Best Shoed Poems
Northern winters harbor harshness.
Freezing confetti and sun lit bottlecap.
Snow angels can never warm the backs
of cinderblock children and gray eyed cats.
Northern winters push the hobbled hobos...toward the equator.
To nibble the candied ribbons of warmth.
Sashay the deer and goldfinch trails.
To pretend they're a white shoed, flower breasted tourist for an afternoon.
Mind flirting with women in thin- pastel skirts.
Comb beaching for shiny dreams...
Making sand dollars.
Even poverty can't deny them this.
He billed himself as an expert in the field of "equine podiatry",
Better known as a farrier for farmers and the cream of society!
Keeping horses shod and their hooves polished was his vocation.
With horseflesh he'd had many an interesting confrontation!
He always had a roll-yer-own dangling from his lips,
And a blackened leather apron wrapped about his hips.
His jaw was set and with biceps wrought of tempered steel,
He'd strike the anvil with his hammer - what a rhythmic peal!
In his jumbled shop he'd shod animals of many breeds.
Donkeys, mules, ponies and prized Arabian steeds.
He shoed critters pulling covered wagons to unknown frontiers,
And many a cowpokes cayuse for the round-up of his steers!
One detail they didn't cover when he was in farrier school,
Was how to deal with the occasional cantankerous mule.
Many times he'd found himself sprawled upon the dirt,
With the outline of a hoof imprinted upon his shirt!
Tho' his profession never guaranteed a life of glamour,
And knowing he'd not get rich wielding a tongs and hammer,
Yet, it was challenging working with ornery mule and horse,
Always hoisting their hindquarters very gingerly of course!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
"The End of America"
remember
when
we danced
our fingers
mapping
velvet secrets
across scorched
skin whispering
smiles encouraging
a little lovely
wanton sin
like we were
playing keys
turning our
worlds over
for words
unlocking
hearts
you could
taste the
salt pools
satin tongues
like book marks
parked in life
tidal pulsing
swelling over
into musky curves
bittersweet
like toffee
we melted
into double helix
spoons
shuffling sides
bending
over like
music sybaritic
needle piercing
into groove
deep stirred
we thought
we could
write
the whole thing
like a never-ending
sticky noir romance
tasting honey
in each other
we burned
like a forest fire
fathoms deep
into what
was encased
in our bodies
our truth
torched
like Liberty
falling
then our world
changed
war soft shoed
it’s blood dripping
lips around the
throbbing dreams
of our forgotten youth
we swallowed
gagging
on the truth
over all too soon
pass the tissues
wiped clean
and senseless
we left the room
before what slept
opened its eyes
rudely waking
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
LATE AUGUST
It’s late August with Labor Day on my mind
Something sharp and indistinct is in the air
I sense it all along my prickled skin
My forehead in my hair
Kids would seem to play more frantically as though to say
“All is quit right after Labor Day.”
Denver always has a big parade
It’s really not for us
Men have traded guns for overalls
Tanks and silver helmets for baker’s builder’s trucks
The bands are poor and few plain-shoed players not too fine
The working men keep tipping hats walk in staggered lines
One good thing late August brings
A smell of football’s in the air
A roll on churchyard grass –
You’re tackled miss a pass
There are a few good things late August brings
To soften thoughts of school opening
BUT
Mother’s busy with needle and thread
A trip downtown
To Gano Downs
The dread “Back to School Sale”
walking to work
in a *****small town
with the cars whizzing by &
the peering drivers
with
bulging beady eyes
(fat behind the wheel,
never exercising, with
heart attacks & heart disease
just round the bend),
with curiosity that
killed the
****ing cat,
with classism eyelashes &
the want of the white picket
fence, amidst the
burrowing down
increasing unemployment &
poverty rising
for the rest of
us &
there’s a rock in my shoe &
there’s a storm coming &
if one stops to untie the shoe
so that said rock-shoed individual
can release said rock
back out into the wild,
then of course the storm
will come thrashing.
I watched her as she danced
her entire body
ached with artistic beliefs
and organised thoughts
fractals of light
shone
through the bottom seam of the tutu
as she looked down at her pointe-shoed
feet
she adjusted the edge of her tutu,
the part attached to the leotard
pulling it tighter before the next act
a black choker ribbon tied around her neck
kept her grounded
and the long ribbon stayed to her back
like a waterfall.
