"unshod" poems
I am The Shoes of Shoes,
which are Solomon’s. Let him polish
me with the oil from his brow, for his gloss
is better than sunshine.
Because of the fragrance of thy ointment buffed
upon me, thy name
is Scent Shine, therefore do the ****** shoes
love thy feet. Stretch me,
with your Shoe-Tree, and I will run
& rejoice with thy feet through
gardens & woods, and across mountains alike.
I am leather, but comely, O ye Daughters
of Shoeshopingham, as The Pile Beneath
the Prophesised Viaduct, and as in the abundant
bottom of The Wardrobe of Solomon.
Look not upon me, because I am leather,
but put me upon thy feet for I
am thy soles.
I am the Rose of Shoe, and the Lilly of The Laces.
As the strong shoes among thorns, so
is my love among The Shod.
As the tongue that tightens to the fruit of the foot, so is
my beloved among The Shod.
His left foot is in my left purse, and his right
foot is my right, tight.
The Polish of My Beloved, behold, cometh
glinting off llyns, he cometh leaping upon
the mountains, with both of me tight on his feet.
Looketh fourth through The Round Window
of Wisdom, through The Lattice see
him shoeing himself with my flesh.
Take us the socked foxes, the little foxes that chew & spoil,
for our shodding is tender.
My Loved Shod’s feet are mine and my leather is his.
Until the day break, and the unshod shadows flee, turn
my Loved Shod, and be thou like the shoe young on the mountains.
Behold, thou art fair, my shoes, behold thou art shoes as fast
as a flock of goats over the Mountain of Shoedon.
Thy laces are like soft strands of moss, which have been spun
& woven in the Workshops of Acorns by The Grubs of Oak.
Thy eyelets are like the sweet slots in which nestle
the seeds of the pomegranate.
Thy tongues are like scarlet leaves fallen from speaking
trees, and thy squeak as I walk in thee is comely.
Thy heal is like the shield that should’ve been
fashioned for Achilles.
Thy two toe caps are as sleek & pert as the twin otters
that fish among the lilies.
How beautiful are thee, shoes for feet, O Goddess’s daughters,
the joints of thy soft foot-slot smooth as the gleam
of jewels, the work of the hands of a cunning cobbler.
O Solomon set me twin shoes as seals
upon thy feet, for Love is as strong
as The Road to Dead we must follow. O
my Loved Shod! for every one
of thy steps you make
in me is my bliss.
Feb 8, 2012
Feb 8, 2012 at 8:25 AM UTC
The small blue Arab stallion dances on the hill
like a glancing breaker, like a storm rearing in the sky,
In his prick-ears,the wind, that wanderer and spy,
sings of the dunes of Arabia, lion-coloured still.
The small blue stallion poses like a centaur-god,
netting the sun in his sea-spray mane, forgetting
his stalwart mares for a phantom galloping unshod;
changing for a heat-mirage his tall and velvet hill.
3.6k
i'm thirty six now
thrice a rat
and i must say
it ain't that bad
you'd think i'd shed a tear
or two
but after all
the sky's still blue
the sun still shines
the rain still falls
my fam would even take my calls
i'm frens with cats
i'm frens with dogs
some people too
a couple hogs
i walk and saunter
skip and hop
taking my time
around the block
i'm looking back
and all i see:
those things i did
were meant to be
i'm looking forth
and realise:
you can't prepare
for each surprise
that life may throw
at you or yours
you can't predict
as to which doors
will blow wide open
unexpected
and which will ever
be protected
no key, no lock
how to get past?
to secrets guarded
fierce and fast...
another thirty six to live?
so full of joy, and toil, and grief...
or, one day, have just what it takes
to boldly go and up the stakes?..
mid-summer autumn
rat three times
feels good as hell!
unshod and blithe...
Oct 15, 2020
Oct 15, 2020 at 2:59 PM UTC
*Don't bother me, don't follow me
There's no one else I yearn to see
So fold away your memories
To cede beneath that Hemlock tree*
What will I do? Where will I go?
Unshod against the burning road?
