Scrubbed Poems | Examples

Pens of Praise

The factories no longer exhale fumes but fillers
Clanging steel is traded for selfie stick.
Whip is gone but the gaze remains.
Wage is still dingy and stale.
Accepted without questions.

When the labour was visible, we called it brutal.
Children with soot in lungs, blistered hands,
bodies bent before they grew.
Now the soot is scrubbed, hands are clean
but the bending of spine begins much earlier.

They are raised in pens of praise.
milked for their innocence like diary calves
hooked to the teat of validation.
They don't toil but trend.
Sweat has replaced sponsored smiles.
The mines are gone but digging continues.

Rafflesia has been renamed Rose
and the stench smells like aspiration
bottled, branded
and sold as hope.

Law shields the body not the soul,
factories can be condemned not studios.
A worker is trudged; a creator performs.
And performance is the wound taught to pirouette.

Fists won't rise nor will ink spill,
as the table is set too neatly
and the chairs are too soft.

Even after a century
money still has grandfather rights.
Sitting at the head of every table,
blessing the hunger and
deciding who eats.

dizzy laughs

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

Riyadh is a Quiet Knife

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.

Washing and Drying Up

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.

Ear-Splitting, Liver-Bellied Bullying

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!

Barbaric Yawps

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.

I Sent The Text: An Epilogue

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 Wedding

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

ARTIST : 1

{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

Cleaning Frenzied Me

I started with one small corner of my kitchen
Set the timer, so I could stop in fifteen minutes
Set the timer eight more times until the floor was scrubbed
The counters were scraped, the table was polished to a shine
Might as well do the microwave
I kept shutting the refrigerator door
I was not ready to tackle that monster yet
Hardened ketchup drips and syrup from a year ago

The living room now looks amazingly dirty
Weird since it was cleaned yesterday
I wanted it to sparkle like the kitchen
Before I had quite finished, I had to run to the bathroom
Which I am now painting because it was incredibly dingy
Nothing is done, but lots of things are started.
My husband is poking around in the frig.
He yells “when are you cleaning the refrigerator?”
If there is a homicide on my street, you will know it was me.

apple

cut the apple open
you took out all the seeds
the skin was bloody red
but you thought that it was green

ate it just like adam
i pray now that you’re cursed
i let you in my garden
and now i am submersed

do you see how my blood stains?
seeping from the core
entrance to a garden
doesn’t mean you own its doors

the apple wasn’t bad
i convinced myself it was
scrubbed it to be clean
but i could never rinse the suds

picked it and you sliced it
even sharpened up the knife 
the apple of your eye
and then you took its life 

do you see the way it lays there?
helpless and confused
asking to keep growing 
just to be picked by you

HER HANDS - POTD

Her hands are what l remember most

Miss the most, crave the most

Hands that scrubbed floors for a living

Hardworking, honest hands

Hands that nurtured, gave comfort, wiped tears

Small hands fingers crooked with arthritis

Hands that held mine a lifetime

Hands l held when death decided

Hands l loved and knew so well

Her hands …..

buried

i buried it. 
i screamed and wailed pushing the soil over every memory, 
every emotion, 
every thing i didn’t want to remember. 
i scrubbed my hands until they bled trying to wash away the dirt and the pain. 
i sobbed until my throat was raw and the blood finally dried up. 
i pushed it so far down that i would never have to see it again. 
never have to feel it again. 
i buried it. 
i did. 
but my tears acted like rain water and my wails electrified like thunder until the soil washed away, uncovering everything i tried so hard to hide. 
i buried it. 
i did. 
but it found it’s way back to me. 
just like skeletons in the closet, 
every dirty secret eventually comes out, 
no matter how hard you try to cover it.

Hands

Years of scrubbing and 
Milking cows and labor
Wrinkled hard worked hands 
At night prayed for savior
Changing diapers 
Cooking food
Heart always 
Thoughts of good
A mothers hands
Well worn scrubbed
Days of labor
No crown she dubbed 
To children mom
Was number one
From dawn till dusk
All chores were done
Papa worked but
Not as hard
Mommy worked from
Dawn till dark
Cold sick cries out
Mom is there
Hugs and kisses
Have no fear
Father sleeps to
Get up to work
Mom is tired
No sleep for her
Worn out hands
A mothers curse
Work never ends 
A lovely verse

Saturday Night

Tails of pony, this strawberry-freckled Freda.
Strong-armed tomboy happily playing baseball.
Bathing beauty, Saturday night, when scrubbed clean.
   Bitterly pitched out.

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