A House(work) at War

The kitchen floor detests my mop;
It’s been on strike all year.
The great room carpet, as you see,
Has developed vacuum fears.

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Meanwhile, the toilets, yellowed raw
Fear brush and boy alike;
While nearby sink and faucet friends
See sponge and yell out, “Yikes!”

The piles and piles (and piles) upstairs
Of clothes shy from my hand.
Our blankets, sheets, and pillowed beds
Won’t lay as I demand.

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And so, you see, oh dearest spouse
I’ve tried hard as hard can be.
One simply cannot fight a house
Nor law of entropy.

 

Photo Credit:
The Creative Exchange
Tracey Hocking

Bedtime, a poem

No matter the time
Or day
Or any old season
Except for Daylight’s Saving’s, the worst transition anyone without kids ever imagined
I cannot reason
Can’t say
Cannot even find

How to get them to sleep.

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The Polls are In

I speak, I hug, I yell, I kiss;
I reprimand; diffuse.
And yet, whene’er one polls my kids,
I’m constantly confused.

“I love you, Mom,” my son will say
All smiles of obed’ence.
His rate of working will increase
He’ll move with all exped’ence.

“I love you, Mom,” t’others claim;
“You’re the best we’ve ever had.”
Time earned, they sit to play their games,
While I think, It’s not so bad.

But just as sure as cluttered rooms,
Or “That’s not fair!” outbursts;
Once freed from Fortnite’s pleasing mood
They’re back to, “You’re the worst!”