"vacuuming" poems
All but still
Wheat wavering in the distance, shivering in anticipation
Animals hide away, tucked in the safety of hideaways, holes, and orifices
Humans crouch underground, waiting
Hours pass
A lone alarm shouts across the land
"This is an emergency. I repeat, an emergency warning"
So loud that those below, closer to hell than ever before, clutch their ears
For they are ringing from the vibrant sound waves stretching across the fields
A slight change in wind directions
A little bit of motion
Begins the devastation
A lone inverted triangle appears
Seemingly hovering, inches above the ground
Circling its prey, before it gorges itself
Endless cyclic motions, vacuuming everything in its path
Houses, barns, plants fly
Tugged from the attraction to the ground to the sky
Engulfed by the tornado
That winds down a path of destruction
On a whirlwind high
Drunk off of its power
Invoking pain for no reason, except that it can
Land ripped to shreds
Houses taken and tossed miles and miles away
Barns slingshotted across the American countryside
And the deaths
Oh the deaths
Those who thought they could wait it out
Survive again once more
Those who tried to chase the twister
Mesmerized by its hypnotic dance
Those who were in the wrong place at the wrong time
Oblivious to their preventable fate
When the humans emerged
From their underground bunker
They found a land left ruined
Wiped blank of human development
With that they shed tears
Watering the fertile lands
As the tornado wrecked havoc
It brought a rebirth
A chance to start again fresh
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
The living reality of a metaphor, almost every ounce in-taken,
Every nuance, every pronounce, measured, weighted and weighty,
Fluid or firmament, each encapsulated, prior to release, scaled,
Tabulated, ordered, noted, recorded, and ultimately judg-ed.
Totality of it all, the varied quantities of the ingested nutrients,
even the forecast of the future, if every day was a metaphor for
like today…
DO
I speak of the day's headlines?
Of the quantity and nutrition that passes through my lips?
Or
The surround sound of the surrounding sounds of this day,
the flocks of bandito geese who exist only to torment,
the landscape working crews, with their tools, like a 7::00an wake up buzzing about, for the entire street, going house to house, looking for itinerant grassy knolls of patches of bright green,
overnight sprung up and needy to be
guillotined,
laundry to do, rugs needy for clothesline screaming/beating or merely super fast vacuuming;
they, hawking their skills available for the old and infirm,
or the fatty catty cattle lazy, (somewhere in there is moi);
and the decibels of their machines, the rat-a-tat of their rapido, voluble speech that feeds me poetry by the ounce of their laughter, but more exactly of,
What do I speak, to what do I allude?
Why all and none, everything and specifically nothing,
for the metaphor is meta! (1)
It is life itself, from the quarter teaspoon
to the overflowing bath, it is life at its most incremental,
the moment
of flushing face,
the second
of ah ha! recollection, the,
long term trends
trending,
the flatline of my EKG,
the weighty pronouncement of my talking scale (you've been bad),
IT IS THE EVERYTHING
that is measurable, weighable, isolatable, defined;
it is our existence of our each & every of action and inaction strung together like a necklace and a chain
We are metaphor, reality, is, the script,
which is the product of you.
scriptwriter…/
Aug 8, 2025
Aug 8, 2025 at 6:17 PM UTC
A long time after bedtime
When it's very late
When even dogs dream
And there's deep sleep
Breathing through the house
When the doors are locked
And the curtains drawn
And the shops are dark
And the last train's gone
And there's no more traffic in the street
Because everyone's asleep
Then....
The window cleaner comes
To the main shop fronts
And polishes the glass
In the street-lit dark
And a big truck rumbles past
On it's way to the dump
Loaded with the last
Of the day's trash
On the twentieth floor
Of the office tower
There's a lighted window
And high up there
Another night cleaner's
Vacuuming the floor
Working nights on her own
While her children sleep at home
And down in the dome of the observatory
The astronomer who's waited all day for the dark
Is watching the good black sky at last
For stars and moons
And spikes of light
Through her telescope
In the middle of the night
While everybody sleeps
At the bakery
The bakers in their floury clothes
Mix dough in machines
For tomorrow's loaves of bread
And out by the gate
Rows of parked vans sit
For their drivers to come
And take newly baked
Bread to the shops
For the time when the
Bread eaters wake
Across the town at the hospital
Where the nurses watch in the dim-lit wards
Someone very old shuts their eyes
And dies
Breathes their very last breath
On their very last night
Yet not very far away on another floor
After months of waiting
A new baby's born
And the mother and father
Hold the baby and smile
And the baby looks up
And the world's just begun
But still, everybody sleeps
Now through the silent station
Past the empty shops
And the office towers
Past the sleeping streets
And the hospital
A train with no windows
Goes rattling by
And inside the train the sorters sift
Urgent letters and packets on the late night shift
So tomorrow's mail will arrive in time
At the towns and villages down the line
And the mother
With the wakeful child in her arms
Walking up and down
And up and down
And up and down
The room
Hears the train as it passes by
And the cats in the yard
And the night owl's flight
And hums hushabye hushabye
We should sleep now
You and I
It's late and time to close your eyes
It's the middle of the night.
