Best Soled Poems
Rumbling in my mind
The song of Arleen Hurtado
Trying to get into a Spanish mood
As I gaze at the flamingo dancer,
Dressed in black flaming wide dress.
Hear her castanets, clicking in rhythm
To the background of classical guitars
And the occasional shouts of Ole`.
Yes I can see her, steel soled shoes
Tapping on sturdy wood. She twirls,
Her dress inflated in a sensual dance,
Until she enters in a tocatta festiva.
Silently she taps as she lifts her dress,
Slowly revealing her beautiful legs,
And down again to recommence her twirl.
The audience go mad in applause.
She merely bows and retires to her room.
I’m there waiting for her.
Crawling along the sidewalk,
his tiny legs wiggling along
with his wriggling, squiggly body,
he creeps me out!
If he survives the elements
or the stampede of hard-soled monster feet
upon his too-soft squishy body,
he will perform a disappearing act!
Spewing sticky strands
from glands near his mouth,
he twists himself into an ugly shell
hidden and hanging from a common twig.
Shedding skin, he slowly reveals
his chrysalis self.
At last,
his inner beauty, that rare beauty in disguise,
will have changed before our amazed eyes
into the colorful radiant wings
of a splendid butterfly!
Written Jan. 4, 2016 and pretty much my only free verse so far this year!
A story in The Times about
Admittance into clubs
Discussed the people who’d get in –
No luck for average schlubs.
You have to dress in certain clothes
And have the right cachet;
If not, you’ll not get past the rope,
No matter what you say.
What really got to me the most,
Describing women’s dress,
Was mentioning the shoes they’d need
To guarantee success.
Of course, they must be “Christians” -
That’s Louboutins, soled in red;
Or else Manolo Blahniks
May be strutted in, instead.
In either case, the shoes should have
No less than five-inch heels!
I wonder if the bouncer at the club
Knows how that feels.
‘Cause even in my younger days,
When cool styles I’d embrace,
If I wore five-inch heels, I’d end up
Flat upon my face!
I hate the whole idea of clubs
Where bouncers pick and choose
The patrons they’ll allow inside –
Based solely on their shoes!
I noticed the uniform, and the heavy soled shinny black boots
Not the man within it, I apologized.
I remember the clean fresh smell of maleness, as they stormed into the house,
Broken glass, ripped down hangings, a slashed sofa, a pulled curtain,
A sudden maneuver to throw my brother’s bear across the yard,
Such military worries, hidden bombs in a child’s best friend.
Your broken cross I buried in our garden after they left.God, come back to my house, I am
waiting.
All I saw were figures painted the colour of grass and bark,
with gilded edges traced by some crazed church painter's brush,
faceless with pockets full of bullets and chords,
Their arms intertwined with red eyes and swollen hands of my teachers,
Stiff figures against the soft jeans, sweaters, and knitted hats below.
Standing witness in the yard above watching, I waited for her to die.
Shinny black like the dirt dug from the mass grave,
Full of crumbled human bits, decaying coloured cloth,
while the sun scorched the group sorting the cellular samples
I saw the black boots etched into the bone fragments.
Lost bones of lost loved ones from empty families,
Standing in the desert, I wait for a name.
No, I do not see you the man, just the uniform.
I see the butt of the gun, the dent of the boot, the slickness in the air,
the cruel power of the swirl jungle green print with gold trim.
As a witness God left me, and I was waiting.
Change, let me meet the man,
maybe the waiting is over.
Way back in the nineteen fifties
When Charlie grew out of his toys,
He fancied having an active life
So he joined the Teddy Boys.
He wore drainpipe jeans, a black drape coat
And a shirt with a boot lace tie.
With his crepe-soled shoes and slicked back hair
He definitely caught your eye.
It wasn’t unusual to find him
With a flick-knife in his hand, though
This wasn’t quite what he wanted but
He pretended to make a stand.
Young Charlie was more of a lover
With a record of amorous feats,
And rather than hurting people,
He preferred slashing cinema seats.
