Free Write – “Write about your feet”

Good Morning All –

My sister Deena texted me a random writing prompt that said “Write about your feet.”

She preceded the prompt with “Good Morning dear sister. I swear these prompts are random. lol” because I have feet that are not so dainty and lady like. I wear a size 9 and they are flat and wide width and they are beat up. Oddly enough, I am not self conscious about my feet at all. So here’s my free write about my feet. No changes, no edits. Oh, the prompt came with the instruction “write for ten minutes without stopping”. You should try it too. Have a Fancy Footed Friday!

I have two of them. They are covered in powder right now. I am appreciative of them because they get me around. They are painted a pale, Easter friendly purple right now. Now my whole feet, but the toenails. I got a pedicure for the first time in months last weekend. The lady was not happy with my feet. She frowned the whole time. She asked me if I wanted the bottoms scraped with a cheese grater or a razor blade. Now that I think about it that’s pretty fucking wild. Either option. Haha. Am like okay. She could have just done my feet and smiled but her discontent was brandished all over her face. Not hidden at all. I tipped her well then I finally got a smile. Man, that day there were some pretty bad ass kids in the nail shop and they were white. I talked about that when I got home b/c usually ghetto nail shops have signs and warnings about not bringing your kids or controlling your kids if you bring them, etc. but this situation of white children out of control really stuck b/c usually it’s a black clientele that frequents ghetto nail shops and that would be the demographic that signs about kid control would be directed toward. But yeah, bad ass loud ass white children. It was not pleasant. That’s why didn’t stay to get my eyebrows done. I just paid, tipped and left after my toes dried. My feet stink because they sweat a lot. So after many reminders of that from my spouse I started putting baby powder in my shoes. It actually works but them my feet are covered with powder and look ashy and I have ashy looking feet already so anyhow. Whatever. The other day I had on my grey Tieks and they got powder all over the surface when I was trying to put it in the shoes. That was aggravating b/c they are wool so I couldn’t wipe it off with a wet cloth or something. So they just looked dusty all day and it bothered the shit out of me. But my feet didn’t stink, so there’s that. I have toes that look like lil’ smokies sausages and the baby toe on both my feet is turned to the side. Like to the outside. I don’t know why. It’s weird. My friend David always used to think of creative jokes about my drunken baby toes. Or they were on that gangsta lean. Or whatever. Haha. I like my damn toes. I still got all them  bitches. I like my feet too. They look just like my momma’s feet. Genetics, man. Shit is crazy. I don’t care about wearing sandals or whatever b/c I’m not self conscious about my feet at all. Even when I hadn’t had a pedicure for months. As long as they were attached to my body, I like how my feet look. Some people ain’t even got no feet. So yeah.

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En garde…

…the poet is pissed.


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Normal v. Not So Normal requests at work

Office door opens.

“Mrs. Straight can I borrow a pencil?”

“Sure. Is this one okay? It doesn’t have much of an eraser.”

“Yeah, I don’t actually have to write with it.”


Office door opens.

“Mrs. Straight, can you draw and cut out me a microphone?”

“What?! Yeah, yeah okay.”

I go over to the prep area and a sharpie and some cardstock paper.  Then I grab a red marker and a green marker (gotta indicate the power on and off button). I grab a pencil for shading.

Three min later.

“Here you go! Now that’s a microphone!”

“Thank you thank you thank you!”

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Free write this morning…

If the lord’s prayer
is not a farce
and heaven’s gates are not spray painted
I don’t know
what to say
about this
living on
my tongue

in the
time we have to ourselves
we argue
about the bitterness
of sedimentary pain
how it effects the eye sockets
when it settles down deep
and what kind of company
the stench of sorrow attracts.

but in remaining hours
my breath
is dank with mundane language
and fresh air freedom is a hungry dog
rabid with blinding joy
a secret tickles the roof of my mouth
with urgency and faith
truth and fallacy complement
my palate like reminders seeping through my taste buds
I loves yous to loved ones
that no longer breathe
whispered away to restore
flesh to bone and smiles to
shimmer in their full capacity.

