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"ironing" poems
Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness one where I try to pretend I don't notice but have you noticed how difficult it is when outside idles but inside there's a race to views like you leaning side to side on the motorcycle ride slot machine driving my eyes to sly around your slides taking them wide as when I was eighteen I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end give out stares and start to take in scenes of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade around and around the circuit you rode I was lapping up your every move sneaking a view through the coin drop peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who prying open the photo booth curtain gap faux testing the mallet with your strength playing air hockey with my thoughts were your short chic bangs a wig? they sit so still I long for the straights then swing to one side with a leg tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends ironing out where the centre line is damp polishing the dashing leather saddle vibrating with wrist twist contempt loveliness revving up to red line exploding in my face with daring this bike crash heart of mine please forgive not stopping staring a race course habit never outgrown I go too fast and of course I fall in love as bad as deeply madly but the fact that it's with you.. well I have to forgive myself this malady I'm a side-road heading for a spin on ways to tell you you're beautiful dangerously close I risk self harm imagining that colour of pink and pale the flush u-turn will be a charm If I can get you climbing off hot and flustered I’ll have done my pit stop job at once a chance encounter and a fateful winning score to let you know you've entered into being my prize draw I'll walk away but don't be sore it's up to you to take it further but just know one thing more that if you call me to confirm and tell me that I’m worth it I would turn around so fast the world would gearshift and wait but not in neutral for us
0
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
anthony-williams
Not a slot insight
Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness one where I try to pretend I don't notice but have you noticed how difficult it is when outside idles but inside there's a race to views like you leaning side to side on the motorcycle ride slot machine driving my eyes to sly around your slides taking them wide as when I was eighteen I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end give out stares and start to take in scenes of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade around and around the circuit you rode I was lapping up your every move sneaking a view through the coin drop peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who prying open the photo booth curtain gap faux testing the mallet with your strength playing air hockey with my thoughts were your short chic bangs a wig? they sit so still I long for the straights then swing to one side with a leg tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends ironing out where the centre line is damp polishing the dashing leather saddle vibrating with wrist twist contempt loveliness revving up to red line exploding in my face with daring this bike crash heart of mine please forgive not stopping staring a race course habit never outgrown I go too fast and of course I fall in love as bad as deeply madly but the fact that it's with you.. well I have to forgive myself this malady I'm a side-road heading for a spin on ways to tell you you're beautiful dangerously close I risk self harm imagining that colour of pink and pale the flush u-turn will be a charm If I can get you climbing off hot and flustered I’ll have done my pit stop job at once a chance encounter and a fateful winning score to let you know you've entered into being my prize draw I'll walk away but don't be sore it's up to you to take it further but just know one thing more that if you call me to confirm and tell me that I’m worth it I would turn around so fast the world would gearshift and wait but not in neutral for us
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56
An Oklahoma politician wants to outlaw hoodies in the hood It's true, it must be I read it in Fox News  :) I'd sooner be in Missouri or Cleveland or New York City where you don't have to wear a hoody or raise your hands to get shot There are other things more pressing than hoodies in the hood that don't need ironing like hoods in suits and the elephant in the room that needs shooting.
0
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 10:11 AM UTC
r-2
hood(ies)
An Oklahoma politician wants to outlaw hoodies in the hood It's true, it must be I read it in Fox News  :) I'd sooner be in Missouri or Cleveland or New York City where you don't have to wear a hoody or raise your hands to get shot There are other things more pressing than hoodies in the hood that don't need ironing like hoods in suits and the elephant in the room that needs shooting.
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14
Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem: Painting a Function Different I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic Beyond the porch-floor Minerva hangs her wash making the invisible visible Eighty two and three quarters deaf she doesn’t notice   But this is, in fact, reality Has always been this way— Bent and bird-like existence   Balanced on two twigs—always busy— Her task, is the *********** of space   Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing The three phenomena which I must.... Things no one notices— climbing on the abstract surface of a picture Switching the curtains   God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…! It figures that— Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune   I try to fix them— Her ankles now And she curses at accidental quality from the corner of her mouth which has only one form Clothespin or cigarette?   Long johns and animals and men in heaven and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities surround us translucent, contained    I decide what to get for her birthday— We are good friends through painting a function different For me? Predestined necessity. Minerva? forgets her manners and eats like a survivor— Thanks going without saying.
0
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
elizabeth-balise
Painting a Function Different
Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem: Painting a Function Different I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic Beyond the porch-floor Minerva hangs her wash making the invisible visible Eighty two and three quarters deaf she doesn’t notice   But this is, in fact, reality Has always been this way— Bent and bird-like existence   Balanced on two twigs—always busy— Her task, is the *********** of space   Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing The three phenomena which I must.... Things no one notices— climbing on the abstract surface of a picture Switching the curtains   God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…! It figures that— Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune   I try to fix them— Her ankles now And she curses at accidental quality from the corner of her mouth which has only one form Clothespin or cigarette?   Long johns and animals and men in heaven and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities surround us translucent, contained    I decide what to get for her birthday— We are good friends through painting a function different For me? Predestined necessity. Minerva? forgets her manners and eats like a survivor— Thanks going without saying.
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39
As a child I put my finger in the fire to become a saint. As a teenager every day I would knock my head against the wall. As a young girl I went out through a window of a garret to the roof in order to jump. As a woman I had lice all over my body. They cracked when I was ironing my sweater. I waited sixty minutes to be executed. I was hungry for six years. Then I bore a child, they were carving me without putting me to sleep. Then a thunderbolt killed me three times and I had to rise from the dead three times without anyone’s help. Now I am resting after three resurrections.
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4k
Anna Swir
I Knocked My Head against the Wall
As a child I put my finger in the fire to become a saint. As a teenager every day I would knock my head against the wall. As a young girl I went out through a window of a garret to the roof in order to jump. As a woman I had lice all over my body. They cracked when I was ironing my sweater. I waited sixty minutes to be executed. I was hungry for six years. Then I bore a child, they were carving me without putting me to sleep. Then a thunderbolt killed me three times and I had to rise from the dead three times without anyone’s help. Now I am resting after three resurrections.
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24
Washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning The work is never done! Lunching, shopping, relaxing, reading I’ve heard is much more fun. Sweeping, mopping, dusting, shining Who thinks up all these gigs? But what I really want to know right now Is who left open the barn door to let in the pigs? Mowing, weeding, trimming, seeding Are mans work, but I’m all on my own I gave birth to a virtual army But housework is their No Go Zone! Yelling, screaming, crying, keening Achieves naught but my puffy face I’ve given up such futile exercises That puts no one in their place. I hear “Can you help me please” They hear “Blah Blah Blah” Maybe I need to learn sign language One gesture can go so far! To this end I have ultimately decided And I really do think this is for the best To sit right down with drink in hand and Let the little piggies wallow in their own mess! 24/07/2010
0
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
helen
Hell on Earth (is Housework)
Washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning The work is never done! Lunching, shopping, relaxing, reading I’ve heard is much more fun. Sweeping, mopping, dusting, shining Who thinks up all these gigs? But what I really want to know right now Is who left open the barn door to let in the pigs? Mowing, weeding, trimming, seeding Are mans work, but I’m all on my own I gave birth to a virtual army But housework is their No Go Zone! Yelling, screaming, crying, keening Achieves naught but my puffy face I’ve given up such futile exercises That puts no one in their place. I hear “Can you help me please” They hear “Blah Blah Blah” Maybe I need to learn sign language One gesture can go so far! To this end I have ultimately decided And I really do think this is for the best To sit right down with drink in hand and Let the little piggies wallow in their own mess! 24/07/2010
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25
If you do a little housework every day Then on the weekend you’ll have time to play A housewife s work is never done Working from morning to setting sun. Sweeping, dusting and mopping, always moving And never stopping. Washing clothes and ironing too So many things that you must do. Then the cooking and doing the dishes Picking up in back of the kids and feeding the fishes. Then trying to look pretty for when your husband gets home So at your tired appearance he won’t throw stones. Then when your day is through, a CALGON bath is what you do. (Calgon take me away) Just lying in the tub to unwind, and in another hour you’ll be fine. The comfort of your bed is looking so good And you’re wondering if you should. Then your husband has that gleam in his eye And you’re hoping that he doesn’t try. Then the comment was all it took, of how good you always look. Then he holds you in his arms and releases all his charms And makes all your aches and pains go away And this ends the housewife s day. © L. RAMS 032515
0
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
louis-rams
the housewife
If you do a little housework every day Then on the weekend you’ll have time to play A housewife s work is never done Working from morning to setting sun. Sweeping, dusting and mopping, always moving And never stopping. Washing clothes and ironing too So many things that you must do. Then the cooking and doing the dishes Picking up in back of the kids and feeding the fishes. Then trying to look pretty for when your husband gets home So at your tired appearance he won’t throw stones. Then when your day is through, a CALGON bath is what you do. (Calgon take me away) Just lying in the tub to unwind, and in another hour you’ll be fine. The comfort of your bed is looking so good And you’re wondering if you should. Then your husband has that gleam in his eye And you’re hoping that he doesn’t try. Then the comment was all it took, of how good you always look. Then he holds you in his arms and releases all his charms And makes all your aches and pains go away And this ends the housewife s day. © L. RAMS 032515
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24
My grandparent's house ten-kid-large and sinking on the corners of remembrance Remodeled now, to ...tenements Honeycomb ...the remnants Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child She sang on the ferry He fell in love "The rest is the history of us...." Wide as the Connecticut River, grieving-- in their sunset.... ________________ This-- chair is his I am afraid of it-- of his learning of the shiny badge pinned to his coat of his dying... Golden leather of it soothes his memory-- of another continent of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth so darkened now-- where his head once rested ...his hands and, I fear-- his mind.... I will not sit in it as if he will come back, to take his place I am afraid of him-- with his chair-- all worshipful and empty like a high place, abandoned to the heart attack not for grandchild play Seat of Authority still stamped beside the standing cold-- brass ashtray Pipe smoke imagines itself against the ceiling in the words of Yates and Milton He read to them and somehow-- Paradise is Lost.... _______________ This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold Worn as only large families wear The War of waiting shadows --four brothers who were spared Anna Mae, in charge, too young, worries in abrupt dark of dinning room Her face, haunted-- an archway-- ever empty by the large and ghostly table covered by its web of lace-- a bridal veil of Catholic impossibility... Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts of darling, Sean... Aunt Lil's “breakdown” with cigarette and thorazine   quaking quiet in her corner Aunt Nell, as blind as ******** hell ironing, darning with threads that thatch the wounded socks Holds it all together, scolding-- Brought the welcomed jelly donuts sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston all-- while drinking yellow ale Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
