It is quite common to kiss injuries on those wee.
At three, my son asked to have bath autonomy.
I tossed a washcloth, then stood where he could not see.
Soon, he called out words that amusingly shook me,
"Mom, it washed sore, come kiss ouchy on my pee-pee."
Shopping, strolling him down the grocery store aisle
where female hygiene products are sorted in piles,
my son, age four, earnestly said, "When I'm grown, I'll
buy all these things with flowers on them for my wife."
His words styled a smile in me that would last for life.
I used mild-applied wooden spoons for mood anchors.
This set me up for disgust from food cart flankers
when my son yelled, "Look Mom, a hole bag of spankers."
My child, four, eyed that, not the shelved Power Rangers?
I hoped no one would report child welfare dangers.
Once, when a minister summed up his sermon's span
asking "Who's the greatest force in the universe?",
my son, at five, stood up with some dramatic plan.
Lifting his toy hero as high as small ones can,
he enthusiastically declared, "Batman!"
Thoughts of vacation, developed my fav word pearl,
"How many times do I wake up before Disney World?"
Today the boy, wanting to stay tuned, grabbed the VR
Sweating profusely, needed a washcloth bathing
Boys don’t enjoy Sundays but they do after all
The class in awe of Revelation, wanting more
fruit, casserole, sweets and godly treats
We were at the movies when the sermon broke in
and we wept as the sinners waded into the baptismal
Back home, the grabster and the friend on other end
A friend, who knows not him
Sitting with my wine in a boot, or something like that
Watching Martha, feeling sorry for her but elated
for she related to the prisoners
It is dark now and rain’s now in my boot
I take a sip and fall asleep
or rather
write a poem, from the hip*
*from the hip - to act impulsively, like drawing a gun from the holster.
Upward washboard
Washcloth without
Waybill uphill
Workplace, without
Washcloth wipeout
Washboard Upward
4/1/24
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2024©
The rugs in the living room
Are thin in places, and
The dog has scratched
The painted floors.
The end tables are crowded
With family pictures
Instead of knickknacks
Some of the bath towels
Have slightly raveled edges,
And a washcloth is left in the tub.
There are books and newspapers
On the coffee table and
Hardly a place for a coffee cup.
But the house smells of
Fresh baked bread or cookies,
The lights are on, and
The welcome mat is out\.
Friends feel free to just drop by.
It may not be fancy, but
It’s a house that’s happy
And comfortably “broken in”.
*Image of The Moon Looking At Full by Pixabay.
“No man for any considerable period can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter, 1850.
Pockets Of Moon and Men
Daylight is wiped away by a washcloth
transformed into a grayish dusk disguise
as an orb light removes a murky swath
its mask gone thus does the illusion dies
The facade exhibits cracked lines and holes
that crisscross its scenery seen in parts
an imperfect surface sway naught the souls
as amour captivate, affects sweethearts
It adjusts pained lives who have broken up
with all its flawed features mesmerize lives
minding trifling defects both share the cup
as keen as mustard errs also faults thrives
Opted pairs make-up after both were torn
Pocket-full-of-miracles pleased Hawthorne
2021 June 23
*1st Place*
ALL YOURS (Jun 25)
~~Brian Strand Judged 2021 June 26
*3rd Place*
Writing Prompt - Flawed
~~Constance La France: Judged 2021 June 24
With a deliberated ruse; she washed its tiny face with a soft washcloth.
With no resistance, she enfolded the wee infant into a swaddling cloth.
In the Autumn equinox, she placed the tiny form in the simple wooden box.
She watched them perform their antiquated burial tradition, and then she returned to the loose gray dirt.
She then headed home with a secret beneath her skirt.
Earlier during the dim of the day, while they were seeking each other for comfort.
And while superficial prayers were offered up with great effort.
She blew breath into the tiny mouth and massaged its tiny smooth chest.
And by the grace of God, the tiny infant was blessed.
Madame Blackwell by virtuous askew created a makeshift bundle and made a switch.
Her deed made unnoticed without a glitch.
No regret manifested in her heart.
No transient sorrow, in place was a spiritual upstart.
For retribution was pacified and made whole.
There was a righteous mood in her soul.
Justice was done.
For her, the sun's unsparing glory shone radiantly on her and her son.
by Dawne Zacharias
The Wall of Rain from
a distance came
with
healing drops
to vanquish pain
a warm washcloth
aside the face
we sought to restore
hopes warm embrace
he became my child again
my little one
our life to continue had just begun
Jesus remained our hope in view
as we prayed together
we both knew
a mother and son with His grace
shine with God's purpose face to face.
A seagull’s just messed on my car
poop splattered the windscreen so far
it obscured my view
wet white slimy pooh
that seagull needs the abattoir!
To remove that horrible slurry
I leapt out my car in a hurry
and wiped the poop off
with an old washcloth -
clean windscreen, but seagulls should worry
To prevent seagulls having fun
I’m fitting a huge machine gun
if one poops on my car
then I’ll shoot from afar
and seagulls will be on the run!
Contest Any animal or creature Limerick
Sponsor by Charles Messina
NO SEAGULLS WERE INJURED IN THE WRITING IN THIS FICTIONAL POEM
8/31/18
How to Stay Married to Me
(a poetic tutorial)
Don’t come at me
With sweets or cookies
On Valentine’s Day
My New Year’s resolutions
Are around to stay
(talk to me around Mother’s Day)
Understand my currency:
Words, sweet syntax,
Small deeds at random
Are my box of chocolates
Fill my tank,
Ask if I’ve lost weight
Offer a walk
Clean the garage
Love our kids
Even after tattoos and missing assignments
Put things together: furniture and broken hearts
Camping trips and holiday dinners
Let the dogs sleep in our bed
And in and out at night
What seems like a zillion times
A human doggie door
Take care of the old people
Move a couch for my grandma
“It has to be now!” Nevermind
That your back is out
Tolerate my OCD tendencies
Ignore the washcloth tower
Turn a blind eye to the
Exercise clothes rotation
Understand it gives me power
Let me be in charge
of the temperature in the car
you take the music--
A better DJ by far
Stockpile our everyday
Like a trip to Sam’s Club
Saturday drives to games
Sunday laundry and grocery
Love me through the mundane
The necessary normal
that makes us great
The pen has betrayed me!
The ink has swallowed me as spit on a fly.
I burn pages with fiery lightning bug breaths
That spill from pokey jar-holes.
If I touched flame I'd very well melt to the floor.
I would bleach your Turkish rugs.
I would ruin the drapes.
And I, a sighing house abandoned.
An echo of Hillary on his mountain.
A babe buried by Antoinette.
What I would write, I would write
if I could!
I may have a blind mouth.
I may be a beaten moth against railroad lamps.
I still hear that old pen laughing, oh enemy
That I could never leave.
I curse you only to nurse from you,
for the nourishment a mother forgot to give.
I always tended to settle, any ways.
I always intended to stay.
Some days silence is a newspaper-holding man,
that glances to me for a moment,
Just to call me a mutt.
But others days I am sick, and it is
Warm blankets and a wet washcloth on my head.
Pen knows this too well.
A trade to swear soul to an ink.
As clean running water flows through dirty dishes
Immense joy and peace bathe her tired being
While veined deft hands scour surfaces and edges
She becomes aware of her body and breathing
Immense joy and peace bathe her tired being
As inner quiet rises and makes its home in her
She becomes aware of her body and breathing
As the plates and sink caress each other
As inner quiet rises and makes its home in her
She becomes mindful of herself and some truths
As the plates and sink caress each other
Her mind and heart unite which amazingly soothes
She becomes mindful of herself and some truths
As her ill thoughts are met with steel wool opposition
Her mind and heart unite which amazingly soothes
And her soul is animated like a new spotless creation
As her ill thoughts are met with steel wool opposition
False magnanimity is wiped with washcloth of humility
And her soul is animated like a new spotless creation
As clean running water flows through dirty dishes
8/9/14
I puffed out a soft cold cloud
In these long chambered empty rooms
As my hand held washcloth to brow
Over me, your sickness looms
Hot breath toasted my fingers
Now heaving up dead fireflies
The anger still lingers
My fever induced by your lies
From the moment I feel that spark
in the palm of your hand and let it
run over the bone of my hip, I am placed in a
euphoria that drags along with me for months and
years.
It keeps me awake at night and clouds my focus
during the conference calls, bathroom breaks, and
monotonous drives home. It puts me to sleep as I stand
over the boiling pot of spinning webs.
I can feel every stroke of your finger across my face, my thoughts of it. I am
trapped in my memory and longing for the silence of water
falling from the shower head as I drink you in over and over.
It makes my heart flutter and pound and fumble to catch its breath. It makes my mind start and stop
and sputter like a Chrysler with no battery. I hold it quietly around my middle, to protect me from the
emptiness of acceptance.
This is a dirty trick of an imbalanced mind. It is not the very real experience and longing that I try to
compress with this very unhelpful, old washcloth.
Obsession and some Barbasol so occupy my sink
A razor and a toothbrush and some Colgate too I think
A bar of soap, a washcloth, oops, there’s perfume there as well
And some dainties hanging on the door that makes my head now swell
The image in the mirror’s not as young as it used to be
But still there is some promise on the face that I do see
I might be in my forties, but I still think there’s some youth
Left within the mirror , a face that bares some proof
I stand and look around in this tiny bright commode
And realize, it’s just a place that exists in my abode
For all the rooms, they hold me, or a presence of the me
The man there in the mirror, the youthful guy, I see
Lasagna noodles on my forehead
A washcloth in the pot
Oh dear, oh my, what am I doing?
I think I completely forgot
It’s dinner time for all the kiddies
And I put the toaster in the sink
I’m losing it, my mind is warped
I’m edging to the brink
Maybe I should stop to breathe
Uh oh, I forgot, again, just how
Alright already, I give in
I’m gonna order out
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