Best Dishes Poems
With hands immersed in suds and water warm,
I stand before the sink, humbled vassal,
To plates and dishes, grease and grime the norm,
My task to cleanse this polychromed passel.
Each cup I cradle with a gentle pinch,
Their curves and corners, every angle blessed,
Rinse them speckless, my soapy palm a winch,
A chore completed, my service at rest.
For though this labor at face is mundane,
It's in the simple things we find our grace,
And so I wash each dish with grateful strain,
And let their gleaming surfaces erase
The chaos and the clutter of the day,
A small but satisfying task, I say.
She rose from the table moving slowly to the sink. This was not her favorite time, too much time to think. Her body moved from memory now, the right bit of dish detergent, she must refill that bottle soon, moving the faucets to memorized positions, water streamed out on cue, precisely the right temperature, “hot to clean - not to scald”.
She and water worked well together, having partnered in so many chores; laundry, toilets, sinks and floors. One plate now, one knife, one fork. Sometimes she would cut things like meat loaf or fish with the edge of the fork, skipping the knife, one less utensil to wash. Less time at the sink, less time to think. Against the outside darkness she could see her reflection in the kitchen window. How old she had become. Reminders were everywhere of how her life was dwindling, shrinking, shriveling. She felt too small for her skin, which hung loosely on her like a half-filled bag of potatoes, pouches and folds everywhere. She would need to put this dishcloth in the laundry after finishing. She always rinsed them in cold water to inhibit the bacteria growth but they would start to smell after only a few days. She had become accustomed to foul smells. The smell of dying cells and incontinence pads and bad breath, side effect of certain medicines. She hated eating alone, living alone, being alone, but sometimes she hated it even more when memories of better days settled in upon her. it was like a visit, full of joy and expectation, exciting conversations, catching up, and sharing fond memories. But it was always followed by goodbyes, the pain of separation, and a return to loneliness. She put her plate in the cupboard and was reminded of how she had put other things in her life away; her younger sister from an accident, her only son from someone’s war, her husband three years back from cigarettes she had threatened to divorce him over. She put her silverware in the drawer and closed it tightly, closing her mind tightly at the same time. It wouldn’t do to dwell on any of this, what’s done is done. The dishes were done
I was born an old soul and always a
step out of time. It seems old things just like me
and come to me- like old colorful dishes
found in dusty antique shops
and second hand stores. I found a lovely fancy tea
cup with a small chip yesterday and
it is pretty on my window ledge now. Dust,
and cobwebs in depths will
not stop me when I am searching for a treasure.
Even one of a kind will find a forever home with me.
Oh, just ask my friends- I set my table with
mismatched dishes beautiful . . .
________________________
February 12, 2019
Poetry/Verse/Mismatched Dishes Beautiful
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1114-234-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the Mid, Feb 2019 Standard Contest
sponsor, Brian Strand
First Place
As clean running water flows through dirty dishes
Immense joy and peace bathe her tired being
While veined deft hands scour surfaces and edges
She becomes aware of her body and breathing
Immense joy and peace bathe her tired being
As inner quiet rises and makes its home in her
She becomes aware of her body and breathing
As the plates and sink caress each other
As inner quiet rises and makes its home in her
She becomes mindful of herself and some truths
As the plates and sink caress each other
Her mind and heart unite which amazingly soothes
She becomes mindful of herself and some truths
As her ill thoughts are met with steel wool opposition
Her mind and heart unite which amazingly soothes
And her soul is animated like a new spotless creation
As her ill thoughts are met with steel wool opposition
False magnanimity is wiped with washcloth of humility
And her soul is animated like a new spotless creation
As clean running water flows through dirty dishes
8/9/14
Love, Betrayal and Dirty Dishes
I ate from your welcoming glitter plate
touches easing my restless soul.
Desperate, in love praying, not too late
never saw two eyes black as coal.
There were sweet drugs in your soft words
and dancing steps in your walk.
I flew with you, flew with soaring birds
heaven closer each time we talk.
Now, I hang my sad head in deepest shame
as friends point out how you used.
Seeing contempt at how you played the game
that left me so miserable and bruised.
Now your dirty plate sits in a closet still.
Force myself, to lock it there against my will!
Robert J. Lindley , 09-26 -2015
Note- Sonnet on deep betrayal and blindness that
love brings.
Based on a sad reality for me many decades ago..
Here they are again—the same dirty dishes.
I wonder what’s the use.
Everyone leaves the work to me.
There’s really no excuse.
Sometimes I think it’s more than I can bear.
It happens every day—
Make beds, wash dishes, clean the house,
Wash and fold clothes,
Jim goes to work,
Bess leaves her room a mess,
Jason goes out to play.
I go back to the same routine.
The housework must be done again.
How can I win?
Does anyone really care?
There goes the phone. Who can be calling?
Oh, it’s Jim wanting his suit pressed
For an important meeting coming up.
He tells me that having me to depend on,
He is especially blessed.
But I wonder—does he really care?
What is Jason screaming about?
I’ll run outside and see.
Bless his heart, he fell off his tricycle
And skinned his little knee.
Of course I rescue him
And kiss away his tears,
Hug him to my breast
And make it all better
Band-Aids, more Band-Aids.
He gave me that hurt puppy look,
And hobbled to his room.
I go back to the dishes,
And later iron Jim’s suit.
Life goes on—I’m needed, and I’m glad.
