Ironed Poems

back in the day

back in the day
we polished our shoes
laid out our clothes
put our hair up in curls with pointy picks
on Saturday nights

back in the day
it was church every Sunday
chicken or beef with noodles for lunch
always pie, cake and Jello
then a visit to grandma’s house

back in the day
we ironed our clothes
using sprinkled starch
dressed up to go on airplanes
purposefully did not swear
felt safe at school

back in the day

Cassie the Witch

Cassie, a green faced witch could not find the right kind of man
I think I’ll make an elixir and create him, she would deadpan
She actually did it, wearing her fanciest ruffled dress
It had not been ironed, so was a bit of a mess

Her purple hat had rosettes of green, fuchsia, and teal
She incorporated a few items she got “in a steal”
her red curly hair got close, and a few of them dropped in
He came out perfectly lovely with bright pink skin

Sorry she said, but I wanted a green-skinned guy
He jumped out of the cauldron and showed that he could fly
she got on her broom and chased him off over a hill
spoil alert, this did not have a happy ending for this guy named Will

He got tossed off his broom and fell into a rather deep pond.
Cassie cast a spell, and he turned into tall pea green frond.
He was not the guy for me she said, picking up an old toad.
The next experimental ingredient, a gloomy forebode.

unsettling feeling of doom

raven of the marsh sounded the alarm
mystic named Marilee listened carefully
first the bull frogs, then the spiders, now this
three signs in three days; mischief was afoot
spirit was in the air, Marilee strived to identify it
A chill pierced her soul; she felt threatened
this was not a spirit guide she knew or a loving ancestor

Clairsentient, she sensed lilac and an ironed linen
an old-fashioned entity, possibly female, but maybe not
you do not know me, the spirit told her
this message entered Marilee’s mind
her neck hairs stood up on edge
the air was heavy; she took a step
the entity followed her

what do you want? She asked
not with words, but in her mind
the lack of answer shook her a bit
the sky was filled with grayscale fuzziness
the woods felt ominous tonight
Marilee walked toward her garden
she had a strong feeling turkey buzzards would be here by morning
an unsettling premonition

Without Mirrors

He forgot
how his jaw
used to stretch
in loud laughter.

No mirrors
to watch his days—
just windows,
and distant eyes.

His beard trimmed
by finger’s feel,
a chunk missed
Here and there.

He looked well
in belts and socks,
even handsome
under the sun.

No one asked
if he still knew
the shaded glint
in his own eyes—

the torn shape
of manly lips
once easily thinned
in witty smile.

He dressed
in shiny clothes,
well ironed out
but creased inside.

Sometimes,
he caught a flicker
in silvery spoons
he barely looked.

And so he lived
like seamless shape,
without his twin
staring in mirrors.

My Hectic Hair History

There’s a nadir of personal despair -
In feminine terms it’s - No hair, no flair! 

My hairy genes caused me lifelong distress,
I longed for a look I didn’t possess.

I daydreamed of golden locks as a girl, 
Blessed with neither a wave nor with a curl. 

Straighter than hay mine hang in disarray,
Cradle to coffin - lifelong bad hair day. 

And so pertaining my hapless hirsute 
I was braided, I ironed in my pursuit. 

Slept with hard rollers, a perm I did try, 
And lots of hairspray, that’s how I went by. 

In vanity’s name I bent backwards in vain 
Since straight and straighter my old locks remain. 

No quiescent coiffure is meant for me - 
Distressing tresses are my destiny.

children like each other any way

Two stubborn brothers were in a little imbroglio
Their annoyed wives had given up on peace
Their children’s cousin’s hearts were rich and full
Ironed in love and unity, nary a cross word or crease

Augury

I scry through time with a crystal sphere
Asking of it my future, both far and near
Yet, the images I see were dismally unclear
(It should go without saying that I am not a seer)

I saw a black dog and it's rather cute
It doesn't bark though, perhaps it's mute?
Its silky coat shines like freshly ironed suit
Is it time to do the laundry? I do not compute

Then I saw an owl flying over my house
That's great! I hope it'd prey on the mouse
Who invaded my dresser and chewed on a blouse
The most expensive one too, that dreadful louse!

It then displayed my room, and zoomed in on my bed
Where someone had left on the pillow an old, felt hat
I tap on the hard dome, starting to get mad
Couldn't it bring a sign that can be more easily read?

Finally, it shattered, the infernal ball
I've been scammed! It couldn’t see the future after all

Robber Baron Passengers

In South Croydon station
They walked tall
Brief cases and ironed Daily Telegraphs
Back to the 80s
They spoke a Corporate language

I remember the old school
but now we are living
with Generation Z
with acne to match
(If they can ever leave their homes)
for office jobs
The performed voyager
to a new world
with resplendent coffee bars with Wi FI
where they plan
their robber baron forays
see them scurry
their mission to
ALT control delete
their World

Old Smoothies

No seeds, spinach or carrots around;
no greens, or reds, or oranges found.
Only the smooth sliding elegance
of twosome as one in skating dance.