0
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
elizabeth-balise
Mansion
My grandparent's house ten-kid-large and sinking on the corners of remembrance Remodeled now, to ...tenements Honeycomb ...the remnants Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child She sang on the ferry He fell in love "The rest is the history of us...." Wide as the Connecticut River, grieving-- in their sunset.... ________________ This-- chair is his I am afraid of it-- of his learning of the shiny badge pinned to his coat of his dying... Golden leather of it soothes his memory-- of another continent of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth so darkened now-- where his head once rested ...his hands and, I fear-- his mind.... I will not sit in it as if he will come back, to take his place I am afraid of him-- with his chair-- all worshipful and empty like a high place, abandoned to the heart attack not for grandchild play Seat of Authority still stamped beside the standing cold-- brass ashtray Pipe smoke imagines itself against the ceiling in the words of Yates and Milton He read to them and somehow-- Paradise is Lost.... _______________ This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold Worn as only large families wear The War of waiting shadows --four brothers who were spared Anna Mae, in charge, too young, worries in abrupt dark of dinning room Her face, haunted-- an archway-- ever empty by the large and ghostly table covered by its web of lace-- a bridal veil of Catholic impossibility... Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts of darling, Sean... Aunt Lil's “breakdown” with cigarette and thorazine   quaking quiet in her corner Aunt Nell, as blind as ******** hell ironing, darning with threads that thatch the wounded socks Holds it all together, scolding-- Brought the welcomed jelly donuts sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston all-- while drinking yellow ale Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
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80
Growing up way back when life was simple. There were wringer wash machines. On Monday morning I remember my mom fill the wash machine with hot water. Add soap powder, but watch or it will clump. Then she added fels naptha soap Which was a bar, and you sliced off pieces for the extra ***** clothes. SIMPLE? Now she added the clothes While they are agitating You wait... You have a second tub filled with hot water. to transfer those clothes into, for rinsing. You always used the same water over. You started with white clothes, then eventually by the time the dark clothes  came around the water looked pretty gross.. SIMPLE? After rinsing you use that magical wringer. Which is two rollers that sqeeze all the water out. Time...it all takes time.. Then into the wash basket. Laundry back when life was simple... By then your basket if full of wet heavy clothes. Out to the clothes line. But first you had to run a dry cloth to wipe the dirt off the clothes line. Hanging up all that laundry with those cute wooden clothes pins. Not even clip ones were invented back then. But the bag which held all the clothes pins was real cute, it looked like a dress... SIMPLE? Socks, ****** shirts, slacks, towels, oh those heavy towels and my favorite the sheets. Time, it takes time to dry those clothes. Laundry back when life was simple. Back then everything was ironed. Starched and there was no spray starch, or steam iron. Mom would dip the collars of the shirts into a bowl of starch, and roll it up, it was ready to be ironed. Laundry back when life was simple... How can that be a simple time. I watched my mom and grandma do this every Monday. Starting early and it would be evening when she would finally have the clothes folded and put away... The next day was for ironing. ~~~ SIMPLE? We have the simple life for now we can throw in a load, have it washed, thrown in the dryer, and hung up in a couple of hours. Taking a coffee break in between the washing and drying... by ~ judy
0
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 11:03 AM UTC
judypatooote
LAUNDRY BACK WHEN LIFE WAS SIMPLE.
Growing up way back when life was simple. There were wringer wash machines. On Monday morning I remember my mom fill the wash machine with hot water. Add soap powder, but watch or it will clump. Then she added fels naptha soap Which was a bar, and you sliced off pieces for the extra ***** clothes. SIMPLE? Now she added the clothes While they are agitating You wait... You have a second tub filled with hot water. to transfer those clothes into, for rinsing. You always used the same water over. You started with white clothes, then eventually by the time the dark clothes  came around the water looked pretty gross.. SIMPLE? After rinsing you use that magical wringer. Which is two rollers that sqeeze all the water out. Time...it all takes time.. Then into the wash basket. Laundry back when life was simple... By then your basket if full of wet heavy clothes. Out to the clothes line. But first you had to run a dry cloth to wipe the dirt off the clothes line. Hanging up all that laundry with those cute wooden clothes pins. Not even clip ones were invented back then. But the bag which held all the clothes pins was real cute, it looked like a dress... SIMPLE? Socks, ****** shirts, slacks, towels, oh those heavy towels and my favorite the sheets. Time, it takes time to dry those clothes. Laundry back when life was simple. Back then everything was ironed. Starched and there was no spray starch, or steam iron. Mom would dip the collars of the shirts into a bowl of starch, and roll it up, it was ready to be ironed. Laundry back when life was simple... How can that be a simple time. I watched my mom and grandma do this every Monday. Starting early and it would be evening when she would finally have the clothes folded and put away... The next day was for ironing. ~~~ SIMPLE? We have the simple life for now we can throw in a load, have it washed, thrown in the dryer, and hung up in a couple of hours. Taking a coffee break in between the washing and drying... by ~ judy
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65
This is for my mom and grandma You guys have been in my life since birth                 You taught me how to tie my shoes When I had no father around to Teach me the basics of how to be a man You stepped up and did the right thing When I fell off, my bike and I cried Because I thought my arm was broken You took me into the bathroom to Get the rubbing alcohol and bandages First-aid kit to fix my bruises and cut But what was amazing was how safe you made me feel By just saying that everything was going to be alright You and mom have been the pillars of this family Me and my 4 brothers learned that me mi ‘‘familia’’ is everything In many ways we learned how to be men from you I learned how to sew, wash dishes, bargain shop, ironing clothes and do the laundry And clean up after myself and the house, I know how to change a diaper and make a bottle from all those times that had to baby sit My little brothers when you were working I don’t know how to cook but I’m going to learn Because you always told me that you need to know how to take care of yourself What if you get a wife who doesn’t want to take care of you? You would give me advice like don’t mess around With a girl who has a boyfriend because you’ll get into trouble, Respect everybody even if you don’t like that person And finish school because nobody can take away what you’ve learned You were right about everything that you said I hope that when I have kids that I’m half the parent that you guys were to me Because you inspire me to create by making this family better, You give me strength to fight by not giving up on me, You showed me how to share love by showing me compassion And I know how to have faith By watching you live life facing your fears You guys are the true definition of What a strong, poor, immigrant women can Become with a little perseverance Happy mothers and fathers day Because you did the job that 2 parents Would have a difficult time with I know that I don’t express my feelings a lot But I am proud of you By Shannon Pollard © May 2013
0
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
belizeanprofit
Quality over quantity
This is for my mom and grandma You guys have been in my life since birth                 You taught me how to tie my shoes When I had no father around to Teach me the basics of how to be a man You stepped up and did the right thing When I fell off, my bike and I cried Because I thought my arm was broken You took me into the bathroom to Get the rubbing alcohol and bandages First-aid kit to fix my bruises and cut But what was amazing was how safe you made me feel By just saying that everything was going to be alright You and mom have been the pillars of this family Me and my 4 brothers learned that me mi ‘‘familia’’ is everything In many ways we learned how to be men from you I learned how to sew, wash dishes, bargain shop, ironing clothes and do the laundry And clean up after myself and the house, I know how to change a diaper and make a bottle from all those times that had to baby sit My little brothers when you were working I don’t know how to cook but I’m going to learn Because you always told me that you need to know how to take care of yourself What if you get a wife who doesn’t want to take care of you? You would give me advice like don’t mess around With a girl who has a boyfriend because you’ll get into trouble, Respect everybody even if you don’t like that person And finish school because nobody can take away what you’ve learned You were right about everything that you said I hope that when I have kids that I’m half the parent that you guys were to me Because you inspire me to create by making this family better, You give me strength to fight by not giving up on me, You showed me how to share love by showing me compassion And I know how to have faith By watching you live life facing your fears You guys are the true definition of What a strong, poor, immigrant women can Become with a little perseverance Happy mothers and fathers day Because you did the job that 2 parents Would have a difficult time with I know that I don’t express my feelings a lot But I am proud of you By Shannon Pollard © May 2013
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45
She let the tape go— on record one evening for an ordinary hour Five years later, we play it back for laughs after dinner—then as now “Remember how the stove door screeched at the house on Olive Street?” And our voices! Phoeb’s, lighter–tired wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns like flash cards in a rubber band “Phoeb, your pitch changed so— while I turned...” to run water in the tub lamenting the **** of Two in frenetic escape of hands Unruly! Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face who would not dare disturb her dawns only mine— Roused by the first round of another day’s ring of twelve digits that insist like uniform with apron waiting on ironing board that’s never folded Now the **** of Two cries out Exultant! of success in ***** Then, Oratorio for Soap! The splashy version with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!” and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?” in jubilant glissadal plunge an octave through vocal whoops! …I had not thought she hardly talked but sang and squealed or whined in tunes Her voice lay open to her soul a roost of piercing humming birds small of words but filled with sweet and want incessant wings and things to say.... How could we have forgotten? “Are these your boots? Your clothes laid out?” From sound and talk, we still can hear frost phantoms in winter window rattles—then as now And Phoebe remarks how one voice didn’t change though— “Still talking to herself” We laugh and let the tape go....
0
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
elizabeth-balise
This is -- a Recording
She let the tape go— on record one evening for an ordinary hour Five years later, we play it back for laughs after dinner—then as now “Remember how the stove door screeched at the house on Olive Street?” And our voices! Phoeb’s, lighter–tired wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns like flash cards in a rubber band “Phoeb, your pitch changed so— while I turned...” to run water in the tub lamenting the **** of Two in frenetic escape of hands Unruly! Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face who would not dare disturb her dawns only mine— Roused by the first round of another day’s ring of twelve digits that insist like uniform with apron waiting on ironing board that’s never folded Now the **** of Two cries out Exultant! of success in ***** Then, Oratorio for Soap! The splashy version with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!” and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?” in jubilant glissadal plunge an octave through vocal whoops! …I had not thought she hardly talked but sang and squealed or whined in tunes Her voice lay open to her soul a roost of piercing humming birds small of words but filled with sweet and want incessant wings and things to say.... How could we have forgotten? “Are these your boots? Your clothes laid out?” From sound and talk, we still can hear frost phantoms in winter window rattles—then as now And Phoebe remarks how one voice didn’t change though— “Still talking to herself” We laugh and let the tape go....
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53
Trapped in a ***** world a world of old gold. Wrinkled creases needing ironing on faces of the old. Arms caked in drawings of roses and steel Scorched fields ploughed to death in lines on rusty old farms. Clenched and clasped Tight collars at the throat Fat bellies in laps Buckles on horses Belts on chaps Held tight in a vice Braces on women with feet in straps Buckles and braces laces and *****
0
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:11 AM UTC
cheryl-love
Buckles and Braces
Trapped in a ***** world a world of old gold. Wrinkled creases needing ironing on faces of the old. Arms caked in drawings of roses and steel Scorched fields ploughed to death in lines on rusty old farms. Clenched and clasped Tight collars at the throat Fat bellies in laps Buckles on horses Belts on chaps Held tight in a vice Braces on women with feet in straps Buckles and braces laces and *****
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20
Gratitude: It pays to be kind It pays to know that something's not gonna be there forever I'm serious When that lovely lady passed away this monster ****** all the life out of her I couldn't help but think why hadn't i treasured you before Why oh why So here is my gratitude poem I love you mummy For all the things From sacrificing your sleep and time To make me a good breakfast And ironing uniforms Which you've always hated to do But did that all for me So that I would look decent in school To Staying up with me To do homework and revision before terrifying monsters called EXAMS For kissing me goodnight and telling me good things about life Doing so many lovely things So that I would have a better life I love you mummy I love my dad No matter how much I seem to argue with you on math or science I really love you too. Deep down I really appreciate your help but you've got to dig deeper to see that I hope you talk to me more About your life It's always been about my life my studies my health my friends And our talks never about you I never known a genius like you. ***** You are a piece of **** Really I wish you were 5 all again When you didn't have sarcastic comments And the I-grew-up-already attitude I love you all the same You stay up to help your big sis With her art work ( I **** at art) Or type for me in tamil You do great things, girl And sooner or later You are gonna be a great young lady Just like me I love all my friends The ones that hurt me The ones that love me The ones that like me All of you gave me experiences words advice stories that I've never known What is a life without stories? And lastly, my grandpa You were a great man. You may have died When I was one But I'm telling you grandpa I love you all the same I remember your wise words All the famous people who came to Shower their blessings on me And your lovely lap Which I used to take as my personal bathroom I'll never forget you You have an indelible place in my heart You have been my greatest inspiration and strongest supporter I love you all the same. The things I am grateful for It's an endless list But I love each and every single one all the same. I will treasure you better from now on. I love you.
0
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
cassis-myrtille
The things I am grateful for
Gratitude: It pays to be kind It pays to know that something's not gonna be there forever I'm serious When that lovely lady passed away this monster ****** all the life out of her I couldn't help but think why hadn't i treasured you before Why oh why So here is my gratitude poem I love you mummy For all the things From sacrificing your sleep and time To make me a good breakfast And ironing uniforms Which you've always hated to do But did that all for me So that I would look decent in school To Staying up with me To do homework and revision before terrifying monsters called EXAMS For kissing me goodnight and telling me good things about life Doing so many lovely things So that I would have a better life I love you mummy I love my dad No matter how much I seem to argue with you on math or science I really love you too. Deep down I really appreciate your help but you've got to dig deeper to see that I hope you talk to me more About your life It's always been about my life my studies my health my friends And our talks never about you I never known a genius like you. ***** You are a piece of **** Really I wish you were 5 all again When you didn't have sarcastic comments And the I-grew-up-already attitude I love you all the same You stay up to help your big sis With her art work ( I **** at art) Or type for me in tamil You do great things, girl And sooner or later You are gonna be a great young lady Just like me I love all my friends The ones that hurt me The ones that love me The ones that like me All of you gave me experiences words advice stories that I've never known What is a life without stories? And lastly, my grandpa You were a great man. You may have died When I was one But I'm telling you grandpa I love you all the same I remember your wise words All the famous people who came to Shower their blessings on me And your lovely lap Which I used to take as my personal bathroom I'll never forget you You have an indelible place in my heart You have been my greatest inspiration and strongest supporter I love you all the same. The things I am grateful for It's an endless list But I love each and every single one all the same. I will treasure you better from now on. I love you.
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97
Straight and proud Let me iron your mind Let the creases On your daily deeds' sleeves Smooth down and vanish The iron of my words will Float upon the collar of your views And the little pocket Smothering your heart Well, I may burn it Accidentally - I'm not good At ironing But let me iron the back So that you always stand Straight and proud
0
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 8:19 AM UTC
jagush
Straight and Proud
Straight and proud Let me iron your mind Let the creases On your daily deeds' sleeves Smooth down and vanish The iron of my words will Float upon the collar of your views And the little pocket Smothering your heart Well, I may burn it Accidentally - I'm not good At ironing But let me iron the back So that you always stand Straight and proud
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15
She expressed again what others have known.. the ironing chore found quietly calming bringing sometimes bliss to a day.. What is behind this smoothing of wrinkles which serves such wellbeing and peace..? Perhaps we find here in striking resemblance an old story.. night becomes day martha becomes mary as our wrinkles are pressed.. With thanks to Bette her example and sevice and for this new ironingboard parable...!
0
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
charlesc
A woman ironing
She expressed again what others have known.. the ironing chore found quietly calming bringing sometimes bliss to a day.. What is behind this smoothing of wrinkles which serves such wellbeing and peace..? Perhaps we find here in striking resemblance an old story.. night becomes day martha becomes mary as our wrinkles are pressed.. With thanks to Bette her example and sevice and for this new ironingboard parable...!
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21
You've only ever seen yourself twice: once in a reflection, the other in a picture. You've never truly seen yourself, so I'll take the liberty to devote my entire life to describing the extent of your beauty. The first thing everyone notices about you is that smile of yours, dear. It's dazzling. It's distracting. It's absolutely lovely, and no mirror nor picture can ever replicate its splendor. Your warm smile melts the ice, while casual chit chat merely breaks it. When you smile, the edges of your eyes crinkle just the right amount, beckoning amiably. Your laugh is a waterfall and I want to spend my days letting it crash down upon me, I want to drown in its bliss. Your laugh is a lilting balm to the horrors these ears of mine have heard, a soothing caress to my worrisome heart and mind. Your eyes, you underestimate their charm. You belittle them to simple drops of brown darling but they are transformed into pools of hazel, gold, honey, sepia, and cocoa in the sunlight. I call them bedroom eyes. I stare into them not to look at my reflection but to look into your heart. You smile with your eyes sometimes, it's really quite lovely. It's a shame you're not on the receiving end of it. Your hair is absolutely stunning. I could run my hands through it and let my fingers get lost in your curls and meet some bobby pins along the way. You complain of it often, but tracing the lines of your steep curls with my eyes sends me into a happy daze. On numerous occasions I have said it and I will say it again: you feel beautiful. Your skin under mine feels absolutely lovely, my dear. I could spend millennia letting my hands run the length of your gorgeous body. And I'd do it happily, too. I love the little moles you've got on your cheeks and your ironing-board-scar and your lips (both sets). You were born a blank page but now you're a beautiful work of art with depth and shades and texture. Your body is a diamond: it is multifaceted and precious and priceless. And it deserves to be looked at, my dear. I adore your body, sweetheart. From the scoop of your collarbone, to the curve of your back; from the gentle definition in your arms and legs to the stronger curves of your ******* I love the beckoning rise of your hips and your thighs, and the gentle mound of your *** I could spend an eternity painting your body with my kisses, each a silent praise to the masterpiece that is your body.
0
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 10:17 AM UTC
harshhappens
Look at Yourself
You've only ever seen yourself twice: once in a reflection, the other in a picture. You've never truly seen yourself, so I'll take the liberty to devote my entire life to describing the extent of your beauty. The first thing everyone notices about you is that smile of yours, dear. It's dazzling. It's distracting. It's absolutely lovely, and no mirror nor picture can ever replicate its splendor. Your warm smile melts the ice, while casual chit chat merely breaks it. When you smile, the edges of your eyes crinkle just the right amount, beckoning amiably. Your laugh is a waterfall and I want to spend my days letting it crash down upon me, I want to drown in its bliss. Your laugh is a lilting balm to the horrors these ears of mine have heard, a soothing caress to my worrisome heart and mind. Your eyes, you underestimate their charm. You belittle them to simple drops of brown darling but they are transformed into pools of hazel, gold, honey, sepia, and cocoa in the sunlight. I call them bedroom eyes. I stare into them not to look at my reflection but to look into your heart. You smile with your eyes sometimes, it's really quite lovely. It's a shame you're not on the receiving end of it. Your hair is absolutely stunning. I could run my hands through it and let my fingers get lost in your curls and meet some bobby pins along the way. You complain of it often, but tracing the lines of your steep curls with my eyes sends me into a happy daze. On numerous occasions I have said it and I will say it again: you feel beautiful. Your skin under mine feels absolutely lovely, my dear. I could spend millennia letting my hands run the length of your gorgeous body. And I'd do it happily, too. I love the little moles you've got on your cheeks and your ironing-board-scar and your lips (both sets). You were born a blank page but now you're a beautiful work of art with depth and shades and texture. Your body is a diamond: it is multifaceted and precious and priceless. And it deserves to be looked at, my dear. I adore your body, sweetheart. From the scoop of your collarbone, to the curve of your back; from the gentle definition in your arms and legs to the stronger curves of your ******* I love the beckoning rise of your hips and your thighs, and the gentle mound of your *** I could spend an eternity painting your body with my kisses, each a silent praise to the masterpiece that is your body.
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42
. Sometimes I want to say **** off to anyone and anything discard everything and get back my share of the nightmare, slide up the two mil' ride down the long thrill and slowly so slowly **** every waking moment every waking thought, sleep walk my way through the.. ..sometimes the day is like that, flat.
0
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 3:30 PM UTC
john-edward-smallshaw
Ironing out the wrinkles
. Sometimes I want to say **** off to anyone and anything discard everything and get back my share of the nightmare, slide up the two mil' ride down the long thrill and slowly so slowly **** every waking moment every waking thought, sleep walk my way through the.. ..sometimes the day is like that, flat.
