I'm hanging out
our ***** laundry
tonight.
Sticks and stones
and broken bones.
Words actually do stain
as my whites mix with colors
and flow through the air,
pegged down to the last insult.
The best stain remover could be love.
But we've got a really
tough collection,
here tonight.
Despite the hot water wash, those
hard-to-get spots are
still there.
And my brain and heart are
being tumble-dried
the heat, the harsh words
washing out my pride.
My outs are in, my ins outside.
The world's a-tumble
As we wear the cloth down
to the last few threads.
As usual, we forgot
a good dose of softener
to make mellow
the words as they jump
from  our tongues
and enter our heads.
I would save my heart
if I could save yours, too
But it's just all spinning too fast,
What on earth
Shall we do?
We'll just have to hang it up as it is.
Let the world see
that there is no perfection
Let those dulled brights
be a kind of reflection.
Perhaps next wash will be better.
We'll know by then
what to use.
Perhaps love will take over,
rekindle the blown-out fuse.
Right now I'm just gonna
curl up in this
basket. Wait for the
stormy cycles to end.
One thing's for sure.
We must clean up our act
Lest the cottons unravel
We must sew up each tear
Before our hearts start to travel
We must take care of the frayed silks and satins
the polyester
before they are beyond any repair.
Tend to those stains,
Straighten each snare.
Take my love
In a many-hued heap
Smelling of sweet soap
Warming your cheek.
A leap of faith
A dash of desire
Let's wash out the pain
Rub away all ire.
Let's have a laundry party,
Tonight.
Naked on the clean bright sheets.
Let the kisses remove
the harshest of stains
Let caresses replace the words
of pain.
The only softener we'll use
Is the creaminess of tongues.
Let the world see
Our love, tonight.
Flowing on the line
for all to perceive.
Darling, we must give just to give
And then we'll
receive.

Him:
I can’t listen to my favourite song,
Because I shared it with you.
I don’t have a favourite film,
Because you seen it first with me.
I won’t eat enchiladas,
Because “nobody cooks ‘em like you do.”
I can’t look at my guitar,
Because you’re not here to play it to.
I never visit the beach,
Because it’s where we kissed for the first time every year.
I gave up singing too,
Because you were the only one who said I could.
I don’t use fabric softener anymore,
Because it can’t comfort me like you did.
I refuse to wear my old white shirt,
Because we both know who looked better in it...

Her:
I listen to your favourite song,
Because I don’t want to listen to anyone else.
I watch your favourite film,
Because you were so excited to show me first.
I eat enchiladas every week,
So that I might have reason to invite you to dinner.
I stop by the music store every month,
So I can be reminded of you and your guitar.
I visit the beach every year,
But the wind never quite blows the same when you’re not there.
I wish I could hear you sing to me now,
It makes you so happy when you do.
I use the same fabric softener you have,
Because it’s the smell of your arm around me.
I want to ask you for your old white shirt,
But I’m afraid that you’ll say no...



Him & Her:**
I want to call you, talk to you
But I’m afraid you’ve moved on.
I don’t want to seem lost and lonely to you,
Even if it’s true.
Because I want to hold your hand again
And feel the perfect overlap
Of lines across our palms.
I want to be drawn to your eyes once more,
Locked together and speaking
All the words I can’t say.
I want to dare to touch your skin
And trace outlines
Across your back.
I want to share your smile
First thing in the morning, last thing at night
Knowing it’s because I’m there.
I want cold beers to turn warm
In the evening sun
Because I’m lost in your conversation.

But I’m too afraid to knock on your door,
When you’re around,
And find disappointment, crushing down.

i grew
from flowers.
fabric-softener petals
and twirling ivy vines
and quiet dandelions
and ever-sleeping blossoms.
i grew
from oceans.
calmly tossing water
and silent white sand
and slowly-floating seashells.
i grew
from forests.
serene unmoving trees
and soundlessly-swaying grass
and sedated sunlight beams.
i grew
from skies.
silent shooting stars
and twinkling constellations
and ever-so-slightly waning moons.
i grew
from quiet movement
i grew
from sleepy sounds
i grew
from hushed breaths.

