Unwashed Poems - Poems about Unwashed

No one fux you over like family ... You are welcome .......

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Rumbles of boredom lead the mouth to eat but then there are the unwashed, the residue of the crumbling and smeared. Greasy utensils sneaking like sharks amongst the soaking dishes. A need now to refresh this domestic pond with chemical bubbles yet hands are too dilatory to be daubed by yesterday’s food. One has to judge with perfect timing whether to wash the plates or leave...

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Young Hattie Hope does not like soap She’s not too keen on water Her dad’s even given some soap on a rope To his favourite, grimy daughter The greengrocer gave her a cheque For the sprouts growing out of her neck He looked in her hair and carrots grew there And the onion was one of a pair The greengrocer knew if she...

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Rumbles of boredom lead me to eat but then there are the unwashed, the residue of the crumbling and smeared. Greasy utensils sneaking like sharks amongst the soaking dishes. We need to refresh this pond with chemical bubbles yet hands are too dilatory to be daubed by yesterday’s food. One has to judge with perfect timing whether to wash the plates or leave them to poison the sink for...

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The wandering lonesome roam About the early morning streets; And on evening avenues. Those forgotten feral few, Seeking meals they cannot buy ‘Mongst the refuse of the day. Those great unwashed in tatters, Of whom it does not matter, Limp empty toward their lairs Wearing faces of despair Seeking out a junkyard fire Or dark place beneath a stair. Half-bent, with rancid odor, One stands upon the corner With...

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THE UNWASHED We unwashed walk the aisles looking for the latest styles. Gentle souls are we all. You can tell it in our smiles. Another day we've made it through, still there is a lot to do. Among the throng are the ones who have something more to say. A righteous word, a holy phrase, to let their view be known. But don't catch fire,...

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The meadow looked green and lush the memory of old feet Passing this way Sometimes hurried, sometimes slow making soft imprints On the memory of time. The rocking chair Rocked back and forth The memory of gentle hands With needle work in hands Sometimes hurried, sometimes slow Making soft imprints On the hard floor below. The tender warm hug In time of pain and sadness The memory of everloving...

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In my fancy, I sat upon yet unwashed stones, surrounded by Tide's ebbing and rising flows. Time comes and goes and the stones wear, erode. But still I return to sanctuary, my abode. I return to silence broken by free-flying gulls and gentle lapping waves. The sea, Great Lady, everchanging but not, calls inspires never...

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