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today (tuesday, dec. 23, 2015)

today is foreign

its coordinates are prime

its possibility,


tangled tongues

cushion my steps

away from this tortured silence.

a prisoner of my own

free will.

(c) 2014 Elizabeth R. Straight-Wilt

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Today: Sunday, September 28, 2014 :Free Write

Good Morning,

I haven’t been to my blog in a while and I’m forcing myself to just type words right now. For those of you who don’t know, NaNoWriMo is coming up soon and October will blow by quickly. I’ll most likely be posting my novel nuggets here as well as on because I want to receive feedback from those I know and love and from those who only know my writing and couldn’t give less of shit about me as a person. Both sets of opinions matter tremendously I believe. So, as of today, I have duly noted that I must begin to practice writing with distractions, aggravations, inconveniences, etc. if I’m going to write at all. Apparently, there is NEVER a convenient time to write once you have a child and a family life, etc. so  this is my first effort in attempting to carve writing time out of all the shit I would prefer not to be doing – like coaching my child’s tball team for example. Man, that experience is another blog unto itself. And since I’m listening to #flyinglotus trying to stimulate my creative voice, it’s not the time nor mindset for me to go there. But man, whew, you talk about typical Lizz Straight shit…

Anyhow, as my child snuggles next to me asking me

“what are you doing?”

“writing a blog.”

“what are you writing again?”

“a blog.”

“why are you writing a bog?”

“a BLOG. because I feel inclined to.”

Then, with turkey bacon in hand, she proceeds to randomly tap keys on my number key pad and put her foot on my laptop’s keyboard and demand another episode of My Little Pony to be turned on.

“Stop, or you gon have to move.”


“somewhere other than right by me.”

So then she stopped and I’m still here typing trying to figure out how in the world this is my life. Happy Football Sunday people. Enjoy it. (Who else will be novel writing this November?)


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i wrote this in like april or may and i played with it a little today

I saw you this morning

bright light in my eyes

like you was tryin to find out why i was doin

what i was doin right then instead

of keeping it movin

you was never that kind in the fire

but i guess you was cause you was always smilin

your brandish stopped smelling of brandy

and gained a garnished of burnt blunt smoke

what i miss most

watching your yellowed teeth touch amid

avid conversations that caulked the corners of my ignorance of

everything from soul music to political movements

bid wiz and chess

while smokey robinson sweet singing sweltered

in to mississippi backyard humid

each note lingering beautifully above like a blue jay in a sycamore tree

while your laughter was  train whistle bursting through fo day in the mornin peace and quiet

a beacon of wit

a talker of shit

a reminder of this world ramming my innocence in to

another time zone

i continue to receive your messages as they come

sunset sunrise

sun gone behind thunder blazen skies and

the gray credance of my clearwater revival

my eyes grow tired trying to find you

but keep them coming

so i can rest

trust i will accept your signs as you draw them

not as what I wish to see in the mirror steam

in the lonely pools under my eyes

i will only hear your wise musings

in my diction in these forward moving days

the past pulses from my fingertips

resonnates in random radio moments

when i ask my daughter who is this a picture of

and she says uncle bookie and his laugh

she is right and she is wrong

and if she were older than two i woulda told her

no, this is a picture of a sculptor

conductor of dissonant harmonies

the first homogeny of Turner and June’s genes

possessor of hands with more mettle than a ship yard full of

blue collar man pride

nothing sugar sweet about you

you was black berry juice on fresh pressed school pants

after grandma told you don’t go up to the tracks to pick em

you was the tart spoil in peaches and cream that she was too drunk to remember making

so it sat there until the new day’s reminder

you was my coach teacher leader oldest uncle patriarchy without the

heavy hand you was mine and all of ours

spit shined pride

the tool shed of spirit’s home

you was the everything in my chest that is now gone

and there are no blinders for that

no libations that can wash away the

swiftly disintegrating attack

cancer unleashed in your body

the last time we broke bread

you had hummus for the first time

and the last

you told me you loved me

you sang rhyming songs to my daughter

and made her laugh

each words moved through me

a blade sharp and slick

and all that be left

is this

holy spirit

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July 23, 2014 · 6:29 pm