Day: March 5, 2023

Ode to a steam iron

O

Oh,steam iron how I love your heat
And how you make my clothes so neat.
A flat iron is no use to me
No open fire is here,you see.
And thought I liked the flickering coals
I feared those faces that looked droll.
They were in the flames and peered
At anyone who ventured near.
I wonder how the people past
Kept their trousers neat and pressed.
Now I’ve bought a hand steamer
To keep the germs off my femurs
I didn’t like to say,my crotch
In case the devil is on watch.
I never ever used to think
My body perfume was distinct.
And yet it may appeal to men
I don’t want to try again.
One dear husband is enough
Though he did enjoy a cough
He had asthma and bad eyes
Looking out with wild surmise.
He saw my golden hair float by
As by his window it did fly
All at once he fell for me
And we sat by an apple tree.
His clothes were wrinkled so I thought
I would iron them for a start.
He could darn and polish floors
Cook lamb chops and apple cores.
So my steam iron sees much use
I wonder if it’s self abuse
For as a woman feminist
I’m not meant to iron vests
I’m not meant to boil men;s socks
Nor their pants of interlock
I’m not meant to make them tea.
What a naughty person,me!
I must confess these wicked sins
Then I’ll polish my cake tins.
Satan wants me down in hell
Don’t say he needs my iron as well
As he was an angel proud
I’ll save him into One Drive Cloud.

Theatre forms the soul

When the fruit has rotted on the stalk
Bruised and broken like the poor in need
When leaders meet but rarely truly talk
When children caught in cross fire lie and bleed

Don’t we see God’s Kingdom is a joke
Ones hundred million lj bodies broke
They lost once and love dies in ktheir gore

Utopia, evolution, grandiose plans
Sacrifice yourself for those to come
We saw the little children hand in hand
Ground mines blow them up, they could not run

One thing’s clear, God’s here or not at all
The future’s fiction, yet I hear its callt

rvr

The future is yet fiction

The heart is struck a blow, can we live on?
The pain, the blood, the wound ca’t be undone
Lying in the rocks, so grey, so doomed
Death is waiting in the sitting room

Imperceptibly our minds are changed
The contents we examine, rearrange
No energy for living and new games
Like a worn out puma,limping, lame

The animal, our being, our poor flesh
Wishes for relief or even death
Yet as the sun burns through the maple leaves
Who can tell what else we may perceive?

Life and death, those twins walk on white cliffs
I stumbled once,I froze,I turned from death.
Then I found the wild rose and its thorns
The pain of grasping love, the treasure shown

The future is yet fiction,I’ll be damned.
Come to me and hold my lovely hand