the meadow watches me
eyes hidden in flower buds
while i run through the tall grass
chasing after a ghost
its blurry form shifting colours
like the sunset and sunrise
sweat drips
down my cheeks
maybe i'm crying
i can't tell, really
i just know that
my lungs breathe clean air
for the very first time.

I am not as you see me now:
booted, colour coded, weighted down by disinfectant and toilet rolls,
sweeping, mopping, bringing cleansing, facilitating,
helping others meet God ...

- oh, so I guess I am

- I am how you see me:
serving, pushing my way right to the back, preferring others
and finding Jesus there, with his blue gloves and apron,
ready to pick up and sweep up, refill and mop up
whatever is left behind

and ever-ready to pick up and refill
whoever finds themselves left behind

We're heavenly hosts for Jesus
and you'll find us where you need us.  
At the back.

She laid on stained sheets
that were once pure white,
desperate for love she gave her body away everynight,

With mascara running down her face,
on the floor she laid in the same place,  she didn't sleep in the bed unless it was for a ***** deed,

Soon a gentle touch awoke her from where she fell asleep,
A kinda touch that the soul feels so deep,
She looked up to his face
from his feet,
and
saw that his expression was sweet,
He took her body in his arms,
She couldn't walk from the ******
harm,

Then she felt shame when she realized, JESUS was His name,
In his arms she began to weep,
But he reassured her that he
was in her heart for keeps,

She could not express joy and peace,
after all, not after all of her sins,

She couldn't figure out...
how she ended up in the arm's of
The Prince of Peace,

She was made pure and clean,
White as a mountain snow scene,

God is great,
Kneel before it's too late,
Let Him heal you're wounds and scars, His love shines better than all the stars.

Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch

after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”

O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my *** in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: ****, vaginal,
******, inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.

Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.” Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, Americana, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy, humor