Best Ironing Poems
Hot was the room that she sweated a lot,
as the maid tired,
ironing
white shirts
for
her
master
who wanted
to be dandy
when he toyed with the ladies at the ball.
17 November 2020
Double Tetractys 6 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Picture No 2
Placed 1
I grasped the steam-iron with left hand,
the right was straightening trouser band;
it felt different, unusual, its hiss and feel,
serpent’s thought made me reel
I imagined it come up from lake, it felt
much like a rattlesnake, its heat I conjured
venomed-fang, turning skin to soft marang:
and devil’s tail its tongue from steam, made
imagined threat so real did seem
So from this thought-experiment, ironing
washing as I went, I learnt to grasp the iron
quite firm, for holding loose could easily burn
So keep your kids and critters clear, of hissing
iron with venom’s sear; and after steam its
plug remove, remember poison will not move
Steaming creases out, only to press them back in
Makes me want to chuck the whole pile in the bin
IRONING
Years of ironing starched shirt collars
for my father and the aprons
we wore for cookery class in school,
gave a polished surface to the clothes iron.
The end opened like the lid of a box
and out came the large stone which
we buried in the centre of the open fire,
until it turned pink-red, like a slab of jelly.
With the tongs we lifted the stone
from the fire, transferred it to the iron
and began ironing the clothes.
As we moved it over and back
on the garments, the creases vanished.
Every fifteen minutes we placed the stone
back in the fire, until clothes for seven of us
were neatly ironed and stacked,
ready for another week
from PERFUME OF THE SOIL, SWAN PRESS l999
Question for you, chicks and dudes,
What is an ironing board to you?
Did you know they were surfboards?
Yes, they grow up, surf did bore,
Surfboards got a day job,
Being ironing boards is their lot,
Nonsense I do compose,
Only a joke in an ode!
If a pink elephant rides on a green wave then the tarantula will be under great pressure. Chains are a peril. Particularly when placed upon a coconut. Technical difficulties are often solved with the clear blue lines of a fountain pen. Or black. Any colour really. Whilst arranging blackberries on shelves be very very wary. Its often a stem that conceals a rot so never play bowling in a circus tent. Eradicating with forces in lots and lots of pans. A mean dinner can be clever. And clavicles can be turned into chord patterns. Often without permission. Merely the merry leaning of a lantern. Or a pond thinking of flight. It takes great effort and presence of mind to boil a fish in a kettle. Kiss kites karate Kala kale. Make no mistake the mist is important and importantly it is importable to wield a sharpened spear. And a bangle. Beaming booming braking banging beams. Question not a tooth from a tiger plaster cast decorated with a little swirling swimming starfish. Don't shove elephants in sustained supported shuttles. Hahahaha and now play croquet. Hahahaha and do a crossword xxxx ha statutory sickness pay *** hahahaha and now the wooden floor to the other day is good xxxx ha z. Ionisation x . At 23 degrees. Xxxx evaporation xxxx.
in the laundry room of sky
the angels wash
the cloths of heaven
hang them on the clouds to dry
and then begin
their cosmic ironing
© Gail Foster 27th December 2016
Some ladies enjoy riding on their brooms
All over the house, into all the rooms
Gran rode the ironing board
Only skis she could afford
Off she'd ride, before ironing resumes
Limerick Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Lisa YY
July 17, 2022
The air is so chock full and thick
with irony
It must be hard to draw a single
breath inside
Without choking on it and gasping
for oxygen
But then again at very least
Both my beard and moustache have
grown a little longer in the meanwhile
But isn't that the point of irony after all
It helps you rather not contemplate
think about focus or concentrate
On the total and utter irony of the
tedious task placed in front of you
at hand
Like ironically ironing ones clothes
for work the next day
Folding Flowers While Ironing Rocks in The Dark
I load the washing machine up with my dirty wishes
Found myself lost and broken in the kicthen
All the writing on the bathroom stalls
Surpasses the shoppers at the malls
And why must I write about you at all
You come before me and you think it a lark
it's circumstances Folding Flowers While Ironing Rocks in The Dark
Swimming in odd-houses while cutting class
Grown up thinking pew is a piece of church furniture
Watermelon basketball salmon crochet patties
Wring on the sidewalk with a broken bleeding thumb
Picking up harden day old chewing gum
You come before me and you think it a lark
it's circumstances Folding Flowers While Ironing Rocks in The Dark
Now while you are trying to comprehensive and make sense of my lines
Don't condemn me because my words don't make sense
I'm no more or less educated than a bowl of pink grapes
Bet you gonna try and fluctuate and define my lines of morphemes
And why must I worry about you at all
You come before me and you think I am lost
it's circumstances Folding Flowers While Ironing Rocks in The Dark
11/25/17
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
,.,.,. & 0* x
A caged warehouse is a minotaur a minute. Basket carries baskets in endless increasing circles. But by day seemingly friendly boxes become very quiet when they are packed to the brim. And a wire cage is incredibly interesting to chat to for it sways with random objects and thus has developed an alternative point of view. Please mind the gap in the stairs over there. It is rather treacherous. Particularly in icy weather. Ivybridge is in intergalactic intention infusing interesting interludes into inkstands. A super supper sniper smiling smell. Wow. Now that is surely a wondrous act. But no preachers god could practice practicality at a plate ratio of nought. For nought is neither nautical nor naval. Wow wishbone nightgown. And please ALL do remember that a filet of fish is nit an avenue to perspire, transpire nor speculate. Ok then that truth made the ash rise. Hahaha a kid chats to an antiquity while the top shelf moved. Merely mixed use mixed mooses. Moving. Haha a ginormous green grass grabs gates
The afternoon sunlight filtered through her window drapes
revealing each age line molded to her face
alone in the dusky shadows working in her measured way
a basket of clothes at her feet
one by one she pulled each wrinkled cloth out
and began to iron their folded lines
the sound of steam broke the silence
a can of starch was on the table
its contents sprayed from time to time
her eyes never left her ironing board
she never noticed day had turned to twilight
though the sun was setting outside her window
she hadn't eaten all day
focused on her chosen chore
to do for her children...no matter the length of time
or the pain that burned inside her swollen legs
of varicose veins
she stood sturdy undaunted by her task
quiet, solemn, motion upon motion
so was her gift to those she loved
it was her way
thinking of others before herself
she was my mom
and her gift was unconditional
Life brings mysteries to us like stars we can’t touch,
much less dream to migrate to (with planets like ours?)
where more life might exist! Evolution’s ‘God’s Law!’
Life’s predestined to tease those aspiring to map
where things are in the landscape of lives that we live.
Know (the reason?) that Christ chose to die for our sin -
for if God’s beyond knowledge, IS KNOWLEDGE, then Grace
too was ours long before Big Bang’s advent! Christ’s death
did not bring Grace we lacked, but said, “Grace IS God’s heart!”
Yes, my mother once ironed all my sheets, briefs, and such,
and I scoffed at such labor, a waste of life’s hours
(if not gift I desired, still not feared fang and claw!),
her intent to show love. Still, I wish to unwrap
such illogical thinking. Who shares when they give
what traditions dictate, what ‘they’ want? Does love win
that dismisses what loved one desires? On its face,
that sounds strange! Do socks long to be ironed? Give me breath,
room to breathe, not gifts found in a tomb. That’s love’s art!
Long Tooth
March 9th in 2021
Ironing board
Bare feet
You'd make me food
I'd eat
Little later straight clothes
No holes
Warm in winter
The splinter
I have no ironing board now
But still that board reminds me how
I have grown to not need so pressed clothes
Oppressed woes
But the ironing board
Remains at your place
I'll remember those days
And of course your face
The ironing board
It sits under my stairs,
It's been there a few weeks,
Growing more each day,
I put it off and do other stuff,
I hate that thing under my stirs.
I pass it ever day knowing it's there,
Mentaly asking it "to please go away",
I try to block it out as much as I can,
There comes that day and it has to be done.
An hour spending ironing teashirts, trousers and skirts
I hate doing that thing under my stirs,
After an hour I've had enough so I put it away,
I will go clean the toilet I prefer that anyday.