." But's poor,
Cuz I must foot the bill, with pennies too.

Ask me 6 months from now IF I ever got a pair in MY size....prolly will need by that time to pay full price, and $550 or $600 looks---a tad steep, shall we say?  Oh well.  IF I am allowed to have them, I hear they're "...worth every penny!"

— The End —