Best Bathtubs Poems
MY FATHER'S GENTLE HANDS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I remember my father’s hands as a plumber’s hands—fiercely strong, calloused, rough, knuckle-battered, and dirty after a long-day’s work. Those hands shoveled; unclogged drains and toilets; repaired leaks; and installed pipes, commodes, and bathtubs. Those hands provided.
I remember my father’s hands as a fisherman’s hands—perfectly patient, tenacious, self-confident, and unwavering as he held his fishing line and lure stabile, waiting for a fish to take the bait. “Keep your hands steady. Stay focused,” he prompted me when I asked him to teach me how to fish from his flat-bottom boat. Those hands fished longer than they ‘plumbed,’ rarely missing an opportunity to commune with nature, seldom losing a fish. Those hands fed.
I remember my father’s hands as a treasure hunter’s hands—firm, certain, and capable, listening intently to his metal detector’s tones learning to discriminate the sound a good coin makes compared to the choppy, broken sound a junk target makes. Those hands searched, discriminated, and found soulful answers to life’s complex questions and dilemmas.
I remember my father’s hands as gentle healing hands—kind and comforting as he wiped away the tears that sometimes streamed down my face. Without saying a word, those hands loved, consoled, and encouraged—always righting my world.
I remember my father’s hands—full of strength and hope as he took my trembling hands in his. Those hands gave me courage—the courage to reach up in search of everything impossible, leaving me with the unbridled sense that to do anything less was the greatest impossibility of all. Even now whenever I need courage, I can feel his hand around mine helping me to feel invincible once again.
In my mind’s eye, I often see my father’s hands—every line and every wrinkle. They told a story about the kind of man he was. I’ll remember my father’s hands for the remainder of my life. I’m grateful for him, for his enduring spirit and presence, which continues to grace my life despite his passing some years ago.
Dad's hands tell a tale
they did countless loving things
they touched and guided
they shaped and molded
they encouraged me to reach
they held the stars in place
they held rising sun
they sought deep understanding
they chased lonely moon
Dearest Santa, my one wish may seem strange
but please do not interpret me as snide.
I wish this kindness so please do arrange
my Christmas gift of a mail order bride.
Surely she would lighten my hard work load,
help with the children and spousal demands.
She can be pretty or favor a toad
as long as it’s English she understands.
I fail domestic perfection with house,
Mom affection with little ones each day
and attending His Lordship, my own spouse,
because my to-do list stays in the way.
Again, this may seem most unorthodox
but this is me thinking outside the box.
I know that you must judge, weigh and ponder
if I was a well-behaved girl this year:
I tried leaving home for the far yonder -
my car died before even driveway clear;
I lace my morning coffee with brandy;
hide my husband’s tickets to pro baseball;
stuff chips under chairs when comes Priest Andy;
I oft ignore my children when they call;
sometimes I name dust bunnies on our floor;
sarcasm is my first go to coping tool;
I cheat at cards when adding up my score;
and June just past, I peed in a pal's pool.
I work hard without reward all day long,
so sometimes, yeah, I get this life all wrong.
I wish to remember why I am here;
recall romantic love that started all.
I could succeed if I had a wife-peer
helping with spousal gall and toddler brawls.
I want more than bathtubs layered with dirt
and stinking trash bordering on a spill.
Let someone else produce an ironed shirt
and seek deep sleep as an ambitious thrill.
I want memories of kids where I smile
and husband conversations standing still.
I seek family love to feel worthwhile
lest I seek happy docs with happy pills.
One or both of us can wed my wished bride,
just, please, Santa, in my favor decide.
Translucent turquoise tide pools
soft shimmer on the sand,
mirrors for vain seagulls,
bathtubs for crusty crabs.
The tide slap lapping on the beach,
cavorting up and down the shore
with sounds of gentle laughter
mixing tumbling rocks and broken shells.
Adrift along a fantasy,
stretched out upon the sand;
my mind a merry fishhook
baiting dreams like fishermen.
Above, the sky’s bright powder puff
has rouged my cheeks like shells,
spritzed freckles across my nose,
brown spray amid the swells.
Days like these cannot be bought
nor pursued as treasured store;
you stumble on them, mindlessly,
whether rich or whether poor.