Frogs’ legs
French cuisine fad
Amphibians hopping mad
Shish kebabs
Cubed lamb chislic
Served on toothpick
Pizzas
Flatbread Italian feast
Waist measurement increased
Bird’s nest soup
Rare Chinese foodstuff
Swiftlets sleeping rough
Mexican wraps
Spicy chicken fajitas
Hot as senoritas
Seafood paella
Shrimp, lobster, cuttlefish
Saporous Valencian dish
Maple syrup
Canadians tree tap
Sticky sweet sap
Digestif
After dinner drink
Brandy glasses clink
17/09/18
'six-word couplet poetry contest' : Sponsored by: Mark Toney
Tonight, tables took teapots
"Lumiere Lights" lit
Pleasantly, people pondered
Plates placed
Across appetites awaiting anxiously
To try the Top Ten
Delicious Dishes
inspired by some poem that's 100x better than this one l0l
water water everywhere
and all the dishes in the sink
standing in my underwear
unsure what to think
why am I doing this?
in the sink that is full of grime
why am I forced against my wishes?
surely this must be a crime
water water everywhere
why, water is flowing on the floor
the dishes are done, over there
but this is your problem, I'm out the door
The dishes pile up stained with the day to day of life
Her hands are chapped and dry withered from washing them
Dishes of food, dishes of mundanity
relentless dishes calling to be cleaned
Dishes prepared with love dishes for the family
dishes smashed in anger, broken in frustration
the dishes are her forte, she knows the dishes well
her hands are red and inflamed
sore from scrubbing at the remnants of her life
how many dishes has she washed anyway
how many hours of her life has she lost
Unseen she scurries and tidies
washing and drying, washing and dryng
swallowing her rage and her long lost dreams
The dishes are her forte, she knows the dishes well
the dirt, the leftovers, the many requests of her
washing and drying, washing and drying
but nobody cares to notice
Every day we woke up hungry.
We ate our little bowls of freedom
At the breakfast table.
Then Momma washed the breakfast dishes.
In the summer,
Momma grew maters and beets.
She stooped in earnest to keep us fed.
We sopped our shame with bread.
Yellow dishes lay in the sink.
We lived those years without thinking
About leaving the little white house.
The check came once a month.
We pinched our pennies carefully.
The house stood dressed in red shutters
On a street that no one cared about.
Time wore a yellow calm.
Momma’s dishes lay in the sink.
In the winter,
We huddled closer to the stove.
Steam grew on the windows,
Fried taters and a pot of beans.
Yellow dishes rattled in the sink.
On the back porch, thin cats waited
For a bite of something worth eating.
They cried at the screen door
While Momma washed the breakfast dishes.
At supper time,
We ate our plates of charity,
Fried bologna and government cheese
With a false sense of peace.
Every night we went to bed hungry.
if you don´t wash
the dishes
are you a
communist?
no,no comrade
let me explain
they will wash
themselves
if you leave them
out in the rain
Not Doing The Dishes
When you die you become less active
Can't play in traffic any more
Doing chores is so impossible
Forget about dating, bathing, taking out the trash
Fear of disease when deceased has passed
Talking to strangers no longer matters in oblivion
Living is less strenuous when dead
Please close the cover on the casket
I can't do it; that's for sure
If you do death, do it once
There is no fun in repetition
You can't catch fish with a loaded gun
Some one else will have to do the dishes
(alternately titled: tongue in cheek humor
cuz the following hyperbole
from this pencil necked baby boomer
without intent to badmouth,
nor start unfounded rumor,
who chalks, i.e. attributes gobbledygook
to funny bone tumor).
Impossible mission maneuvering around
soiled clothes pile
floor to ceiling humongous mound
terse reply hopefully adequately sound
to convincingly doth explain
absent poet buried alive underground,
perhaps never heard and/or found
till 1-800 GOT JUNK uncovered
emaciated (lovely bones)
formerly Matthew Scott Harris
his remnants discovered
visa vis mastercard bloodhound.
No need to fret
(while guitar gently weeps),
just talk to who barkeeps
works long late hours, he oversleeps
thus best track him down,
without uttering peeps
please find out if he knows
anybody reliably housekeeps
maybe lady luck will
thru think magical realism
deliver sophisticated robot
harkening within outer limits
from twilight zone
hookin get the job done
in one fell swoop sweeps.
Meanwhile yours truly
tries to remain upbeat
despite being royally tricked
upon pledging his troth
haint cool wedded bliss
heavily perspiring courtesy ultraheat
smellbound by malodorous laundry
necessitating heavy amount
of clorox to pretreat
which I rather drink,
(and thank president Trump)
for sakes Pete!
Though the misses upholds
voluntarily cooking as wifely role indeed
worth commendable attention,
I do concede
and doth adequately buzzfeed
her hubby lest he
wither away to lovely bones
(well past due date
late to avoid
above mentioned outcome,
his (mine) corporeal
being well nigh freed,
thus complaint regarding
spindleshanks solved no knead
to strain skinny ankle muscles
and maintain self promise
holy matrimony, cuz
aye know weed
never remain married forever
as initially agreed.
Fickle finger of fate
hath spoken thru smelly
potential Superfund site
perhaps... not amazing how heaping pile
of unwashed laundry can create
ecological hazard, that warrants B44
one bedroom apartment condemned
management understandably irate
to withhold security deposit
nearly four years at Highland Manor
now ready for model
domestic counterpart to debate
with her better angels where to relocate.
I sort bubbling dishes in proper place
I drown absorbed sink with soapy water and towering dishes
They pile up-- what's the point of doing them?
I place a towel next to the filthy sink
I drown dishes and try my hardest to dry them without a drop
But what good would it do-- dishes pile up!