My song about lace is simple with holes;
it hopes for a holdout;
dandelion seeds ruin everything.
—Poet
That Pretty Ditty
Hand me a tissue
Can we beautify with lace and cotton
That sneeze
That tickle in the throat
Ah…ah
I shall not ruin
That pretty ditty
With anything not pretty
A rose, not its thorns
The seeds that blow
A dandelion, the color of the breeze
The sheets in the wind
Clothespins to pinch
The nose…ah…ah
No I shall not succumb
I shall fold my hands
Around its lace
And pray for grace
For one time
Can lead to more
And lead to sore eyes
I’d lose the face of lavender
The delicate balance of adore
Ha-ha
Hachoo
…tissue
A rhythmic thrum against the fork,
A jack of hearts, a queen of spades,
We snapped them stiff with wooden cork
Or clothespins clipped in cooling shades.
The asphalt hummed a frantic tune,
A motor made of paper thin,
Beneath the white and bloated moon,
The click-clack-clatter would begin.
We were the kings of gravel drive,
With thunder trapped between the steel,
The cards alive, the spokes a-drive,
A roar for every spinning wheel.
It wasn't speed that made us bold,
But that percussive, plastic beat—
A deck of stories, frayed and old,
That turned our bikes to winged fleet.
And though the cards would soon bend,
Their glossy faces scarred and worn,
Riding into darkness, a bitter end.
When the deck ran out, we'd mourn.
giant clothespins as art?
I never realize they could be
But they are
Philadelphia has one made of steel
Designed by Claes Oldenburg
That clothespin is facing upside down
It could pin photographs maybe but not giant clothes
Turkish art professor Mehmet Ali Aysal designed one too
His giant clothespin was created for the festival of the five seasons
She resides in Chaudfontaine, Belgium
This giant sculpture faces the way clothespins must face
If they are to be useful
and keep clothes on the line
It appears that she is keeping the lawn in place,
pinching it like you pinch the edges of crust on a pie
Birdies on a branch are cuddled up so fine
Bunched up closer than clothespins on a line
Snoring in sync, a luscious lullaby in a whispery way
The rest of the forest animals cannot look away
Their mama is gone, says one. Let’s help them to have lots of fun.
the fence is now made of rust
the patio now has a see through floor
the grass is now a mirror for the aging sun
the trees are now all skeletons in the unfortunate name of abandonment
the clothesline is still surprisingly intact
the clothespins are now weather worn and practically useless
the swing set is now a long lost distant cousin of the aforementioned fence
the doghouse where slacker used to chill is now a bathroom source for many a bird
a rabbit hops in here where life once was
she stares at me inquisitively
i wonder if miss bunny has a poem in her head or a quiet opinion
well, i share with her the anecdote that i intentionally elongate
The house where I grew up
Came with a clothesline in the back,
A dryer being something that
Most homes those days did lack.
I learned to hang the towels,
Overlapping just a bit,
Since by doing so, more laundry
On the line would get to fit.
I visualize my mom,
With wooden clothespins firmly gripped
In her mouth, despite the fact
With clothespin bag she was equipped.
When Covid struck, I hung a rope
Across my bathtub’s length,
Afraid to hit the laundry room
And test its viral strength.
It was a clothesline, technically;
I called it by that name.
Without the backyard breezes, though,
It wasn’t quite the same.
laundry lines
wooden clothespins
white sheets
flapping...
ghosts of my
imagination...
like Halloween
this year
disappeared
Clothespins squeak
Sheets flap
Absorbing the scent of nature
Waking up country
puts a smile on my face as
the golden sun tells me it is daylight,
my eyes open to its glorious sight.
Waking up country
is an open kitchen window dressed with
red and white gingham curtains flowing
with a breeze who insists on ablowing.
Waking up country
is a walk through the fields watching
the monarch butterflies fly here and there,
landing on flowers everywhere.
Waking up country
are the cows scattered along the hill,
munching away or lying around,
content and not making a sound.
Waking up country
gives feelings of continous joy
as the wild birds stop at their feeder
pecking away at the suet seeder.
Waking up country
means hanging laundry on the line
with wooden clothespins grasping on tight
in case a strong wind wants to fight.
Waking up country
is a blissful dream since getting
away from a conjested and dirty city,
which is not considered pretty.
Waking up country
is visiting with neighbors over the fence,
chatting away at least once a day,
discussing how many eggs our hens lay.
Waking up country
is a blessing of a lifetime,
so grateful that this pace is slower
and that there is time to push the lawn mower.
Years ago, in Holland,
In a cool, eclectic store,
I bought a set of clothespins
To jazz up my home décor.
Of brightly colored wood
And smaller than the average size,
I pictured them with photos
Hanging like a sweet surprise.
My plan did fizzle like
The best-laid ones of mice and men.
I tucked those clothespins where
I haven’t seen them since back then.
Until I started washing
All my laundry in the sink
And hung a make-shift clothesline
Using – well, what do you think?
My cheerful little clothespins,
Which have waited all this time
To be used as they were meant to
And immortalized in rhyme.
Bruce Banner turned into the Hulk when he got a flu shot.
He turned into the Hulk because it hurt a lot.
He smashed the doctor's office and broke the doctor's neck.
You should've seen that office afterward, it was a wreck.
The Hulk was abgry, that shot filled him with rage.
He was so furious that he went on a rampage.
Batman and Robin tried to stop the Hulk but he ripped off their heads.
They thought their utility belts would defeat him but now they're dead.
The army shot the Hulk with a nuclear missile and blew him apart.
When he saw the missile, he lost bladder control and let out a fart.
That was a nasty fart, it could be smelled as far as 200 miles away.
People had to put clothespins on their noses, they'd seen better days.
Many buildings and people were smashed when the Hulk was through.
But he couldn't beat the army, they turned the Incredible Hulk into goo.
There was an old woman from Brighton
Whose face the small children would frighten
“Egad, why these wrinkles?
My eyes lost their twinkles!”
Her skin she used clothespins to tighten
*April 11, 2018
She walks six floors up, resting between
To use rooftop clothes lines always unseen
Hammocking deeply from wind blowing mean
Wooden clothespins hug the slack lines
Standing attention, the ancient, pinch kind
If fumbled, free-falling, hurling through time
Bring down clothes frozen, gleaming with snow
Gloves stiff with iced fingers now moving slow
Breathe chimney fumes that warm from below
Women cleaning clothes to make a living
Dreams set aside without misgiving
Harsh life in the Bronx, unforgiving
Wings of a monarch butterfly
erratically flapping against a breeze.
Slimy trail of a snail
leaving ground ooze below the knees.
Clear sky of night has a pristine cosmic
view beyond polluted industrial haze.
Highway clean and clear of litter
alongside pastures' luscious grass to graze.
Bottoms of rivers lakes and creeks
whose rocks you can view with ease.
Air is fresh and clear
nothing but your nose to please.
Gravesides’ loose dirt piled high,
mounds soon packed and dipped.
Breeze flapped laundered sheets hanging tight,
clothespins haven’t slipped.
Pollen packed on a bee’s legs knowing
everything it touches, new life will be creating.
Morning sun always shines brighter
after a night without sedating.
Fire of love burning in someone’s eyes
snuffed out by anothers continual berating.
Flamboyant dress of one, always out-classed
by anothers’ simple black understating.
Outrageous screams of a lunatic,
whose throat someone should grip.
End to his folly magically finishes
once the Valium starts to drip.
Sentries of the night stand guard in perfect formation
Across the stretch of wire, like clothespins on a line
While speckled flocks of grackle stain the landscape
Spots of black against a field of brown.
As if on cue, they choreograph their flight
Up and down, like waves at low tide
Just a ripple before they settle
Bobbing to a minuet as old as time.
Chatter of excitement as they discuss the day’s events
Children too excited to sleep, too restless to stay still
Something moves, and the sentries cry out a warning,
In harmonious exodus, the sea bursts forth into the sky
Absorbing the last strands of light
They take flight across the shallow riverbed.
Reflections of black specks against the setting rays of sun
Up towards the back wash of brilliant pinks and yellows
Shards of cerulean attempting to hold back the sapphire night
A finger-painting of bleeding hues
Streaked across a mat from a single orange focal point.
A stroke of madness in a painting of harmony.
Night’s orchestra tunes up for tomorrows concert
They return at dawn to greet the day
Renewing once again the sonnet of the night
And the circle resumes.
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