Long Clothespins Poems
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giant clothespins as art?
I never realize they could be
But they are
Philadelphia has one made of steel
Designed by Claes Oldenburg
That clothespin is facing upside down
It could pin photographs maybe but not giant clothes
Turkish art professor Mehmet Ali Aysal designed one too
His giant clothespin was created for the festival of the five seasons
She resides in Chaudfontaine, Belgium
This giant sculpture faces the way clothespins must face
If they are to be useful
and keep clothes on the line
It appears that she is keeping the lawn in place,
pinching it like you pinch the edges of crust on a pie
A seething summer morning in the oil boom trailer park
Oral Roberts on the radio with the gospel told by Mark
The reek of raw petroleum is everywhere around
We little oil trash urchins play marbles on the ground
He drives out here most every day around the hour of nine
Checking all the trailer windows for a little cardboard sign
He parks the canvas-covered truck and dons his leather vest
Throws a tow sack o'er his back and shows his Sunday best
Down the drive comes Danny, on his mighty motor bike
Hanging on the handlebars, his bigger brother Mike
The engine makes a ton of noise, a dandy double stroke
Two baseball cards and clothespins, hitting every spoke
Our ragamuffin gang was gathered, just waiting for the time
To contrive our evil strategy and carry out our crime
“The iceman, the iceman!”, I hear my sisters say
“Y'all be quiet!”, I hiss to them,” You'll give us all away!”
The iceman sidles round the truck and casts the canvas back
Scores a hundred-pounder block and cleaves it with a whack
Tongs the icy burden to his back and laughs at what is left
Chunks and chips of frozen jewels, the targets of our theft
We want so hard to play it cool and act like we don't care
All our mouths fill up with drool and it's tricky not to stare
The iceman winks his eye at me and hides a little grin
Then walks up to the trailer door where mother lets him in
The moment that the door slams shut, the bandits make their play
With eyes lit up, we whoop and shout like kids on holiday
We suck up all the chunks and chips and with our bellies iced
We swagger off to brag about our frosty jewelry heist
It's true we didn't have a lot, perhaps enough to just scrape by
But the visit from the iceman was like Christmas in July
And when I pass through oilfield country, it never ceases to amaze
How the scent of raw petroleum brings back those icebox days
January 30, 2013
the fence is now made of rust
the patio now has a see through floor
the grass is now a mirror for the aging sun
the trees are now all skeletons in the unfortunate name of abandonment
the clothesline is still surprisingly intact
the clothespins are now weather worn and practically useless
the swing set is now a long lost distant cousin of the aforementioned fence
the doghouse where slacker used to chill is now a bathroom source for many a bird
a rabbit hops in here where life once was
she stares at me inquisitively
i wonder if miss bunny has a poem in her head or a quiet opinion
well, i share with her the anecdote that i intentionally elongate
An old preacher named Ned
Got it into his head
To make a musical pilgrimage
Before he was dead.
He claimed divine inspiration
To form a band and tour the nation,
And by so doing treat its ills,
Not with welfare checks and pills,
But with arpeggios and trills.
He'd spread the gospel word through music
And lead the land back to salvation.
He first made a violin
And strung it with hairs from his very own chin.
Then next came a saxophone
That he whittled right out of a billy goat's bone.
He fashioned a tambourine
From an old piece of cowhide and dyed it bright green.
Then from a small turtle shell,
He managed to carve a mouth organ, as well.
And last came an accordion
From a corset, two clothespins, and a large rubber band.
What, again, was the plan
For Brother Ned's one-man band?
He would spread the Word through music
All over the land.
His wife helped him to pack
All his stuff on his back;
A quick peck on the cheek,
He'll send a check once a week.
Then he left his abode
With his instrument load
And took his unusual act on the road.
As she waved him good-bye,
His wife heaved a huge sigh
And dabbed at the tears
That welled up in her eyes.
"Poor old fool with his boast,
He's tone-deaf as a post.
But he's set in his ways,
So I'll give it three days,
Or if someone don't hang him,
Or shoot him,
Then maybe a week and a half,
At the most."
Years ago, in Holland,
In a cool, eclectic store,
I bought a set of clothespins
To jazz up my home décor.
Of brightly colored wood
And smaller than the average size,
I pictured them with photos
Hanging like a sweet surprise.
My plan did fizzle like
The best-laid ones of mice and men.
I tucked those clothespins where
I haven’t seen them since back then.
Until I started washing
All my laundry in the sink
And hung a make-shift clothesline
Using – well, what do you think?
My cheerful little clothespins,
Which have waited all this time
To be used as they were meant to
And immortalized in rhyme.
My song about lace is simple with holes;
it hopes for a holdout;
dandelion seeds ruin everything.
—Poet
That Pretty Ditty
Hand me a tissue
Can we beautify with lace and cotton
That sneeze
That tickle in the throat
Ah…ah
I shall not ruin
That pretty ditty
With anything not pretty
A rose, not its thorns
The seeds that blow
A dandelion, the color of the breeze
The sheets in the wind
Clothespins to pinch
The nose…ah…ah
No I shall not succumb
I shall fold my hands
Around its lace
And pray for grace
For one time
Can lead to more
And lead to sore eyes
I’d lose the face of lavender
The delicate balance of adore
Ha-ha
Hachoo
…tissue
Did You Learn Anything?
