#washing
this is how the poetry bows out
the tying of the tongue,
fingertips are shaved, nubbed,
heart seized, it rhyming ceased,
veins are dammed, arteries blocked,
the emotional fled, to a wild wind wed,
this is how the poetry bows down ‘n out
the remainders, sticky stuck, viscous,
through small pore filters they leak,
with the soap and the sins, all drained,
the shower uses holy water to no avail,
this is how the poetry bows down ‘n out
the brain cognitions loss, realizing a release
ending, time sensitized, the mantelpiece badly
cracked, each of the body’s words in reliquaries hidden,
the other worldly acquaintances greet him joyously,
commence a choir chant, a motet centuries old,
this, this! is how the poetry bows out
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 10:26 AM UTC
oscillating between extremes
the seesaw tilts, slamming the body into hurtful,
no genteel daisy picking, nope, love me, love me not,
the mind playing warped ideologies, you, tossed about
I want her; all men do; the rapture is coming, her eyes,
preach to the converted and the soon-to-be; join her,
her semi-colon smile, represents a hell of near-completion!
discourse, pleadings, all for naught, she, teacher/grader,
A or F, frenzied thrown to the ground, her lips say oops,
but we know, a throwing intentional, a mastery of reminder!
barbs of batting eyelids, whipping tongue tips reveal daggers,
woe is me, whoa I plead, there is no mercies extant, instead, we
oscillate up and down, tween extremes, I need her, can’t have her!
I hate her! and myself, for myself, I love her so, my hate for her is less
than our mutual mocking of me...
————
we oscillate between extremes, at least, we are together...
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 8:24 AM UTC
Sometimes clouds
Sometimes rain
Sometimes a little gray
to wash away
the inhumane
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 1:34 AM UTC
Days at home and I have started hearing things,
My furniture and home appliances seem to talk to me.
My bed says "Come and lie down,
Enjoy tea in me,"
My pillows say,"Hug us,relax everything is going to be fine.
As I entered the kitchen my toaster jumped up to warn me of my wife's mood,
Too late, we started arguing and the vacuum told me to **** it up,
To make matters worse the washing machine put a different spin on everything.
The T.V and my mobile threatened to die if I did not give them rest,
Furious I banged the front door,
The door **** advised me to get a grip,
But the door screamed I was unhinged,
At that my fan soothingly said it would soon blow over,
At last the curtains ordered me to pull myself together.
4/4/2020
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 10:19 AM UTC
I know there are chores to be done
Laundry pile is growing large and looming
The corner of my room overcrowded
Bin sits and as I wait it's blooming
I fear there be dishes in the sink
If I listen close I can hear
Cry out my name shamelessly
I try not to get too near
I am not blind to the layer of dust
All objects on my bedside table
Mom wasn't lying when she remarked
"This coated house is disgusting!"
"It looks like a stable!"
But don't feel like doing anything
Washing dishes
Or clothes
Or cleaning
I think I'll just lose myself
Some deeper meaning
Dec 31, 2019
Dec 31, 2019 at 12:44 PM UTC
fall from the lies
you've pinched yourself poor
fall from the lies
they are no nesting place
fall from the lies
thrive
from your dormancy
shudder off your sleep state
regain your currency
fall from your lies
and the famine of all this 'luxury'
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
Not waving, but drying.
Not surrender, but hope.
Not a reckless abandon
to the uncaring elements,
but a careful reading of the gusts,
of the distant clouds,
of any sign of coming gales.
Not waving, but drying
by a canny application
of my mother's oversized,
double applied,
long-legged, wooden pegs.
Not waving, but drying
by lunchtime.
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 3:17 PM UTC
I want to be this
wet white dress
hanging alone on the line,
on such a gentle
Sunday morning.
Why do I want to be this dress
so badly?
Every time I glance it’s way
I’m surprised with the jealousy I feel.
I must be jealous of its peace,
I suppose.
It has no need to do anything
all day long,
except hang there
and sweetly dry
in its own time.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
i see my life hung out to dry
my memories slowly falling to the ground
my mind losing all colour
leaving behind a shell of the person i once was
slowly i shrink
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC
Where soulless white shades hang.
The tempest of breath
Clings around these hung effigies..
Drying them of sweet nectars fluid..
Even though evaporated
the essence of summer lingers.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC
Who made you the centre of my universe?
