Best Clothespins Poems
Whining, it happens when blizzards come calling
Grabbing a jacket I walk down the stairs
Beside the window where winter is lurking
Waiting about as if nobody cares
Coating the trees with a cottony fabric
Not quite as warm as the heater detects
Here in the handbook of problems and answers
Only for masters to come and inspect
Grabbing a scarf from a shelf in the corner
Pouring a cup just to dance in its steam
Maybe some sugar so life can be sweeter
And just a dash of your half and half cream
Kicking the mud from the boots made of rubber
Purchased on sale at a shop on the beach
Next to the flip flops and lotion dispenser
Low to the ground and so easy to reach
Those were the days when the sun wasn’t hidden
Blanketed white like a sheet on a rope
Held up by clothespins of wooden construction
Seeking a breeze with the fresh scent of soap
Shoveling sidewalks and not chasing seashells
Feeling the cold as it bites through your skin
Running a faucet to thaw every finger
When will it be time for all this to end
I guess I will go out and trudge through the weather
Deal with the snowflakes, the slush and the sleet
Before too long I’ll be sweating the summer
Probably whining about all the heat
The house where I grew up
Came with a clothesline in the back,
A dryer being something that
Most homes those days did lack.
I learned to hang the towels,
Overlapping just a bit,
Since by doing so, more laundry
On the line would get to fit.
I visualize my mom,
With wooden clothespins firmly gripped
In her mouth, despite the fact
With clothespin bag she was equipped.
When Covid struck, I hung a rope
Across my bathtub’s length,
Afraid to hit the laundry room
And test its viral strength.
It was a clothesline, technically;
I called it by that name.
Without the backyard breezes, though,
It wasn’t quite the same.
A seething summer morning in the oil boom trailer park
Oral Roberts on the radio with the gospel told by Mark
The reek of raw petroleum is everywhere around
We little oil trash urchins play marbles on the ground
He drives out here most every day around the hour of nine
Checking all the trailer windows for a little cardboard sign
He parks the canvas-covered truck and dons his leather vest
Throws a tow sack o'er his back and shows his Sunday best
Down the drive comes Danny, on his mighty motor bike
Hanging on the handlebars, his bigger brother Mike
The engine makes a ton of noise, a dandy double stroke
Two baseball cards and clothespins, hitting every spoke
Our ragamuffin gang was gathered, just waiting for the time
To contrive our evil strategy and carry out our crime
“The iceman, the iceman!”, I hear my sisters say
“Y'all be quiet!”, I hiss to them,” You'll give us all away!”
The iceman sidles round the truck and casts the canvas back
Scores a hundred-pounder block and cleaves it with a whack
Tongs the icy burden to his back and laughs at what is left
Chunks and chips of frozen jewels, the targets of our theft
We want so hard to play it cool and act like we don't care
All our mouths fill up with drool and it's tricky not to stare
The iceman winks his eye at me and hides a little grin
Then walks up to the trailer door where mother lets him in
The moment that the door slams shut, the bandits make their play
With eyes lit up, we whoop and shout like kids on holiday
We suck up all the chunks and chips and with our bellies iced
We swagger off to brag about our frosty jewelry heist
It's true we didn't have a lot, perhaps enough to just scrape by
But the visit from the iceman was like Christmas in July
And when I pass through oilfield country, it never ceases to amaze
How the scent of raw petroleum brings back those icebox days
January 30, 2013
We weren't rich by any means
but our bellies were full and our clothes were clean
They didn't display those high priced names
but they wore fine just the same
We didn't ride around in fancy cars
Grandma saved pennies in a big glass jar
We learned early that money doesn't grow on trees
we also learned to say "thank you" and "please"
I mowed the grass in the summertime
My sister helped hang the clothes on the line
My cousin usually took out the trash
On Friday we'd each get seven dollars cash
At nigh we slept under a big window fan
It made the most comforting sound when it ran
We put a beaten on that old screen door
We must have popped it a million times or more
In the Fall we'd all gather up wood
and invite every kid in the neighborhood
Grandaddy would build us a pretty good fire
We'd all roast hotdogs on coat hanger wires
Our first roller skates had metal wheels
with rubber stoppers on the backs of the heels
We had a paved alley alongside the house
You could see sparks when we skated around
Every couple of years we'd get a new bike
We'd attach playing cards to all of the spikes
We'd attach them with grandma's wooden clothespins
so it would sound like our bikes had motorcycle engines
As I look back on our childhood
I think we had it pretty good
We didn't need all the fancy stuff
We had each other and that was enough
Grandma's house was our favorite place
We'd never felt more loved and safe
That old house was home to us
It was the best even when we'd fight and fuss
Those memories to me are so crisp and clear
I will always hold them very dear
There was an old woman from Brighton
Whose face the small children would frighten
“Egad, why these wrinkles?
