Poetry and Laundry
I'm waiting for my clothes to wash and dry,
with pen in hand, the cycles all on start,
I cannot rinse the muse though I do try,
I can't use Oxi-clean inside my heart.
For soap I use the thoughts inside my mind,
the washer fills to its capacity;
I go from hot to cold, sometimes I find
that nothing shrinks with creativity,
Just when the second rinse has drained and spun,
and softener has touched each fibered rhyme,
I'm glad the darker colours have not run,
no bleach is needed for the whites this time!
Each article is fresh as morning air;
my poetry, my laundry, wash and wear.
I learned to fish this river with a worm,
my granddad taught me how to bait and cast;
a lesson all abandoned boys must learn,
without a fish, a hungry soul will fast!
He used to tell me, "Miracles are free,
throw out your line and hang on every bite,
just rest upon this shore so patiently,
until your miracle grabs on so tight."
I used to be a troubled, broken kid,
an endless storm of rage beneath the sky;
I learned to cast out pain and just be rid,
of all resentments with one hopeful sigh.
A storm upon this shore controlled by doubt;
a ray of hope was
hooked; a rainbow trout!
It’s Not Easy Being
I used to be consumed
a spiteful man so reckless,
harsh, and mean;
I would proceed to make
your life a mess,
my favourite colours:
lime and hunter green.
It wasn't long before
I was alone,
I scared so many people
from my side;
an iron will, a conscience
dead as stone,
with no regard, and that
was cut and dried.
It wasn't 'til someone
caused me some pain,
a little taste of what
I had dished out;
I knew my selfish life
was lived in vain,
today my way is not what
I never knew such joy
and peace of mind,but now I do, my
envy left behind.
Bryon D. Howell
is a poet currently residing in New Haven, Connecticut. He has been
writing poetry for a great numbers of years, but is on and off when it comes to actively seeking publication for his work.
Over the years, Mr. Howell's poetry has appeared in Autumn Leaves and poeticdiversity.