Because it sure wasn't me.
Do you think that I want my life to revolve around you?
like i'm just a planet orbiting the sun,
A pair of jeans in the washing machine
Or flotsam in a whirlpool.
I don't suppose you'd understand,
How dizzy I get,
after a day around you
Or even a few moments.
How I can't keep my balance
And the world sort of tips
till' everything is inside out
backwards and all mixed up.
Except you.
because for some reason
the only stable thing
in this topsy-turvy world
is you.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
I shower everyday but
It is not enough
I can not be clean enough.
I need to be cleaner.
Cleaner. Cleaner. Cleaner.
I want to be clean and new
But every rinse leaves me withering
It is drying
My skin leaving me
in cracks and holes
My hair is falling out.
I do not remember the last time
I scrubbed every inch of the filth away.
It clings to me.
It has found shelter in me.
It is a part of me.
I want to be clean.
I want it gone.
I do not remember the last time I was clean.
I do not remember the last time I showered.
l.s.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
I'm lucky to have lived through all the times in which I shook
when everything was falling and I couldn't bare to look
my feet have walked the soil of a slow decaying earth
but somewhere in my footprints I have measured all its worth
There's nothing more revealing than a step or two in vain
'cause deep inside these bodies we can be as right as rain
let water be the words that wash the haziness away
the drops of heavy burdens pouring every single day
For some the fog continues pulling wool over the eyes
yet others watch the clouds become a falsity of skies
And those who have caught up with every conversation had
distract themselves on purpose, talking always, talking back
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 1:31 AM UTC
Fenola is washing up
the dishes after dinner,
Eileen watches her
from the table
in the kitchen,
Fenola talking about
her day at work,
about something
someone did or said,
but Eileen is watching
Fenola's body move,
the way the hands
(pink-gloved)
lift and plunge
in the soapy water,
the way her hips
move so sexually,
the tight bottom,
the way the skirt
holds her,
the black tights,
she thinking of later
after supper,
in bed,
after talk and kisses,
then thinks
of the night before,
the lights out
(just moonlight through
the slit in the curtains),
the perfume of her,
the kisses on her body,
the exploration
of each body in turn
or at the same time,
the soft words
of encouragement,
the later messages
of yes and yes
and there and there,
then Fenola turns
and says:
and her husband didn't
even remember
their anniversary
silly fool,
and she(the wife) said
he'd be for it
or rather he wouldn't,
and laughs
and Eileen laughs too,
taking in the shaking bosoms
as she does,
the sweet little piglets
lying there,
and all Eileen can do
at present
is stare.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 2:15 AM UTC
i haven't washed myself
in days
there's no point
because
it can't be washed away
anyway.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
I washed her
from my pillow-slips.
In a white plastic bucket
I soaked away her body's breath,
and with bleach removed
the evidence she had left.
We snatched the time
to make our marks
with sweat and
firm commitments.
The stains on stolen sheets
proved easier to erase
than those she ground into
the fabric of my room,
I watched as
traces of our time
together
turned the water dark.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
Bent over the stream
of laundrywomen drench
words that flitter to and fro,
rinsing and revising spoken prose
across whispered conversations
Fading away into the piercing gaze
of an endless summer’s haze
the laundrywomen have mastered
the art of washing the soul with only water
and well-meant poems as soap
as if it were the cloth in their hands
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 5:34 AM UTC
Ah! Another hero
Washed with bleach
Like the Son,
Who is only holy
When rinsed of his
Melanin.
I wear a white coat
That browns in sunlight -
It appears the moon and I
Will be good friends.
How deep must I scrub
To rid my pores of
The southeast Asian sun;
To wash my hair of Pacific salt?
(Even my mother painted herself
With a European brush).
How can I know myself
When denied the magma
In my blood?
It's of no fault of mine
That I've been stripped
Down to resemble a
Colonial caricature -
I've been taught
The victories
And learned
Medals are smelt
In white gold,
But mostly
I've been told
That mixtures separate
And I am mostly
Creme with a dash of coffee.
A shame!
Us beige babies must be
Assigned colors
As if palettes were for paintings
Not people -
My family tree has
Cane fields and apple orchards,
So don't act like
You're surprised
When I mention
White isn't the only
Color of my skin.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 9:37 PM UTC