My eyes lost their twinkles!”
Her skin she used clothespins to tighten
*April 11, 2018
Sentries of the night stand guard in perfect formation
Across the stretch of wire, like clothespins on a line
While speckled flocks of grackle stain the landscape
Spots of black against a field of brown.
As if on cue, they choreograph their flight
Up and down, like waves at low tide
Just a ripple before they settle
Bobbing to a minuet as old as time.
Chatter of excitement as they discuss the day’s events
Children too excited to sleep, too restless to stay still
Something moves, and the sentries cry out a warning,
In harmonious exodus, the sea bursts forth into the sky
Absorbing the last strands of light
They take flight across the shallow riverbed.
Reflections of black specks against the setting rays of sun
Up towards the back wash of brilliant pinks and yellows
Shards of cerulean attempting to hold back the sapphire night
A finger-painting of bleeding hues
Streaked across a mat from a single orange focal point.
A stroke of madness in a painting of harmony.
Night’s orchestra tunes up for tomorrows concert
They return at dawn to greet the day
Renewing once again the sonnet of the night
And the circle resumes.
Did You Learn Anything?
Go ahead.
Put your shoes on.
Walk outside and face the nervous day.
Know that your lungs will not resist you.
Know that your heart will still stir.
Put the key in the ignition.
Now turn the crank.
You are back there now.
As if in a dream so ordered.
It is 1937 on Hoover Street.
The oleanders are bleeding.
Perfumed orange trees spit white loogies.
Clean children emerge from green digs.
Mothers hang clothes on uncomplaining lines.
Your grandmother is back there.
She’s wearing black reptile oxfords.
Go ahead.
Walk down the long gravelly driveway.
Pass the back porch steps there.
Pass the red-blooming bougainvillea.
There she is, alive again as she was.
Unfurling laundry with old clothespins.
Singing an old Salvation Army song.
Go ahead.
Talk to her.
Tell her who you are.
“Baba. Baba, it’s me,
Your surviving grandson, Harry.
I wanted to tell you,
I am a poet now.
An engineer of the human soul.
A standard-bearer for the mad,
Dressed in mindful metaphor.
You look young despite the goiter,
There inside your sinewy neck.
It appears and seems as if,
The goiter is a python at sleep,
Scrunched up inside there,
All rolled up like kneaded bread.
I hope it doesn’t hurt you.
I come from the future, Baba.
I know that sounds crazy, but
I am visiting from the year 2020.”
The world of my time screams
In lockdown, like medieval Europe,
People of every nation and tongue,
Too afraid to emerge from their walls,
Too fearful of even breathing in,
Imbibing in, with lost enthusiasms,
Mountain fresh air from the antipodes;
Fearful of catching and releasing It - the
Corona Virus monster microbe moving
Silently across the terrified landscapes,
Devouring the cool mornings,
Aside the neon evenings, even
Robbing the noon day of hopeful turnings.
“Baba, can I stay here with you,
In this golden simple time of 1937?
