"tatters" poems
Too long this rot has run its course, too much the damage done
When men deflect acknowledged glance, they know that wrong has won.
Across this land and far afield the wrongness seeps within
And pride becomes a memory through distant halls of spin.
How can we bow to tyranny, how can we shy away
From that which causes eyes to slide.... and coaxes will to sway?
To tolerate the bombast, the bullying, the lies
Succumbing to a hopelessness, which, both we despise.
Division in the nation, uproar in between
A man and wife’s contention-ness beyond what should be seen
Brothers loathing brothers, silence in the room
Where a word uttered wrongly can erupt to screaming soon.
Allies left in tatters, trust is cut to shards
Tariffs injudiciously, imposed to **** the cards.
International uproar, industry in strife
Teetering disastrously when NATO flees the knife.
Putin sits and rubs his hands, hilarious the show
Disorder and disharmony to lubricate his glow.
Beijing sits inscrutably, always opportune
Manoeuvring judiciously, in place, to call the tune.
America, the isolate, sails away to sea
Blondini, at the helm, wears smirk indulgently.
M.
The White House
HAMILTON NZ
12th July 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 2:17 AM UTC
We've been out here swinging for a while now
tearing at your throat like there's no tomorrow
And I've never been one to stand aside or
stand in the way of change, but she's got us on one hell of a ride
hanging over the sides now
trying to get my bearings with my guard down
standing over the edge now
we've been playing both sides, don't let us hit the ground
it'd be one too many if we went down tonight
can't catch a break wondering is the timing ever right
can't catch my breath but it's over now
passing in phases like the last round
the last scene before the grand finale
dialogue caught in tatters like you've a mouth full of razor teeth
touch my cheek
kiss me only when you feel like it
(we were there just last week)
take this dose and space it out, I need
my portions small like my dreams
always on to the next faded scheme,
it's okay though because my vision's 20/20
and I don't mind chasing
the hard-to-get things.
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
Body of shame.
It haunts in tatters.
All this grief smites all that matters,
'til there's no one left to blame.
It has the fading scars
of good ol' times
plastered
like flaking paint:
Tattoos of radiant beach sunsets;
forgotten "beneath" a shore
of its memories
like an ordinary pebble
under a mountain of stones.
Ethereal grasp
never touching a thing,
yet finding itself
touched
by desire.
Where goes the time?
Past yet to come.
It has broken scales that balance wine,
yet it's sober to passion's drum.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 8:45 PM UTC
He will not light long enough
for the interpreter to gather
the tatters of his speech.
But the longer we listen
the calmer he becomes.
He shows me the place where his daughter
has rubbed with a coin, violaceous streaks
raising a skeletal pattern on his chest.
He thinks he's been hit by the wind.
He's worried it will become pneumonia.
In Cambodia, he'd be given
a special tea, a prescriptive sacrifice,
the right chants to say. But I
know nothing of Chi, of Karma,
and ask him to lift the back of his shirt,
so I may listen to his breathing.
Holding the stethoscope's bell I'm stunned
by the whirl of icons and script
tattooed across his back, their teal green color
the outline of a map which looks
like Cambodia, perhaps his village, a lake,
then a scroll of letters in a watery signature.
I ask the interpreter what it means.
It's a spell, asking his ancestors
to protect him from evil spirits—
she is tracing the lines with her fingers—
and those who meet him for kindness.
The old man waves his arms and a staccato
of dipthongs and nasals fills the room.
He believes these words will lead his spirit
back to Cambodia after he dies.
I see, I say, and rest my hand on his shoulder.
He takes full deep breaths and I listen,
touching down with the stethoscope
from his back to his front. He watches me
with anticipation—as if awaiting a verdict.
His lungs are clear. You'll be fine,
I tell him. It's not your time to die.
His shoulders relax and he folds his hands
above his head as if in blessing.
Ar-kon, he says. All better now.
by Peter Pereira
.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:02 AM UTC
1617
To try to speak, and miss the way
And ask it of the Tears,
Is Gratitude’s sweet poverty,
The Tatters that he wears—
A better Coat if he possessed
Would help him to conceal,
Not subjugate, the Mutineer
Whose title is “the Soul.”
4.5k
vapour locked
her vacant eyes looking
up at the falling stars
at the laughing cowgirl riding a
rocket to the moon
a hero to her generation
a pin up girl flashing a bit of skin
but the intent is betrayed by the feeling
that this endless road has consequences
she wanders the shopping mall of our world
with a loose credit card
as her only symbol of belonging
as her only connection to humanity
guard your purchases against theft
guard your heart against pilfering
but she just looks through you with
a dazzled distraction
that defies definition
she's happier there than most of us
are here
a white picket fence
surrounds the ruins that she picks through
the rubble of her thoughts in a scattered pile
while the tatters of her former life
now decorate the walls of a fools parade
now is the poster child of the loosing war
but she endures the winter rain
and stacks the broken bricks of her former world
neatly into the categories she was shown
as a child
and that's all she wants to return to
the innocence of childhood
no complexity's
no hangups
vapour locked into the
moment she escaped all the things
she thought
and the things she almost but not quit felt
when her man came round
trying to convince herself that
if she fakes it long enough
she be happy someday
playin the housewife and mother
playin the well adjusted and smiling face
she has plastered on every morning for twenty two years
but in her heart
she's with that cowgirl
riding rocket to the moon
and kissing all the girls
kissing all the girls
then she'd be happy
and in her heart she knows it
so why is she lingering here ill never know
ill never know
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 7:55 PM UTC
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air--
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat--
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
3.5k
the girlie man of Australian politics
had the term coined just for him
the tough man Arnie Schwarzenegger
from California was thinking of him
Bill Shorten is a *****
when it comes to fiscal matters
that's why his statements
on the budget are all in tatters
soft approaches toward
spending will never do
the nation's finances are in need
of a tightening *****
the treasury office stats
don't mislead of go awry
a salient tale they tell
about a well running dry
there are no Jesus Christ figures
in Canberra to divide the loaves and fishes
a certain amount is in the nation's war chest
which must fulfill the people's many wishes
the Shorten alternative economic policy
has great sieve holes in it
the nation's well being under it
would be rendered unfit
at the end of the day
the taxpayer always pays
so the ledger should be in balance
without any stalling delays
fiscal responsibility
is good for a nation's health
marshmallow centered Shorten
has no interest in stock piling our wealth
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:20 PM UTC
The start of the day look so bright, who would have belived it would end in a fight.
The clatter off glasses and the shout of "Who's Round?! All drinks were picked up and swiftly downed.
Moving on to the next watering hole, get there quick to watch the match winning goal.
The lads want more dancing, ***** Stippers but not before we stop of for Chicken Dippers
Intoxication is power or so we belived but a fight with what we thought were ninjas brought us down to our knees.
We picked up our injured and clean up our wounds, then move on to the next place so we could re-group.
Our ego's in tatters our wallets all spent, I think its time we bring this epic night to an end
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
I take flight
With all my might
To be your kite
Following you wherever you go
To be part of your ebb and flow
People think I ingested the wrong pill
Because up here I can't see the roadkill
And float over the pitch black oil spills
From the end of your string
I become king
There is an approaching storm
As you deviate from the norm
And discontinue acting warm
Your lightning strikes
My metal pike
Electricity tears through my thin fabric
As I dream of a tranquil casket
And you want to grant me my death wish
I guess that's why they call me Icarish
For flying to close to the rain
Only to constantly feel pain
To distract me from the shame
From those with unknown names
But familiar bigoted flames
To me you both are the same
Once I go against the grain
You tell me to stay in my lane
High above the gravelly ground
Where you can't hear my sounds
Of impaling wailing
Because you're bailing
Letting go of the string
You become king
I am a kite floating
Spending night noting
All my many mistakes
That caused these breaks
But despite trying my very best
The wind provides a difficult test
After I am battered into tatters
My hopes couldn't be flatter
So I start to feel it doesn't matter
When my dreams came true then shattered
The wind solemnly sings
Of distant powerful kings
But I cannot fly anymore
In my broken kite form
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 3:17 AM UTC
My Maypole mind unravels
reverses centrifugal force
its streamer shreds of ribbons
spinning backwards
in one grand and splendid rush.
Mind loosened and snapped
tatters
fluttering free
electric after-images
of me.
© M.L.Emmett
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:57 AM UTC
I feel her there sometimes
Sometimes silent, sometimes not
When she is silent the emptiness is
Oppressive
And makes my skull feel heavy and weak
And my thoughts clouded with
The groping fingers of all that ask,
"Are you okay?"
When she screams, I am filled
To the brim with panic and chaos
That spews from her maw in
Tangled, writhing masses
The sound is almost angelic.
Is she heavenly?
I have never seen her but I know what she looks like.
It is a knowing feeling, or an overexcited imagination?
Long, tangled black hair,
Something is caught in the snarls and curls.
A pale face whiter than bone,
Thin and fragile like china.
Hands clawed and twisted,
Feet swollen and scarred.
