Related quotes: she said: 'you're not a...

I Can Feel...

she said:
'you're not a poet,
you're just an old man...
old hat, old beard,
even your socks are old! '

'yes, and my socks
are full of holes...
when i walk across
the bare floor i can feel...'

and therein lies
the poetry!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Related quotes

Portis and Coco

Where the hell are my socks?
I have no more
Portis and Coco
are at it again
all are torn, I can't wear them

Portis, the pit
Coco the Shepoo
playing tug of war
with my socks
so it's back to the store

I'ts never enough
to play with a toy
they still get the joy
for some reason, to sniff with my jocks and
tear up my socks

poem by Matt Mondschein
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ode to My Socks

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.

poem by Pablo Neruda
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Notes To An Amnesiac

memories are made of these
Your keys
Odd socks left on the washing line
names on a list in a book
You cannot find
That lost glove
Pushed under the carpet
Or the note you wrote about your lover
Before you ever met or even touched
And the television is turned to neutral
As you listen
And unlisten
To the radio in your head
Your dinner is left congealed
Your books dusty and unread
The puzzle
Full of words you no longer understand
The alien has landed in a foreign land

Memories are made of these
The keys you lost
The odd socks
The lists full of lists left behind
And you feel like you 're losing your mind
Forgetting it all as you go to the door
Leaving the keys on the side
Dropping a glove in the floor
Losing the name of the street where you live
Forgetting what you're living for!

poem by Yvette Smith
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Socks, Shoes and Feet

Socks, shoes and
feet
Where they bring
me
Thou shall speak

Soul
Who are you
Who
Thou shall we
meet

I alone am
I
Alone whom else
Who
There's so many

And
There's I alone
Shall
We walk again

Socks, Shoes and
Feet

poem by Jay Reynolds
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Because my socks were wet

That day, when clouds were frowning
And the ants and the antelopes were drowning
The almighty deciding to have a bath
And the rooftops feeling the sky’s wrath
I got a bad ache in head
Allowing me to stick to my bed
When it went indispensable
I moved towards my table
Hoping to see some help
I made a small yell
Deciding by myself then to buy a tablet
But I couldn’t have my shoes because my socks were wet
Yes, that day the master of hell had a laugh
To see my condition so rough
…Because my socks were wet

Someone I had to meet the other day
The sun was shining by my bay
I ran towards the stop but was late
I had stepped into a ditch and my socks went wet
Yes the devil smirked again
As he found his ultimate gain
…because my socks were wet

Once visiting my god’s place
“Temple” they call it in general phrase
We had a long chat
Impressed by my ballad
He decided not to let me go
He contacted his biggest foe
Arrangements were made
Plans were laid
When I bid my goodbye
He smiled and just sighed
My shoes were stolen from his portal
He just wished me to be mortal
I ran, and ran in haste
It rained heavy that eve and made my run a waste
The two geniuses partied and partied till late
…because again my socks were wet

poem by Anurag Chaudhary
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I Am Not A Poet 2

When I feel I am really a poet
I see my flesh is poetry
My pleasure is poetry
My pains are poetry
My feelings are poetry.

Poetry protects me
Poetry teaches me
How to fight back and win.

Poetry is my freedom
Poetry is my independence
Poetry is my flag
And an anthem
Poetry is my prophet
And a messanger.

But I am not a poet
Do not read me
Burn me into ashes
Let there be a flower
From the ashes.

poem by Devil Poet
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Laundry Spirits

Laundry spirits all around
Stealing things without a sound
When I hang my washing out
Something missing there’s no doubt

An odd sock here an odd sock there
Drives me almost to despair
I wonder if in days gone by
Did my great gran have this, if not why?

Is my washing machine possessed?
Eating socks I do not jest
Doesn’t matter where I look
There’s certainly a mysterious spook

So laundry spirit in the sky
Please give me a reason why
A pair of socks I can understand
But just for one what is your plan?

I’m buying socks that look the same
So I can make up pairs again
So I will have one fewer grey hair
And stop you driving me to despair

08 03 2009
Chellaston

poem by Jim O'Donnell
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You 'Were' Looking For Your Shoes

I can not find my socks.
Who misplaced them?
And why are they not in my sight?

'Grandpa? '

WHAT IS IT! ?

'I've spotted your socks.'

Okay.
Then where are they?

'Grandpa...
They are on your feet.'

Oh.
Well...
Who put them there?

'You did grandpa.
Just before you said,
You 'were' looking for your shoes.'

What are you trying to say?
You know where they are too?

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Four Minutes

Tuesday morning half past eight
that's the time that I awake
see the shadows on the wall
hear the early morning call,

Draw my breath and wipe my eyes
I'll arise at 35
the time just now is 31
tuesday morning has begun,

Think of all that I must do
the time is nearly 32
I'm going to have a busy day
tuesday mornings under way,

Sitting up I greet the dawn
and wonder where my socks have gone
the time has just left 33
tuesday morning's mad at me,

I see my socks upon the floor
the time just now is 34
tuesday morning is no more.

Written after the realization that we would only get four minutes warning of nuclear holocaust.

poem by Charles M. Moore
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The Poetry Of Confession

THE POETRY OF CONFESSION

The poetry of confession -
The poetry of self- indulgence-
The poetry of the ‘wretch con-centered all in self’-
The poetry of moods and feelings-
Of all ideas only as they relate to the poet himself-
The poetry of desperation-
The poetry of need-
The poetry of urgency -
And serving the poet first-

Not enough of the world
Not enough of others- of other perspectives
Not formal and disciplined enough-

The poetry which is not crafted and polished
The poetry in which the need of the poet
Is more central than the quality of the poetry –

The poetry which may be too selfish to be good-
Whose moral failure makes more prominent its aesthetic flaws-

The poetry which is not so good
And not great
But quite banal and commonplace –

A poet can give his life to his poetry
And that still be nothing at all-

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Why Spread Rumours?

