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    Bad Red Shoes
    Bad Red Shoes
    Bad Red Shoes
    Ebook142 pages1 hour

    Bad Red Shoes

    By Betty Bleen

    5/5

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    About this ebook

    In Bad Red Shoes, her first collection of poetry, Betty delves into intimate recollections. Drive with her as she delivers her father's ashes to their final destination, feel the chills as she recalls the fateful words of a murdered friend. Whether she's proclaiming a new holiday - "Mother-less-day", chastising an ex-lover, or dancing with her first grandchild in her arms, Betty's poems tell stories that will touch you at the very core of your heart. She sings of her childhood and love for West Virginia, recalling her trek through Catholic schools to painting her very own rainbow stones on a wall in her back yard. There is humor and satire, as evidenced by the poem Bad Red Shoes, and it is up to you, the reader, to determine just where the truth ends and fiction begins. Happy reading!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateJun 10, 2011
    ISBN9781463418069
    Bad Red Shoes
    Author

    Betty Bleen

    Betty Bleen works as an Administrative Assistant for a residential treatment center. She has been writing poems for ten years and many of her poems have been published locally. She has been a featured reader at the Columbus, Ohio Arts Festival numerous times and has published two chapbooks, "Sweetness" and "Grave Digging Blow-by-Blow". She has four grown children and five grandchildren. A native of West Virginia she now lives in Westerville, Ohio with her husband Doug and her cat, Ebony.

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    • 5/5
      ***THIS WAS A GOODREADS.COM FIRST READ CONTEST WIN!***

      I finished this book Tuesday night but was to tired to get up and review it. This was a wonderful book of poems. Sensitive and with lots of meaning. The author has a way with words that is hard to describe.

      ***THIS WAS A GOODREADS.COM FIRST READ CONTEST WIN!***

    Book preview

    Bad Red Shoes - Betty Bleen

    BAD

       RED

          SHOES

    Betty Bleen

    missing image file

    AuthorHouse™

    1663 Liberty Drive

    Bloomington, IN 47403

    www.authorhouse.com

    Phone: 1-800-839-8640

    © 2011 Betty Bleen. All rights reserved.

    No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

    First published by AuthorHouse 6/1/2011

    ISBN: 978-1-4634-1806-9 (e)

    Library of Congress Control Number: 2011903633

    Printed in the United States of America

    Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

    and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

    Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

    Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

    Cover photograph by Melissa Bleen

    www.bleensville.com

    Contents

    WHAT MATTERS

    BACKSEAT DRIVER

    WITH YOU

    COLLECTIBLE THINGS

    ALPHABET BOOK

    REALITIES

    A BETTER VIEW

    SOMETHING ABOUT WALTER

    SAY WHAT?

    IF

    QUESTION BEGGING AN ANSWER

    SUNDAY DONUTS

    THE WORD

    MORE THAN I NEEDED TO KNOW

    IN AWE OF THE MOON

    ROAD MAP

    IN THE RESTAURANT

    SERVANT TO THE GLOOM

    TWO-SIDED LOOKING GLASS

    HAD I DARED

    MY DENTIST

    A FRIGID WEST VIRGINIA WINTER

    ARTISTIC LICENSE

    WOULD YOU BELIEVE?

    WHAT A SURPRISE

    SPRING SHOWER

    BREAKFAST IS SERVED

    SURFACE OF A RHYME

    OUT OF STEP

    SUSPENDED MOMENT

    PUSHING FOR TEXAS

    MY PRINCE CHARMING

    MOTHER-LESS DAY

    I WAS LOST IN DREAMLAND

    COMPLICATIONS

    PENANCE

    DANCING IN THE MOONLIGHT

    KISSES

    DISMAL SOLUTION

    DIFFERENT STROKES

    RELIVING NINETEEN SEVENTY-SIX

    WHEN I AM OLD

    SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

    LAST TREE OF FALL

    BAD RED SHOES

    GRAVE DIGGING BLOW BY BLOW

    JUST LIKE MOMMY

    SUMMERTIME IN WEST VIRGINIA

    YELLOW MOON

    SPELL CHECK

    MEMORY

    IN THE PHOTO

    GROWING UP

    I WISH

    WRAPPED AROUND HER HEART

    FIVE GIRLS

    FIRST LOVE, UNFORGOTTEN

    SWEETNESS

    TEARS

    A FLOWER’S LAST WISH

    WORDS

    MONKEY BUSINESS

    HIBERNATION

    FOOD FOR THOUGHT

    ARTHUR

    THINGS I LEARNED GROWING UP

    WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?