So when he began seeing Doreen
Spending Friday night on the town,
He took her to the local flea-pit
Where they cheered when the film broke down.
Now Doreen had plans to catch Charlie,
Dressed to kill she just couldn’t fail,
With stiletto heels and flouncy skirts
And her hair in a pony-tail.
Poor Charlie just couldn’t resist her
And finally asked her to wed.
He bought a stylish suit and proper shoes,
He’d grown out of being a Ted.
In marital bliss some time later
He thought of the freedom he’d had,
With his Teddy Boy suit now in mothballs
He felt that life wasn’t too bad.
With Doreen he’d found some contentment
But thoughts whirled around in his brain,
Growing up had left some resentment
And he wished he could be young again.
Another older post.....funny how some material things represent success....these red-soled shoes certainly do exactly that to many women, including my grandddaughter (maybe she'll get a pair if she graduates from med school)- so here's to my girl and what I know goes through her mind when she sees picture of "Christian Louboutin's"
One word is all that comes to mind-
As I hear the tapping of heels on pavement,
Christian Louboutin, the slayer of all shoes,
I see the smooth black leather studded pumps,
The tiny details of his red soles catch my eye,
I know when I wear them I will raise my head up high,
Rarely do people disapprove,
Always sold in pairs – that’s two,
I know one day I’ll own a few,
Christian Louboutin, the slayer of all shoes!
One picture is all that comes to mind-
When I see the soles of a special kind,
I kick my feet up high,
Longing for the day when I can wear those heels with pride,
Makeup, hair, and nails all match,
My red soles and I can never be detached,
The sight of a deep red,
It is what I’ve tattooed in my head,
Permanently stitched into my view,
Christian Louboutin, the slayer of all shoes!
There once was a picky young troll,
Who fussed over his supper bowl.
He loved human meat,
But disliked the feet
That came off of salty soled souls.
Until one day, he was cajoled
By an ogre out on a stroll.
Who said, “With some heat,
Those feet become sweet.”
Thus our troll was sold on soul’s soles.
For sweet and salty contest
What’s your name Isabelle
with long flowing brown hair
and skin so fair
yellow dress billowing
in the wind
flat-soled Nike
shoes
sitting
reading the news
with a look of
sorrow and despair
the land of the free
has punished your already
tired eyes
and smoking your cigarettes
you punish the skies
in return
the clouds rain disease
and bring an already famine
Earth
closer to it’s knees
in prayer
to a God that never
seems to answer
forgotten sound
of a father's voice,
only a fond memory of English Leather,
faces of children
not one's remembered,
melancholia captioned,
while snared in long wars
bereft of true glory,
cordite charred, world weary,
heavy hearted,
heavy handed,
heavy lidded,
minutes whip past
like a lash on raw skin,
gilded ages burst like flack,
eons too much when unwelcome
too little too soon,
moments spent like carnival tokens,
spin cycle of life
a kaleidoscope swoon,
awaken to dotage,
snippets of melodies
riffing toe tapped,
younger days, younger legs,
when life was as simple
as a pair of rubber soled shoes,
leg tapped,
tap away.
almost every day
before the sun’s first blinding ray
clouds are touched by warmest hues
displaying their splendid red-soled shoes
each a ship of cumulus shape
far and high their tops will scrape
grayness off the blue domed sky
heralded by a thousand birds dry
inching up the growing screen
jostling as they puff and preen
kissing heads of other domes
lovingly writing sky-based poems
moving all in unison now
nodding and bobbing with furrowed brow
opening a soft thunderous throat
passing over hill and valley’s moat
quickly gathering a soft grey weight
rain and wind inevitable fate
slowly moving across the land
together to make a final stand
up in the tops of the tallest heads
violet lightning neon glow spreads
wind now touches and bends the trees
x-rayed by white lightning sprees
you can almost see the insects flee
zooming over the earth with glee
Blaring disco
swirling clubs
‘One night affair’ shakes
Funk, Latin, Soul music
reverberated vocals
grinding hips
shaking bosoms
electric pianos
phenomenon spread, over and above all
young minds, young bodies, a fusion
trippy lighting
colourful costume
remix version, DJs influential, people party
Shake, shake, shake, shake your booty
All is free, don’t be snooty
Disco wear, stretch and reflect light
Ultra violet light zooms
Heady time, heady music
Soled shoes
Feet hurt
By-Tahera Mannan
For Nette’s ‘Magic for decade’s mood’ Contest
He traipsed toward my face.