These memories I mourn and hold
Crease in my hands where they enfold.
*Don't bother me, don't follow me
Or brandish me things I cannot see
My eyes plunge past the memories
Beneath that bygone Hemlock tree.*
What will you do? Where will you go?
I was your heart, you were my soul
Did you let go and drift below
The Lethe River’s undertow?
*Don't bother me, don't follow me
I hold my head above the sea
These memories furled around your sleeve
I've stashed beneath the hemlock tree.*
What do we do? Where do we go?
There are separate paths, or so I'm told
You'll tour one, and if I'm bold
I'll peer once more down your own road.
*Don't bother me, don't follow me
But yes, perchance... I'll dream of thee.
I'll stargaze there, and make believe
Of truth beneath that Hemlock tree.*
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
In melancholy moonless Acheron,
Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,
There by a dim and dark Lethaean well
Young Charmides was lying; wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,
When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a
sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing ***** and his breath came hot and fast,
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.
Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!
Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
2k
a ****** of Crows
gather Carpe Diem;
fluffing their throat feathers,
commiserating
the dead-weight
each unshod foot
bending the world below
the horde of cleft feet align
leaving no footprint behind ―
bowing the antique
frayed telephone wire
party-line swaying with the wind
over the washed out road;
at any moment
the land-line
might break
from the overload ―
downcast,
abandoned,
level with the ground ―
but no one
on earth
even cares ...
they've got
the whole world
in their palm
beneath the sky ―
and the crows
have wings
to fly away ...
harlon rivers
June 2018
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
Being kicked in the head by a horse
can be rather unpleasant of course.
My father lay stunned for a time
and for three days thereafter was blind.
He was lucky the horse was unshod
or he might have been punted to God.
As it was he spent three days abed
while his mom worked her beads in his stead.
On the third day he rose as before
with the injury that kept him from war.
His impaired vision a fortunate curse
Time spend on the Somme would be worse.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
Escape imperative,
stealth of night
unshod; eluding
his blatant lies.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 1:53 AM UTC
When first you let your beauty go,
I saw a heart deep below
Layers of peanut butter
With brown sugar
When next you let your beauty go,
I saw a heart deep below
Layers of insecurity
And cruel words.
When then you let your spirit shine,
I saw the insecurity was mine,
Layered in confines
Of false confidence
When then you let your love show,
I saw my heart was shallow
Seeking external beauty
Missing your heart
When at last you shared your mind,
I knew then I was unkind
Demanding only the fine
Expecting swine.
Yet my presence you demand,
To satisfy your base command,
Do I stay and smile and nod?
Do I walk, and cry unshod?
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 7:19 PM UTC
Never say never, unless unsure
If one has won; whether the storm was weathered.
Still the unshod horse circles around tethered,
And pounds the ground until the sound,
Fades away and we forget her.
Friendship is forever, but loyalty doesn't exist;
Deep inside of all of us is just a selfish *****
The puppet master, d-list disaster,
Terrible actor, no director will cast her.
Crawled from the inferno and seeped through the toes,
Devours every infant the moment they are clothed.
Spine straw, she slurps up all our souls,
Depleted delicious decency leaves a void,
Bad habits enjoyed, eyes remain vacant and annoyed.
The monarch orange, beautiful mess,
Stilted success, seconds from daisy distress.
Stick more glitter to glue the attention
Maybe this year you'll be worth a mention.
Complain about the crowd with smile covered glowers.
Ticking clock tower reminds cowards they've been idly awake for hours.
So take care, prepare your hearse,
We all know the most beautiful flower is clipped first.
Apr 18, 2012
Apr 18, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
a pony ride turns hollow when unshod hooves slip and tear
lots of room for prey and avarice on the prowl
I'm hiding sad shadows in the gods' kind shade
the position you've cosseted was never yours
and a bouquet in full bloom lies face down in a trash can
and a dead plant stands in the corner of a takeaway outlet
your shadow came to talk to me when you fell into deepest asleep
a frosted windowpane is sandwiched in snow
a slick oil spill in a cat's hungry paw
incredibly, convo is created in terse debate over a teaspoon
similarly, two ladies sit and sip in evening caps
amarna letters get torn or burnt to maintain the unknown
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
Spring. You touch emerald-green grass,
Sapphire and ruby flowers.
