They spray perfume sometimes.
It makes the screaming seem quieter.
Everyone is reading a book or magazine.
Until someone starts crying and bubbles of crying burst.
They serve hot dogs, sometimes.
I’m in the shower and it’s like I’m sitting down.
Eyes closed, chewing.
Eating through memories.
They wash the sheets if you ask them to.
On laundry day, people are still restless.
Because laundry means “trapped.”
Wash a shirt or pants and you’ll wear them in here.
Until next week.
They spray perfume sometimes.
It’s not one I recognize.
They’re trying to hurt me with a nice smell.
Or maybe it’s the laundry detergent they use.
They don’t really spray perfume.
There’s no secret smell.
There’s not much to do.
IVORY FLAKES
As one hand gives, the other takes
Laundry can be both a task and joy
Yet when an imposition, can annoy
And all remaining respect, destroy
Washday is not merely Ivory Flakes
Clean those clothes, for all our sakes
If overdue, laundry becomes urgent
A minor issue, a choice of detergent
The needs and wants are convergent
So don’t delay with the Ivory Flakes
More stocking wear from Ivory Flakes
A product with other uses, you know
And used in movies as artificial snow
Swirling all around as fans would blow
But there were and are, other makes
there was a milkman when I was a child
he brought fresh milk to our doorstep every morning
left it there in a little metal box that had the dairy name on it
there was also a bread man in the fifties
If we were lucky we might get the white cupcakes
They were uniform, frosted with sweet pink icing
we always got the bread,
but not always the cupcakes
the bread man came once a week, on Friday
Seventy years later Prime trucks will bring you
dog treats, TV sets, laundry detergent, lipstick,
hair dye, tomato juice, and anything else you could want.
My relatives would have never believed this possible
back in the day.
Mrs. Spratt was exceedingly fat,
Hubby Jack was as lean as a bone.
They both relished each meal
With a great deal of zeal
And even licked platters clean
When the eating was done.
Though not frugal with rations,
They still took lovely vacations
With the money they saved on dish detergent alone.
I am a captive of these household chores,
Cleaning windows, wall and floors.
Fighting dirt all the way,
Until I am old and grey.
Up at 5 to start the sandwich brigade.
Pack their lunches and homemade lemonade.
All are up so make breakfast - bacon and eggs.
Little one wants to stay home - he begs,
Dry up the tears, all off to school and work.
Back to chores no time to shirk.
A mountain of clothes to be washed to remove the dirt,
Especially the lipstick on hubby's shirt.
No time or inclination to check if its mine.
Washing all finished, dirt came out fine.
Now to the washing up lets get it all clean.
Bottled detergent claims it will make them gleam.
Now to tackle cleaning each room
Trudge upstairs with mop, vacuum and broom
There's a lot more but I am calling it a day,
I do all this without any pay
My life is a constant fight against dirt and grime
and what will they do when departing this world, it is my time?
After fighting all this dirt, my future I see,
They will put me in a box and throw dirt all over me.
In the attraction of Nature's-draw,
will my heart survive such beauty
attracting with its maw- sitting beneath
impending- melting offering -cascade of Winters drift encore of grift,
scenic spring undressing the thaws,
trap of heart's thoughts warmly clad,
hanging cliffs, gardens of Babylon-
bathed on the lips to wear like an entance,
of entanced shades in scarlet riding beast of glade.
There is no choice but to plunge from the cliffs
and be submerged in the surround cloud lay.
The sting of cold anenome of taboo anamoly of anamorphic fish eye lens o drone , 'saulted wound of surrounding detergent urge of soliloquy-posed like a babbling brook sent into motion by the
everclear projected beast mode of the know,
seeps in to santize the drowning pool you have inked beyond the greatest show on err,
pearls of evaluation of sanity- so audaciously an enchantress come for the bones on our shores
for an innocent suare',
wears the beads like a rosary,
pray for me.
She will have evidence to use against me
on Judgment Day, beyond
and keep part of me sentenced upon this plane,
stowaways, mistress and vagabond.
I bought the shroud of Turin
the vatican had a sale
they have legal expenses
and priests that needed bail.
It was just an old dusty cloth
so I put it in the wash
that Tide detergent, never fails
all the smudges and stuff washed off.
don’t get excited, i was raised a catholic
I had a brilliant moment of clarity, inspired by a dream,
a profound reminder that things may not be what they seem.
There's not always a clear line between evil and good,
like a wolf in sheep’s clothing is sometimes misunderstood.
Certain years and veiled looks can conceal and surprise
but the truth and intent are always revealed in the eyes.
They are a gateway to the soul, a window in which we see,
too many will often ignore the strength of powers that be.
