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

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...
15 comments
Read more

The Soul and The Spine

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low,  eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe  so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes  she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches  between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small  not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...
14 comments
Read more

A Single (Terrible) Poem

 I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies.    This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem?  -- Chrissa
11 comments
Read more