May I remain here now,
A happy and relieved rider,
Astride this awful depression horse?”
Go ahead.
It is time to return.
Baba died in 1963 and cannot hear you.
Turn the key off in the ignition.
You are back now where you belong.
It is 2020 in the United States of America.
Baba is sleeping in the graveyard now.
You are being held hostage by a germ.
Kick your shoes off now and think.
Did you learn anything?
Frayed and puckered in a heap
Skivvies on top, worn socks beneath
Lace collar curled up in disgust
Offensive smells to upper crust
Deep baskets poured out jumbled loads
Soap bubbles flip flopped to and fro
Pearl buttons twirled as I declared
“Those agitatin’ underwear!”
Riled ruffles twisted in a bind
As boxers wiggled up behind
Inclined to fret and whirl away
When this old tub began to sway
Just fixin’ to soak in some suds
Till wringers caught the cycles buzz
This necks been drawn too many times
By garments surely less refined
Soon clothespins gathered at my tag
To pinch my frills despite those rags
Hung out to dry, high strung until
Tucked in a bag marked good will
Wings of a monarch butterfly
erratically flapping against a breeze.
Slimy trail of a snail
leaving ground ooze below the knees.
Clear sky of night has a pristine cosmic
view beyond polluted industrial haze.
Highway clean and clear of litter
alongside pastures' luscious grass to graze.
Bottoms of rivers lakes and creeks
whose rocks you can view with ease.
Air is fresh and clear
nothing but your nose to please.
Gravesides’ loose dirt piled high,
mounds soon packed and dipped.
Breeze flapped laundered sheets hanging tight,
clothespins haven’t slipped.
Pollen packed on a bee’s legs knowing
everything it touches, new life will be creating.
Morning sun always shines brighter
after a night without sedating.
Fire of love burning in someone’s eyes
snuffed out by anothers continual berating.
Flamboyant dress of one, always out-classed
by anothers’ simple black understating.
Outrageous screams of a lunatic,
whose throat someone should grip.
End to his folly magically finishes
once the Valium starts to drip.
Birdies on a branch are cuddled up so fine
Bunched up closer than clothespins on a line
Snoring in sync, a luscious lullaby in a whispery way
The rest of the forest animals cannot look away
Their mama is gone, says one. Let’s help them to have lots of fun.
An old preacher named Ned
Got it into his head
To make a musical pilgrimage
Before he was dead.
He claimed divine inspiration
To form a band and tour the nation,
And by so doing treat its ills,
Not with welfare checks and pills,
But with arpeggios and trills.
He'd spread the gospel word through music
And lead the land back to salvation.
He first made a violin
And strung it with hairs from his very own chin.
Then next came a saxophone
That he whittled right out of a billy goat's bone.
He fashioned a tambourine
From an old piece of cowhide and dyed it bright green.
Then from a small turtle shell,
He managed to carve a mouth organ, as well.
And last came an accordion
From a corset, two clothespins, and a large rubber band.
What, again, was the plan
For Brother Ned's one-man band?
He would spread the Word through music
All over the land.
His wife helped him to pack
All his stuff on his back;
A quick peck on the cheek,
He'll send a check once a week.
Then he left his abode
With his instrument load
And took his unusual act on the road.
As she waved him good-bye,
His wife heaved a huge sigh
And dabbed at the tears
That welled up in her eyes.
"Poor old fool with his boast,
He's tone-deaf as a post.
But he's set in his ways,
So I'll give it three days,
Or if someone don't hang him,
Or shoot him,
Then maybe a week and a half,
At the most."
