Dusting is a good example of the futility of trying to put things right. As soon as you dust, the fact of your next dusting has already been established.
quote by George Carlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dusts
she is a woman fond of cleaning
dust and dirt and
almost everything that
makes this house dirty
or herself, her hands
her clothes and the
furniture that she keeps
on dusting
almost everyday
she slides her fingers
on the table and screens
the surface for dusts
and she thinks
this world must
be free
from dusts
she keeps dusting and dusting
and tonight
she sleeps
deep into
a slumber where
she does not wake up
anymore
she turns to dust
and the wind blows her away at last
poem by Antonio Liao
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Cobwebs
I am dusting off the cobwebs
from the back roads of my mind
hoping that I will find
some old loves I left behind.
Hoping there is still a flicker
in some of those old flames of mine
that I may rekindle an old love again.
As we, get older and we sometimes regret
of not stoking some fires,
a little more often than others
through the years that have passed.
If we had, I sometimes wonder
what would our life be
or did destiny have in mind
it was always you and me.
The dreams are still there
and have never changed.
They just need dusting off
every now and then.
They still flicker
and need stoking to a flame.
In doing so I wonder if,
they will come alive again.
Therefore, I am dusting off the cobwebs
from the back roads of my mind.
28 April 2009
poem by David Harris
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Savior
Dusting off your savior
You were always my favorite
Always my man - All in a hand
To celebrate you is greater
Now that I can - Always my man
Now you see what I came for
No one here is to blame for
Misunderstand - All in a hand
Just like you 'cause you made me
All that I am - All in a hand
A butterfly that flaps its wings
Affecting almost everything
The more I hear the orchestra
The more I have something to bring
And now I see you in a beautiful
And different light
He's just a man and any damage done
Will be all right
Call out my name
Call and I came
Dusting off your savior
Forgiving any behavior
He's just a man - All in a hand
Your hero's destined to waver
Anyone can - Always my man
I would never betray you
Look at me who could raise you
Face in the sand - Safe in your hand
You were always my favorite
Always my man - All in a hand
We are the red hots and
We're loving up the love me nots
The flowers in your flower pots
Are dancing on the table tops
And now I see you in a beautiful
And different light
He's just a man and everything he does
Will be all right
Call out my name
Call and I came
Dusting off your savior
The life that you have narrated
You were my man
song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers from Californication
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Sentence
as you are praying in the altar
i am urinating in the CR
and then you fix the bed
folding the blankets and dusting off the pillows
i stop there for a while
for i have been thinking about dust
you think that i am catering in
to these deadly thoughts
or granting that they are not
why think of rest
when every idea of this world is always labeled
with activity
you run away
that is a good idea connoting always an action
you cry
that 's drama still watched by the masses
who like to shed tears for the star
of the show
there is no choice you tell me
except to surge
to invade
to move on
yes that is the sentence.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Those Comforts Of Home
They like so many,
Claim to enjoy those comforts of home.
But participating in keeping it that way...
Often leads to complaints,
Of chores left undone.
And who should play that role...
Of comfort provider?
And who is not up to meeting standards,
Left and needing regular dusting.
Unless,
One lives alone.
And only then where things are thrown...
Do they find their proper place!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Futility Of Futility
FUTILITY OF FUTILITY
Futility of futility
All is futility-
In my lifelong struggle
To try to be
What I am not-
And it seems,
Never will be.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Missed Future
Each day passes,
Procrastinated.
As hesitated wishes,
Greet anticipated sunsets.
Bold dreams with broken promises,
Sit...
With a dusting,
Upon them they get.
And...
An emptiness regrets,
A missed future not met.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Trouble In Paradise
You do the drying, Ill do the dishes
Wholl do the crying when all the wishes dont come true
You do the washing, Ill do the folding
Whose heart is breaking
When whose arms are holding someone new
Sittin on a peaceful lake sunnin
Didnt hear the roar of the waterfall coming
When its all a storybook story
When its all so easy and nice
Here comes trouble in paradise
You did the dusting, I did the sweeping
You did the driving oh and I did the sleeping a little too long
On a picnic neath the sky so blue
We didnt see the rain and heartache coming through
When its all an old black and white movie
And youre sure youve seen the ending twice
Here comes trouble in paradise
You said everything was fine
Im sorry, baby, I didnt see the signs
Oh so beautifully you read your lines
But in a play where the hero has no vice
And love comes without a price
So does trouble in paradise
Dont matter who did the dusting or who did the sweeping
Who did the trusting or who did the cheating when its all gone
Laying in a field on a summers day
Waitin for those gray skies to clear away
Knowing all loves glory and beauty
Can vanish before you think twice
Leaving trouble in paradise
Now we share the laughing, we share the joking
We do the sleeping with one eye open
song performed by by Bruce Springsteen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Earthquake (A Dream)
the whole building
went down the ground
the earth cave in like a
big mouth
and swallowed
the whole of it
i worry about you
who is inside
that room
alone,
i trust you
and God
then minutes later
you come out of that mess
casually
dusting off your feet
walking down the
pathway towards the house
whistling.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Futility
Dusting my books I spent a busy day:
Not ancient toes, time-hallowed and unread,
but modern volumes, classics in their way,
whose makers now are numbered with the dead;
Men of a generation more than mine,
With whom I tattled, battled and drank wine.
