Long Cleaning Poems
Long Cleaning Poems. Below are the most popular long Cleaning by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cleaning poems by poem length and keyword.
When the old man was a sailor
When food was served, before cleaning pots and pans
the old man when young, went out on deck to see the sunset.
A dreamy that is if a tempest wasn`t blowing,
gale in the mighty Pacific reduced the bravest to shivering gnat.
The old man was a cook not the loftiest type of work, whoever
wrote a book titled:” The adventure of a ship`s cook.”
The old man, when he was young, got up early to see the sunrise
before frying eggs and bacon, not forget baking bread; and receive
the insults by frustrated, womenless seamen.
But he was there in all the oceans, their tranquilities and fury,
what was left was serene evenings alone in his cabin read great
novels about audacious voyagers.
Does this mean, like morning chores, cleaning up around?
Or does this, like grave-depths, has concept more profound?
Cleaning up the courtyards are perfectly okay,
Should we not, for love and justice, give more way?
Thorns and bushes should be removed, indeed,
Should we not clear from within every little weed?
Like slaves, often, in chains of habits, we have been,
Many ups and downs and rises and falls we have seen;
When the physique is cleared of all illnesses,
Shouldn't the soul too comprehensive healing possess?
Shouldn't the anger that, as a wildfire, suddenly breaks out,
Surrender to peace and harmony, within, with no doubt;
Shouldn't fear, resentment, frustration, and anxiety likewise,
Blossom forth into confidence, contentment, and satisfaction wise;
Just like the slate of a student is often cleansed,
Shouldn't my screen of the mind, be bush-free, and de-fenced?
Like fogs and mists of winter mornings swept away by the sun,
Shouldn't inner weaknesses, by divine grace, shun?
Clearance, thus, has volumes mountainous speak,
Equilibrium in thoughts, words, and actions to reach its peak...!!!
13 February 2023
The Clearing Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
Slow Frown
The curtain is down the show has found its final vibrant glow
Lights out minds provoked and the audience is still waiting for
Godot
He arrives which is a surprise and yet he hangs from the ceiling in
A show-down of souls while a vacant spectator shouts his Eureka to
Arche-Midas
The last act touched him deeply and types of paradigm refute what is
Not meant to unravel as everything turned into gold’s wicked curse of
Obscurity
Absurd a theatre of obtuse legends finds its angles and perspective
As observers compare their bits in the lavatory after the performance’s
Show down
Slowly seeds germinate take their path to freedom in lonely pursuit
‘Am I the only one who got the point of reverence' in meaningful
Pointlessness
While revellers ponder about the poignancy of washing their hands
Cleaning their thoughts with sugar soap from Becket’s arsenal in
Vanity
A jester smiles frowns slowly at existential essence when he throws
A pack of cards down onto empty rows randomly aligned on baseless
Foundations
Sometimes we all miss the grimaced façade sheltering the clown’s
Valid conclusions but the spectacle continues not down but out of
Nowhere
It is not only the weather that is unreliable these days.
Spring cleaning now happens only in most people's dreams,
Or when something lost leave few alternatives,
To entering the domain of spiders and other creepy crawlies,
And praying there are no wasp nests.
For me it was a chance to declutter and re-arrange ,
While my wife was out of range,
And it seemed the right time to make the change,
While my body is still up to the challenge,
And my mind still within the recommended competency range,
That reduces the need for an ambulance to arrange.
Of course it may not have happened in any season
If my daughter had not given a good reason,
To prepare for her moving back in this winter season.
With our grandson, to give me even more reason.
A strange wind is blowing in the park,
You have to meet with me after dark,
They are planning a wedding in the
Trees and you have to get a secret gear
Before you can attend the wedding over there
They have been planning this from twenty sixteen
When the mean guy came on the scene
They invited ten thousand guests
to take part in a lifetime dream
Everything was carefully worked out
With a slate a drone and the bison horn
The day has finally come when the truth
Will be revealed under the visionless sun
And the eyes will be there
Searching for you everywhere
A strange wind is blowing over there
People are coming from everywhere
They came all the way from
Latain America, Canada, Cuba and the
Caribbean to sing eclipsical song
The Germans were there too
And the British were wooing me and you
The French are standing guard
And the Americans are cleaning the yard
The natives from African and India
are wrapped in fine threads
and yards of clothing wrapped around
their bodies and sweeping on the ground
The moon empress land on the lawan
just before the break of dawn
All the couples take up ther position in the tree
To begin the mysterious wedding ceremony,
the weddeing bells begin to ring
and the angles began to sing
The flying saucer came straight from the
Sky with the secret brides wrapped up inside
There face were hidden under the veil
Exposing their watchful eyes waiting for destiny
To transpire under the blessed sky
The cermoney begain to tell the tales of
A wedding in the middle of the tree
is the perfect irony for you and me
The couples are celebrating with thee
Look at them standing in the swaying trees
And when the ceremoney was done they left that place
In the flying saucer to romance in the burning sun
Ten thousand guest gallavanting in the breeze as the
Universe bond together to celebrate with thee
This is the biggest wedding I have ever seen
With couples dancing in the trees
Desire running up and down the place
And if your on he guest list go on over
And enjoy the wonderful bliss
Something splended is happening over there
And you can tell that destiny is drawing
The breeze is crawling on its knees and
The wedding guests are saluting thee.
