poetsday
the minutiae of Life & the two minute poem
sweet lady
come sweet lady and scrub my peripheral
bring the bursting holdall with brushes, coarse
and detergents, toxic, polish those pegs
like old rattle-bones, reco-reco samba
rhythm, the bristles scratching to and fro.
watching you work reminds me of my Gran,
tackling the most mundane task as if her
life depended on it - and often it did!
the endless hours of piecemeal and graft,
yet never the slightest hint of boredom
- but pride! minutes later she left me with
my keys fresher and the faint wiff of fairy.
sweet lady
come sweet lady and scrub my peripheral
bring the bursting holdall with brushes, coarse
and detergents, toxic, polish those pegs
like old rattle-bones, reco-reco samba
rhythm, the bristles scratching to and fro.
watching you work reminds me of my Gran,
tackling the most mundane task as if her
life depended on it - and often it did!
the endless hours of piecemeal and graft,
yet never the slightest hint of boredom
- but pride! minutes later she left me with
my keys fresher and the faint wiff of fairy.
posted by Ian russell at 7:34 AM
1 Comments:
seating yourself at a table in the cafe of life, an experience without either humour or pathos is a bit like finding salt but no pepper (ignoring the big plastic tomato in the middle).
i always try to aim for a reasonably realistic balance within the two-minute poem. as i view it, what's down needs to be dragged back up and what's up needs to be tethered down.
did i do all right?
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