Her muscled calves quivered with excitement
of opening night
a blue bow sat gently on her waist
as she prepared for the first dance.
-‘The Girl With The Blue Bow’ was inspired by Edgar Degas’ painting ‘The Dance Studio’
Can your calluses callus enough that God’s touch
will not touch a nerve ending (to reach you) if God
wants to kiss you (wants contact?) Yes, there! I’d guess not!
But that does leave unanswered if God would allow
you to ‘unfeel’ that feeling, to unring His knock
up your virginal doors? An unfruitful advent-
ure, a dalliance nipped in the bud, that’s your fame?
But delays to ‘what rhymes,’ might that mean you have crutch
or a leg left to stand on if Judgment’s not odd.
Is God’s Grace hope you’ve ace-in-the-hole (it’s a thought
though you hate to admit it?) You’re drawn to Macau?
There’s a bargaining chip? You have something to hock?
(You think hedging one’s bets is an option?) You’ve hint
there’s an exit (non-death) that’s not God’s to proclaim?
Life has binary options, it’s on, or it’s off.
We can’t choose to be ‘good,’ but we can ‘like’ God’s Grace?
If God’s real, ‘God’s’ not Fraud, but God still could be Fraud,
which might mean grace is fraud too and ‘life’s’ what all get.
Yes, we’re here then we’re not, yet death might be unreal
like some say God’s not there (if He is or He’s not!)
It’s confusing to me, and some think that I’m smart.
Are your calluses assets? I don’t mean to scoff,
but it looks more to me like that’s spiting your face
(you want calluses there?) Feet, hands, fingers seem odd
when feet shoed, and hands gloved still can bless life a bit.
Don’t confuse souls with soles (that would not be genteel!)
There’s no knowledge that lasts, and all feelings will rot
if no God is Creator (whose Love’s breath is Art!)
Brian Johnston
15th of August in 2020
examine the mouth of the river
listen to its excited conversations
compare its shimmering to
ululating silver bangles
walk into the riverbed and cover
yourself in golden sediments
mud bathe- then rinse in the river
spread your wings like a butterfly
glare at the sun stinging
your heart out with its
very BRIGHTNESS
until Old Black Face One arrives
humming Swami River
banging his pots as
if they were talking drums
his spoons delivering messages
whip-poor-wills will wail
broadcasting their name
the fattest red breasted robin will
whistle (her chest heaving)
twigs woven in your hair
feet shoed in muddy leaves
pain pierces your left leg/
SCREAM but do not run
Grab the snake - throw him
bash his head with a rock
your knees bloody as you struggle
The light is leaving
an owl hoots and spirits emerge
The Hollering Woman
grabs you, releases the poison
with a green beaded knife
moccasins worn softly
hold untold stories
the sounds of the rattles, bells
announce the herbalist healers
lace, calico and purple
turkey and peacock feathers
swooning scents intoxicate-
power away the pus
study the ancient ones
revere messages from your river
remember the ancestors' rituals
go to the river and dance
Issy was in first year at Exeter University,
Coming home from a trip to the cinema,
Travelling in a car at 60mph, high velocity,
When they were hit by another vehicle.
Six months in hospital, crushed five ribs,
A severed liver, and a badly broken back,
Left hand with impaired movement, no fibs,
And she was waist paralysed, she did lack.
The hospital was Stoke Mandeville, best,
And as part of her rehabilitation valued,
She did shooting. At Uni she’d had a fest,
In the sport of hockey which she’d shoed.
Someone called Vlad gave her a gun,
Set her arm and hand in a solid posture,
Said “Ok” and that's where it all did sun,
Her career in shooting began in pasture.
To this day she trains at Stoke Mandeville,
Lives in Cirencester in Glousestershire.
She was born on 19th of April in 1994, trill,
And plays badminton and rugby hellfire.
She took part in the Szczecin World Cup,
Poland, in 2014, just a year after starting,
And so made it to Rio where she did sup,
The atmosphere in the P2-10m shooting.
Bent glass danced light from windows over looking vacant playgrounds,
as Mr. Ingersall taught refraction and dispersion.