She walks six floors up, resting between
To use rooftop clothes lines always unseen
Hammocking deeply from wind blowing mean
Wooden clothespins hug the slack lines
Standing attention, the ancient, pinch kind
If fumbled, free-falling, hurling through time
Bring down clothes frozen, gleaming with snow
Gloves stiff with iced fingers now moving slow
Breathe chimney fumes that warm from below
Women cleaning clothes to make a living
Dreams set aside without misgiving
Harsh life in the Bronx, unforgiving
Relax, count my breath up to 4
Recall how Jesus chilled on His cross
Pinned like a cool butterfly
Hung like a shroud on the line
The crown of thorns felt fine
The nails betwixt ulna and radius divine
He didn't mind nails in metatarsals
He declined the sour wine to keep his wits
I want to learn how to chill like Him
Relax, take in the 1st breath
Inhale and let my soul hang loose
Positive pressure dispels worries
Let go years of misdirections
Did he know he had 3 more breaths?
Disown the tomatoes thrown in disgust
Own tensile betrayal lurking in the mind
Be like a baby’s skin when calm
I wish I knew how to relax on high
Relax, exhale and count to 2
Release all worries that bind
My agitation only finds rest in you
Remember me on the cross beside you
Me, 2 thieves watching your grace
I see you take your final breath
Equanimity hung on the clothesline
Careless to His resurrection assured
Why have you abandoned me?
Relax, inhale for the 2nd time
Let my echo chamber take in 3
Gather desperate cries to be unpinned
Be 1 of 2 thieves breathing next to Him
1 thief writhes mocking Christ
The other thief in me fears God
He says to me we’ll be in paradise
Comfort me when You’re uncomfortable
Your promise of relaxation is foreign
Relax, exhale the number 4
Release my final breath like Him
Count each breath till I let go of 4
Bring to bear the recycled sequence
Enumerate the stations of the cross
If I’m the thief on Golgotha that day
Make me the 1 sinister to Him
Hang me fresh like a serpentine sheet
Loosed from clothespins spinning round
When Jesus annoints me unrelaxed
I start counting to find the numbers
When I find no solace in 4's exhalation
I count back to 1 to find no1's home
If only I could find equanimity in 0
If a thief could trust his promise
Then I, too, could relax on my cross
I could also say I'm finished for now
Just like Jesus relaxing in the breeze
Relax, everything is enumerated
Each breath is numbered by the Father
Surely, I can learn to relax on my cross
Waking up country
puts a smile on my face as
the golden sun tells me it is daylight,
my eyes open to its glorious sight.
Waking up country
is an open kitchen window dressed with
red and white gingham curtains flowing
with a breeze who insists on ablowing.
Waking up country
is a walk through the fields watching
the monarch butterflies fly here and there,
landing on flowers everywhere.
Waking up country
are the cows scattered along the hill,
munching away or lying around,
content and not making a sound.
Waking up country
gives feelings of continous joy
as the wild birds stop at their feeder
pecking away at the suet seeder.
Waking up country
means hanging laundry on the line
with wooden clothespins grasping on tight
in case a strong wind wants to fight.
Waking up country
is a blissful dream since getting
away from a conjested and dirty city,
which is not considered pretty.
Waking up country
is visiting with neighbors over the fence,
chatting away at least once a day,
discussing how many eggs our hens lay.
Waking up country
is a blessing of a lifetime,
so grateful that this pace is slower
and that there is time to push the lawn mower.
Bruce Banner turned into the Hulk when he got a flu shot.
He turned into the Hulk because it hurt a lot.
He smashed the doctor's office and broke the doctor's neck.
You should've seen that office afterward, it was a wreck.
The Hulk was abgry, that shot filled him with rage.
He was so furious that he went on a rampage.
Batman and Robin tried to stop the Hulk but he ripped off their heads.
They thought their utility belts would defeat him but now they're dead.
The army shot the Hulk with a nuclear missile and blew him apart.
When he saw the missile, he lost bladder control and let out a fart.
That was a nasty fart, it could be smelled as far as 200 miles away.
People had to put clothespins on their noses, they'd seen better days.
Many buildings and people were smashed when the Hulk was through.
But he couldn't beat the army, they turned the Incredible Hulk into goo.