#housewife
I wake to fairy bells and even breathing beside me.
The sun looks groggy, and steal its face as I rinse my own.
Quiet tiptoes pirouette through the kitchen,
silent hands pack lunch in glass boxes.
With three kisses goodbye, and the twist of a lock,
I spend the day in this little box.
I have the freedom to do anything in this luxurious cage.
Whatever my heart desires
is at my fingertips.
Fingertips move with a technical grace,
finding the image in the wood to trace.
Sitting at a laptop, typing away,
hoping to feel pride of the self one day.
The sun sits high and now so am I;
as I bake breads and cookies at 375.
I’ve cleaned up Hot Wheels nine times today,
but they're all out again,
as I watch the boys play.
Evening comes, and love comes home.
Dinner and a movie, a nightly routine.
A few hours with my brother
is better for us both than it seems.
The stars lay glistening
as I lay listening
to the thuds in the chest
that I memorized long ago.
A few Hail Marys lull me,
as I hear the next day call me.
Apr 17, 2025
Apr 17, 2025 at 12:37 PM UTC
Let me handle, said the man;
Detailed everything, but the woman.
I did everything, said the man;
Without hesitation clapped the woman.
In front; I will be, said the man;
Praised actual, but was the woman.
Wasn’t it just another rumor by man;
All did but unknown, the woman.
May be that’s why there’s no more green but sand;
Cause motherhood only defined the woman.
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 1:04 AM UTC
“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
Jul 19, 2020
Jul 19, 2020 at 5:26 AM UTC
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?
May 3, 2020
May 3, 2020 at 4:21 PM UTC
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.
Apr 7, 2020
Apr 7, 2020 at 11:20 AM UTC
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.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
I have retired,
long ago, from my duties
my wonderful job
That has made me millions.
You best think twice
before you speak arrogantly of me.
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.
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 12:59 PM UTC
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.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
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
Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC
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
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
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.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 5:18 AM UTC
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.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:27 PM UTC
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.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
she sat in the center of her home
becoming the heart of the halls
the blood drifting in and out of
the corridors,
the clot that stood still in the living room
unable to move to the next destination
stuck staring at the dusty painting
that haunted her tendency
to fix that which does not
need fixing,
humming the delicate tune
which ascended into the aorta
of her kitchen,
all the way
to the apex of her attic
and finally folding into itself
like the towels in her
chamber of cabinets,
before unraveling out
through the long vein
of her chimney,
the housewife who
makes a living
with sharpened bread knives
and turning scones into
christmas trees,
who croons ancient love songs
in her infinite spare time,
and i wonder as i
stare at her
from underneath my book
of russian poetry,
how she holds up
when the front door bursts opens
and nature sings
a solo to her heart.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
As a young girl,
I was taught that I only needed 3 things in life to be happy.
First, I needed a husband. I needed his love and I needed him to take care of me. I also needed to make him happy so that he would never leave me.
Second, I needed a family. I was told having a family would be the greatest joy I’d ever experience and would keep me satisfied for the rest of my life.
Third, I needed a beautiful home that other people envied.
Well..
I grew up.
I experienced all these things
but yet,
I am more unhappy now than I have ever been.
My home feels less like a home,
and more like a prison.
because I am bound to it.
I am bound to that home,
simply because I am a woman and this is what women do, right?
Because my gender defines me and confines me to this one lifestyle.
After all,
this is what my mother and her mother did,
and they seemed content.
But why should this be it?
I don’t even know who I am!
Ask me what I do,
I’ll tell you
“nothing, I’m just a housewife”.
Ask me about myself,
and I’ll tell you about my family.
because I am not my own person.
I belong to the stigma that my gender should define who I am
and put boundaries on my capabilities.
That I am limited to certain tasks
and I cannot be anything more than I am expected to be.
I have created this illusion that I am satisfied
when I am not.
I am disappointed and I’m wondering if this is it.
Is this really what I am made for?
My life is like clockwork.
Everyday I go through the routines,
over and over,
silently praying for the day when I am free to be whomever I wish.
But for now,
I am nothing.
I am only a housewife.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
Cute
Pretty
Beautiful
****
While most women love hearing these words from the lips of their lovers for the evening,
I don't.
They aren't simple complements, they're ways to make me vulnerable.
Now I just sound like a white girl with issues, yeah I know.
But the truth is that everyone who has told me those words as only wanted what's between my legs.
And half the time, when they got it, they left.
I'm tired of men seeing me at 8am with no makeup or heels
Looking at me as if I had lied to them
Because I'm obviously looking for love in the wrong places
One night stands don't make hoes into housewives
But they will certainly turn housewives into hoes.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
slithers up the stairs
black as night his mutant skin drips upward
one
more
stair
she can hear him slink
one foot in front of the other
she retreats her hallowed head
the stalker climbs higher
higher than his arrogance could ever take him
and higher than the noose he has hung
for the depredation of her
screams forewarning in her head
this is the man which shares her bed
lunges forth and bolts the latches
head heart body spirit
bites the tattered tenderness
feels it bleed between his teeth
swallows her last atonement
so that there is nothing left to offer
envy rips through shivering splinters of a man
with nothing left to cover
she stalks across the bedroom
where she can see a hopeful face
where peaceful air once drifted high
will return again that way
a pis aller leap
from where she never stood again
this man will not be the death of her
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC