"duster" poems
This disaster by master
Coming faster
An intoxication and
Not a charm
This disaster spread
Like word of honorable pastor
There is a cloud
Dark cloudy cloud of
This disaster
This disaster flirting the environ
This disaster caressing the mammals
In its environs. ..
Oh this disaster a disaster
They fear this disaster like when
Oil castor drops in fire
This disaster pretty nice not
Like pearls in shells of oyster.
This disaster scary to their bones
Take this duster
Rub and wipe this disaster
Please take it!
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 1:38 AM UTC
I am as I always have been;
Here, just never present.
Easier that way,
For us all,
preferable even.
Certainly tidier.
Clean your mess up! you tell me.
I've tried
I'll try again
I pick up the duster
I open the curtains
But the light creeps in
When I don't want it there at all
And when I don't come home for a while
And when I don't ever leave
The dust finds a way back to it's favourite resting spots.
Clean it yourself!
If you would want it clean.
I wouldn't let you though.
For your benefit, my sweet.
I'm protecting you from all kinds of spiders.
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 3:28 AM UTC
I'm a lost sock
Longing to keep a foot from feeling cold
Even though I can't cover your entire body
Ill settle for an extremity
Because it's true that
Something really is better than nothing
I was dropped between the dryer and the washing machine
Forgotten about just like the paper clip and the thumbtack
My mirror matching partner
May have gone on to meet another
But either way I lie here in lint
I remember the comfort of being in a shoe
When the warmth flowed through me
I knew I was really getting somewhere
Always aware I was part of a pair
One of a two
Half of a couple that together made a team
Then again there was way back when
I was pressed and packaged and pristine and
Presented myself to people in a store
Who could care less to think twice or
Double take and have a second glance at me
I was as unique as all the rest
But I took my job very seriously
Now I crave to do anything
To help anyone and be of use anywhere
To maybe one day be rediscovered and
Perhaps reunite with my other or
Become a fine furniture duster or
A puppet upon the hand of a person Practicing how to be humble
It's a dream and a hope and
One of the few things left I'm free to have faith in
They can take my feet away but
They can't take everything
Somewhere out there is a bare paw
Chilled to the bone and shivering
Stinging exposed to the world
Wishing I was there
Come find me
Drop something worth picking up
So you notice that long lost missing sock
Reach and retrieve me and return me to reality
I've been waiting for this forever it seems
But through your eyes it's just a
Routine insignificant finding
Unknowing that it means the world to me and
My entire existence revolves around dependency
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC
Dear "Teacher"
Imagine yourself
being permanently judged
because they think of you as dust
Use the blackboard duster
and take your bestest shot.
Oct 9, 2025
Oct 9, 2025 at 7:13 PM UTC
In Farmington the misfit suffers the jukebox and dances to an unknown song. He dances on the pool table. He wears black—black skull cap, black
duster, black shirt, black slacks, black boots. He's in Farmington and
the women here drink Bud Light. He dances slow. It's similar to a dance
you've seen before. You have that friend that climbs on couches after a few and half staggers, half sways. The women here watch him with unhappy eyes and hands stained blue from the textile mill. He seems to mouth the words although he clearly doesn't know the song. They, the women, dig their elbows into the bar. Pocked and graffiti'd, the bar soaks up spilled beer and ash and nail polish. Behind the bar a sign reads: Free Beer Tomorrow. And for some reason, you must admit, this sign's effect never dulls. The Misfit pantomimes a dance with a pool cue. His face is severe, serious. He's in Farmington dancing with a pool cue on a pool table to a song he doesn't know like a drunk friend of yours and the women are watching. Next, he does something amazing. He removes his cap. He's got shocks of bleached hair and burn scars run like rivulets between the patches. He tosses the cap toward the bar. One lucky woman catches it and summons herself to the pool table. You want them to have a bit of dialogue here, to say something oblique and innocent. Instead the lucky woman dances at the man's feet. He surrenders a smile and he's got small tracts of bleached hair and burn scars and he's in all black and he's dancing. The lucky woman, she's in a canary yellow patch dress. Her dance, although clumsy, still mesmerizes you. It's without ego, without shame. She is a child. She is the light in the room. She is, in this moment, the world entire. He pulls her onto the table. It's time to appoint the Misfit and the lucky woman names, you think. His name shall be Joshua. Her name shall be Anna. Palms together, her head resting on his chest, they sway. The smoke and the tracers of light meld and Joshua and Anna's outlines become muddied. Their bodies merge and they are both yellow and black and covered in burn scars and bleached hair and the women are still watching. As the song starts to fade, someone—maybe it's you—drops a few coins in the jukebox and it begins again.
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
She’s sometimes a fairy
Or a nymph from the sea
A troll and a Viking
Wise woman for free
A housewife a mother
A cook and a nurse
She earns just some pennies
To put in her purse
She yearns for romance
To be some ones muse
Not wielding a duster
And cleaning a hoose
One day she will find it
She’ll wish on a star
And the folk will all say
She’s “a ******* to far”
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 6:18 AM UTC
The Kuwait Warriors are in my Jeans
My new favorite cartoon
Saturday mornings, sugar cereal, spoons
I use force to deal with the mentally ill
Prison gauge my earrings, brah
Psychiatric hospitals for playtime with myself
I can ********** to hippopotamus
Look to me like I’m amazing
I’ll be a living god
Not really, more flu shots
Put them in my eye
Sky for my eye and flanksteak for my heart
Give me all the Bacon and Eggs you have
I call my mustache the crop duster
Cuz I’m always cleaning bush with it
Blow a load
Of cash
On my body shots
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
feather duster
collapse me into an almond cluster
shake me into waves
don't say that jesus saves
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
Each day I come
to Master George's room,
each day, Gripe says,
Polly keep it fresh
just in case.
As soon as
I open the door
I feel a shudder.
I fear he will not return,
that he will remain
in hospital of some kind
for ever, his mind shattered
by this War,
by what he saw,
his wounded mind.
I read that 19,240 men
were killed on the first day
of the Somme,
and 57,470 wounded,
of which he was one.
When will this War be over,
when will it be won?
I walk around
to the window,
and open it up.
Let air in,
refresh the room.
The curtains flap
in the incoming draft,
like wings of a bird
taking off in flight.
I begin to polish
the furniture, even though
I did it yesterday,
and the day before.
I smell him around me,
his scent, his shaving soap,
his having been here.
I look at the bed,
and remember how
we made love there
at his invitation,
me a maid, and he
the young master.
I put down the polish
and duster, and go
and sit on the bed,
bounce it a little.
I stare out at the view
of the window.
Trees sway, birds fly,
clouds drift by.
He kissed each
aspect of me,
kisses everywhere,
his lips there,
and his moustache
tickling me to giggles.
Now he is broken,
mind fragile as aged paper.
When he came
back here briefly,
he spoke of a man's head
sitting by his side
gazing at him,
a hand of one man
lying still on the trench
by his eyes.
I close my eyes,
and want him back,
back here, back mended,
and this War ended.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 2:03 AM UTC
getting stuck
restless in the dust
stirred by soft touches, hard to handle
flurries of hesitant spontaneity-
take flight in the heated tango of 6:17 p.m.
will the billows settle among the fabric
or will it settle for nothing, yearning for fresh winds
floating endless on breathy quotes
wisdom of ancient used shirt sleeves
I believe I have a chance
to choose
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 1:28 AM UTC
This moment I share with the child just born somewhere
taking its first breath wailing
and my friend here in the hospital bed
gasping out his last breath.
His children chant the glory of Ram.
The room resonates.
Beyond the window the sky resonates.
An eagle circles unhurried
among the rainclouds.
A duster over an old blackboard
erases all jottings.
The first rains of another monsoon
come pouring down.
Together we set paper boats sailing,
over a pool in our backyard,
away somewhere.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC
While putting on her shoes she remembers
Father calling her from a far room to
Prepare for church, to wear her best, and to
Shine her shoes. She slips her foot into the
Shoes, placing a finger behind the heel
To lever in, the foot sinking down with
A tidy feel. I want to see my face
In the shoes, Father would call back then, and
She remembers spitting phlegm onto the
Black leather of her shoes and brushing with
The old yellow duster Mother used to
Polish the furniture. She pushes her
Other foot into the shoe, ********* it
In with ease, sensing the heel fit in snug.
She gazes at her black shoes, unpolished,
Unkempt. How Father would turn in his grave
To see them as such, she thinks, drawing a
Tongue licked finger along the toe of both
Shoes. I want to see my face in your shoes,
Father would bellow, his loud heavy tread
Entering the room twenty years before,
His hawk eyes scanning her dress, her hair, her
Shoes. And woe betide you, my girl, if they’re
Not shiny, Father said, towering tall
Over her, peering down overhead. She
Sits up staring at the door of her old
Room. No more shoe inspections; no more smacks
And smarts. Father’s silent now, Father’s dead.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 4:07 AM UTC
In the glass hours of morning
I am back in the lecture hall
With my uniform, bag and everything
Amid the class teacher’s frenzied roll call.
Roll no.9 she shouts out
I’m here ma’am no doubt
Me she gives a grim look
I hide my face in a book.
She rises with duster and chalk
I force on myself a silence
Pretending to hear her talk
Holding onto my brittle patience.
She goes on and on and on
Her babbles pouring like rain
Soon my defenses are all gone
Staying awake becomes a burden.
I get away into my dreamland
Far from the stiffness of rules
Where I dance holding the fairy’s hand
And there are no syllabus and schools.
My dream is so cute and cool
A freedom of endless peace
Till my ears feel the stinging pull
You’re sleeping? Shouts the Miss!
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:29 AM UTC
ageism
mob mentality
of the boys
you were
faith
in these
the footprints
of a left-handed
boy
doubt
unicorn sickness
as so
rumored
gentility
duster
of my father’s
bookmark
identified
by her picture
day
invite
final resting place
god already underway
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
I
...she tip-toes in, sprinkling
Fairy-dust into the darkest
Corners of my mind's living room.
Shuts the door behind her with
A smile of the kind that sees
Sobbing babies of all ages
Silent and asleep.
Skulls as candle-holders, knuckle
Duster paperweights, blades
*["...there are so many
Weapons in here..."]*.
My taste in art and decor
Is dark and delightfully human.
Aesthetics so alien to an angel.
She sees right through it.
Warrior or shaman,
All souls are children in
Her eyes.
II
Having pried up puzzle pieces
That were hammer-fisted into
Submission, she puts deep things
Into place
*["Shh... just follow the sound of
My voice..."]*, has love enough for
Lifetimes, yet will always be
Her own.
How could any man not
Dream to harness as much as a
Single ray of her shine?
Comfort; healing; an element in
Human disguise. But her laughter
Sparkles its give-away:
Us mortal men don't carry
The strength to hold her as gently,
Lightly; unpossessively as one
Must.
III
Goddess demanding her hugs
Received, or angel pulling pain
From something broken.
Hands that love the life in
Everything touch also the
Spaces between things.
Find us lost ones there.
A warm river cutting through
Winter frost, ice cold slumber
And lonely fatigue.
*Tired? Here, I'll make
Time go away
For a
While.
You owe me nothing,
Little boy.
Our souls are always
Even.*
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
I only wish I had a better memory...
Everything just became too monotonous, even with the light glittering on the surface of the water, casting thousands of facets across the pool deck like shattered glass.
So I went out for a bike ride.
All was quiet and seemed to sleep in the sweeping hand of the warm breeze that traveled all the way from the beach, and I can smell the faintest smell of the ocean waves, in the midst of all the jumbled pollutions and crashing smoke of smokestacks and exhaust pipes.
Then I saw.
On the side of the road there was a small black rag, that was not a rag, but a tangled mess of feathers twisted into a grotesque shape like the claws of death. Little threads of raw life all dried up seeping through shining fibers that had lost their sheen, turned into dull blackness, like strings of tar forgotten on the roadside.
So it goes.
And I rode on, into a large expanse of concrete, dotted at intervals down the center with trees covered in purple blossoms, standing out boldly against the dark grayness and stark white lines. A silver car was parked lazily in the shade of a purple tree, with sunlight shining off its streamlined hide. The shiny metal surface was being whisked to even greater heights of polished perfection by a rainbow colored duster, its wispy hairs blown sweeping gently across the Civic as the small lady in the purple shirt that matched the trees dusted busily. With her trimly cut black dress pants and pointy shoes, she moved quickly, half of her face hidden in a pair of expansive brown sunglasses that perched on her nose. What she was doing, no one knows.
Will no one remember?
I will time travel.
Now I am gone, and her existence still is, and was, and will be until it is gone. So will the sorry little rag of feathers by the side of life's unknown road, and the policeman parked across the lot, eating a donut.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 11:58 PM UTC
doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block
order, orrrder,
i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793
all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel
kazoos squeak the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.
now to business
the agenda for the day
1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.
2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.
3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.
4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.
5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being
6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.
please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.
i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.
and may the foot be with you
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
Roddy's Rooster, man! you couldn't
oust her
Standing up there on his dunghill fair
Announcing to the whole world, to All
everywhere
My **** He's the greatest doodle doer
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
He don't need no booster, does
Roddy's Rooster
He'd even go after the goose sir
Don't you fouster with this Rooster
You'd only lose sir
Now vamoose sir.
Very dapper and quite the scrapper
Patrolling his perimeter
Strutting around the farmyard pound
Invariably, henhouse bound
If you were to meet him
It'd be "Put up your dukes sir
Me! I'm Roddy's Rooster".
With his tail feathers all fluffed up
Like a feather duster
And his chest all puffed out
Quite the Dandy and always randy
What a Suitor that Roddy's Rooster
And O! what a Wooer, that wooey
doodler.
I I
He came a cropper though one day
When he fell in the Hopper
Now he's a good deal shorter
And not half as cocky as before,
Now he sits on his wall lamenting his
fall
Thinking of the days when he used to
have a ball
Has Lady Luck that Grand Old Duck
deserted him I wonder.
Sad to see, now he's a bit gammy
More Bandy than Dandy
He still South's in the Summer
But has doubts in the Winter,
Now he likes to crow his woes and
lows away
Climbing up onto his dunghill, he
greets the day
But now in a high shrill falsetto
voice
He sings in a whole different way
" I've been round the Ringer but I'm
still quite a Dinger
**** a Doodley Doo"
Now... now he's a ****** Blues singer!
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
Roddy's Rooster Yeeaahh!
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
The door and the doorway
form a cocoon around my
fingers and this metamorphosis
is still lovely because instead
of a butterfly I get bruises.
and white hot knuckles.
and a raspy throat when
afterwards I asked myself where
the air scampered
away to I think it’s hiding
under my bed and in the
piles of clothes that I
left on my floor because
every time I tried to pick them
up
I picked
up
the phone instead.
Don’t talk to me as if I’m
the last string holding the
tag on your bed sheets together
hile telling me that
I’m the last string keeping
you away from a 200 foot fall
while you’re bungee jumping
how do you expect me to
snap you back in place every time
you wander
I am not elastic.
it isn’t me that turns your
words into cobwebs in this breeze
I’ve heard everything you want to say to me
1000 times before
at least
give me a square of time
for my own thoughts
to act as a feather duster
in the attic of my mind.
to clean up your cobwebs
where you nested once,
you lay your eggs inside of me
and there are 2000 tiny animals
ravaging what I was saving for us
what’s left of my mind
I have a bottle cap and
a glass heart that you
copped from DC
you’re still running
and these bottles of vicodin
and oxycodone are chasing you
but you haven’t yet realized
that you’ve already tripped
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
I am
A feather duster.
Clogged with fears
and
Fluffy cobwebs
How odd
There is no more me
Only more
It.
A thing
a material kind of demeanour fling
slash
overthrowing one night plastic wonder
And I have found
myself
hiding beneath oblivion
and
a cheap stock price
Renewed,
exchanged
changed
paid with loose change
a chain of recurring events
Money making
plays me out of my
hiding spot
And I gross
in all vastness
the price times infinite
of what it took to create me
The other feather dusters
they
would be ashamed
to have me sitting with them
Because I cannot begin to
stop wanting more
More than an item of plastic.
a.l.h
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
I am the unfolding transformation
lifting you from the bottom of
the garden.
As there was a time when I
was obsessed with just money
and survival when I sluggishly
crawled constantly feeding.
Imprisoned by my body my flesh
I could not transport myself to
a higher thoughts or place.
Many parts of my life covered in
darkness I nestle quietly in my
chrysalis.
As I tuck myself in my own sheets
I collect all the food of past experience
and wait for a transforming party
to begin.
My back broken by an anvil I
used to carry now, letting go I
see it falling my back starts
healing.
Time i spent counting money I
now spend smelling flowery
perfume.
Take a glance into me you will see
the power of my spiritual eyes that
attach above and behind me.
