Thursday, December 8, 2016

Just Because

Just because
I wear work boots--
the brown ones, with nails stuck in them, and wood splinters--
does not mean that you mayn't kiss my hand,
call me 'Ma'am",
and worship me like I just dropped out of Heaven like a vended miracle.

I have found
that pink lace invites being taken lightly. Behold, I carry a copy
of Saison En Enfer, and I shall be happy to brain you with it
if you displease me
or in any way betray your true feelings, excepting blind devotion.

My work boots
Announce my arrival on the wood floor of the local pretentious coffee bar
even better than trumpet fanfare.
Subjects, knock me your lobes, here's my new poem,
laced up in leather
but made of feathers white and weightless as God's eyelash in a china dish.
_______

for the endlessly talented Susie Clevenger's challenge at Real Toads: "Shoes."

"Saison En Enfer" = "A Season In Hell" by Rimbaud. 

 

22 comments:

gillena cox said...

So Luv that last verse

Happy Thursday

Much love...

said...

I love this poem, especially these:

"... does not mean that you mayn't kiss my hand"
"I have found
that pink lace invites being taken lightly." (my most favorite part)
"I shall be happy to brain you with it"
"Subjects, knock me your lobes" (my second favorite part)
"laced up in leather"
"made of feathers white and weightless as God's eyelash"

I just told my husband the other day that if I went back to work, I wanted to do something physically laborious, like construction. So I am very much drawn to the woman you've described here.

said...

I've only read two lines of the prologue of "A Season in Hell," and I'm already hooked. Here's the translation I'm reading, in case anyone else is interested:

http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/French/Rimbaud3.htm

hedgewitch said...

As one who has worn work boots and jeans all her working life, this rang especially sweetly in my ears--your gift for image is as always, blinding and illuminating at once, and as far as l'enfer, I only wish it was only for a season. Wonderful poem, Shay, full of all the inconsistencies and idiosyncrasies that make love and life worth doing.

Kerry O'Connor said...

Subjects, knock me your lobes, here's my new poem...

Girl, I'm ever the eager member of the audience just waiting for your boot tread upon the stage.

(Thanks for the Stevie Nicks too)

Sanaa Rizvi said...

Well you know you rocked it!❤️

Fireblossom said...

Ha! I got the first "um, no" reaction in the entire history of Word Garden! I am amused. Stand up and be counted, miscreant! Stand up and be fetid...er, feted! :-D

razzamadazzle said...

I love it! Wear work boots and carry a soft poem.

Debi Swim said...

Watch your step this one is not a shrinking violet. Confidant women are sexy

Magaly Guerrero said...

Boots have power. I just knew it!

Sioux said...

Lovely poem. The last two lines blew me away.

rhymeswithbug.com said...

These boots are made for poeming ;-). Well done.

erbiage said...

so much to like here. vended miracle. brilliant.

Kim Russell said...

I so love the attitude in this poem!

Mama Zen said...

Swooning with delight! This made my morning.

Shadow said...

Yeah, I get it. Judged on appearances, build a facade with your attire, I've been known to use dress to put the opposers off-balance.....

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Oh my goodness, your images are always so unexpected. I so admire God's eyelash in a China cup.

Helen said...

Sending you a big stick to go with those work boots which I believe would make great walking boots! Seriously, this is a beautiful write.

brudberg said...

My wife would never wear heals... yes workboots sounds perfect. There's still some feathers and lace there.

Cloudia said...

We do love our boots!

grapeling said...

It was Galen who, visiting all angel-winged, accidentally hit 'um-no' because it isn't a 55.

But if you do find the miscreant, smite him/her with the Inferno.

Cuz they got no taste. ~

Susie Clevenger said...

Love your ending. Work boots are a perfect middle finger to pretentious. lol Thanks so much for writing for the prompt.