.
Spun out of control.
Bobbing then pommeled, squashed then bloated.
A lone occupant within the confines of a tumble dryer
at full spin....
An impatient hand lifts the lid off
with deft, well practised fingers
hopeful that in so doing would speed up the process.
The spinning abruptly stops
resuming only when the lid is firmly shut
securely in place.
With a banging and a rattling
the tumbling ensues... digits lifting
assured the interruption overridden.
The mind opens to the fact that
there is one entry and one exit
on this front loader churning
Its machinations moistens the
dank air and frigid tiles with
a slimy condensation.
A final click breaks the dense
silence.
From inside the searing metal tub
emerges a once bright red garment
its fabric faded, familiar, and frayed.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 20th, 2022 01:51
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments4
Good write CB.
Doh! From me tumble dryer emerged darkness - well, from me washing machine first. I mixed the whites with black garments!
Oh my! Welcome to the club!
How you use the function of the washing machine to create such a great piece of work. The last line shows the experiences of the speaker, am I close?
The speaker is affected by what had happened throughout the whole process and its resulting effects, yes. Thanks, JudyStella.
no, we can't wash away
our past
but yes, if we face fate's
'front loader, churning
machinations'
we get to, rinse
our life's, free of regret's stains
and thus, allow ourselves
to look back and open
doors to our pasts, to see
red
for
red
and dress
for dress
instead
of metaphorical, symbolism's
crimson stained, synthetic hope...
(exemplary use of imagery, dear Poet
Ezra Pound, would be proud)
thank you!
Ezra Pound is several pounds worth of goodness. You are too kind, L.B.
Expertly written, C.B.
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