Best Washcloth Poems
by Dawne Zacharias
The Wall of Rain from
a distance came
with
healing drops
to vanquish pain
a warm washcloth
aside the face
we sought to restore
hopes warm embrace
he became my child again
my little one
our life to continue had just begun
Jesus remained our hope in view
as we prayed together
we both knew
a mother and son with His grace
shine with God's purpose face to face.
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
From the moment I feel that spark
in the palm of your hand and let it
run over the bone of my hip, I am placed in a
euphoria that drags along with me for months and
years.
It keeps me awake at night and clouds my focus
during the conference calls, bathroom breaks, and
monotonous drives home. It puts me to sleep as I stand
over the boiling pot of spinning webs.
I can feel every stroke of your finger across my face, my thoughts of it. I am
trapped in my memory and longing for the silence of water
falling from the shower head as I drink you in over and over.
It makes my heart flutter and pound and fumble to catch its breath. It makes my mind start and stop
and sputter like a Chrysler with no battery. I hold it quietly around my middle, to protect me from the
emptiness of acceptance.
This is a dirty trick of an imbalanced mind. It is not the very real experience and longing that I try to
compress with this very unhelpful, old washcloth.
I was enjoying myself in a bubble bath, as suddenly, a mouse dropped in.
Maybe I would of panicked, but she swam immediately, to the other end!
I suddenly felt so sorry for my, now clean, little, cutsey, mouse, that…
I stretched out my washcloth, by the edges, to lift her carefully, out, no doubt!
As she reached the rim, lickety split, she bounded out, so sweet.
And I settled down, again, to finish my enjoyable, bathy treat.
Suddenly, a thought arose… after getting her out, to my relief…
Suddenly I Shuttered, with the thought that, ‘what if she had pee’d’.
So I shot out of the tub, quivering all over… from head to toe.
I let the water out so fast, and scrubbed it with bleach, quite so!
Then, I called, to borrow, the neighbors tub… I was THAT freaked out!
She said yes, and had quite a laugh, at the antics of my little mouse, fallout!
But heading over, I met someone, on the way… Yep! The MOUSE, again!
And how did I know it was, the one in the same, you say? Well, now, I can grin!
She had a fetching, little bubble bath hat! Yep! We’d both been trying to get away!
Poor little thing had been just as disturbed, as me, as we’d scurried about, that day.
So I turned back to my very own tub… Thanking God that my little friend …
Had definitely decided, not to stay! And here my tale does end!
For the: Reinvent Contest from ‘Strange Bathfellows’
A seagull’s just messed on my car
poop splattered the windscreen so far
it obscured my view
wet white slimy pooh
that seagull needs the abattoir!
To remove that horrible slurry
I leapt out my car in a hurry
and wiped the poop off
with an old washcloth -
clean windscreen, but seagulls should worry
To prevent seagulls having fun
I’m fitting a huge machine gun
if one poops on my car
then I’ll shoot from afar
and seagulls will be on the run!
Contest Any animal or creature Limerick
Sponsor by Charles Messina
NO SEAGULLS WERE INJURED IN THE WRITING IN THIS FICTIONAL POEM
8/31/18
I puffed out a soft cold cloud
In these long chambered empty rooms
As my hand held washcloth to brow
Over me, your sickness looms
Hot breath toasted my fingers
Now heaving up dead fireflies
The anger still lingers
My fever induced by your lies
It is quite common to kiss injuries on those wee.
At three, my son asked to have bath autonomy.
I tossed a washcloth, then stood where he could not see.
Soon, he called out words that amusingly shook me,
"Mom, it washed sore, come kiss ouchy on my pee-pee."
Shopping, strolling him down the grocery store aisle
where female hygiene products are sorted in piles,
my son, age four, earnestly said, "When I'm grown, I'll
buy all these things with flowers on them for my wife."
His words styled a smile in me that would last for life.
I used mild-applied wooden spoons for mood anchors.
This set me up for disgust from food cart flankers
when my son yelled, "Look Mom, a hole bag of spankers."
My child, four, eyed that, not the shelved Power Rangers?
I hoped no one would report child welfare dangers.
