Skip to main content

Our Saturdays are For Cleaning

 


It's time to clean the little shed, it's time to clean
"Our backyard" has a timer now
There will be grass or swing sets or dogs
Once again in sequence.
Gardens might be dug once more, planted
Right along this fence line. 
It's time to clean the little shed, it's time.

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. Sherry Blue SkyJune 18, 2022 at 9:30 AM

    I enjoyed this poem so much. Love the rhythm of it, and the repetition - and the feeling of sleeves-rolled-up spring activities. I once had a little shed that was always in need of cleaning - and a gigantic garden.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Carrie BurttJune 18, 2022 at 6:05 PM

    I love the hopeful feeling this holds my friend!

    ReplyDelete
  3. Gillena CoxJune 19, 2022 at 3:24 AM

    a little bit of Wonderland just enough fun
    Happy Sunday Chrissa

    much❤love

    ReplyDelete
  4. Keith's RamblingsJune 19, 2022 at 9:46 AM

    Oh, to have a garden with a little shed again. Simply delightful.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Marion HortonJune 20, 2022 at 2:32 AM

    I always hate cleaning the garden shed - all those spiders! Your poem will inspire me to do it.

    ReplyDelete
  6. qbitJune 20, 2022 at 4:30 PM

    "Once again in sequence." Yes, indeed. Order is restored, and so are we.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa
16 comments
Read more

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of
15 comments
Read more

Revelations

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #169 : It takes time for the quest to settle into your calves, to work through your soles and up to your shoulders, spreading through nerve and vessel until  you can't go home because you've already left something of yourself there. You can't be in two places at once. You remember vacations but now you think your family's plans probably resembled some supervillain's monologue:  we'll do this and then take them here. It'll be fun. When do you leave the house on time? Who's time? There's a collar of dead bushes at the lawn in front of the gas station, a tiny, grassy patch of the suburbs beyond, ruins of landscaping, bright, dead. Two years ago feels like twenty, feels loud, a power wash of wind through the window; roaring down the dry sewers that funnel a/c through the lawns and backwards, carrying dreams dry and sharp. At this speed, everything cuts as it passes. Appendix 1:  Chrissa is Full of Stuff and Nonsense Let'
13 comments
Read more