"Sequined Septuagenarians"
much smoother than fresh-ironed linens.
Golden, gliding glances so well-known,
minute, mellow movements, subtly shown.

A bittersweet moment hangs midair
as dazzling Old Smoothies sway with flair.
Both smoothies are good parcel and part,
but Old Smoothies give rise to the heart.

Grandiose

What if I don't want the 
smudges off the shields? 
Why should I seek what 
races away from me? 
Not all struggles are 
worth the sweats.
Can I choose myself and 
forget about how ironed 
my shirt should be? 
How laced my shoes are.
 
Can I embrace the empty feelings
of frustration? Build a pack alone, 
set the sky on fire, sink in those rough
edges so it obstructs the reflection 
because my view reminds me that
I'm not enough. Spent years 
searching for lights, yet I stay darkened.
I looked back and everything changed, life afresh at its peak.

Can I choose to burn my wings
and accept my fate, a failure?
Maybe lie on the beach 
sculpting fishes in my head. 
Lit candles, twirl around 
hoping it manifests.
Because in the end what
use are the strives?

The world remains numb,
my stress and worth, palliatives.
But then, what is purpose
without thorns? 
What is pain without tears?
Mourn without death?

Maybe I can grow if I wither.
I should treat my losses 
and bleeds like paints. 
Wear a mask until I'm healed. 
Stand on my ground, 
clean the surface so I see 
my mistakes, maybe a glow.

A Tapestry

A tear in his heart, zigzagging on his own two feet, he combed through his emotions, back and forth, up and down, he was apprehensive but hopeful. A silver lining, A thread to keep him bound. Pray. 

The hands that cut and sewed this fabric tell a story of a life left behind, a story of new beginnings. The hands that have gifted me this tell a story of growing up in the 60s and 70s, a chapter yet to be written; a hope to one day visit the fatherland. Then there is me, I. A story of  a move across the pennines sculpting out a new home. And then there is them, a story of siblings, of two brothers bobbin through 'toddler-hood', weaving through the lives of people and places, ironed in, quilted. A story in the unfolding.

The seams held together, hemmed in memories, a web of stories that blend, woven through faith, gathered in prayer, entwined knots; A family fabric

- The Unsupervised Stop Sign -

  Purple spots buzz by
  Chatter inside his head
  The air is quivering and thick
  - no rush
  "Stretch out your tongue"
  "why, give me seven reasons"

  Blessed cogs
  on the grandmother clock
  a legacy from the age of the fathers
  Every heartbeat, clock ticks on
  Searching for connection
  screaming mayhem in the hospital
  Deep coma, these locks he's afraid of

  Red stop sign ... foolhardiness
  the smoke of zeal
  sound exploding launches fireworks
  Nothing could stop him

  Perseverance, trying to map the unknown
  Nuns in freshly ironed uniforms washing his face
  he can't move a single muscle

  Childhood memories, smell of warm sheets 
  When the forsythia produces buds
  - maybe, his second chance

Matters of Reason and Heart

There is this man
In patterned shirt, perfectly ironed without creases
Where turquoise and gold tear the cloudy sky
Sitting in the concrete castle.
One cannot iron out the scars of the artist.
Artists do not go slowly like turtles but soar and dive in wild, unrestrained dance listening to trees and wind and rain.
Artists embrace, and burn with passion and float among the rainbows, clouds and fluffy little bunnies.
The man holds the thin red string that grounds the artist.
Artist will throw him on the bed, untucking his shirt forming creases and ripples,
Artist will blow raspberries on man's lower stomach and tickle his inner thigh
Artist will allow him in her depths
Artist will call him imzadi and sleep on his coarse chest hair
Artist will want him to stay
Matters of reason and heart will clash
And streams of salty water will form waterfalls.
The reality will shatter like broken glass.
Home for the artist is with the man in perfectly ironed shirt without creases.

Trixie Belden Books

Trixie Belden was a marvelous book find for me.
She was a blonde dynamo with Encyclopedia Brown’s talent
For finding, following, and solving mysteries
delightfully female with Honey, her sidekick best friend.

Encyclopedia Brown had not been penned yet anyway.
I remember paying three dollars for each Trixie Belden book.
It was my allowance for the week if I ironed, dusted, gardened,
watched my brother, swept, cleaned the pantry, etcetera

we were not handed things for free in the sixties
We had to earn them.
Trixie Belden was worth every penny
I think I appreciated her more because I had to earn her

A Losing Country

The fate of a losing country
One first observes in her gentry.
Parents lock kitchens, mount sentry;
The food-craving child bared entry.

Yep, the fate of such a country
I have espied in her pantry:
A family in quandary,
From soap men withholding laundry,
The neatly washed not primary
The well-ironed secondary...

On the roads of losing country
Often, unauthorized sentry:
Rich cars stopped soon after entry:
You won't want jobs sedentary...

In every damned losing country
Economic weather: wintry;
Foreign investors slow entry.

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