stealing booty arti-
fact oats from a
cut-up maybe's micro buy-one
brain cache is like abhorring a
clashing washboard
knight in your weird new
beer view mirror
Upward washboard
Washcloth without
Waybill uphill
Workplace, without
Washcloth wipeout
Washboard Upward
4/1/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
Let’s bring back the GOOD OLD DAYS
Grab that washboard and some lye soap
Hang those wet clothes on a limp rope
Chop some wood, build a fire
The kids new swing a worn out tire
Park that car up on the front “lawn”
‘cause all the gasoline is gone
Wash your dishes in a bucket
When ya poop don’t dare to flush it
Separate and please recycle
returning home on your BI-CYCLE
after dark, laundry’s still damp
where’s my NEW kerosene lamp
I’m setting traps for squirrel and rabbit
Meat eating’s such a FILTHY HABIT
I read a book, I’m such a scamp
Under an incandescent lamp
Gotta go, it’s almost sun-up
Gotta go and guard my turnips
But first I’ll eat my Covid Era Pop Tarts
And get arrested for my Methane Gas Farts
The Washer Woman in Canyonlands
An old woman laments
of her daily chores,
the stinging lye soap
and a biting washboard.
With knuckles bleeding
into the day’s dirty water,
she sighs and prays
for a better tomorrow.
Once the future promised brilliance, but it never came to light
As the star I’d used to guide me dimmed and blended with the night.
The astronomy of darkness lured me farther from my goal
Till I stumbled at the crossroads where I lost my self control.
This magnificent amnesia puts the washboard to my shame.
Can’t remember where I’m headed. Don’t recall from where I came.
Empty cans amid the crossties, broken bottles by the rail,
Are the blazes and the landmarks that illuminate my trail;
Like conspicuous reminders of an unforgiving past,
Through a thousand level crossings, each more lonesome than the last.
But magnificent amnesia plays its lullaby refrain.
To memories asleep in the asylum of my brain.
Once the future wore the costume of a carefree, smiling rogue;
Now it slouches like a ragman down a narrow dead end road.
I don’t b*tch and moan, regardless; only mama’s boys complain.
I just trudge on in the darkness through a piss of pouring rain.
This magnificent amnesia is the perfect compromise,
And a cavalier expression is my everyday disguise.
Always unexpected, spring arrives.
Water and warm spring air raises grass
On hills before the sheep and llamas graze.
Rain falls and tries to glaze fields of yellow hay
Stippled by the husbanded animals and deer
With their round mouthed chewing into cud.
Now, farmers can stop trips to buy extra hay
In town, pickup trucks with rolled hay bales
Jostling down the washboard country roads.
Spring calving and planting
Easiest of clichés:
Renewal, and I watch the fields green.
Queued up around the edge of the nearest one,
A stand of bushes and though there is no wind,
One quakes and shivers as if it’s cold.
I inspect beneath its outer leaves
To see two birds fluttering feathers
And jumping from branch to branch
Picking dark berries off,
Pecking them out of shape
And with broken neck gestures
Shake their heads from side to side
And eat them one by one. (4/9/21)
Tide out ...
Swells break far and creep slow,
sweeping tender 'cross washboard flats
where they used to dance -
where they lauded the ebullience of life
in purpose ... and pairs.
Beach ballerinas, flaunting perfect line ...
toothpick legs busy as Baryshnikov 'midst the billows,
leopard mantle still as stars
while they streaked and pattered forth-and-back,
never touching the hem of the combers.
Nature has no humor, they say ...
yet 'twas a game they played with the ocean's edge,
the sand they pranced was just as cold -
just as wet and wobbly and wild ...
it served no critical purpose to shun the wash in such diligence.
Yet they were masters of the art, and graceful,
as tho' it had been thus for eons ... and of course, it had.
That very game and dance is what I miss so dearly now,
tears disguised in the salt spray on my face,
as I pull another clump of plastic ...
From last year's nests.
~ 4th Place ~ in the "Last Year's Nests" Poetry Contest, Craig Cornish, Judge & Sponsor.
Grandma’s Old Oak tree
No backyard trees do I remember,
Tho cottonwood and mulberries lined street and walk,
So for this purpose one I’ll adopt one from
Grandma’s backyard for this poem’s talk.
A round old oak, too big to hug, sprawled o’er her big backyard,
Where three girls washed in an old wash pot out on an old washboard.
Smoke darkened the old tree’s under leafed belly,
All the more to shade the girls’ summer library.
So dense it was, it was nature’s dry hideaway,
One side the iron pot, on its arms a swing
A pile of sand where all could play,
From there you could hear the children sing.
The old tree was old when its girls were young,
And lived ‘til their ripe old age;
For all I know it still lives to love
Another family turning its page.
Washboard and spoons
Guitar and drums
Accordion
Getting together
With the band
A moment not about skin
But about soul
A party not about race
But about rhythm
Take a stand
(or perhaps a dance)
Against hate
Yell a little
Prance a little
Live, love a lot
Making music
While joining hands
I come from the country,I'm proud to say,
Playing with rocks in the creek,half of the day.
Watching my grandmother wash clothes on an old time washboard,
Times was hard,that’s all she could afford.
I remember my grandfather would set and whittle with his pocketknife,
Telling jokes to us kids,that was the life.
Playing in the hills with sticks and a rocks,
Coming home with dirt and holes all in our socks.
Suppertime we had pinto beans and cornbread,
When we get holes in our clothes,my mom would used a needle and thread.
To dry our clothes we used clothesline and pins,
When they dried,put them in a basket and brought them in.
I sure miss those days,when family came in,they would give you an old country hug,
At night we would catch lightening bugs.
I remember watching my mom can,in an old jar,
We couldn’t even afford a junk car.
These days are gone,and have passed,
But never forgotten,it was a blast.
THE GOOD OLD DAYS – JOURNAL XVI
Looking back from this point
I’d have to make a division
Between adults and children
For adults the many tasks were more
The thirties were the ultra-sparse of times –
Men out seeking work, women with back
breaking chores
The washboard, carpet beater, scrubbing (on
hands and knees) floors –
For most no modern conveniences
The kids – at least this kid – were relatively
happy
They might help out, certainly,
But had not the worry,
The responsibility
Things wearing out was not a big factor
Like, rubber resoles, needle and thread,
sewing machine,
The Model T with removable parts
The everyday things pristine
But people wore out
Everything moved so much slower
Those worn out moved slower –
the worry, emotional fatigue -
One’s age, life expectancy much lower
In these last few, as I reluctantly rise each day,
I want to remember the happy kid
And thank the martyrs, the miserable
For making him that way
Reaching a fork in the old winding road...
Our difficult choice, is to withhold admiration.
A turn to the left?.... Or a turn to the right?
Decisions! Decisions! Which will earn our attention?
Turning heads to the right, there are potholes abundant!
Reversing our eyes, in the opposite direction,
Is a washboard damnation that seems noncompliant!
Perhaps a rotation, will take us back home !!
__________________________________________________
For the contest sponsored by Kim Merryman "Road Trip" 8/23/13
October 01, 2012
-------------------------------
Watch these scars of mine as they grow,
Everyday another one shows
Slowly reshaping my look until I am,
Just an ugly washboard-worthless
Watch these scars of mine slowly fade
Everyday a little less seen but never truly gone
Forgotten dreams rolling like a red river down my arm
Another, silent scream
Give unto me your pain, your sorrow
Live until there is no tomorrow
Place around me a robe of sweet lies
While my mind slowly dies
Watch these scars of mine consume me
Watch these scars of mine subdue me
Will anyone ever save me
Will I ever be free
Years of washing,
yet the stains won't fade;
Washboard worn,
My fingers,
Bleed.
A cleansing of my soul,
is maybe what I need.
Bits of metal,
chips of wood;
years of washing,
yet still,
misunderstood...
Years of washing,
Yet the Stains won't fade;
Alone, unclean;
Feeling betrayed...
Years of washing,
the Stains,
won't fade;
Ready for the reaper,
Suit, Tie,
Decay...
PRETTY KITTY
They named her Princess
Coal black with long silken fur
She had this proud air
They had to laugh thought it cute
Not Caesar their bulldog brute
Caesar was not cute
had a face like a washboard
Always kept his place
But Princess had a free reign
And this caused Caesar great pain!
She ate at table
Was let out to freely roam
Welcomed on a lap
Not so Caesar not so cool
He was too big and he drooled
He was patronized
Princess her nose in the air
Scratched the furniture
Had a perfumed litter box
Once peed on the master’s sox
All this Caesar saw
Oh it rankled in his craw
That snip of a cat!
Bring her down to Earth he vowed
Dump her from her fleecy cloud
And then one fine day
As the Princess sleeping lay
Head on velvet paws
Caesar as was his habit
Lifted leg let her have it!
Dave Austin
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