Best Clotheslines Poems
the injustice of
the powder blue box
standing proudly
on the corner of
fifty-seventh and fifth
A symbol of division
extending the partition
between wealth and
everyone else
back around the way
the old shabby
half shingled house
was home to the
second hand charlie brown
size thirteen shoes
worn by
the size thirteen girl
sitting on the second
stair stoop
when she was just thirteen
no one heard her scream
no one saw her run
and hide in shame
under the rough wool
of poverty that had never
comforted or warmed her
her playgrounds were
clotheslines for volleyball
and cracked tarred side streets
for hopscotch
forced to scratch and climb each day
up through that
crammed and crowded pit
fighting to reach the light before
the trap was sealed shut on the door
there’s a quota, you see
only some will be allowed
a chance to be free
everyone knew
most will not make it through
the others doomed
to return and make do
forced to accept
false narratives and
live by corrupted rules
but just remember
the megaphone
fed down into the abyss
is an acoustic indoctrination
and it never ceases to play
“two plus two
equals four”
a deliberate
echo to trance
the suffocated poor
yet one percent
know the real truth
two plus two
equals anything
you want it to
entrenched in power
they refuse to let go
protecting the system
they must maintain
the status quo
so she stands in line
to make the climb
determined to reach
the top in time
she knows her freedom
is just beyond that light
as she hears the trap door
slam behind
she feels the warmth
of destiny on her face
knowing that countless others
are left behind
trapped in a sinkhole
of poverty and oppression
in a mental cage
that denies their rights
Categories:
clotheslines, life,
Form:
Free verse
Buoyant on the North west winds;
Shredded clouds expose a half moon eye.
An eye that stares cautiously at
The hyphens of cars below.
Stratus sunsets trace the highway,
That leads to my refuge,
and shields me from the voyeur and the oncoming night.
I sit upright against unforgiving vinyl,
on the back of a bus that rebounds daily,
between New York City and my nightly abode.
I watch the cirrus race the Greyhound
and the Mustangs running in packs of three.
A spyglass has formed within a white nimbus,
an oval window into the crowded heavens.
The clotheslines of the Gods turn to skyrockets,
Shooting masterful projections upward,
Now, composed as arrows that hasten
An antelopes final good night.
Clouds drift away without shadow or fault.
The clouds, the clouds
I alone with my burden,
Where do they go?
Categories:
clotheslines, life
Form:
Narrative
TROPICAL STORM
midday darkness heavy
rain pounds, winds howl---
trees topple as huts crumble
EYE OF THE STORM
blacked-out night
eerie silence for miles---
dog whimpers and hide
STORM’S AFTERMATH
sun shines bright on
full clotheslines for miles---
sad smiles from grief-stricken faces
*To all those who prayed for my country, the Philippines, thank you. The typhoon changed course and only a small portion up north was affected. It is unfortunate however, that 2 people died due to electrocution, an effect no doubt of the storm.
KIM PATRICE NUNEZ
11 May 2015
Categories:
clotheslines, imagery, natural disasters, nature,
Form:
Haiku
Line after line of fresh diapers
A daily chore for years
Clotheslines held six dozen each day
Unless weather unclear
Two little ones not potty trained
Now grown and on their own
They hold up a lifeline of love
Since the soft nest they've flown
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Contest: Let Me Feel Your Lines
# 3. Clothesline
Written by: Sara Kendrick
March 30, 2015
Categories:
clotheslines, children,
Form:
Rhyme
Number of Man
(Webster’s Ninth)
Money trail reveals factor
To assemble humans follow layout
Swat down charges with linguistic racket
Sticks more effective than carrot dangle
Arguments sustained by pundits' jangle
Beached on shallow force Fed truths we paddle
Pedantic pets get paddle
First world states where offspring are a factor
Searching for meaning results in jangle
Pogroms programmed in digital layout
Preach peace while children from clotheslines dangle
Dichotomy the full courtpress racket
Tax credit skin trade racket
Birth control for those learning to paddle
Tout facts as contexts, like syntax, dangle
Infrastructure to control the factor
Roman Rhodes lead all through latent layout
Deaf ears strain to hear warning bell’s jangle
Legalized fictions jangle
Integration catalyzed by racket
A body of work produced for layout
Leaves us without proverbial paddle
Multiply the lie to find the factor
What tales are told from the yardarm dangle
Join the police state dangle
Riot inciting projection jangle
Plausibility denying factor
The legislative extortion racket
Brings independence beneath the paddle
All contingencies covered by layout
Camp Kapos marked for layout
Every scapegoat has his day to dangle
No room for slaves who refuse to paddle
Loose lips fill shipping lanes by their jangle
Synthetic avatars fuel our racket
Never ask what long term effects factor
Layout a dialectic to jangle
Dangle clues via distracting racket
Paddle but fail to account for the Factor
© L.K. Hobbs 2018
Categories:
clotheslines, evil, philosophy, political, rights,
Form:
Sestina
On your doorstep once stood
This shadow thinner than clotheslines, just to
Share the verdant lore of its earthly existence
Even if its image was molded from the grains of salt
Nonetheless, it has the proverbial taste for a
Real kinship with all life, as seen in its creative
Expression, somewhat like a sort of written text
Of its tiny palms, sod with
Great charm of nobility, and yet you’ve curved
At the back of its head these doubts, which made
Itself to huddle in solitude, entertaining
The alarming phrases of inferiority that
Nature never taught us
Ah, now I am slaving myself thinking if this
Shadow is still really mine, or am I still his?
