Long Laundry Poems
Long Laundry Poems. Below are the most popular long Laundry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Laundry poems by poem length and keyword.
This silent heave grows much too thin
when this dreary night is ripped by transient stars
and black fire. I bleed, bleed and rake
like if I never belonged to a world
now made from recycled
apathy---piles of rusty acid in the rain---
where the god-forsaken screen
of days are holed by mangled rays .
Should I run on byways where fetal
trees never lived, clipped by axes
and formed as decorated beds?
Even daisies grow under the tyranny
of Ash Wednesdays riddled with Clorox
from urban laundry. I tell myself,
the air I breathe is soot and mud: my skin
grilled in toxic regret: damn, how often
can moments linger in July's charms
when I'm deprived of the thrill
of summer's lust in an age of ice?
My eyes grow sullen, lonely...
I stand outside waiting for some kind
of fresh wind to taste my frozen tears.
Desolate desolate me.
I bow to this final amen of glory be ,
as the linings of my soul defrocks itself
to feel the naked peel of virgin stars.
Skat A's Slam The Slam Contest
by nette onclaud
I received a comment on my post
I attempt exposure once again
Shall I perish by others' words?
Rein in heartbeats like a strict handler
Or ride the bronco bareback?
Awakened from depression on hope
I thought I was free from validation
When will mania be domesticated?
My drama on a fruitless escapade
At least my heart finds its gait
Grounded I have laundry to do
Really I have a house to vacuum
But, a comment on my poetry
Is it coffee or coffers of expectation?
Shall I wait for this present to pass
Wondering if it is critical or in remission?
Can one comment fill an empty day?
Look up to the sky where poetry is born
What’s next behind one encore?
Good poetry comes when vessels are empty
Nature comes to fill the void in a vessel
But one poem is not everlasting H2O
Filling this vassal with eyeballs
Yet when my love returns tomorrow
After 12 days of absence disquieting
My heart skips quietly to a cantor
Keeps my polarities from spinning
Grounds me from prying stares
No poem is constant like loved ones
No comment compares to thee
Contribution is a wild ride
Fingers on the keyboard
Sweating
Her strong apron strings
have a hold over him,
Suffocating his soul
Controlling and grim.
"Let him go", I cry out
This young man in his prime
Is responsible, reliable
And ready to shine.
Her face wan and drawn
With anxiety
Is driven by fears
Plaguing her constantly.
She keeps him close
He struggles from her grip
Frustrated and confused
Heart is torn, nothing fits.
His meals and his laundry
She does every day
He's thirty years old
Not in seventh grade.
He's got a good job
She doesn't charge rent
He's trapped, must break free
Before life is spent.
Written on 2015
He glances through the curtains as she leaves.
And he knew she was going with him instead.
Desperately he washes his soul of her but its for naught.
And he hangs each feeling on the line and the cool breeze.
She walks to the corner and gets into his car and flips her hair.
He always loved the way she flipped her hair and the body after a drink.
Her body would glisten with the sweat of his thrust and the bite on his shoulder.
The car pulls away and he watches the lights drive off with his heart and the bite.
The laundry machine moves like her and shudders and vibrates.
But she will return with food from the Chinaman.
Chinese food was how he knew.
She never ate Chinese food except afterwards.
The clothes lay fluttering in the night air as his heart dried.
And she came home with egg rolls and the feint smell of polo.
Please Pogo music, wake me up. The night, now reduced to warm laptop light, is inching toward dawn. I pray to the patron saints of writers - is it Neri or Ávila? Whichever is on call I suppose.
“I’ve indulged in reprobation,” I confess, openly to the fuzzy, waxing, crescent moon. “I need that alchemy that turns coffee and a rough outline into an actual paper.”
I yank off my hoodie, fling my window open wide and hang myself out like wet laundry. Have you ever tasted vodka? Vile stuff really.
The forty degree breeze feels like heaven and my eyes begin to focus. I peel off my leggings to let my entire skin tingle with cold.
My Keurig beeps confidently. I found a couple of peanut energy bars in my bookbag and rip them open like a junkie who’s discovered a forgotten stash. I devour them so quickly it’s like a magic trick - then I brush my teeth.
I take several slow deep breaths. I can DO this, I assure myself, but my outline looks adequate at best. I need this done so I can relax with a super bowl party pizza Sunday.
The song “Data & Picard,” sets me to dancing, “It’s better to have loved and lost..” Patrick Stewart as Jean-Luc Picard pronounces, perfectly auto-tuned to the music.
I love this song. I love the night. I love the challenge.
I set myself to the task and finish, three hours later, as the sun breaks into morning.
The waitress spilled a beer last night
Right on my husband’s clothes.