Rainbows tap-danced walls to chalkboard, brushing equations,
while impish hues soft-shoed solutions chased previously with tears.
From a lackluster world of rummy princes and fermented fairy tales,
the girl's heart tripped fantastic in the cotillion of blithe pigmentation.
The loud sound of deserted classrooms witnessed bewitching glass
sashayed away from the place of clips, red pencils, and unbroken chalk...
and light danced once for her in pentient denouement.
up through the sewer into the street
nice little window
could see what i missed
the bustle of shoed feet
a purposeful din
as they kicked about the puddles
pretty ladies in sequin dresses
constricted by a velvet shawl
at the heel of a good man
a rich one
he kicked me a drink
that was the finest day
of my life
High heels
By Stanley Russell Harris
The new mad author
& A Poetry Soup honourably mentioned poet
Why do women wear high heeled shoes?
I really do not know.
That’s because I am a man.
And my shoe heels are low.
Is it so when they are shopping?
In the supermarket’s where they do go.
They can reach the top shelf.
That one I never can you know,
Is it so they feel 10 feet high.
Look down on us men as they pass by.
Or is it so we look up to them?
I mean, us flat shoed little men.
If businesses have a dress code.
They should supply all with clothes.
Like schoolchildren all could look the same.
Uniform and in flat shoes again.
I thought long and hard about high heels and wondered if I could write a poem. I have posted this on BBC News Facebook page where I do share a few on my creations mentioning Poetry Soup of course lol. No offence ladies if you like wearing high heeled shoes.
Form:
God We Have To Thank
Was a famous priest named Father Frank;
And when seen how our sad hearts sank;
Loved a lot;
He said not;
God we have to thank for pulling a prank.
There once had been a promising pastor;
Did perturb us by being a big procraster;
Had a feel;
Was ideal;
Became a Methodist and lost his stature.
Father Frank believed in being involved;
Everything around him always revolved;
Great counselor,
We knew for sure;
Found solutions and our problems solved.
Father Frank always knew what God meant;
Be careful who you select for your President;
To my fine friend,
This message send;
Must receive My blessings and also consent.
What Father Frank did was always diligent;
Knew how to handle those being indignant;
Horrible despair,
Would not share;
So he started putting us in a separate tent.
Father Frank can negotiate and communicate;
Should never wait around or have to hesitate;
Never abrupt,
Or ever corrupt;
Sermons are great and you they do educate.
Father Frank likes getting you in the mood
On forehead wears a cross that is tattooed
Best looking priest so others of we shoed.
Father Frank has become a blooming flower,
We love, enjoy and appreciate hour by hour;
When knees do kneel;
How horrible they feel;
In all of our hearts has started a roaring fire.
Father Frank is a fine natural born laugher
Have him at Saint James we would rather;
He has great way,
With words to say;
Love hearing sermons now and hereafter.
What I want to hear is poems do please;
Read them as they continue to increase;
A parable tell,
That is swell;
And hear a sermon about birds and bees.
Jim Horn
.
Hallogen Rows
lighted eyes of machines,
caterpillaring the city galaxy.
I propped on "Cemetery Hill".
Laid wet, slop-shoed,
from black snow.
Decembers clouds are haze,
thick in night undone.
Arches, Bells, Kings
beacons feeding the masses.
Air of ribs, wings, and other flesh.
Rubber slices concrete,
noise of sea waves.
My neck turtles,
at Thousand feet dropped sprinkels.
A siren tells of pain,
somewhere on the map.
A Tower member modeled,
blinks pilot warnings.
Wolf relative is talking,
of passer-byes, and
Mates unseen.
I'm keeping stars,
Reminded.
Form:
Stone-broken at the waters lip, spun
Round and starfished on this shrinking hill.
We gaze across the Apple Lands.
Distant fires rise in spirals, shifting.
The dog dance of our straying hearts
Calls us back to the razored road,
The high path we walked beneath
Cold singing stars. Now haunted by
Mute memories, shouting in signs, of
Hands once struck, and honesty pledged.
We wore these hearts, worn out with
Hope. Split shoed, striding on, we
Forgot the sound of friends,
No substitute for brothers.
Clinging tightly, we clutched to
Survive, and pulled each other under