A gift to lift your hefty load,
from life’s harsh grind, reprieve;
lay back, let salt sea breezes blow
and feel your stress unwind.
Copyright, May 1, 2022
She's thirty-three, single,
her Mom babysits her
five year old son.
She reassures herself it's
just two more hours,
then it's the blessed weekend.
Which means delicious sleep.
She has no nest egg,
she's just getting by.
There is one kind aging matron
who makes her lunch when she
cleans her large stately home.
Yet, other well-to-do homeowners
cast their false superiority heavy
in the air as she imagines wiping
off their smug faces with Pledge.
She hums to a catchy pop tune
while scrubbing toilets and
spraying down whirlpool bathtubs
as her muscles ache,
wishing she could soak in one.
Maid for the ungrateful,
she smiles remembering her
First Holy Communion,
her snow-white lacy veil,
with her rosary of pearlescent
ivory beads.
Then, a memory of
teenage politics of high school
with random daydreams like
impromptu snapshots.
Her lips and throat dry from
those wretched aerosol sprays,
always forgetting her face mask.
A few sips of tepid Gatorade,
as she softly prays her son will
excel in school.
Her learning disabilities held
her back despite her gift of
intelligence.
This day's cleaning was at the
home of a lawyer's snooty wife,
who was lunching with friends
after klutzy attempts at tennis
at the country club.
Maid for the ungrateful,
can hardly wait to get home
to soak her worn feet with
warm water and Epsom salt
in a porcelain basin. ~
Five ducklings feeding
The back of the camper bus
proudly sported the family
seven yellow stickers ducks
five little ducklings in a line
feeding on life presented to
the world growth sustenance
nourishment and meaning
For every fellow traveller
to ponder smile anticipate
what little team was to alight
at temporary destinations
sheltered tented playgrounds
swings and roundabouts
cul-de-sacs and traffic lights
To get all ducks into a row
once they emerged enriched
our little feeding station
food bank vital well and
fields of plenty needed
diverse and un-divided
attention chaos letting go
Meal times at times with rubber
ducks in bathtubs burping
passing winds of change
incorporating kilojoules
compassion love and swirling
compromise uncertain certainty
floated in the ocean of life
yet to be swum and dived in
with the buoyancy of living
Little duckling was still small
and sat beside as older
sister eager helper supervisor
when our triplet power three
in one as courtesy of nature
and individual little mouths
to feed lay on their backs
on sleeping bags as wonderment
in waiting for the spoon with
apple mush and cinnamon
to take its turn to reach their gums
To complete the pentagon
of childish folly serious fun
and exploration another little duckling
observed from inside womb in
its fertile spring to yet conjoin the river
contemplated when and where
to splash out into beauty question marks
and tribulations sparkling brotherhood
and food for life and pleasure
whirlpools cascades and little ripples
The spoon went one to one
and to another next to here and
there forward backward and beyond
my wildest expectations of what food
and feeding holding precious gifts
in hand released from nature
into nature ingesting measured
unimaginable and definite provision
nurtures nourishes what was what is
The birds have flown the nest
they feed and feed me just the same
and it is not just those trivial stickers
sign posts on the buzling bus
and more than ever and for
every one who wants to see the
picture depiction metaphor
the unsurpassed experience
which reminds me of simplicity of
gratitude and feeling warm inside
24th May 2016
"American Grafitti" took me back again to High School in the 1960's
"Back to the Future's" nifty hot rod took me back in time and almost left me!
"City Slickers" took me way out west, to rustle cows and ride a horse
"Da Vinci's" code, did not bode well, the Vatican did not endorse!
"E. T. " turned out to be my friend, we peddled bikes far past the moon
"Forrest Gump" shared my lunch, and shared his chocolate just past noon
"Groundhog Day" is darn confusing, is it Monday or is it Tuesday?
"Hannibal" is one cruel dude,..........he sharpens teeth so he can chew me!!
"I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry" invited me to toast their wedding
"Jaws" invited me to take a swim! Those who did, were soon regretting!
"King Kong", was one poor ape who climbed too high for past mistakes,
"Lincoln" had too much at stake, but ended war between the states
"Mummy 1" and "Mummy 2" made me cry for Mommy,...PLEASE!
"No Country for Old Men"...but young dudes look, and want to leave!
