Post your poems below! In May selected poems from these prompts will be published on The Poetry Shed… happy writing…
Writing prompt 3: boots
Post your poems below! In May selected poems from these prompts will be published on The Poetry Shed… happy writing…
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Abegail Morley 
THE HOLE IN LENIN’S BOOT by Brecht: my words
You who are making the standing figure of Lenin
Twenty metres high on the Palace of Trade Unions!
Don’t forget that his boot
Has a well-attested hole in it, the mark of poverty.
I gather it is visible
From the west, home to many who will
Recognise Lenin, by this hole in his boot,
As one of their own.
Great! Thanks Timothy.
LEMON SHERBET
My Dad’s boots were big and heavy,
Black bright with coal dust,
Clogged up on the leather laces,
Solid in the cleats of the soles
He walked on.
‘Threepence,’ he said, ‘to anyone
Who will clean them.’
There were no takers.
Until I got to thinking
About a crinkly paper bag
Full of lemon sherbets,
Fizzing on my tongue.
©2020 Gwen Grant
The river parkway
Cars parked
at the pedestrian entrance
and its long wall of fence
i tipped the bike up
on end
the handlebars passed over
the frame slipped thru,
people in pairs with dogs
or walking around alone
like the open grounds
of a refugee camp
while i pedaled on
down to the beach
its overturned tables
and clumps of dirt
once
groomed lines of sand
that held your footprint
where we thought
we’d walk forever
hand in hand
(Ken Smith)
Hanging Up Your Boots
Drop down a division if you must
to play for as long as you can. The first yard’s
in the head, they say. Or finish expertly
at the top of your game, a legend,
it’s how we remember you best.
Go either way, but prepared, touch-tight,
for that sudden change of direction –
the future’s a 10, unpredictable –
now every day is a weekday afternoon
after training, none a Tuesday night
in spring, floodlit green, European, the air
electric as pace, noisy as hell, thousands
singing your name from the old stands.
This physical hit this rush in the vein,
pumped up, a pre-match tracklist
banging in your ears, you walk out
onto the pitch, wait, with your teammates,
for the photographs, anthems, a moment
that is nothing like driving the Aston
into a wall, pie-eyed, at three in the morning,
gambling all evening, podcast or punditry.
Yes play like a child, the one with Plan B.
Thank you for this Jeff.