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 9:27 PM UTC
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!
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
On the sixth day of the month,
Being the fifth one of the year,
We congregate to celebrate
The wedding of the year.
Not a week too late (that was Wills and Kate)
But our own dear Phil and Gemma,
Who, in ceremony, have duly vowed
To be as one forever.
But the two of you may be asking,
On this happiest of days,
"How do we keep romance alive?
O tell us of the ways!"
Well, the secrets of a happy marriage,
They are a secret still.
But these few tips may bring success,
So heed them if you will.
If you fall out in bitter temper
Don't go to bed at night.
It will be far worse come morning,
So just stay up and fight.
A man should keep romance in bloom
With flowers and gifts that gleam,
And also, most importantly,
Keep his internet history clean.
A woman should pay attention
To those little things that matter,
Like vacuuming and ironing,
And when football's on, don't chatter!
And if your husband's eye might stray
Upon a lady passing by,
Why, 'tis only to remind him
That you're much fairer to the eye.
So it is said by those that know,
With certainty undiminished,
That two in love are incomplete,
Until, in marriage, they are finished.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 5:49 AM UTC
Tomorrow...Life as I know it will change forever.
I will no longer wake up to my cat beside me.
My mom will never wake me up at 5 AM with vacuuming again.
My family won't randomly jump on my bed to say good morning.
My mom will never run down the stairs to tell me something incredibly stupid that she knows I'd laugh at because I'm easily amused.
No more random "let's go to willy's" wake up calls. No more let's hang out today from my best friends. Skype will be the only time I actually see their faces for months.
No more driving to see friends just because I need a hug or a friendly smile.
My grandparents are no longer just 45 mins away.
No more berkeley bowl, random morning runs, or swimming adventures.
No more NFL street with my little brother.
No more loudly playing music and dancing like a maniac...because no one really understands that side of me except friends and family.
No more LA Ink with my mom...or laughing at boondocks at midnight.
When I cry...it'll finally be alone...instead of me isolating myself.
I'm realizing more than ever that I'll miss my chaotic life. The things that use to **** me off seem silly...I'm over the annoyances.
I love all of you dearly...and will miss you.
Its time to close my bedroom door for the final time...and accept that I'll only be a visitor when I return.
New life to come...new obstacles to tackle...
Finally time to accept that the only constant in life is change...and of course the people that help me do so :)
Once again...love you all.
The college student,
Rissa
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 12:03 PM UTC
Recto:
She‘s vacuuming: the dog has leapt, afraid,
onto my lap and sent my papers flying.
Till then I‘d slept. Still half-asleep, I‘m trying,
relentlessly, to finish things I‘d made
a start on yesterday, identifying
slips and errors, trading words or phrases.
Mystifying, the way we go through phases
laid in stone, half-stunned while time goes flying
by and nothing‘s done for days. Is stasis
part of the deal? We‘re drying up, we fade -
and then, bejaisus! - that small fire we‘d laid
that kept on choking re-ignites and blazes!
Verso:
She‘s vacuuming: the dog has leapt,
afraid, onto my lap and sent
my papers flying. Till then I‘d slept.
Still half-asleep, I‘m trying, relent-
lessly, to finish things I‘d made
a start on yesterday, ident-
ifying slips and errors, trad-
ing words or phrases. Mystifying,
the way we go through phases laid
in stone, half-stunned, while time goes flying
by and nothing‘s done for days. Is
stasis part of the deal? We‘re drying
up, we fade ... and then, bejaisus!
- that small fire we‘d laid that kept
on choking self-ignites and blazes!
Dec 30, 2011
Dec 30, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
to some
spring cleaning
may be about donating the shirt
you haven't worn since 7th grade
or dusting every single picture frame
or scrubbing the tile
or sweeping and vacuuming
that's not my spring cleaning
my spring cleaning
is about changing the way i've been
ever since the 7th grade
and changing every single thing about me
or creating the persona i want to be
or removing and restarting
that's my spring cleaning
n.d.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 10:36 AM UTC
It's such a different perspective to see her self-hatred outdoes my own. She's a brilliant, dying star. Vacuuming away all the evil in her, siphoning it through her throat. Flush it down. Pulling apart her bones from the inside out. I can understand that.
