Limpio, clean up for las trabajadoras
Aqui treinta minutos, I tidy dos horas
Lavo y wash up so they won’t abhor us
Storming mi casa with vacuums in chorus
Valientes, these small but brave luchadoras
Es lunes - vienen las trabajadoras!
The day seemed quiet, not a sound.
I stepped outside to watch a goat pass by,
the focus of his vision toward the ground.
I sensed that he was lonely, even shy;
for as he trod his head hung really low.
I asked him if he'd join me for some tea,
it seemed he had no other place to go.
If chamomile was to his like 'twas free.
I insisted he wash up and wear a blouse --
indignant he got up and left the house.
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.
Mom's on the warpath,
"Get inside and take a bath"
(She says she wants us clean).
"Then put on your PJs and go to bed."
I turned that logic on its head.
(I'll tell you what I mean.)
Why should we wash up when
we'll just get dirty once again?
(That's using the 'ol bean!)
--------------------------------------------------
il bracconiere di vongole mascherato
-----------------------------------------------
seaguls swarking
--------------------------------------------------
poachin or poachin
one of these is done in the kuche;
the other one is a underminer
watch what these people do
ah shuck weight and measure
do that think you do
shuck; shuckin funtime shuckin
nuff shuckin for all of you
so happy thee an abundance
we get shuck longer wiff you
wash up when it's over
thats what we need to do
flowing poem him and ryhthmns
get this thing to work
stop acting like a buster
and strop acting like a jerk
The ocean is home to a curation of shells,
The type you admire, the kind you call into,
The ones that whisper stories the sea never tells.
The peach and the pink, the pastels and the white —
All of them bring such a sense of delight.
I trace my finger over each and every grove and indent,
Each fracture and dent,
Wondering what they have seen, and what places they went.
I wonder if they are signs — heaven-sent.
This poet wonders — does she know the truth that is grand?
The shell that is pretty mesmerizes those little eyes
While the sea calls out her name for help.
Sand between her toes and wind through her hairs,
She felt every emotion one feels at a shore.
The next scene was haunting — it took away her innocence.
Fishes started to wash up on the shore,
The water began to form bubbles.
As she looked at her mother, who
Whispered with her eyes-
“Sorry, my precious little baby,
Forgive the humankind,
For the future we will leave behind.”
go to bed •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning,
jog an 8K •thinking of you, wash up
drink some flavored, black coffee
watch the morning sun balloon
eat toast while reading a set amount
write my unique and uninteresting analysis
work on half a dozen, odd assignments
walk .8 miles to campus •thinking of you
team up, with some older, uninteresting guys
interview a focus group, present dataset interpretations
walk .8 miles back to my flat •thinking of you
eat while reading a set amount
go to bed •think bemusingly of you
loop (cond) { tomorrow }
I rise in the morning…
.
.
Songs for this:
Falling Down a Wellby Jack J
Overtime (pt 1) by Mk.gee [E]
~Wear a Smile~
Sometimes things happen we just don’t understand
Sometimes our lives don’t go the way we planned
There are times we can feel so completely alone
While we keep tumbling along like a rolling stone
There are times we may wash up on the shore
And we don’t hear the postman knocking at the door
There are moments we may find that our destinies
Were between times we didn’t see our opportunities
Now the message I’m writing to both me and you
Is that we can paint our skies either gray or blue
But if we choose to always wear a smile my friends
It will change the way that each precious day ends
(From the pages of my 11th book)
God Bless and Best Wishes to YOU...Peace
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.
The silent woman watches,
Shifting in the cold.
Holding coffee in hand,
Watching over the land.
Swiftly through the falling leaves,
Laying in the water.
Boats carving gashes,
Froth burbling up,
In their wake.
The silent woman watches,
As the dock begins to shake.
Glimpses of egrets,
Scream their distaste.
The waves wash up.
Sea oats fall down.
Debris is scattered all around.
The silent woman watches,
Mud roils in the water.
Fish can't breathe,
No more river otter.
The silent woman watches,
The no wake zone.
She moans as the river groans,
Beauty chiseled away.
She never cleans me
I thought he might break down and do it
Because I have seen him wash up the microwave
And yesterday he rinsed the sink
I am smelly, sticky, and irritated.
There is crusty gunky stuff in my basement
Drips of ketchup and syrup have hardened on my shelves
I feel disrespected, dishonored, disheveled
And I am disgusted
Here he comes to get something
If I could hide it I would,
Maybe it would force him to clean me
Deep sigh as he rumbles around in the Tupperware
He finally locates the cheese that he wanted
Why don’t you say something? Milk demands.
I don’t talk human, I tell him.
None of the refrigerators do.
Her eyes wandered across the room
She was looking for him
But she couldn’t see him
Where was he?
Did he walk away again?
Leaving her to cry into her own shoulder
To drive herself home
To sleep with her face in her pillow, not his
I can’t let this happen
Not again
I will fall apart
The single cup of dried coffee in my sink will turn into a thousand more to wash up
The plates in the rack will multiply and the task will grow harder
I will procrastinate the thought of showering
I will cancel plans with my very few friends
I will want it all to end
Under the light of the star in the sky
Under the pressure of scattered eyes
The last embers of a sunset
sink below a dark horizon
almost mirroring a Rothko
painting in its somber
and weighted tones.
A sadness has found
a place to settle
for the evening
and is absorbed
by the water and sky.
It seems weary, unable
to take form in a thought
and be given a name,
but is more a shade
as that which inhabits
the internal landscape
of a haiku when something
fragile and exquisitely beautiful
is caught briefly in its passing
and let go.
It is a sadness that feels
soul deep, reverberates
in the ear beyond
any audible note
from a place that echoes
an emptiness,
the absence of what perhaps
first gave it breath
and let its fragile existence
float free and alone
to wash up on the shores
of this gentle evening
and utter a sigh.
Your Love
Its foreign to me
I find myself
In Beijing
I swum
Through life
To wash up
Upon your body
I lay my head
Gently
On your tummy
The sun
Beating down
Upon this
Foreign shore
I ‘am tired
For I swum
Against the tied
I must have promised to diligently strive
to get up each morning by half past five.
Drink my java, watch the news, keep
things quiet and let her snooze..
Wash up at our bathroom sink but keep
the faucet trickling so she gets a full drink..
Serve her a chicken pate dish, never meat
and seldom fish..
If I'm met with defeat offer a few temptation treats.
Brush my tresses and her hair, bless her with
a St. Anthony prayer..
Once the sun is fully up, let her out to strut her stuff..
When I forget or show some slack, I'm actually snubbed
by my very own cat!
I'll be sticking with this cat's agenda, heaven forbid I
might offend her..
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