Take a journey through the East African Plains soaring temperatures of 120 degrees and that is in the shade. Intensified sounds of insects humming and buzzing. Going
about their daily life cleaning things up and pollinating plants. Set up camp the
old fashioned way under canvas, only then will you truly experience the spirit of this
dark continent.
flicking ear by bush
gives lion away to his prey
switches tail in disgust
Go on foot with your guide you will see and learn far more this way. When dressing in the morning be sure to shake out your boots in case a scorpion found in it a haven. Admire the wind swept trees their tops completely flat, and smell the deep red earth so pungent and rich in scent. Feel the ground shake as elephants file past on their way to drink. Marvel at the sights of lakes painted pink by the wading flamingo's, the vast rift valley and magical waterfalls. All this and far more entices the senses and the wonder of the utter freedom offered.
vast herds on you roam
african land you bewitch
your scent lingers on
Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone
This was the first time I’d laid eyes on your final resting place
In front of me stood a grey granite slab covered in emerald moss
Green ivy clung to the stone and snaked round the nearby yew tree
It was evident your grave had not been visited for many many years
In fact, until ten days ago I didn’t know you existed …
A family secret kept hidden from me by my elderly ‘mother’
It wasn’t until her recent death I discovered the real truth
At the will reading the lawyer presented me with an envelope
Spidery handwriting revealed that my real mother died in childbirth
I discovered that I’d been adopted; my real name was Sara James
Seeing my original birth certificate for the first time was a huge shock
Now I know the reason I felt that I never belonged
With my raven hair and pale skin I looked very different from my sister Beth
I’d been told I looked like my great aunt and I’d never queried this
Now I stand in front of the plot where my real mother is buried
I spend an hour weeding, tidying and cleaning the gravestone
Rivers of tears run down my face when I finally reveal the inscription
Carved in the decaying stone I read
Ellen James - died 17th April 1953 aged 33
Fell asleep with her tiny angel
Susan James - died 17th April 1953 born sleeping
Family secrets kept hidden in the graveyard
Sobbing bitter tears I kneel down and leave a red rose
For my mother and my twin sister that until today I never knew existed
Fictional write for Camouflage me a Poem Contest Sponsored by Broken Wings
Theme 1 chosen - Mossy vines served as camouflage for a decaying headstone
08~04~16
Water and sand, two God-made items that intrigue a 4-year-old like nothing else can.
I am grand parenting a happy boy who is completely mesmerized by these two items today.
He is pouring, burying, scooping, digging, piling, showing off, and laughing.
We are at the sand pile, a place I have been trying to coax him to for twenty minutes.
I should know better. He is four. Everything has to be his own idea.
Painting, coloring, play dough and toys are a much larger mess, and they rarely keep his interest
As long as I spend taking them out, and cleaning them up.
Best of all, I am sitting in God’s world, a gentle breeze lulling me with a sense of beauty and peace.
I never feel this good anywhere other than outside, among the glittering trees and gentle grass.
My shoes are off, and I am enjoying the remembering of my own summer hood, spent mostly outside.
My daughter will be along shortly, to snatch him up, and thank me, making me feel guilty.
It is me who should be doing the thanking. The wind rises, and the child laughs, bringing the best of the best to my own sweet world.
I live for these days. Pure joy.
There's more to keeping house,
Than washing dishes, sweeping floors.
You must wipe away the dirt,
From window sills and doors.
Picking up and straightening,
For certain is a must,
But if you want it to be clean,
It's wash and scrub and dust.
Because you ran the vacuum,
You think you've done a chore,
But did you wash the window panes?
Did you mop the floor?
The cupboard doors need wiping down,
Else they get greasy, tacky.
The hood above the stove as well,
The counter tops are nasty.
Then there's dusting to be done,
And don't forget the bathroom.
Tub and toilet, bathroom sink,
Deodorize the room.
Now if you think your work is done,
The bedrooms need a cleaning,
So everything smells fresh and clean,
As you lay a-dreaming.
Tomorrow is another day,
Just like the one before.
You did all this just yesterday,
But it must have grown some more.
slate
my slate is written on
i’m whole inside
with gaps and things
to please
the imperfect
with dreams sewn on
with seams and borders
zigzag quilt lines frown
and chuckle
they even do battle
exciting thunderclaps
and calming ponds
arise with power
like kingdoms inside
i choose the players
who depress the list
or impress the rest
this slate at birth
unique to me
like a universal star
i can choose
to let it twinkle
or to snuff it out
it’s already planned
it's history
our palettes mix
not every hue
only the ones
you allow
to show
will you let age
refine or deny
or even haze
your vision.
wipers on?
cleaning fluid?
do your glasses clink
against plexiglass?
your slate
your slate
your slate…
your choice
kim rodrigues © 2017