We speak of women,
yet they are beaten by men.
On the Cape Flats,
some are treated like rats.
Bruises hidden behind closed doors,
daily terror scrubbed from floors.
Some stay silent, pain held in,
others speak—then try to win.
A drunk husband counts her bones,
breaks them as if they were stones.
She loves her children, hates his hands,
waits for freedom, carefully planned.
She waits until the children go,
then leaves the man she’s come to know.
Enough is enough—her day arrives.
She walks away and saves her life.
A diamond in the rough
Both feet in depth to help it up
But no matter how much I scrubbed
I couldn't wash off the mud
Though my teary eyes could see its bright form
It's wrapped in mud so I gave it up
No one scrubbed the hammock.
Or brushed the cabinet.
Distant like lukewarm cinnamon.
Being an astronaut is a chore.
To look at space gunk?
And you think it’s chilly up there.
Oof.
Nope it’s teetering and croaking.
Gah!
Gaslighting you like a fossilized fudge sundae.
Nothing is messy in outer space.
So they didn’t take the bleach along.
how the wildflowers thrive
it is Spring
that cheers the stones
plucking daisies
placing on a memory
swept, scrubbed
doused and cleansed
her name was hidden
amidst the wild abandon
snip, snip, pull up roots
careful hands revive
it is Spring
that cheers the stones
and an unrelenting heart
My granny's kitchen, neat and clean,
the walls were always painted green.
Her cakes and cookies, tarts and pies,
a welcome sight to greedy eyes.
One day I thought I'd cook a treat
and bake her something good to eat.
Alas, I only made a mess:
the table, floor and walls, I guess,
were bathed in eggs and milk and flour.
My currant buns were burnt (an hour
too long on highest heat, it seemed).
She wasn't happy as I'd dreamed
and washed and scrubbed. It took a while
before my gran began to smile...
Skin scrubbed completely clean
A strict cleansing routine
An uncontrollable invasion in the skin
Making my mind run thin
The painful skin infections
One of my many imperfections
There is no stopping them
No way of knowing where they stem
There is no cure
Only a guarantee they will reoccur
A daily drench in chemical
Only an antibacterial
Lotions creams and pills
Nothing that kills
They are a parasite
No way to win the fight
Taxing on the brain
Such a mental strain
Painful to sit stand and walk
Can only cry and squawk
This will never go away
Only when I decay
Quote: “A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of his life, will have left only the hard, clean questions: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well — or ill?” — John Steinbeck, East of Eden
In the desert of my days I wander,
the sun’s brittle crown upon cracked earth.
Dust drifts like old regrets between my steps,
and the horizon yawns — unforgiving and still.
Then the sea-storm rises inside me, roaring,
salt-heavy waves lash at the fragile dunes of hope.
A thunder-gulf within the ribcage demands its toll,
and I stand, drenched, amid the wreckage of decisions.
When the storm recedes, the desert lies hollow again,
wind-scrubbed, bare of consolation, shimmering in regret.
I ask the hard question beneath the pale, empty sky:
Was it good—or evil? Have I done well—or ill?
I had a dream.
I don’t remember most dreams.
I was cleaning the floors of heaven.
It seemed a mixed blessing,
I was in heaven, after all
but I was cleaning the floors.
It was a part time job,
I knew that intuitively.
I don’t mind house cleaning,
heaven cleaning.
It’s calm work, kind of Zen.
Are we supposed to think of religions in heaven?
At first I scrubbed on my hands and knees.
The floors are soft in heaven, like golden gym mats.
Then I thought of it, and suddenly I had a swiffer-wet mop,
just like that - and the pad never wore out.
After a while, I had an iPod, and AirPods too.
Then a daiquiri - a banana daiquiri with a pastel rainbow umbrella.
They make rapturous daiquiris in the hereafter - they never run out.
‘Heavenly,’ I thought, snorting out a dizzy laugh.
.
.
Songs for this:
The River of Dreams Billy Joel
If the Lord Wasn't Walking By My Side by Elvis Presley
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.
Each night after the evening meal
there was never a discussion
as to who would wash the dishes
and who would do the drying up.
My mother was the washer,
my sister and I did the drying up.
Hot steam would rise from the sink
before plates were plunged
deep in foam and scrubbed
with a brush - we would wait,
tea towel in hand to pounce
on the first plates to come out,
rinsed and white -
dishes were easier to dry
than heavy pots
and fiddly knives and forks.
It was a time for talk, for laughs
and sometimes snuffled back tears -
everyday life lived within the space
of our touching elbows.
I can still feel the tea towel
in my hand wet and warm
with those blessed memories.
Seventy years on, I bend down
and load the racks of a dishwasher
with soiled tableware from
the evening meal. Its quiet whirr
will fill the winter silence
and play a soulless ditty when
the washing and drying up
is done.
plink, plink, water in the sink
sinks slowly into budding suds
torturing the pans and fork tines
who want cascade - show on the road
plink, plop, hands over ears, now stop
but slowly the spatter of drops
like the slow go of a rain storm
keep habitating, repeating
their ear-splitting, liver-bellied
bullying of the spoons and cups
the apron-covered giant turned
off the faucet, threw in the rag,
then the sponge, ew…her hands with gloves
now each piece, that is us, is scrubbed
and ah, true running water-rush
each of us towel dried, put ‘way
from nightmarish brutality
we rest…we rest..until lipstick
lands on the side of grinds in cup
and pan slams onto surface heat
in other words, we get beaten
then comes water in sink, awaken
the bully who sleeps eight hours
look forward to vacation, hers!
My mind is tribal, I hunt in the mud and slurry,
I track the stars in a wooden chariot
made from the ribs of a blood-clan crib.
My thoughts are armored, yet as articulated
as any youthful flesh, they cannot be washed,
or manipulated, I have an ax for every hand
against them, a caress for those
who choose to fight on the battlefield
of inspiring ideas,
a painted arrow and shield to defend
the commandments of ever-mutating gods.
A green tree within a high mountain
is my mind, a solar flare of endless creation
are my barbaric prayers,
the same orisons that now civilize the corrupt
and morally spent.
I am the heart of existence, my tribal markings
cannot be scrubbed away, by smooth-skulled
manikins or the slick prattle
of any grandiose legion.
messages sent and unsent
confessions told and untold
heartbroken- and hearts we both broke
your memories linger around like a ghost
I still see your shadows at my door
scores settled and unsettled, you don't matter anymore
pierce through my heart or stab my back
the tattoos have already been scrubbed off
now you don't beat my drums anymore
The day arrived
We had a ball
The love was shared
At Shrigley Hall
So plush and sweet
You both were scrummy
Scrubbed up so well
So proud was mummy
So now it's time
To be together
Through every storm
And sunny weather
We send you on
But are nearby
So keep in touch
Or else we'll cry
I drank too much
So signing off
With love and plus
It's time to scoff
You are the best
You're great, sincerely
Oh by the way..
We love you dearly x
{For 5x5x3 Poetry Contest
Sponsor : Miranda Hawley
Date submitted: 20/4/25}
ARTIST
They shone daring green avocado
in dark adverse period swearing
guilt ridden heart vanquished free
sacral scrubbed pink and ready
plumed serpent in magnificent bloom
with candles God watched supreme
from blue misty mountain clean
knowing Artist was not insane
two green irises unusually plain
pierced her luminous spine divine
naked Eve eyed painting quiet
easels of unfinished tired purple
massaged her throat coloured gurgle
rooms without curtains collapsing sad
Artist pierced Love bubble mad
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