All the dishes fell down broken
Favorite cups, you won’t believe
Smashed to bits, but it’s unspoken
Myths don’t mention human grief
They don’t want us to come close
Private troubles doesn’t count
If you ask, nobody knows
What was their crime about
The collective guilt is fake
There is no such thing on earth
Otherwise we’re God’s mistake
From the accident of birth
Trevelyan, a sole survivor
Is the one we should remember
See the picture of white rider
On eleventh of November
Of one thousand ninety nine
He escaped the great excess
Of the punishment, confined
To the Land of Lyonesse
Then the plot disintergrates
To the pieces that don’t fit
Well together, so it fades
To the dishes crashed in bits..
when she took the job no one was honest at all
the dishes were stacked higher than a giraffe is tall
How long have they been like this? She asked the boss
He hemmed and hawed, and stirred up red sauce
Seriously, is this kitchen always going to be this messy?
Are there going to be dishes to the ceiling? Asked Tessy
He did not answer, but she discovered the very next day
This pile up of dishes to the ceiling is always the way
Time went by like broken dishes.
Just turned into a pond filled with old stuff.
I have shoes filled with gratitude.
Bandaids are made of sludge.
And do-nothing bathroom tiles have grout perpetually.
There’s nothing like broken dishes.
Broken dishes.
Except maybe cars.
They grumble and go to junk yards endlessly.
Time went by like broken dishes, cracked, nothing, jerking awake,
Dishes.
If you’re cooking
I will do the dishes
If it’s the last thing I do
Because you’ll fight me
Kick me out of my own kitchen
Giggling like kids again
I’ll do the dishes
If you cook for me
I’ll curl up in my corner with a book
While you’re on shift
And smile when you come back
And you will – come back
To me
And my kitchen
Stick on that one song
'Bout the young kids in love
From way back when
The times when we laughed
Cried-bickered-danced-cared
The point in life when we decided
You’ll be the one cooking
And I’d go get my degree
You’d go off to be a hero
And I’d wait in the chair you built me
That rocks just a touch
Enough to swing a tad
A smile cracks as you stare at the sight
I turn the page
You still there staring
I feel your gaze
But I let you stand there
Knowing eventually you’ll turn
Towards the kitchen
Just to yell
“What you want for dinner?”
“What I want is to do the damn dishes tonight"
The world begins here,
at this worn wooden table,
its edges softened by years of hands
that set, cleared, and held.
Morning sunlight spills across plates,
coffee steam curling like old stories
we tell each other
between bites of bread and laughter.
Here, my mother folds love into dough,
my father seasons patience into stew,
grandmother hums the recipes of our past,
and unseen, ancestors linger in the scent of cumin and cardamom,
their whispers threading through the clatter of spoons.
Arguments dissolve in the hum of conversation,
joy rises with the scent of fresh coriander,
and tears, too, are gathered
between the bowls and shared silence.
This table teaches me:
life is breaking bread together,
listening when words fail,
holding space for each other,
and remembering
even in ordinary moments,
we are never alone.
sink full of dishes
rubbish bin overflowing
damp clothes filter through ~
chaos and stars rise
sellotaped window gives smile
Sirius does too ~
dance one step at time
upheaval rises to laugh
floral socks threadbare ~
peanut butter bread
ants eat crumbs while pen cold waits
cracked chaos chortle ~
kitchen clean broom sweep
chipped dishes cracked wishes weep
mess runs into garbage fun
I'm the vibes, they're the vipers
I give healing, them keep killing
Words my medicine, call me words smith
Deceit and betrayal their weapons
I call them cobra, them are snitches.
I'm the owner
Them the controller
I always act like
I own or know nothing
They're so ruthless
Acting like they own or know it all.
I'm the completer
They're the competitor
Always fight for something
While I ride for my things
Everyone with their own obligation
Paying attention to whatever they belong.
I've always hated having to do all of the dishes...
Though it is what I will do after fulfilling my own wishes.
Of course alone or with someone, I must do the dishes.
I went to my kitchen, and what did I see
All my dirty dishes, looking back at me
I got dishes - I got them dirty dishes
No matter what I say, no matter what I do
I got them - dirty dishes blues
My babe come to see me on a Friday night
She looked in my kitchen and said, you know that ain’t right
You got dishes - you got them dirty dishes
No matter what I say, no matter what I do
I got them - dirty dishes blues
When I get home, you know what I’ll do
I’ll get some water, make some soap suds too
And wash my dishes, I’ll wash my dirty dishes
No matter what I say, no matter what I do
I got them - dirty dishes blues
Dishes are piling.
I go on a walk, instead.
It rains, but…
It can’t hurt me, like the scalding water from the sink..
Watching puddles grow.
Worrying.
If I wait long enough, maybe the dishes will disappear.
If I wait long enough, maybe my house will disappear.
But dishes are always there.
They say walks are healthy.
And chores too.
I go back home, to bed.
I hate going outside.
I hate the dishes too.
They offer no rope nor traction.
Following a prolonged icy tongue-blast.
A slow slide into the greasy crevasse.
Where lie soul-stiffening white jackets.
There seem to be infinite oceans of infinite critics.
Vast deserts without an oasis of empathy.
Powers that be will steal the last of the cherries.
Leaving mountains of bluish pits and pluming death.
Drunk clowns are juggling our happiness.
Squirting flowers filled with ink and lye.
To cloak the last bastions of gilded sanity,
To poison any goodness in our lives.
So, what are the children of silence to do?
Sit in their blackness and lick a sticky candy dish.
Surrender the ghost of a million to appease a few.
Or come out swinging in the light-with fiery fists.
To write a song.
I have to be famous.
But first I have to start a band.
And learn to write music.
But I don’t have friends.
I don’t have anyone.
I don’t have anyone who would want to start a band with me.
I’m listening to my favorite song right now.
Daydreaming and it’s a horrible, sad daydream.
I’m doing the dishes.
But the soap bubbles are popping.
My hands are wrinkly from water or maybe age.
The water is cold.
My thoughts are cold.
I drain the water and refill the basin.
With no music. No favorite song.
In silence,
I can get everything done.
Like a page in a book
Turn the page, turn the page
Every step that we walk minimum two feet
Print ink marks letters, words and phrases
I am so thirsty I drink those letters daily
As I place my left and right hands together
I eat the silence I am confessing
I am full of library dishes
LIBRARY DISHES I AM FULL LIKE A PAGE IN A BOOK I AM AN OPEN BOOK
Words fill me unconditionally
I know that I speak truths
Absolutes I eat of the virgin
Paged not covered in characters nor letters nor words
Blank quiet are the plate
Of the dishes of alphabet soup?
I am full of library dishes
LIBRARY DISHES I AM FULL LIKE A PAGE IN A BOOK I AM AN OPEN BOOK
1/31/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
I could find nothing amusing or redeeming about washing dishes.
I watched my mother, loving it, and wondered about her sanity.
What is it about dish washing that you like? I finally asked.
It is a labor of love, it shows I care about my family, she said.
This was an idea that had not occurred to me ……..ever.
Now when I see her enjoying it, I am not as perplexed.
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