WHAT A CROC

My mighty fight with fasciitis
might as well have been
a fight to stay upright.
Painful steps upset the balance
of my power. Cortisone shots
provided some relief.
The doctor recommended
I get a pair of crocs. Not sure if I
should have been offended or remained
upended, I relented. This fashion
faux pas was just what
the doctor ordered. No bare feet,
or soft footwear, get a pair of crocs
and your feet’ll feel better!

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #23: “Footwear”

SHOES OF THE SEER

A poet sees things; wears many shoes.
Traipsing across the linoleum,
this visionary meanders, wandering
with eyes set on a plan. He doesn’t stand
for blind gazes clouded by mindless phases
and lapses of reason. ’Tis the season
to bring your best idea to the table and retain
your stability, for the ability to see
lies within. Pick up your chin and grin,
it is great to have a plan for all mankind;
it takes a clear mind to be a visionary.
Leave your agenda at the door; the floor is yours.

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016

Poetic Asides April Poem-A-Day Challenge – Day #23 : “Footwear”

FEBRUARY 3, 1956 – 10:42 A.M.

I was in no position to be born,
in the breech; feet first, a fresh “face”
coming to the fore on that frozen February morn.
Until then, my days on earth up to the day of my birth
were a placid float, suspended in muted serenity.
But, the anguish of my poor mother would serve
to provide shocks to propel me into action,
gaining traction in this field of my amniotic shield;
a permeable hideaway of liquidity.
But damn the masked man in white, he startles me;
a sharp slap sets my ass to flame and a tearful wail to my lips.

 

Written for THE SUNDAY WHIRL – Wordle #41

THE VICTORY OF THE FEET

Long distance runner,
solitary and sure. A pure stride
can not hide his determination.
Speed in reserve,
awaiting his chance to shine,
a divine communion;
head in the sky
and feet to pound the pavement
with no one to beat
but his best time.
A well-conditioned mime,
silent and fluid;
grace personified.
Solitary and sure; a pure stride
pushes him over the line before his time.
Laurels and accolades,
a race well run. A race well won.

Written for WE WRITE POEMS prompt “Begin at the Bottom: The Body, a series, part 1” – write a poem about feet.