"O' Brother Where Are Thou?" escaped their chains to play like Ringo
"Psycho's" bathtubs scare me silly, my next motel will be Flamingo's
"Quarantine" because I'm sick? If I stay in bed, they call me lazy
"Rosemary's Baby"...yikes that kid? Babysit....?? Are you crazy?
"Superman" claimed that he could help me, but flew away with no advice
"Titanic" hit a piece of ice, (that Superman was not so nice!)
"Unforgiven" (now is Superman)...Clint Eastwood is the slicker guy
"Valkyrie"'s plot has thickened...Let's all poke Hitler in the eye!
"When Harry Met Sally" I was jealous....her cafe' scene has made me blush
Xanadu had me roller skating.......racing faster, while I'm dating
"Young Sherlock Holmes" was just a kid, I kid you not, he met his Watson
"Zoolander" 's slacks were Cuban made.. I borrowed some and they were awesome!
(and I'm exhausted!)
______________________________________________
For Cyndi's exhausting ABC contest!! Whew!
A Hundred Years Ago
By Elton Camp
(Statistics and facts apply only to the USA)
It was forty-seven years the average man would live
And twenty-two cents an hour the average pay to give
There were eight thousand automobiles--not any more
And the fuel for them was sold only in the drug store
The most common car was by Ford and called Model T
And there were only 144 miles of paved road, you see
Bathtubs at fourteen percent were an item very rare
Just once a month the average woman washed her hair
In Las Vegas there were only thirty who did reside
And there was no income tax anywhere to deride
Marijuana, heroin and cocaine were all legally sold
All good for your health, store customers were told
Even the germ theory of disease was still debated
As being wrong many doctors the idea still rated
The most common government was rule by a king
Stayed so until to an end the Great War did bring
Space travel was impossible most scientists did say
Or else, being shot out of a canon might be a way
Even the millions of galaxies were not know to exist
Stars float around in a cloudy mass, they did insist
There were only 230 reported murders in the USA
So there were some very good things about that day
Just 30 little days in which to turn around
A whole new season, new school year
The cooled breeze scented with academia,
apples and the most tenacious of roses
Spiders invading bathtubs, lazy bees
Stubbled fields, the grass now yellow
where emerald blades once flourished
6 Sept 2011
He never left for long,
his footprints left marks all across my kitchen floor
and I slipped over the waning of November, sometimes,
as my hands scarred themselves, the empty callouses
the left over burns that scalded the sides of dingy porcelain bathtubs
when nighttime reaches out shadows that never resemble
me.
Doors are left ajar when the singing stops for the moments that silence invades,
alabaster handles that scream of fingers that fumble for too long against locks
and reason,
but I love him, you see, and I drowned my heartbeat...
softer, still...
to hear him
b l i n k
butterfly wings that recreated May all over my December lips
and we lost lashes, wishes fell to nowhere, I never blew my secrets through the air we
breathed...
but he was back before too long, you know,
erasing the chill from all our floors.
I lay my head on his chest when nighttime refused to leave me,
his skin a map to places I would never discover, the mystery of perfection lay beneath my
fingerprints
a secret I could never grasp,
my hair fell to everywhere all over him and he never felt the teardrops
that seasons bring
so I curled and breathed myself exactly above him in the hopes
that sunrise may shadow me...
but he was there, you see,
softer, even...
than the kisses that rewrite themselves in the fear of losing
spring...
he was there...
but I had dreamed our wishes with my silence, never breathing,
for
far too long.
Why shave?
Why bathe?
Why behave?
Should a man let self-maintenance make him a slave?
If he bucks expectation, will all think him depraved?
Perhaps think about starting a hippie enclave…
Where the bathtubs are puddles and the streets are unpaved.
But no, I like smart phones and my microwave.
How else could I heat up the treats that I crave?
I think I’ll go down to Wendy’s… buy a burger from Dave.
Wait, who am I kidding? He’s dead in his grave.
I’ll just make something here, hit the porch and sunbathe
And think about the five or more bucks that I’ve saved,
And count all the gifts that our earth-mother gave.
My armpits still smell and my beard is unscathed.
Because why shave?
Why bathe?
Why behave?
If bathtubs grew onions
then feet might have bunions
that stink as well as get sore
If you can't remove all the dirt
your toes will sure hurt ~
that your husband
will ignore as he snores
Unsung Laborers Day of Humanity!
