Old Brown Shoes

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           I don't know why  I put them on
           The old brown    worn out shoes I
                  Found      discarded
         Along the side       of the road

           So very tight       my baby toes wailed
            But the laces      held a while
         And the old brown      worn out shoes
              Held a while       onto my feet
 
                    I begin       walking backwards
          Along the side of       the road
    But not really walking       more searching
          For the history       of leather

           Following the       rumble strip
 Feeling for impressions       of dusty footprints 
            Of worn out       black soles
           Of worn out       souls

          As I walk        I listen
          For echos       of your steps
              Echos      of your breaths
       From nearby        walls

        Slowing now       I scan the scene
    For impressions        of reflections
           Of light         bounced off you
       I am hunting         hidden daguerreotypes

     I shuffle toward        familiar visions
           From almost        thin air
           Almost solid        they hold a while
           Onto my mind        this history of leather
     
               Déjá vu         approaches        
              Askew and      without warning   
         And I am frozen   in time
              Frozen in old brown shoes

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(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Prelude to “Old Brown Shoes”

The old brown shoes have taunted me for weeks now.

Quickly I put them on, a fury of image and meter.

Easy marks of leather and sole and history,

They laid like lambs at my feet.

But they have turned stubborn and cold and visionless.

Stuck in the gutter
Stuck in the verse
Stuck in reverse

Perhaps I shall cut their laces
cut their ties, their
ability to hold
me

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(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Homesick at Home (Betrayed)

I wrote this poem for the weekly challenge at 20 Lines A Day.  Check them out for a vibrant blog of poets and writers and photographers.

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They have all left - kids, wife, dogs.
Not for good or very long for that matter
But I am alone, 
                homesick at home.

Oh how I wish this house were haunted.
At least by more than the spiders and 
                     occasional mouse.

Instead, I am haunted

   By silence the TV cannot drown out.
   By empty bedrooms 
            and chairs
            and couches.

   The normal routines dead end
            in meaninglessness.

But in fact
            this house is haunted.

   By the laundry
   And forgotten library books.
   Even dog's chew toys
   Mock and reproach me.

The anticipation of freedom
      Has betrayed me!

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(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Breathless

This poem can be read three ways.  You can read the bold lines only, the italics lines only or straight through.

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Dawn, and across the plains: mountains


Eyes, through warm air, and darkness: night


Rising, from seemingly nowhere


Giving almost no clue to what's beyond


     Majestic to the point of awe.


     Delicate, not to the point of weakness.


And knowing


And seeing


       no cause to be so,


       no reason to shy away,


          it leaves one breathless.


          I breath without resistance.

---

(c) 1987 Norman Dziedzic Jr./>

Gillson Park Playground

Dreamless

 Sleeping,
          dreams elude me.
I know they are there
        waiting
 always waiting
                just outside
my unconscious drift

Waking,
       I am awash with 
 layers of visions
        pushing
 always pushing
                just outside
my periphery
                just outside
my reach

Dreams taunting my pen
       haunting my keyboard

Fleeting wisps
    hoping to be caught
    longing to be inked
               or typed
               or spied

And sometimes
              only sometimes
      touching paper.

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(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.

Lectern Accent

(c) 2012 Norman Dziedzic Jr.