Best Scrubbing Poems
We have said farewell to David
How we wish he had been there
To see how much we loved the s*d
And how we did our hair
He would have loved the eulogy
In which he got a mention
For David always loved to be
The centre of attention
He would have liked the humour
Had a hanky for the tears
Been astounded at the love he had
To show for all his years
He would have wept to see us weeping
Would have made a funny joke
Not one much for nonsense
A ‘geezer’ sort of bloke
A man who worked with chemistry
Who painted and played chess
Who liked music and black humour
And admired a pretty dress
Two different lives, three families
So many made the trip
From different worlds, from far away
His blood, his fellowship
He would have loved the readings
Would have looked well to this day
And nodded at Corinthians
In a wise and knowing way
He would have said “Look after Margaret”
And run after Michelle
Then winked at Dick and hugged his son
And others he knew well
I thought I saw him in the corner
Saw him sitting in a chair
Serenity personified
For just a moment there
He really loved ‘Jerusalem’
We sang that b*gg*r loud
My God, we scrubbed up bl**dy well
And made the b*gg*r proud
by Gail
Forget the idolatry-
mirage-making lucid hallucinogen
Leaving a head ache quaked dust bin
Where fertile veins go
Be called in the presence of
To stand back and react
Is a twisted affair indeed
Language
Is to voice
Is to body breathing/mind dreaming
A soul on its path
To reach its hidden mission
The world show
Recedes and fades
Like shadows in the woods
Life is for the daring
Deep sea diver
Blazoned with faith to continue on
My conscience is stained
the curfew gull it glides
bent over in guilt I quiver.
Washing and Scrubbing
Plate washing and tile scrubbing I detest among house chores,
Though boring, I still want them to shine like silver ores.
… is a drunkard
Swilling vintage regret,
Tears falling for undared dreams,
Anger spewing over unrequited love.
… is endless replays of yesterdays
With circular insightful wisdom
As likely to reverse life’s ills
As scrubbing dirt off hills.
… is stolen joy in the gloom
Of memory’s moldy greenhouse
Where fancied success blooms, hiding
Mocking hyenas and nightmare roaches.
… is a pustulated soul
Hunkering in a mental bunker
Sniveling nose dripping a green past,
Dreaming victory will roar as thunder.
… is Salvador Dali droop
From the fringes of reality
Or a joy until truth
Flushes it to a cesspool.