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Lata Choudhary Jul 2020
“Mummy where are your wings”


Mummy where are your wings
I have seen you always surrounded,
By the household working
Don’t you want to fly
Don’t you want to enjoy

Mummy where are your wings
Why you always worried
About World’s thinking
Don’t you have any aim
Don’t you have any dream

Mummy where are your wings
I have seen you always surrounded,
By the household working
Don’t you want to fly
Don’t you want to enjoy

Mummy is your life is a white paper?
Anyone can write anything
Don’t you have your own thinking
I have always seen you in the kitchen
Doing something ...............

Mummy where are your wings
I have seen you always surrounded,
By the household working
Don’t you want to fly
Don’t you want to enjoy

Mummy I know that you are caring
But I think that you are not daring
What about your aim?
What about your dreams?

Mummy where are your wings
I have seen you always surrounded,
By the household working
Don’t you want to fly
Don’t you want to enjoy
Marie Gee May 2020
To whom do I belong?
To the cold morning
and the unrelenting pound of my feet,
to meet the waistband of my favorite pants.

To whom do I belong?
To the cries of the babe left momentarily alone
while I halt time in the motion of rushing water and clarifying peace
in being simply clean.

To whom do I belong?
To the man who comes home from a career
I gave up to care for others,
To the man who pours into me every need, secret, thought and dream without cease?
While I silently and forever support.

To whom do I belong?
To the child so afraid of the world after years of hurt
Best friend, Gilmore girl, dreamer with an uncertain expiry date.

To whom do I belong?
To the food raised,
The clothes mended,
The laundry flapping in the wind,
The music that surges through my thoughts and never ends
And is reluctantly reminded "later, later, later my friend".

To whom do I belong?
To the old man now dying, tended by many
Yet wanting wanting wanting the role of my beloved or child
While his wife and all push me to take what she has abandoned
To give of me the parts of her she won't share
Untangling from a blackberry bush full of webs.

To whom do I belong?
You're too comfortable around me.
When I scream that I'm leaving
you don't even bat an eyelid.
When I dress up all s e x y you tell me to move away from the tv.
When I try to spice things up
You ask me "Aren't you too old for this?"
Am I ?
Why are you ignoring me?
You're looking but are you really seeing me?
We're talking but are you really listening?
Are you still the same person who said they'd give me everything?
Why does it feel like all you've given me is a place to do your cooking?

A  punching bag to hit when you overdrink.
A piece of furniture to cover you and your mistress's d i r t y deeds.
Yet you won't divorce me and I'm down on my knees.

You're too comfortable around me.
Lady Ravenhill May 2019
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 2019
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 twilight so
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
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