Pattern the ice with
your collarbones.
Showers of lavender
hidden in your hiking boots.
Hang stamps from your doorframe,
the snow will melt someday.
The taste of words
bounced out of your mouth
last Sunday evening.
Shrugging off the sun
from the duck pond
to the sand
caught between your sock
and shoe.
I’ve been memorizing
deep breaths
and the way hair curls.
The keyboard knows your
v-neck and
the cocoa powder park.

Strong perfume can’t
be appreciated
under the milky way.
I fixed blue green eyes
on New Year’s,
one side of the
collared shirt turned in,
steam rolling hair and
too much straw.

Old shoes
filled with cinnamon
sit on 4:17pm
with an unmade bed
of sour green vertebrae.
The city at night,
a crescendo,
explodes in silence,
hot tea and warm mugs
tuning campfires
built from matches.
Thursday sunrises
balancing on wool sweaters
and the smell of fabric softener.
The early morning
hurricane over worn wood and
wet pavement
sounds of winter.
The snow’s just trying
to be human.

I'll never forgive my washing machine.
How it took the last of you away from me.
How it lathered
and rinsed
and drained your musk.
"Confident and fresh" you used to mock the slogan.
Now the fabric smells of softener,
And the colour's crisp and pure.
And it's just a tshirt again.

You sink into the fresh cotton ocean
fragranced by the oriental softener
I want you to reach into your inner
most abyss, while I pick my lotion.

We are alone my love, tonight
I owe you with my hands, give up the fight
Trust me, while I weave a warm thread of
tenderness on you, with me, you tread.

My fingers cascade and snake along your spine
I dedicate this moment to you. My message
is carved into you during this slow massage
To me, you are truly defenseless, thus divine

Imperceptibly, I skim your skin,
your breath, I appease
my angel, dream with ease
fallen asleep at my shin.

April 9, 2018
To Laurentin

I will admit
to overdosing them
with sweet beguiling
slippery softener
‘till dead at my feet
they can rise
no more.

Yet they cling to me
as they can
with a ghastly
screaming need
for me to pull
them up.

Yes, once
I had a pair of normal socks.

I am a shifting sky,
pale of pomegranate pink
to the desert plains of your
sloping skin stretched over
your bony fingers. Please think
of me when you press digits
to your lips, feel inked
numbers pulse in your pocket.
Expect me in a leather jacket
shining like oil-packed puddles,
breath heavy like smacking cigars
against brick walls and tonguing
the mortar. Expect me burrowing
my nails underneath your wedding
veil, chipped polish closing
in on the chiffon, expect my noose
of sheets to use your fabric softener,
the scent of your bed, fresh,
before we laid down in it.

Nobody is in love.

Shoulder to shoulder, flesh spilling over
Flesh: our warm bodies heave
And contort together, leaving no room
For sentiment that goes deeper than
Your off white down comforter.

Nobody is in love.

The harsh sunlight seeps in
Through down turned blinds,
And thin, translucent eyelids,
Both half open, but oblivious to the
Indifferent world. Life is too much with us-
Never leaving us alone to really feel:

The cold, smooth wooden floor pushing up
Against the delicate archs of our sinewy feet,
As they drop down to meet the brisk  morning air,
That seems to coat everything revealed and left vulnerable
By the crumpled up sheets limply collapsed over the headrest,
Or the soft, steady breathing
Of someone left unstirred by the dizzying
Relay of thoughts that dance across my

Foolish mind. No one is in love, here.
The last fragment of hope
Was forgotten underneath mismatched blankets
That bear the faint scent of lavender fabric softener sheets
And something that lingers nameless beneath your presence.
The indented pillow, where you lay your head
Holds fast your hollow shape,
As if to remind us that reality is only as real
As those who are brave enough to feel it.

Time treads on and on,
Leaving us scrambling over coffee tables
And yesterdays newspaper strewn across the bedroom floor,
Blindly groping the abysmal space to find something
That isn't really there. Instead it's nestled between
The tiny slivers of our hearts,
Scattered across neon billboards and thee star hotels,
Pleading with us to acknowledge it's elusive presence
Before the world runs out of excuses,
And we're met with a big boom,

That probably will never even be felt.

