Tidying Up
Tidying
World
Anxiety
A most
Sweeping task
Is nearly as
Difficult
As my
Vain attempts
To rid my
White-tiled
Kitchen floor
Of dog fur
(Cleaning Cottage, Tennessee
~ August 8,2006)
poem by Debora Short
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The Watering Can...
And, what of those
Petunias gracing
Your new deck
Would they not die
If your hand
Did not carry
His water to
Feed their beauty
(Mountaintop Cottage, Tennessee
August 3,2006)
poem by Debora Short
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The Watering Can
And, what of those
Petunias gracing
Your new deck
Would they not die
If your hand
Did not carry
His water to
Feed their beauty
(Mountaintop Cottage, Tennessee
August 3,2006)
poem by Debora Short
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Delicious Wilds...
She's the concrete,
flowers, wind and sky, too!
The strong child
among
the cedars and sun
delicious wilds...
March 29,2006
~Mountaintop Cottage, Tennessee
poem by Debora Short
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Oaken-ed Soul
Voiceless wings, rising dreams
Sounds unknown
Yet, planted and nurtured
Already, Subliminal
Thought’s conversation
A love, within - discovered
A hint from an explorer’s
Heart
A desire to unburden
If only in small ways
Thought’s intoxicated
Interpretations of heart’s
Empowerment
Newly recognized, an acknowledgement
Exposed growth rings of an oaken-end soul
Begging attendance and
Courage’s fitness and focus's countenance
A re-charting of directions
Calling for
This body to make a difference
To dispense
Doses of hope
And dignity
In this so very
Rural old world
(Mountaintop Cottage, Tennessee
~ August 30,2006)
poem by Debora Short
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Children of Uganda - repost
Agony Clad
In black wreaths
Little soldiers…once
Tiny bright-eyed legacies
Now, torn, mud-covered
And cold
Their silent tears
Of
Hope cruelly stolen
(Mountaintop Cottage, Tennessee
June 26,2006)
poem by Debora Short
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My Grandmother
When she would talk about her mother,
it was as though there were another person in the room
She could see her mother in her mind;
It was as if my grandmother was dancing across the kitchen floor
It was as if she were talking about an imaginary person
who was not in the room
Her mother was in her mind
My mother was standing on the kitchen floor, cleaning a glass, and thinking of my grandmother
I could see it through the silence
poem by Samuel Stuart Pennell
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Squalor & Chips
My angel of the night
came down the stairs of morning
his hair, brown locks of greasiness,
his mouth, those sweet lips, yawning.
He stopped three steps from earth that day
and gazed at trainers in his way
and then as I began to pray,
stepped over and ignored them.
He took four steps across the room
he missed the cloth, the pan, the broom
and squashed cold chips, bare footed
upon the kitchen flooring!
Alas my fallen angel there,
sat his bottom on a chair
and sweeping hand through tousled hair,
ate his breakfast without care.
Without thought for chips all squashed,
flattened on that kitchen floor.
A floor so needy for a wash
as I exclaimed, "Oh my dear God! "
I found the mop, the bucket too
I cleaned the floor, mopped up the goo
and then I had a notion to,
but my angel wouldn't let me through.
Squashed chips on the kitchen floor
last nights washing up,
sticky table, dustbins full
and an empty coffee cup.
poem by Ruth Walters
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Love Scales Whistling
Tea kettle laugh-en
Hot Water chort-ling
Bubb-ling Boil-ing joy
Occupational
Love scales whistling
Serving savor-ed smiles
To their garden faces
(Mountaintop Gardens, Tennessee
~August 9,2006)
poem by Debora Short
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My mother's suicide attempts were a way to release anxiety and get attention. Some of the attempts were drug reactions she didn't even remember later on.
quote by Lorna Luft
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Refugee Rodent (A Mouse of Colour)
A mouse has moved in under my bed
A refugee rodent looking to be fed.
He has no religion, he has done no sin
Only soft sounds scurrying in the bin.
And I have tried to discourage it away
But no, it just seems to want to stay.
He gives no squeaks nor chants nor cries
Just silently stares with deep dark eyes.
He is rather cute like a brown furry ball
That slip slides across the tiled floor.
He likes to explore on top of the fridge
And swing along the TV cord bridge.
If he was white, he would have been a pet
A legal resident of my bedroom set,
But he is coloured and a pest they say
An alien specie that is not allowed to stay.
So, thus placed strategically in the hall
Poisoned bait at the border of the door.
(August 2011)
Nights Of Madness
After nights of madness
mornings become grim,
dissonant as sadness
lowered like a scrim.
Darkened by normality,
feelings that are numb
take away vitality,
as we all succumb.
Written about twelve hours after the cease-fire between Israel and the Hezbollah on August 14,2006. Also inspired by a line from Another Green World by Richard Grant, reviewed by Art Winslow in the LA Times Book Review, August 13,2006: “After Nights of Madness, mornings are grim.”
8/14/06
poem by Gershon Hepner
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Men Cleaning Women Cannot Abide
My wife said she was going out to shop,
I knew she'd be gone for hours,
So I cleaned the house from bottom to top,
Then went out and bought her some flowers.
On arriving home she asked what's that smell,
I boasted I had just cleaned the house,
With what she said it's like something from Hell,
It stinks like a hundred dead grouse.
By doing the cleaning I thought you'd be flattered,
She said exactly what have you cleaned,
That really left my giant ego shattered,
How dare she leave me feeling demeaned?
The house is filthy what did you use,
I replied the same stuff as you,
She said it's my intelligence you're trying to abuse,
I'll now have to start cleaning anew.
What have you done to my kitchen floor?
You've got it full of stellar streaks,
The worktops are scratched like an old barn door,
My mop bucket's now full of leaks.
The toilet is filthy I said no it's not,
She said look at the state of the pan,
You've left enough stains to play dot to dot,
As for cleaning you're now on a ban.
She'll be so impressed she'll be singing,
That's what I honestly thought,
Now she's saying I've got the house minging,
Remember good cleaners cannot be bought.
I walked away totally deluded and sad,
It's moan if we don't then moan if we do,
If they had a self- cleaning house they'd still go mad,
I'm going down to the pub for a brew.
The moral of my story affects far more than me,
It's a problem that is truly worldwide,
It's a sexist thing I'm sure all males would agree,
‘' Men Cleaning, Women Cannot Abide ‘'
‘' They think we do it deliberately''
A Child of Then
I lay down on my living room floor
Convinced that the world would end.
A crisis off Cuba with missiles in route.
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
A lady in pink with blood on her dress.
A President shot in the head
I remember where I was exactly that day
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
Police battle Blacks, Watts is in flames
Protests rage on without end.
King is dead at the hand of a bigoted man
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
Camelots heir sought to bind up the wounds
Then Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead.
Bobby bled out on the kitchen tiled floor
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
Asian girl running, naked, on a dirt country road.
A Viet Cong man shot in the head
Fifty Eight Thousand names on a wall
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Give a Child...
Proudly for Seth ~ Ryan who graduated as
an Aerospace Engineer last week!
Give a child a great education
You give them the world
Give a child science and math
You give them access
Give a child a sense of wonder
You give them joy
Give a child poetry, paint, l.e.d.s, aluminum foil and sparkles
You give them creativity
Give a child accountability
You give them integrity
Give a child an understanding of spirit
You give them faith
Give a child an entire community
You give them responsilbility
Give a child your undivided time
You give them security
Give a child a life by example
You give them the map for success
Give a child hugs
You give them love!
~May 26,2006
Mountaintop Cottage, Tennessee
poem by Debora Short
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Tennessee Jed
Cold iron shackles, ball and chain,
Listen to the whistle of the evenin train.
You know you bound to wind up dead,
If you dont head back to tennessee jed.
Rich man step on my poor head,
When you get back you better butter my bread.
Well, do you know its like I said,
You better head back to tennessee jed.
Tennessee, tennessee, there aint no place Id rather be,
Baby wont you carry me back to tennessee.
Drink all day and rock all night,
The law come to get you if you dont walk right
Got a letter this morning, baby all it read,
You better head back to tennessee jed.
I dropped four flights and cracked my spine,
Honey, come quick with the iodine,
Catch a few winks, baby, under the bed
Then you head back to tennessee jed.
Tennessee, tennessee, there aint no place Id rather be,
Baby wont you carry me back to tennessee.
I run into charlie fog,
Blacked my eye and he kicked my dog,
My doggie turned to me and he said,
Lets head back to tennessee jed.
I woke up a feelin mean,
Went down to play the slot machine,
The wheels turned around, and the letters read,
You better head back to tennessee jed.
Tennessee, tennessee, there aint no place Id rather be,
Baby wont you carry me back to tennessee.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Life
Our life appears akin the floor
Of mosaic tiles, spotted, three hues;
Each tile denotes a month that passed;
The spots refer to good and bad!
Umpteen are grey spots – venial sins,
By habit done, incessantly;
The fewer black spots – mortal sins,
Against the Ten Commands of God!
The spots of white were good deeds done;
Some tiles had few, some had galore;
The size of dots too varied much;
Such tiles were scarcely found and rare!
We yearn to see the floor all tiled,
With spots of white, all huge and bright;
Yet, earthly life is what we make
By labour, done in heaven’s light!
(24-07-11)
poem by John Celes
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Sweetly in Their Embrace
Glisten-ning reflections of early spring’s love
Mirrors dream-y sky’s tadpoles dancing above
Speckled fair - haired crocus line dew-pond’s edge
Starry young green eyes gaze up in delight
Attentive blue devotion reaches heart
Strong fingers entwine love’s laced white gloves
Light feet step, one step left and turn and twirl
Petal-ed gowns breeze sweetly in their embrace
Coat-tails virile a handsome prince-presence
Delight-fully encircle God-given-ed graces
(Under the Twinkling Stars, Tennessee
August 15,2006)
poem by Debora Short
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It Is Always Difficult To Begin The Week
IT IS ALWAYS DIFFICULT TO BEGIN THE WEEK
It is always difficult to begin the week
One's body is lost in a previous sleep
One's mind is still held down and back
Into resting -
The world is bleak
It is empty and difficult
I am empty inside
I have nothing to do
I have too much to do-
Still I must begin
I will do the usual routine assignments
Slowly I will get back into the motion and mind of my work
I am already trying now-
Even a small effort should bring forth suggestions for further effort
It will take time
Slowly I will find the way
From task to task
Into the real work -
Somehow the week will begin again
It always does-
Though now I am still slow and not there yet
I feel as if in writing this
I have somehow already begun to work again-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Come, Pretty School-Girl!
On this rolling planet ever have you seen
A home so like a palace waiting for its queen? --
A dwelling place so fair,
So fill'd with treasures rare,
As the little white cottage on Evergreen Square?
Come, pretty school girl! lay your books aside;
Yes graduate tomorrow -- tomorrow be my bride;
My fortune share,
And reign queen there,
In the little white cottage on Evergreen Square.
Red as are the roses climbing on its wall,
Your cheeks of richer crimson shall out-bloom them all.
Your eyes (beyond compare)
A brighter gleam shall wear,
In the little white cottage on Everygreen Square.
Flow'rs of rarest fragrance all the year shall bloom,
And singing birds make music in your chosen room.
Come, breathe its balmy air!
Come, charm away my care,
In the little white cottage on Everygreen Square.
poem by Henry Clay Work
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You (for My Little Dog)
why so sweet to me
you follow me where i go
when i go to the kitchen
and have my dinner
you are down there under
my seat beside my feet
you do not ask anything
except my company
when i rise up to go to
the bathroom and poo
you are there watching
and lying down the tiled
floors listening the sound
of my being.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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