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The money is good on the road
Collect calls from a new area codes
But you have to run as your plane arrives
Disconnected, living separate lives
Lost the connection to your heart
From hundreds of miles apart
Sleeping in hotel rooms full of regrets
Home alone but for my gin and cigarettes
@LadyRavenhill 2019
Poetry Addict Mar 16
Between the home and the word
Lies silences that will guard, like blackout curtains,
The condemnation of memory
Her face a straightjacket.

Is this bravery tapping past
the smallness of the kitchen
Sighing at the clear sunlight of twilight
Mercilessly liquid, revealing nothing--
That samizdat illness.
Sometimes life is all about appearances...
What do you expect of me?
To do everything for you?
Like a simple housewife in 1950?
Cooking and cleaning and laundry?
Hell to the no.

Yes, we have a child,
but does that make me the
sole caretaker of them?
The one they come to
when they're scared?
Hell to the no.

We are a partnership.
A force of support
for those around us.
A team working together
as one giant entity.
Should we be any less?
Hell to the no.

So please think before
you act or speak.
Especially with phrases like
"I will get to it later" or
"In a minute".
Then not do them.
I will end up doing them then.
Hell to the no.
halfmoonprincess Dec 2018
I have retired,
long ago, from my duties
my wonderful job
That has made me millions.

You best think twice
before your arrogance rolls
from the tip of your tongue.
Know, when you undermine me
Next to others among,
That I have made millions.

I’ve fed mouths
Raised beautiful souls,
Scrubbed till my skin cracked,
Squatted till my bones ached,
Cooked art till my heart was content but,
I have no right to complain
I never look back on my life with shame,
because I have made millions.

I arose at the glint of the sunrise
Filled my ears with the bellowing
Of vendors and their creaking carts
Sacrificed my sleep
To sustain my job
because my efforts are worth millions.  

I was dedicated,
Worked hard for my family,
my tendrils of hair askew
I continued my work
Masked my emotions,
Even when I was feeling blue
all because I was too busy making millions.

I kept my “office” ***** and span
Invented my own tips and tricks
since I was passionate
about making millions.

I wonder if you think I am worthless but
I simply sit back and smile because
I tell myself
I was a queen in my line of work
I didn’t just make beds,
I made wonderful souls
It never required money
I never had to get paid  

Now,
The thin wrinkles on my hand
Remind me that
I am more than satisfied,


Because I know
I’ve made millions.
Poem I wrote for my English final this year... I wrote this on my grandmother.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Soak, wash, repeat.
Sweep, sweep, repeat.
Wipe, wipe, repeat.
Scrub, scrub, repeat.
Dice, dice, repeat.
Wipe, dry, repeat.
The tears that are good.
Pour, stir, repeat.
Open the door.
Serve the food.
Greet, greet the guests.
Smile, talk, repeat.
Say bye-bye, repeat.
Massage, press, repeat.
Yelp in pain.
Grab your abdomen.
Rub, press, repeat.
Let the sari unwrap.
Shake your head no.
Oh oh.
Run, hide, cry, plead.
Rub your stinging cheek.
Sob, sob, repeat.
Dab, dab, repeat.
The tears that are deserved.
Press your straining scalp.
Grab tight the bed sheet.
Groan, hiss , repeat.
Fake, fake, repeat.
Pain, pain.
Again!
Sore, sore, all over.
Go make a drink and then,
Massage, press, repeat.
Pick up the nephew.
Ignore the daughter’s lies.
Pat, pat repeat.
Put him down to sleep.
Sing the lullabies.
See your daughter writhe.
Writhe, writhe, repeat.
Kiss your daughter’s hand.
Feel her skin burning.
Watch your daughter weep,
Cry herself to sleep.
One drop down then two.
The tears that are meaningless.
Lie down as if asleep.
Twist, turn, repeat.
Wake up before dawn.
Now, you put on.
Red, green, black and gold.
Vermillion, bangles, beads.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Here is a little introduction to the lives of most housewives in India.
mythie Dec 2017
Red and white dotted fabric.
I spin around in my chic new dress.
My husband kisses me goodbye.
I iron out the clothes.

Stitch.
Sew.
Cut.
Pull.

Warm, homecooked meals.
We dine as a tune from our youth plays on the radio.
He places a rose on my empty plate.
I smile.

Thimbles coat my fingers.
I stick pins in fabric and sew it up together.
I feel a thud in my stomach.
I iron out the clothes.

He welcomes me home with gifts.
My baby boy is fast asleep.
My husband is slowly coming home later and later.
He hasn't noticed the holes in my arm.