I've been thinking offhandedly, not on purpose. Take a deep breath, look up at the clouded sky. The blown, restless leaves endlessly remind me of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Let my mind go blank. Refocus, come back down from wherever I went, finding I've been working questions over while unaware. Autopilot likes to steer toward the ground. I've been thinking offhandedly, not on purpose, of the best way to say goodbye.
I've been dreaming of writing this down all morning, all night. Who's to say I haven't been anxiously awaiting this all my life? To tell you what it's like to hate yourself so much that others become mere blips on the radar; still there, but so unrecognizable. I become unreachable. I've been dreaming of opening myself up, seeing all the things that are tucked inside, away from my reach. They all tell me not to go looking for trouble, but hell, how could it possibly get worse? I'm curious.
Lying here loathing myself for being so pitiful. So pathetic. Part of me knows I am wallowing, stewing, dwelling. The other part knows what they don't: there is nothing of worth here. Take it all away, no more trying. Drop my cards on the wood between my elbows, stand & take my leave. You guys can split my poker chips. It'll be so...so lovely...not waking up to the bleak, the empty. Not to have to face myself in the mirror, with my troubled eyebrows & worried lips & the nervous twitch of my mouth that wasn't there a month ago. Not to wake up to every 'can't'. Not to stare into my own blank, listless eyes; numb. So mortified of myself, miserable with me, yet so distant, removed, disinterested, distracted.
Please don't be upset if I think of you before I go. Understand that just because I want to die doesn't necessarily mean I want to leave you. Don't count this one last sin; dreaming of my fingertips memorizing the contours of your face, kissing your eyelids, your cheeks, your mouth, your neck, hands, tears. Breathe in the scent of you. Maybe you could give me some courage to hold onto as I let go. Don't penalize me for this, please. Let me live in how much I love you one last time. I'm sorry this hurts you.
I just figured out how to say goodbye.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
Appended streams exhume the dreams that surface in conscious guide,
As photon beams augment the seams transmitters must abide.
The quantum strings of knotted ties,
Entangling's of worlds collide,
A vortex of spiraled rings,
In scattered sets convergent glide,
The convex spacial vacuuming's, synaptic points electrified,
A hex, insatiable, stochastically adjoins frequencies over-amplified, as complex oracle valuations weight choices to decide.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
The terrible thing about poets is we're all sadistic masochists.
We all want to read about heartache, and we all want to write about the demons that haunt us in our worst hours.
We never talk about our happiness, our productive days and nights where we slept enough.
We drown in each other's depression so nicely, a swimming pool of lonely writers, ink pooling around us each because we always carry pens in our pockets.
No one wants to know how happy we are. How our boring mundane human life of doing dishes and vacuuming the carpet went.
We all want to stick the knives in a little deeper, to draw out a little more of each other's blood. Because honestly, our poetry has always been written in blood, sweat, and tears.
That's the thing about poets. We'd rather be miserable and have something to write about than be happy and have nothing to write about.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
**Possession
came swift through the dream
it was like a foul, warm breath
hot w/ raw stench odor
rising symbol of evil
Looming like an unwanted guest
Feeding like a blood leach
vacuuming consciousness
awaiting Bodhisattva
impatiently waiting
scratching at the wall
sitting where you relax
violent, perplexed poltergeist
visions and visions and visions
Running to the other room
to observe the shrill scream
observe w/ your own two eyes
You watch your mother writhing
Whats wrong?
I'm possessed!
Your kidding?
