Short Mopping Poems

She spoke of urbane gentlemen
and friendly squalls of rain
yet thanked Christ
for her baked scones
and well rotted manure
and gratitude for not being a Lioness,
a cause celebre never in the making
mopping the Freemasons floor...

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he opened the drapes to my soul
and gently stepped into my life
dusting my lonliness away
bright shining light into my day
removing cobwebs here and there
slowly mopping my fears to nought
painting a smile upon my face
so calm and clear my heart in cheer...

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Miss says "Hello", 
her favourite colour is yellow...
Miss wears a hat..
and looks like a cat ...

Miss goes pink , 
wearing high heels , 
Miss goes black , 
its time for her meal . 

Miss love shopping , 
and absolutely hates mopping...
Miss loves green ,
and thinks of herself as a queen......

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I get up each morning,
Seaching through my home,
Looking for dirt and grime,
To me is yet unknown. 

I dust and polish,
Mopping on hands and knees,
Wash all my windows
Until I'm throughly pleased.

My reason for my cleanliness, 
Isn't for health or pride,
But fear of what you might discover,
If I should suddenly die....

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I’m busy again.
Dusting, organizing, mopping.
Everything is clean already.
We already swept up all her old food.
And mopped her muddy paw prints.
It’s clean, it’s clean enough!
They say.
We don’t get less sad.
The house just gets clean.
We remember her favorite treats.
We donated them.
I ignore their calls and texts.
I’m busy again.
And I don’t want to talk about her, anyway....

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Somewhere there’s a dance floor whispering 

to the cracks of the sidewalk leading up 

to your door. 

It doesn’t remember your name,

but your gentle stride left 

marks on the wrists

of time. 

I’m here,

mopping up the blood,

watching my first drink

of the night condensate

on the bar where

you left your 

warmth.

-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved....

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People rush and hustle,
Mopping with gloved hands, tools of steel,
Wiping away blood and sweat from the floor,
Scrubbing the metal, blades, and hooks,
Sponges damp like the weight of sacrifice.
The work ends with a final cut,
Leaving the factory restored,
But the air thick with the scent of iron,
Machines hum like the march of the willing,
Tanks rise like the flag of duty,
Until the stench of labor fades....

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Hiding in a cave
Just for the rave
Not to be pave
To become Dave

I look up to the will
Searching up for pill
A remedy to my grill
Grilling me to drill

Hopping here and there
Just for me to be here
A search for a green pasture
Mopping up to dare

But no coverage
To fully outrage
Now that I am cage
On the side of my page

I jumped off to scream
Out of my dream
I got no ice to cream
What a dream, in my closet...

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At the bar

The bartender had his eye on a guy,
A fellow lanky and tall.
12 beers ordered and 12 beers drank
without using the restroom at all!

He did his best to watch him
but got busy mopping the floor.
When he looked back he saw the man
was walking out the door.

He followed him saying, "Don't relieve yourself here."
"That wouldn't be very neat."
The man said, "I'm only starting here."
"It'll land across the street!"...

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Hurtling toward me was a messy, slimy mass
Of masticated food from a diner with no class!
Glancing off my head (I ducked!), it landed on poor old
Mama, right smack dab in the face. It slid, then rolled
Onto her lap. The offender saw her mopping her face.
Unabashed, he refilled and, without a trace of grace,
Talked, with cavernous mouth wide open, disgusting us all.
Henceforth, Food Flinger, cease showing such egregious gall.


November 3, 2021...

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each sunrise holds promise

quiet rapture before he spoke

not thinking, the words spill out

too late to reconsider

the mess you have made

no mopping it up now



she listens,

not hearing the anger

but the very frustrations

that brought them here

sitting on this porch

together



but each is alone

although they sit side by side

not touching, not feeling

no reply from her

unusual at best

but there's nothing left to say...

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Bye Bye Becca
Rang through my ears in hell
I had to do the dishes now
But couldnt do them well.

The mopping and house cleaning
Looked me in the eye
Becca lift that pen and write
But all i did was cry.

Who will drive the children home
And polish off the car
I used to write, I used to dream
But now im just a fallen star.

Wake up Becca, wake up girl
I shot up with a start
Oh forget these mundane things
And pen with all your heart.

Poem by Farrah Veronica Sinha...

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