Why spread a rumour? what benefit do you get?

Maybe its just not having a sense of humour

Embarrassing some one is the same as embarrassing
Your self
because when the truth comes out your lies
Are crashing you down like hard rocks
no one would Want to be close to you like stinky socks
you will Find it hard to wash out that smell you have

the best way is to not wear those socks again you wanted to live
Other people in pain but look you're the one taking
Pain killers

your having headaches because of the advice your getting from people
your having stomach aches because of the shame that's failing to digestIn you stomach

So why spread a rumour?
You thought spreading a rumour would be opening up
A new box of exciting letters to read on
but look all troubles Fell on you like Pandora
you cant get your self up because You have no hand
you keep falling because there is no one you Can lean on
you cant talk because no one will listen
your head Is full of questions because your personally interviewing you self
With questions like why did I do that? What have I done?
So why spread a rumour?

poem by Atlay Mwenifumbo
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Momma's Little Baby

Baby lost her button but she
found her gold
Too stressed to rest
like mothers in full moon
Has everything gone bad
or is just nothing good?
And you say, 'Oh oh oh'
'Is it all that you know? '
'Oh oh oh, ' Momma's baby
has gone to war

There are socks by your pillow
there are acrobats in your bed
Another blue orgy another long night
as long as we feel guilty
I guess it’s alright
and you say, 'Oh oh oh'
'Is it all that we know? '
'Oh oh oh, ' Momma's baby
has gone to war

I'd like to say I am
a left shouldered man
But the devil on my right
speaks my language too well
I’m spinning drunk here in my circles
seeing angels in hell
And they say, 'Momma's little baby
has gone to war'
'Oh oh oh Momma's baby
has gone to war'

Now with only good thoughts
maybe I can catch you
There are no socks by my pillow
No thoughts on my shoulders
No sex in the sheets until the war is over
and so germs are all we wanted
but I’ll take your love too
Whatever it is you want
I guess I want it too
and you, 'say Oh oh oh, '
'I barely know you ya know'
'Oh oh oh, ' Momma's baby
has gone to war

poem by Judd David
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Tired by Talile Ali

Wipe the crust from my eyes
Put my feet on the floor
Stumble into the john
Evacuate just once more
Splash water in my face
Add some soap to the fun
Brush the hair from my face
And pick up the last one
Pull a shirt on that fits
Slide my ass in these jeans
Slip my feet in my socks
With my shoes and I'm clean
Walk myself to the window
Then walk right thru the door
I'm so tired of livin
But I do it once more

poem by Talile Ali
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I Put On My Brown Socks

i put on my brown socks
i bend a little to check my knees
to feel my bare feet and
smell the color of my soles

i put on my sneakers at noon
i am not eating my lunch
i am half naked and i cut four
locks of my black hair
i leave my fingernails uncut

i am not running anywhere.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Vegetable Man

In yellow shoes I get the blues
Though I walk the streets with my plastic feet
With my blue velvet trousers, make me feel pink
Theres a kind of stink about blue velvet trousers
In my paisley shirt I look a jerk
And my turquoise waistcoat is quite out of sight
But oh oh my haircut looks so bad
Vegetable man how are you?
So Ive changed my dear, and I find my knees,
And I covered them up with the latest cut,
And my pants and socks all point in a box,
They dont make long of my nylon socks,
The watch, black watch
My watch with a black face
And a big pin, a little hole,
And all the lot is what I got,
Its what I wear, its what you see,
It must be me, its what I am,
Vegetable man.
Ive been looking all over the place for a place for me,
But it aint anywhere, it just aint anywhere.
Vegetable man, vegetable man,
Hes the kind of person, you just gonna see him if you can,
Vegetable man.

song performed by by Pink Floyd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poor Man's Blues

'I'll raise your pay by £5 a week' -
Who is he kidding, the man's a freak!
I've a mortgage to pay, children to feed
But this guy won't help a worker in need.

He'll go off sailing in his fancy yacht
As happy as Larry for all he's got,
Or play some golf on his country estate -
You can't deny it's an enviable fate!

But I've got no money to pay the bills
And my wife's overdosed on her bottle of pills,
And I'm limping around in my second-hand shoes
And feel like a blind man singing the blues,
With a tear in my pants and holes in my socks
And a one-way ticket to a cardboard box! !

The boss ain't like us ordinary folk,
Is he even human, or is that just a joke?
I've beeb thinking lately, though it might sound mad,
That I feel compelled to do something bad

'CosI've had enough of Society's lies
So I'll give him a bullet right between the eyes,
They'll put me in prison. See if I care!
At least I'll get food and shelter there!

poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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The Poet Becomes The Poetry

THE POET BECOMES THE POETRY

After years of striving to write Poetry
The Poet becomes the Poetry
No word is not poetry in him
And no silence is not the sound
his own writing makes

Wherever he is
Whatever he does
is Poetry
Mediocre or not
Real or not
Loved or not
Understood or not
The Poet is Poetry
Unable forever to escape
what he Lives.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I'll Start My Day Again

wake up
take my rubber shoes
wear my socks
take coffee
open the door
close it back
walk the dog
meet the sun
feel the wind
glance at the flowers
along the road
and the school garden

it is the start of my day
and everyday
it goes this way

sometimes i stop
at the middle of my walk
and ask

which way is it to the end?

it is in the mind
and my neighbor
on his jogging attire
sweating it out
for longer life
greets me: good morning!