Go ahead.
Put your shoes on.
Walk outside and face the nervous day.
Know that your lungs will not resist you.
Know that your heart will still stir.
Put the key in the ignition.
Now turn the crank.
You are back there now.
As if in a dream so ordered.
It is 1937 on Hoover Street.
The oleanders are bleeding.
Perfumed orange trees spit white loogies.
Clean children emerge from green digs.
Mothers hang clothes on uncomplaining lines.
Your grandmother is back there.
She’s wearing black reptile oxfords.
Go ahead.
Walk down the long gravelly driveway.
Pass the back porch steps there.
Pass the red-blooming bougainvillea.
There she is, alive again as she was.
Unfurling laundry with old clothespins.
Singing an old Salvation Army song.
Go ahead.
Talk to her.
Tell her who you are.
“Baba. Baba, it’s me,
Your surviving grandson, Harry.
I wanted to tell you,
I am a poet now.
An engineer of the human soul.
A standard-bearer for the mad,
Dressed in mindful metaphor.
You look young despite the goiter,
There inside your sinewy neck.
It appears and seems as if,
The goiter is a python at sleep,
Scrunched up inside there,
All rolled up like kneaded bread.
I hope it doesn’t hurt you.
I come from the future, Baba.
I know that sounds crazy, but
I am visiting from the year 2020.”
The world of my time screams
In lockdown, like medieval Europe,
People of every nation and tongue,
Too afraid to emerge from their walls,
Too fearful of even breathing in,
Imbibing in, with lost enthusiasms,
Mountain fresh air from the antipodes;
Fearful of catching and releasing It - the
Corona Virus monster microbe moving
Silently across the terrified landscapes,
Devouring the cool mornings,
Aside the neon evenings, even
Robbing the noon day of hopeful turnings.
“Baba, can I stay here with you,
In this golden simple time of 1937?
May I remain here now,
A happy and relieved rider,
Astride this awful depression horse?”
Go ahead.
It is time to return.
Baba died in 1963 and cannot hear you.
Turn the key off in the ignition.
You are back now where you belong.
It is 2020 in the United States of America.
Baba is sleeping in the graveyard now.
You are being held hostage by a germ.
Kick your shoes off now and think.
Did you learn anything?
Whining, it happens when blizzards come calling
Grabbing a jacket I walk down the stairs
Beside the window where winter is lurking
Waiting about as if nobody cares
Coating the trees with a cottony fabric
Not quite as warm as the heater detects
Here in the handbook of problems and answers
Only for masters to come and inspect
Grabbing a scarf from a shelf in the corner
Pouring a cup just to dance in its steam
Maybe some sugar so life can be sweeter
And just a dash of your half and half cream
Kicking the mud from the boots made of rubber
Purchased on sale at a shop on the beach
Next to the flip flops and lotion dispenser
Low to the ground and so easy to reach
Those were the days when the sun wasn’t hidden
Blanketed white like a sheet on a rope
Held up by clothespins of wooden construction
Seeking a breeze with the fresh scent of soap
Shoveling sidewalks and not chasing seashells
Feeling the cold as it bites through your skin
Running a faucet to thaw every finger
When will it be time for all this to end
I guess I will go out and trudge through the weather
Deal with the snowflakes, the slush and the sleet
Before too long I’ll be sweating the summer
Probably whining about all the heat
A rhythmic thrum against the fork,
A jack of hearts, a queen of spades,
We snapped them stiff with wooden cork
Or clothespins clipped in cooling shades.
The asphalt hummed a frantic tune,
A motor made of paper thin,
Beneath the white and bloated moon,
The click-clack-clatter would begin.
We were the kings of gravel drive,
With thunder trapped between the steel,
The cards alive, the spokes a-drive,
A roar for every spinning wheel.
It wasn't speed that made us bold,
But that percussive, plastic beat—
A deck of stories, frayed and old,
That turned our bikes to winged fleet.
And though the cards would soon bend,
Their glossy faces scarred and worn,
Riding into darkness, a bitter end.
When the deck ran out, we'd mourn.
Bruce Banner turned into the Hulk when he got a flu shot.
He turned into the Hulk because it hurt a lot.
He smashed the doctor's office and broke the doctor's neck.
You should've seen that office afterward, it was a wreck.
The Hulk was abgry, that shot filled him with rage.
He was so furious that he went on a rampage.
Batman and Robin tried to stop the Hulk but he ripped off their heads.
They thought their utility belts would defeat him but now they're dead.
The army shot the Hulk with a nuclear missile and blew him apart.
When he saw the missile, he lost bladder control and let out a fart.
That was a nasty fart, it could be smelled as far as 200 miles away.
People had to put clothespins on their noses, they'd seen better days.
Many buildings and people were smashed when the Hulk was through.
But he couldn't beat the army, they turned the Incredible Hulk into goo.