Categories:
clotheslines, confusion
Form:
Acrostic
Some silences have many nooks of tears
That lay the corpse of angst upon old weeds
As grasses hide a vulnerable face
To harbor grief...wrestling among lost stars.
And I hold comfort in my guarded place,
Ensnaring those who dare enter cracked walls
On threadbare hours... face of betrayal looms
While heart torn splatters, needing cold retreat.
Quietly wasting time that peels ached nights
I hang upon clotheslines of empty winds ,
Numbing the senses as I lose the spark of dreams
Until tenor of pained silence roars...again.
Before an altar of thorns where love fades
On candles drifting to light my emptiness;
Nail of silence pierces this face now grim
Where bleeding hour reaches a destined tomb.
Loneliness Contest Of Frank H.
by nette onclaud
Categories:
clotheslines, loneliness,
Form:
Free verse
No other city is more unique
than Napoli; around corners,
you'll find surprises that intrigue
eyes staring at monuments
that have some mystique powers!
And walking through the very narrow and noisy streets
of various sounds: you'll feel a drop of casual water
from the clotheslines above...ah, those scented sheets
waving while people eat treats and breathe the spring air
and listen to musicians improvising chords on their guitar!
Come to the city where the scent of oven-baked
pizza lures: live the simple life of the Neapolitans...
folks who sing classical songs that make everyone glad;
even Venice cannot compare to the enthusiasm and thrills
of the locals while flowers are offered by generous hands!
Categories:
clotheslines, art, culture, happiness, magic,
Form:
Quintain (English)
comets strike terror
bombing nations rapid fire...
a slaughterhouse roasts
spiked towers pierce flesh…
drenched with blood of raw corpses
like clotheslines on trees
from skies tainted black
grounds crumble into thin rust…
world in drained sandbag
then, God says enough
angels swoop to tend remains…
guarding earth anew
.......... . ..
Gail Doyle's Contest
End of the World Armageddon
Categories:
clotheslines, confusion, time,
Form:
Haiku
It was a long lonely night at the lumber mill
Just listening to a whippoorwill
In the dark beside a logging road.
I’ve got fifteen cars of timber on my load.
The yard stinks of bleeding sap and cut pine.
Roll on, roll on down the line.
I’ll be on my way before the dawn
Through the bottoms and the swamps.
Before first sun light on the timber lot,
Backwater sloughs and cypress knots.
On rusted rails I’ll be making time
When the horizon winks a thin gold line.
I’ll be rumbling down this long steel track,
Somewhere between porch light and pitch black
While coyotes call out for the night.
My engines will be roaring around the bend
As the night bird’s song comes to an end.
Roll on, morning train, roll on.
Then day break will lay on morning dew,
As the logging town fades out of view.
I’ll give my whistle a blow, blow
To make the farmer’s rooster crow.
By the time the sun has warmed me,
Old men will be drinking their coffee
As I roll through the station.
I ask you leave an open car
For misty eyed hobos and runaways.
Let them know the clotheslines, highways,
And countless telephone poles.
Sunshine and shadows clicking time
Beside the graveyards, grain silos,
And other lonely places.
They’ll be greeted by multitudes of sparrows,
Smiling house wives in their bathrobes,
Unwashed cars and graffiti
Behind the back yards of society.
