Long Soled Poems
Long Soled Poems. Below are the most popular long Soled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Soled poems by poem length and keyword.
Tomorrow it will be a new start she said as a vow to herself.No more broken promises and tomorrow's that never are to be realized.
Today I plan.First thing new tennis shoes.Then shop for fuel.No longer looking at food as a panacea a means to dull the ache.
She awoke at four thirty to put on her exercise
uniform.It has been proven people perform better
When dressed for the occaision.
As she took off walking she was taking note of the feelings in her body .The tightness in her arches the discomfort around the left knee.Her mind fighting
to stay on the path of least resistance .To keep the status quo firmly entrenched no matter the cost.
Looking up she saw the moon a lovely muted
gold ovoid wondering is it waxing or waning? Am I waxing or waning?
The birds slowly awakening after a late night courtesy of the sunset that was thought never to arrive.
She walked at a victorious clip remembering to
open up the hip joints with each stride.Walking like a Geisha might be cute if you don't mind walking that way forever short of surgical intervention.Not
on her to do list.
Two thirds through her chosen route marveling
that her feet no longer hurt nor her knee.As the cars ahead approached she flashed the light she carried secured by its wrist strap.She had thought as she secured it so it could be used to defend herself if push came to shove.
As the traffic passed she flicked the light across the
roadway in answer to the rustle of a hopping squirrel in the brush.
At that very moment her right foot unsure of purchase in her brand new stiff soled walkers rolled
off the edge of the roadway .In one, as if
rehearsed ,movement she fell backwards onto the culvert's lip. Striking just below the base of
the skull.A kiss proving to be fatal.Just as her debut began the curtains
came crashing down with no chance of encore
In sight.All mixed metaphor aside,
do I believe she failed in her new beginning?
No! Never let it be said.
She attained all she had self swore. And more.
I entered paradise through the elaborate crevices in my mind
Meditation was the door to the place I had never visited before
I entered a forest and was overwhelmed by the jungle canopies.
The infinite sky was blurred by the overhanging leaves
There is beauty in your psyche
Silence blanketed any semblance of my emptiness
hyper vigilant to the wilderness
my ballet soled shoes touched upon the leafy cushioned path
I found myself kneeling with my finger tips cupped at a glistening pond
Experienced the one and only moment of inner peace
I looked over to my right, and saw a tiger drinking beside me in the moonlight
His wide eyes bore into mine as his sand paper tongue dipped into the surface like a quill to
ink
the droplets of liquid silver dripped from his cheeks
It was a moment of compassion, serenity, and harmony
Guardian of tranquility
I acknowledge the gift of insight my brain has concocted today
Shift on my yoga mat, prepare to get lost once again by the power of my thoughts
Inhale, and exhale..
Inhale and exhale
Until my breathing becomes a vehicle
Or rather a spaceship To that fantasy
I am the only adventurer
That has ever ventured to this place
My mission to find my spirit guide
Is my only purpose as my instructor states
Entering the dark entrance to a cave
I called upon my inner conscience asking it what it wants from me
I struggled to concoct the form of it’s shape
It twisted and contorted
From a rabbit to a snake
All the meanwhile the smokey spirals fought to embody imagery of my soul
To a dog, and an eagle
Finally it collapsed into a vaporous heap
And rose from the smoldering grave as a neon techni-colored fireless Phoenix mythical bird
It told me to love myself always
And I would be happy here on earth.
THROUGH A LATIN ROCK HAZE!
Grupo Pagan
gave a Latin/Rock clinic: driving rhythms,
complex melodies, sweaty adrenaline, and
earthy vibrations that plowed through the
crowd at the Greenwood Winery on a perfect
summer evening like a long-haul, fast freight
thundering through the night!
No! No! I mean like three god-damned diesels
and a hundred forty-four ing fully loaded
freight cars doing seventy miles per hour
through the middle of your town, through
the middle of your soul!
Among the diners and dancers and the closest
of friends, were two serious distractions,
which, like merlot and dark chocolate, served
as further proof that God really exists: Out on
the dance floor, a full-bodied, middle-age
woman with light brown skin, thick white hair,
a long black dress, thin-soled flat black sandals,
and very red lips; and sitting at my side, the
silver-white moon that looked like my wife,
a woman succeeding on the impossible
journeys of looking better every year and
somehow transforming more of me every
moment, every day!
There were volcanic eruptions in the back
of my mind but through the syncopated
throbbing of the Latin percussion, the screaming
guitarist, the sexy lead singer, the seductive
waa-waa of the keyboard and bass, and the
provocative experience of the music of life,
I said to myself: “Now settle down, Jack!
These rhythmic vibrations stay with you for days:
the white hair / black dress for a minute or an hour;
but the orbiting moon, waxing and waning and the
light of your night, the shadow of your days, and
the whispering subtext of your spirit and soul,
is a life-giving force and forever
with you!”
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
Upon the rustic walls,
Laid a shadow, shadow too dry.
In the trees beyond, laid the carnelian of fall;
And I stroll away, into the vestige foliage ply.
In my little cabin,
many boring days had flown by,
but it was a conquest gladden;
for I shall accompany Mother Nature up among dancing ryes.
Spread across, a roseate sweet smell;
stood I amongst boughs and vined ringlets twined.
And there flew a tender breeze that whispered yells,
the two-faced blustery-zephyred whine.
On the soled verdure of the autumn leaflets,
were the outlandish disc-caps of the stem,
and o'er these mushrooms, laid the hived-nests,
amidst the chirps of crickets unkempt.
Little petaled wings that fly,
lead to the cascades of the stream,
the godly water that ripples, like tiny pulse beats sly;
of the meagre rill that flows for the boundless sea.
Rhinestones of the velvet sky,
shine ever so brightly,
but, oh!- in the sky, the hazy gloam lies,
Will my cindered flame guide me back, so untimely?
The wind ruffles the autumnal forest floor;
sending jitters down my spine;
for in this land where dark galored,
Neither the waned moon nor the canopied stars shine.
A gust of cool breeze flew by,
and I shivered off cold,
but a gift of second sight was it, perhaps,
For I could only fathom occult lores told.
Amidst the blinding darkness that lay,
there were distinct ruffles of the stream,
the godly water that rippled, faint amongst my pulse beats;
the meagre rill that flows, for the boundless sea.
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.
Remembering Mother on Mother's Day
While I was growing up,
I remembered
The time my parents
Bought me a brand-new pair
Of rubber-soled, hi-top, black
Canvas running shoes.
To say I was as proud as a peacock
When I donned the footwear,
Was an understatement.
My Dad encouraged me to run
(As fast as my legs could carry me)
With those sneakers on my feet,
all laced up,
Down the lane I ran,
As fast as I could go,
And tripped over my own two feet.
I could hear my dad laughing
As I tried
My very best not to cry
(Skinned shins and all).
Then, I saw my mother running
Towards me.
Into her arms, she swept my head.
And then bent over
To kiss both of my knees, quickly.
“There,” she said, “The hurt is gone away.”
The pain was still there, but I felt guilty
And said; “I feel better.”
My dad, still laughing, watched,
And I felt ashamed:
For my clumsiness,
And loving my mother’s
Coddling.
After an arduous day of play,
And eating everything
My Mother set on my plate;
She or my dad would read me to sleep.
And in dreams,
I would live fantasies.
But there were times
Nightmares awakened me;
Scaring me half to death, as I lay trembling,
In my PJs with the blankets pulled over my head.
How my Mother ever knew
Remained a mystery.
But she would be there,
Sitting on the edge of the bed;
With her hand
Softly stroking my forehead.
Whispering, loving words,
To reassure and comfort me,
And lull me back to sleep.
Big Marty Milano
Blue-veined sausage nose
slightly off center
toward the right side of
a florid cop face
white-gloved hands
directing traffic
to the piercing rhythm
of staccato blasts from
the black wooden whistle
clenched between his teeth
everyone called him
Big Marty Milano and
he conducted a busy
three street confluence
of automobiles pedestrians and
kids going to and
from school like it was
his personal symphony orchestra
he was a beat cop
walking the streets
a kind word for every
old person living on his turf
a stern look for teens
with mischief on their minds
and an aura of invincibility
as he twirled his nightstick
on a black leather thong
woven between meaty fingers
Big Marty Milano
died one Friday night
in late March 1950
bleeding out beneath
The lamppost on the corner
in front of Doc Felcher’s drug store
after taking two bullets
in his neck trying to stop
a robbery in progress
the shots woke me up and
I watched from my
fourth-floor bedroom window
sobbing into my pillow
as the ambulance and patrol cars
flooded the streets with
sirens and flashing lights
they covered his body
with a raincoat but
his huge crepe soled cop shoes
stuck out of one end
the next Monday morning
when I left for school
there was a new officer
directing traffic
he wore a strip of
sticky black electricians tape
across his silver NYPD badge
but I just couldn’t
look at his face…
Afraid of the rain, I don’t want to be... I’ve emptied Pandora’s Box on my bed.
It’s 1: 23 and I didn’t mean to do it. How could I do it again?
How stupid you must be…
I just want to cry, I don’t want get out bed, but I do.
Because I was ready for once in my life…devastated, strung-out.
I looking at the compact, I see the rain out of my mirror. I'm strapped to an image,
of something that was foraged.
I just wanted to love you again. Wanted to be pure in someone eyes.
I’ve soled my soul for it,
A zombie, machinery that’s in love with you.
Seeing you from cross the platform, kissing and hugging, someone that should
be me,
Was it me?
Its 1:23, my heart just stopped, figuring it’s figment of my imagination. Who would
have known? Who would have believed?
It’s 1:23 and I’m hurt, and I think everybody knows. I can’t close my heart,
I tried to see this optimistically.
“I’ll just wait for him to come around”, but the rain is coming now.
Mixing ebony skin, so much he and she became invisible,
I’m creditable, and it’s not enough for you anymore,
Look at all that rain! Watching the ground flood through my clouded eyes,
In the middle of storm, it’s 1:23, walking off the platform, down the stairs,
With your love as a painful memory, that the frightful rain is my only friend.
I could have fallen
Stepping down the hill slope
On the slippery roots
Not wearing my work boots
Just rubber-soled sneakers turning down Main.
A new-balanced moment
Walking back to my room
By tenement house-caves
A descendent of slaves
Hammers his clapboards shut to shield out the rain and his pain.
Not quite just like him but almost
On my bottom
Wet with a sore and muddy rear
Instead, the familiar is different not near
Packaged in new jeans and things to gain.
This inheritance tumbles and rumbles
Passed the times before rhymes
That bygone old day
The way my crimes pay
My children and their children with stain.
More slippery roots
Like too much candy
On Halloween night
After all my fright
Do I hide what's left in my closet and feign
There's no illness within?
I'm fine to revisit tomorrow
My little dark place
With a travel-smudged face
To leave behind my unghostly presence in vain.
Once there was fair dreaming
Release from wretched remembering
But now just the put-together-puzzle shackles dank
And the spurn of spinning tires in a snow bank
Out of time, missing the only train.
Just slippery roots
Left to not trip on
My bags are all packed but the laundry's still damp
One last letter brief needs a lick for the stamp
I go to my strange land by plane.