Eyes roll back
complicated convulsion
demonic face warp
the voice morphs
into a devilish crooning baritone
*DOES IT LOOK LIKE I'M ******* KIDDING!?*
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 5:02 PM UTC
My roommate is vacuuming the apartment
I'm thinking about distances
past to present,
empty to overflowing,
shattered to whole
doctor your wounds are bleeding again
and I don't have the proper training
we toil and toil beneath the gaze of an oblivion
too much sweat on the brow to take the time to ask why
my heart is a runaway train
my brain the penny on the tracks
there's no such thing as non-civilian casualties
hungry is as hungry does
it's just the nature of these lives
our carrot on a string
I thought I caught a taste once
only to bite my own finger
It hurts, but the pain is just motivation
to keep on living
and all of those lessons and truths
she whispered in your ear on dreaming nights
are still the reason your heart beats the way it now does
wake the hell up
perfect does not exist
and you are going to be fine
fix the roof
you are going to be fine
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 5:58 PM UTC
the best love stories are the overlooked
the ones that you sat round
the dining table listening to
when you were a child
and you couldn't ever imagine
your grandparents being young and so in love
love stories are kisses in the pouring rain
but only because she forced him to
because she thought it'd be romantic
it's bickering in the living room
when he gets home from work
about how he never does anything
it's watching tv together
late at night
being completely comfortable in each others silence
it's her doing the dishes
and him vacuuming the carpet
it's him kissing her goodnight
every night for 40 years
it's her still getting butterflies
at the sight of him after all this time
it's quiet nights out
at a family restaurant
it's holding hands
during thunderstorms because he knows
she's terrified of lightning
the best love stories
aren't the grand and overdone
the best love stories
are completely overlooked
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
sitting in a sea of robots
all facing the same way
vacuuming through bags and bags
of morbidly buttered popcorn
looks of scorn
as i squeeze by to my seat
all of them critics
opinionated inappropriately
entirely unnecessary
crunching and rustling until
the credits roll
paying too too much
for so so little
the smell of age and ignorance
to my left
the energy of youths inattentiveness
to my right
i find myself in the middle
curtains
Aug 2, 2011
Aug 2, 2011 at 3:24 PM UTC
to some
spring cleaning
may be about donating the shirt
you haven't worn since 7th grade
or dusting every single picture frame
or scrubbing the tile
or sweeping and vacuuming
that's not my spring cleaning
my spring cleaning
is about changing the way i've been
ever since the 7th grade
and changing every single thing about me
or creating the persona i want to be
or removing and restarting
that's my spring cleaning
n.d.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
I am six inches taller than the average American male
In the summer I tan quite well
And with a few extra minutes in front of an ironing board and a mirror
I clean up nicely
So marry me now while I'm still desirable
I am good at cooking in fact I can make a safe assumption I'm better than you
I enjoy cleaning especially vacuuming
oh and I'm great with kids
Please marry me now while you're young enough for those things to still impress you
I will impress your parents
Your friends will ask how serious we are regularly
I will make you blush from the volume of compliments that you receive from me
So please marry me now while those are still things you want
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 3:42 AM UTC
God has given us the earth
To take up refuge
But yet in all staidness
In this home of ours
We human beings
Have been very poor tenants
Take a look around
Scope out the view
Our dying ionosphere
From our constant pollution
Our disengaging ozone layer
Which protects us
From the sun's burning rays
When they someday disappear
From existence
We will all be doomed
Becoming trillions of pieces
Of human bacon
On a global skillet
Take another good view
Of our plants and animals
What all they do for us
And what we lack to do for them
We have killed so many
Many which have met extinction
Our precious plants and animals
Are leaving us one by one
Day after day
Year after year
Soon we will have nothing
Left to our name
Even the water
Is becoming unsafe to ingest
Some places it has been that way
For centuries of time
But why is it hard for us
To remedy
To refresh
To replenish
Our only home
One we can never move from
Why destroy so much life
When we can make it better
Oil is scarce
Natural gas rises from asphalt
Everything is dying
And soon so will we
Change will never come
The damage is done
Oxygenation is so depleted
Soon will be no resources
For us to live off of
Because our dishes aren't clean
Our rooms are so *****
Our floors need vacuuming
Our walls peel valuable paint
Our vents are clogged dramatically
In the air lives dangerous molecules
Speckles of death floating airborne
Also we further the damage
To our already destroyed home
By the chemical warfare
The biological weaponry
Created by the minds
Which are here to help keep up
The exuberance of our home
As does the war of countries
Our rediculous governments
Ensuring war upon us
So called humble housekeepers
Which allow blood and destruction
To overtake our abode
To make our predecessors
Turn in their graves
To make our God *****
A sandstorm of anger and disgrace
We don't deserve to live here
We have not pleased him
We have not pleased each other
We have only inflicted damage
And so much pain
To our home
God deliver us please
Bring us up to par
Or this corrupted home
You gave us to live in
Will be dead and gone forever...
©Michael P. Smith
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:20 AM UTC
“*I suppose I will never lead the ordered life my father led.
