Long Cutlery Poems
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Donning rubber gloves, the wife does washing of clothes and dishes...
(plus cutlery, pots pans, et cetera) in the kitchenette sink.
She started what would immediately become
a first and last generation tradition
(the spouse as washer woman
and scullery maid)
soon after we moved here
eight years ago come July 1st, 2025.
I trumpet her pioneer spirit
to apply elbow grease
(to tackle tough
heavily stained articles of clothing
(after her weary cowboy husband
comes back home on the range
after a hot day rustling cattle)
think underwear of mine -
whereat even bleach
falls short of removing
stubborn noticeable discoloration)
such gusto similarly applied
to glassware or cookware caked
with crusty hardened food.
After washing wearable goods,
she squeezes the excess water
from saturated item(s)
and drapes still moderately wet garment
over drying racks
despite the availability
of clothes washers and dryers
here on the premises
of Highland Manor Apartments.
Though she continues to threaten
with colorful epithets
never to wash my clothes ever again,
her words ring hollow
when some time elapses
and... guess what?
yepper, her hands slide down
into the behavioral sink
and I make sure
to acknowledge gratitude,
yet admit to falling short
of filling in the blank
(with a select response),
when she asks me
what will I give her in return.
Earlier in our
almost thirty year marriage,
we (I more so than the wife)
used to be conditional
and if asked a favor,
the immediate response
from yours truly (me)
just so happened to be
what do I get in return?
That Pavlovian feedback loop
occurred way before
my libido took a kamikaze dive,
into a suicide mission
a strong suspicion arises
(but I dare not utter
a premature ejaculation)
videlicet that being adverse effects
linkedin with one or more
of the nine prescription medications
ingested for mental health issues
such as anxiety, dysthymia,
obsessive compulsive disorder,
and palmar hyperhidrosis
could be the only logical explanation,
and interestingly enough,
I breathe a sigh of relief
cuz all to often sexual fantasies
ofttimes filled every waking
and sleeping hour of mine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Three shadows slipped through fluorescent halls,
silent as the dismissal bell's dying hum.
The home ec door—unlocked, of course,
swung wide on hinges slick with grease.
I kept my post beside the lockers,
listening for footsteps down the tile.
The scent of brown sugar and butter
drifted out like a traitor's whisper.
My friends emerged,
the chocolate chip cookie dough bowl
cradled between them,
gleaming under the exit sign's red eye.
Spoons plundered from the cutlery drawer~
our spoils now.
The bench by the soccer field,
pockmarked with old gum,
became our banquet table.
We dug in, sticky-fingered, laughing,
each mouthful sweeter for the sin.
(I only took a taste.
Just enough to lick the spoon clean.
Just enough to be complicit.)
Next morning, the janitor found
the empty bowl washed
and left politely in the sink.
No note. No crumbs~
only the smell of chocolate
and vanilla lingering
like an apology no one would ever hear.
*Related memoir vignette can be read at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/adventures_in_home_ec_class_13676
We’re monopolized by the Saran-wrapped food,
the plastic cutlery,
absorbed by the clutter of the food tray.
Numbed by hours of jiggling,
the carting of torpid bodies through interminable distance,
we’re wedged now into boredom, uncomfortably numb.
Anesthetized – we fear nothing.
If the aircraft stalls, few will scream.
We’ll keep decanting small bottles of vin de table,
butter buns.
As the aircraft plummets
and drops like a stone to certain death
we’ll still be struggling with condiment sachets,
coffee creamers, with small, molded cruets
oblivious now to anything less important.
Written: February: 06, 2024
___________________________________________
Peaceful solitude,
letting exit of daily routine,
surrender to peace,
deep breathing calms the spirit,
relax tight muscles,
exhaling painlessly,
away from extraneous impacts,
falling into happiness.
Our palms are extended,
only a few inches away,
approach the
shrouded sanctum,
excitedly expecting,
the lavish outpour,
with the cherubs,
leap forward,
our contaminated chalice,
we shed transgressions,
slithering veneer,
digging for who we are,
out of the covetous quagmire.
Gradually into an ecstatic reverie,
where time and space are muffled,
mental symphony, being level and quiet,
quietness says volumes,
rich and calming,
controlling all noises,
who enters my head?
stillness grows inside,
permeating every bodily fiber,
magically interacting within,
so aged things may be rejuvenated,
a baffling land that hides delight,
swaying daisy petals and soft skin,
circles of cutlery.
Colorful smells scent them
pasted text paralysis,
capture lovely theaters,
subtle care cracks,
juxtaposed with colors and rich smells,
falling and reveling.
Enrolling as a pirate is much harder than it seems,
You’ll need to speak in present tense and chase your wildest dreams.
Well, once you’ve trained a parrot and been measured for your hook,
You have to plough through pages of the health and safety book.
The pointed end’s the bow, whilst your rudder’s near the aft,
Our crow’s nest has no greenery - that struck me as pretty daft.
We share the seas with submarines, with shipwrecks and blue whales
An’ there be umpteen ropes and pulleys with which to hoist our sails.
If we earn a jug of rum, we treat that as a gift.
The winds are strong and variable, I hopes you get my drift,
You’ll need to bring some cutlery and a deep enamel dish
If you want to get your ration of vegetables and fish.
You’ll have to learn to tolerate some rough-and-ready chaps,
Forget those childhood stories about chests and treasure maps,
You need to wield a cutlass to acquire the upper-hand,
So there ain’t much time for paddling, or playin’ on the sand.
You have to act as look-out when you’re sailing through the mist
But once you’re down the gangplank there are lassies to be kissed,
So be somewhat suspicious when they tries to hold your hand
They might be agents for The Revenue and want your contraband.
We hate the swarthy merchantmen, the Spaniards and the Danes,
We hate them water companies spillin’ sewage from their drains,
The noise of heavy cannon-fire plays havoc with our ears,
But that’s a strong tradition amongst us buccaneers.
Every job has downsides - it’s always been that way
But we get to see the sun go down almost every day,
And when you leave your hammock you may catch the sun a-rising
So sign-on as a pirate and your life will be surprising!
With Light infused into our daily reality,
we abandon rage at our common banality,
and words flow with warmth as a fresh summer's honey,
for wretchedly poor, for the ones with the money.
Silver spoons feed the rich and privileged classes,
and common cutlery for the great unwashed masses.
We pass our lives on a small twirling planet,
some hearts tiny as quarks, and some hearts hard as granite.
We are not all the same. We are not equally blessed.
Some of us don the finest linen, some, hardly dressed.
Smiles alone level no uneven playing field.
Only Love can bring us Light. Heaven's Light does Love yield.
.for public domain
When I grow up
I will love to know why
People call a Snake specie Rattlesnake,
When all snake actually Rattle
When I grow up
I will love to know why
People call death A Bitter Experience,
When they have not Tasted death
When I grow up
I will love to know why people say
He had a close shave with death,
But death is incapable of shaving anybody
When I grow up
I will love to know
Why people say they escaped by the skin of their teeth,
When their teeth actually has no skin
When I grow up
I will like to know
Why people use the expression thin god,
When God is actually omnipresent
When I grow up
I will like to know
Why people say watch your back,
But you have no eyes behind your back
When I grow up
I will love to know
Why people say something is larger than life,
But life is actually unquantifiable
When I grow up
I will love to know why people say
Do not count your chicken before they are hatched
When people do not rear chicken
When I grow up
I will like to know why people say
Do not bite the finger that fed you
When people eat with cutlery
When I grow up
I will like to know why
People want you to make hay while the sun shines,
When we are neck deep in winter
When I grow up
I will like to know why
People equate the devil with the deep blue sea,
When the devil is supposed to be dark and repulsive,
And the blue sea is bright and inviting
When I grow up
I will love to know why
People say don't leave your head hanging,
But your head is sitting squarely on your neck
When I grow up
I will love to know why
People say a baker's dozen,
When the baker obviously has more than a dozen baked bread
When I grow up
I will like to know why
People say let's call it a day
When it's daylight and the sun is Blazing
When I grow up.......
