Saturday, December 27, 2014

The Ironing Board


                              leaning into the ironing board

                              and my yellow flowered bell bottoms

                              you sang Ruby Ruby


                              when will you be mine


                              then ...


                              your brother died in Vietnam

                              you did some time

                              I married young

      

                              our last back porch summer







Photograph by Mary W. Farmer

12 comments:

  1. Oh.....sad and poignant, Teresa. Christina Rossetti sad..........

    ReplyDelete
  2. Dion, belmonts and bellbottoms pressed into the same memory. Good. I like the poem.

    ReplyDelete
  3. That was a dramatic time, if joy and heartbreak, and change... and youth.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yes, it was tumultuous, even for this small town girl.

      Delete
  4. Packed full of images, emotions, and reality. Splendid capture of a raucous era.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Thank you for your poems and the lovely selection of photographs that accompanies them, it is always a pleasure to drop by to look and read. I was just thinking what a special and wonderful skill it is to write the way you do with just enough there to trigger thoughts, images, and emotions in the reader, and not to kill that by saying too much or by using words that don't "resonate".

    " leaning into the ironing board
    and my yellow flowered bell bottoms"

    I can hear the iron hissing, and smell the hot fabric!

    Wishing you all the very best for 2015

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Writing micropoetry has been a wonderful lesson on winnowing and finding the heart of an idea. I enjoy it immensely.

      That is a very distinctive sound and odor isn't it?

      Thank you so much for your very thoughtful comment. The very best to you in 2015, as well. :)

      Delete
  6. When I read this I pictured your mother ironing, and it connected strongly with my memory of my mother doing the same. I still think of her when I iron. I love what Peter said about the sound and smell.

    I have really enjoyed your micropoetry and images this year. Thanks for developing this new art form.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. My mother taught me to iron on that back porch, starting with my father's handkerchiefs. There is a very distinctive scent to it ... a scent I love.

      Thank you for the kind words of encouragement, Nancy, they are very much appreciated. Happy New Year to you and your family!

      Delete

When leaving a comment, Blogger requires you "Select a Profile." Please do so, or your comment will disappear into the ether...