Clanging.
With weird smells.
My jaw.
Yawns.
Then settles like algae around my ears.
I’m tired.
Like old dishwater.
Gulp.
Turbulence.
But it’s just that the trash can got knocked over by a raccoon.
Plunk.
And inside I felt a “plunk” too.
A trash can is not a good place to take my lunch break.
But I finished reading my book.
With night vision goggles.
Fairest skin that ever graced
a springtime meadow’s rolling hills
Waving grasses bowed to her
as did full-grown daffodils
O, Fates, let not her auburn tresses
shaped by wind’s own fingers
one day fade to dishwater
pressing laundry in the wringer
The
last bastion
of a person's
search for
fulfillment
seems as
a wish not to
wash away with
the dishwater~~
Dishwashing
I only participate in
dishwashing after dinner so as to
not share the benefit and
pleasure of
drinking the
dirty dishwater.
"dishwater soup"
before the soap
take the scraps
from the plate
place in a pot
fill with water
and bring to
a boil for
tomorrow's
leftover meal
The burst soapsuds dissipate.
Six doves outside my window
Enjoy their meal, congregate.
Wings whirr, head to the gingko
Baby phoebes see surroundings.
With wide mouths expose tastebuds
Hunger each day compounding!
I look, then see burst soapsuds
So much happening outside my kitchen window view that I forget the dishwater is getting cold and chores going undone.
June 20, 2023
Dishwater creeks are iron rails in the cold light.
The sky is thick
with the muted warnings of exhausted banshees.
Harken little sparrows
for bells in toll booths peel in their empty boxes.
The farms are lost, the fields have drowned,
cattle wander, levitating just above
a ghostly ground.
Wade we all, eye deep in the swirl
of better days.
when pewter moons silvered
bright dawning's.
If we travel far now
there may be no homes left
for us to relive our lives within.
Better to nail the mind down into soft pillows,
for the day has no forgiveness in it.
Mercy a prepackaged gift long opened.
Waiting for you
Is listening to the tap dripping
Into a sink full of cold dishwater
Waiting for you
Is watching a cockroach
Cautiously poking its feelers
Out from under the fridge
Waiting for you
Is feeling a cold pain in my fingers
And a hot pain in the small of my back
Waiting for you
Tastes like an aluminium spoon
And smells like a damp rotting floor mop
Waiting for you
Seems never to stop
Waiting for you
Is
Unpleasant.
© Barry Freeman - May 1997
Cracker Barrel — always a favorite.
Not my first choice today, but
we go where the grandkids go.
Warming my hands with coffee cup
...waiting...tap, tap...for the follow up.
I wonder if the waitress was in charge today…
Like an arcade ball, literally bouncing off
coworkers, aimless, goofy talk…
Our table, likewise, discordant —
not quite catching the right tune.
An unfamiliar waitress, all over
my granddaughter with hugs —
back off, lady...phew
The orchestrated mess came in due time,
like a thanksgiving dinner, where we wait for hours.
So glad my family didn’t throw a fuss. We were all
hungry, but not...starving.
Our lackadaisical fare showed up with lackluster.
dishwater hash browns, soupy grits. But the
plateful of biscuits, were honestly delicious,
as was the one french fry I borrowed from
my granddaughter’s plate.
So breakfast lacked perfection and some emotional
digestion at the table, but still any day...any day
with my grands is a perfect kind of day,
because I love them so…
11/26/2017
She meekly chased after
nonexistent moonbeams
in rose fashioned pipe
dreamt illusions,
as visual stimuli to
rock her existence
of inky stark impressions,
inciting some exertion
in her bland universe,
she was ever so ordinarily dull
even her reflection in the
deepest sapphire seas,
appeared drab as dishwater,
she lived in a world of her
own fabricated deceptions.
yet, she wondered why every
coercive consequence was an
analogy hued of washed-out gray
releasing shady gasps of Pandora's box
Just for you,I stayed away from
a guys' night- out of cool poker;
even prevented myself from having
the pleasure of beer on the couch.
But while my hands poured detergent,
ten times over, all I heard were rambles
and gurgles while the plates kept
their oil around the edges. Yes, I tried
to fix your waistline filled with grease,
the pipe clogged from old age.
Serving me well, we both knew
it was time to mark you as junk;
sorry about this, I rang the cargo
man as my hands were beginning
to ache from arthritis.My insight
tried to think without being so
introspective; smudges and a
big loss of fun hours with the boys
made me decide to let you go.
Did I tell you my wife went out
tonight with the girls? And I am left
hanging on to piles of kitchenware,
just you and I on a dreary Saturday.
101 in a ROW contest -6
Sponsored by PD A
Imprisoned by clammy apron strings
She squats amidst domestic disorder
Dirty dishes, smelly household linens
Blackened pots and foamy dishwater.
Hastily, she conjures breakfast on the table
While vigilantly eyeing the baby's cradle
A highly- strung neurotic woman
Nursing ghosts of high dreams and aspiration.
A docile victim whose world revolves around
The see-saw whims of her bossy husband
An egoistic peacock with a deficient IQ
Whose brutal hands are his magic wand.
...Pegged on the wall stained by grease
Hangs her college degrees.
when I was married some years ago,
my wife then thought, for some reason
that she was the boss
and I was there for wifely pleas'in
she sleep late everyday, was truely much too lazy
she'd order me to do so many things,
I swear I'd be sure to proove
this lady was d_mn crazy...
I was not allowed any money
certainly not for cigarettes or beer
this seemed to me a little funny
it seemed a little *****
one day she ordered me to do the dishes
after I been ordered to cook the meal,
it seemed to me she was goin' too far'
it seemed just so unreal...
so while she laid in bed munching chips
she was sure I'd do the dishes
she was sure I'd obey her wishes
if I ever wanted to "kipse her luby rips"
well, I may not be so bright,
I may not be so brave,
but, put my hands in dishwater?
I'd rather dig myself a grave...
I told her to buzz off...
and do them all herself!
I mean, I had just done the cooking...
what'd she think? I was the cobbler's elf?
well, we one day parted ways,
and some wonder if these I might miss,
I said- "you mean those miserable old days?
I'd rather bathe in piss!!"
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