wash day on the farm
amish dresses and work pants
strung out on lines
little girls' bonnets
plain white matching socks
slight afternoon breeze
The goo from eating a chocolate or two.
Pizza spread with cheese and bread.
A popsicle colored red and blue.
Mixed with dirt and wiped down the sides of my pants.
Without another glance.
Momma said," don't wipe your hands on your clothes.
Wash them off in the sink.
Otherwise, your clothes will stink!"
Took off my pants.
Washed them with soap.
Left them in the sink.
"Oh no you don't!" Momma said.
"Wash your hands, not your pants!"
You could have been clearer.
So, I washed my hands.
Pulled my pants out of the sink.
Put my pants back on.
Went out to play.
My friends and I are making mud pies today!
The fat grey cat sat licking, licking her long silky fur.
She lazily sprawls and yawns with a harrumph. She lay her head down and splayed her soft pink padded toes, as she curled up to take a deep kitty sleep.
Dream sweet kitty, dream.
Stars like jeans
are made to fade
their blues bleed out
in the wash-up,
in the burn-out,
in their legacies of
spin cycle routines.
But the twinkling glitter
in their burnout flares,
falls like rain
from shooting stars
in shimmering showers,
that cling on tight,
like the curse
of forever chemicals.
No one can ever scrub them clean
from party clothes
washed all alone,
by themeselves,
rinsed and spun,
rinsed and spun,
in washing machine
cycle routines.
So these spun-out,
hang out, party clothes,
are stored shrouded in plastic
to stop the glitter's spread
in the wardrobe,
in the armoire's bottom draws,
to dim the legend’s
endearing stain of
faded fame.
Stars like jeans
are made to fade
the blues bleed out
in the wash-up
in the burn-out,
in their legacies of
spin cycle routines.
My chin is stained violet
Blueberries make me nauseous
I hope they don’t stain my soul
As easily.
The blues digesting in my gut
Has spread to my poor head
Pounding, I can hear it,
I split my skin to feel release.
I brush my teeth
Until my gums bleed
The blues has spread to my mouth now
I speak in sore cries.
I am entirely blue
But my vision is tainted with memories
Of simpler times
When I was Technicolor.
i'd just come in and made a cup of tea.
ten minutes later, i went to admire my work by the front window
that's when i saw him
he'd already made a start
he had pulled up the windscreen wipers
sponge and bowl full of bubbly water
fast-paced doesn't do it justice
washing, with mischief and energy
magnificently grotesque; a cunning, vacant expression
did i trigger this?
is this a coincidence?
i wanted to go and ask him
i went through the imagined conversation
but i couldn't do it
and i watched him groom the taillights
my wife hadn't noticed how clean our car was
i sulked at dinner, eating my
emotionally abused peas
.
okay
okay
i'm gonna wash them
with thuh promise
uv thuh
nother neather
kiss
Raindrops cleanse the streets
Wash away the filth and grime
Makes way for new dirt
Stray words pulled from thin air
strung like birds on a wire
as a poem
won't light my fire
random thoughts on the off-chance
hung as wash on the line
is worse and not verse
at least not one of mine
every tenth girl's name
flung from pages in the dictionary
like pretty maids all in a row
is neither prose nor poetry
give me literary or give me wealth
of wisdom humour rhyme or reason
lyrically make me laugh or think
entertain elucidate or educate
for therein lies the missing link
I wash my face twice a day
Once vigorously
As if I am exercising demons
Residing in my pores
And once gently
In circular, sweeping movements
Like I am washing away the crust of tears
That have come to settle on my cheeks
Memories can feel like bodily extensions
Memories can haunt the very oxygen I breath
Memories carried around like a boat anchor
Memories that felt heavier than the present
Memories that gripped my slumber’s steering wheel
Memories that miraculously became ossified
Memories which mysteriously sunk into the ocean
Memories when grown transfer into learnings
Memories buried in the wavering wash of time
Memories buried with time’s ceremony
Hands like dirt
Cracking in sunlight
where weeping willows grow and glow
burning in the snow
freeze-dried
tied below and pulled into a flash fire
your art dies you write the words
"right before they kissed"
with the "i"s undotted
time unalloted
the crime has been spotted
your hands are covered in dirt
wash them in the fire
wash them dry
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
with your eyes
wash them dry
they're not worth your tears
watch them die
with your eyes
wash them dry
they're not worth my tears
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
watch them
but don't wash them
just throw them in the fire
watch them dry up
close your nose
and drown it in dirt
until the smoke can't fly
watch the smoke
eat it up and leave the dirt behind
wash them in the fire
wash them dry
watch them die
with all your worst ideas
with your eyes
wash them die
they're not worth your tears
close your eyes
so you can't see their cries
close your nose so your can't smell their lies
close your ears
so you won't hear them disappear
It started when my ears began to itch.
Scratching did not reduce the twitch.
Rubbing seemed to help,
But smeared uck all over myself.
Momma said, "Wash behind your ears!
Growing goobers is what I fear."
Goobers? What are those?
Momma said," They're vines that start behind your ears.
Grow in your head,
Out your nose."
Momma said," You'd look like an urchin,
With vines all around.
Might trip yourself,
If you can't see the ground!"
I think my Momma is kidding me!
I've never seen a kid that looks like a tree.
Momma said," Thats because they listened.
Washed behind the ears,
Didn't have vines that appeared."
I don't want to be left behind.
I wash my ears all the time.
Perhaps I could cultivate a patch,
On the backside of my neck.
Make a vine covered shirt,
With the rest of the dirt.
All over Washington D.C.
He flies with pomp and pride
Donald Trump, President
Surveys the swamp overhead
Of wrath and promises bold
He vows to cleanse the deep
Swamp's dark waters
His axe to wield
America great again to keep
© daniel miltz
The wash
Rhythmic systems flow
Pulse and wind,
The wheel
Throws blows
Bustling in between the folds
Shedding skin and grim
A hidden layer molds
Tender hands and tiny footprints
Gather jasmine
Budding blooms beneath obsidian
Mosquitos sting
As too, jasmine
Marckincia Jean
08/05/2024
Free verse
Sub Categories
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