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Best Laundry Poems

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Poems are below...

New Laundry Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Laundry poems are below this new poems list.

Dirty Laundry by Mhangwa, Kudzai
Dirty Laundry by Robinson Jr., Freddie
Box Of Machine For Laundry by Asuncion, Bernard F.
Poetry and Laundry by Cozart, Dale Gregory
A laundry basket's lament by Chanan, Taoi
Flowers, Laundry Soap, and Peanut Butter by Hanley, Scarlett
Doing Laundry on a Farm in the Fifities by Mahoney, Donal
The Laundry Poem by Krauss, Emily
THE LAUNDRY LIST by Robles, Ernest

View all new Laundry Poems

The Best Laundry Poems

Details | Laundry Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Real Men Wear Pink

I stand about five feet eight
I'll admit, I'm a tad overweight
Drive an old pick up truck
Not one to pass the buck
At the moment have a dog for a mate

Dropped out of school at eighteen
Got married in a pair of old jeans
A father of four
When I sleep, I snore
When angered been known to get mean

I grew up huntin' and fishin'
Done more than my share of wishin'
Been in a few fights
Know I'm not always right
For my age, still in decent condition

In my life, I've worked many hard jobs
Its been said, "I'm rough as a cob"
I've smoked and drank
Spent time in the tank
And never, not once, did I sob

I also love being outside
My old skin is weathered and dried
Still play in the dirt
Cuss when I'm hurt
But I do have a softer side

Poetry, I read and I write
These days, prefer music to be lite
Love trees and flowers
Warm spring showers
And swinging on stars at night

I like women who like to hold hands
Take moonlight walks on the sand
Curves excite me
Whispers invite me
A good listener who tries to understand

I wash dishes, do laundry and floors
Clean bathrooms, wash walls and doors
I'm a pretty good cook
Without a cookbook
To be honest, don't mind household chores

Just so you're perfectly clear
I've traveled from there to here
Simple but complex
Know love's more than sex
And on occasion I cry manly tears

Yes sometimes I even wear pink
Wear cologne to make sure I don't stink
Write poems about birds
Use everyday words
And I don't give a damn what you think!

    by Daniel Turner

Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2017

Details | Laundry Poem | Create an image from this poem.


Hiding here inside my closet, I feel safe in the dark knowing on a pile of sheets lies my very psyche; it's only a thought, yet I am unhurt among drawers… so I curl and stare blank, imbibing bits of gentle murmurings that whisper on hangers as they sway with the lint...I strain to listen but prickly voices rush out of reach from the sleeves of a night like a conversation behind closed doors… I hear yet can't quite grasp what my heart wants to say in low dips ; like a tremolo carrying mould of twilight... it chants all sermons of a Sunday church bell speaking in tongues I knew once...long ago. The moon slices the folds around me in black suds washing a laundry of venting desire, only to find myself trapped in pins…I feel a stab, a grating chill: perhaps, I have no language when no one wants to listen.
Maytime Premiere Contest Sponsor: Brian Strand

Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014

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Dirty Laundry

(She's Got Cooties)

Bitter every night, she speaks of another man
In dialogues, she rips and shreds my brothers sheets
Her moves are naught more than an exposed wound 
Riding dreams with no thought to spare 
With eyes, that lie every night,
Even, I believe every word from her prune lips

Silent she auctions words into the breeze
My brother's heart is so brittle, it hurts
She is lying, he's dying, a fool just to feel complete
At this point he believes, she was kidnapped by apes
She's not the kind of wife that sit on a trophy case
Once she removes the makeup, her face is gone
She is gone, gone, gone, 

A smile mocking infidelity, 
I scream, I want to beat her brains in
My brother begs her to rest, he prays
His wife will wash her dirty mouth
A kiss that hurts as she takes the air away, 
Pouring guilt, pretending it's his fault
After every sucker punch this past month
She left while he slept
A wicked in law, with no comparison
Breathing luscious sperm, she's a worm
Vacuuming another man's dream, 
She is gone, gone, gone, 

A weak link, wasting his time loving her
His heart murdered 19 years ago
My brother holds on to plain dumb hope
In hopes, she might stay longer than 3 days
His dreams are sweet, innocent and failed, 
Yet he won't stop dreaming of her loving lips
Heating up to nothing when she's not there
She is gone, gone, gone, 

Sometimes I just sit and wonder 
What sort of man, sits awake with his eyes shut
Daydreaming of a long life dream
Then I realize if he can dream
Why Can't I   

~Trashed #2, sponsor, Broken Wings~

Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2015

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A Woman's Work Is Never Done

"A Woman's Work Is Never Done",
a phrase that's often heard.
There's a lot of truth that's hidden,
just in those few words.

She has to cook and clean the house
and get her youngsters off to school.
She does the laundry and the shopping
and teaches kids the "Golden Rule".

She drives them to the movies
and attends their school events.
She satisfies her husbands needs,
her life is real intense!

She asks for little in return,
she just does what must be done.
She feels it's all the woman's job,
and sometimes, it's even fun!

So kudos to those women.
Let's stand and give a toast.
They accomplish all these many tasks,
for the folks that they love most.

Next time the phrase is uttered,
"A Woman's Work Is Never Done",
pray that God will bless them all,
each and every one!

Many thanks to all you ladies.
God bless each and everyone of you.

Copyright © RALPH TAYLOR | Year Posted 2011

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A smell permeates through the house I’m convinced it must be house mouse I hunt high and then I hunt low But the source of the smell it won’t show I get down on my hands and my knees The dirt and the dust make me sneeze The pungent smell makes me feel sick Burn scented candles right down to the wick Now I have a sad look on my face The origin of the smell I can’t trace Get some cheese and lay it on a trap Wait for the jaws of the trap to go snap But the cheese remains where its put The jaws of the trap don’t snap shut Found hidden in the huge laundry box An old pair of my son’s cheesy socks! Smelly socks are confined to the bin Now I can say to my guests 'please come in'! 13th January 2015 Fictional write for Humor Contest!!! Sponsor Carol Eastman ~awarded 1st place~

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015

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This laundry never ends

Oh laundry, how relentless you are in this house,
It’s as if I were a polygamist’s spouse.

By: Sabina Nicole

Copyright © Sabina Nicole | Year Posted 2011

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Cleaning Solution

Sticky smears on the table top.
on the couch spilled soda pop
one chewed up shoe and one flip-flop
I’m doomed to clean this mess non-stop
Greasy dog bones gone astray
found buried in the rug today
the hamster made a getaway
where he’s gone it’s hard to say.

The shower drain is plugged, I swear
the tub has grout and needs repair
dirty laundry everywhere.
it really is a mess out there.

Under beds dust bunnies show
all closets are on overflow
the fridge is packed with things that grow
dishes clog  the sink, I know.

Spaghetti sauce dumped on the floor
12 eggs broke, need I say more
fingerprints on every door
this place,  a never-ending chore

Just when I think things can’t get worse
the leaking fish tank cracked and burst
40 gallons was dispersed
I think this house is cursed.

In every corner, ledge and groove
dirt and grim must be removed
there’s one solution I approve
pack your things, we’re going to move!

Liz Relly – 3/06/2012
“Cobwebs and Dust”  Contest (new start)

Copyright © Liz Labadie-Reilly | Year Posted 2012

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A Little House of Memories

It was a lovely little house.

Built of white painted timber,

with a gabled roof clad in green tin,

it had never been a rich person's house.

It was her house. 

And driving up to park outside it,

each time I went there, 

was like the beginning of a new adventure.

I would always enter by the rickety side gate

and walk through that small garden she tended to on weekends, 

in the hope that one day it might become beautiful.

The back door gave entry to her tiny kitchen where,

sometimes she would be,

baking scones or some other treat for her and me

to have later with some coffee or cheap red wine.

It wasn't a well designed house.

The bathroom and lavatory and laundry

weren't where you might expect.

And most rooms were very small. 

But for the living cum dining room.

And her bedroom. 

I never counted all the rooms in that house.

I'm not certain I even saw all of them.

But all of those I did see 

were furnished and decorated with pieces that she

had shopped for at garage sales

and in second hand shops.

Except for those things that she had made herself.

There were pictures she painted,

and other hand crafted knick-knacks.

And some bottles filled 

with interesting vegetable matter

embalmed in colourful oils and such.

It was a small house and a little quaint.

But beautiful.

And warm. 

Her bedroom was of a good size 

and her bed was large and sumptuous,

with a profusion of richly coloured cushions and pillows.

We'd discovered one another in that large bed,

in that good sized bedroom,

in that warm little house,

that still warms me with it's memories. 

For there was nothing inside that house

that she had not chosen.

Copyright © Red OMara | Year Posted 2013

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LOVE IS LIKE.........................

Love is like a pair of shoes!
Easy to abuse, or tossed in the trash when over used.

Love is like fire,
soon you'll get burn, or the flames will just simply turn off!

Love is like a car,
always finding ways to get it fixed, or searching for a better one!

Love is like a calendar,
changing days, weeks in 12 months, with resolutions never accomplished!

Love is like dirty laundry, you put it to the side!

Love is like a song, winds up all kinds of emotion before it ends!

Love is like a teacher, never appreciated!

Love is like dirt, easy to step on, or sweep away!

Love is like make up, easy to remove with tears!

Love is like a battery, draining all it's juice till it runs out!

Love is like a model, full of $h*t!

Love is like a Doctor, dumping hurting news with a cost!

Love is like a remote control, to many buttons to push!

Love is like the universe, confusing without knowing what's out there!

Love is like power, to hard to handle!

Love is like a fart, it really stinks!

Love is like a coloring book, scribbling pages to get it over with!

Love is like a flower, that will die eventually!

Love is like an egg, one way, or another it has to break or rot!

Love is like a shadow, it only happens with light!

Love is like a roach, waiting to get crushed!

Love is like a unicorn, does it even exist!

Love is like a heart beat, easy to stop!

By; p.d.
I think I had to much fun demoting love.
...........Instead Of promoting (LOL)........

Love is like wow! if you really must know!

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

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Drivin' Along A Country Road

When I need an uplift for my weary soul and to clear my muddled mind.
I slowly cruise along a country road to see what treasures I might find.
I leave behind the frenzied traffic on the four-lane interstate,
To enjoy bucolic vistas along a gravel road, my languid soul to sate.

I see old barns with Mail Pouch Tobacco ads now faint due to age,
And remnants of Burma Shave signs with their charmin' adage.
Stately homes with white picket fences grace the country road,
With roses of every hue surroundin' emerald lawns all neatly mowed.

I cross a rickety wooden bridge 'neath which country boys are fishin',
And for long ago summer days of feckless youth, it gits me to wishin;!
A lady waves to me as she hangs her laundry on the clothesline to dry.
A sign on the old country store reads, 'Wave If You Can't Stop By!'

Farmers on John Deere tractors wave as they tend their fields of grain.
They sure kick up lots of dust and I reckon they're prayin' for some rain.
I rolled down the windows to savor the wonderful scent of new-mown hay,
And slow to let an Amish family in their buggy move along the way.

Fat cattle graze on lush meadows, each with a meanderin' stream.
Horses gaze at me over fences as they look askance and dream.
I loathe interstates where folks think they're in the Indy 500-mile race.
I prefer old country roads where life is enjoyed at a much slower pace!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015

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A Day In My Life

Not sure what I do but I sure am exhausted at the end of the day, so I decided to think about it and made this list . . . I sleep (not enough, probably) I eat to much, sometimes Write poetry that sooths my soul (every day) Print out and file said poetry Spend too much time on poetry soup (reading and commenting) Love it, love it, my safe haven forever Work (gurrrrrrr) honestly my job is too stressful Watch way too much TV Check out Facebook Watch Utube videos Listen to the news, Local, Canadian, World Play with my cat, oh, that I like, here kitty, kitty Read the newspaper Cook a meal and invite a friend, sometimes Work on my scrap book (endless project) Sew, well I have the sewing machine ready for action Go for a walk with my camera(new hobby) Talk to my friends and family each day Take a walk to art gallery for inspiration Do the dishes Tidy up my nest (my sister says I made a nest for myself) Take a bubble bath or shower Wash my long hair (many steps involved, girls understand that) Listen to music (and dance around) Water my wilting plants Meditate Read Put the rugs back in place, (stop it Pearl Smudges) Have a nap Sometimes, I make jewellery Look at my clothes, why not Laundry if I feel strong Sweep and dust the nest Drink tea or perhaps a café I have been known to have a chocolate bar at 3 pm Feed Pearl Smudges some sardines (stinky) Clean her litter box (yukky) Re-arrange my jewellery (means put it away) Iron a uniform for next day (nurse) Think and ponder life in general Sometimes, often, I go shopping for stuff Go for a coffee with my cell phone Look in the mirror and decide make-up is needed Tidy up my desk of dictionaries and papers and cups Take out the garbage (how can one girl have so much) Stand and look at my art hanging on the wall Recall memories with tears (not a day goes by) Re-arrange the furniture, it never seems right Just sit and relax Well, very sure there must be more but now I know why I am exhausted, at the end of each day, however, I would not change one thing . . . _____________________ April 27, 2015 List Submitted to the contest, Today I Accomplished, sponsor Sara Kendrick First Place Poem Of The Day, April 29, 2015

