THE DUNNY BRUSH
It has been here since modern sewerage was begun
and each water closet usually has at least one.
But to get a participant to use it, can really be a chore.
Most folk will use the paper but sadly for some, the Dunny brush ignore.
We have warned, scolded and abused them about their stain,
To grab the handle and scrub up and down again and again and again.
Many just don`t get it . They will not own their own poo,
so they leave it in the bowl. It is not their responsibility to clean the flamin loo.
So we have had workshops for the solution,
To brainstorm and solve the concern for this ablution.
Some have installed water jets to clean the soiled parts,
While others have janitors who make regular inspections while pushing their cleaning carts.
Alas, around here these luxuries we haven`t got,
so we ask you the Guest, to give it your best shot.
To learn the art of the toilet brush is easy, so don`t do your thing and run.
Grab it by the handle between forefingers and the thumb.
Now scrub it hard and sure till all traces are unstuck.
If it has caused you to sweat a bit, just remember,
It isn`t ours or theirs, its your smelly muck.
SILENT PROTEST
You forget O children, your embodiment in the old —
how we live again and again through you. You choose
to ditch the dress up clothes, wedding rings and such.
Perhaps our gray skin and wrinkles are caused by the blunder.
Look at the baptism of babes, cradled in white negligees
— virginal prowess with maternal instincts leaning toward
the grave future. Our children throw dungarees upon
countless generations with scuffed up knees, rolled up shirts.
Our spineless arrows place a bullseye before each child’s eye
leading them to think they are — all — the prize. Scuff marks
explore the floor leaving no shine — a mother’s most inclined
to scrub up the mess her Suzy-Q’s and Johnny’s left behind.
The old black and white films, in silent protest, leave a stamp
of gentlemen suits and modest dress for ladies, jokes without
crass behavior — rated G for grand, great and gallant. For sure
some broke the rules, but the boundary was there, for the fool.
2/6/2018
What Lurks Within
I picture in my mind an old colonial room,
With a door to the garden where my flowers can bloom.
A window in the back to see the main house,
A leaky roof and the scurry of a mouse.
Mold on the floor and old bricks in the wall,
And a door in the back to the main kitchen hall.
A stack of hay to the left leading out the front door,
To the gravel path that wraps around to the front porch.
The smell of moisture in the air so damp and so cold,
I can get some water and try to scrub up the mold.
A mat by the door to clean off my boots,
I can get into the car to start my commute.
So much I can picture for this small place,
Nothing to hold back my imagination, but space.
-For Seren’s What Lurks Within Contest
When did the children stop embracing
The wind in their hair
Downhill racing, bright orange skies
With no due care
When did they all go home and scrub up their smiles
No longer free spirits to roam
With hours to while
Away with friends down by the railway track
Find a new hiding spot
Sharing cheap wrappered snacks
Whispering secrets
And a fight for their space
What happened to good ole fashion dirt
Smeared as a memoir, now
Replaced
By sterile little ones
Squashed within dry stone walls
Electrical wizardry
Beats, muddied deflated balls
Why did the children decide now
To stay at home
No longer free spirits
Til dusk out to roam
No longer bicycles skipping ropes
And girls chewing gum
High heels on tiny feet
Impersonating mum
No longer unkempt hair pursing their friends
No longer blood brothers
Promised to the end
Poor little ones gaze at a two dimensional spot
Wish they'de step outside
Rosie cheeks the vision that time forgot
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