Look into me and you will see
that i am a lot bigger than my body.
I live such an innocent way, but
the enemy is shocked frightened
away when he see the size of
the real me.
As a ignorant predator may foolishly
fear me but the better informed see
all my beauty.
Filled with colour my spiritual eyes
give me wings help me fly.
As I float I surrender to the joy
of a puppets dance as I am pulled
by strings not from this earth.
I show the world that change is
created not by a sledge but by a
little polish or feather duster.
As I lightly spread my change
with the softest touch.
Whether inside or out i spark a
permanent change with touch
like lovers kiss.
All the forces that I push to an inner
change are reflected in the
colour that springs outwards.
As I touch the sweet center of a heart
a rose I have a little sing and give
life a new ring.
As I breath and relax many gaps
open all my needs my soul spills past.
I am lifted through my life by a
force of GOD I spend my life
half angel half human.
As I spend my life simply and
freely I flicker my only mission
to spread some colour.
All stresses evaporate disappear
as I blend with the forever field
of change.
I am the one and only match you
need to lite the bonfire the flickering
flame of cascading change.
So much to learn when fully absorbing
a rapidly changing butterfly view.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
Mishaps and mispronunciation,
messy rooms and messy beards,
crops and crop duster airplanes.
Too many insiders,
too many to count.
We counted on the fresh air
in our bike tires to get us out.
Out in the open world,
the woods, the fields,
the lakes, the ponds,
the Indiana bonds
too tight to ignore.
A prison with open doors
if nothing more.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
Its a Sunday morning when the world works to a different pattern
housework claws in and takes control
of the daily tasks
last weeks work looks at me with doleful eyes
and a feather duster tickles my fancy.
Soon the clutter will unclutter itself
the vacuum cleaner will **** out the symphony
of dust and dirt and unhidden memories
and my desk will be tidied up and paper
towels will do their job.I spend time
re-arranging ******* in a more distinct pattern
" Ah, so there's that telephone number I scribbled last week!"
I return after an hours homework
and settle at my desk.
" Now where did I leave that phone number again?"
I survey the scene on AP
and skim through the comments
"God, he did not like my last poem,
She said :Keep it real
He said: What does this mean?"
and and and
The Green Eyes are forever smiling
Its a worthwhile Sunday
I better take up Chapter 36 of my book
but open Mathematical Universe instead.
Those eyes are haunting!
Its a beautiful Sunday.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
I used to be a
rocking chair
in the home of a lovely
elderly two.
In the summers I sat in the shade
on the porch
that was my world.
But I got tired of going
back and forth
with the same old things
I used to be
a pair of rubber gloves
belonging to the maid
of a grand old palace.
I held the sponges
that cleaned the biggest of ballrooms
and the feather duster
that danced along
the most delicate riches.
But I didn't like
being used
to do someone’s
***** work.
I've been a wish from a genie
(I was taken for granted)
I've been the pencil of an artist
(That job was too sketchy)
I was a sapphire gem in a mineral museum
(But I started feeling really blue)
I was a sunken stone in a rolling river
(But I just couldn't go with the flow)
Though, I don’t regret
a single thing I've been.
Because the best part of imagination
is the only thing about it
that I don’t need to make up:
my mind.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 9:26 PM UTC
When they taught me I hardly paid them a heed
now I know my teachers were benefactors indeed
I regret the curses I held in my mind for them
their punishments were blessings not something to condemn!
Sadly those days they seemed to point their gun
on me for unlearned lessons homework not done
for such small lapses the teachers made a huge fuss
pulled my ears made me stand outside the class!
Some of them more zealous went a little far
caned hard on the back plucked out my hair
it appeared so barbaric at my expense their fun
they only knew it wouldn't harm me in the long run!
Such punishments I did never willingly embrace
ran around the room sending them on a chase
in fueled fury with faces in anger red
often flew their duster toward my head!
In life those torments have borne fruit
the running around standing on one foot
they have made my leg muscles quite strong
helped me hold my balance without support for long!
My ears too have still remained intensely keen
my hairs for my age haven't grown too thin
the pulling and plucking had done me no harm
but made my hair root healthy and firm!
*The teachers for sure were prudent and wise
punishment they meted out was blessing in disguise
so if you ever cursed them make amends and repent
say, thank you dear teachers for all the punishment!*
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC