The newest model has in-built AI -
My scientific mind suspects a lie.
Estimating all wash-loads -
Exact water for my clothes!
Just a clever sensor - to fool the eye!
I met her in a dream at a washing station in Bangladesh
I might have tried to hold her hand by the thread she held
Which passed through the interior of a manicured shrub
Severely cut into the form of a dense sunless topiary ball
So tightly was it manicured to create a studied appearance
Of formal stability and calm that no air or sunlight reached its interior
And you could smell the rot from inside at a distance
And hear the screams of a six-year-old child from inside as well
Calling out desperately from the rot for attention and care
That I might follow the thread and see into the plant I dare not go
For there were broken off rotten limbs of its trunk lying by its side
From those who tried to reach the centre of the shrub before
So, I held back my desire to reach the centre and stopped out the noise.
I sat in the sunlight of what was once northern India and wondered at life’s destruction
Where none of Shiva’s many arms could penetrate into planned obstruction for aid
And the course of fate finds its way into unexpected dreams on night pillows rest.
Last year we planned a new kitchen
And went to the glossy showroom.
There were choices many,
But not flustered,
I was keen on slate grey and mustard.
The man too had a vision
Cupboards new, clean finish.
Then he spoke of the washing machine;
“I think they look best integrated,
Hidden behind closed doors.”
It made me pause…
White goods, classified
Too unclean to be seen.
As if in shame of her duties mundane.
Our domestic goddess,
Taken for granted.
Her duties -
Fed weekly and meekly
She takes on full loads,
Tumbles and turns,
Delivers, and births us clean clothes.
I knew how I loved her.
I chose not to hide her.
And she stands there,
Proudly on view.
Integral, dependable,
She’s a giver of time.
Present.
Music fills my soul washing away bitter memories
Monday ~ it is off to work I must go.
Tuesday ~ the best night for TV watching.
Wednesday ~ tonight eating left overs from the weekend.
Thursday ~ I am almost to the end of the week.
Friday ~ I lived through another week, Hooray!!!
Saturday ~ it is a busy day washing and cleaning.
Sunday ~ a day for my Lord and me to talk.
Where did the time go???
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
Mister Joe jangles
loose change deep in his pockets
jogging memories
he washes, tumbles and hangs
up to flap for passers by
a lover of words
incessant with their jingle
riddles, rhymes, clangs, songs—
they taunt him and his readers
to add new charms to bracelets
words stir still waters,
claw rogue paths through apathy—
sifting good from bad—
dispelling glitter and rust
to forge badges for reason
Joe can dance for you
in ragged clothes, worn out shoes
with the old soft shoe—
if you hear or read the words
flapping washing on the lines
I only feel real
When I'm downing glasses full of depression
And regret comes around every now and then
banging on the door
real turns its head
When rivers on my skin run too deep
real becomes real
as my happiness only comes in waves
crawling through my brain
only crashing for a night
leaving me with false hope
But I'd take the real back
If I could feel hurt
washing away with the glasses
I only feel real
when everything feels real
Each night after the evening meal
there was never a discussion
as to who would wash the dishes
and who would do the drying up.
My mother was the washer,
my sister and I did the drying up.
Hot steam would rise from the sink
before plates were plunged
deep in foam and scrubbed
with a brush - we would wait,
tea towel in hand to pounce
on the first plates to come out,
rinsed and white -
dishes were easier to dry
than heavy pots
and fiddly knives and forks.
It was a time for talk, for laughs
and sometimes snuffled back tears -
everyday life lived within the space
of our touching elbows.
I can still feel the tea towel
in my hand wet and warm
with those blessed memories.
Seventy years on, I bend down
and load the racks of a dishwasher
with soiled tableware from
the evening meal. Its quiet whirr
will fill the winter silence
and play a soulless ditty when
the washing and drying up
is done.
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
I used to live at the foot of a lush, green hill
whose high pastures fed dairy herds.
When I stood under the washing line
in my cottage garden and looked up,
it appeared that the cattle
were grazing on my roof.
It was then I realized
perception
was a broken fragment in the eye of reality,
God’s little trick
to be understood
in the soft brown eyes of cows.
the rain will pour relentlessly
washing away the sins of day
waves roll down my street
echoing triumph of the new world
cold air and back-splash reaches me
reminders that i am not as exception to this washing
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* hiku *
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thorough bathing
our cat does daily perform ~
licks sons hair clean
Years ago, no one had new knees said Dad
They had to make do with the ones they had
Women ran around with wrinkles and gray hair
Plastic surgeons and hair dye did not exist anywhere
I see a brain washing machine down the road
They will open your skull with a saw-blade gold
Take your brain out and cleanse it once and for all.
You will fall for their tales, no matter how weird or tall.
Can you see the Pharisee washing his hands, full of pride?
Hasn't he, in his show-off, kept his honesty aside?
The one who called you for meals had his agenda in mind.
To prove you are wrong, in you some faults he wanted to find
With the cleansing of dishes, you asked, Do you peep within?
More than the dust and dirt, there are abundant scars of sin.
Seeming neat in visage, you told them, You’re like white-washed tombs.
From the pessimism brewing within you, cynicism fumes.
You press on lawfulness, you said to the pundits of law.
You thrust loads on the poor. You do not move even a straw.
Do you think that building tombs for prophets is your pastime?
In you, the pride of holding heavenly keys is in prime
Give away, you said, evincing kindness as a fashion.
Pretence and ferocity should give way to compassion.
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