Alejandro kicked the door open.
His step-daughter was huddled on her bed,
weeping and trembling with fear.
There was no pity in him,
his heart cold as an iceberg,
his whole being reeking of alcohol.
Gabrielle dreaded her ordeal
but could not utter one sound.
"One shout from you and I'll kill you."
She knew he meant it as she stared
into his red rimmed hard eyes.
Downstairs his wife sat placidly
in front of the television,
watching the latest episode
of Desperate Housewives.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block,
each blade a promise, silver-sharp and clean.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The cutting board bears every daily shock—
potatoes, carrots, flesh that’s never seen.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
My mother wound her life around the clock,
her hands performing tasks both sharp and mean.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The gleaming steel, the drawer I dare not unlock,
these edges know what I have never been.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
Each dinner calls for blood, demands I stock
the table with my hours, carved and keen.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The blade that feeds can also cut and shock—
this double life, this edge between, between.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
Valhalla
rest day
Sunday is the day of rest for most people
except for cooks, servers, and housewives
They have Mondays
that day hasn't got many customers
they can warm up, Sunday's leftovers
it is said ennui is the day when the brain rest
that is why the slamming of car doors
is frowned upon.
I know of a man when building a home, used
gravestones as building material
He stayed in the house one night
could not stand
the whispering voice let me out of here
it was all a mistake
Moved into the barn shared with two cows
a mule, a dog, and several cats
From history, we know of Viking chieftains
recently converted to Christianity by Irish monks
that when sitting doing nothing, the thought
of sex struck him
took out his knife and nailed his left hand to
the table forswore Christendom
converted back -to Odin and Thor's ancient faith
where Valhalla was a place of song and dance
and free Mjod for all
Town-horses
In my youth, horse transport -a one-man job
was still available for shorter journeys, a vanishing business; when the last horse-drawn carriage firm gave up, there was a picture in the newspaper of a man and a horse.
I often wondered what happened to the dear old horses spending a long time outside shops waiting for their flat-beds to be fully loaded
Looking at them was a study of longanimity, but
I don't think horses have a sense of time, just hunger or thirst as day eased towards evening
Since no farmers wanted the elderly horses, they
had tractors imported from America.
My mother said horses were slaughtered in hidden abattoirs since no one cared to admit they were eating horse flesh, made into salami and dog food.
At the local history museum, there are pictures of
the horses that helped transport building materials, making the town into a city, supplying
the housewives with manure for the roses.
Palm trees are being blown out to sea today
In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and far away
Hurricane Idalia is making sure she is having her way
When we think of Florida we all must pray
Alligators are in hiding, the manatees too
Housewives have stopped cooking their beef stew
People are all running toward Interstate ninety-five.
Trying to escape so they can stay alive.
Wednesday, it was; Nineteenth, exactly if I must mention
Housewives, feeding kids and pets, were getting true tension
Eastward sky grew grey; impulsively, cattle rushed homewards
Nightingales, to sing of true love, tuned their trachea chords
Welcoming the moon and the stars on their valorous way
Habitats did bid goodbye to the scorching sunny day
Ethereal exuberance enhanced each environs
Naughty nocturnal nonpareils of April blow sirens
Wet with drizzles, weary winds wiped their whiskers on cool cloud
Howls of dogs, foxes, wolves, apes, and coyotes were heard aloud
Endless Rest promised the noxious sting of death has gone numb,
Nullifying negations, nature, notations new did hum
23 April 2023
The Market place is empty
No more traffic in the streets
All the builders tools are silent
No more time to harvest wheat
Busy housewives cease their labors
In the courtroom no debate
Work on earth has been suspended
As the King comes thro' the gate
The King is coming
The King is coming
I just heard the trumpet sounding
And now his face i see
The King is coming
The King is coming
Praise God He's coming for me
Happy face line the hallway
Those whose lives have been redeemed
Broken homes that He has mended
Those from prison He's set free
Little children and the aged
Hand in hand aglow
Those who were crippled broken ruined
Clad in garments white as snow
I can hear the chariots rumble
I can see the marching throng
And the flurry of God's trumpets
Spell the end of sin and wrong
Regal robes are now unfolding
Heaven's grandstands all in place
Heaven's choir is now assembled
Start to sing Amazing Grace..Copied from the internet
Songwriters: Gloria Gaither, William J. Gaither.