Green, spruce tree with ornaments to spare
Turquoise lights gleam and brightly flare
Crimson stockings are bulging with a sweeter fare
Purple, velvet bows spliced on presents with care
Blue garlands hung de rigueure
Bronze crèche our faith to bare
Chartreuse curtains with glittering trim rim our festive lair
White, twinkling lights border each burgundy stair
Safron, satin pillows delicately line each sofa and chair
Black, porcelain lacquerware liberally distributed, pomp and circumstance to declare
Oranges and apples with waxy glint in gilded fruit bowl adds flair
Golden calabria accentuates the tableware
Silver platters glisten and glare
Platinum cutlery paired for the hallowed affair
Yellow, spicy nog with all our guests we'll share
i sit lonely.
the crowded restaurant is thick with sound
i pick away at it
moving back into the stagnant silence
of my own comfort
the air is nasty here
it telepathically abuses my thought patterns
still
a far cry better
the loud hum of food
marching to the vacant crowd
suffocates me
a decorated plate joins my table
strikes a conversation with the cutlery
there is no call from the governor
as i attack my food
fork knife teeth
bites later
a paper plane flies in
a swipe of my plastic
makes quick work of the bill
i exit
seemingly quicker
than human eyes can catch
i hate this part
i parley my way through
too many bodies
all the while staring
at a concrete maze
never making eye contact
with a single soul
i do that
i always do that
keep the entrances of my being
away from those who would stare me down
attempt to engage me in conversation
with a desire to lock eyes
if they looked in they would burn
i’d be held responsible
FINALLY
home
the only environment i feel safe in
my therapist will be proud
almost an hour today
assuming i see her again
i am covered in my own dew
my breathing sporadic
i line up an array of pills like good soldiers
as i continue my attempt
survive another day
it will take hours to regain my sanity
all the while questioning the purpose
why must i assimilate
back into the dungeons
they call society
it behooves me
find one reason
join the rank and file
plug back into a horrendous grid
i had escaped
i
grow
weary
of
my
own
thoughts
ignore my voice
slowly regain my footing
plant roots
hope they’ll take hold
attempt to return
into the vacuum of my existence
i sit lonely.
literary food for thought.
Self Mutilation:
(ah bet thar iz an app for that!)
within unlit partial "FAKE abattoir"
sans wardrobe alcove
where dust bunnies didst allures
completing a simple task among
my never ending (Matthew's) list
of domestic chores
this undertaking engaged
thankfully while completely clothed,
and scrounging on all fours
nonchalantly picking up scattered detritus
including food crumbs
potential critters hors d'oeuvres
the spouse (ideally seated
on this same swivel chair
dashing off these lines
linkedin with this Macbook Pro) -
housing at least four scores
of word documents, she espied
the cheeky opportunity
that triggered many wars
within arms length the taut outline
of me 'lil derriere - re: rear end
temporarily dormant versus
when flatulence roars -
posterior flank hie
could not de fend
she playfully poked her finger
that didst dis send
within close vicinity of sphincter,
where rectal turgid business height tend
(most likely this husband not alone
getting tushy twerked) inn me own coal
less cents great movements got made
jabbing ma bung hole
while i happened
to be "blindly" groping
upon darkly cutout cubby hole
i.e. without wearing bifocals/ spectacles -
envision a human mole
thus amply qualified her role
to be literal and figurative
pain in the ass vole,
where much to my horror a flash
of red hot poker blind
momentary rage, did lash
out at me, when aye espied
a kitchen knife and acted rash
(how cutlery got in closet floor
a minor mystery
and potential topic de jure
for another poem)
to brandish sharp edge
around abdominal area
grabbed handle with left hand,
thence commenced to slash
rhythmically thwacking
wrist of right hand
then quickly dropped sharp implement
(as like a man momentarily possessed)
before rendering permanent harm
with a river of blood to wash.