And I’ll never live in the kind of house he lived in, with its rituals,
its dignity, the smell of polish.*”
Leonard Cohen
<>
the orderly of an individual life,
guided by the guardrails of family life,
superimposed upon it by a calendar of religion,
that layers into you with a cyclicality of communal ritual,
that rules, guides, tides and hides you subliminally, the individual,
in ways that forever alters how one comprehends the meaning of
belonging
the oven~heated, banging smells of the kitchen,
the hubbub, frantic sounds of a Sabbath eve prepping,
vacuuming house cleansing, far more than just a cleaning,
the young boys in their jackets, white shirts, for Friday night
candle lighting, the girls in Sabbath frocks, assisting Mother,
but by
Saturday morning sermon time
those boy’s shirts
were always untucked, sweaty and always less white,
from running around outside synagogue from playing Ringolevio,
for which you were justly critiqued by a mother’s glare-stare
this play-within-a-play poem,
played out in homes nearby,
for community was very defined by geography,
and the candles of Sabbath oft visible in every home as
Fathers & sons returned home from Friday Night services
where the Sabbath’s peace was welcomed like
a new bride.
but the knowledge that this scenario was occurring in
homes around the world in almost identical custom,
lent a larger perspective to even the youngest, of a
belonging
As for me, I passed on that life,
not as well as it was given to me,
but as best I could, or honestly, desired,
but because I the individual inherited these
ways, words, knowledge and sensations and deemed
failing to transmit would be a grievous denial of a heritage
were I to not gift them this order,
the dignity of these rituals,
the pungent smell of a polished home,
a life of intuiting
belonging,
be longing.
Feb 18, 2024
Feb 18, 2024 at 10:09 AM UTC
We're blowing leaves,
Vacuuming leaves,
Mowing leaves.
Using technology,
Plugged in or internal,
To clean up the hood.
Then we bag 'em in plastic
For composting,
To be enviro-friendly.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 12:49 PM UTC
I go down the list
rehearsal:
check
printer:
check
vacuuming:
check
homework:
still to do
I smile
sometimes I get a bug,
a bug to really get things
done
it usually only happens
when I’m alone (nobody
to judge or interrupt my
work) and usually when
I’m gotten down worse
than I ever have before
so I get things done
I check my list again
work hard:
check
be better:
working on it
feel good:
I, uh...
next item
please
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 12:27 PM UTC
I cook the meals
wash the dishes
wash clothes
do the ironing
the sweeping
the mopping
the vacuuming
dusting
knock down webs
clean the toilets
make the beds
...
shoot..
I do everything
that a maid does
and then some
where's MY money?
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
You can either see
a glass half empty or half full
either way there's still something
what if there's nothing to be seen?
I am that empty glass
void of contents
no room for friends
no dreams for sympathy
incarcerated by cynics
locked by betrayal
I tried filling this empty glass with many shed tears;
yet that black hole keeps vacuuming
till all that remains
painful loneliness
I tried asking for Answers
Silence was the Answer
what sort of answer is silent?
I refuse this absurd paradox
I tried feeling this empty glass
with pathetic poetry
I got no appreciation
for each word i put every thought into.
These are the reasons
empty glass remain thus
clanging
in the midst of a noisy world
So label this glass fragile
only time will tell
this glass to break
there would be fiasco
I'll save you a front seat.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
Bring your sweet love home to me
Where it has never really left
It has just rotted away in the trash can where you left it
It must have not been Thursday in years
I don’t hear the trash truck come by anymore
The neighbors have begun to complain about the smell
But I don’t smell a thing
I walk by it every day and smile
Say hi to it, ask it when it’s coming back inside
It doesn't talk of course
It’s a rotten, moldy, pile of discarded love
The fruit flies can’t get enough of it, it is so sweet
But if you ever change your mind I know just where to find it
Mother I will never be a scientist
Scientists wear white coats
Those stain too easy to drag through the mud of my life
Mother I will never be a singer
Singers sing loudly for other people to hear
Mother I will never be a fireman
They run into burning buildings
I haven’t run in a decade
Mother I will never be a doctor
Doctors help fix wounds
My hands shake too much
They would do more harm than good
Mother I will never be a mother
I will just make one
This bouquet of flowers is so much like you
There are white pedals on white flowers
There are pink pedals on pink flowers
There is one really tall yellow flower
A bunch of green leafy bits sticking out every which way
A bundle of white dots on the top of green stems
They use those for filler
Like you used smiles to fill in the spaces between your lies
You kept waving your yellow flower around
Plucking pink pedals and making sure I saw them fall
Shaking the thorns from your white roses
Tell me now
For whom did the chrysanthemum in the middle shutter
Indeed for whom did your heart flutter
Fingernails, fingernails what have you done
Gone away on my carpet never to be found
I have chewed you, and pulled you, and cut you at the quick
Yet still you live in the thicket of my **** carpet’s thick
Now I must vacuum
If I am ever to impress a guest
And I am in the market to impress a guest
Ever since the guest most impressed stopped vacuuming
For all the other guests I could not have cared less
Whether they were here or away
Fingernails, fingernails, and toe nails too what have you done
This house was so clean before this had begun
I sat in my room and sat and sat and sat
And never once had to look at how the rest of the house sat
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC