Oil of Zarephath

My friend, she says, is sustained day by day,
Just like the widow in Lebanon.
Polio, yes, takes all her strength away,
Health’s not what she’s depending on.
 
The widow, she scrapes, together one last potpie,
Convinced her son won’t go on living.
By famine, true, means they both will die,
Biscuits and oil are life-giving.
 
The prophet, thus says, shall put end to the fast,
With challah bread from oil and flour.
Her only son, gasp, breathes away his last,
Crushed beneath deaths’ dark power.
 
Holy man, I’m marred, sin is brought to light,
Is it your plan to kill or set free?
“Thy beloved, see, alive and alright,”
She glimpses Him from Galilee.
 
Oh Lord, we sing, how long these bitter pains?
Drought of oil while famine breaks and mars,
He will provide, trust, hear the gentle rains,

Oh Lord fill these our earthen jars.

Photo by Roberta Sorge on Unsplash

The Wounds Of A Dishwasher

 How could such a simple chore,

Escalate into a war?

Whines, whimpers and well-reasoned pitches,

Was Sis or I forced to do the dishes?

Not hours and hours breaking our backs,

Just loading them into dishwasher racks.

Scarred I was; I’d learned to hate,

Washing and loading pots, cups and plates.

In my first marriage, might I mention,

Dishes became more than a point of contention.

Her every need stirred with bent of lies,

Wished I’d do that which I did despise.

It so inflamed her every nerve,

Soaping ceramics was not the way that I served.

My dearest one-we've walked 'along side,'

Our rings scriven from Princess Bride.

That travel mug with rings of pink,

Sits unwashed next to the sink.

You rise with the sun, Oh heavy toll,

Not much left in tank, barely in soul.

Might Westley have meant; in his "As you wishes,"

That he would gladly do the dishes?