"spotlessly" poems
Keys. Shoved through the letterbox
before I got up-
in an envelope with a note:
Could I (please) feed the cat…
Gone away? Good for her!
Car on the drive. Took a taxi. I think.
To the airport? Didn’t say.
******* with rain-
still, had best leave my shoes on the step just the same.
Obsessed with cleanliness and hygiene-
that’s why he left.
Who, in their right mind, puts cream-coloured carpet in a…?
Door. Not locked. Nearly fell through it.
Strange. She forgot?
Kitchen. Freezer’s empty, switched off.
No cereal. No tins.
Utility room. Spotlessly clean-
twelve! two-kilogram bags of Go-Cat Complete.
Planning to be gone quite a while. I think.
Playroom. Packed up. Kids staying with Nan.
She wants to redecorate before they come home?
Great. A fresh start. I think.
Bedroom. Suitcase on the wardrobe.
Bought a new one? Smaller. Lighter perhaps.
Makes sense. After all- she is travelling alone. I think.
Bathroom. Pristine. Almost empty.
Almost. Macleans and a toothbrush,
in a glass on the sill.
I didn’t think about that.
Until now.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC
Anxiety keeps Depression
Up all night and then
Depression sleeps
All day.
And every day they
Argue over the things they
Did or didn't say
Did or didn't do.
Sometimes they watch
TV together
But they never
Enjoy it.
Anxiety is in college and
Depression doesn't help her
Edit her papers when
She asks nicely.
Depression had a good job
She enjoyed but she ended up
Losing it and now Anxiety
Nags at her to find another.
Neither of them can
Find friends, so even though
They hate each other
They're all they've got.
They keep trying to date
But every time one brings
Home someone else, the
Other scares them off.
Depression is messy
With piles everywhere
But Anxiety keeps the kitchen
Spotlessly clean.
Anxiety can't stop bossing
Depression around
But Depression can't stop pulling
The covers over her head.
Anxiety and Depression
Are roommates
In a mental
Apartment building.
And I'm waiting for Anxiety
To forget to renew the lease
And Depression to be too
Tired to do it herself.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC
I walked into my house,
expecting my senses to be aroused,
by the aroma of baking bread.
so it surprised me, when instead,
of having my senses tickled by,
the delicious scent of apple pie,
or the aroma of food in the making,
or rice on the stove and turkey baking,
I walked in, instead, to an awful smell,
the source of which I could not tell.
I ventured to the garbage bin,
to see if the source of the stench came from therein,
but the bin was empty and sans any stink,
so I walked over to the kitchen sink,
to inspect and see what it could be,
But sink was spotlessly clean,
glistening almost with silvery sheen.
So I went off to see if the food had gone bad,
food in the fridge, if I may add.
But the food looked splendid so to speak,
it clearly wasn’t causing the house to reek.
So what then, was casing my flat,
to smell of a dead rat?
The toilets was where I ventured next,
to see if my kids had left them wrecked,
But they were clean and pristine,
cleaner than my face has ever been.
So I checked the rooms, to see if I had forgotten,
an half eaten plate of food that had gone rotten.
But alas, the house, to my dismay,
resolutely refused to betray,
the source that caused my home,
to smell like a sewer, from cellar to dome.
Aghast and defeated I called out to my wife,
who is the Sherlock Holmes of my life,
"Oh dearest wife of mine,
there's a stink sending down my spine,
a nasty and distasteful shiver,
like I'm drowning in the Mithi river".
"I cannot stand to stay indoors,
inhaling this vile smell anymore"
"Darling" she said sounding like a lark,
"While the cause of the smell may appear mysterious and dark,
the matter is quite simple and plain,
this smell of which you complain,
is not of rotting eggs or meat,
it’s the smell you've bought in with your feet."
With that, out of the window, she tossed my shoes,
She would have tossed me instead if given to choose.
She then scrubbed my feet with sandpaper
and made me less hideous and more dapper.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 2:14 AM UTC
I want to be a figment of your imagination;
where images of angels spotlessly deceive
a dreamy serpent lady embodying indignation,
and you can't see the difference in between.
I want to be the reality of the situation;
when something happens you can't silence me
and every thought and move has consideration
on the level of difficulty to sit silently.
