A shoe dropped today,
the synic says in me,
another load of rubber,
lace and stitch
that will end up in sea.
Shores marched upon by waves
filtering pebbles, rocks and sand,
where shoes find their final grave
no matter how small or grand.
I love shoes and the sea
together a lot less so
on the beach my feet are free
that passion I let go.
Why oh why is it then
when across the world I go
I find these two things
in a constant to and fro?
Perhaps we have too many shoes
on this planet earth,
to keep up with soaring demand
of which humans did give birth.
No more, no more
donate and clear
be gone of guilt and greed,
walk upon the sand instead
with two sets of toes both free.
Tag Archives: Life Poetry
December Poetry: Concrete Photos
I found your photos on the floor,
you clearly didn't want them anymore.
Family dinners,
and lots smiles,
newborn babies,
heartfelt goodbyes.
I saw your Grandma grinning too,
ones of you crying,
there were quite a few.
Laid to rest on cold concrete,
met by tne passing of stranger's feet.
Lines and wrinkles you once did know
Acting on an urge to let go.
I don't know why you'd throw them away,
it must have been miserable that day,
I've picked them up,
they're tucked away in a box,
climbed the ladder
up into the loft,
there the photos will wait for you,
but when you'll be ready I haven't a clue.
In truth I do not know your face,
we've never crossed paths before,
I've only really seen those eyes
looking up from the concrete floor.
Shoe Poems 010: Old Boot
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.
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.
March Poetry: We Exist
We exist on the periphery.
The road less travelled,
where the sheep tend to sleep,
and the cows will always graze.
The sun still shines here
like a cheap jacket,
warm but not fulfilling.
We exist on the edge.
Where shadows are cast,
the wind still blows here
its face unseen
but always felt.
I exist on the last ledge of mankind.
Where one step would see me drift off
into a black abyss,
flying past stars that only exist
in blurry photos,
ones printed in big textbooks
where people try and understand
the painted world around them,
moments before the artist
swaps the canvas,
and we all must start again.
We exist on the periphery.
September Poetry: Dishwasher
I was in that moment, more conscious of being alone. No one to share a to-and-fro with, merely a gentle breeze as my companion, one that ad been there for quite some time, walking hand-in-hand consoling many a sole that spent its time on earth as one. This was and is a moment that people will share when letting others into their home. Happy to have guests but less inclined to enjoy washing the dishes after they’ve left. Although that’s what dishwashers are for.
March Poetry: Last Bus Ride In Manchester
I found a ticket in my
coat pocket the other
day.
It was a bus ticket
from Manchester.
I’d paid cash.
"Piccadilly,
where dreams go to die".
Lots of things happen there
some good
some bad
all rad?
My bad
Hey dad …
I’ll stop now.
I don’t exactly miss that bus,
its shuddering presence,
the questionably warm back seats of the lower deck.
They'd always smell like a years-worth of engine fumes,
stored away into the
hard wearing abstract pattern.
That
or an ill-kept Henry Hoover,
which I suppose is a small price to pay for comfort,
especially when considering the chilly temperatures of Manchester's winter.
The bus ticket was probably one of
the last things I bought in that city.
Although I’ll no doubt buy more in future,
chugging up and down the surprisingly straight
Oxford Road,
with it's mixture of grandiose and less-than-grand architecture plotted along
somewhat randomly.
Buses are an interesting place,
Reminds you how slow life can be
when you’re stuck in a traffic jam with
everyone.
All suspended in thought … well
not all, but most.
Some would rather shout about it,
announcing their thoughts out loud
hoping someone will join in,
which they seldom do
if they have any sense.
Let bygones be bygones.
and let people who shout on
buses do their thing.
Good rules to go by in life.
Here’s to the next bus journey I inevitably take in Manchester because of an unsurprisingly 'sudden' downpour.
February Poetry: what happened to the uncertain?
What happened to the what’s? the why’s the where’s the wear and tear the “are those grey hairs?” that long empty stare as you slump up the stairs underground moving sound another screech lacking speech the please do not stare the “please mind the gap” the brief open air the scurry the grind a fresh cup of coffee that rush of caffeine in that static chair as you stare into a moving screen full of mice that are off for the cheese in tall towering traps suspended in the air soaring above for those soaring past underground tired but sound.
Janurary Poetry: W.I.P
He’d often stare back at himself in the mirror, wondering who he was that day. He knew where, but as he grew older he found out that mattered less. The sun gleamed in through the frosted glass, warming his skin, reminding him of the human necessity for warmth. That first sip of coffee was also something he routinely enjoyed, almost as if anything birthed from the earth’s soil had an integral consistency. Even if, humans seemed to be doing their best to interfere. For now, the coffee remained good and as for him, things were a work in progress.
October Poetry: A Silent Room
She’d been sat in that dark room for hours, the streetlights creeping in through the blinds like ants. It would not be the first time she would spend an evening alone, the echoes were quieter that way. Reflections of a loud and jarring energy from her P.E teacher who was adamant on using the school’s megaphone at a constant rate. ‘The weakest are always the loudest’ her Mum would say. Why then did she always flock to the class clown, the brash, the cocky, the arrogant, the overly self-assured? Was she predisposed to like weak men? Her father wasn’t weak. If he was he certainly didn’t show it. He was a quiet man after all. The corners of his armchair slightly worn away, inanimate objects playing audience, the orchestra his fingers reciting any complex emotion onto the paisley embossed print of the chair cover. You could often tell a lot about a family by not what they owned but by the condition of what they owned. As a young girl she’d speak her mind when noticing the small details etched into the objects in her friend’s houses. No wonder she stopped getting invited over. Every time she did that family would end up arguing. She always thought that she had been cursed with the power of being overly observant. It had brought nothing good to her life. She wished she could choose when to notice things like everyone else. However that wasn’t the case. So she sat there, in that dark room, giving her mind a much needed break whilst her eyes were adjusting to the light, or lack thereof. It would only be minutes before the details encased within would whisper their secrets into her ear yet again.
wear shoes, write poems 