Long Chores Poems
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Remembering What I Want To Forget
The morning started out okay.
Went out for milk, came home again;
chores left undone...need to relax
as tiredness takes hold of me.
My favored chair engulfs me now;
head back, feet up, I close my eyes.
At once, the soothing peace sinks in...
but oh, how soon my joy dissolves!
I feel it creeping in my brain...
as restless, scattered thoughts set in.
I shift my feet, adjust the quilt...
but still, my anxious mind spins 'round.
I feel a pressure deep within
as if my heart's inside a trap.
Perhaps it's hunger from no lunch
or some strange virus brewing there.
Oh, no! Just like a lightning bolt,
it strikes...flashed open my mind's eye.
a second month has quickly flown...
of just three months doc said I have.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Remembering What You Want To Forget
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Judged: 10/15/2018
Fiction for Contest
Momma went trappin' till noon,
fer Ring Neck Ducks ~ en gone fishin',
also trappin’ fat coon…
so she was a dragin' er ole’ berlap
full - of game, as well, 'like money in…
'er til' ~ by thee light, of ay full moon...
Seven siblings doin' chores causin'...
Momma needed money so soon,
Grandpa en a Pop'a were a knockin'
down all those logs - for Coors, quickly
Momma chasin' chickens, while rescelin'...
in there pen, en a sloppin' with all them hogs,
why she was buzy a slippin' en a slidein'...
into a sink hole, an a trippin' over pa’ pa's logs,
frogs were a jumpin', an a hopin'
right through her hands...
While Grandpa was a brewin',
good ale, a good tale fer Kentucky mash...
fer what she longed fer sure,
Momma ney're could save 'er cent of cash,
ner're enough mash-ale fer er dough, unerring
though ~ down to her country-store...
She went one misty ~ foggy mornin'...
into one of her swamp boats, all traps
all bottle ale, so Momma went a paddlin'...
certain, per'aps
fer her new pair, so needin’ of them
ere fancy laced ~ Combat Boots
“Now remember to call your Mom too”
I was born in ’34 near the California shore,
Where life was good, whether we were rich or poor.
We moved around a lot, but I never asked what for,
And my friends came and went like a revolving door.
We lived all around the world on many different shores,
So, my life was certainly anything but a bore.
When I was eight, and my dad was thirty-four,
He went off to fight in the Second World War.
He said it was a soldier’s duty and nothing more,
And such is the life of a man in the Marine Corps.
My mom stopped working in the spring of ’44,
When dad returned home labeled a hero of war.
Two years later, when my little sister turned four,
My dad left the service and opened up a store.
I was twelve years old and helped out with many chores,
But the life I enjoyed was my life in the outdoors.
When I turned eighteen, I enlisted in the Corps,
Just like my father, and his father before.
I thought it was a chance to see the world and explore,
But, little did I know, that I was going off to war.
I turned twenty years old in the summer of ’54,
One year to the day since the end of the Korean War.
Never again did I want to see all that blood and gore,
But years later, I was thrown into another country’s war.
Vietnam was a place I’d never heard of before,
Yet, there I was, in the middle of someone else’s war.
I never fully understood what we were there for,
But I never questioned my duty to the Corps.
I spent many years crawling around on the jungle floor,
Trying to settle someone else’s bloody score.
We were losing men by the thousands, yet came thousands more,
Because politicians were in charge from a distant shore.
I got out of Vietnam in the spring of ’64,
And that was the end of my career in the Corps.
My son turned eighteen in the winter of ’84,
Joined the Marines, and moved to the California shore.
I told him to make me a promise and he swore,
To never fight unless he knew what he was fighting for.
I’ve seen enough blood and it’s impossible to ignore,
The fact that war is hell, and hell is going to war.
The cows is lowin' in the old corral and all the evenin' chores is done.
Hank scraped the manure off'n his boots 'cause he's a fastidious son-of-a-gun.
He drew his pay, jumped in his pickup and headed fer Clyde's Saloon,
To quaff some brew, grab a gal er two and dance to the fiddler's tune!
There was a hoedown at Clyde's where cowpokes met ever' Saturday night.
There they danced, boozed and let off steam that usually ended in a fight!
There was a band with drums, banjo, fiddle, bass and a steel git-tar,
And the pianer player Mike McGurk (when they could pry him from the bar!)
A gal named Mousy Bush sang with a voice that quivered like Robin Hood's bow.
That's where Hank hung out Saturday nights to blow his hard-earned dough!
Hank was dancin' the Texas Two Step and havin' the time of his life,
When an incident occurred that occasioned another night of strife.
Some dude splattered a Coors on Hank's new Calvin Klein shirt and jeans.
Now, stuff happens and normally this wouldn't amount to a hill of beans,
But this got Hank's dander up and since he never held his hootch all that well,
He punched the guy, bloodied his schnoz and began a-raisin' hell.
A grand brawl ensued with ever'one tossin' punches, chairs and tables.
There was a heap of cussin' with patrons lablin' others with tawdry lables!