Once, when a minister summed up his sermon's span
asking "Who's the greatest force in the universe?",
my son, at five, stood up with some dramatic plan.
Lifting his toy hero as high as small ones can,
he enthusiastically declared, "Batman!"
Thoughts of vacation, developed my fav word pearl,
"How many times do I wake up before Disney World?"
(Line for line… tit for tat.)
1.
My house is kind of small
but bigger than my kitchen
And in my kitchen there’s a lamp
that’s bigger than my fist
Please don’t touch the dog’s food bowl
only I touch the food bowl
But really I know I shouldn’t
only my dog touches the food bowl
What an *******. We should have never bought that dog
and we never should have mentioned that lamp, or that fist.
They were completely irrelevant to everything else.
I’m going to have to scrap this one.
2.
I started to write the poem
then this happened.
And now this is happening
to that happening.
I happen to be happening upon a
happening.
just like every other happening.
Sometimes poems happen, often after
something else happens
I just happened to happen upon a
happenstance happening
then I started to write the poem.
3.
It’s either spaghetti or meatballs
that go with warm vodka
Either would probably fit
in the freezer at the store.
Maybe they’d even fit
in a cold and dim motel in Ohio.
But where would I find
A fork?
Maybe I could find one
In that motel.
Goodbye
my
dearest
washcloth.
You
were
good
at
scrubbing.
How to Stay Married to Me
(a poetic tutorial)
Don’t come at me
With sweets or cookies
On Valentine’s Day
My New Year’s resolutions
Are around to stay
(talk to me around Mother’s Day)
Understand my currency:
Words, sweet syntax,
Small deeds at random
Are my box of chocolates
Fill my tank,
Ask if I’ve lost weight
Offer a walk
Clean the garage
Love our kids
Even after tattoos and missing assignments
Put things together: furniture and broken hearts
Camping trips and holiday dinners
Let the dogs sleep in our bed
And in and out at night
What seems like a zillion times
A human doggie door
Take care of the old people
Move a couch for my grandma
“It has to be now!” Nevermind
That your back is out
Tolerate my OCD tendencies
Ignore the washcloth tower
Turn a blind eye to the
Exercise clothes rotation
Understand it gives me power
Let me be in charge
of the temperature in the car
you take the music--
A better DJ by far
Stockpile our everyday
Like a trip to Sam’s Club
Saturday drives to games
Sunday laundry and grocery
Love me through the mundane
The necessary normal
that makes us great
*Image of The Moon Looking At Full by Pixabay.
“No man for any considerable period can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter, 1850.
Pockets Of Moon and Men
Daylight is wiped away by a washcloth
transformed into a grayish dusk disguise
as an orb light removes a murky swath
its mask gone thus does the illusion dies
The facade exhibits cracked lines and holes
that crisscross its scenery seen in parts
an imperfect surface sway naught the souls
as amour captivate, affects sweethearts
It adjusts pained lives who have broken up
with all its flawed features mesmerize lives
minding trifling defects both share the cup
as keen as mustard errs also faults thrives
Opted pairs make-up after both were torn
Pocket-full-of-miracles pleased Hawthorne
2021 June 23
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (Jun 25)
~~Brian Strand Judged 2021 June 26
*3rd Place*
Writing Prompt - Flawed
~~Constance La France: Judged 2021 June 24
I pray to The Lord to thank Him,
for gifts He provides each day.
A prayer of thanksgiving to Jesus,
for the blessings He sends my way.
I thank you Lord for the lesser things,
and not think it so odd,
for I know that even the smallest,
is given by The Grace of God.
Thank you for a stove and a pantry...
for a blanket, pillow, and bed...
for clean sheets, warm covers, and pajamas,
and sending my daily bread.
Thank you for washcloth and towels...
for soap, a tub, and sink...
for tube of toothpaste and toothbrush,
and a faucet of cold water to drink.
I have taken so much for granted,
hardly given it much thought,
but from now on I will pray to thank you Lord,
for these lesser blessings wrought.
I have prayed a prayer of thanksgiving,
for provisions The Lord has given;
may we promise and always remember,
to be grateful thankful children!
Milton L. Delgado
February 19, 2008
Lasagna noodles on my forehead
A washcloth in the pot
Oh dear, oh my, what am I doing?
I think I completely forgot
It’s dinner time for all the kiddies
And I put the toaster in the sink
I’m losing it, my mind is warped
I’m edging to the brink
Maybe I should stop to breathe
Uh oh, I forgot, again, just how
Alright already, I give in
I’m gonna order out
That simple gleam of beautifully polished silver
Never fails to get my adrenaline flowing.
I polish it every time after its done.
I can't help it.
It just looks so pretty when its been polished
It is so small, yet so powerful
It can cause so much pain,
Whether wanted, or not.
I love the feeling of the cold, sharp silver against my skin.
Just resting there, waiting.
My legs keep trembling.
Why?
I have done this hundreds of times before
And it never fails to create that feeling.
The feeling of control.
I have control now.
No matter what happens out there,
I have control in here.
I press the blade against my white skin.
A sharp pain alerts my mind.
This is the good part.
Everything is wiped from my mind.
Everything...
Except the ripping of my soft flesh.
I can feel every tiny nerve screaming at my brain,
To force itself to stop.
But my brain has stopped responding at this point.
The blood starts to trickle down my leg.
Slowly at first,
But as more blood is pumped through the small slash in my leg
It starts to roll down my leg with surprising speed.
A single drop is released from my leg.
I watch it fall to the floor.
A small splash occurs,
Not really a splash...but a,
A splatter.
Its such a beautiful red.
So pure.
many more drops of blood splatter the white tile of my bathroom.
I wipe my hands down my leg.
The blood from the wound is now lightly coating my thigh.
I lightly rub my fingertips across the scars on my thighs.
Some are smaller than others.
Some reach from one side of my thigh to the other.
I am quickly brought out of my trance by a noise in the hall.
Quickly I get up and pull a washcloth out of the cabinet.
I run the water and soak the washcloth.
I wipe my leg off
And put a bandage over it,
Just in case it bleeds anymore.
Then I wipe up the floor.
The last thing I do,
Is wipe off my blade with the cloth.
I polish it till it shines again.
I place it in a small black box,
And walk to my room.
Dropping the bloody washcloth
Into the hamper on the way.
See, good as new.
The pen has betrayed me!
The ink has swallowed me as spit on a fly.
I burn pages with fiery lightning bug breaths
That spill from pokey jar-holes.
If I touched flame I'd very well melt to the floor.
I would bleach your Turkish rugs.
I would ruin the drapes.
And I, a sighing house abandoned.
An echo of Hillary on his mountain.
A babe buried by Antoinette.
What I would write, I would write
if I could!
I may have a blind mouth.
I may be a beaten moth against railroad lamps.
I still hear that old pen laughing, oh enemy
That I could never leave.
I curse you only to nurse from you,
for the nourishment a mother forgot to give.
I always tended to settle, any ways.
I always intended to stay.
Some days silence is a newspaper-holding man,
that glances to me for a moment,
Just to call me a mutt.
But others days I am sick, and it is
Warm blankets and a wet washcloth on my head.
Pen knows this too well.
A trade to swear soul to an ink.
With a deliberated ruse; she washed its tiny face with a soft washcloth.
With no resistance, she enfolded the wee infant into a swaddling cloth.
In the Autumn equinox, she placed the tiny form in the simple wooden box.
She watched them perform their antiquated burial tradition, and then she returned to the loose gray dirt.
She then headed home with a secret beneath her skirt.
Earlier during the dim of the day, while they were seeking each other for comfort.
And while superficial prayers were offered up with great effort.
She blew breath into the tiny mouth and massaged its tiny smooth chest.
And by the grace of God, the tiny infant was blessed.
Madame Blackwell by virtuous askew created a makeshift bundle and made a switch.
Her deed made unnoticed without a glitch.
No regret manifested in her heart.
No transient sorrow, in place was a spiritual upstart.
For retribution was pacified and made whole.
There was a righteous mood in her soul.
Justice was done.
For her, the sun's unsparing glory shone radiantly on her and her son.