When my body can't take it anymore
I go into the closet- not to pray, but to worship;
I kiss the complacent coat hangers there, orderly on their metallic racks,
My lips on smooth plastic; eyes closed,
All senses centered on my mouth;
Enraptured, I can't see any colors at all..

The surface doesn't soften, as I beat out my lips
Against the mild anvil; altar of pain, loving the more distant you
Somewhere on a compass that the heart knows best;
This pain is merely a devotional exercise, to take my mind
Off the fact that the hangers can't actually kiss me back.

The wool blazer has your blue eyes;
The polo shirt has some, not all, of your softness.
The shoes delicately waft a heavy, calming manly odor of leather.
The weight of the clothing leans back against me, sighing
And muffles most of my cries and exclamations

While I sway, to their soapy limerance of fabric softener and dust.
If I push far enough into them, they enclose me all around
Just like a lover's firm grasp, of aching seams and  straining stitches,
Loving me soundlessly, from many directions at once.

To silent, undanced waltzes, we hang together, in furtive salute;
For they are not free, and neither am I;
But we can dream together, in the small cottony, worsted room,
For we are old friends, we have known both sunshine and rainshower together

And long, undying afternoons, of tears and questioning why.
They have known many of my beloved's names,
And I in turn have seen them both inside and out, plush and threadbare.
We have no secrets any longer; I know their every scar by heart
As well as they know mine:
I can never discard even one of their kind,
I have to keep them closer than skin.

Do you know what home feels like?
When I found you, I remembered 
I didn’t even know I had forgotten

Isn’t that funny? 

How everything you’ve ever wanted creeps in when you aren’t looking 

But I was always looking for family 
So when I found them 
It felt like I was dreaming 
Or maybe I finally felt like family too 
I sit up at night 
Studying both sides of my hands 
How much time did I lose? 
Was it a dream, after all?
I couldn’t have been asleep that long

Your breath still bathes the skin of my shoulders
Your hands still fumbles in my blankets 
I still feel you
I must have had too much to drink because when I woke you were just.. gone and I was on 
A stranger’s couch 
Kindness on the table cooked perfectly 
Every smile feels like The Truman Show, honestly 
Wait 
Wasn’t I just with my family? 
Don’t I have family? 
I was just thinking of my family 
Could you tell? 

Do I look like I need it? Can you tell I’ve been violently weeping in the wood? I’m some sort of ghost, will you take care of me? Have I skinned my knees? My palms sting. Did somebody say something when I was out because there’s a sheet of softener in here and everything is dry even though you have to hit the button every 20 minutes and I always forget to come back 

It’s sweet to know at least somebody’s mother is watching my clothes while I step out for air

You didn’t have to
I should say thank you 
I look around 
Last in, first out 
Not a scratch in my day but 
How long do you spend here? 
Cleaning all the clothes in the house 
My house is small 
So sometimes I let my basket build for weeks 
So I can stay a little longer
Flaunting XLs like I got somebody at home 

Oh, I hear him making dinner now
Throwing the pan across the room when I smash my finger putting away the cart, making a scene just to hear me laugh

He’s on his knees in seconds just to **** the blood from my knuckles and
                 Get this, 
He doesn’t even 
Spit it out

      He looks up smiling and says, 
“What would people think?” 

Now, the sight of blood makes me dizzy
But it isn’t the color 
I’ve always known how to clean up after myself but it feels
Harder now 
    To have less in my basket
    I’ll just take my time folding 
                                                Anyway, I like the lighting in here

Thursday Morning  
Check out my books  www.amazon.com/author/richardratliff

Morning comes now
With no alarm no razors edge
Splash of warm water and a brush
Yesterday's slacks are clean

Instant coffee then
Inhalers, pills stool softener
Morning news email and Facebook
Breakfast from the drive through

Trash set out at the curb
It must be Thursday
Unless yesterday was a holiday
Have to ponder this

Must exercise on the treadmill
Twenty minutes slow walk
Some days more some less
Just keep moving is a goal

Guess I'll work on a poem
At least for a while
Till its time
To get my poppy seeds
From television for the afternoon

Evening news
It is Thursday
Better bring in the cans
Before harvesting the poppies
On tonight's cable

Copyright 2016
Richard L Ratliff

The candle stores
can't candle
fabric softener on your clothes
or the bit of alcohol
on your sleepy breath
or your chest after a shower.

