No one fux you over like family ...
You are welcome ....
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 them to poison the sink
for another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in an untidy kitchen
or the shredded rinds of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of former slicks
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish we are for leftovers.
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 took off a shoe
That’s where the garlic all grows
Green shoots were a clue there would be some leeks too
And radishes between her toes
But there’s no cucumber in her grimy jumper
For thats where the broccoli grows
And there in her ears asparagus spears
And under her arms there’s potatoes
But the greengrocer had a nice looking lad
Who seemed to have magical power
The grocer missed out on the veg to be had
For Hattie was taking a shower.
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 another hour or two.
The essential factors are smell
and guilt.
When the sludge of the once edible
blossoms rudely in your sink,
or the shredded rinds
of a latent rigor mortis
coat themselves with the pimpled oils
of a nibbling fungus,
only then is it time to reassess
just how peckish
you are for leftovers.
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 a battered coffee can
In a grimy, outstretched hand.
Strollers stare past his rheumy eyes,
Searching from their sunken sockets,
And walk by with withheld sighs
Lest guilt should pick their pockets.
Compassion costs a quarter
For the man upon the corner.
But it’s cheaper without the price
If they can avoid his lice.
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, that would be rude
for they would have to piss on you.
Harsh words for such a crowd
so much like you and I.
We among the angry horde
who look down from on high.
With choice words in learned tones
we make our way through the aisles.
What is all this we call humanity?
The scourge of earth?
The highest souls?
We, in all our poignant words,
are the unwashed masses,
walking through the mass of men
in total desperation.
Each holding his own stone
that in the end we must set down
for all our names
have been written in the sand.
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 bosom
With white lace all around
Sometimes hurried, sometimes slow
Making soft imprints
On the life of a child.
The dark black casket
Covered with Jasmine and Roses
The memory of that serene face
Peace all around
Sometimes hurried, sometimes slow
Making soft imprints
On this beautiful world.
Dedicated to my maternal grandmother
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 tires.
When pull comes, she accedes
then on distant shore rises,
then to me returns,
returns
returns again.
Would that I could do but the same?
Something not to be.
So I sit,
I listen,
I wait
upon unwashed stones.
And instead,
I dream.
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