Boots

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do they have to be our boots? or can they belong to someone else?

Your own, understand the double meaning.

My black boots

My black boots setting on the shelf
Little more than ankle high
I wear them with my jeans that are tight on my thighs
Very broken in
And in need of repair
They are my favorite pair
So when it's time to go out tonight
They will give me some height
And when I return home
There they will set there all alone

Boots

mud splattered and worn
weary travelled back and forth
they might have been my boots
abandoned worn and torn

a symbol of my heart
worn thin by care
in a world without sympathy
even towards the lowly

discarded pair of boots
this shell of mine I fear
gone the driving force
to walk out of the door.

SANDAL MENTAL JOURNEY

Marching
Kicking
Stomping
Clicking

Adolf Hitler
Genghis Kahn
Mussolini
Joseph Stalin

They all wore boots

Forgiving
Loving
Healing
Praying

Siddhartha
Moses
Gandhi
Jesus

They all wore sandals

On your journey through life what will you prefer to wear, hobnails of hate, or flip-flops of care?
Personally I spurn boots and prefer sandals to wear.





Above poem should not be taken to literally.  Of course I wear boots.  I live in Minnesota.  But when your compelled by nature to wear mukluks four months out of the year, you can't wait to put on a pair of sandals.  

Thigh high
Laces in back
Hardly worn
They kill my back
Sweet Italian leather
Looks great with
Nothing on or
Faded skintight jeans
Summer skirt
Or on a Harley
My boots
Get double looks
When I'm in the need
for pain
Lace them up
and take a stand.
It's cool to see
6"s higher
I'm finally home
My boots did their job
Made me Dome
for this another day.

Genius Boots!

On that day I looked down so long
my old, wet boots started to talk

how grateful should the chosen be
given they got what is given to any
without exception ?

(valid question)

like getting a Christmas card from a global charity
one sent to millions, nameless
annually
no matter how sincere the verse
you'll never feel special when its sent
or feel it's for you

none of it lasts
you know the type

the shrinkflation person
not as much inside as appears
and the price is very different from the cost



the boots knew everything
and sent me to the mirror
with a few more questions

(mikimoondancer©)

Mine were made for walking
I guess that's just what they'll do

Watch your face...

Priceless Booty

Hiking boots were the very first
thick leather - scuffed, heavy soles
secure footsteps, power coursing
up from hillsides and mountains -
making my father proud.

I couldn't bear to leave them
when, with fears and insecurity
and my best clothes packed
   all in one suitcase
I changed address, language
and culture  -
                      all in one day.

The next, tan walking boots, with wool
frill round the ankle;
Then Frye's hugging the calf, square-toed,
   the rounded heavy heel's
decisive step,
     fake confidence
         conferred.

And on and on.

Until... I saw the dark red
leather, so smooooth under
my palm; the straps and buckles
cinching foot and leg.
They were a fortune!
yet made me Queen
 for a day
     each and every time,
         eager to play, to show
my real confidence.

I wore them out threefold
and finally had to give them
up, to rest with boots of old.
They watched me change
and learn to hold my own.

hole

my sole has a hole in it

worn thin by the gray kaleidoscope
of lies that I believe
about myself
told by me

i patch it over with electrical tape and yesterday's newspaper
but it'll be the same story tomorrow
someone died
before their time
and I'm still too much of a coward
to do anything about mine

there's a hole in my sole

so i eek out what i can
five cents at a time
trading empty Pepsi cans and crackling
plastic bottles for a piece of humanity

the cans get crushed under my heel
but they have worth in seven different states
i'm no good anywhere

mothers clutch their children when i
shuffle by

the kids hold their noses

there's a hole in my sole

i try to fill it with gin and beer
and borrowed cigarettes
but no longer desire crackhead whores

there's a hole in my soul

BOOTS

I deny myself, the things one needs
I fall into warm blankets of pain, loving the torture

Not much else remains, just my poor little trampled heart
And soon enough a crushed spirit to go along with it

You were nothing more than a pebble in my boot
Nothing more than an annoyingly painful burden
But nonetheless one I needed to lose

If only I could get you out of my boot
Then I could begin recovery

For once again here I sit, feeling so used
And your presence only reminds me
Of the havoc that has become me

I reach this so called "home" and kick off my boots
One on her side, the other upright
Neglecting to remember to pull the pebble out

Wake in the morning
Pull on my boots, looking at how worn the leather
I frown as I walk out into the day
Remembering there you are my little pebble

But I go on, because you are but only a tiny problem among the many in my life

My boots are worn and loose, so you roll around and trip me up with such ease
I grunt and annoyingly begin to pull my boot off in frustration
And in the same instant, the force causes the seam along the sole to tear

Ruining my boots

And I sob

No I am not crying over the boots, even though they have been the best pair and have lasted through so much mayhem
I am crying because once again something I have worn in and made my own has fallen apart on me
I am crying because if I hadn't ignored the tiny problem, a worse thing wouldn't have happened

So I pull on the destroyed boot and wipe my face

I swear I hear a little voice
"Before you leave remove me from your boot"

the burns
the stabs
the lacerations
you take for me

the cold
the wet
the pain
have forsaken me

the hills
the street
you and my feet
have taken me

a dozen years
no podiatric fears
soles thin the ground nears
now new boots to break in me