I checked.

A glass of fabric softener to begin the evening
Followed by a sick-scented bleach chaser

Just another Facebook fascination
A text or two to say goodbye or *******

What's the honest response to hearing the lost?
To knowing a scream when you see it in the silence?
When the distance is ever-wide between the two?

Each of us is living in a world where bleach cost money
But laundry and loneliness have always been free

It was a cold December morning
At 3:45 AM
I woke up early
I was not going
To go through

This ordeal again

I drove down to the park
And had constipation
In the dark

But thankfully
The stool softener
Kicked in

Life's a game
I'll never win

Later I began to drive
Here and there

I'm all alone
And no one cares

The gym and Starbucks
We're closed
And I had nowhere to go

Later I would see
Mountains covered in snow

Driving around
Driving around

Life is some kind
Of Merry Go Round

I have a few friends
I'm glad I do

You learned the story
Of A Christmas poo

When I was a child, Monday was ‘Wash Day’.  Not Laundry Day - that was fancy talk. In our house, it was wash day.
On the back porch of our tiny house in a little town in Washington State, was a wringer washing machine. That’s not a brand name, it describes the two rubber rollers that squeeze water out of clothes fed between them when turning.  In the back yard was a weathered wooden bench, turned gray with age and water.  Stored in the garage out beyond that were two big galvanized tubs, one round and one square, with handles on the sides.  This was the necessary equipment to do the washing.

On Mondays, the wash machine came in first.  It was positioned in the center of the little kitchen’s linoleum floor and filled with very hot water from the kitchen sink via a rubber hose that fitted over the hot water faucet.  

Next came the heavy wooden bench, placed between the wash machine and the sink.  Both of the wash tubs were brought in and placed on it and also filled with hot water from the sink.

Into the water in the square tub, Mom swirled Mrs Stewarts bluing, until the water was bluer than the sky.  This helped make the white things whiter and colors brighter.  
Into the round tub went Purex bleach, enough to scent the water and your hands.

Then came the first load of clothes.  With three kids who played outside all day, the pile was big. A measure of White King laundry soap let the clothes be agitated in hot soapy water for 15 minutes.  Then the wringer that topped the electric washing machine would be swiveled to the round tub and the clothes dipped out of the hot water with tongs and fed through it into the bleach water.  clothes with grass stains would get a session on the good old fashioned wash board; scrubbed up and down across those galvanized ridges with Fels Naptha bar soap.  The toughest stains soon gave way, and that item joined the others in the bleach water.

After all the clothes were in the bleach water, the next load went into the wash machine.  After another 15 minutes, the wringer would swivel and the clothes in the bleach would be fed through the wringer into the bluing.

Then with another swivel of the wringer, the clothes in the wash machine would be fed into the bleach, and another load of ***** clothes started their journey.

All the tubs were full now and it became an assembly line.
When the next 15 min were up, the line went in reverse and the wringer swiveled back and forth as needed.  The clothes in the bluing went through the wringer into a large oval wicker basket with handles on each end, ready to be hung with clothes pins on the lines out in the back yard.

The clothes in the bleach went into the bluing and the clothes in the wash machine went into the bleach. Then the washer was loaded again and the process began anew.
This process took most of the day, with the only breaks occurring while the washer did its thing and the two tubs soaked.

Mom used a metal dish pan to make a solution of Argo Starch and water. Things that needed body went into that for a quick dip before being hung up outside, where they became somewhat stiff as they dried.  They would need to be sprinkled with warm water and rolled up to dampen evenly before ironing. Most things washed in those days before Perm Press would need to be ironed.

The clotheslines were thin wire cable, strung up in the back yard.  One set of four lines were attached to the crossbars of 2 sturdy metal poles, sunk into the ground by the Rhubarb bushes and the hen house (we raised a few chickens) and the other two lines ran from the back porch to the garage wall. Before using them, Mom would wrap a damp rag around the wire and wipe each one from one end to the other to be sure they were clean.