Summer. Mild sand under your feet
Makes you feel happy. Salt water
Takes your cares away.
Autumn. Yellowish-brown maple and elm leaves,
Though dead, make you relive the past.
Winter. Ice-cold glens burn essence and hurt.
But with the knowledge that spring will come again
You proudly raise your head and run as fast as you can
Free, blithe and unshod!
24.5.2002
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 8:13 AM UTC
am I become an asterisk in your life,
a small reminder of what once was soul-deep,
was the trumpet-radiance of character?
I wander, unshod, in the wilderness created of myself,
to revisit a dystopian dream, where my soul-scars
bleach white from time’s long goodbye
and my caged heart sings a canary’s song to no one
am I become Bukowski’s consummation of grief
dancing on thorns to a choreography of remorse
to a dissonancy of love?
when did I become a mere star-point in your
wintercircle, lost in the wilderness of your sky,
an asterisk abandoned in your asterism?
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 8:59 AM UTC
In herds of painted colors unshod hooves tear across the land scape. Tumble weeds chase them in their wake, as they leave a trail of dust thrown up by them as they go. Through thin brown grasses, they rampage on endless plain that has no end from horizon to horizon. Shaking the earth as they dance along, trotting with fire in their snorts and strength in their mane's. Wild horses thunder on the prairie, as they run into the setting sun as if chasing some place not yet known to man. Fading shadows of the heard conjures up legends of an era gone by as they thunder on the prairie into the steel grey sky.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Am I too much?
Hard to swallow, a bitter pill?
Am I raw and unprocessed,
Undiluted, concentrated,
Too spicy for your stomach?
Good.
Choke on it.
I won’t cut myself
To bite-size pieces.
I am not a convenient product.
My feathers are not plucked,
My hair is unshorn,
My feet are unshod,
And the muscle of my thigh
Is for kicking, not meat.
Do you not like the taste?
Poor spoiled glutton,
You cannot acquire it.
Find your refined sugar elsewhere –
I do not come pre-packaged.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 12:58 PM UTC
twitching muscle above my right eye
signifying stress and unexplored options
reminding me that something sits, unresolved
bouncing as a child in an inflatable wonderland
neurotic nerve-ending, ending my peace
pieces of broken mirror lay at my unshod feet
maximizing rage, a scream passes chapped lips
spittle gathering at the corners
while lunacy takes hold
10,000 scenes pass by my inner-eye
each with its own special irritant
seeking to disrupt the easy-going nature
put forth by sandals and elastic-waist(ed) short pants
wasted years bothered by triviality
sitting wasted, wasting my time
and that of the government agency
which employees this sorry ***
gassed in class passing with class
recoiling from the derailment
I try to regroup
but the short pants line
has the tears too thick to type
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
We are the pit men,the pony men,the downtrodden,unshod men,and it's us against them,
and them men are the fat men,the fast gabbers,the land grabbers,the takers,the fakers, the usurers and money lenders,
**** them men,
I'm tendering my resignation and going off to look for something more,
a new celebration of a life within this whirlwind of a railway station.
Platform four,
train leaves at five
if I'm still alive
I'll be on it.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC
I draw your name with a thin twig in a sand,
Like touching the surface of meanings by breath.
Sand grains flows together like dots on a chequered sheet
And lay down one-line in letters as shibboleth.
In every sand letter of your name there’s me,
Untalented, hopeless, irrelevant, but so tender.
The stray wind will blow away your name from me
And I will stay alone on a sand, unshod and in surrender.
Feb 11, 2025
Feb 11, 2025 at 4:07 PM UTC
it's ******* you over like the memory of a 7th grade dance.
lissome where it hurts.
dreaming like a hallway.running hot from throwing up over the railing.
chest-wet
and dripping into the ringing of my ears.
your slender limbs fold over themselves for convenient storage.
i'm
running out of options in the smooth outside of your fantasy
rings- many digits a-caged
i've fallen down before you.
stuck inside the wills before you touched your lips to my fingers.
i am repeating in your forests,
dark as they are.
before the world is lit,
i stumble, blind enough to the lake. and the
unshod calling that bids me
to you.
and even now, as the grey waters wimp away into the other side of the opening - the frost that stays close to the dew takes lives.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
a man
whose face
seems
newly
paroled
switching
a pebble
one hand
to another
beside
a telephone pole
beneath
a pair
of sneakers
strung
on a wire-
parked cars
they have him
surrounded
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
*Hallelujah-----
Inspired by Leonard Cohen Song
Jude Kyrie
The light it poured from up on high.
From a magenta red and yellow sky.
The visions only made you cry.
Those up above just sighed a sigh.
You don’t want heaven, do you?
The weeping moon is sobbing
hallelujah.
The lost and broken lie in the street
Walk the world in unshod feet.
Why are all these children there?
Doesn’t anybody care?
Statistics only fool you.
Cold winds whisper hallelujah.
Children are reaching out for love
Their arms outstretched to up above.
Begging love from heaven’s door.
Only silence rings for evermore.
Just bitter rains to cool you.
Broken children sobbing Hallelujah
They say there is a God above.
But all my grace has come from love
Why fill Gods mansions full of treasure
When to feed the hungry was his measure.
Sick and tired of those that rule you.
Winter winds wail hallelujah.*
Authors Note
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
Deep within the bowels of the Earth
immensely distant from the sheltering sky
amidst a thick fog enveloped landscape
with here and there a projected
craggy, derelict chasm
precipitously crooked pointing toward
an infinitely wide yawning abyss
dwelt kindred spirits comprising a soul asylum
where grateful dead (albeit marked
via weathered tomb stones) hermetically sealed
once vibrant corporeal mortals
betook their eternal slumber
One among their number
included a misanthrope
who sported long straggly hair
bushy eyebrows shielding cold eyes of steel
straggly bearded clammy chin
in tandem with a hairy body
which when alive (long time ago)
upheld upon unshod feet a severely
hunchbacked ******
Within dense pitch-black terrain
(Mother Nature enlisting
a menagerie of life forms
accustomed to hellish environment)
awash with unrecognizable
alien sights and sounds
mollycoddling bewitching warlocks,
mailer daemons,
imps of the pervert chieftains, fiery
long and fostered Golems
who called underworld
their private demesne
also alluded to Marcy's playground
holding hostage Alice in Chains
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
The Beastie Boys, The Human League, and
Village People a Crowded House
Emitting wisps of ethereal matter
appearing a small medium at large
chat snap ping, flickr ring indeed joyus minions
exalting piety a plenti
Prone ounce sing proud purgatory
promoting protean phantasmagoria
hideous hulu hoop dancing holograms
highly distorted grotesque
silent screaming sinister banshees
slithering across escarpment.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
A snake rattles and
slithers to the rock where
it will hide in serpent secrecy like
a tongue in mouth that lies.
A boot fears no snake bite
hardened leather and harder soles
as protected as a buried coffee can in the desert
baked impenatrable, this the snake will not bite.
The unshod foot, the unsuspecting mouse are
fair prey for the fangs that drip a poison
that kills without mercy, ****** with impugnity
and swallows whole those who trust.
Better be a boot; inflexible, unpenetrable,
than a bare foot or quiet mouse
when snakes lurk
in the secret shadow whispers of the dark.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
meandering thoughts
of creativity for recreation
versus the idea
that art
can be prosperous
self-expression and
emotional depth plunging
for coin and
posterity –
poets only prosper posthumously
for the most part
and soft rock singer-songwriters
are a dime a dozen,
cousin –
validation from within again
as sin and winning blend
a regular trend….
the trees give no applause
or constructive criticism
but are an audience
that sway gently to the soft rhythms –
grumbling old lab at my feet slaps his tail
at the same song he heard yesterday
rubbing a worn nose on my unshod feet
looking for a toe scratch
as we both look outside for validation –
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC