Best Scrubbed Poems
Her hands are what l remember most
Miss the most, crave the most
Hands that scrubbed floors for a living
Hardworking, honest hands
Hands that nurtured, gave comfort, wiped tears
Small hands fingers crooked with arthritis
Hands that held mine a lifetime
Hands l held when death decided
Hands l loved and knew so well
Her hands …..
Categories:
scrubbed, meaningful, memory,
Form:
Free verse
Alas, hordes of ravenous relatives from very far and even near,
Won't be celebratin' at dear old Grandma's bountiful board this year,
Since the corona virus pandemic has spread an ominous cloud of doom.
But hold on! Perhaps you can celebrate via the miracle of Zoom!
You can enjoy from afar your green bean casserole and punkin pie,
Not havin' to tolerate obnoxioius Uncle Clyde sloppin' gravy on his tie!
Clickin' a button will mute Grandpa's interminable prayer of grace,
And spinster Aunt Alice's spewin' inane babble at a furious pace!
The mute button will silence any brawls about politics and religion,
And silence cousin Cletus crowin' about his thrivin' stocks a smidgen!
It won't be the same savorin' pleasant aromas from Grandma's kitchen,
But won't the mute come in handy to silence all the bickerin' and bit..... in'!
(The censors at Soup scrubbed the last word in the last line but I think you get the point!!!)
Categories:
scrubbed, humorous, thanksgiving day,
Form:
Rhyme
How many souls live on the edge,
Between the gutter and the ledge?
A hopeless fear crawls in their gut,
Each day, another endless rut.
The moments pass profoundly slow
Sad, bitter winds are all that blow.
A man lay huddled near the bin
Hoping death will take him in.
Frozen tears, on wrinkled cheeks
Frostbitten ears, and shoes that leak.
His mind forgets the games of tag,
Old Crockett's hill, where down they'd slide.
A summer rain, the puddles deep
Out catchin' toads, to tame and keep.
His life began with dimpled cheeks,
Red tousled hair, and hide 'n seek.
A tough old Dad who tricked and teased
A pretty Mom who smiled with ease.
They had a farm with fields of hay
A few old hogs, and bills to pay.
One summer day, the sky turned black.
A howling wind brought down their shack.
Dad sold the hogs, and cut the hay.
The farm was lost, we drove away.
The next two years were grim and lean.
Dad broke his back, to feed us beans.
When winter came our food ran out.
We found old Dad hung by a rope.
Without poor Dad, no food or fire;
Mom took my hand, the day was dire.
The Sister's face looked mean and sour.
I thought of Mom most every hour.
They scrubbed my back until it bled.
cut off my hair, then I got fed.
'Twas many years before I left,
My Mom had died a tragic death.
Now all alone, I lived and slept.
I begged for food, and sometimes wept.
A life of days and endless woe,
Now time is dead, and death too slow.
As you walk by those 'homeless freaks'
Remember me, with dimpled cheeks.
Categories:
scrubbed, culture, discrimination, imagery, inspiration,
Form:
Rhyme
Gold Fever
History will not record the bloated weight
Of this pious and bigoted race
Or count the fat and flaccid wealth
Of religions idolatry
Those pages have been scrubbed clean
By prosperous forgivingness
And the cruelty of established political dominion
Will not tally the bodies of the oppressed
To them, faith and belief are merely a weapon
A system of abusive control
And a means of power continuation
A dictatorial right to rule the population
History will not record the inheritance of opinion
But lay blind at the doors of massacre
The Aztec, The Aborigine, The North American Indian, The African *****,
Pray in silence to The Church
Centuries written in blood and torture
For a message of verbiage and usage
Extracted and leeched from the poor and uneducated
Created the western dream
The long night of the witch hunt is not over
The Inquisition has saved us
With fake blood and wooden crosses
This elite of moral perspective shall save us all
We have paid the price in conscience
Superiority managed by white skinned indifference
Holy mother church has welcomed all
All into its iron embrace of slack jawed wonder
And what more despicable rule can there be
Than to dictate ones own spiritual journey
Spouted by the rote of political expediency
And the promise of heaven
Ingrained now this so called Christian ethic
And so much of the truth left distorted
Forgotten now are the ancient mystical secrets
Which united mankind to understanding
Idol of gold and crucifixion
Of cathedral and stained glass objectification
Gilt and holy water of sumptuous ritual
Of silken pope and luxurious self righteous invention
An aberration of human faith and belief
An unrepentant destroyer of “ Loves ” dream
The curse of The Christ as you continue to translate
The Word
And where the paupers fist crunches the dirt
Where dried and parched lips pray for rain
Where the desperate cry for a reason echoes
Where blood flows in feted anger
Where children scream in fear
Where hunger and despair debase and demean
Where there is no light
And in the dark only pain
If you wish to care for the souls of mankind
Preacher
It is there with them
There
Is where you should be
Categories:
scrubbed, faithfaith, political, perspective, ,
Form:
Free verse
Eight decades and a half "young" is my mom.
Nine years and half a century am I.
How quickly I have aged gives me a qualm,
but one good thing - I now CAN'T multiply!
And right behind my mom I'm following. . .
The white hairs keep appearing; it's with dread
I picture myself one day swallowing
my food with dentures stuck inside my head!
Mom always was athletic till her knees
gave out. . . so walking fast she does no more.
But luckily, she has no grave disease.
I think she just too often scrubbed the floor!
Well, I don't "stoop" to drudgery. Knock wood!
At least my knees might possibly stay good.
For the Humorous Poetry Contest of Thomas Martin
Categories:
scrubbed, age, humorous,
Form:
Sonnet
Mother would tuck into each dresser drawer,
a bar of soap, to scent the clothes..
The familiar fragrance of English Lavender would fill the air
The small bedroom, a bit cramped..a bit shabby, but comfortably familiar.
The faded chintz curtains and the cover on the four poster, was a primrose yellow...
and the wallpaper striped in blue and white.
There would be marguerite daisies in a jug on the dressing table..
Next to a framed photo of five, smiling young cousins..
all scrubbed, with shining faces, dressed for church, one Easter morning.
Over on the north wall hung a painting of Willowby Pond...
so pleasant to look at, just before falling to sleep.
Here I stand once again, having things so familiar, so much the same
I take a deep breath, recalling the sense of home, the fragrance of lavender
Like slipping into an old pair of slippers,
after spending the day wearing high heeled shoes
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Categories:
scrubbed, family, happinesseaster,
Form:
Narrative
A Little Boy is
Jelly on his face
Dirt under his nails
A patch on his knee
String trailing from
One pocket and
A frog in the other
A little boy is
A bag of marbles in
His right hand and
Licorice in the left
He’s a cowboy today
And a spaceman tomorrow
He’s mud puddles and
Clothespin boats
A Mother’s joy
And her sorrow
A little boy is the angel with
Scrubbed face and tired smile
Who blesses mommy and daddy
In his prayers every night
And he’s the arms that
Hug you tight
As you tuck him
Into bed and
Kiss good night
Categories:
scrubbed, 10th grade, children, emotions,
Form:
Imagism
Continued from Part 1
“Upon your knees in golden naves, while peeking through the slots,
You horded thirty silver pieces, downed a whiskey shot,
Then crossed yourself and wrapped yourself in furs of ocelots,
And danced on cleated cloven hoofs in purple polka-dots,
Then drank His blood from chalice cups with pious afterthoughts.
“You’ve treated men like mongrels chained, like little flies to swat,
By doing what you wanted to, instead of what you aught;
You’ve wiped your nose with dollar bills and paid your serfs with snot,
But when you’ve paused to preen your pride, you’ve scrubbed a scarlet blot.
“In ashes of our victories: the diamonds that you sought,
The crock of gold, the Golden fleece of bogus Argonauts -
In mirrors of your lifelessness, the evils you begot.
“The haunted winds strew leaves of time across a shallow plot
Where now, beneath the frozen stones blanched bodies bathe in rot,
Disintegrate, return to dust to feed Forget-Me-Nots
Amidst the bane and pits of pain where broken bones lie caught.
“In fields above the catacombs and tombs of Camelot
The black and withered tree of Death arises from the spot
Where oft beneath a bleeding moon you hid your gold in pots
Embedding doubts neath barren bogs where roots of wormwood squat.
“While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
Your soul, a beggar’s blanket, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
With dangling pearls and diamond studs mid dripping crimson clots
And gaping wounds with bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
For wrapped in chains around your throat, the Reaper’s grim garrote.”
Yes, that’s the fate of all your kind, disclosed by Wise Men taught.
But that was, oh, so long ago, by now you have forgot…
End
Categories:
scrubbed, men, time, war,
Form:
Monorhyme
There was a place I used to know,..
where summer evenings
spoke in long shadows that were heard by the sun
blending dark into light
Where sweet grass, fragrant and damp, would buckle and bend
under the weight of a child's hide and seek,
then quickly spring back, upright and sleek,
as if to experience a last moment of fun
Tonight I recall how I'd watch from the window
My face pressed intimately against the cool glass,
while the children ran up and down the grassy knoll,
to stretch that last ray of light before it was time to come in
It was there
where perfume coming from small, sweaty foreheads
would rise to meet me, making my eyes smile, and my heart swell...
and the faint scent of childhood, mingled with the breeze
I remember kissing salty cheeks at bath time
Stroking feathered hair that fell into lathered curls
Soon after, when nestled, blissfully clean,
swathed in contentment, between cool, crisp sheets,
they would wait for a last goodnight kiss.
Young faces scrubbed red, and expectant
Reeking of soap, and joy, and love complete
Words?…. Most of them were left, unsaid
It matters little now
We had it all back then
for just a little while
Tonight I find myself within the nimbus of a memory,
while evening shadows tell about the laughter that is gone
But together we will listen, as the echoes linger on...
reminding me,
of a place I used to know
______________________________________________________
8/13/18
Contest : Five Senses
Categories:
scrubbed, children, memory, nostalgia,
Form:
Narrative
Pippa, sans slipper,loves causing a fight
She dampened Kate's spotlight,inviting her spite
Pip's lured a royal bastard, without much invite
And smiles sly and alluring, to the gossips delight
Unlike Cinderella, she's swept with no broom
Nor scrubbed any floors on her knees in her room
In fact her slim legs are both pampered and groomed
For her dresses are only one inch past her bloom.
Harry's wild antics have stirred some debate
The red headed playboy is in rut and must mate
Poor Harry, your passion's a fly on your plate
The fly's actions have been a royal nuisance of late.!
Britain longs to hear Pippa bemoaning her plight
A fair maiden in heat, a paparazzi's delight
No chance for Prince Harry to rescue this sprite
His sword's stuck in His zipper, it caused quite a bite
This royal fairy tale will end as all others,
Bland William and Kate will beget two royal brothers
Pippa and Harry play the press like two lovers
And we'll await photo's of them under the covers.
Categories:
scrubbed, funny
Form:
Rhyme
Laying my head back, eyes closing,
reminiscing, the years falling away into decades ago
to the 1950s at my grandparents' grand home
for Christmas.
It was a gracious dining room.
Noontime sun streaming in.
Chair rail with deep red wallpaper, white trim.
Decorating the lace clothed "Big Table"
was a tallish 1870s porcelain Meissen fruit centerpiece
with lovers circling the stem.
Even the adults had to look around it.
Grandmother "Lil" and "Mister B"
were at their nouveau best.
All their progeny seated in good form
awaiting the traditional invocation by "Mister B".
Also seated were the ones that were to be
"seen but not heard" at our side table, the "Kids' Table."
Draped card tables for the dozen of us -
me, my brother and sisters and cousins.
Everyone all scrubbed in dresses and ties.
Mine was a clip on.
As expected, a milk glass got tipped. Spilt milk.
Besides that, we kids had great fun and
became friends again as we did each year.
The thing of it was, none of us liked
being at the "Kids' Table."
We felt lesser, unworthy, subtly so.
Even when I was ten, I knew there were
only two ways to get to the big one:
marriage or go in the army.
We all wondered what it was like to be adult.
After all, most of them smoked.
They all had drinks.
The women had figures, swishy swirls.
The men wore suits like they knew how.
At the "Big Table" they all talked like experts
about stuff we didn't understand
and they laughed loudly at Uncle Bob's jokes.
As the years moved on, things would change,
always do.
I saw virtually all my cousins
disassemble their lives too early -
marriages, divorces, addictions, lost jobs, left school -
beleaguered into inevitable submission.
My family miraculously unscathed.
But they're all gone now,
"Big Table" and little table too.
All that's left from the 50s
is my brother, sister and me.
For years, I was at the "Big Table" since my brood and I
took over the Christmas tradition.
The "Big Table" conversation was
superficial and posing was prevalent.
So one year, I put myself at the "Kids' Table." Just for fun.
Yes, milk got tipped.
But oh, the wonderment and hope. A meal that truly was
food for the soul.
Now that I'm old and looking back,
with a quiet smile, mulling it,
I kinda liked the "Kids' Table" better.
Colored pencil illustration by G.Gaul
Categories:
scrubbed, christmas, cousin, family, friend,
Form:
Free verse
A chambermaid whose name is Marlia
Had the most terrible diarrhoea
Whilst scrubbing a loo
She needed to pooh
Poop flowed freely from her posterior
It splattered on the newly scrubbed door
Gloopy poop was all over the floor
There was a huge mess
It covered her dress
Her poor tummy was ever so sore
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
Marlia was filled with sorrow
A clean dress she had to borrow
flies were attracted
The mess compacted
clean up required a harrow!
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
If only she'd have taken a Tums
No mess would be left on her bums
she's still in despair
a stench in the air
To the scent of poop she succumbs
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
Marlia was dumb, thinking it was just gas
But it was much more that she had to pass
The day was torrid
Her stench was horrid
Now everyone knows Marlia has no class
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Marlia tried hard to sneak out
the trail of her poop left no doubt
Lysol was sprayed,
Her funk still stayed
cause her poop kept running out
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
Poor, poor Marlia stunk up the room
Her hubby left and she has no groom
He ran for the hills
No more night thrills,
Now she's alone and her life is doom
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
21-07-17
Categories:
scrubbed, body, humorous, irony, jobs,
Form:
Limerick
repentance again
old women kneel in pews
dotted about the shadowed church
black splotches they float
among the incense clouds.
faces waxen like the flicker candles
raised, softened, in the stained glass light.
hands tightly curled into each other
black rosary beads clutched in woven need
black, black, scary black
repenting for the world of sin
carried in their voluminous souls.
timelessness pervades saturday confessions
it is all the days and nights of transgressions
large and small they roll down
the passages of life
to be laid at the feet of god
well oiled with words of penance.
ritual, mea culpa, contrition chanted.
scrubbed clean as their kitchens,
one by one they arise, genuflect
and disappear into secularity.
Categories:
scrubbed, religion,
Form:
Free verse
The Strength of Truly Gentle Men
Who wouldst decry such chivalry
deny the outspread cloak, the proffered hand,
plod through puddled mud, drag silken train,
in smug reproach of such a gentle man.
Hast all the glow been scrubbed from humankind
till every gesture – weighed - is found to lack
the power to deflect cold sightless eyes
from barren search o’erlooking all but self.
Should we, in vain reproach withdraw the cloak,
splash also in the muddled, mindless muck
that passes as the futures promised hope -
wash - Pilate-like - the stain from outstretched hands
Lest the cloak be tainted by history’s tarnished brush
and denied the strength of truly gentle men.
John G. Lawless
11/30/2014
Categories:
scrubbed, culture, society,
Form:
Sonnet
Dr. Seuss: “How did it get to be so late so soon?”
I sat down to write,
but no thoughts would come.
Still thinking and thinking,
I said, “This is dumb!”
One look at the clock,
and what did I see?
I’d started at one
and now it was three!
The page of my tablet
showed white like the snow.
Where, my friends, where
did the precious time go?
I got myself up
and decided to clean,
but people kept calling -
You know what I mean?
My sister, my mother,
then old Uncle Fred.
I couldn’t believe it.
I thought he was dead!
I glanced at the clock.
It was already five.
The only GOOD thing:
Uncle Fred is alive!
I needed to go
to the gym and the store,
but I just couldn’t get
myself out the door.
The gym I postponed.
So what else is new?
I just had too much
of housework to do.
Outside was still day light.
I thought I’d get done
By seven at least
when still I’d see sun!
But once I got started,
I just couldn’t stop.
I vacuumed and scrubbed,
then danced with a mop!
I looked out the window.
The sky had grown black.
Saner folks now
would be hitting the sack!
Propped up on a pillow
I sat down again,
this time on my bed
with that old shoulder pain.
My poem wrote itself
by the light of the moon.
So how did it get to be
so late so soon?
For Brenda Chiri-Carroll's Funny How Fast Time Flies Poetry Contest
Note: There is no Uncle Fred!! Just some poetic license!
Categories:
scrubbed, time,
Form:
Quatrain