This morning I ironed
Set up the old ironing board
Metal and sturdy
Hardly worse for wear
Dependable companion
Since I was a bride
Those days behind me
Now white-haired, bent with aging
I appear different
Shape of old woman
Listener, story teller
Beloved grandmother
Yet deep within me
Abides all I ever was
Gifted at my birth
poetrybyheart.me 
My mom always had one set up in the basement next to the dryer around the corner from the furnace. Our furnace was huge with long tentacles and a face with fire behind its eyes and mouth. I always thought the oil furnace was a frozen monster, waiting for the secret word to be let loose upon suburbia. Does anybody really iron anymore? Surely, someone.
Wow! I love your description of the fearsome monster in your basement. I iron my cotton pants and shirts as needed. I didn’t realize I was one of a small minority. 🙂
I am not really
remiss at all
life’s to short
for me nearing
that inevitable
end but like you
I love writing
haiku my favourite
poetry form but
enough about
my self now
I always thought
it was a woman’s
joy ironing
shirts sheets
awkward things
you love the
challenge what
yeah your right
I’m making fun
but like that
old saying
a woman’s work
is never done
no never oops
just having fun
glad I stopped by
will do it more
often your haiku
a great attraction
but right now
I I’ll take my
leave catch
you L8r’s Ina
Love your haiku – reply. I like to iron because it is a soothing mindless thing to do. Always have.
could you be a one off
most woman scoff at laundry
now ironing… anther story
but I think you write
in your mind while flattening
uh… that’s another story
You got it, Mick. The mindless act of ironing is where my poem began. A totally different train of thought had been on my mind for a few days but I couldn’t manage to express it. The Daily Prompt “illusion” put things together for me. The non-aging of the ironing board was the outward feature that was in contrast to my aging while it and I remained the same inwardly.
Its amazing where us poets get our inspiration from, Like I often sit out in the garden alone, a fleck, a tiny piece of dust catches my eye. Was that once something, a speck of some body long gone? Of course, unless captured I will never know, perhaps another lost soul? You keep on ironing, I’ll sit alone,
It is nice to have the familiarity of something (or someone) to remind us of where we’ve been! I liked my wall ironing board tucked away in a cabinet, but don’t miss it one bit! Lovely poem & it is what’s inside that counts.
The ironing board in the house I lived in as a child was also stored in a cabinet in the wall and pulled down for use. My siblings and I went back to find our old house a couple of years ago and the same old ironing board was there sixty years later.
Thanks for your comment on my poem. 🙂
Your garden sounds like a fertile resting place for souls, Mick.
The last stanza tugs at my heart ~ Your talent for words came with you at birth, I believe ❤
Thank you dear friend. I have loved words and reading as long as I can remember. ❤
I love the way you begin with an ordinary, well-used object, to bring out memory and change and the beauty of that last verse.
Thank you Andrea. The old iron was my muse for expressing something on my mind about the core being of a person. Funny how poetry muses work. And how prosaic my mind’s original thoughts were.
Ironing, I loathe!
I de-crease, when I must
The press depresses.
@shilyot De-crease!
LOL
Aw, wonderful. I appreciate the strength and self-awareness.
Thanks for your affirming comment.
You are (still) who you are
And some habits die hard.
Right – on both accounts. 🙂
I’m with you. A Grandmother but still the young woman.
Yes. It is pretty amazing. Thanks for reading my old posts. I then read them myself and am enjoying getting reacquainted with my earlier writings.