Skip to main content

Drying the Eco Way

line of blue jeans drying on a washing line outside the window of a bright yellow coloured building

Rope across the lawn and a long fork-ended
wooden prop too heavy until I was eight.
Wooden pegs on a shiny spring
never two pronged ‘dollies’ until I was twelve.
Then I was delighted by a 24 pack of red,
yellow, blue, white and green and, joy of joys
pink plastic pegs. 

Plastic coated metal line-twine across the balcony
on pulleys and reels to be hauled across the Calla Boucheria
to the apartment opposite on Mondays, Tuesdays
or Saturdays. They could haul theirs across
to my hook on Wednesdays, Thursdays
and Fridays. Neither of us ever could
or did, on Sundays.

The wooden horse in a Muswell Hill bedsit
dank, mouldy drying space for a single
young professional trying to pay her rent.
Wouldn’t use the in-situ white-goods dryer
concern for the environment a principle.
Too many work blouses and not enough
space or money to be clean or crisp.

Danish designed the eco dryer fits
into a corner easily. It takes heat and drying time
from a radiator. Hanging all your clothes
a whole wardrobe full, and tennis kit
swim wear, towels and all those babygrows
in a tiny space. But, oh, does it rip
your fingers when it collapses!

Sue Foster

 

Image by Ricardo Gomez Angel via Unsplash

Poetry Theme(s):

Currently Popular Poems:

Change

As  I stand with my feet in the ocean, and look at the setting sun, I think of how many me's, have stood in how many seas, but always stared at the same one. A snapshot of scenes in the movie of me, at various times of my being. A new version of me every single time; the same star I'm always seeing. It fills me with curious wonder, for the places that I may go; And the life that has yet to happen, and the things I have yet to know. Jess
View Poem »

Torn Apart

Afterwards it was a long process, two years rolled into ten, of letting go, letting it out. She stumbled through days, drank warmed milk or camomile, paced all night. She worked; walked in the green; bathed in geranium and rose oil hot baths; and only talked to those friends who made her laugh. No sugar, no wine, went vegan, but tears, so much wetness like the churning of rainwater tumbling into a ravine frothing, drowning she fought for breath. She tried counting her blessings. She put on the lost smile, pretended. She made consciously positive statements about herself, about others. No-one knew. She went to happy places, spent time with good people. She allowed the tears, gushing taps, to drench at night kissing her lips with salt, with stinging, with coldness. Sometimes, now, even after all these years words needle her memory, but that is the stitching pulling, snagging. Soon there will only be a scar. No getting over it. Just a mend to staunch the bleeding. Sue Foster
View Poem »

Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan
View Poem »

Decay and Madness

From the depths And gazing into the distance Strength not normality Fallen to the post. Long in sadness Decaying and madness. Kim
View Poem »

Birch Tree

White bark shedding tissued layers And stripes across the brown earth deep leaf littered floor. Diamond shaped fissures Twigs with small dark warts Pointing to the sky. Light green Tooth-edged leaves Swinging to the wind. Jane  
View Poem »

To Shed My Youthful Skin

To Survive Against at the odds of secure authorities And recognised establishments. I shed my youthful skin. I Thrive Against the odds I flourish and prosper Desolate and torn by institutions. The arrogance of the untouchables. Anon.
View Poem »

Thoughts Beside a Stream

Flowing alongside water's edge An overflow of activity And constricted Jumbled thoughts. Broken passages and swollen memories of channelled energies And intermittent promises. Hungry vines Competing for light Succumbed to the fragility of life. Awash with echoed considerations Downstream they float Towards a bareness. Dynamic vitality Sparkling from the frontier Invigorated to the final source. Daniel  
View Poem »

So Much Yellow

There’s gorse, of course and sometimes broom, the lichens yellow on the tomb and every churchyard has its fill of lovely yellow daffodils. There’s dandelions and celandine and yellow primrose, I suppose, and fluffy yellow chicks are born and yellow toads from slippery spawn. And green is seen on every lawn, at April’s end the woods turn blue and tulips bloom in pink and red with drooping leaves in every bed but yellow bellows all around: spring’s mating call, a joyful sound. Julia Duke
View Poem »

That Coastal Feeling

The coast revitalises My lost energies Downtrodden to the sand Amplified by the wind. Respects returns Armoured by the origin Enlivened by the presence Of drifting dunes. The shoreline beckons With drifting sentiments Forgotten and vast reflections Rendered unbroken. Jeremy
View Poem »