Wringer Poems

Quasi-Quasimodo

Searching the smoking ruins
of Notre-Dame cathedral,
on the Paris Île de la Cité,
one of the finest examples medieval
of French Gothic architecture,
with flying buttresses, a rib vault,
immense bells,
enormous colourful rose windows
all of which went through hell
during the fearful fire of 2019,
and it was seen
he'd been through the wringer
when looking for Quasimodo
they found a dead ringer

Wrung Betwixt the Sky and Sea

Blue on blue
a sandwich
of the sky and sea
clutching on
jealously
to the distant horizon.

They both join hands,
laugh, 
and emit their
features, 
creatures and apparitions.

Streaming towards you
like they're on 
washing machine wringer rollers,
one spinning out and up
the other,
spinning out and down,
painting the scene 
blue on blue,
silk-screened.

Seagulls soar.
Flying fish leap.
Dolphins hobby-horse.
Fishes flip, flop and swim.
Clouds billow and wallow along.
Waves rush onward with crests 
on their chests.

All this and more, is rolled out at dawn,
then gets rolled away at dusk,
to wring another day.

Grandma's Old Wringer Washer -

In the 50's mom and grand
Had that old Maytag™ drum washer
It would twist and dance
~
Wiggle N turn
Like a baby wobble 
That old washing machine 
~
had a motor almost as big 
as a Volkswagen 
Boy, did love to wash them clothes

In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer -
~
shaped shaped like a barrel
 on top of it a wringer 
with a handle place in the clothes 
~
Too wring out put it in a wicker basket
And then take to the clothesline 
and hang up too dry outside

That task was a job., was a shore 
In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer -

In Grandma's Old Wringer Washer

12/8/23
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2023

Hidden From Time

Beyond those hills lie the mysteries
of a small community hidden from time.
Little has changed in the past fifty years,
if one does not consider the paved road
or the telephone lines, some of the few
remaining party lines in the country -- 
Yes! If you stand underneath them you
can hear the noisy chattering of gossipers
exchanging notes about their neighbors,
or, arranging interesting tripartite trysts.
Sometimes the sound of a zither plucked,
or an old wringer washer chugging along
[if it’s a Monday morning]; you can hear
a faint whistling of undetermined origin.
Everyone knows everyone else and kin
who have not left for Ohio since the 50s,
while old, uninhabited houses crumbled
into dust, including one where I was born
on a snowy winter’s day in bleak December.

Written August 8, 2022

Wrung Out

Hortense was an Opera singer,
Who thought she was a humdinger.
Every breath that she took,
Screamed like a strangulated chook,
The audience put Hortense through the wringer.

A Tender Moment From Childhood

My fond childhood memories;
I couldn't wait to get to my grandparents
During the holidays when I was young.
Their arms always outspread with affection,
Their warm love for us was quite apparent.

Waking in the morning with smell of baked bread.
Wouldn't take much for grandpa and me to pause
Whatever we were doing when bread was ready.
Slice of hot bread and melting butter, our stomachs fed.

Gran would let me help wash clothes in a spent
Wringer washer, then hung on a clothesline
With two-pronged wooden pins in the backyard
To dry in the sun giving them fresh air scent.

I am older, with my own family.
I try to keep those warm memorable
Traditions. A bread machine, a dandy
Invention; all ending so happily.

One of the few things I do and provide
myself; if ambitions on sunny days,
I will hang my clothes out on the clothesline.
Memories of childhood I hold with pride.

 6/16/2021

Poetry Contest: A Tender Moment From Childhood	
Sponsored by: Malabika Ray Choudhury

Childhood Memories

I couldn't wait to get to my grandparents
During the holidays when I was young.
Their arms always outspread with affection, 
Their warm love for us was quite apparent.

Waking in the morn with smell of baked bread.
Wouldn't take much for grandpa and me to pause
Whatever we were doing when ready.
Slice of bread and butter, our stomachs fed.

Gran would let me help wash clothes in a spent
Wringer washer, then hung on a clothesline
With two-pronged wooden pins in the backyard
To dry in the sun giving them fresh air scent.

I am older with my own family.
I try to keep those warm memorable
Traditions. A bread machine, a dandy
Invention; all ending so happily.

One of the few things I lend and provide
myself if ambitions; on sunny days,
I will hang my clothes out on the clothesline.
Memories of childhood I hold with pride.

12/7/2020

Story From Your Childhood Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: L MILTON HANKINS

Perseverance

A lone flower

            stuck in the muck, tested

        by strong winds and hard rain,

                  yet its tentacles

                 remain unhooked

                     from the soil.

         It's been through the wringer,

                yet look at it thrive!

             Look at it do the limbo!

                   Look at it dance...

                and twirl all about!

                 and look, just look...

                at that golden glow!

           It still smiles under the sun!




COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE(14) any theme any form contest (Winner: Honorable Mention)	
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date written: 10/13/2019

Travesty Disbarred--

Disbarred from the encompassing
Travesty...
Color TVs and refrigerator
Combined together makes ice pictures
Filled with yellow ketchup mustard

Contemplating something
Distorted glass melting diamond rings
Frozen displaced clutter
Washing machine wringer
Dolphins laughing there're such singers
Lastingly...
Encompassing from disbanded
Travesty disbarred

8/21/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr  2019©

Mama's Pet Helper

Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust,
That Singer, that for Mama was a must.
She tried her best to teach me how to sew,
But it was hard to catch me on the go.

I wanted a real job with ample pay,
At sewing lessons, I could never stay.
When Mom died, she left me her old Singer,
As antique as washer with a wringer.

The war years seemed like only yesterday.
While they lasted, I had a job with pay.
I bought my dresses off rack at Penney's,
And could afford to eat lunch at Denny's.

I kept Mom's picture on her old sewer.
She smiled at me sitting 'neath hair blower.
I started as my big dog gave a bark,
The candle sputtered, spent and all was dark.

Laundry Day

Hooray it’s laundry day
A perfectly lazy day
Where all I need do
Is get up once in a while
For quick transfers
Just a flick of a button
And wait for the magic to unfold

I have it so easy – growing up
My mom raised us six kids
The car weekly loaded with laundry
Heading down to a local laundromat
Imagine the mountains of laundry!
Clothes for eight, linen and the rest
Often one of the eldest would go help
Then sometimes treated to an ice cream

She had it so easy – I remember
My grand-mother’s laundry day
Piles of laundry scattered everywhere
She’d roll out the manual wringer washer
She’d use brute strength and it took forever
Then she’d hang it all on the clothesline

I think how times have changed and love how
Three generations meet every laundry day



AP: Honorable Mention 2020

Submitted on May 18, 2020 for contest BRIAN'S CHOICE K sponsored by BRIAN STRAND

Originally posted on March 27, 2018

Pleasant Scents From Childhood Memories

It was pleasant every time we went to grandpa and grandmas.
We woke up in the morning with the smell of fresh baked bread.
Wouldn't cause much for all of us and grandpa to pause
whatever we were doing and ran when, "It's ready." was said.
Slices of bread smothered with butter and jelly souls were fed.

Grandma would fill the wringer washing machine 
with cold water from a hose hooked up to the house, 
I enjoyed  watching it agitate  getting  the clothes clean.
We hung them out in the backyard on the clothesline and rouse 
the sunshine to dry giving them  a fresh air scent especially my blouse.

Now that I'm older with my own family I try to keep those traditions.
I use a bread machine instead of using my hands to knead bread.
One of the few things I lend and provide myself to be ambitions.
On sunny days,  I'll hang my clothes out on the clothesline instead.
These small things became quite real to me, I will never dread.

2/19/2018

Poetry Contest: 'The Scent Of Baking Bread, The Scent Of Clean Sheets Fresh Off The Clothesline' English Quintain  : a,b,a,b,b  
Sponsored By:	Sara Kendrick

Mother

I don’t think she ever drank
gin in the morning.
Perhaps she should have.
Her oatmeal stuck
to your ribs
and anything else it touched.
Her apron,
the ultimate multitasking tool,
wiped up after….
well….
everything.
God, she looked beautiful.
Housecoat,
inverted socks for slippers,
a cigarette smoldering
on the kitchen table,
four kids building
oatmeal castles.
She hated the new
wringer washing machine.
It had developed a taste
for her arm.
Gin in the morning?
wouldn’t have helped.


©2/16/2018

submitted to – Gin in the Morning – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Julia Ward

Inner Strength

Inner strength 

When under your wings, ill wind dwells
Stuck knee-deep in life’s expansive marsh
Bobbed about by its unending swells
Your curse it seems, is strangely harsh

Then, hope’s decaying carcass’ putrid stench
Ooze from your pores, each and every day
Your burning courage, subdued by its drench
Eroded, confidence chooses the other way

You're  pressured to the brink of life’s rink
On poisoned booze for a permanent snooze
A noose, or other ways, your mind can think
You now ponder, for there’s nothing to lose

My dear friend, of this truth, I must speak
You’re much stronger than you’ll ever know
So when life is hell, to your inner self peek
And seek that strength that always lies low

Your fate you’d think may in perpetuity hatch
Dark patches, to put you through the wringer
On that inner strength, you must learn to latch
Adversity may tarry, but will never forever linger.
Feb 10, 2018

Cold Water Raining Between Them

Annie has a nice washing machine now 
but she remembers the one her
mother had with the wringer,
the old-fashioned kind.

Her mother took in washing and when 
the washing machine would break 
Annie would become half the wringer.
Mother would hold the waist of wet pants

and Annie would grip the cuffs and 
they’d twist in opposite directions,
the cold water raining between them. 
Each pair of farmer’s pants 

put food on the table. With six kids
food was important. To this day Annie
smiles when she remembers her   
Mother never had to use a pants 

stretcher in winter to make
her ironing a little bit easier.
She’d hang the pants out in the yard
and they’d freeze straight on the line. 


Donal Mahoney

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