Long Scrubbed Poems
Long Scrubbed Poems. Below are the most popular long Scrubbed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scrubbed poems by poem length and keyword.
Dana is pretty like Cinderella
A busybody who knows nothing said.
But I saw Dana, and she was clean
Cinderella was always cinder full, right?
She reminds me of her, the speaker said.
I tried to see it, but could not
Dana looked like a Scandinavian princess
One who had never gotten her hands dirty
This woman’s hands were pristinely clean
Her face was scrubbed to perfection
Not one streak of coal or calloused finger.
She had never slept on a cold hard floor.
Dana was a beauty, with many adornments
Braids, lace collar, flowers, beads, ribbons
Cinderella had been given none of that
She slept with mice remember?
Come on you lot wakey wake
A start of another crazy day
Give the comatosed children a chant
Dash to the bathroom now it's vacant
No time for a rest or sleep
Just on the go cup of tea
Uniforms pressed and shoes scrubbed
Presented to my two grouchy cherubs
Breakfast time can be unreal
He wants toast, she wants cereal
Fruit and veg for their box
Time for school, ready you lot?
Walk my lovelies for exercise
Get back just after nine
Too tired to eat straight to bed
Out like a light blowing my zzz
Soon be time to get up
To go fetch my little cherubs
Prepare our meal before I leave
Help with homework before we eat
Prepare my box full of snacks
Shower then my uniform is back
Babysitter's running a little late
A mad rush out the gate
Step onto my favourite ward
No time to stop and talk
Cries for nurse and buzzers
Keep me even more busier
Change beds, mop it all up
Help feed and change Mr Jessup
Medicine dispensing with caution
Cannot give the wrong portion
Have five minutes eat a pair
On the go no time to spare
Mr Drinkwater's health has declined
Call in the family, it's time
Comfort the loved one's in grief
One last round before I leave
Walking home pick up some bread
Making plans for the next day ahead
The sun here burns without speaking.
In *Sta. Magdalena, even the wind gossips,
even the silence sits beside you
and calls you **"padaba."
But Riyadh?
Riyadh listens too much.
And when I speak,
my voice comes out wrapped in plastic.
I eat beside men with vanished names,
we all have families blurred behind remittance,
eyes trained not to blink at machines,
hearts trained not to shatter
at the sound of our children
saying “Papa” from a screen.
I have made peace with white tiles,
hallways scrubbed of joy.
The mosque’s call is the only breath
that cuts through this mechanical sleep.
I do not pray—
I bargain with God.
One more year, I say.
One more ***bago umuwi.
And in my bed,
I curl around the ghost of my own dialect.
I am learning to cry
without leaving a trace
on my pillow.
*Sta. Magdalena, Sorsogon, Philippines
**beloved
***before home, finally.
Hungry vultures; there were ten, just sitting in a tree
One fell out and bit the dust while my wife made my tea
Hungry vultures; there were nine, among the leaves so green
One chewed dirt as my wife scrubbed the tractor’s tyres clean
Hungry vultures; there were eight, just sat there on a branch
One dropped off, devoid of breath, while my wife cleaned the ranch
Hungry vultures; there were seven, in that tree so high
One fell, due to sudden death, while my wife baked a pie
Hungry vultures; there were six, all hid behind a twig
One fell down while my wife caught and barbecued a pig
Hungry vultures; there were five, sat in that sycamore
One crashed down, with quite a splat, while my wife swept the floor
Hungry vultures; there were four, sat on the highest bough
One smashed into bloodied ground as my wife milked the cow
Hungry vultures; there were three, sat high above the trunk
One dropped off while my wife cleared the beer cans I had drunk
Hungry vultures; there were two, just sitting in a nest
One dropped dead while I sat in a chair and had a rest
Hungry vulture; just the one, watched my wife make a trifle
He’s dead because she’s angry, and a crack shot with a rifle
Hungry vultures; there are none, now sitting in the tree
My wife is cooking vultures, but her rifle’s trained on me
Here in the trash I found a wonderful thing,
Slightly sticking up from the furniture bin.
Covered in dirt with four legs and a stand,
Was a wonderful piece that needs my hand.
I reached down to grab it from within the trash,
I noticed a beautiful ruffled bright sash.
The sash was bright yellow wrapping the leg,
So I pulled it all out to see what I had.
To my amazement I found a wonderful petina,
A flowery design of old paint like verbena.
I unwrapped the sash so very carefully,
As I set it on the ground, it sets perfectly.
I put it in my truck to take this home,
A wonderful piece to fix up and call my own.
Did some careful washing and scrubbed the sash clean,
That yellow sash would look great with the light green.
