My old shoes
croon
songs with
sweet loud notes.
My old shoes
grace
the old soul
of my worn soles.
What big smile you have Grandmother.
The better to fool you with my dear.
Big smiles, big hair, breasts and heels
All designed to suck you in.
Hook us good then reel us in
For their Catch of the Day
Served up fresh battered and fried with chips.
And still the distant voices echo,
“Kill ugly radio”, “Kill your television”
To the plugged-in masses
Sharing their memes,
Endlessly scrolling their lives away.
What big teeth you have Grandmother.
Yes, but don’t you worry my child,
They only look so big
Because you are so close.
(3/8/26)
best
elegant, lavish
flattering, favoring, pleasing
gown, jewelry, rags, stains
unflattering, shaming, jarring
dowdy, ugly
worst
They stare at me
Realizing I’m not normal
Always, it hangs over my head
Never will I be her
Someday I hope I can be him
Genuinely hurt
Eventually crying
Never will I be him
Don’t want to look at myself
Even as I smile
Reminders fill my head
Are you sad?
Nothing but fake news
Slow and steady
Drags me down
Kids will be kids
AP: Honorable Mnetion 2025
An Ode To Our Hanging Laundry
Like the colorful banners of knights of old
Surrounded by their heralds and mesnie bold,
Our laundry doth wave on the clothes hanging lines
As if it too is meant for heraldic signs.
The socks are displayed like pennoncelle.
All our intimate secrets playful to tell.
Our underwear are our prideful banderole
As if we are knights-errant out on patrol.
Our banner of arms are our shirts hanging free.
They declare our wealthlessness for all to see.
The pants are hung as our heraldic standard.
In them we are wont to go a wee dandered.
Without our clothes hung for all to gaily see
How are we to know who it is that we be?
i'm a shirt in the depths of your closet
shoved so far back
i'm not sure you even remember i'm here
it wasn't always this way
i used to be your favorite
i remember the day you found me
it was like love at first sight
i half expected you to leave me on the dressing room floor
cold, dark, empty
you didn't though
you took me with you
and we went everywhere together
we made so many memories
you hung me back in the closet once
i expected you to take me out again
i waited
and waited
you opened the door again
i thought you were going to grab me
you reached for me
but you grabbed the shirt in front of me
your new favorite
i waited
and waited and waited again
but i only got pushed farther back
you open the door
i figured you'd reach right past me like the last times
but you grabbed me
this is all i had been wishing for
we were together once more
you take one look at me
reflecting on our past together
then you toss me away in a small box
cold, dark, empty
why wouldn't you do that from the start?
leave me on that dressing room floor?
why take me
only to leave me in the end?
An Emperor With No Clothing
Would Be A Painful Site
No Hat No Hair No Paint No Lies
No Devil In Disguise
No Right...
But Smoother In The
Darkest Night
They Slither Out Of View
A Mote Into The Madness
Passing ---
Clearly Out Of
TRUE *
Whatever! Wearing Costumes...
Let's See Who's Dressed The Best!
From Military Uniforms To
Oops!!! Revealing Breasts.
OK,
You KNOW What's
"Proper,"
But Are You
SURE.
???
CUZ:
We've Made A Mess
Of Naked-ness
Since We
Realized We Were.
-Gray Squirrel
06-03-2025
Attempting introspection without being rude,
I ask myself, "what's going on with this dude?",
but is understanding really likely
with a house of mirrors psyche?
Subtle markers, clarity will betray -
or do they point the other way?
And which way is better and which way worse?
Or is it just the opposite, or the reverse?
And am I a wolf in the clothing of sheep?
Does my true nature appear in dreams when I sleep?
And when I'm awake before I retire,
am I a sheep in a wolf's attire?
I got a bra
It is quite uplifting
Can't see my feet
Now I am tripping
Walking down the street
Men do really stare
I also dyed my
Hair a purple shade.
My husband did not
Notice, nor my grandson
Whoa!! All those whistles
I got walking home
They don't know I'm
Eighty, humped and old
They just see the boobs
Bobble as I walk alone
The dresses of many a distant phase,
the casual attire of black and white,
the lumberjack shirts that were once, my craze.
The hoodies that hide me, both day and night,
the caps that shadow me from day’s sunlight.
The leather jacket for boldness of face,
the styles I’ve hid, for fear of losing face.
07.02.2024
I worry that my coat will murder me.
Hanging on Banister’s Edge it’s a man lurking, dark.
I’ve seen rows of killers shadowed and waiting,
hidden in the ridges of the living room radiator,
ready to pounce during a moonlit trip to the toilet.
From my position in bed, a stool could be a gremlin hunched,
the door frame a monstrous arm arching and looming, holding a hollow void.
The sheets around my feet are vines, all patterns the jaws of a Venus flytrap.
Snap.
Black cabs are hearses, flowerbeds fresh graves;
babbling brook rope swings form a noose, gravel paths stone me to death.
My cardigan knows it should be a straitjacket,
socks and watches nod knowingly towards shackles and manacles imaginary.
Cushions on a sofa? Nothing but false sense of security quicksand.
(Competition title: No 1299)
May we be blessed to acknowledge all the wonders in our life
that have, for us, thus far accrued…
and to begin each day with a word of thanks…
and thoughts of gratitude.
Today I’m thankful for campfire clothing…
because I shall never tire
of putting on a jacket or coat
that has absorbed the aroma
and the memories of the fire.
I was first picked up
In a cast-off shop in Liverpool;
Surrounded by racks of seasoned shirts
Bearing names of old soldiers.
“Draper” draped on an immature frame
In a collage of brown and green,
Overlapping and enveloping
Any semblance of a past self.
Baby-faced and militant,
The paradoxical camo in an urban warzone.
Slogans painted from shoulder to shoulder
In pungent, nuclear-white bathroom paint.
The smell is burned to memory,
Singeing nose hairs with chemical vigour,
Of dance-generated sweat, upturned pints,
A lover’s aftershave, the sting of cigarette smoke.
Washed once, maybe twice,
But anxious eyes watched the spin cycle,
Fearing specks of dislodged paint
Covering my muddy canvas.
Now “Draper” drapes a matured frame,
The only scent that lingers is
The petrichor of Northern summer
Tie-dyed deep into my fibres.
I bare a name that isn’t mine,
Memories of a life I did not live,
Scars from battles I never saw,
And honours that aren’t mine to claim.
The air is so chock full and thick
with irony
It must be hard to draw a single
breath inside
Without choking on it and gasping
for oxygen
But then again at very least
Both my beard and moustache have
grown a little longer in the meanwhile
But isn't that the point of irony after all
It helps you rather not contemplate
think about focus or concentrate
On the total and utter irony of the
tedious task placed in front of you
at hand
Like ironically ironing ones clothes
for work the next day
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