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14
Alice stands in the room by the stairs, at the end of the house; the low end, servant's end, Father said, don't go there, but she does. She goes down the back stairs, down long dark passageways, watching staff in their world, the kitchen, scullery, the wash room, other rooms. And this room. She watches the thin maid called Mary ironing. Why're you here? Mary asks. To see you, Alice says. Why see me? Mary asks. I love you, Alice says. Mary frowns. You shouldn't use those words, Mary says turning round. Alice stands her small hands in pockets of her blue pinafore. But I do, I love you. Why is that? Mary asks. You are kind like Mother used to be before she had to leave. Mary heard, rumours spread, the mother had to leave, had problems in the head, locked away so they say, for a year and a day. She'll be back, Mary says. Alice sighs, I love you, I want you to stand in for Mother, between us, Alice says. Mary sits on a chair, flushes red, between us I can be I suppose, Mary says. Uncertain of her pledge she gazes at the child standing there. Need a hug, Alice says, motherly. Mary feels at a lost what to do. Can I sit on your lap? Alice asks. Mary nods and opens her thin arms. Alice walks to Mary and climbs up on her lap, lays her head on Mary's silky ******* smells apples and green soap. Mary hugs her closer, kisses on the child's head. Love you, too, Mary says. Our secret, Alice says, none must know. None will know, Mary says, just we two. Nanny's voice echoes down the passage Best go now, Mary says, learn for me at lessons, do your best, my daughter adopted. Alice nods, kisses quick, then goes up the back stairs out of sight. Seen Alice? Nanny asks. Not at all, Mary lies, sees the dark cruel eyes scan the room. She'll be pained if she's caught down this end, Nanny says. Then she gone, her black skirt swishing loud, the black shoes going click, clack, click, clack. Mary gives a rude sign with fingers behind fat Nanny's back.
0
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
terry-collett
ALICE'S NEW MOTHER.
Alice stands in the room by the stairs, at the end of the house; the low end, servant's end, Father said, don't go there, but she does. She goes down the back stairs, down long dark passageways, watching staff in their world, the kitchen, scullery, the wash room, other rooms. And this room. She watches the thin maid called Mary ironing. Why're you here? Mary asks. To see you, Alice says. Why see me? Mary asks. I love you, Alice says. Mary frowns. You shouldn't use those words, Mary says turning round. Alice stands her small hands in pockets of her blue pinafore. But I do, I love you. Why is that? Mary asks. You are kind like Mother used to be before she had to leave. Mary heard, rumours spread, the mother had to leave, had problems in the head, locked away so they say, for a year and a day. She'll be back, Mary says. Alice sighs, I love you, I want you to stand in for Mother, between us, Alice says. Mary sits on a chair, flushes red, between us I can be I suppose, Mary says. Uncertain of her pledge she gazes at the child standing there. Need a hug, Alice says, motherly. Mary feels at a lost what to do. Can I sit on your lap? Alice asks. Mary nods and opens her thin arms. Alice walks to Mary and climbs up on her lap, lays her head on Mary's silky ******* smells apples and green soap. Mary hugs her closer, kisses on the child's head. Love you, too, Mary says. Our secret, Alice says, none must know. None will know, Mary says, just we two. Nanny's voice echoes down the passage Best go now, Mary says, learn for me at lessons, do your best, my daughter adopted. Alice nods, kisses quick, then goes up the back stairs out of sight. Seen Alice? Nanny asks. Not at all, Mary lies, sees the dark cruel eyes scan the room. She'll be pained if she's caught down this end, Nanny says. Then she gone, her black skirt swishing loud, the black shoes going click, clack, click, clack. Mary gives a rude sign with fingers behind fat Nanny's back.
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153
I am a carousel going too fast. The grey sky is my envelope, when it opens it pours with belated emotion and fiery. Ironing out the creases, straightening my mind, I am okay “I am okay” I. Am. Okay. I repeat over and over . This is a temporary glitch, The carousel is slowing, slowing but my mind it goes faster and faster until! The carousel reaches its impending doom. Delayed reactions, my head is still spinning my hands are holding so tight onto the horses beautiful deep black reins. The carousel with its supposedly fairytale ending, riding on the back of a horse into a state of complete relaxation and calmness. I hear the neigh of the horse before my head hits the floor and I enter the black hole my mind.
0
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
brianna-henderson
Carousel
I am a carousel going too fast. The grey sky is my envelope, when it opens it pours with belated emotion and fiery. Ironing out the creases, straightening my mind, I am okay “I am okay” I. Am. Okay. I repeat over and over . This is a temporary glitch, The carousel is slowing, slowing but my mind it goes faster and faster until! The carousel reaches its impending doom. Delayed reactions, my head is still spinning my hands are holding so tight onto the horses beautiful deep black reins. The carousel with its supposedly fairytale ending, riding on the back of a horse into a state of complete relaxation and calmness. I hear the neigh of the horse before my head hits the floor and I enter the black hole my mind.
