Long Washers Poems
Long Washers Poems. Below are the most popular long Washers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Washers poems by poem length and keyword.
The toy boxes empty, and yesterday's thrills
Are buried together in mountainous hills
I still so remember the virgin land sweet
They deemed it would hide all that treasure discrete
And way back, I think around bout '67
Began hurling trash there,
Now a hill mounts toward heaven
Many a purchase, many a thrill
Couches, and washers and toys in that hill
Purchased with sweat and such toil of a brow
For loves sake, for Holidays purpose allowed
All of that love, so much hard-earned cash
Forgotten, forsaken in hills full of trash
And so in my lifetime I watched the hill grow
Blocking the sunset that we use to know
A million sweet scents from that desert once rose
Now the air smells of refuse, and much trash disposed
As Christmastime comes with her visions serene
The lights in a twinkle on the evergreens
Casting our eyes to the dear Saviors Birth
May we remember God's gift of our earth
Repurpose, creating our gifts for loved ones
A gift of an Earth to our future grandsons
A gift of clean air and pure sparkling waters
To all of creation, and our future daughters
A pure wish for merry, though we've less cash to spend
The truest of love lasts beyond our lives end
Merry Christmas is coming, may we choose to pay
It forward for Earth's sake and much brighter days
Prayers descend like acid rain from
oligarch-soaked manchurians, stumping
for elected office, praising hybrid
demigods, passing out vouchers to the
peasants.
A slow rumbling-
part of the night-sounds-of-curfew;
descends like fire ants.
Cleaners of the guilt, hidden in plain faith,
unable or unwilling to walk, feign
blindness, darkness helps.
Cellphone towers only reflect scripted
light, as memories of real sunshine, fade
to black. A good cup of coffee is hard to
find, all the fine beans were swept away
early on, replaced by dancing bears,
politely ignored. Thunderclouds, imagined
in shapes of our founding fathers,
encourage the deluge, slowly ascending.
Underground-
a grim band-of-believers watch (again)
a pirated tape of their favorite '80's movie,
'They Live' from the fabled city called the
new capital in 'The Postman' Minneapolis..
while the tormented sounds of-
plows
scraping overhead, and
hydrants,
bellys full, feeding power washers,
cascade
over hardened
faces.
05/11/14
minneapolis
© All Rights Reserved
Overnight the temperature which started in the teens
causing the ground to freeze…and shivering the trees….
warmed up a little…just a little…to around 33 degrees.
Early in the morning a light snow started falling all around
and being that it was a wet snow…accumulated on the ground.
When we opened our eyes….and saw snow everywhere we scanned
What knew we were waking up…to a winter wonderland.
So we did what any 73 year old Floridians would do
(at least the two 73 year Floridians we know)
we smiled at our good fortune….bundled up,
and went out to play in the snow!
What made this silent snowfall…so wonderful…so extraordinarily sweet…
the only noise being made was the snow crunching under our feet.
We made and threw a few snowballs…
then as quickly as two 73 years old people can
we started packing snow and created a miniature happy snowman.
It wasn’t quite Frosty but our snowman had his own particular charms.
We used two nails for his eyes, washers for his buttons,
and two sticks for his arms,.
We used a link from a chain to give him his smile….
and before we completed our task…
a deer who was eating corn in the yard…looked up at us and asked,
“On the top of your snowman’s head.” He said,
“That hat….is that what I think?”
“Why yes it is.” We smiled. “It’s an old basket strainer from the sink.
As the deer went back to his breakfast…on a morning…completely unplanned…
Deborah and I spent a little more time…enjoying our winter wonderland.
Amazed at how the child inside us…always under the surface….lying low
can so quickly be awakened…by a little fall of snow.
Where
do
teardrops
go? Where do
teardrops go?
long, long time ago
they dropped into the
wishing wells— everyone everyone
drop by drop, wish by wish, never
fulfilled never ever filled, tear by
tear falling in to fill the well where they
will forever yearn, forever yearn to go on
wishing lying within the loose change of the
well-wishes and if-only's, so sorry's,
forgive me's, make me happy's, one more
chances, and lucky charms, that need
company at the bottom of the
lonely old stone walled
wishing well.
.
Where
do these
teardrops
lie? Where do
these teardrops stay?
with the dollars dimes,
pennies, buttons, bottle tops,
smooth stones, wedding rings, hairpins,
marbles, sea shells, bracelets, charms, bent
keys, old pens, washers 'n nuts name badges
and labels love locks, without keys in the
bottom of the wishing wells kept
brim-full by eyes yearning for the
well-wishes! yearning for
the well-wishes!
