Ironing
I like the smell of ironing
It makes me think of home,
Of when I was a youngster
Long before I'd writ' a poem.
That sense of real security
Remembered as a dream,
Embedded in mum's ironing-board
And floating in the steam.
The swishing, easy movement
Was always just the same,
It lulled me to the edge of sleep
While whispering my name.
The pile of clothes was endless
It must have been a chore
To have us kids supplying it,
Not one or two, but FOUR.
There is no smell like ironing
The scent is all it's own,
I liked it when I was a child,
I like it now I've grown.
And when the time for ironing
The clothes again does come,
I'll take in that unique perfume
And think again of mum.
Written Feb 1995
poem by John Carter Brown
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Related quotes
The washing monster
The washing monster
How it grows
It's fed well
On our dirty clothes
Relentlessly
We do attack
But by the next day
It's grown back
He has a friend
That's equally vile
It calls itself
The ironing pile
poem by Stevie Taite
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My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.
quote by Erma Bombeck
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0165 Ironing
On the top unlooked-at shelf
of the cupboard rarely opened
there it was.
A tidy, self-effacing, neat and ordered pile
of mother's ironing
- after how many years? -
of those seldom used, worn almost to holes, frayed,
white things, for the house and family:
their worn yet serviceable hems and stitching
ironed with a jeweller's perfection...
and suddenly the living and the dead
were intimate and closer than any sought or unsought sentiment,
and I was a child again
silently watching,
taking in without commentary
as children do,
yet in every fine detail,
a mother's love;
a love simply watched, observed;
not, for a change, demanded
or expected
as a matter of course:
the iron nosing with supreme care
across the smell of hot and just-wet cotton
with a little, smooth, smooth swish,
over the warm bed of cloth and blanket,
taken from their special drawer;
the hand and elbow moving with a dancer's grace.
and I knew then,
in the nose, the nub, of that just-rightly-heavy iron,
the whole love of a woman and her life -
repetition and care, duty, love unspoken -
all the emotions raised by family
who'd never dream of thanking Mum
for the ironing...
'Where's my special shirt? ....M-u-mm....? '
No wonder that so many women hate
this incessant, unthanked act
of holy communion.
And I reflected:
every child should have the chance to watch
without commenting - as children do -
but seeing what they will remember all their life,
in every fine detail,
some to imitate it and remember;
some to find it after years,
on the shelf unsought
within the cupboard seldom opened,
(in the rose-garden, beyond time,
and time past is time present; and the time is always now...)
this act, this ritual
of purest love.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Oh My Gosh!
Oh my gosh!
Here we are...
Washing,
Clothes.
Oh my gosh!
Here we are...
Nose to nose.
And,
Washing clothes.
Folding the sheets we laid on.
Together you and I...
After a wetness sweated us,
In a rocking that followed with sleep.
To awaken after we slept.
Welcomed by a dawning Sun...
To greet us in the morning,
With a glowing on our faces...
Shown to be done.
And OH my gosh!
Here we are,
Washing clothes.
Nose to nose and folding sheets.
Something tells me,
A togetherness is certain.
Something else tells me...
You will have me ironing the curtains,
If I don't put my foot down...
To speak up to say,
This 'sweetness' I may display today...
Is a rarity witnessed,
You will one day see...
Is not part of my personality.
Like you,
I will not be left impressed.
Just because we had another night...
Of unexpected delicious sex!
'Honey...
I can't believe we've been together,
For more than twenty years! '
I know. I know!
I'll iron those curtains,
When I get back home...
Okay?
'Anything for you, dear.
You know that! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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You can't get spoiled if you do your own ironing.
quote by Meryl Streep
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm eighteen years behind in my ironing.
quote by Phyllis Diller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I buried a lot of my ironing in the back yard.
quote by Phyllis Diller
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is Nice And Easy
It is nice and easy does it
When you have a moly maid at home
You come from school
And everything is done for you
Mothers do the cooking, do the washing, do the cleaning, do the shopping, Do the ironing
Mother's were born to be moly maids for the rest of their lives
Nice and easy does it
Nice and easy does it
Nice and easy does it
Nice and easy does it
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Thou Art Hot Too Much
Thou art hot too much,
Wow! I can not stand thy touch;
Iron! loose your clutch.
