Girl on the Train — By Paula Hawkins

Girl on the Train — By Paula Hawkins.

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NEW SHOES….

Shoes

I have a shoe collection

I know that it sounds strange.

Storing every shoe I own,

Across the season’s range.

 

They come in every color

Though I have a favourite few;

My red sling backs are the best

I’m saving now for blue.

 

I have high, low, medium

Killer and block

Buckle, lacer, ballet,

Stilletto and shock.

 

The problem is I have no room

To buy up anymore

I have to stuff the bedroom

From the ceiling to the floor.

 

My husband thinks it’s madness

You know the story well

But he is very similar,

We live in golf ball hell!

A fast poem by Geraldine Hogan.

Hope it’s enjoyed, I’m sure I’m not on my own with having far too many pairs of shoes!

Keeping up the blogging habit for another month!  I’m getting better at it all the time.

Simply had to lighten up on the old shoe theme…
Hard to explain why you need so many pairs of shoes you only wear occasionally, hope this goes some way….

More procrastination — unfortunately posting this has taken longer than actually writing it, I was hoping to include the most divine image of a pair of summer, red soled shoes….

Ah, well, we can but dream!

Heel Power

 By Geraldine Hogan.

The heels are high,

The toes are tight,

The leathers soft,

They look just right.

They talk to me,

From their Prada shelf,

They help me be anyone

– except myself.

And all those noughts are not so much,

When you actually get to touch,

Their Italian leather comfy sole,

It’s like they are made to measure,

Yours to treasure;

And it’s not an awful lot of noughts,

Not when you consider –

It’s such a pretty little slipper,

The price of a flat, a car, a cruise,

All a little more than those new shoes.

I’ll wear them everyday, I promise,

A flash of plastic for a Goddess.

I’ll ring the bank,

Try to explain,

My shoe addiction won out again.

 

 

writing prompts from the Creative Writing Ink Website

I wrote this in less than eighteen minutes, a bit of a record, even for me and I wasn’t even sitting in a dentists waiting room.  Most of my poetry occurs in waiting rooms — you can probably tell!  I use the term poetry very loosely, it’s more a brain work out for the other stuff.  I know, W.B would turn in his grave, but it’s never going to be something that I’ll do too seriously anyway, so does it count?  

I think some things are just for fun.  See below, the eighteen minute poem, as a result, ignore the obvious spelling/grammar problems!

Newt’s Boots

Every soul has a story,

Maybe, these old boots have earned their glory,

In sun and sand and wind and flood,

The boots may have been caked in mud.

Their journey soon, it’s end in sight,

For time’s long friend there appears no flight.

Perhaps today they came to pass,

A long awaited rest, lush meadow grass.

And there, three soliders sat to rest,

Left bags, and hats and boots possessed

Of years and miles of service good

To stand close by while in the darkened wood.

While weary travellers took a soak

In cool clement waters beneath the oak.

Their tired bodies, cleaned and rested,

They lay on grass now infested

With soft black slugs and hungry beetles

Nesting in their boots, not leathal.

But sore as hell and slurpy too,

What’s a man to do, but throw off his shoe.

So now you see the boots there drying,

Taking from the water implying

Days and days of long hard work

No, these boot just went beserk.

 

http://creativewriting.ie/writing-prompts/

 

Creative Writing Ink Prompt May 22nd

three-pairs-of-shoes-1886_jpg!Blog

Private Thoughts, Private World – Part 4 – Characters

found a new button, and like l’oreal, i think you’re worth it, taken from lindaghill, many thanks!

Linda G. Hill

In recent weeks of perusing different WordPress sites, I have come across on a few occasions writers talking about character development and how they will sometimes watch people and make up stories for them. I do this often. I get endless enjoyment from watching people’s mannerisms and body language as they relate to others.

I remember one instance when a friend and I were sitting on a park bench at a local public rose garden. We had been resting in quiet companionship for some time, enjoying being outdoors near dusk listening to the birds sing and watching people stroll through the park. There was one family I vividly recall – at least I assumed they were a family – a mother, a father and a son who pulled up in a car across the street. They got out and entered the park gates. The boy, around eleven years old, ran…

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