    RAINBOW STONES

    INITIATION DAY AT UNION HIGH

    WAR IN SECRET

    POETRY

    SINS OF THE FATHER

    SORRY IS JUST A WORD

    SMALL PLEASURES

    TONY’S FALL FROM GRACE

    FOR THE LOVE OF BEES

    WITHOUT A TRACE

    WALLFLOWER

    MOTHER’S DAY, MAY 11, 2008

    FLYING

    GHOST IN THE KITCHEN

    IN THIS MOMENT

    CLOWNS

    TROUBLE

    A DIFFERENT MOURNING

    AUNT MIMI

    WHAT YOU TOLD ME

    SPEAKING OF ANGELS

    A FAR SIDE CHAT

    DREAM SALE

    for Doug

    I have found the one my heart loves

    for Miss Gypsyfied

    A faithful friend is beyond value

    WHAT MATTERS

    Early September and the leaves are falling,

    they crunch beneath my feet

    as I walk the dogs through the park.

    Scattered on the lawn they’ve become

    brown and brittle, fragile as my heart.

    Soon they will be trampled and forgotten,

    as if their existence in nature never mattered,

    as if life never coursed through their veins,

    with no thought as to how they played

    in the scheme of things.

    How easily we forget

    little things that once mattered,

    hearts,

    leaves,

    it’s all the same thing.

    BACKSEAT DRIVER

    What would I do if I didn’t have you

    You’re so full of wisdom that you can see

    All my faults and fallacies

    And splay them out in front of me

    What would I do if I didn’t have you

    To tell me the things I need to do

    To chide me for things I didn’t do right

    To pick on me and start a fight

    To tell me when to clean, how to cook

    How much to eat, when to exercise

    How long to sleep, how to drive

    Before I met you, how did I ever survive

    I wish I could turn you into a book

    Share your wisdom with young and old

    There must be others that need to be told

    Who’d be willing to learn from your advice

    They could keep you handy up on a shelf

    Take you down if they need some help

    As for me more than anything else

    I wish you’d keep your wisdom to yourself

    WITH YOU

    I’d play Scrabble with you every night

    if you wanted to,

    even though you always manage

    to get the high point letters,

    hoard the U’s in case you get a Q,

    save the S’s to add to any good word

    I make to get all my points plus one.

    I’d play Scrabble with you all night long,

    even though you always win.

    As long as you promise not to add

    the word ache if I spell heart.

    As long as you swear,

    under no circumstance,

    will you ever spell the word

    goodbye.

    COLLECTIBLE THINGS

    The Hilltop Home for Men collects

    old men like my freckle-faced grandson

    collects marbles in a burlap sack,

    butterflies in a jar. Confined to their rooms

    they spend their days gazing longingly out

    picture windows at a world whizzing by,

    one that continues to revolve without them.

    On a sunny day you might find the men

    settling their old bones at weathered picnic

    tables, serving up past lovers, telling stories

    of the war-reiterating to each other how it

    was back then; rehashing all the could haves,

    the should haves and that devil of a cliché,

    If only I could live my life over again…

    Night begins the death watch and sleep

    eludes them as they smoke their last

    cigarette of the day, groan and strain for

    compatibility on sunken beds. They stare

    at walls bare but for a big numbered clock

    which beats to the tune of their failing hearts,

    their rattling worn and rusty pipes, as partners

    in time they wait, for that final tick-tock.

    ALPHABET BOOK

    From the moment I read in my first grade reader,

    See Dick run, I couldn’t wait to turn the page

    to view the pictures and see what other sorts of

    things Dick could do. But my bigger passion was art,

    so it was an easy task for me to draw and color big

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