They’ll find comfort in the rhythm of the day
Beside the dusty dirt roads and alleyways.
Roll on, big freight train, roll on.
Categories:
clotheslines, america, moving on, time,
Form:
Pastoral
Bare Hearted
Anne Morin
Moving backward in time,
there is new sunshine,
the forbidden delight
of disobedient barefooted prancing
through cool grasses,
freshly green and waiting
to caress tiny warm toes
and naughty little hearts.
A wicked world marches on
but not between our clotheslines
hung with spanking clean white sheets
flapping in the chilly spring breeze
where joyous abandon
cannot be kept inside
as cold, slender blades tickle our feet
and an ecstatic younger sister screeches,
“Look at us, Grandma!
Bare-hearted foots!”
Grandma’s switch was a lesson that stung.
Copyright: Anne Morin, 2007
Categories:
clotheslines, childhood, children, freedom, grandmother,
Form:
Free verse
Let's walk down memory lane,
skipping past forgotten pain.
And recall what used to be
when games were most often free.
Remember when for a lark,
we'd play "hide and seek" till dark?
And small chores earned us rich dimes;
though our clothes dried on clotheslines.
We believed in Santa Claus,
superheroes, and just cause.
And fresh air held a sweet smell,
while water came from a well.
The bogeyman, just pretend;
and every cop was your friend.
Whenever tall tales got spun,
bad guys lost, and good guys won.
Teenagers had loads of fun
without carrying a gun.
And friends only died in play;
they all lived; just yesterday.
(Rhyme)
8/4/2015
Categories:
clotheslines, children, emotions, feelings, imagery,
Form:
Rhyme
Remembering America when clothesline displayed wash
The yesteryear clotheslines of our country have mostly gone
Gone with the same way of old fashioned outdated panache
Panache as when women dressed decent_men tipped hats agone
The yesteryear clotheslines of our country have mostly gone
Disappeared from view like Johnny Cash's song "I Walk The Line"
Panache as when women dressed decent_men tipped hats agone
Morals, good principles have been twisted like Kudzu Vine
Disappeared from view like Johnny Cash's song "I Walk The Line"
Gone with the same way of old fashioned outdated panache
Morals, good principles have been twisted like Kudzu Vine
Remembering America when clothesline displayed wash
Categories:
clotheslines, allegory, history, introspection, life,
Form:
Pantoum
Cathode Rays in the Darkness
Thelma Todd is on the Late Late Show,
Brought to the us by Kent cigarettes, which refines and
Refreshes with the exclusive Micronite Filter.
Her still tragic life in the steaming suburbs knows no past.
It is a sucking monster to which there are no survivors.
The holy TV in this house prays with its face on the floor,
Screaming its way through backyards under the parallel clotheslines,
Illuminating with cathode rays, the fragile test patterns of existence.
Lloyd Thaxton is on at 4 o’clock before the news.
Dressed in a Van Huesen shirt with skinny black tie,
He sashayes under those hanging dangling long plays,
Like a finger person jittering across the sea with magic shoes,
Igniting the twisting dance floor with blue-eyed soul.
He is the coolest of the phony-star dance mavens,
Lip syncing with panache and moving lips through album slits.
He ghost-dances now Slauson style to the beat of the dancing dead.
Baxter Ward chews through the nightly harbingers at 6,
Brought to us by Marx Toys; Do you have them all?
He sits behind a square jet black table with head pointed south;
The Great Garloo warns us to beware the Industrial Military Complex,
The insidious Cold War chatterings of Nikita and Jimmy Dodd;
But Baxter Ward assures us he will be there when the Iron Curtain falls;
When Thelma Todd mysteriously dies again in her Lincoln Convertible,
When Lloyd Thaxton lip syncs one last time Unchained Melody in Vietnamese.
Categories:
clotheslines, memory,
Form:
Free verse
Abstract images dripping shadows
Through one's reveries--- cycles grasped
by an artist's palm, scraping the easel--
Mosaic of fallen birds caught within blended tints;
Acrylic pictures woven together,
Hung through clotheslines... soaring like love unrequited.
Within edges of a framework, paint coagulates,
Full of stale cigar smoke as wax droppings
break from many nights' forsaken candles.
Broken Wings Contest-- Dust Off A Memory
25th Oct 2017
Categories:
clotheslines, art, image, loneliness,
Form:
Lyric