Grandma wore petti-pants, a form of straight bloomers to exercise class.
Back in the fifties, you had to wear dresses, to cover your…..
In grayscale, these housewives bent, grunted and gave a big reach.
The days before work-out-clothes, women were daring to say the least.
People and horses
The Newmarket was the oldest market in town
farmers came here selling potatoes and other greenery
Their women-folk sold thick, long underwear
winter can be cold when the North-west blows.
Horse manure was quickly scooped up the town’s housewives
good for the rosebushes.
Horse piss gave off a fragrance of time gone by.
Time changed, first slowly farmers had trucks
sold orange, tomatoes and exotic fruits never heard of before
and one day the horses to had gone.
Everybody was busy not time for a wee dram and a chat.
It was the horses that made the market pretty
oddly enough the iron ring on the railing is still here
Waiting for the warm breath of the workhorses.
The sun has risen and the dews no more
On grass. Birds are singing, farmers working,
Housewives cooking and beggars on the door.
Seeing unknown people, dogs are barking
And the naughty boys playing in the field
Fleeing from school. Newsreaders are reading
War-news on TV and showing people killed
By air-attack. Some people are bidding
Farewell to someone with their cry and tears;
Some are welcoming the newborn with smile.
Someone proudly denies God, someone fears
Him with love. Leaders are like crocodile
Are dealing with men. Who are in this time
Recollecting me and my fiery rhyme?
It’s the Cocker Spaniels this time the media screams
I roll my eyes, wondering when the cats will get some blame
Or the monkeys, cheetahs, sharks or giraffes
They are diabolical, plotting your death, the announcer says
I do not plot her death, but I plot taping her mouth up.
The pit bulls were the last group to blame.
What about the housewives? Do they use environmentally friendly detergent?
or the house husbands….do they recycle their lard like grandma did?
How about the grandmas who feed their pets with Styrofoam?
We are the polluters.
We are the litterers.
We are the ones driving cars one person at a time.
But let’s blame the Cocker Spaniels.
I shut off the T.V.
It was always for the dyeing.
See the amazing
two headed asexual
gang of socialite housewives
revealed on prime time
for their anti-social media
love for handguns god N bubblegum.
Fury for the Masses.
The world is a stage
while the media is the ringmaster.
See the worker drone,
secretary, CEO of corporation greed go
militaristic and dispense
its own brand of prime time primal justice,
as gang banger teenager transient militant
Aspires for 15 minutes of fame,
Eternal shame
Each one a you tube star
or tick tock dance god
Each out for blood
out of time
out of work,
out for sex
out for violence
kill you for nothing
at all but because
it’s something to do
on a Saturday night
or the bank note you tote
drugs must flow
as the beat drops and grows
Fury for the Masses...
Dust swirls up from the country lane
Traffic stirs clouds of gravel and sand
And swearing from the unhappy profane
Dust swirls up from the country lane
Driving unhappy housewives insane
The natural result of crusty, dry land
Traffic stirs clouds of gravel and sand
Dust swirls up from the country lane.
Written June 17, 2021
[triolet slightly modified]
Just exactly how old
Is
Eva Longoria
She of Desperate Housewives Fame
Because the tv advert she is on
advertising facial skin wrinkle
cream
She looks and has the skin of
a 20 year old but surely that
can't be right
Because that show if memory
serves me correct ended and
was on a long time ago
Hasn't she aged well she is
looking younger by the day
Note to self
Must try that cream myself
Big Job
There's a big job breaking out
Time for smelling salts and focus
There is no magic wand this time
No top-hat hocus pocus
Time to wheel out heavy gear
Flex our muscles and get busy
Pick ourselves a loyal team
With dreams so high they're dizzy
There's a big job breaking out
And it's clear we need to fix this
Sticking plasters just won't do
For this world defining crisis
Labourers to garden,
Experts in their field
Anyone who cares enough
To bring this crop to yield
Shoulder to the grindstone
Knuckles cracked and ready
Wrestle with the challenges
And climb to heights so heady
Engineers and carpenters
Housewives, teachers, leaders
No time to waste. No shirking off.
Ask everyone to heed us
There's a big job breaking out
Blue lights are flashing by
Too much plastic in the ocean
No more ozone in the sky..
We need healers for creation
For neglecting all our duty
The reflection may be ugly
So it's time to bring back beauty
Jinjagoliath
10th February 2021
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