Shoes
By Sy Roth
They could have been left in a heap
Soaring to the rafters
After the trains left the station
And after they had trod the blocks to their fate.
They could have been tossed with disdain
To rest among the childrens’ slippers
And the madams’ low heels
Or the men’s size ten, sturdy cordovan leathers.
Instead, they rested bedside
Uneven tread, nose worn thin from shuffling
Back clawed, indented through forced entry
Laces a calamity weeping tied tightly.
Instead, they messaged a life lived
Breathing sighs of relief at not having to resting upon a pile
Of Lost soles, morsing dit-dotting measures of despair
In their having trod away from the chimneys of conflagration.
And they watched them in morose silence
Beside the empty bed, for they would walk no more
Shod survivors of their time
In well-worn ennui for having been here.
Categories:
cordovan, abortion, bereavement,
Form: Free verse
On caparisoned, filleted camels do they
Over the great, soft, tawny sands
Ride;
Unfurled flags and tribal standards flown amidst them,
In the very midst of them-
Of they, who astride great tan camels,
Seem rather scandent and saltant.
These are the irregular, well-armed cavalry of the
"Men In Ambush," for such is the literal translation of their
Nation's cognomen;
And on the sands of the undulant, granular, eminent
Near-Judean wilderness do they ride.
Photographing these from atop the vespertine-hued
Summit of a delivery truck from the nearby
Eminent, circumvallatory, hilly
And fortressed city;
From the very roof of an antiquated bread truck
(Though 'twas then very new by the standards of those bygone days)
Whose radiator is soon to vaporously explode
Amid the oppressive, anhydrous desert heat,
Photographs an American, hatted in the whitest
Of Panama hats, who is a correspondent reporting of wars.
The Arab cavalry ride for locales
Damascene, in order to pursue one's kingly wish
To renew the gardens Cordovan and long-vanished.
Categories:
cordovan, adventure, allusion, analogy, anger,
Form: I do not know?
Thou art more beautiful than a summer's day,
Shall I compare thee in a different way?
Thou art more delicate than a butterfly,
With every heart beat, my heart also does sigh.
Thou art more eloquent that a bloomed flower,
Giving me both strength and one with my power,
Thou art as dainty as the Cordovan bee,
Raising my awareness to a higher me.
Speaketh these words of love to me my darling,
I am yours and together we shall sing,
Naught shall come between us for we are as one,
Meet in the twilight under thou dying sun.
So come with me and be eternally mine,
And drink in our love as though it was sweet wine.
/|\
(11 syllables per line)
Categories:
cordovan, love,
Form: Sonnet
fire engine scarlet red
is the color of the fire fighting Amaranth dead
who hide there sinful Liability
as they wave at me
from beyond my walking concrete grave
to let me know, that my time is
finely being bleed to the color of
broken swollen face Cordovan red
with a nod, the oldest
of the human fire fighting apparatuses
give me a sinful smile, while he drives The jungle Junction
to let me know all the wale (a plank around the outside of a ship)
heaven can watch me as they push me to jump
and that not, a soul will catch me, when i fall
I am theirs to control
mine, mind is not my own
and not a person can i ask for help
for they are organized
all the way up, to the political
rusted system, of no investigation
of your just Rosewood dead...
and your malted color lips wear
the evoked yellow color
and smell excreted Urine
reddish brown puppet...
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(did not fix-keep as is, 5-5-2017)
Categories:
cordovan, death, education, fire, funeral,
Form: I do not know?