Hank arose Sunday mornin' with a poundin' headache and two black eyes,
But he'll be back at Clyde's Saturday next to enjoy a hoedown with the guys!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
(Not for the contest)
What a change
From bouncy, bubbly and vivacious
To determined, devoted and dedicated
More than ever
Reassuring, soothing and caring
Pious and profound
The serene figure with large persona
From autumn aromas to Spring bloom
From silent nights to morning choir
Mild, soft and oblivious of herself
Flowing from one room to another
The cool breeze of devotion and care
The selfless soul, bereft of comfort
Merging herself with unending chores
Fifty years gone like a whisper
Time changed into history
Oblivion ruled and embraced all
Entering into the body and mind
Of a dire and distinct man
Spending herself at the altar of
Commitment, tradition and destiny
Still solo and undiffused, but mellowed
She is the inevitable guest in my life
Keeping inside her bosom
The treasure of olden days
With grown up children
Gone to their destinations
The lady ethereal always sings inside me
LONDON TUBE EXPLOSION 2017
Another explosion in London today
When will they learn to go away?
General public hurt yet again
These terrorists are a real big pain
Setting off a device in a public place
You’re no member of the human race
Hurting people doing their daily chores
You certainly won’t get any applause
I hope all those hurt are on the mend
To these people this message we send
Don’t let them change your daily routine
Report to the police anything you have seen
I send my thoughts to you all
Hope your families and friends can stand tall
Hope you’re all healing and getting well
These nasty people will be sent to hell
Islamic state have claimed it’s their doing
What they need is a real good shoeing
No matter what you want to achieve
Your act of violence I can’t believe
We will catch you and you will be sent to rot
In a 6 foot cell you will wish you were shot
Go back under the rock whence you came
Your spiteful acts they are evil and insane
My Mom and Dad done told me
Sister Sally said the same
This poetry writing day and night
Is getting out of hand
I'm always thinking of a new rhyme
It is that I can use
And when it comes to poetry
That's all I want to do
These days I'm getting nothing done
With my chores around the farm
When this poetry all got started
I didn't see any harm
Now the chickens are in the pasture
The cows are in the coup
Guess it was bound to happen
When you mix poetry in the stew
My teachers they done told me
The guidance counselor told me too
I'll never get anywhere in life
If poetry is all I want to do
Now I no longer do my homework
And I no longer go to school
No need for Arithmetic or History
When all I want is poetry
Cause that's what it is I'm good at
Pretty much that and nothing else
Just give me pen and paper
And poetry is what comes out
So as I go about my business
Working the rhythm into the rhyme
Leave me and my poetry be
Can't you see we're doing just fine
I’ve been such a good boy this year.
I know you are able to hear
and see what I do
and what I say too.
I’m happy ‘cause Christmas is near.
I’m not asking you for a lot.
I most want a talking robot,
the game Peggle Blast,*
some Legos, and last,
a puppy, and I’ll name him Spot.
My big sis has been good as me.
She helped Mama put up the tree.
She does all her chores
and takes me outdoors
to play. She’s as sweet as can be.
She hasn’t wrote you for a while.
Here’s how you can make my sis smile.
Please bring her a ring;
she’ll call it her “bling.”
And Skechers, please. You know her style.
Love
Your Friend
Bobby
Please forgive the errors. Remember~~I’m six!
*Peggle Blast is a Puzzle Game developed by Electric Arts.
Using an app, you play this Android Game on your PC or Mac.
November 23, 2022~~~placed 1st in Eve Roper's contest
Let's walk down memory lane,
skipping past forgotten pain.
And recall what used to be
when games were most often free.
Remember when for a lark,
we'd play "hide and seek" till dark?
And small chores earned us rich dimes;
though our clothes dried on clotheslines.
We believed in Santa Claus,
superheroes, and just cause.
And fresh air held a sweet smell,
while water came from a well.
The bogeyman, just pretend;
and every cop was your friend.
Whenever tall tales got spun,
bad guys lost, and good guys won.
Teenagers had loads of fun
without carrying a gun.
And friends only died in play;
they all lived; just yesterday.
(Rhyme)
8/4/2015
She rose from the table moving slowly to the sink. This was not her favorite time, too much time to think. Her body moved from memory now, the right bit of dish detergent, she must refill that bottle soon, moving the faucets to memorized positions, water streamed out on cue, precisely the right temperature, “hot to clean - not to scald”.
She and water worked well together, having partnered in so many chores; laundry, toilets, sinks and floors. One plate now, one knife, one fork. Sometimes she would cut things like meat loaf or fish with the edge of the fork, skipping the knife, one less utensil to wash. Less time at the sink, less time to think. Against the outside darkness she could see her reflection in the kitchen window. How old she had become. Reminders were everywhere of how her life was dwindling, shrinking, shriveling. She felt too small for her skin, which hung loosely on her like a half-filled bag of potatoes, pouches and folds everywhere. She would need to put this dishcloth in the laundry after finishing. She always rinsed them in cold water to inhibit the bacteria growth but they would start to smell after only a few days. She had become accustomed to foul smells. The smell of dying cells and incontinence pads and bad breath, side effect of certain medicines. She hated eating alone, living alone, being alone, but sometimes she hated it even more when memories of better days settled in upon her. it was like a visit, full of joy and expectation, exciting conversations, catching up, and sharing fond memories. But it was always followed by goodbyes, the pain of separation, and a return to loneliness. She put her plate in the cupboard and was reminded of how she had put other things in her life away; her younger sister from an accident, her only son from someone’s war, her husband three years back from cigarettes she had threatened to divorce him over. She put her silverware in the drawer and closed it tightly, closing her mind tightly at the same time. It wouldn’t do to dwell on any of this, what’s done is done. The dishes were done