I worshipped them, rejoiced in their success,
Grudging them not the gold that goes with fame.
I thought them near-immortal, I confess,
And naught could dim the glory of each name.
How I perused their pages with delight! . . .
To-day I peer with sadness in my sight.
For, death has pricked each to a flat balloon.
A score of years have gone, they're clean forgot.
Who would have visioned such a dreary doom?
By God! I'd like to burn the blasted lot.
Only, old books are mighty hard to burn:
They char, they flicker and their pages turn.
And as you stand to poke them in the flame,
You see a living line that stabs the heart.
Brave writing that! It seems a cursed shame
That to a bonfire it should play it's part.
Poor book! You're crying, and you're not alone:
Some day someone will surely burn my own.
No, I will dust my books and put them by,
Yet never look into their leaves again;
For scarce a soul remembers them save I,
Re-reading them would only give me pain.
So I will sigh, and say with curling lip:
Futility! Thy name is authorship.
poem by Robert William Service
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South-Westerly-2
What ecstasy you've got into
Tumbling home, me and all you do
Frisky sometimes in perfect rhyme
Frowning sometimes in hassling mime
Breeziest breeze but not a gale
Brisk hurling litters all in bale
See, the surging sea..you're roaring
Upping, upping tides overlapping
See, the flying birds..you're pushing
Downing down in your tilting
See, the tottering trees..you're beating
Fluttering leaves in your strewing
See, the slamming doors..you're hitting
Drying clothes far in your tumbling
See, the swirling dust..you're rolling
Up and down all around you're spraying
What ecstasy you've got into
Dusting my eyes you're into
O'naughty Wind, South West Wind
I would say but at the end
Summer solace you are my friend
Soothing mercy o' you abound
O'Monsoon wind, South West Wind
So good, so good..yet dear friend
How would I say still at the end
'Hats off to you' o' naughty wind
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Even Witches Return
Even witches return,
To straddle their dusting brooms.
Preparing another round of disgust,
With personal strikes and offenses.
Prehaps if given enough room,
To ignite from the bowels...
Of their own gloom,
To fly away.
Maybe the stench left,
Will not be consumed...
Or noticed to associate,
With one!
As cheap and choking perfume,
Does to everyone.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Routines Kept In Session
Some stay in a mirror,
With nothing seen to please.
Some wish to live bigger,
To please ego needs.
While others choose to put aside a pride,
That keeps them hiding lies denied.
Many move with steps quicker,
Than those who sit.
And wish to exist in limitedness.
To enjoy a boring they pour on themselves...
Like objects dusting on a mantled shelf.
Afraid to move away from routines kept,
In session.
Some stay in a mirror,
With nothing seen to please.
Some wish to live bigger,
To please ego needs.
While others choose to put aside a pride,
That keeps them hiding lies denied.
Many move with steps quicker,
Than those who sit.
And wish to exist in limitedness.
To enjoy a boring they pour on themselves...
Like objects dusting on a mantled shelf.
Afraid to move away from routines kept,
In session.
Afraid to move away from routines kept,
As if possessions.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Traumatized By Their Own Denials
Personally I find the unravelling,
Of what is being disclosed to be exposed...
Exhilarating to witness.
As those who have taken others for granted,
Awaken to find themselves...
Compared to books dusting on cobwebbed shelves.
I find it funny and hilarious how people keep beliefs,
That grassroots people living in the inner cities...
Are thought to be imbeciles manipulated easily.
And have wishes to live like those elite.
Who shadow those who have established themselves,
With opportunities and exclusive lifestyles...
To think of themselves as 'above' the ones beneath.
I find it silly to catch myself giggling,
To observe people delusioned to believe they are envied...
By others they 'assume' are livid with jealousy.
But heard to confess of having no interest,
In those who strut seeking to impress.
As if better than the rest.
Sometimes I find it difficult to suppress,
My empathy for those...
Without addressing first my own laughter.
Knowing the ones have to be traumatized,
By their own denials...
When they realize their way of life,
Has long been rejected as a disaster.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Mother's Thoughts
I’m still here somewhere
Between the dishes and laundry
Breakfast, lunch and dinner
I’m still here.
I’m still here somewhere
Between the bills, the errands
Vacuuming, dusting, phones ringing
I’m still here.
I’m still here somewhere
Between school meetings, shopping, lawn mowing
Teasing, Refereeing, and “Mom, tell him to stop it”
I’m still here.
I’m still here somewhere
Between pre-school to high school
Toys to computers
I’m still here
But who am I?
poem by Connie Webb
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That Which Is Really Cherished
To value life,
More than things.
Is a mindset that arrives,
For those who choose to see beyond...
Concepts of victory.
And medals to honor valor.
Bestowed upon temporary stances of glory.
To sit dusting on an ignored mantel.
Erected to cover a natural surface.
With a wish to keep pretensions decorated.
To value life,
And the nourishment of it...
Increases one's awareness,
Of that which is really cherished...
When the threat of it leaving,
Clarifies priorities immediately.
And many folks,
Have yet to have that in their lives addressed.
Especially those consumed by credits and debts.
And living in fear,
Of missing the pettiness of life and all it affords.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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From What Is It Are They Freed?
Is a vacating of one's responsibility,
Okay just to label as immature?
Who endures the consequences?
And is it cost effective,
To agree with those who have made no investment...
Yet lack both tact and discipline,
Encouraged as they nourish irresponsible children?
When then grow to believe...
They are entitled to implement their misdeeds.
To declare themselves free?
And...
From what is it they are freed?
That does not come out of thin and lint dusting pockets.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Work
WHEN I am busying about,
Sewing on buttons, tapes, and strings,
Hanging the week's wet washing out
Or ironing the children's things,
Sweeping and dusting, cleaning grates,
Scrubbing the dresser or the floors,
Washing the greasy dinner plates,
Scouring the brasses on the doors--
I wonder what it's all about,
And when did people first begin
To keep the dirt and wornness out
And keep the wholesome comfort in:
How long it is since women bore
This round of wash and make and mend,
And what God makes us do it for
And whether it will ever end!
When God began to do His work
He made a new thing every day--
Even now He is not one to shirk,
But makes things, always some new way
He made the earth, and sky, and sun,
The creatures of the sea and wood,
And when his first week's work was done
He saw that it was very good.
But He--for all He worked so fast
To finish air, and wave, and shore,
Knew that this work of His would last
For ever and for evermore.
On Saturday night He was content,
He knew that Monday would not bring
Need for another firmament,
Another set of everything.
But though my work is easier far
Than making sky and sea and sun,
It's harder than God's labours are,
Because my work is never done.
I sweep and churn, save and contrive,
I bake and brew, I don't complain,
But every Monday morning I've
Last Monday's work to do again.
I'm good at work--I work away;
Always the same my work must go;
The flowers grow different every day,
That's why I like to see them grow.
If, up in Heaven, God understood
He'd let me for my Paradise
Make all things new and very good
And never make the same thing twice!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Mud
Each step I take,
As I trudge forward
Through the muddy landscape,
Collects my feet:
Pulling me deep toward the Earth,
Rooting me where I stand.
I struggle to free my legs.
They sink where I walk
Until I bury myself.
Time passes and the ground grows firm
While I'm underneath
The dusting fossils,
The stone-etched imprints
That suggest which direction I was going,
And where I had been.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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I'm drowning in harebells…
Bright as water in bitter wells
Where a smile draws the dust
Oh I'm drowning in harebells…
Chewing on what's solaced.
Oh like a pocket penknife
She cuts me when I treat her kind.
But she doesn't know me?
She just slipstreams into my mysterious life.
Into my mysterious mind
Saying; were just two of a kind
To be cremated together under the sun
But honestly she doesn't know me, none.
But when head lights intercept us…
As another fortified acceptance falls
I see her like a bridge with backward waters
Draining an ocean; with no-pitfalls.
Bright as water in bitter wells
Where a smile draws the dust
Oh I'm drowning in harebells
Chewing on what's solaced.
Daughter of the lilies where the dragonfly
Dwells to the north in my blood
And the golden bees dusting in their lunch
Girl you've got such charms knee deep in mud.
Oh purple pools and shadow
I'm caught up with you
Could be dancing on a cloudless moon
But I'm just falling down a well with you.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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