Clothes would then be hung up with spring-type wooden clothes pins, taken from a home made cloth bag sewn over a wire coat hanger, so it could hang on the clothesline and slide along as the clothes were being hung up. There was a certain skill in knowing which clothes hung right-side-up and which went upside-down, as there was no fabric softener in those days and clothes tended to take the shape they hung in.

When all the clothes were hung up, the rubber hose was used in reverse to empty the two tubs and the wash machine into the sink. Then the tubs and bench were taken back to their spots in the garage and the wash machine rolled back onto the back porch.  When everything was put away, the wet kitchen floor was mopped dry with a rag mop.

All the neighbors said Mom hung out the cleanest, whitest wash on the block. She was proud of that, though she’d never admit it.

By dusk, it was time to bring all the clothes back in to the house. Sheets and towels were folded and put into dresser drawers. There was no such thing as a linen closet.  Pillow cases would later be ironed, but in my family sheets never were.  Since perm press didn’t exist yet, the cotton got a bit of a rough feel to it from the wind.  I loved crawling in between those rough sheets that smelled of the sun and wind.  Over them were 2 quilts.  One made by my Grandma and  the other by my Mom.  They weren’t showpiece designs, just  functional and warm with designs that used up bits of fabric left over from past sewing projects.

Towels were also a bit rough and got us dry and massaged at the same time

Living in Southwest Washington, legendary for it rainfall and drizzle, there was many a washday when it was all-hands-on-deck to race out and grab things off the lines as the rain began to fall.  On those days lines were attached to built-in hooks back and froth across the kitchen and things were re-hung there. There was also a folding wooden rack that went into the Front Room, which is what we called the Living Room  On those rainy days you threaded your way through rows of damp clothes to get to the sink to get a drink of water. No bottled water in those days, but our little town had very good tasting tap water.

Mom’s hands were always red and shiny by the end of the day from reaching into the various waters to fish things out to put through the wringer into the next tub.  Everything washed went through that wringer 3 different times.

There was a whole mystique about starched clothing. With no Permanent-Press in the 40’s, and the only way to make a cotton shirt or dress look smart was to starch it.  There was skill in knowing the ratio of starch powder to water so the clothes didn’t come out limp when dry or stiff as a board.

Starched clothing needed to be dampened first in order to iron properly.  It was called “sprinkling” the clothes.  A commonly used sprinkler was a tall soda bottle with a cork-stemmed metal cap with holes in it.  You could buy the sprinkler caps at the dime store. This is what Mom used.  

We kids were fascinated by the neighbor who took a mouthful of water, pursed her lips and created a misty spray onto the clothes.  We practiced it but we never figured out how she did  it. Another just dipped her hand into a bowl of water and shook it over the clothes. Pump spray bottles were years away back then. Sprinkled clothes were usually rolled up and left a while to dampen evenly. There was excitement when word got around that rolling up the sprinkled clothes and putting them in the refrigerator for an hour or two produced more even dampening, and you didn’t have to leave them overnight or risk forgetting and finding things dried into a hard ball the next day.

Even more exciting was the advent of the steam iron, which revolutionized the chore.  As a kid I used to earn dimes and nickels for ironing hankies (remember handkerchiefs?) and pillowcases for a neighbor. Kleenex didn’t totally replace cloth handkerchiefs until well into the 1950s. I still enjoy ironing today and hate the wrinkled look currently in fashion. I also have a stack of lace trimmed hankies that are now considered vintage.

I still have a soda bottle sprinkler, a clothespin bag on a hanger full of clothespins.  I also have an unopened bottle of Mrs. Wright’s Bluing, which hasn’t been on the market in years.   It reminds me of other times and other places and  how I would love to slip between those sweet smelling, wind-blown sheets one more time.
ljm

There was this thing
that I still can't forget about you

Two conflicting scents
But both are intoxicating
in their own way

the scent of cheap fabric softener that I fairly used
and
filtered cigarette smell sticking on your jacket sleeves

Maybe if I miss you that much,
I could try to recreate
that smell on my sleeves too

rims of golden curls
hover above your head
while chesnut spaghetti strands
coat mine instead

underwater your eyes are crystalline
like a true blue green i've never seen
but mine fade from brown to black
never once emitting a gleam

your shirts smell like fabric softener and cigarettes
which i often smell outside
and everything we've ever done
crashes into my mind like a riptide

do you see what i see when i look at you?

