shoes

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 22, The Battle of Sandy and Boots

Happy Earth Day, everyone. “Earthshoes® notwithstanding, today’s prompt had me writing a poem in which two (unlikely) things have a fight. I’m not sure how “unlikely” a boot and sandal fight may be, but there is much to be said and written about when it comes to our taste in footwear.

The Battle of Sandy and Boots

Beauty and the Beast were sound asleep
when the lights went on in the closet—
tongues were heard flapping
as stomping and kicking created a donnybrook.

Boots said loudly, “We are the important ones.
The protectors and comforters. And the classy
preference of designer pedestrians. We are
the preferred wear of all feet. Down with
sandals and their flimsy glitzy flip-flops.”

Sandy boasted, “Girls in beautiful dresses,
wearing ugly combat boots and brogans,
Ughhglay! Y’all are on a fall from glory
and our sexy footwear are gaining favor.”

Boots protested, “Such sleeky strappies
are no good in combat—too flim-flam,
too airy, too weak to protect her tootsies.”

Sandy sandal pointed, “See those Ho Chi Minhs?
Lightweight! lightning fast!! Swift and quiet
in the night, waterproof, cheap as used tires.
And they’ll take any beating
into the next millennium.
We emphasize the beauty of feet better
than any boots or shoes, for those who care.”

Boots was getting louder and claimed,
“We do cowboys, steel-toed workers,
clodhoppers and happy Aggie senior
jodhpur riding class boots. Red wings
and Wellingtons, and even-mo-sexeh
stiletto knee boots.
Biker boots, moon boots, and doc martins.
We’re gunna kick y’all’s heels into the dirt.”

Sandy jumped from the shelf,
tightened her ankle straps, and yelled,
“Ok you wingtip nutcases. Fight’s on.
You started this. Let the best of function
and beauty be the favored reign below the knee.”

Suddenly she was joined by gladiators
and Roman sandals, slides and mules slipped in.
Platforms stood with a group of wovens and
the Mexican Huaraches played mariachi music.
Jelly sandals got stiff and were joined by fishermen
and hiking sandals.
The slave sandals yelled for “freedom and fit.”

The boots just lost it and jumped from the shelf
to the floor with a loud bang ready to stomp all sandals
into the sole of submission. But then, a voice was heard.

“Beast, why is the light in the closet on? Did you
hear something?
Our shoes are a mess all over the floor.
I think we must have slept though another earthquake.
We may need to quake-proof this closet, Honey.
Beasty Baby, get up and help me straighten up this mess.
It’s like the battle of footwear was fought
in our closet tonight.”

Look both ways as much vertically as horizontally.
Mind the new gaps because sensible shoes do not need to look like mid-fifties grannies.
Don’t go barefoot into the walk of life.

To explain: Seniors in the Corps of Cadets at Texas A&M University wear jodhpurs and knee high, brown, riding boots with spurs.

 

 

NaPoWriMo 2024, Day 9, Ode to Shoes

As if I was Dear old Pablo, Keats, Shelly, or Sharon Olds, I’m to write an ode celebrating some everyday object. We have arrived at Day Nine of the annual challenge of writing 30 poems in 30 days (in April). I try to compose to the tune of Maureen Thorson’s National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) prompts.

I looked it up. An ode is a lyric poem usually marked by exaltation of feeling and style, varying length of line, and complexity of stanza forms. Generally, odes show respect for or celebrate the worth of something. I picked shoes for this poem and have likewise paid homage to my shoes (click to read it) in the past.

Ode to Shoes

I don’t recall them all,
My shoes and theirs,
the big and the small.
I poemed about one
old faithful pair,
but every day
my shoes are there.
In childhood,
ones for church
and everyday ones.
I have 12 pairs now,
that’s few
compared to some
like the dictator’s wife,
famous for so many
(and little else).

Special ones:
combat or flight boots, hiking, walking,
running; and those god damn shiny Corfam oxfords,
or polished patent leather (or high-gloss plastic for my laziness);
house shoes, golf, football (cleats),
leather, and motorcycle boots,
protective shoes
and fashion footwear, too.

Sandals, flipflops, mules, and
post pedicure odd—one-time use flipflop-ish-es with toe spreaders,
sexy stilettoes
and smelly LGBTQ+ or not
Birkenstocks,
fetish shoes bring pleasure,
while golden shoes
promise treasure.
Wingtips for boomers,
granny shoes for nuns,
shoeless folks: singers,
runners (marathoners),
dancers, poets, cave men and women,
shoeless Joe Jackson,
and shoes that made the rich richer.
Glass shoes with fairy tales,
magic shoes, and you will run faster, promised shoes.

Corrective shoes and recovery
or protective boots and shoes,
so many!—too many kinds
and types and styles and purposes,
but all shoes for us to use.

I’m wearing shoes, slippers to some,
and I am wondering if we the people
have more shoes than any other
article of clothing (I don’t),
but why the hell not?

The wonderful, useful, purposeful,
functional, beautiful, sexy, ugly, everything—
there may not be such a thing
as the ordinary everyday shoe anymore.

Look both ways and wear good shoes
(whatever they are, appropriate mukluks, perhaps).
Mind the gaps because even cliff climbers have their own
(bicyclists do too) special kind of shoe.

Friday Fictioneers for April 1st, 2022

Sheriff of the Friday Fictioneer’s photo-prompted story telling tribe, the legendary Mistress Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, dons her purple Converse All Stars, the color of the brave, and leads her army of writing spirits into another battle with our hidden, internal creative imaginations in the face narrative challenges armed with only one hundred words. Today she teams with a Roger Bulot prompt photo of an urban scene for us to draw our pens and to drum on our keyboards as we begin our final March march of extraordinaire flash fictioneering into April.

Click on the PHOTO PROMPT by © Roger Bultot to taxi on over to Rochelle’s fabulous footwear and curly hair care blog to get the straight skinny on how to join up with these crazy cats.

Genre: Funny Fiction
Title: A Big Lie
Word Count: 100

***

“Gregor, why dem kicks up dare?”

“Dem’s cuz last night was second new years eve, Julie. Ya makes a wish and trows up yer J-jays”

“Second new years? Never heard ‘bout dat. Today is second new years day?”

“Oui, bae. Today use’ta was new years till dey changed calendars, yers to myin.”

“We had our own calendars? Cool! Ima gunna trow deez old sneaks up for good luck.”

“Dems yer all-stars, Jules.”

Barefoot Julie hung her shoes, first try. “Now, we have lots-a luck. Happy new years.”

“Yeppers, bae. Same. Taday also been April fool’s day fer near five-hundred years.”

Look both ways and practice wise skepticism this Friday.
Mind the gaps for a joke or a hoax.

Click on the Cabernet Sauvignon infused Jordan to read other fine fiction.

Gloss: (if you need it) April Fools’ Day goes back to 1582. France switched from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar, ala the Council of Trent in 1563. People slow to get the news or failed to start a new year on 1 January and continued to celebrate it during the last week of March through April 1 became the butt of jokes and hoaxes. Pranks included having paper fish placed on their backs and being referred to as poisson d’avril (April fish), said to symbolize a young, easily hooked fish and a gullible person.

Poem: What is la couleur de l’amour?

I never really had a favorite color,
but I lied and claimed blue, then green.
It changes. I never claimed yellow.
I hate, “what’s your favorite…?”

I am starting to like the orange colors,
that red halfway to yellow, t-sip
burnt orange wheels closer to yellow.
I try not to lie awake at night over this.

I don’t have much yellow stuff. Wouldn’t
have a yellow car. Might a motorcycle.
I think it’s because lemons are yellow.
Honestly, sometimes I like yellow a lot.

Maroon, that old chestnut, is a brownish
crimson (hey, `bama) or a dark reddish-purple
horney-frog, Cowtown kinda color just south
of burgundy. Maroon is a French-ish word.

Color words are cool, warm, primary,
and secondary, or tertiary. Some value,
hue intensity with a tint of tone, and neutral.
But gray they say has fifty shades. Maybe.

There’s monochromatic some say is dull,
analogous begins with anal, but a double
complimentary can split a tetrad, even primes,
I suppose. But who cares besides me?

This business with our fondness for colors
may explain something about human nature.
Like long yellow argyle socks and brown sandals.
I like red shoes and sandals (no socks). I wonder why.

Look up and down and both ways for the color of love.
Mind the gaps and forget the French tuck. Let it all hang out.

Poetry: Ich hatt’ Alte Kameraden

 

Goodbye my old friends. You’ll be missed.
But we have no ways to keep you all
held together. Your time has passed.

We all get old. If we’re lucky, we live
purpose driven lives of building memories. Yet,
wear and tear take an unrecoverable toll.

For so many years, you’ve held it together for me.
All nights and all days, when I called, you provided
me with comfort, support, and security.

You took beatings on hot days, the soakings
of untold rain and freezing weather in three states,
absorbing blows and poundings meant for me.

You guided my way on many paths of life,
through dust or mud, up ragged hills, through raging
flood waters of life, you gave your self for me.

Now your hollow dismembered carcass must go.
Leaving only podophilic memories for soles
to recall in gratitude for your long support.

We have harvested your organs, internal and external,
hoping to preserve your memory and to provide
transplants for younger, stronger soles soon to follow.

Were we a military unit, we would give you a medal
for valor and service. Governments would give you
citations for long dedicated self-sacrifice.

Thank you for your service. Old sneakers never die.
They just wear away in a soft squeaky whimper.
My feet, toes, and ankles salute you both: Comrades!

(21 foot-stomp salute!)

Bill Reynolds 10/18/18

Run through the jungle looking both ways and minding foot gaps, slips, and trips.