I want to be the mouse in the corner of the kitchen party;
afraid of bodies, eyes, words, and souls,
I much prefer if nobody is able to catch up to me
since I can't emotionally sail in seas with a ship full of holes.
I want to be a memory you don't regret;
disappointment burns like a thousand candles
'cause I begged myself to be someone you won't detest
but to believe in myself is something I can't handle.
I want to feel free from the memories of failure;
I remember everything that made me get lost at sea,
and it's sink or swim when you're a love sailor
and my lack of proper training proved to be costly.
I want to be the person you think of first;
there is no moment that couldn't be better
without a little serotonin star burst
to ease troubles and keep people together.
I want to feel forgiveness and remorse from you;
the 5 stages of grieving is a healing process
and honestly I don't know if I'm done with step 2,
but I should be on step 3 since I just wrote this.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
A crushed Shah Jahan said:
When you behold the memorial,
a sight so masterly, yet sorrowful;
you will inevitably admit
an aching little bisecting wish
that adorns your yearning lips....
parched,
barren,
effete......
And from the world's lid,
the luminaries too
would sob and drip.
#
He could well have been talking
about my beloved's words ;
......so utterly breathtaking
that a sigh poignantly quivers
in my dithering being.
Her words meander.
It is no wonder:
for all of us saunter
in thought and speech
one time or the other.
At times her words are poised and easy.....,
wonderfully jolly, sensationally starry:
They shimmer like the four minarets (1)
on the full moon night;
....brilliant......resplendent.
Then they taper from the dome
and stop halfway between the tomb
and the solemn reflecting pool:
They are calmer, sober,
and you know,
a little factual;
...what they call discriminating
intellectual, rational......
Soon the words leave charbagh (2)
and hit the red sandstone walls (3)
crenellated with flawless wisdom;
spotlessly beautiful
like the lifeless marble
that proudly commemorates
Mr. Shah Jahan's love
in grim, cold blooded grace.
We talk about
riders and scruples,
kith and kin,
restraints and constraints,
fidelity and modesty.......
....and I can not help
but to sadly agree
to the placid logic
in our impeccable scripts.
#
Logic is a wonderful remedy
for the radical and foolhardy
but for every cure,
there is a spin-off.
Deep somewhere,
a delicate,
two-cent sentiment
collapses into atrophy
and.......silently
another part of me
becomes a
meek monument
of disposable history.
----------
(1) The four minarets of the Taj Mahal
(2) The garden that starts from the end of the main gateway and ends near the squared base of the mausoleum is an integral part of the Taj Mahal structure.
(3) The building material used is brick-in-lime mortar veneered with red sandstone and marble and inlay work of precious/semi precious stones. The mosque and the guest house in the Taj Mahal complex are built of red sandstone in contrast to the marble tomb in the center.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 10:27 PM UTC
Underneath the spotlessly clean and polished antique teak deck
Lies the engine room
and it is a wreck
a bit like me.
Look under the wrappings and that's what you'll see
a body that once looked like something like me.
Life's engineer has not been anywhere near
since last year
or the year before that
my batteries are flat and I'm wasting away
sailing a ghost ship
and what do you say?
"it'll be alright
you'll be okay
today is the day you will shine like the deck"
Well
break a leg
break your neck
but the deck isn't me
it's just an image portrayed
of what I'd like to be.
On an orange box wearing bright blue socks
can you see
The madness of me?
I just want to be left alone
to my own devices
The spices of life can be mine
if you just give me time
if you just let me be
let me clean up the engine room and then I can see
what I'm doing.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
I haven't seen clover draped on those hills
for such a long time.
September, a romantic, beautiful month.
Pink hills, rosy faces, a picture of Heaven,
Petals scattered in a perfect line.
Those hills to climb, young love to seek.
In the blink of an eye, marching to the top
Never stop searching never drop
until you can relax in your clover
when the climb is over.
Take in the perfume
there is always room
among the pink and lime green
To be spotlessly clean,
Your young face, your green eyes retrace
familiar steps among the purple heather
wondering whether you are closer
The feeling is with you for a very long time.
The decent after the climb takes your breath away
and replaces with the love of your life holding buttercups
you haven't seen beauty like this for a very long time.
