Long Shoe string Poems
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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.
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)
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
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