Hail to the unsung laborers who labor every day for a year, and at least up to eighteen more years!
Hail to the unsung laborers who labor as they carry a child inside of their womb for a whole year!
Hail the unsung laborers who have to deal with weird food cravings, crazy mood swings, nausea, morning sickness, exhaustion, and so much more!
Hail to the unsung laborers who give birth to their child and/or children and almost die while giving birth!
Hail to the unsung laborers who every
day
night
hour
minute
love
nurture
care about and take care of
teach
challenge
encourage
support
discipline
protect
feed
water
shelter
instill in
pay for school and sometimes even college, and so much more for their child, and/or children!
Hail to the unsung laborers who give up all of their time and goals in order for their child and/or children to succeed, and even giving them all the attention that they need!
Hail to the unsung laborers who wash, dry, fold, and put up unlimited piles of laundry, clean up mud stained bathtubs, read mountains of books, accompained bathroom visits, endless readings of nursey rhymes, knock knock jokes, endlessly hearing why, and so much more!
Hail to the unsung laborers who are and were ancestral mothers, great great grand-mothers, great grand-mothers, grand-mothers, mothers, aunts, sisters, daughters, cousins, nieces, and wives, who do so much more than they ever get credit for!
It’s alright to fall, sometimes
It’s okay to be lonely
I tell myself this
Easing into of bathtubs brewing with insecurity
Bubbles erasing traces of sin
Fortified between each strand of hair that he touched
It stains the skin, Devotion
No matter how I scrub, the pigment of distrust will never come out
Puts these bruises on the heart
Broken blood vessels accumulate on the bottom, haunting my thighs
Links of trust defeated, leaving images on mirrors that shouldn’t be seen
Dripping reminders of how I couldn’t get things
Back to the way they used to be
Perfumes and aromas lie to the reeking reality
At times, water is conceived to be purity
In tangible form, but what if
it’s black and ugly, polluted with lost ideas of love
Drunk by demons and spit out, too foul for the worst of them
For what it’s worth,
Please don’t lie to me, it clouds my mentality
Baths like these deny me the
right
To necessity, cleansing my name and scouring out
Heartaches, causing third degree blisters on the soul
Comforting tears soothe this burning sensation, echoing
In bathtub murmurs
While wandering some wooded paths
We witnessed warblers taking baths.
Some rocky croppings, they’d detected,
Had some dips where rain collected.
Several types of birds appeared
And waited ‘til the “bathtubs” cleared.
Taking turns, they each immersed
While those in waiting chirp-conversed.
The bathing birds, a’frenzied, flapped
As water droplets rose and slapped.
I couldn’t tell if all that preening
Was for show or simply cleaning.
Concrete jungle thoughts aside,
In New York City, we’re supplied
With lots of Nature’s hidden treasures;
Spotting them provides sweet pleasures.
It is the singing bird.
It is the yellowing pages of old books gathering dust;
It is hot bread.
It is the sun, our beautiful laughs, and forgotten past.
It is the sunflowers, and the grace with which they move.
It is their quiet slumber at the end of day and the ease with which they rise in the morning.
It is the butterfly, perhaps more it than the cocoon.
It is in the way bees make more honey than they do sting.
It is a baby’s first cry,
It is the song on the Sunday radio,
It is the man on the corner tugging on his guitar, paid in half-eaten pies.
It is the humble transitions of humanity.
It is the first time a songbird leaves the nest,
Majestic in both music and flight.
It is the bird’s first injured wing that commands its best.
It is the first war that we must fight:
To profit. To conquer.
To service another man’s politics with all our righteousness, our rage,
our might,
To never see the burning huts, wailing kids, and men of the cloth
hogging tithes.
It is the caged bird.
It is the cocoon, perhaps more it than the butterfly.
It is our barbaric ways and bondage for the crumbs of cold bread.
It is a man’s final breath and the earth under which he lies.
It is evil.
It is children assembling weapons in bathtubs.
It is the man that fears his own kind because he is more dung than beetle.
It is the man that expects condemnation, like babies in mosh clubs:
It is gunpowder,
It is old people, it’s brittle bones and firepower.
It is love, it’s buckets of bullets, babies and bombs in asylums and hotels.
It is us, and our gospel.