A white dress long in tatters slipping off the bony shoulder
*please take me back,
take me home*
I plead but there are no words
Comprehensible to my human
(However extraordinarily mutated)
Brain
That leave her cracked lips.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
Suicidal
Homicidal
Alike but different
Each is permanent
**** someone in rage
Or **** yourself and leave behind a page
Your level of madness is measured,gauged
But why do I banter
Im as mad as a hatter
Nothing even matters
My life in tatters
A knife to me throat
Toss me in the moat
A bullet in the brain
Nothing to gain
Sometimes relief other times pain
The blood will be taint
Burn and Burn
Ashes in the urn
The worlds will turn
The stomachs will churn
For all you see is fake
And they will continue to take
An illusion
To launch you into confusion
A ruse
To light your fuse
Our lifespan
Throughout man
Short and bitter
So many of us quitters
The rest of us let out titters
While they gnaw on us, the critters
Bite and Bite
Fight for the light
To die in the moonlit night
To cause each other so much fright
Our 'Gods' tell us to **** each other
Our own brothers
Let the blackbird fly
High into the sky
To cause the gloom
To signal our doom
Our demise
Of the human enterprise
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
It is November
And all the leaves face my way
Overlapping tussocks of grass
Like long forgotten hills
Dwelling in the overhang of fall
It is November
Orange ribbons hand in tatters
Patched up yellow cloaks are draped
And whisking in the wind
Then drifting to the earth
And becoming winters pillow
It is November
And there stands a lonely tower
Base adorned with red bushes
Flags no longer flying
Crouched and crippled by the frost
It is November
My feet bear down on acorns
A thousand fold
All left and forgotten
Even to the squirrels
Just a layer ‘neath my feet
It is November
The solitary pines stand solid
Near the ivy covered wall
Their boughs raise and hail the heavens
And their needles fall
As the autumn wind dances a mournful dance
It is November
Bare branches rake the cloudy skies
And scratch out their heartfelt pleas
Against cold glass windows
Seeking what they have lost and will not find
It is November
An old gate stands ajar
Beckoning to no one
Standing solidly open
Despite the cruel fall wind
It is November
Trees make colored circles
A fading gold on fading green
A fireworks display
Now falling to the ground
It is November
Cold air fills my body
Cruel wind tosses my hair
I seek a shelter from autumn
My door is open
Now I am home
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 2:44 PM UTC
“O ‘Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?”—
“O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she.
—”You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you’ve gay bracelets and bright feathers three!”—
“Yes: that’s how we dress when we’re ruined,” said she.
—”At home in the barton you said ‘thee’ and ‘thou,’
And ‘thik oon,’ and ‘theäs oon,’ and ‘t’other’; but now
Your talking quite fits ‘ee for high compa-ny!”—
“Some polish is gained with one’s ruin,” said she.
—”Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I’m bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!”—
“We never do work when we’re ruined,” said she.
—”You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you’d sigh, and you’d sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!”—
“True. One’s pretty lively when ruined,” said she.
“—I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!”—
“My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain’t ruined,” said she.
2.8k
"Welcome Home."
...
Now just imagine what those words could mean.
Can you picture yourself as a returning war Veteran,
stepping into your house that you haven't seen in years.
Picture it.
The overwhelming sense of home
makes you want to break down and cry
cause you knew you missed home,
but once you got there you realized just how much you missed it.
...
Now picture this instead.
You're a runaway teenager
about 17 years old.
Could you imagine that you were gone for a year.
You left because you felt misunderstood,
and throughout your travels
you realized just how much you needed your home,
because there was nothing wrong with it in the first place.
Sitting on your front steps crying
not being able to knock on the door
not thinking you'll be welcomed
and then your parents open the door
and all they say is
"Welcome Home"
...
Can you feel the emotions behind those words,
and not just the speaker's emotions,
but who is being spoken too.
Could you think of their story?
If they were wearing a nice suit,
and taking a long deep breath.
Would you think that person has been distant for some time due to their job,
and is trying to make up for it?
Or, if it was a teenager whose clothes were in tatters
and they seemed to be in bad shape
just sitting on the steps crying.
Could you imagine his story?
Would you think about him being a runaway,
and not thinking he would be accepted home again.
Now imagine that,
the pain of being shut out of your home,
how you could be so close,
or you could live in a house,
and it's just not a home.
What makes a home a home anyways?
...
What makes a home,
are the people who will always say
"Welcome home,"
no matter how long you were away,
no matter what you have done.
...