Moments went by as I brushed on some varnish,
Then let it dry before I added the sash garnish.
Now, with a slight curve from the bottom of the legs,
A beautiful planter stands with a sash around the edge.
This is my story of a lone Saturday trip to the dump,
Never knowing something like this was hiding in that clump.
They are jeans and sweats; they are what we
forget to wear when we are wearing them.
Patched-up seams are sewn.
Many have been scrubbed and dyed colorless,
some died of poverty on the shallow page,
They are comprehensible only in alterations.
Old words are open graves,
that still pump out sounds,
a few peddle rhymes, dangle pretty chimes
and there’s the damn pity.
It is not 'I' that exhausts the throat of an owl,
it is the new wine. It needs to be put way,
that the dark vine may shine once more.
As for all the yet unwritten words,
they are hung around a hooting neck,
until bone or bough breaks.
They were the ones who taught me to be loving and kind,
They were the ones who who showed me most in this life,
They never complained or retaliated, their intentions were good,
They took the time to listen when I felt misunderstood,
I did not have much materialistically to give, but the little meant much more,
My heart, the hours of conversations, some candy, and doing chores,
You taught the most important thing, to always give my heart,
That time is more important than things, that is always where you start,
Towards the end you asked me over and over what do you want, anything,,,it's yours,
I said I want nothing but the both of you as I cried n scrubbed the floors,
Now that your gone, the pain is deep, but what you gave me was the most beautiful to see,
That all these things come n go, but love will never leave,
And all the times I loved the unlovely, I always thought of you,
That in the end love matters the most, it's the only thing that's true...
Love is given but respect is earned
Remember that lest you be burned
Every life lesson ends in pain
But the knife stops just short of the vein
Another attempt in vain
But there is a small blood stain
My heart is a massacre, mind a disaster
And the tears fall ever faster
When my own words are the gun
There is no longer anywhere to run
At the beautiful fountain the water runs red
Gushing from my body so I wonder if I'm dead
When everything fades to deepest black
Perhaps to the scarlet hue of a heart attack
Or perhaps the knife did me in in the end
I spent so long fighting not to break I forgot how to bend
And as the clouds part I feel the sunlit beam
Chasing away shadows with a beautiful dream
And in despair with tears in my eyes
I scrubbed at them and their terrible lies
But the sweet embrace of the light
Filling my heart with fight
At Death's door I could make this right
And survive to see another night
Yesterday's pain is tomorrow's gains
As night fades and the moon wanes
A loving hand on my shoulder
Guiding me I felt bolder
And as I remember how the fire burned
My love is given and my respect is earned
A chambermaid whose name is Marlia
Had the most terrible diarrhoea
Whilst scrubbing a loo
She needed to pooh
Poop flowed freely from her posterior
It splattered on the newly scrubbed door
Gloopy poop was all over the floor
There was a huge mess
It covered her dress
Her poor tummy was ever so sore
WRITTEN BY JAN ALLISON
Marlia was filled with sorrow
A clean dress she had to borrow
flies were attracted
The mess compacted
clean up required a harrow!
WRITTEN BY LIM'RIK FLATS
If only she'd have taken a Tums
No mess would be left on her bums
she's still in despair
a stench in the air
To the scent of poop she succumbs
WRITTEN BY TIM SMITH
Marlia was dumb, thinking it was just gas
But it was much more that she had to pass
The day was torrid
Her stench was horrid
Now everyone knows Marlia has no class
WRITTEN BY LIN LANE
Marlia tried hard to sneak out
the trail of her poop left no doubt
Lysol was sprayed,
Her funk still stayed
cause her poop kept running out
WRITTEN BY DANIEL TURNER
Poor, poor Marlia stunk up the room
Her hubby left and she has no groom
He ran for the hills
No more night thrills,
Now she's alone and her life is doom
WRITTEN BY ALEXIS Y
21-07-17
Her hormones fled the coop
on scalding tires.
He drifted into her,
working the night-shift
of a traveling fantasy.
Motel maids were her sisters
bars her occupation,
a place to work
on the aerobics of hope.
Their love
was an unhygienic affair.
Everything spilled out,
much maintenance
in putting back in.
Emotional jism
was scrubbed by hand
until skin-tight excuses
glistened
milky as mollusk flesh.
They had lots to attend to.
Feelings had to be
daily resuscitated
into former victimized forms.
He would not leave;
she would not go.
He anointed her again,
and again
with his pity-me flesh.
Their mutually dependent rodeo
played itself out
on the steps
of a haggard tomorrow,
both now blinded
by owl-light.