He was upset, but these things happen,
Sometimes, I suppose.
He went back to our room to change
And rinse his threads of beer,
But everything still reeked
And thus, so smiles would reappear
A laundry bag was filled up with
His shirts, his shirt and tee,
Which would be cleaned without a fuss
And naturally, for free.
We left this morning for a tour
But after we returned,
The clothes were hanging, fresh and clean,
The lesson to be learned:
It’s better to have something spilled
On you, like beer or booze,
Not in a restaurant or home,
But rather on a cruise.
I must declare America used to be
Somewhere people still cared
Where our rights were still fare
More and more all you see
Are the tempers that flare
So many of its people unaware
Dirty laundry
Aired into nightmares
All the fake news
Feeding us false reviews
Politicians who dare to scheme
To break up the American dream
I swear why does it all end
In despair
Deep down inside we all need to care
About this place, That is so rare
Though a few players
Have stained some of our inner layers
We still have our prayer's
Blessed by God Almighty as the land of the free
Look at what we have let it turned out to be
A land of deceivers, not believers
Without Jesus, as our Redeemer,
We have grown so far apart
I know in my heart it's never too late
To make America great
So she can live up to her fate
As long as we don't hesitate
What seems to decimate
And make her heartache
Why we let just a few disgrace
What is so necessary to inflate
America's people to grow
The life and soul we have come to know
Love and grace
Of such a Godly place
We are tired of all the disgrace
That has been bestowed upon our race
Cant, we live without any trace
Of the evil that has blinded our faith
As I make an open case
For the leaders of the nation to face
Let's not go down in history as the people
Who kicked God out of such amazing place
Time is now to embrace his love and compassion
He wants for the whole human race
Let us be the keepers of the balance
Of this land, he blessed for you and me
So we might all be united and free
What a difference this makes for us all to see
How it's to live In Gods harmony
I know you don’t want to hear it
But one day you WILL
look up and think,
“Dammit Mom”
And then notice the rose-gold
Of a sunset
Just like I’m
Always taken by surprise
At how your eyes
Can change from green
to dusty gold then blue
Depending on the hue
Of your plain olive
or blue H & M T-shirt
I know you don’t want to hear it
But you will take that hike one day
With one or two or three
Progeny in tow and go
“Wow, inhale that smell”
Of wet outdoors and nature and life
Just like I inhale the boyness of you
Before you become a man
The spicy alcohol of cologne hiding
The musk of undone laundry maybe
The sweat, excretion of locker room,
Football, or track exertion
I know you don’t want to hear
About the birds and the bees,
Sticking your head out the truck window,
“Mom, please!”
But one day she’ll come for your heart
Just like you came for mine
that morning you were born
Pseudo Criminal
Spic and span
Washing laundry like dirty guacamole cash
In Miami sand..... buried hidden Latin trash
Hurray for the tango so grand
Pseudo criminals holding poetic book
When everyone knows they are the crooks
The underbelly of wrong upbringings
Margaritas tasting as sour as the opera lady singing
Her pimp smiles with undisguised guile
For after dusk he will do as he must
Pseudo criminals lurking with pseudo lusts
Full of their pseudo charms that are sure to disgust
Criminals and cowards share the same dance
Brave with words and at first danger seeping pants
They have convictions in their crimes
Some have even two
Beware the criminals lurking around you
Brought to you by Sesame Street Poetry
Today’s poem was sponsored by the word “Pseudo” and the number “2”
I for one can't help but wonder
how the Kid's life would have turned out,
had he not lost his mother.
The one true individual in his life
whom he loved devotedly like no other
and so too was her love for him,
the devoted unconditional love of a loving mother.
Catherine was a strong, independent, gregarious lass
whom everyone seemed to like and enjoy very dearly.
She earned a living selling baked goods
to customers she had amassed
and by doing much of the neighborhood's dirty laundry.
She also dabbled in real estate,
purchasing what little property she could afford,
and to earn extra income
she'd often open the door to her home and welcome
all those willing to pay room and board.
Many a tenderfoot would show up at her door
and Mrs Catherine Antrim (the Kid's mother)
would nurse them, feed them
and provide them a nights board.
It's very obvious that Billy's fine qualities
were passed down to him from his mother.
Had she lived an average lifetime,
In my mind there is no doubt,
Billy, the Kid today may have been
a most different legend
that may have come about.
He most likely would have been
a very outstanding model citizen,
as well as a great humanitarian.
Today he may have been
an even greater prouder legend
had his mother's life not been
so abruptly brought to an end.
*
Dedicated to all The Great Mothers
who have Greatly Influenced Their Children.
Happy Mothers Day.