I drink another shot, smiling at my sleepy baby boy.
My husband isn't home.
I pop my pills.
And I iron out the clothes.

The medicine isn't working anymore.
I can't stop his screaming.
Shut up.
Shut that child up.

My husband is yelling at me.
What did I do wrong?
He tears my new dress.
I iron out the clothes.

My baby won't stop crying.
Stop, please.
My husband is never home.
My head hurts.

I throw the pills down the drain.
I shakily brandish a knife.
I breathe.
And iron out the clothes.

Crimson splattered across walls.
An old tune from our youth plays on the radio.
My husband isn't breathing.
My baby boy stopped crying.

I feed my child and put him to sleep.
I sleep.
I spin around in my green and white polka dotted dress.
The fabric tearing at the seams.

I iron out the clothes.
The fabric.
The rope.

I leave a rose next to my child and stand up.
This necklace fits perfectly.
I take a bow in front of the mirror.
Don't I look pretty?

I kick the furniture.
Dancing midair.
My hair falls to my face.
I iron out the
the beginning.
Marc Hawkins Sep 2017
Words spoken plainly
Now ignored.
After thirty years of habit
He stirs at 5.15 every AM…
Regimental.
After thirty years of habit
She does not stir
But sleeps through.
Words spoken, no longer plainly
But forced with effort,
Patience used.
Him, blind to her frustrations.
A broken necklace,
A torn handkerchief .
A housewife’s muzzled huzza
To husband ignored -
Her way of pretending
Everything is ok,
The only effort from either
To just get on with it,
To get by,
To wait it out.
But still…
Life goes on.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2007
Crystal June Jan 2017
Don't fantasize,
Close your eyes.
Your prying lies
Will surely lead to my demise,
For I was born
To be more
Than just a simple wife.

I'm not a trophy by any means,
But I see marriage in your eyes --
Two rings staring right at who you think I am,
The one you want, but I never can
Be the girl that you desire.
You've been confusing my cold shoulder
For an igniting fire.
I'm not trying to call you a liar,
If anything, I'm the one concealing the truth.

I will never be just a wife,
I will lead my own fantastic life.
I'll never wear an apron, curls, or pearls.
I will never be your one and only girl.
I will live for myself and my daughters,
For all those women to come
Who think
All they can ever be is a housewife
Clad in pink.
Honey, there's so much more to this
Than a life in which you depend on a man
For your happiness.

Be your own other half,
Fall in love with your own smile.
I wrote this about a month ago, but it seems relevant now more than ever.
Kenna Dec 2016
I used to write
about women,
looking in the mirror, peering
out from behind the bars of these walls.

I used to see them
in the kitchen,
by the stove, seated:
docile at the table. Their chairs
were always a little
askew--drawn back--
or maybe they just weren't there.

They'd wash--no scrub--
their hands among the dishes
until their manicures bled.
Then they'd stack the porcelain
in a heap out by last night's
******* and tomorrow's
cleaning.

Sometimes they'd smile
to themselves; a chuckle of menial
labor. But other times they'd cry
and groan and moan out the next
generation of household
women. I used to see
them everywhere. I wonder where
they've gone.
Stanley Wilkin Jan 2016
She noticed the basking shark was wounded,
weeping vaginal blood.
The tall man in a fedora whispered as he passed.
Whipped by exploratory waves, she blushed.
The horizon was a hazy green line dipped in red.
She had been there since morning
searching for love,
and found it
from a six-pack merman offering solace
as he rode on the silvery
back of a ray.
As he approached, the sun at his back,
she moaned and threw out her arms
like a supplicant.

Complete at last, the sand grasping at
her shoeless feet, she sank
towards the earth’s distant core
using her arms as uncertain ballast.

She awoke with a shiver
brushed away the sand
and headed back home.
The shark had turned belly-up,
scavenged by seagulls.

Another day-dream enjoyed in the
empty hours between lunch and dinner
between her third cup of tea
and fourth cigarette,
her children snoozing in
the back bedroom. Half-slumbering
in a town barked at by bothersome seagulls
where an unencumbered sun
set on a postcard shoreline.
Planning the rows of petunias to be
planted by the hedge,
making shopping lists,
writing novels, never to be published,
staring out of her windows at the sea
she waited for her husband’s return,
tedious evenings of T.V.
and coition under the brightly coloured duvet.
The waves that overwhelmed her, flooding her senses,
were her own. The man
in the fedora had made her smile.
****** fantasy loneliness housewife
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