There're things much worse than being alone.
Like a stream of cold words cutting to the bone.
Or bruises blooming like lilacs on the face of innocents.
There's always a steel-toed skunk in a field of mint.
Nobody wants to spend their precious days
navigating paths of eggshell. and broken glass.
You don't notice the petals or bells anymore, only the horn of the coming train crash.
Day upon day you dust off the mask
because that's what dusters are expert at.
They put on rose-scented glasses and tap shoes.
Sashay into yet another flinch-battered day.
Hoping there's a patch of robin egg blue.
To temper that vast quilt of blackish decay.
One thing is always in fashion,
that polka-dot pattern of escalation.
Pinnacle of pins and green desperation.
A shallow pond of apology and reconciliation.
Things turn sweet to sour at the speed of light.
A honeymoon never shows you its darkest side.
Once there were diamonds, now there's only slag -
It's past time for a nonchalant lift off that icy crag.
I fixed the vacuum.
I need to throw the dirt away.
I did it.
I tried not to be careless.
Cleaning with a vacuum.
When nothing is enough.
We give into the loud sounds.
Loud, cleaning sounds.
Throw. It. Away.
It’s not that hard.
Because it’s all bagged up, just for me.
The dust mites tell me to.
I woke up at night.
I’m still living here.
Everything is clean.
I promised myself.
Destroying. Sad. Muddy.
I wish spring cleaning was light and nice.
With feather dusters.
And whistling innocently.
I need to destroy.
These thoughts.
Throw the bag in the fireplace.
There is nothing better on a spring morning.
Along with hair, and stray pieces of string.
There were other things.
He left behind.
His filthy footprints.
I won’t remember him.
He took the pictures with him.
I took out the vacuum.
Every night, I clean.
Filth, dirt, mud, grime.
There is nothing left.
Muddy footprints in my mind.
I howled, but the vacuum was louder.
Spring cleaning, da da da.
Cleaning makes things empty.
He took all the pictures with him.
But my vacuum is louder.
My mingle-mangle mismash mixed bag of stuff
Is a pastiche, potpourri, patchwork of remnants rough
The accumulation of this junk was not so very tough
Feather dusters, ink wells, rulers, silver links of cuff
Pincushions, a beaver tail, old Spice, smelly snuff
Nails, shoe polish, tape, puffer that does not still puff
Potholders, elf statue, rags to give car a buff
Petrified cinnamon roll, please don’t give me guff.
If I could design my garden pests, I would have pink tobacco hornworms
Rainbow striped lady bugs, and bees carrying dusters instead of stingers
The faeries would wipe their feet on my dahlias and call me Trixie
I began playing this game with myself
So at any moment you are holding something
How would you kill an intruder
I mean some of them are obvious
Throw the tea then use the cups like enamel
knuckle dusters
Deodorant like a spray
Handy flame thrower if you have a lighter in your hand
Toothpaste takes some thought but if you can squeeze it onto your hands and go for the eyes
Hairdryer and plug
Like a pair of Noon
Chucking blades as I charge towards them
Sometimes good to share
Pen would get the wickedness treatment
Spooning eyes out on stalks
Balloons depends on what they are filled with
Tell them
I will
Not one psychopath in here
There is definitely more than
Took me eons to work out
Mainly tricks in may
A brill
I ant ain’t an auntie
Started working on scenarios on stairs in water
Has anyone ever been xylophoned to death
Who would do that?
Lamps, shades, and floors,
But nothing more!
Do the Dam Dusters have a union?
Or are they hired by the slice?
Since filling in between is part of their life.
In fact, the Dam Dusters are well known,
Around the dams in our home.
Whatever they do,
Seems to work.
No leaks today,
Not even a squirt!
Stow away the congeries of aches
overtly attenuating the life-force
Joints grinding bones as growing muscles waked
Oft, stomping like an apoplectic horse...
Under strained newness, a glum disposition
reeked nervousness, clamping a chest distraught
No diversity, glared their position
Such eyes that stabbed, could snap a breath taut...
Of schooling, what silent complacency!
Jailers with fingertip-busting dusters
or canes that cracked and smacked decency
Umber-burned bruises on smartened clusters...
Raking nails scratch to assuage a mind
New migraines need compulsory unwinds…
(4/23/21 For 'Aches Prompt' contest hosted by Constance La France)
You hear them before you see
The droning engines growling easily
They burst onto me post haste
For there is no for time to waste
The hot summer sun and wind
Has meant a fire without a friend
Burning on the Kangaroo Isle
As the crop dusters battle from above with style
These battles are waged by the brave
As the fire spreads in wind swept waves
For the summer sun can be an enemy
To be kept in check and not let be free.
© Paul Warren Poetry
If you stroll a wild colored garden
Down thin and dappled paths;
Where bluebonnets bloom on Spring’s black floor,
And mockingbirds above are happily singing, see
New limber-legged colts and calves dancing in the sun,
And chartreuse baby leaves pasted to gnarly live oak trees,
While spirals of gnats like tiny dusters move across the land.
Blue brooks rippling and giggling from rain’s both storm and tease.