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34
lust is a hash of eyes lust is a hash of a beast 2 eyes is a hash of the beast 2 eyes is a hash of lust 2 eyes is a hash of eyes 2 eyes is a hash of beauty 2 eyes is the beauty of the beast beauty is the ironing of the beast beauty is the ironing of the eyes beauty is a ironing lust lust is a ironing lust lust is a ironing beauty lust is a ironing beast the beast is the ironing of the beast 2 eyes of the beast is 2 eyes of a ironing beast 2 eyes of the beast is 2 eyes of a ironing beauty 2 eyes of the beast is 2 eyes of a ironing lust 2 eyes of the beast is 2 eyes of a hash beauty beauty is a hash of beauty beauty is a hash of the beast beauty is a hash of lust
0
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 3:15 PM UTC
godlucifer
2 eyes of the beast
lust is a hash of eyes lust is a hash of a beast 2 eyes is a hash of the beast 2 eyes is a hash of lust 2 eyes is a hash of eyes 2 eyes is a hash of beauty 2 eyes is the beauty of the beast beauty is the ironing of the beast beauty is the ironing of the eyes beauty is a ironing lust lust is a ironing lust lust is a ironing beauty lust is a ironing beast the beast is the ironing of the beast 2 eyes of the beast is 2 eyes of a ironing beast 2 eyes of the beast is 2 eyes of a ironing beauty 2 eyes of the beast is 2 eyes of a ironing lust 2 eyes of the beast is 2 eyes of a hash beauty beauty is a hash of beauty beauty is a hash of the beast beauty is a hash of lust
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21
Steam rising from hot cotton Memories stirring Turning a collar and smoothing under buttons, first the inside, the plackets then the shoulders, cuffs and sleeves. Who knew the ironing of a shirt could be such a minuet of parts and caring and thoughts? The flesh these folds would clothe, the hunching of the shoulders, the reaching out of hands from clean crisp cuffs. My mother learned from my father learned from his mother and I to you bring hot fresh cotton my love.
0
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
tracy-malloy
Hot Cotton
Steam rising from hot cotton Memories stirring Turning a collar and smoothing under buttons, first the inside, the plackets then the shoulders, cuffs and sleeves. Who knew the ironing of a shirt could be such a minuet of parts and caring and thoughts? The flesh these folds would clothe, the hunching of the shoulders, the reaching out of hands from clean crisp cuffs. My mother learned from my father learned from his mother and I to you bring hot fresh cotton my love.
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19
Inside, you sleep on the floor. Empty beer bottles stain the edges of a wooden coffee table. Parking tickets sit on the ironing board that blocks the door. Outside, you smoke a cig, tie a flag into a bandana and snapchat yourself tripping on route 66 because L.A. swallowed you at Sunset; white text quotes Hunter S. Thompson. You're so ironic, but you'll never be him. So desert your phone and take a real trip.
0
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 2:45 PM UTC
courtney-pruitt
Inside/outside
Inside, you sleep on the floor. Empty beer bottles stain the edges of a wooden coffee table. Parking tickets sit on the ironing board that blocks the door. Outside, you smoke a cig, tie a flag into a bandana and snapchat yourself tripping on route 66 because L.A. swallowed you at Sunset; white text quotes Hunter S. Thompson. You're so ironic, but you'll never be him. So desert your phone and take a real trip.
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21
a chemical cocktail spills from your lips your tongue drips pure moonshine table varnish leaks on the floor i've been polishing for hours can't get it clean, can't get clean i scrub harder until my skin is red and blood blemishes the rug nearby my friends are the beams of sun that show ashes in the air i don't want to breathe it any more i feel it scrape inside my lungs wanting to get out and escape white powder, lines of dust and little pills that keep me sedated my nose scrunches at the smell of strong ozone and the taste of metal forming in my mouth while ironing out radiation particles wondering where it all went so wrong
0
Oct 26, 2018
Oct 26, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
caduceus
Fresh
a chemical cocktail spills from your lips your tongue drips pure moonshine table varnish leaks on the floor i've been polishing for hours can't get it clean, can't get clean i scrub harder until my skin is red and blood blemishes the rug nearby my friends are the beams of sun that show ashes in the air i don't want to breathe it any more i feel it scrape inside my lungs wanting to get out and escape white powder, lines of dust and little pills that keep me sedated my nose scrunches at the smell of strong ozone and the taste of metal forming in my mouth while ironing out radiation particles wondering where it all went so wrong
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19
I’m sitting down to write a poem Instead of tidying up Or dusting off the mantelpiece Or washing up my cups Or ironing or vacuuming Or looking for a job Or moving all those papers That have settled on the hob. Its not really a poem It’s a reason and excuse because when it comes to housework I’m just no bleedin’ use!
0
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
tony-johnson
POEM
I’m sitting down to write a poem Instead of tidying up Or dusting off the mantelpiece Or washing up my cups Or ironing or vacuuming Or looking for a job Or moving all those papers That have settled on the hob. Its not really a poem It’s a reason and excuse because when it comes to housework I’m just no bleedin’ use!
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12
I still catch my breath everytime I feel that hot searing burst on my skin causing it to pucker blister redden it appears melted stretched taunt forced to do something it never wanted to do and because it succumbed I'm left with the this ever present sharp localized tiny focal point of pain. And it reminds me of you.
0
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 11:44 PM UTC
lydia-samantha
Ironing
I still catch my breath everytime I feel that hot searing burst on my skin causing it to pucker blister redden it appears melted stretched taunt forced to do something it never wanted to do and because it succumbed I'm left with the this ever present sharp localized tiny focal point of pain. And it reminds me of you.
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23