This old boot
has seen some miles,
a multitude
of questionabl stlyes,
stripes, checks
all the above,
its faired the smooth
and bore the rough.
Its lace wore out
from constant strain
a boot that caused
a great deal of pain.
Yet now it looks
all creased and tattered
its pristine sheen
has long been shattered.
As a boot well-loved
is like the old and grey,
a vessel in which
great memories stay.
Slip them on
and once again
united you will be
with an old friend.
Tag Archives: 5 minute writing
Shoe Poems 009: Another Pair
Laces tout
Laces tout
another pair bought
all tied up
said I'd stop.
Break them in
painful feet
new shoes on
no one to meet.
Bold logos gone
it feels right
not a single marketing
piece in sight.
Stacked up high
worn down low
my map is full
of places to go.
Laces tout
all tied up
another pair bought
said I'd stop.
Shoes Poems 007: velcro shoes
Do you feel complete?
What do you mean?
Complete.
Huh?
Finished.
No I wouldn't say so. Do you?
I don't think so.
How can you tell?
That's a good point.
We're not even thirty.
Are people complete at thirty?
I don't think so. People have meltdowns at thirty.
People are always having meltdowns.
Not like the ones you get at thirty.
How would you know? You're 24.
I've seen them. On the train, the supermarkets, you can see it in their eyes.
So now you're a meltdown expert?
No. It's just obvious.
Look at that man over there.
Which one?
The guy with the denim hat. Does he look happy to you?
Sure. Yeah he does.
Look closer.
I don't want to get up though.
Not like that silly, with your eyes. Really look.
Hmm he's wearing velcro shoes.
And?
And that means he's a man child.
No.
Okay what does it mean then Mr meltdown.
It means he's in pain.
Righhhht. And how did you come to that conclusion?
Well, no one loved him enough to tell him how to tie his shoes when he was younger.
Because he has velcro shoes?
Yeh, and when he puts on his shoes he is instantly reminded of his childhood loneliness.
I think you're reaching.
I don't think I am. Does anyone you know own velcro shoes in your life?
Not that I can think of. Oh wait, my grandpa used to have velcro shoes.
Well there you go.
What do you mean, there you go? He had arthritis.
So he was in pain.
I mean I guess.
And therefore he was unhappy.
No. He was unhappy at times because he missed my grandma.
Either way. He was in pain and he wore velcro shoes.
There is no correlation.
That's what he wanted you to think.
Right, so all kids wearing velcro shoes are unhappy too are they?
Yep.
Now you are lost. They just haven't learnt yet.
Learnt what?
Learned how to tie their own shoes.
Because?
Because they're too young.
You can never be too young to tie your shoes.
Says who?
Einstein.
Now I know you're lying.
He learnt to tie his shoes at two months old.
So he was baby wearing shoe laces. Lies.
No lies here m'dear.
Everyone knows Einstein was chronically sad though.
I didn't.
Well now you do Mr Velcro shoes.
I would never have been able to tell with his tied shoes.
Great.
More to the point. Where are your laces?
I don't want to talk about it.
February Poetry: Return to the Sea
From time to time
we return to sea
knowing I needed it,
yet it did not need me.
Tied to the pavement
from October to December,
waves constantly to-and-fro
regardless if I remember.
How can you forget
its ominous presence,
it's easy I say,
among the city's fake decadence.
I sink and I float,
hour passes hour
there's nothing like the sea
not even a long shower.
Every year
it's important to swim,
among the fishes and creatures,
that lurk within.
For when you forget
about the small fish,
that's when the sea
will consider you its next dish.
So I dip my toe
into its waves,
and try to stay humble,
try not to parade,
this small sense of strength,
I feel I possess,
because the sea simply laughs,
it's not often impressed.
I miss the waves lapping,
breaking gently ashore,
a sound worth listening to,
a noise anyone can afford.
For the sea remains free,
away from man's rule,
no colours or guidelines,
like the local pool.
When I next return
to the deep blue sea,
I will remember it,
I just hope it remembers me.
Shoe Poems 005: Banana Shoes
A banana flavoured shoe
Would be an odd thing make.
Next thing you know
there'd be a shoe-favoured cake.
