Best Chore Poems
In The Kitchen:
Hang a pound of hickory smoked thick sliced bacon
Cover the bacon with white paper towel to prevent splatters
Pre-heat oven to 350 degree
Cover baking sheet with silver aluminum foil
Place whole-wheat yeast rolls on the baking sheet
Dot each roll with luscious creamery fresh butter
Place rolls into the pre-heated oven
Place thick bacon into microwave oven to cook for ten minutes
Beat-up four eggs incorporating air add two tablespoons milk beat some more
Take out that aggression on those eggs
Cook omelet in preheated oil covered pan
Top that omelet with some shredded cheese just a little
Call everyone to come:
Breakfast awaits
The bathroom lacks your spare change scattered,
and my bank account is no longer flattered.
Your socks are no longer sprawled on the floor,
but everyday entails a greater chore.
There's certainly far fewer dishes to scrub,
but there's no companion to enjoy my grub.
I'm no longer someone's personal maid,
but the lack of your traffic makes me afraid.
The covers are tucked on your side of the bed,
but fluffing the comforter is a simple dread.
The satin sheets no longer unfold you,
and this beating breast has no chest to mold to.
A cabinet drawer hangs, and my bouquet is bent.
As I weep, the dripping sink seems to lament.
If you're with the Holiest, and only know bliss,
I wonder if you're oblivious, or you witness this.
If the latter, is your perspective so much greater,
knowing I'm a blink away from the Creator?
By the grace of the Savior, I wait for your return,
when these eerie ashes will leap from your urn.
Alarming Monday :
Wake up!
Sleep in...
Blades of grass
quite bluntly
are needing cut
Swaying with electrical cord to the rhythmic hum
of my new vacuum cleaner, I relax into thoughts
of slow dancing with you. My hands steadily drum
to the soft music playing inside my head. Caught
between the background of little boy’s morning cartoons
and a moment of my own, the vacuum drowns out
reality of a Tuesday morning. I whistle the tune
of our wedding song and picture you going about
your day alone at your desk, wondering as I croon,
if you, too, are thinking of me. After all these years,
I still find happiness in thoughts of you. Lost in a June
day from long ago, I steal a smile then imagine you here
with me, dancing barefoot on freshly vacuumed carpet.
An ordinary chore, the vacuum cleaner’s hum
still spurs memories of us too extraordinary to forget.
Overgrowths of arm-post life
Lift upward as my steam-breath
Vanishes thinly into the sky
Cool sweat drips deliberately
As the stacks grow larger
And the sawdust smells and sticks
The wagon-load will wallow obediently
As the frost bites cleanly
Through the still winter dusk
Ash white smoke curls softly
From the cut-stone chimney
Where a portrait of simplicity
Sleeps eternally in my mind
Her knuckles sore as she spat and swore
whipping the cloth back and across
Crouched on her heels on the stone cold floor
The newspaper used as a rug
Her forehead smeared with black polish galore
She does her weekly chore
As she polished and shined four pairs of black shoes
On the eve of the Sunday mass
There are many things I need to do
yet nothing's getting done
I think I'll sit around awhile
pretending my to-do's are done
Self-suppression
Of feasting and drinking beyond the road.
Conflicts and dissonance over the load
Trembling in the face of the tide, of youth age
Thoughts altogether are the sign of the rage
Prisoner of desire in a locked cage.
What if one claims to be a sage?
Fails among the average, but blurry beige
It's the act of dedicating oneself to a life of carnage.
One's heart is racing and his feet are pounding, as they search for
The taste of the sweet, becomes all the sour.
Skipping, sleeping through, and failing to complete the chore
Waiting for twilight to fall on the door.
On the head of me the dusk is to fall
It’s just a demand, why, why for?
Not quite, but on the inside
One must deceive oneself so as to hide.
. .
. .
. .
……Ksanet Brhane (peace of mind)…..
13/02/2022
One friend a day,
One simple chore,
One minute away,
From another bore.
Entrant into Susan Burch’s “Couplet Challenge” contest
There’s this one chore I only do if I must
I hate working on it, making myself dust
He wanted to rest. She wanted to pester.
His eyes closed. She yelled “Lester!”
The garage door needs fixing, she began to fester.
He was getting tired of his wife, Old Ester.
Can I please have a tiny bit of peace?
She asked if he had yet signed the lease.
He was exhausted from an eight-hour day.
She wanted him to work; he wanted to play.
He grabbed the remote and clicked on the TV.
She began to bug him rather incessantly.
She wanted him to mow the lawn or clean his car.
She was no longer his girlfriend, a shining star.
She had become a chore, a drudge, a hounding hag.
He wanted to get away, in a car that could drag.
He left the house, pretending to go get a cigarette.
That was twenty-six years ago, and he is not back yet.
• Had a bite of a sweet pear
• Once or twice opened the door
• Played a game of solitaire
• Wiped the floor
• Logged to Facebook in and out
• Opened TV, checked the score
• Stole a sip of the Milk Stout
• Coughed, wiped the floor
• Did I call mom once or twice
• Had to wash, such a chore
• Cooked chicken and some rice
• Spilled soup, wiped the floor
• Read a chapter of T.H.U.G,
• Black Lives Matter, think I'm sure
• Felt cold, made some tea
• Spilled a drop, wiped the floor
• Wrote a poem, bulleted it
• About the chores, what a bore
• Not again, couldn't believe it;
• Spilled some brain, wiped the floor
I woke up at 6
But it really was 5;
Now it’s 5
But it really is 4.
Every time that we change
All the clocks, I know I’ve
Been confused
By this twice-a-year chore.
It was dark when I woke;
Now it’s still very light
And might be
When I’m ready for bed.
Yet I follow the rules
Though I know that I might
Never get this
All straight in my head.
Gershon was chastising Seth
For being unfaithful to Beth
As high as a kite
Seth swore he'd do right
And his wife was tickled to death!