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.

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.


Creative Writing Ink Prompt May 22nd