My grey, imperious majesty.
Impervious to strong fingers
and rubber-soled feet
His face set, hard as my stone,
bearing a load as heavy as avarice,
hungry comes my challenger.
This conqueror of realms,
remains of breakfast travelling on his lips
My unshaven face looks down upon
this approacher, encroacher. Poacher
of the peaks and the torrs.
I am the absorber of shadows and
giver of light. Bringer of Sunday School
picnics and kites that catch the wind
Faced with this venal subterfuge,
my draw bridge is raised, my
crevices inaccessible.
My many jagged limbs,
created by the sea and the wind.
I am the perfect lure to the foolish
and the last sightof the dying
I cast my gaze upon the mirrored sea,
my only neighbour, whose waters hold
firm under the weight of the working boats.
Bows powerless to escape the tension of her surface
You see me as rock. But, I see you too.
I see the fear coursing through your veins
like a virulent disease. A Flea upon my chest
Oncology
waffle-soled Nikes travel by at
a good pace and I think of chalky
lace-ups and starched white caps,
the apron-tied uniform
of benevolent angels so gently
shushing visitors.
a memory collection of sneaking up stairs
with no cardboard passes; two visitors at a time;
15 minutes; youthful breaking of the rules
settles in a smile incongruous to
my purpose of sitting here, waiting
outside his room.
The devil is behind this door. They
cannot be left alone. A pair
of nikes motions me in to keep
at moor his boat at river’s edge.
©Kathryn McLoughlin Collins
Weekend wanderlust, backwoods trail tramping
Accesorized with well-heeled, hard-soled boots
Forrest frolicking, overnight camping
Freefalling footsteps connect to grassroots
Lost in labyrinth of lengthy commutes
Energized inboard engine outpaces
Scavenger hunting and other pursuits
Tieing up loose ends with taut bootlaces
Observing the touch of untouched places
Muddy meanderings, dry diversion
Pathway erases bootprint/ retraces
Exiting road-less-taken-excursion
Rejuivenated, (much to my liking)
Striking campfire desire for more hiking
The man lept from our balcony row and landed directly on Tebow and K'Vnulash, who began to tongue kiss passionately, realizing their final moments were at hand. It was not a gory explosion, but one that inspired thirst. We stopped by the Liquor store on the way home, almost parking in the spot that nobody parks in because it's filled with broken glass. I crunched over it with my wooden-soled plaid crocs and entered the swill-exchange. The clerk procured one bottle of Popovs, but my eye saw an 8 oz. flask of Thunderbird nestled between a quart of Bailey's and the dirt-flanged walls of the establishment. I questioned the price, and found I was several dollars short. I returned to my vehicle and informed coraline of the problem, to which she replied with a most devious and predictably effective plan: crush up the bottle of aspirin in the glove compartment and hock it as coke to some dumb junkie in the alley. This alley was around the corner, a dead-zone of perpetual shade between towering concrete and steel dildos, ever stretching to the possibly homophobic sun. As I entered the triangle of darkness in search of a derelict, some stringy white liquid landed on my forehead from what must have been a very high point, as it stung with velocity. I concluded that it was a message from Zoroaster, who revealed to me that it was actually the product of a frittering stock jockeys mid-morning wank finished out the window. Thank Zoroaster. I quickly found an unfortunate and vapid urchin who gladly exchanged eight dollars for a paltry sum of ground aspirin. He snorted it immediately.
I said: praise Zoroaster