.
Formula Fe2 O3
Iron is just awesome – let’s see!
First it was prehistoric man
Who was always an iron fan
Iron is a third of the earth
Industry is iron by birth
Pritchard designed and Darby made
Iconic Iron Bridge won’t fade
Smelt pig iron from iron ore
Produces cast iron galore
Backbone of skyscrapers, bridges
Organs of cars, washers, fridges
Clever Bessemer carbon gone
Heralded steel for everyone
Mankind’s most ingenious feat
Turning raw earth to steel – so neat!
Iron’s compounds are versatile
No wonder it’s used all the while
Inks, fertilisers, pesticides
Paints, enamels and more besides
Many iron phrases pervade
Each as an English language aid
There’s ironclad, iron curtain
Iron grip and more for certain
We need it in a small amount
For on haemoglobin we count
Open your eyes and look around
Everywhere an iron surround
Iron has magnetic appeal
First place must be iron with steel
Ponds paint greenish portraits in rural Indian landscape,
Docile duck rafts do dive-tricks, teasing whale-like buffaloes,
Salmon and tilapia tickle skaters and shrunk snails,
Tadpoles and fries from deadly algae and skaters escape...
Girls in petticoats and boys with no clothes, here, somersault,
Naughty ones among these push inside those don't know swimming,
Troop of youth, like villains, enter and exhibit pole-vault,
Women, like trained washers, busy themselves in cloth-washing...
Java plum trees, posing around willows, like green phantoms,
Shadow around, frightening the passersby, late evening,
Mangroves plowing the water make noises like ghost-groaning,
Bullfrogs to their mates seem sending love-memorandums...
Sun rays penetrating the dense leaves-embroidered branches,
Crack tracks of golden routes, as though connecting to sky-skirts,
Reflects, toward moon, like images on mirrors with clown-shirts,
Summon dark angels of dusk, to play about the ranches...
Do not get dried up amid severest of droughts, dear pond,
Or get swollen up, destructing lives, puffed up by the rains;
May lives in you and around, your healing touch ever gain,
And heaven and earth enjoy your perennial love bond...
19 December 2021
A STRAND (1044) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
When you sort decades of electric cables from that box hidden away
It reminds of disentangling neurons haphazardly fired at random
It’s a beautiful day and you’re in it among sea saw and hammer
Hundreds of screws in the tool box and all you want is a single unbent nail
Somewhere hidden under plucky wall plugs and skewed rusty hinges
If life gives you lemons a power drill defeats convention
Nuts bananas and bolts mislaid in the fridge with washers and powder
Reveal the essence of an organized mind squished in the blender
Bedlam chaos fragmentation or glorious harmony
Synapses jumping like fleas on the mindful grey patched neuronal carpet
Heavily worn by August the Clown because a well led life is a circus
Knowledge pushed into action potentially in a meaningful way
Buttons in the haberdashery basket cased in creativity’s mad insanity
Knotted threads from life-long preservation of patchwork and passion
Enmeshed a few screws yet again and a bubble gum wrapper
And that hammer once more testing reflexes deflected patella and callus
A pendulum for more esoteric days and a Tarot card next to the cross
Saved for a rainy day of prayer and the coronation of dreams
After decade long quest a screw is still a screw whether loosened or nailed
The sander of unfinished living grinds on to an egg timer’s analogue fashion
And who an earth would prefer finding a rivet to crafting a poem
One possible morale of the story is that hardware plies softly myriads of magic
That in the wider scheme of things there are enough contraptions in the case
And once they start giggling and straying Pandora is happy
17th April 2019
Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch
after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”
O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my ass in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: ****, v-g-nal,
penile, inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.
Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy
This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.”
I changed tonight, of country, my friends,
I know a dirty girl from Tennessee,
More sparkling than a champagne cork,
With black rimmel and lipsticks on sale.
I changed countries last night, my friends,
I’d rather be a peasant than a townsman,
I prefer to say hello to donkeys and bees,
I found rhymes and silence in sweet California,
O Strange lands, birds understand me,
They tell stories to millennial trees,
I changed of country, my hats, poems,
I talk and dreams are an Oregon Indian,
Land of poetry, I cross without fear, railroads,
I don’t trust window cleaners and car washers,
Only poets can save you, my friends,
They let the horses run wherever they want.
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.