The flowing gold in her hair makes you stare
Radiating with love and romance, you walk with the petals
down your golden aisle, and have love for a very long time.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
I don't believe in done.
I don't believe in unbroken,
or finished, perfection,
spotlessly clean.
It's all a lie.
We all breaks, cracks,
I don't believe in always.
Then again...
When it comes to my brother's
addiction he will always be
drowning in alcohol. ***** whiskey, tequila.
His brain has become and will stay
barren.
I don't believe in recovered,
or survivor, trauma rotting into
your brain. The person you were, just
died, a masterpiece scrapped.
I believe in lost. Hopelessly lost.
Because I am there, or here. I
no longer walk the ground of this
earth, but rather the quicksand of
my memories. Stepping as quick
as I can, trying to find a way
out of my most recent delusions.
I can feel each hurricane of
another flashback and revel in it.
Thinking I'm revolting against him,
but really I'm just letting his
fingerprints from the crime scene
strip me of my pride again.
I'm not sure I believe in hope,
in love, in reality. I don't know my
stance on revenge, hate, vengeance, pride.
I know I'd rip his tongue out, or maybe
just half. So he can still taste his own
blood. Jam my fingers in the mess, so he can
see how it feels to have his blood on my hand.
Play our relationship in reverse. Rewind my nightmares,
see my body being put back together by
time. Slowly I am no longer burning.
I would simply slip away. Get out
of his hold, head locks, and being restricted.
No bruises, no police, no reports, no detectives,
no more holes missing from my being.
I believe in avoiding possibilities.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
A follow on to I Got Natural Eemunity
You know when I was a kid in a large family
We never had much money
So we had a bath only once a week
Simply because heating water cost money
Something we didn't have
A simple way of life eating simple food
Anyway days at school were spent alongside rich kids
In their spotlessly clean uniforms
With their sniffles and coughs and runny noses
Spluttering over their hygienically prepared lunch boxes
But
Us poor kids with a cheese sandwich in a paper bag
Rarely got a cough or cold
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 4:36 AM UTC
#*The sunbeams held the trees in a big embrace
The little plants and shrubs held hands
And smiled with grace
The sun set its focus on the mountains and the valleys
The river water flows through the rock crevices, a spray of mist, made a rainbow in sunshine
The clouds float over the mountains, one silken veil of white
The Sunlit valley, the tall mountains and the beautiful landscape, the rains keep them all spotlessly green*#
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 8:03 AM UTC
See the boy as he wanders hands in pockets around the harbour,
Observe how he watches the vessels moored against the harbour wall,
Admiring this one, frowning at another.
Watch his face as he studies each in turn,
Frowning at neglect or smiling at a well found vessel,
Admiring the clean lines and seaworthiness of another.
This one is too fine in the bow, and will bury her nose in heavy weather,
The next is too bluff bowed and a good wave will stop her dead in the water.
That other, he notes, has good solid rails to hold onto in a blow,
The next has only guard wires, harsh on the hands and set too low to be of any real use!
And this one, spotlessly clean and as smart as paint,
But it never goes to sea poor thing! It is cleaned and polished daily and the engine run, but for what?
But this old fishing boat now, see how well it is cared for! Note the grease oozing from the bearings of her tackle, see how staunch and tight her boards are! And how well painted, take note how well organized she is, a place for everything, and everything in it’s place.
This is a proper sea boat, he thinks, and calls down a greeting to the skipper.
“Hi Dad, ready for gannin oot?” “Hi son. Aye ready!”
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
Two tall, spotlessly white pillars stand in front of me,
looking through, blue sky and white clouds come into view.
Sitting on a wooden bench with faded paint,
Thinking, dazing, confusing.
Looking up, the dazzling sunshine leap to my eyes,
Reflecting the flag waving in the middle.
A few sparrows fly across the sky,
Several squirrels ran across the lawn.
Taking a deep breath,
I can taste the cold breeze.
Suddenly the calm was broken by the rumble,
Looking down, turned out to be a car passing by.
These remind me of something,
That spring is far away,
Deep and unforgettable.
Memories will not fade,
Stories don't get old.
Feb 4, 2020
Feb 4, 2020 at 9:11 PM UTC