(I experienced this when I was ironing)
poem by Nilakshi Das
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This is a shouting poem
This is a SHOUTING poem.
Not a gentle wildflower poem
not a whispering-of-love poem
A SHOUTING POEM.
This is a POSTER poem.
Not a subtly persuading poem.
not a think-about-it poem
A POSTER POEM
This is a HARD OF HEARING poem.
What?
I said a HARD OF HEARING POEM
This is a LOST SPECTACLES poem
to test your sight.
No no not LAST TESTICLES
NO TRY THE NEXT LINE -
A LOST SPECTACLES POEM
This is a HAVE YOU SEEN MY? poem.
I know I put it down somewhere.
Are you sure you haven't seen it?
Oh no, you didn't use it for THAT...?
Why are you laughing it's not funny.
I hadn't even finished it...
This is an ACROSS THE ROOM poem.
Read it while you're in bed
watching TV
doing the ironing
reading the newspapers
putting the new wallpaper up
combing the cat
having a bath
washing the car
talking to the neighbours
gardening
this is an ACROSS THE ROOM POEM
This is a BLOWN ACROSS THE STREET POEM
no need to run after it
and pick it up
just watch it blow
maybe wonder
if you missed anything
poem by Michael Shepherd
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0005 a SHOUTING poem
This is a SHOUTING poem.
Not a gentle wildflower poem
not a whispering-of-love poem
A SHOUTING POEM.
This is a POSTER poem.
Not a subtly persuading poem.
not a think-about-it poem
A POSTER POEM
This is a HARD OF HEARING poem.
A what?
I said a HARD OF HEARING POEM
This is a LOST SPECTACLES poem
to test your sight.
No no not LAST TESTICLES
no try the next line - -
A LOST SPECTACLES POEM
now where did I put them
This is a HAVE YOU SEEN MY? poem.
I know I put it down somewhere.
Are you sure you haven't seen it?
Oh no, you didn't use it for THAT...?
Why are you laughing it's not funny.
I hadn't even finished it...
This is an ACROSS THE ROOM poem.
Read it while you're in bed
watching TV
doing the ironing
reading the newspapers
putting the new wallpaper up
combing the cat
having a bath
washing the car
talking to the neighbours
gardening
this is an ACROSS THE ROOM POEM
This is a BLOWN ACROSS THE STREET POEM
no need to run after it
and pick it up
just watch it blow
maybe wonder
if you missed anything
(revised)
poem by Michael Shepherd
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All In A Days Work
You climb out of a nice and warm bed,
and the word “work” will enter your head.
So you start to clamber down the stairs,
but trip over your kids carefully set snares,
landing at the bottom you let out a cry,
sprawled out in a heap, to get up you try,
then you shake your head in total disbelief,
amazed that you are still in one piece.
You then sit down to eat your breakfast,
your stomach rumbling “food at last”.
Eating a bowl of milk soaked cornflakes,
your ears picking up each crunch they make,
while your stomach shouts out a boast,
that it wants twelve rounds of buttered toast,
washed down with twenty cups of coffee,
but it will have to settle for cornflakes and tea.
Looking at the clock, it says quarter to one,
so you think about putting some clothes on,
and find them on the floor in a heap,
full of creases and cat hairs what a treat!
You get out the iron and ironing board,
strangling yourself with the electrical cord,
as you trip over the cat, landing in one its trays,
oh yes, you’re going to have one of those days!
Then you hear the front door knock,
open the door and the Postman’s in for a shock,
for you’re stood there all naked and pink,
now what the postman supposed to think?
He’s thinking what a small one you’ve got,
then gives you your letters and is off like a shot,
the only relief, while you’re brain is on the blink,
is at least he did not blow you a kiss and wink!
So you quickly slam the door shut,
before one of the neighbours cops a look,
and go back to ironing your shirt,
how could so much happen, before work?
Now you’re ready and willing to go out,
you look and check that no one is about,
now you’re dressed and having calmed down,
happy that you’ve covered your jewel and crown.
Seeing the man across the street called Dave,
who smiles and give you a gay little wave.
Wide-eyed you run to your car, open the door,
and sit in the seat, thinking you can’t take much more,
you turn the key and it just won’t start,
now your world, and car, is falling apart,
now try and explain to your boss why you’re late,
oh yes work, just like life, is so damn great!
poem by Dale Mullock
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The Working Week.
Monday morning
Always late
Routine, schedules
Things I hate.
Kids to feed
Kids to dress
Husband’s ironing
House a mess.
Tuesday diving
After school
Kids at six
Swimming pool.
Wednesday evening
Half way through
Fifteen squared?
Not a clue.
Tears and tantrums
Up at dawn
Finish homework
Thursday morn.
Breakfast, school,
Where’s my shirt?
Car won’t start
Late for work.
Reports and deadlines
Lunch at one
Now it’s Friday
Almost done.
Long hot soak
That’s the way
For tomorrow
It is
Sa
Tur
Day.
poem by Sallie Howson
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I Knocked my Head Against the Wall
As a child
I put my finger in the fire
to become
a saint.
As a teenager
every day I would knock my head against the wall.
As a young girl
I went out through a window of a garret
to the roof
in order to jump.
As a woman
I had lice all over my body.
They cracked when I was ironing my sweater.
I waited sixty minutes
to be executed.
I was hungry for six years.
Then I bore a child,
they were carving me
without putting me to sleep.
Then a thunderbolt killed me
three times and I had to rise from the dead three times
without anyone’s help.
Now I am resting
after three resurrections.
poem by Anna Swirszczynska
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I came home every Friday afternoon, riding the six miles on the back of a big mule. I spent Saturday and Sunday washing and ironing and cooking for the children and went back to my country school on Sunday afternoon.
quote by Ida B. Wells
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sad Songs
Guess there are times when we all need to share a little pain
And ironing out the rough spots
Is the hardest part when memories remain
And it's times like these when we all need to hear the radio
'Cause from the lips of some old singer
We can share the troubles we already know
Turn them on
song performed by by Elton John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Marks
My husband gives me an A
for last night's supper,
an incomplete for my ironing,
a B plus in bed.
My son says I am average,
an average mother, but if
I put my mind to it
I could improve.
My daughter believes
in Pass/Fail and tells me
I pass. Wait 'til they learn
I'm dropping out.
poem by Linda Pastan
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Sunday Life
Ironing
Bottles
Sewing
Shopping.
Feed ing
Cleaning
Floors for mopping.
Mundane chores
Of everyday life
No time to rest;
Though its Sunday night
But from these tasks
I won’t be baulking,
As while I work
To you I’m talking.
Discussing the points in a slice of toast.
The relative merits of watching “Coast”.
It matters not, for what matters to me
Is the sharing time with you; you see?
poem by James Dancy
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A Missed Childhood
I missed out on having a childhood
went from a little girl to womanhood.
I think the way my parents raised their children
was only the best of what they're parents could.
I always felt like their Cinderella
always cleaning, ironing and straightening up it seemed.
Taking care of my little sisters and brother
never spending time to be just that child which I need.
I always felt that I had missed out on something
and searched for that missing link throughout my life.
Been married too many times to speak of
been a mother to two sons and a loving wife.
I always promised myself not to repeat
what and how I had been raised.
But to give my sons all of my love
with Respect and Love and Praise.
To allow them to be a child
the best child that they could be.
And always keep myself in check
remembering that missing part of that child in me.
poem by Linda Winchell
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Age Of Dallas
What did it mean
To be young
In the Age of Dallas?
To come home
To the farmhouse?
Ironing strewn
Across the living room
Mother crying
In front of the T.V.
Re-runs of Dealey Plaza.
I remember someone
Mentioning Camelot
Third-grade in Corvallis
My teacher came from Austin
But the School Secretary
Came from the
Principal’s office
Met our teacher
At the classroom door.
Tears
Flushed cheeks
We were filed
Onto the school bus
Solemnly driven home.
(Portland, Oregon 1978)
poem by Justice Putnam
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