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

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A Country Song Gone all Wrong

I want so bad in Casarah’s pants
She said I had to offer up some romance
Off we went to a local dance
I bought her a flower, a beer, and a Big Mac too
She said not quite enough but it will have to do

So in my truck that has no doors
I apologized and said no seat, its on the floor
She smiled and sat, I gathered in anticipation
Of having me in her bedroom a waiting
Little did I realize I'd wish to be vacating

We arrived at her home, at half past twelve
She said grab a beer, cause my hubby is here
I said what the hell, your hubby you say?
She said, why yes where else would he stay?
So I grabbed a beer thinking ok this is a wee bit queer

I was confused, I will tell you that
Her hubby smiled at me like a dirty rat
He had some rope and a little duct tape
This sure wasn’t what I figured on this ol date
From bad to worse, I resigned myself to fate

She calmly said, what could you have possibly thought?
I brought you here, for our pleasures of naught
We will tie you up and start the game
We are the masters, and you have no claim
Now what’s a little pain? so please, don’t try to abstain

Tied and bound what could I do?
They had their pleasures without further adieu
I did the dishes, the vacuuming and the laundry too
Not an easy task tied in ropes by those two
Broken and tormented and tired as heck

I soon plotted my escape up north to Quebec
This Gothic nightmare must come to and end
Else these two satins will drive me round the bend
So I unbound the ropes holding me so tight
Managed to escape into the dark frigid night

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016

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Maybe The Last Letter

This may be the last letter I write to you; I am so very tired inside, exhausted...as I lay in bed I’m pondering things. When you feel like you're at death’s door, it’s not the things you've done well that matter, it’s the mistakes in life you ponder. To be honest though, if there was only one thing I did right, it was the day I met you. When love finds you, you want to keep it close forever and ever and ever and never let it go. I’m afraid to go to sleep because of the uncertainty of tomorrow, but I need to set my fears aside…so I am writing. I should not be afraid because you are already there, where ever there is, but I do remember trembling at your touch and the sound of your voice; I'm still in love with you and I miss you so very much. My prayer is before I close my eyes that I did not forget something—I know that is silly. I did make the house payment, the dishes are washed, the laundry is done, and yes I took out the trash. I let the girls out to go potty, and made sure they will be taken care of if I don't wake up.  They're sleeping on the floor by my side, they have been staying close to me tonight. So I guess I’ll put down my pen and take my chance at sleep, but if I could have just one wish, I wish I could see your face once again with those beautiful deep blue eyes I used to get lost in. Goodnight my love, maybe we can meet some where tonight, I love you.

Edward J Ebbs - 9/13/2014

Copyright © Edward Ebbs | Year Posted 2014

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Empty Bedrooms

I walk past empty bedrooms that once held my boys
The beds made so perfect, the absence of noise
Books there on the book shelf and not upon the floor
No ear-splitting music, no slamming the door

It’s eerily quiet now these once busy dens
These bunkers of bustle with brothers and friends
They’re off to college now the closets are clean
They only come home now on days in between

The weeks of the study the homework and toil
With loads of their laundry all dirty with soil
These nice empty bedrooms so tidy and neat
Just aren’t the same in their pristine retreat

As when the sneakers are thrown in a corner
The fridge it is drained like an unwilling donor
The noise and the smell of exercised teens
Showing off muscles with biceps and spleens

Banging a cupboard while toasting some bread
At three in the morning before heading to bed
Now some dorm at the coast, in some far away place
Or corner of frat-house who’s presence they grace

Our bedrooms are empty the rooms nice and quiet
The sheets all in place and the fridge on a diet
But once in a while it all comes to life
Things they are back to the brotherly strife

Rooms not so tidy and sharp as a knife
As when we’re alone…just me and my wife

David Kettler 


Copyright © david kettler | Year Posted 2015

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Big Dog

A narrow set of stairs, open on one side,
Goes down into the basement by the washing machine.

When she was little she'd watch me do laundry,
Standing sideways on the stairs, where we were eye-to-eye.

She liked being up there - I'd pet her,
It was bonding, the age-old connection between dogs and people.

Now she's big, she's so big she doesn't fit -
Gravity tries to pull her off the side or to the bottom.

It's hilarious how she contorts herself, putting all paws together,
Dancing and stuttering - trying to be entirely on that one stair tread.

I have to go around, up, and hug her -
"Oh, aren't you something...”

Things are good now; she’s a great dog,
Yet I guess I miss those days too.

Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2017

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Tin-can man. 
Input, circuit, and overdrive.
Shadow of the future and the past.
Movement hidden, you are not alive.
Programs burned and running fast.

What else can you do?
Wakening up every morning,
and not able to read the news.
Passing a breeze God gave you.
Barely feeling the I love you~s.
Your data has been set to self destruct!
Walking around all confused.
While your memory is set on stuck.

A heart not made to rust.
Hanging laundry out in the rain.
Lazy technician you can't trust.
Look what he's made out of you.

Ready to blow your thrust!

Compute- abort- system to self destroy.
Restoring the joy sucked out of you.
Input: input: information .
Wipe out the old, store in new.
Delete all files to recycle bin.

System reboot to life again.
With a new program that reads:
Feeling like a human once again.
       (This robot is on)
      .(self shut down!)
        P.D. was here!

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

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Syrian Refugees

I'm watching a programme on telly About the Syrian refugees Men and women and children Humanity brought to its knees I'm watching the desperate faces The terror and hunger and fear They're facing their ultimate nightmare And me? Well I'm just sitting here And saying 'Isn't it awful' 'Something needs to be done' Whilst searching the TV listings And planning my evening of fun Then I happen upon the BBC news Cameron wringing his hands on my screen Saying Syria is a priority Then slips into a black limousine Then Hollande, and Angela Merkel Echo the prime minister's views And tell us how hard they are working Another soundbite for the news Then shoot off to their heads of state dinner Which will go on well into the night While in the camps the tears will continue No dinner for those folks tonight At the meeting, an idea from Turkey Amongst the platitudes and the kind words The plan that they're putting forward Is to drop lots of bombs on the Kurds I flick channels and happen on Tony Blair Offering the world a solution I really can't listen to that grinning clown Spouting his verbal pollution He's jabbering on about Islam Trying to give us the wisdom we lack And hoping the world has forgotten What Bush and him did in Iraq Perhaps he's just a bit jealous That he's not allowed to the feast After finding Saddam's nuclear weapons! A doggy bag surely at least. While another mother loses her children More slaughter and mayhem we see And imagine the arms manufacturers And dealers, jumping with glee As they make another few billions And probably a few billions more Then they'll hide all their dirty old dollars In their financial laundry offshore And the politicians turn a blind eye And I'm sure that they won't be divulging How some of them came by their fat bank accounts And why their back pockets are bulging But then.......success I hear on the news The EU says all is not black They've solved the refugee crisis. When they get here.........we're sending them back. Job done, EU movers and shakers So sorry for doubting your cause You've sorted the Syrian problem Give yourselves a big round of applause © Ron James 05/04/2016

Copyright © Jim Bates | Year Posted 2016

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Honestly Speaking

I walk the streets by myself
but find myself laughing 
and I don’t feel so alone anymore...

Could be that the breeze tickled
the laughter out of me
but I’ll be honest…
it was your corny joke the other time--
amazing how I just laugh so much when I am with you

I’m doing my laundry
but find myself singing
and I don’t feel like complaining at all...

Could be that bubbles popping
reminded me to burst into song
but I’ll be honest…
it was smelling your perfume--
sure made me delirious enough to sing

I’m cooking dinner
but find myself burning my fingers
and I don’t feel the pain so much...

Could be that the oil 
wasn't too hot after all
but I'll be honest...
it was hearing your voice on speaker--
it warmed me all over and made me forget the pain

I walk the streets by myself
but find myself crying 
and I just feel so impossibly alone...

Could be that it was 
just one of those days
but I'll be honest...
reality finally sunk in--
crashing into me that you were really gone

Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2010

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The Monster In The Closet

Lights turn off
and a small child whimpers in fear
afraid of the monster in his closet
or the eyes under his bed.
He cries silently,
attempting bravery for the first time
or he wails, cowardly
never trying something new and courageous.
His mother comes to aid him
and make sure he's alright
but i know deep inside her 
she's a little afraid of the dark at night.
The unknown of a robber in the closet
the killer under the bed
each thought terrifies her
spins in terror in her head.
But other fears take priority:
the unpaid bills, the unfolded laundry
the dinner to be made 
and the thought of her little boy in danger,
 is the thought that makes her the most afraid.

Copyright © MaryEllen Gozzo | Year Posted 2014

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                                    Water     /     Water
              New Hamburg, Ontario         Rubkuai village, South Sudan

                                   locals rise          locals starve 
       with the river, heed warnings          where once there was a river, 
                to keep from its banks           travel along arid banks

                 thirty thousand gallons          a tanker arrives with a few gallons
                         of unwanted rain          rain is worth all limbs
                                      burdens          how burdened the village —
                                storm drains          the drought drains life from fields

    this summer, filled sport bottles          this summer 
                 will be abandoned near         will crust tongues
                                 splash pads,         as the dying
         where saturated children riot         tend to the dead
                 in mist & spray, soak in         inconsolable mothers silently
                  the never-ending fount         riot [eyes too dry to mist
                        until fingers prune,         can still spray bullets
                                    until thirst          or thirst for just one more look
                     sends them skipping          as irises prune in the sun]

                    cars gleam and grass          grass is a memory
                         springs underfoot;         & graves spring up underfoot
                       the bridge is power-         like emaciated bridges 
   washed, as though the downpour          nothing stops the downpour 
                              hadn’t flooded          of diarrhea — the filth binds   
                                spider’s webs         cholera’s web

         people shower, run half-filled           people kneel for droplets
    dishwashers & laundry machines,          the desert launders
                           a kettle screams           the jawbone
                                 for someone,          of the newest ghost who still
                             anyone to listen          listens, waits, for anyone

Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2017

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The Media

Reporting the news has changed so much from the past
I cannot even remember when I heard a good news story
It started out years ago slow, but has it ever grown
I wonder how long this type of thing will last?
They say that it sells, blood, guts and all the gory
Is that really the reason, if the truth was really known

Graved diggers they are, they are digging graves deep
Showing "dirty laundry", in hopes that it will never come clean
Reporting the rotten, no more than a scandal sheet
Make an innocent person guilty, so they will never sleep
Twisting word, so they do not sound mean
But like hungry dogs fighting over a piece of meat

Freedom of speech, a right that we should all hold dear
Freedom of the press, to inform the public, not to destroy
Journalism with integrity, the ways that it used to be
To make facts available, not every effort to smear
To read in the morning, sit and enjoy
While we still have this freedom and are still free

A right that should be used, not abused
Or something that government want you to say, because it is politically correct
Something that makes common sense, not cause mass hysteria
So that all can understand, not be confused
One day this right could be taken away, we cannot forget
This what I think that we need in our media

Copyright © Danny Nunn | Year Posted 2009

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Women's Rules For Men -Not a Poem-

#1 Put the toilet seat down. What woman wants to end up falling into the toilet in the middle of the night? #2 Stop changing the channel. Believe me guys, when women are trying to watch a soap opera, you best leave the remote alone. #3 Put your own dirty clothes in the laundry. I hate picking up crusty socks. #4 Stop farting at the table. Do you mind? I'm trying to eat. #5 Excuse yourself when you burp. And they say our children have to have manners. #6 Roll your own damn cigarette. When was the last time you rolled me one? #7 Clean your messes up. Trust me guys, you're a bunch of slobs. #8 Don't call me stupid. We women are just as smart, if not smarter than you are. #9 Move out of my way. When a woman is trying to get something done, the man always stands in the middle of the room. #10 Turn the music down. I know you guys love your music loud, but sheesh! #11 Get out! The least you guys could do is give us a little privacy in the bathroom. #12 Do it yourself. I'm sure you guys are smart enough to do things on your own. #13 Get it yourself. Guys, get your lazy, fat butts off the couch and make your own sandwich. #14 Use your manners. We don't like being told what to do without a simple please and thank you. #15 Take your boots off at the door. Women hate it when men carry dirt into the house after just cleaning the floors. #16 Shut up! When we are trying to watch a movie, that means we are trying to hear it too. Copyright © Cynthia Jones Sept.24/2004 I know some of these sound mean. No offense guys.