Welcome Home.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 9:42 PM UTC
Cast it aside I…
Can the world be so…
Is anything actually…
Where does it go?
Promises they kept
Lifted from the well.
Hurt me just a little longer…
And I will never tell.
Basically, the chains they…
Craftiness all ensnared…
Turned round to face the…
Was it ever there?
Sever my motives
What does it matter?
Emptiness concepts…
Meaning’s in tatters.
Legs wrapped tight on…
Hardly notice the…
Singes the backside…
Looks so good, huh?
Push me to action.
Call me a fake.
Hurt me with venom.
Lies from the snake.
Nobody knows that…
So much of knowing it…
Is there a knowing such…
Yet, how we commit.
The pain sets it free now.
The blisters remind us.
Sifts through unknowing…
Blood, guts, and ****
Will it ever be, I…
Where is the voice of…
Searching for aching…
And finding love.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
wrapped in the tatters of my body
in this measureless place
I search for release
among the disconsolate boles
thin as hope
hard and dark
wearing pallid shrouds
of frozen lace
proudly displayed
in their alfresco mausoleum
an inexhaustible study
in the extremes
of leaden purity
their moribund limbs
and ice sheathed fingers
reach into me
pulling me on
tears of other lives
in frosted glory
cold upon my wintered face
always renewed
and living on
in fractal eternity
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 2:35 AM UTC
'Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor,
Set at euchre on his elbow,
'I was on the wharf at Charleston,
Just ashore from off the runner.
'It was grey and ***** weather,
And I heard a drum go rolling,
Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,
Awful dour-like and defiant.
'In and out among the cotton,
Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,
Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows--
Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!
'Some had shoes, but all had rifles,
Them that wasn't bald was beardless,
And the drum was rolling Dixie,
And they stepped to it like men, sir!
'Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,
On they swung, the drum a-rolling,
Mum and sour. It looked like fighting,
And they meant it too, by thunder!'
2.4k
Miles and borders
wedges
Wanderlust children
locked in the Sun's hula hoop
claim visions of sugarplum prairies
Downplayed mountains
speckle the globe
like tectonic acne
Topography's tease
The paper was so promising
Dimensions spawn
in the tatters of ambition
like fused particles of
colloquial bridges
Keyboards sprout vocal chords
and philosophies huddle under
shy amusement
humming to the hymn of a discovery
wrapped up in the chords
of enraptured choirs of fingertips
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 3:40 PM UTC
one undead sed to one too undead: "id **** for a romancer whos a necromancer."
Well, abracadabra with just an ounce of my magic
i produce half a cadavre and then the other half grab it and shake it until it blabbers:
"well im awake but id rather be underground with dead matter."
and though ive never been sadder i had to grab her and stab her a thousand times in such patterns
that all was left were mere tatters, talk about beaten and battered as all the pieces were scattered
(i made em smaller and flatter til they looked good so i blabbered):
"you look amazing"- "im flattered"
she sed but that didnt matter. im just a ****** whos madder than Hell oh well whats it matter
the feelings of a mad hatter madder than other mad hatters collaboratively dont matter
in fact the maddest just happens to have had all his dreams shattered.
evacuate bowels and bladder. souls eaten, demons get fatter, eternal state of dead palar,
dying in Hell, almost had her. god ****
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 3:59 AM UTC
The condensation slowly begins
To eat a hole in
The cotton of my jeans
And I've been through this enough
To know
I'm not alone in it
But I can't help but feel empty.
The dripping grass emits it's gasses
filling the air with the sweet smell of
freedom and October;
The plants releasing their last breath into the world
before the snow comes
and brings death upon us all.
Even in this facade of freedom I feel trapped
Caging myself within the confines of a small
One-bedroom apartment that's supposed to be "home".
The soaking corpses of thriving flowers
and the sweet tickle of chirping crickets
are drowned out by the overwhelming sadness
that's begun to overthrow my lungs,
echoing throughout my limbs as it
sloshes through my eardrums and soaks my shoes
Dear god, why am I still hurting?
It's been 9 years and I still can't escape.
This depression has stolen every last part of me.
Until it's all I have left.
And yes, out here, I feel free
Away from the judgement
Where no one can touch me
Connected with the Earth
Simply observing all that surrounds me.
And of course I can hide from my anxiety
But even feeling the cleanest sand between my feet
And deafening my mind with these crashing waves around me
I can't run from the demons eating at the tatters of my soul
Because they will find a way to lure me back in
To disconnect me from the beauty that surrounds me
Leaving me dying alone on the cold, dark concrete
that lines my broken memories
Bleeding out these sins until I no longer feel empty
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC