Annie has a nice washing machine now
but she remembers the one her
mother had with the wringer,
the old-fashioned kind.

Her mother took in washing and when
the washing machine would break
Annie would become half the wringer.
Mother would hold the waist of wet pants

and Annie would grip the cuffs and
they’d twist in opposite directions,
the cold water raining between them.
Each pair of farmer’s pants

put food on the table. With six kids
food was important. To this day Annie
smiles when she remembers her
Mother never had to use a pants

stretcher in winter to make
her ironing a little bit easier.
She’d hang the pants out in the yard
and they’d freeze straight on the line.

More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.

Why are you out there again?
No, stop waving and beckoning me
I’m not coming down there.
You need to stop this hanging around
it’s getting creepy.
You made me change my phone number,
I did warn you.
Look, we’re not going to be friends,
I tried that,
friends don’t pester each other.
I swear, if I hear you say
“Just for five minutes”
one more time I’m going to go spare.
It’s not because I’ve found someone else,
I’m here on my own, for Christ Sake!
But it’s none of your business anyway.
I can’t help you
and I’m not like the other girls I know.
I don’t find this fun to watch.
I suppose I’m just saying goodbye,
one more time, to yesterday’s echo.

More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

You can’t replace sun with rain
as you can’t
living with dead
you can replace night’s
occult dreams
you can replace
the aromatic love of uselessness
you can replace dark with fair
but you can’t replace love
that was, is.

Your wayward paths
are leftovers of those
trickling down rains,
sent umbrella hunting
with father insisting
take two, there will be more
but water scarcity continued, in a town
which had clouds hovering every moment, threatening to burst skies
with a downpour scattering hills, trees and flowers, which had hardly bloomed. Azure skies of my dreams, how you could change colours with guile,
like the wily chameleon:
blue, black, grey, red
and my metamorphosis reaching the pinnacle of heights.

I collect in my mind
the concert
where we shouted
and danced

riverside avocado
and chicken lunches

travel to the larger
waters of the coast

hosting and holding
and living together.

You’d never be sorry
to see the wound or the
gash, in crumpled leaves
water trickling down
parched throats, thirsty
this isn’t a desert
this is a song
volleys dilly dallying