A self-righteous man will sharply preach with a raised fist.
From a pulpit, he is there to hide what they have missed.
Some will get lost an seek to build a box from detergent,
and all the while they seem to forget, we all are divergent.
Everyone is dealt a hand with a message within each card.
Deciding which one to play is a decision that’s usually hard.
You can hit or you can fold, you might even choose to stay,
just be cautious and study the pattern, but never overplay.
11/25/22
Pick-A-Title, Vol 33 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
One thing I know about Gangs:
They have their own cobra's fangs;
Those who've got maturity,
Still threats to security:
Their leaders Good - Bad feeders,
Very few poor mind readers...
Another thing about Gangs
Their angry fists on doors: Bangs!
Every one of them Raw Tout
From a once nice voice Rash shout
Gangs have their own officer
His looks always The Sinister
Yes A Capo: wished Sergeant
Eyes on Rum, not Detergent
My mind as for consciousness;
Mind heart joyous confidence;
My heart joyous confidence;
Minds preference being variant;
Mystic muddle moods
Orientations being divergent;
Bodies soul wash in detergent;
Disputed conflict will be maybe;
Impending impingement honesty;
Mystic muddle moods congruity moments;
Conscience alignment conjunction rimes in;
Mind heart joyous confidence;
Mystic muddle moods
My mind as for consciousness;
Alas, I let my mind not my heart rule my heart?
Imparting, what
Mystic muddle moods
6/23/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
4/3/22
Just trying to live it up
But still in the cut
Used to be bothered, now I hardly give a f***
Your attitude and outlook about as useful as bird s***
You need to learn quick
Nobody is perfect
True love we all deserve it
But your actions left another burned bridge
Use to be, but no longer allergic
It all use to be nothing, never would concern this
But it all I eventually came to terms with
By having a firm grip
During a difficult battle, the tables I turned and flipped
It involved laundry detergent
And a tourniquet
Across the Earth a shift
This is factual not anecdotes
Worldwide, not just across the Alaskan coast
Still sad that folks
Brag and boast
Not focused on what matters most
Over the years
Not always crystal clear
And all that it appears
All these chipmunks
And others out to trick us
Too many witch hunts
Occurring constantly every six months
Don't think that all of it sucks
Never give up
Remember you only live once
I put on some swim trunks
Drank out of a big cup
And the only thing I could think of
Was making some big bucks
As a hurting song is being sung,
At a white polo shirt is flung
What can have been a cow’s dung
And on same it foully clung
And on a nearby face hung;
All a hurried indiscreet challenge
By one refusing to change,
As though it is beyond his range,
The idea pointblank strange
Or one’s denial of a sweet orange!
At last, the fastest arrangement for a detergent,
Lest victim should arrange his brother sergeant…
“Once again, the quick-to-burst temper
Proving it can with a lot tamper.
What might be the matter
With our next-door Martha,
Her rash mischief steady
And she, by choice, heady;
Content to seem an Eddy,
Her gross slaps often ready
Last week, the cheeks of Freddie?
And her guy who is intelligent
Keeps betraying more The Belligerent
Our own share of Satan’s Sergeant,
For his weapons include detergent
And maybe, tomorrow, A Reagent!
A huge surprise they call him agent,
Who thinks and acts like an insurgent.
I keep espying an aggressiveness
Of catching sureness and silliness
Some poetic thoughts bubble
to the top of your deep waters.
There they congregate, bobbing up and down
forming slicks, oily smears that linger
only to accuse you later when you return to them.
There is a detergent for cleaning them up
it comes in a small spray can
labeled 'revise, edit, or delete.'
Fore heaven's sake
don't let them burst and spill
over the pristine innocence of a page.
Many whopping environmental disasters
begin with a wee smudge.
Hateful as they may be, to the eye
and ear, the elimination of words,
statues, ideas, etc., will do nothing
toward making a venom free society –
to flood with light, explaining,
though far more difficult,
more laborious (seemingly impossible
at times) is the only palatable good.
A great, natural builder, artist,
builds his (his/hers – God I hate this,
Politically Correct) foundation using
those odd, irregular stones as well as the
seeming, symmetrically perfect –
variations, outliers are a blessing,
and not a Cosmic Blemish –
the fault, if any to be laid, is when using
ourselves, needlessly, hurtfully -- making
arrow-heads of the pen's of Valentines...
Taking free-thought away from children
will only do away with individuality,
leaving soulless shells instead --
not cleansed human beings, ready for
fresh priming; but globs of rancid, detergent
filled sponges -- the soppy, dead remains,
of what were once, thriving, healthy, alive
brains...
gone any true worthfulness, and sense
of sacred being....
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