And then
An infant black cloud blows a shadow across the sand;
Prickly pears burst and bloom one on one like an amoebic flower;
A trail of smoke and smells from a miles away evening kitchen;
Tired working horses and fence mending riders wending home.
It’s Springtime in the State of Texas
I have a cupid, all my own, he’s not the best around
I would have chucked him long ago … but he’s the only one I’ve found
His wings look like two dusters that have hung around too long
The feathers have no luster and the way they flap’s … just wrong
His actions are too stilted and his apathy seems vast
His bow is slightly wilted and his arrows are … half-fast
In many years of wishing that one missile might strike home
I had a premonition I would spend my life … alone
But then one day (as if on cue) an arrow slipped his bow
By accident it stuck in you above the left elbow
Well, that was all I needed I no longer was afraid
For my prospects now exceeded every prayer I ever made
I grasped the moment promptly just in case it slipped away
As my future fait accompli stood before me on that day
Now my Cupid keeps a quiver though his shafts are all but spent
Still I’m glad he could deliver even if by accident
And I won’t complain too loudly for the grief he put me through
I’ll just smile and thank him proudly for the wonderment … of you
Old Cowboys, forts and shootouts
Black for bad and White for good
With a spinning canvas background
And cactus cutouts made of wood
The desert sits behind them
Fifty yards away at most
The heroes don't ride horses
They sip drinks and sit and boast
About their celluloid adventures
singing songs all dressed in white
While behind them in the background
The stunt men do it right
A canvas background rotates
Through valleys, hills and streams
While the hero rides his deck chair
And the director yells and screams
Central casting fills the tribes out
With Italians, and made up stock
While our hero stops an avalanche
Of fake paper covered rocks
Cardboard Cut out Cactus
And heroes smiling in the sun
Most have never seen a cowpoke
Let alone shot off a gun
But, it's magic when it's finished
the dusters up there on the screen
All the fakery and snake oil
Are all hidden, never seen
The white hats beat the black hats
The hero sings and gets the girl
And the background on the spindle
Is still spinning, watch it whirl
A celluloid adventure
Cowboys no where close to what they were
But..watch the next show for a nickel
And don't forget your spurs!!!
The Dishwasher’s Loaded
The dishwasher’s loaded,
The plates are all used,
The cups are all dirty and the plates all confused.
My clothes are all ragged,
My shoes scuffed and worn,
I’m in need of no revamp to replace all that’s torn.
The hoover is silent,
The dusters lie crushed,
The paintwork is cleaned and the TV’s been hushed.
My tanks are all empty,
My vehicles SORN’ed,
The MOT’s need update and insurance informed.
My mortgage has run,
My tax is all paid,
My bills have been cleared and ‘For Sale’ signs displayed.
The drawers are all empty,
I was running on fumes,
The past is all gone, each small bit consumed.
You need to reorder,
To restock the shelves,
You need to invest and replenish yourselves.
My race has been run,
My round had been played,
I shot level par and four birdies I made.
No need to cry,
No need to regret,
The world keeps on turning, it does not forget.
©Keith Murphy
While lounging in my duster* watching news,
I have my morning coffee. When I'm through,
I wash my cup and saucer and admire
their elegance and pleasing shade of blue.
Like other lovely things I own--handbags,
Americana wreaths, and jewelry--
my dusters, cups, and saucers all came from
the popular Blue Daisy Company.
************************
Blue daisy plants don't flourish where I live;
and, even if they did, they wouldn't thrive
for me. I'm death to flowers! So I have
the artificial ones. They look alive!
Most of my rooms are graced with vases of
these blue silk beauties that appeal to my
calm, meditative side or to my sense
of whimsy. Then they make me smile and sigh.
*housedress
written June 18, 2017, and entered in Mystic Rose's Blue Daisy Contest
COWBOY WINDS
Stinging pink cheeks neath winter wool,
The cowboy winds begin to blow,
Dusters rolling tumble weeds,
Scattering about the hollyhock seeds.
Whistling, the leader puff drags his crew,
Of dust devils, sands from last year’s blew,
Children’s legs chaff amid the smiles,
For all know in a little while,
There will be the storms of overkill,
Rolling over all yonder hills,
And hardy zinnias and castor beans,
Will color the west ‘neath returning wings.
Then when it settles maybe in May,
And the colts and turtles dance and play,
Serene blue and orange skies will show,
Curls of where cowboy winds did blow.
There are all sorts of pupils in my class
Class management is becoming a nightmare each day
There is Shakespeare in my class
When asked questions he talks in riddles and proverbs
I have Ronaldo in the front seat
Once in class he kicks dusters and chalk all over the room
Galileo cannot be motivated
At the back of class he is all the time dreaming about stars
Michelangelo is never amused
As others are writing, he is busy painting and drawing images
Socrates has puzzled me
In tests he asks floods of hair raising questions- not answering
Oprah Winfrey has caused me sleepless nights
In class she is all the time dramatic in all responses to tasks
Karl Marx is ever on the move
Class to class he moves to ignite revolution against rich pupils
Mother Teresa is an enigma
While in class she is busy to praying and meditating
But there is one pupil who knows not his names
To answer simple arithmetic he runs all over school looking for calculator
These prodigal pupils in my class
Have sacrificed my professional etiquettes on the cross of incompetence
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