Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews

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The Lighter Side of Blind

The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision- Helen Keller
Hellen Keller

Vision might be described as the ability to see what lies before you, rather than what you wish was there. Vision might also be described as the ability to recreate the world as you go. Come explore Feverish Dreams, images of what may or may not exist, depending on your vision. Available at Amazon May 2014 by SS Matthews



The Collector

Audio Version- Experimenting with Soundcloud

The Collector

This street is strewn with broken things,
dreams die in the first few steps, it seems.
Graffiti, pronouncing God’s demise, decorates the odd high-rise.

I love the city, with its unpredictability.
Its rows of tarnished faces watching passers-by for traces
of weakness which might glare. I just stare
right back and sigh into their bloodshot eyes.
I’m not here to head their cries.
I shun the stab of cold outside and wrap my cloak more tightly.

No angel, I, you may have guessed,
I walk this street at Death’s behest,
I pick and choose, I pre-select the fuel to feed His fury.

Gothic children sob and sing, courting Poe,
his ‘Raven’s’ wing a marvel of demented mind.
(I must confess, does charm the learned and lag alike,
when read aloud, when read at night.)

Though gladly would they pave my way,
it is not these I stalk this day.
Each must bide his time, her place,
and languish in a lesser grace.

Shattered bottles, plastic bags,
needles shared, ain’t life a drag.
Come inhale some ‘Satan’s’ Weed.
Your future? Well, it’s dark indeed.

Rings of smoke coil serpentine,
subtle fangs which pierce un-seen.
The poison works, igniting veins,
numbing minds, relieving pain
of promises all made in vain.

Care not for your ‘betters’ wastes,
for they have perspicacious tastes.
Like leaves which line the forest floor,
I tread their path, so cry no more.

For I will come this way again, in arrogance,
a death’s head grin engraves the unsuspecting.
For now I’ll call a name or two.
It’s cold so I’ll just take a few.

SS Matthew 2009


A Stranger to Love

I look at you now,
The mighty oak
At the end of his season.

Recall you in your prime.
Running dirt roads for pleasure-
To fleet to follow-
Chin-up contests in the backyard,
You never lost-

Are not being spoon fed
In a hospital bed
And I know you, know I,
Would not want to be here,
To die In the company of caring strangers.

So I sit at your side,
In this chair that bites my back-
And your pride,
Still too great to be broken.

I see you in myself-
And wonder
What will my children see-

When it is I unable to rise;
Staring, unable to speak,
Still not knowing
What faith will be rewarded?

You wished for your children
To respect your strengths
And we do.

I wish mine to remember my weaknesses,
My passion for their moments
Of triumph and pain-

Not the trembling hand of a stranger
They wish they’d been able to love;
A father at the time of goodbye,
Unafraid and able to speak
Whatever their hearts might hold.

Poetry by SS Matthews


Home Repairs

They come,
Seeking answers
To scratch paper sketches;
Porches, playrooms
Pantries and problems;
Resultant conundrums of a material world.

High pressure tactics,
Pushy sales person
Running up tickets,
And, of course, technical expertise.

What they don’t expect,
Is a Home Depot holy man.
An orange apron-ed mystic,
Offering solutions to drywall dilemmas.

Who studies the cracks in foundations,
Listens to camouflage
overlying faint cries of despair.

And hears-

How do I build a stairway of sincerity?
Tall as a tower, shining steps rising
Above the crippling contrariness of my life?

What manner of steel is so stain-less,
To weather the corrosion of my debaucheries,
To anchor my heals in righteous construction,
So Heaven someday may be within reach?

What padding can be so resilient,
To keep disappointment from scorching my ass,
Dragged through the coals of work-a-day world?
Flat on my bum, one foot entangled,
Eternally caught in the crux
Of life’s bottom rung?


Where do I find the cheapest fix,
To patch this hole in my heart,
Out through which my humanity bleeds?

Welcome to the Depot, he replies.
Mirrors, aisle seven.

Poetry by SS Matthews



Your golden eyes glisten to glitter.
How they sparkle to glamour’s hard shine.
On laurels your trophies retire,
As proof you are doing just fine.

I hate you! I fear you! I love you!
Possess a sunset’s depth before dusk.
But burst from your mass of turbulent air
In explosions of lightning and lust.

I conceded your needs in compassion,
Eye to eye and unwilling to hide.
My finest ideals, romantic appeals
are but trivial thorns in your side.

You charmed a dreamer’s naiveté’,
Through the mirror of passionless lies,
Finding no way past reflections,
I rebound from your pain and reply-

Cruise ships, jet planes and Volvos,
May form the caravan carting your dreams,
But they travel the same burnt out byways
Through landscapes of life never seen.

So I choose a path, I know to be
One thing that is truly my own.
I watch stars shatter, flash and congeal
As steps along my journey home.

SS Matthews