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"Olden Days" Poetry by connie carlson |
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MONDAY, MONDAY connie carlson I grew up surrounded by women whose wash was done on Mondays. Women grounded by routine, whose lives were run by a ticking clock. Meal times, appetites dictated by the grandfather clock's chimes. No time allotted to ask why. I wonder now, did their minds wander as they washed, starched, ironed, as hours would grind? Were their psyches parched? They dampened the shirts, sprinkled them, rolled them, put them in bags to iron. Carefully, not to add wrinkles. And on Wednesday one would brag that by nine she was through. Ironing done, she's pulling a weed. She has much to tend, so much to do. Did they ever wonder what they might need? |
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SWINGS connie carlson The high's magnificent. You're on top but frightening the return to earth. So quickly you drop, faster, faster. Stomach churns. You think you'll stop but something pulls you toward the sky, backward now, you see the ground in front beneath. You're oh so high! You see tree tops, hear your heart pound. Then down, down, will this end? Can you stop? Just walk away? The ups and downs begin to blend into each other. Which way are you going now? |
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