Copyright © Cynthia Jones | Year Posted 2015

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The Four Horsemen

I saw the Four Horsemen -
the famous apocalypse guys.
They rode silently past neatly folded laundry,

They approached me in silence,
their breathe a rye and meadow wind.
Each of them in turn,

gliding ghostlike past where I sat,
watching steam on the mirror
grow cold.

War had no use for me,
past my prime, bum knee.
Not even as cannon fodder.

Famine had little to work with,
I had known hunger, want, poverty,
nothing he had could scare me.

Pestilence likewise dismissed me out of turn,
for which I’ll be forever grateful,
probably too sedentary to spread the touch.

And Death, well, we all must dance,
but today is not the day, now not the hour,
Death merely bid me good day.

And then they were gone, their vacancy tangible,
while I decided to look up embolisms or strokes,
trying to close this doorway into myself.

Until I saw the tracks in the talcum powder,
heard the soft whicker of horse,
and tasted their life on my tongue.

Copyright © Christopher Reilley | Year Posted 2014

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This Mystical Heart


Do you know me? Not my worldly names,
merely form, the vessel…I see what others
do not, I feel what others may never touch,
the morning mist surrenders to the subtle sun.
Jumping in and out of existence, the anti-particle
of fear; need is scratching the back of rejection
while some in favour of blindness, preach. I am 
drawn to you the way the shore beckons the sea.
Do you know how many years I wandered the sands
searching for the oasis in time? The flute needs
only wind to make music but what makes it a song? 
Motion is the creative spirit, the harmonic breeze
moves across the openings and flute and sound
are one; a loving connection is why the shaman walks.
A Crown you chose over this pauperism,
tired of the fight; it is in the very struggle that
riches are found. Be like the Prince of Peace
and surrender to the laundry, there is no lifting up
when things are easy only trouble brings out the light.
Of the many lives within this one each death
has brought the sober terms and one by one they die
like the notes of a song, not the whole tune, a part.
Listen for the melody of this mystical heart.
Do you know me? I am the wind.
Be the vulnerable flute and hear with your body.

For White Wolf's contest ~ first poem entered on the Soup (4/07/16)

Copyright © Phil Capitano | Year Posted 2016

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Collaboration Can Be Fun join in here

I'm a firm believer
In limerick fever
(This isn't news)
"It'll cure the blues!"
Says Jan (who is no deceiver)

Written by Jan Allison:

Writing limericks is a fine art
Yes I write about poop or a fart
But show me someone
Whose not dropped a ‘bomb’
then from poetry soup I’d depart!

Written by Lim'rik Flats:

Does art mimic life or life mimic art?
Don't ask me, I'm not too smart.
It seems the soup
Has the same poop
As watching the news (or a fart).

Drama and trauma, factions and foes,
Smiting and fighting, (hard on the nose),
Saves me the trouble
Of viewing double
Saves time, and less grief I suppose.

Written by Ray Gridley:

Raise a toast to this collaboration
Whatever your race or your nation
Just write on a whim
Lim'rick Flat's bound to grin
They are all going to be a sensation!

Written by Daniel Turner:

I know a guy called Lim'rick Flats
Writes limericks at the drop of a hat
Jan is his pal
She's quite a gal
They met in a laundry mat

Jan makes jokes about poop
he puts them in alphabet soop
drinks from the bowl
with no self control
which makes him a nincompoop

Also written by Daniel Turner:

Write all the limericks you want
but don't fart in a restaurant
people will laugh
call you riffraff
even if you're a debutante

Written by John Lawless:

oh the limerick it ain’t quite a sonnet
and the learned, they look down upon it
for they cannot grasp
its head or its ass
nor the cleansing effect of its tonic 

Written by Terry Reeves:

Late for work she flew out the door
Took an express elevator to the 29th floor
Let some discreet killer farts
Nearly stopped all their hearts
Left them gagging; she'd evened the score

Written by Tim Smith:

Nonsense is here found out in the alley
Five funny lines we'll add to the tally
a smile or two
we laught till we're blue
so put out your best and join in our rally

Written by Alexis Y:

Hey what's going on in the soup?
Lim'rik Flats I want the scoop
What do you have to say?
You got poem of the day
Congrats, I shouldn't have flown the coop

Written by Jean Murray:

John is always fun.
His poems and their puns.
If you need a lift.
He has the gift.
Lim'rik Flats is number one.

psst.  How could I not add this to the string?  ~ john

Copyright © lim'rik flats | Year Posted 2017