Banana-shaped and yellow
for the most quirky of fellows,
To lace them up around their feet,
The air around them would smell so sweet.
If you're a fan of yellow fruit,
and want to swap out your pair of old boots,
then by all means you should cop
when all the big brands next drop
a banana-themed and flavoured shoe
to show your friends who haven't a clue
that you really know what's hip and cool
Or that you're not a wannabe fool
So give these yellow trainers a feel
Don't let them convince you it's just the peel,
Because if you listen to what they say
You'll only wear them for the day
And in the compost they will go,
Biodegrading, losing their glow,
Cause they actually had great sex appeal,
Those shoes that looked like banana peel.
January Poetry: 24th Rock
This is a rock I really love,
fits in my hand just like a glove,
my bookshelf is where it's sat,
pensive and grey like an old rat.
I found it on my twenty forth,
swimming in a Lake where I saw
this perfect rock I had to take
knowing that my day it would make,
and believe you me I was chuffed,
with this rock in hand,
and my hair all tuft.
It's shaped like half a heart you see,
the other half still wondering free,
Perhaps in Lake Buttermere,
It rests until it is held near
to a warm and constant beating heart
where it no longer feels apart,
or distant from its full self
much like the rock sat on my shelf.
December Poetry: Waterloo Bridge
The clouds were all aligned
as if programmed by someone higher up.
Perfectly silhouetted against the clouds,
the London skyline was allowed to shine,
The city's grand disguise.
For a moment you could forget
it's underbelly,
especially when her eyes were
a beautiful shade of
dark blue.
Yet it's deathly cold waters below
were but a constant reminder
not to let your feet warm,
at least not too much.
October Poetry: skY
For the sky was worth marvelling at,
it's clouds,
moons
and starry nights
ever changing.
Much like ourselves,
to constantly shine bright
would leave us fond of the dark,
of night.
(written to Duval Timothy's - Go Without)
October Poetry: A Mountain in Peru
On this Peruvian mountainside
that lays a million years old,
where kids grow up under the sun,
where the best of stories are told.
Of the brave and weary,
of the old and meek,
of characters sad and funny,
of those which from betrayal reak.
A history threaded from a cultural cotton,
where narratives are spun,
with tales all worth passing down
stories of lost soles that have only just begun.
A tree grows up and up,
earning a place among the tilt,
next to them people of the earth
toil among centuries-old silt.
Pineapples, yuka and potato,
sit in rows on rows
a man perched upon his rake
watching as it grows.
His wife inside the house,
prepares the rice and beans,
she boils a soup, a tasty soup
in her husband's eye a gleem.
Here tradition lays frozen in time,
spare the mobile phone,
destroying a way of living slow,
from many decades and millennia ago.
How to survive the blazing sun
and the blistering snow,
all this and more could soon be lost,
with an undetermined cost.
The market every Saturday
is where you'll find this change,
Yankees, limas and Trujio Pilson,
all sold at a range,
"4 soles por un kilo"
shouts a lady behind her sack,
it's filled to the brim with seeds,
a seriously nutritious snack.
Scatter them around the pigs,
and the chickens too,
each pecking at the ground,
bidding the passers-by adew.
Look up from the concrete slabs
you'll see mountains up ahead,
each one taller than the last,
a day of trekking will have you wishing for your bed.
Yet here the old climb narrow paths,
with lungs full of air,
no panting or sweat on their brow
or cramping in their calves.
Strong feet and a straight head atop,
from years of working tough,
a mindset that the west has forgot,
with hands anythint but rough.
Here is where true freedom lies
in the mountains of Peru,
where a family grows with each crop and a hearty stew.
Shoe Poems 004
"I bet you couldn't walk
a mile in these shoes",
How would you know?
Ain't got the faintest of clues.
The dribs and drabs
of my daily life,
the seething pains
and never ending strife.
Yet I'll lace them up anyway,
cause I've got bills and rent to pay.
Not only that
but I've got people to see
that's the difference
between you and me.
Sure yours are shiny
and haven't a crease,
but I'll still be wearing my shoes
when I'm deceased.
I won't pass them on
they're mine to bear,
I'll be sure to look after them,
they're my only pair.
wear shoes, write poems 