I remember when I was a kid I used to go into my parents room and pull off their covers so just the sheet was left. I would lift it up above my head and crawl underneath before it laid itself back down. I remember how comforting the smell of fabric softener was and to see the sun peeking through the white sheet. (Love is comfort, you are comfort) I remember loving everything and everyone without a doubt in my mind that they loved me too. (I loved you, and I know you loved me too; although you had a funny way of showing it) I remember rolling around in the grass and searching for lady bugs so I could hold them for just a second before they flew away. They interested me more than anything and I could stare at them for hours. (You caught my attention, but just like the lady bugs, you left too)  I remember  gathering flowers in a bucket so I could pluck all of the petals off and throw them around the yard so that there could be vibrant colors scattered everywhere. (Kind of reminds me of what you did to my heart) I remember the first time it snowed here I made a snowball and placed it in the freezer in hopes that it would last forever.  My mother got rid of it one day and I didn't even notice. (I tried to keep you forever too, but you slipped away without any warning) I remember finding injured birds and keeping them in a box until they were strong enough to fly away. I always loved keeping baby birds and seeing them fly off for the first time in their entire life. (I helped mend your broken heart and once you felt okay again, you moved on to bigger and better things) I remember getting into fights with my sister and one of us would end up hitting the other out of anger, but we'd be laughing ten minutes later about God knows what, forgetting why we were angry in the first place. (We constantly fought but neither of us could stay mad at the other. Maybe that was our problem.) This is what love is.



                                B.S.

I was in a shop recently
And a voice said, "Phil!"
I turned to see a stranger smiling at me
I said, "That's me, mate but
You've got the better of me.
The face is familiar," I lied
He said his name was ****
Which limited it to the hundreds
Of Micks that I've met

Then he mentioned his surname
And the dusty rusty cogs of memory
Started to slowly grind into life
By the time I was leaving the shop
I knew exactly who he was
From when we met
About fifty years earlier

We both started our working careers
At the same textile mill
About four or five of us kids
Were the butts of all jokes and tricks
Mostly we would pull our faces a bit
Swear a helluva lot
And laugh it off with everyone else
A lot of how we would be treated
Would depend on our reactions to this
It was normal
Traditional even
Never too malicious and no-one got hurt
He brought his ****** mother down!
I think he left not long after

A couple of years or so later
We happened to use the same pub
He had his friends and I had mine
And we didn't mix, might say "Hi" at the bar
Then....
He got the landlord's thirteen year old daughter pregnant
Then dumped her and said that
He wanted nothing to do with the child
He was at least eighteen then

Now, whether through arrogance or stupidity
Or, more likely, cruelty
He carried on using the pub!
Unsurprisingly
He was beaten up outside
It wasn't serious
No hospitalization or broken bones
Just a softener
Then I was asked to be a go-between
Because I "knew" **** and they trusted me

So I went to his home and spoke to his family
A meeting was arranged I believe
And I don't recall any more
So yeah
I remember you
Ya little ****

                                   By Phil Roberts

maybe I should have expected this
all along
for him to stop while he was ahead
and cut his losses
by desperately searching for the hold button
two and a half weeks before our lives were supposed
to start changing

maybe I rushed this part
this part where we were supposed to grow together
as if we hadn't been doing just that
for the past three years of our lives

but I'd still close my eyes every afternoon
and snuggle into the cotton of your t shirt
the warm glow of the setting sun washing over your walls
feeling like the luckiest girl alive
just to be able to be sitting there
smelling the fabric softener of your bed sheets
lilacs and lavender
feeling like if it weren't for the weight of your hand on my chest
that maybe
I could float away from all of this

two and a half weeks before our lives were supposed to start changing
I realize that
all I really need
is now