Laundry Day

And for the “ Tradition” attempt...

Sunday Laundry Day

with acknowlegement to Dharma & Greg
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Hurray, hurray, it’s Clean Sheets Day.
No time to read, no time to play.
Tasks abound, they always do,
grocery shopping, ironing too.
I promised, after all those miles,
to be of service, wearing smiles.
I cook the meals, sometimes well.
I love it when they cast a spell
of happiness, unfettered glee,
it really means so much to me
to see the pleasure it gives you,
it’s truly selfish, what I do.
but the  cleaning is, at best, not bad,
but we need those visits from the maid.
I know it agrees with my honey,
I need help, the maid needs money.
The dishes are an easy chore,
it cleans my fingernails, what’s more.
But nothing seems so much like play
as Sunday, known as Clean Sheets Day.
It used to be a mid-week chore,
but honey took over, does it better, what’s more,
The undies, pants, towels, a shirt
don’t mix in with their nasty dirt,
as I always saved the sheets for last,
for honey, they’re the only item cast
upon the bed before we sleep,
their clean fresh fragrance ours to keep
in memory as we drift off,
our daily aches so soon to doff,
remembering at last to pray
we’ll make it to next Clean Sheets Day.

Sunrise, Sunset

There are no more dragons,
so they say,
and we are all the poorer for it,
come what may.
What wondrous flight
they might have taken,
by day or night,
on some far isle alight,
to lay down eggs, begetting
life of power and might,
with fiery roar
upon that distant shore.
The ancients toiled
in fear and strife,
eyeing magic in the sky,
a daily challenge to their life,
with majesty at wing,
lustrous green and gold,
but not for you and I, they sing,
there are no more dragons,
we are told.
How sad for modern man,
facing the sunset of an
evolutionary scheme,
or perhaps, it is
simply in God’s plan
that we don’t grandly dream.

Clouds

We are cheered by the arrival
of August, July having been
a time of monsoon survival.
We wake to early morning
onshore flow,
okay with the grayness,
we have no where to go.
Sunrise will bake it all off,
creating our wispy sky,
down here close to Mexico,
in the sweet by and by.
Nothing too dramatic about
our change of seasons,
clothes remain the same,
whatever our reasons.
We’ll soon have sandy feet,
be smelling ocean,
mixed with number fifty
sun protection lotion.
Our thoughts are
like clouds, just passing by,
some looking like bunnies
in our rain-free sky.
Sometimes those clouds weep,
forcing some indoor rest,
some good rain, roots-deep,
long-lasting, the best.
On those wet days we’ll find
an aura of calm,
with Grace-filled revelations,
a spiritual balm,
rejuvenated, enlivened,
renewed, for that matter,
eliminating the need for
deafening mind chatter.
Putting life’s doings on hold,
no electronics, maybe a book
from our shelves.
We’ll allow boredom to set in,
perhaps recenter ourselves.

Marriage

Homothumadon

There is no one else,
not another soul,
who could have married me
and made me theirs,
lived with me
and remained with me,
loved me so at the start,
and even more later,
so patiently, she
waited me out,
a long, long time after
it all began.
My love keeps her
when my madness would not.
She is accustomed to me.
She did not need to
stay with me,
yet she did.
We are one.