Best Shoe String Poems
The tunnel seems long
Everything you have seems wrong
The darkness never ending
Your life balancing on a shoe string
But out of the darkness a light
The brightest and most gorgeous daylight
Appears at the end of the tunnel
Your coming to the end of your struggle
At the end of the day you are a survivor
Your family is your main driver
Your strength is what keeps you going
That keeps your blood flowing
Times ahead will be hard and tiresome
But you are capable of equating the entire sum
The survivor in you will come through
Onwards and upwards to pastures new
Always remember this one line
“Nothing ever stops for time”
Enjoy every moment as I’m sure you will
You won’t always be traveling uphill…
A sweet disorder in the dress kindles
In clothes a wantonness; a stole about
The shoulders thrown, a fine distraction; an
ErrIng Lace, which here and there enthralls the
Crimson Vest; a cuff neglectful, ribbons
Flow confusedly: a winning wave (note)
In the tempestuous petticoat: a
Careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a
Wild civility: does more bewitch me,
Than Art when too precise in ev'ry part.
In a cat's life.We get a rubber mouse,
a shoe string, or a butterfly to play with.
In a cat's life.We get names like Sylvester,
Felix, Tom And Jerry, Morris, and Garfield.
In a cat's life.We chase hamsters, mice, and
rats, anything loose, with a string attached.
In a cat's life.We like a big bowl of warm milk.
Crunchy cat food nuggets.All filled with love.
We like tuna oil, and tuna fish, and goldfish.
Straight from the living room fish tank.In a
cat's life.We like to curl up next to our master,
like a fluffy pillow, weeping willow on a sofa
bed.In a cat's life.We take off our mittens and
booties.As we leave our paw prints in the
muddy soil.In a cat's life.
Cat's Life Poetry By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2011,2014..
All rights reserved
twas a cold and cloudy day
nippy in nature with trees in sway
that time in winter when days were short
the kind of day when a grave digger
would take a snort
to warm the bones, so to speak
a few more snorts to make it neat
but dig the grave ready for the next day
and the grave digger would earn his pay
it never bothered him that he made a living
digging graves
sometimes he wondered why people were afraid
it's just a place where dead bodies are laid
as long as people are dying
there's money to be made
on his way home singing a song
living in a world where nothing was wrong
or so it seemed
but while he was walking'
one of the thorny briers latched
on to one of his shoe latches
and in one step the bow was gone
unknowingly the grave digger
kept moving along, singing his song
like nothing was wrong
unaware that he could slip
never minding that he could trip
the old grave digger singing his song
without a thought that something was wrong
he reached in his pocket
for a pipe that was'nt there
and was sure that he had droped it
somewhere back there
his search was so intense
it took him all the way back to the grave
but just before he got there
he steped on his shoe string
there was nothing he could do
falling head long into the grave
where a broken neck was waiting
and also his pipe laid
so we'll end this story like Esop ends his
there is a moral to the story
for all the growing kids
smoking is bad for you
Poison onion rings
Bunion on a sling
Rustic carriage bolts
Shoe string eating antelopes
Cankered bison crying wolf
While dancing under the heated son
No one comes this is the dawn
My shoes are the strong silent type in that
they rarely throw fits about the weather
as flip-flops do nor demand tit-for-tat
consideration when worn together
with socks. It should come as little surprise
then that they’re white and grey, underemployed
running shoes, meaning long strolls at sunrise
are just what they sound like: footsteps devoid
the prerequisite urgency to shift
directions as deemed necessary by
either myself or my feet when adrift
through trance-like stables of the butterfly
where train engineers mimic the station
of glacier-laced shoe-string transformation.
My freshman year is ending and I’m as busy as a one-armed juggler. Of course covid is back.
It reoccurs at the worst times, like a movie slasher long thought dead.
When we have something scheduled very early in the morning, we call it an “early-burn.”
This one early-burn morning I had a 7am meeting. Peter and I had met for breakfast because he’s back in my life and he’s ALWAYS up and out early.
It was snowing and we were hurrying, because somehow, I always cut things close. I think I tripped over my shoe-string on a patch of ice. I went down hard and I heard this loud ripping sound. I’d ripped my pants badly and my book bag spilled too. I’m scrambling around on the ground in an attempt to grab some loose papers the wind was scattering.
Peter says, “Wow, your panties are really thin.”
I jump up “I feel you don’t know where our boundaries are,” I laugh, “you’re so nasty - don’t just stand there grinning - HELP me!” I indicate two papers for him to chase. I looked to see how bad the rip was (BAD). Of course, my coat was short that day, so I untucked my blouse. “How does this look?” I asked Peter.
“That works,” he said, giving my fix his imprimatur.
The two of us managed to corral the papers. “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen,” Peter said.
I realized I’d ripped my pants leg and scraped my knee badly - it was bleeding profusely.
“God Damn It!” I went off.
This lady comes up - seemingly out of nowhere - this old white Christian lady who we’d never seen before. She was so out of place and random and she says, “I really don’t think you should be talking like that in public.” She wasn’t harsh.
At that moment, a gust of wind came up that made me lower my head, as though I couldn’t look the old woman in the eyes but I was just ignoring her anyway - having my own set of issues to deal with.
She had a point though. I’m cursing too much these days. I feel like If I admit it, maybe it’s ok but I am trying not to cuss anymore - well less maybe - at least in a negative way.
“I think you look fu-kin’ GREAT,” would still be acceptable.
Tonight's episode...
When rumor meets reality,
what truth shall shake loose
as your body surrenders
to temptation rising?
Resolved to perform
interrogations and coercions
that land on agreeable moments.
Snapping like orchestrated jazz
and toe taps.
Your body produces a rhythm
that vibrates a zip code
so imagine how it feels next to you.
You bring out Q and Ray in me.
I'll be as good or as bad
as you need me to be.
Resist if you must, but don't deny
the third yes.
Surpass glass ceiling type heights,
I insist on it.
Make angels pay attention
as I keep you uplifted.
Proclamations of emancipated thrills,
yield to a hero's will, and I'll save you.
I promise I will. If not this time,
then next episode, somehow,
someway, even if it takes bubblegum,
paperclips, and a shoe string
I got you.
Does It matter if the color of my skin black or white I should be judged upon, or is
it just the thought that my ancestors once a slave; me growing up a black child.
Should you look beyond this skin they call “Chocolate” but made within us brown,
the texture of our skin can not only come as a color but a heritage once long ago.
You May not like the way we look, the way we stare, or the way we eat, its what us
as black children were brought up as.
Don’t call us a slave just because our clothes tend to fall off, or a shoe string may
not be tide.
If your skin would be made the same color as mine, would you still have hate for
me?
Or would you not say anything at all, because we were equal?
Do we deserve to be treated like animals, or like dirt rather say? Or is it just
because you hate the color of our skin.
Without our Betty Grace
a seamstress of Fashion and lace
once upon a time she lit up a room,
a starlight a beauty, a movie in your room
As time has rolled, meandered on the bridge of Toll governed by politicians , divisions , conqering for the good of all .
Betty Grace RIP
She lived on a shoe string living in poverty
Living on a meal called pasta salt pepper and butter spaghetti
bills to pay
one meal a day
no heating to warm her elderly bones
she sat all alone.
Betty Grace is her name
Our forgotten hero x
Towering sycamores shaded the court house on the old town square,
And as usual on summer afternoons, hangers-on were gathered there.
I joined them and sat on a bench with a grizzled old man,
Wearing bib-overalls, John Deere cap, and a leathery tan.
"Son, let me tell you a few things I've learned about livin'.
Firstly, you ain't gonna git far if you ain't carin' an' forgivin'.
An' you ain't gonna weather th' storms uv this turbulent life,
'Less you have a lovin', carin', an' forgivin' wife."
"But this wife things works both ways, you understand.
Treasure her, tell her you love her, an' always offer yer hand.
Instruct yer kids an' grandkids in th' ways of th' Lord,
An' jes' 'cause ever'body does it, steer 'em away frum that horde!"
"I've labored long an' hard for whut little I've got,
Farmin' on a shoe string on a hunderd-acre plot,
Sufferin' hail, flood, th' blight an' many a killin' drought,
But I ain't never asked th' guv'ment fer no free hand-out!"
"My wife an' me skimped an' saved an' put two kids through college.
I fought in th' Great War, an' that'll sure increase yer knowledge!
Even though I've had my share of tribulations durin' my life's long span,
I thank th' good Lord ever' day, for I'm truly a very blessed man!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
isee the shoes
its bad newa
they could trip
or dip
shoes that or wide
need to be tided
to fall is a pain
so tighing your
SHOE STRINGS
Poison onion rings;
Bunion on a sling;
Rustic carriage bolts;
Shoe string eating, antelopes;
what's the matter
what's the matter
whose ya mad at, son;
what's the matter;
what's the matter;
whose ya mad at, son;
when it all settles, when the feet hit the dust;(this ole earth)
and the horizon falls from the skies. . .
it's on, it's on it's all a matter of
it's all a matter of dawn;
the Matters of dawn
Cankered bison crying;
While dancing under the heated son;
My cousin from Missouri says he's only seen black squirrels in Nebraska;
No one comes this town in the dawn;
Catch phrase of the 1970's was, What's going on, going on;
and the horizon falls from the skies...
it's on, it's on it's all the matter of
it's on, it's on it's all a matter of
it's all the matter of dawn;
the Matters of dawn
what's the matter;
whose the matter;
what's the matter;
whose ya mad at son;
what's the matter;
don't be a hater;
lift up your arms, your hands, your head up to the skies;
rejoice in the creator, for He made ya;
and for this ya need to be grateful;'
it's all
yes! YA
it's all matters of the dawn
You!
The knot in the shoe string
I can't untie...
The piece of lint that struck
To my dark blue suit...
The thread that unraveled
When I was dressed to a "T"...
The last drop of water
That made my cup overflow!
Cynthia
You are ...
The knot in my shoe string
I can't untie!
The thread that unravels
When I am dressed to a "T"!
The piece of lint
That always clings to my dark blue suit!
The last drop of water
That makes my cup overflow!