"tatty" poems
The first sorrow of autumn
Is the slow goodbye
Of the garden who stands so long in the evening-
A brown poppy head,
The stalk of a lily,
And still cannot go.
The second sorrow
Is the empty feet
Of a pheasant who hangs from a hook with his brothers.
The woodland of gold
Is folded in feathers
With its head in a bag.
And the third sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the sun who has gathered the birds and who gathers
The minutes of evening,
The golden and holy
Ground of the picture.
The fourth sorrow
Is the pond gone black
Ruined and sunken the city of water-
The beetle's palace,
The catacombs
Of the dragonfly.
And the fifth sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the woodland that quietly breaks up its camp.
One day it's gone.
It has only left litter-
Firewood, tentpoles.
And the sixth sorrow
Is the fox's sorrow
The joy of the huntsman, the joy of the hounds,
The hooves that pound
Till earth closes her ear
To the fox's prayer.
And the seventh sorrow
Is the slow goodbye
Of the face with its wrinkles that looks through the window
As the year packs up
Like a tatty fairground
That came for the children.
20.6k
Daisies
Are quite like people
(or perhaps people are like daisies)
In full bloom in the light
But in the shade they hide away,
Wallowing in self pity.
Allowing themselves to be picked on
and trampled into a million pieces,
By letting people walk over them.
So pretty
Yet so humble,
Their beauty goes unnoticed, even by themselves.
Until one day someone treasures it
and falls hopelessly in love with the humble daisy,
Preferring it over the other daisies.
Then finally the daisy shrinks
to a tatty mess,
no longer young and beautiful-
Dead.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
It’s time to take down all the decorations,
They look tatty with no celebrations
to give them purpose,
Bauble’s shine turns to rust,
The tinsel starts wilting
Like flowers left in a vase.
Fragments of sellotape cling to the wrapping paper,
And grab at the walls and window ledges it passes on its way to the fire
Trying to escape death.
At least a kind of death.
Floating up out of the flume to be part of a white Christmas for next year.
A flake of ash that ice molecules wrap themselves around to become a snowflake,
And to think you used to be wrapping paper.
So much tasted of last year,
How much is recyclable?
How much to care about complacence of wastage?
How much should I shed a tear?
How much should I care for carbon footprints and ******* tips?
I don’t want to care at all
It’s too much baggage.
All I want is to fly this year,
I’ll make a kite from the bones of the Christmas tree,
The baubles and tinsel and snow spray stripped,
Now bare of all personality.
Maybe it will fly…
If it doesn’t,
There will always be next year,
Until there isn’t…
…And even when I die someday,
Maybe I will get to be a snowflake.
And I’ll get to fly that way.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
Don't **** the Genie
Peg-leg Pete, the pirate, in the good old days of old;
found a sealed amphora, whilst searching for some gold.
The label bore a warning & a faded, scary skull
but Peg-leg Pete was curious & gave the **** a pull.
The bottle appeared empty, so he gave it quite a shake.
A rumbling, grumbling let him know – a genie was awake!
“You didn't ought to do that, you one-legged, one-eyed beast;
to someone who's been fast asleep, a hundred years, at least!”
The genie was so angry, like a bear, with a sore head.
“You'll only get one wish for that, so make it count.” he said.
“Only one!” poor Pete complained. “but I've just set you free.
I've got the very task though, that you can do for me.”
“Me owd peg-leg has woodworm & me glass-eye's on the blink;
me 'ooks gone rusty & me trusty ship's about to sink.
If you can make me whole again, one wish will be enough.
So, come on grumpy genie, shake a leg & do your stuff!”
“Make sure you word your wish exact, for there's no going back.”
The genie smirked, then got to work & everything went black.
When Pete came round, he quickly found his hook & peg-leg there
& underneath it's tatty patch, his glass-eye's icy stare.
“What trick is this, you scurvy dog, you've gone back on your word?”
“I think not Pete, just look around & see what has occurred.
Your ship is now a merchant & that warehouse on the dock.
It's yours, for import/export work – for honest trade old ****
Pete
“I don't get this, I'm still stood here,
like Ahab, off the whaler.”
Genie, smirking
“You asked me, quite specifically
to make you a whole-saler!”
Briz 5/11/13
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
I am just a city girl, I'm calling up at city lights.
The daily roar of traffic, unsettling on this chilly Tuesday night.
I am frightened by my shadow, as sunlight comes around.
I ran along the pathway outside my darkened house.
Heard a creature snuffling, perhaps it was a mouse.
Then my lovely carer crept outside the bungalow.
Oh no, my shuffler got trod on.
She thought it was the discarded head of a tatty old brush.
A broom head, chucked out in the gloom.
It was a little hedgehog.
Poor creature creeping around in the dark.
Went indoors.
Found a torch.
The pig of the hedge had gone.
My carer told me she felt guilty.
I said she need not be.
As the hedgehog, scared by heavy feet.
Was up the pathway nibbling meat.
The meat was meant for me.
(c)LIVVI
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
got a lovely tatty on ya left leggy
got no motivation or inspiration
but that *** needs lotsa smackin'
or maybe mine does, red from your hands
bittercress amongst the flowers outdoors
warding dancing birdflit
of people friendly pudgy pigeons
man i hate the birds, the people
singing their arias, their liturgy
feeling like they know somebody
in the canon, me in the sheets listening
to their rumors, trying to break our secret
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
The scarecrow, solitary in the field
Tatty coat, all astray
Looks out over all his land
If he could talk, what would he say.
Summer,autumn, winter too
Wind and rain, clouds of grey
He never flinches from his post
If he could see, what would he say
Children play amoungst the crops
Neatly parcelled bales of hay
Days grow shorter, crisper, cooler
If he could hear, what would he say
Invisable tears and a broken heart
His lonely vigil every day
Timeless days and empty nights
If he could walk, would he walk away.
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 2:23 AM UTC
Insomnia came knocking on my door at half-past three.
The Angel of Death had long passed out,
fishnets tight around her throat,
a ***** needle dangling from just below the knee;
the Tooth Fairy was trading milk teeth for *****
on the corner of Fear and Doubt
with a nervous gentleman who had a head like a goat.
Insomnia knocked three times, and let herself in,
tatty robes behind her like torn leather,
scraping over cold tiles, over my skin;
sweet lullabies oozed over her chapped lips
in a voice as old as dry weather,
a storm of emotions conjured, a concoction
of cold blood, sour grapes, and bad trips.
Insomnia stayed the night, stretched out on my bed,
told me to write something nice about her,
or the curve of her armpits instead;
I can’t, I said, they’re dreadlocked in fur,
so I crawled in next to her, put my head on her breast.
A sigh of satisfaction moistened her lips,
There, there, deary, lets take a rest.
Feb 7, 2011
Feb 7, 2011 at 10:25 PM UTC
knitted on a dodgy bobble hat
or a favourite chunky jumper
from scandanavia, or yorkshire
untasteful but definitely practical..
smelly and friendly like a wet dog
pliable like warm playdoh...
patulioi oil
will always remind me of you...
'a hippy place in my heart...'
like a beachnut,
no, a beach hut
shelves littered with the flotsam of our throwaway society,
flip flop corner...
19:10
some random hermit crab making his escape from
the dripping bundle of just found fishing net
down through the crack in the floor...
into the sand
and back to the sea.
the moths and midges gravitate towards the fossils and rock shelf
because that's where the gaslamp gently hisses.
suncracked and faded
pieces of
70's buckets and spades flicker in the corner
between the scraps of rope
and the deflated inflatables
and the bottlecap damian hurst
next to sea purse corner,
biological tendrils contrasting the ever stoic rubber ducks
who escaped from the pacific gyre...
panning around, the smartphone registers,
the garish tatty windbreak
and the 90's ghettoblaster
which still has some juice left from those batteries
we bought at the gift shop...
last year...
for our imaginary beach hut....
in the outer hebrides...?
you take the camping gaz from the cupboard
and put the kettle on...
the beach is desert island white
the sea azure like a gaudy 70's postcard
the wind tugging relentless through our hair.
but the pub is warm and friendly
where grizzled fishermen philosophise
hardily. by the fire.
between warming shots of smokey single malt.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
The year the boys got their trampoline
All Dad got was a new shirt.
A nice one, mind - well made and warm.
He had it on as he put the trampoline together
(despite Mum's advice regarding working in new clothes)
and he was glad of its warmth as the boys
had their maiden bounce,
laughter making clouds
in the cold December air.
Tatty now, old and worn
in fifteen years that lasted a week, or less,
it's the same shirt keeping him warm
as he takes the trampoline apart
in the quiet, empty garden.
Jan 2, 2011
Jan 2, 2011 at 4:34 AM UTC
I’ve learned to live without you
More and more each day.
I try to put a poem up
But get a Bad Gateway.
When at last I get on site
My write goes straight to ‘draft’.
Trying to get it on my page
Takes every ounce of craft.
Is it even worth my time
When everything’s a struggle.
When I can’t post the words I pen
I feel just like a Muggle.
Other places on the net
Will post the things I write
So I just may go over there
And tell Hello, Goodnight.
ljm
Apr 24, 2022
Apr 24, 2022 at 10:50 AM UTC
it took you
a grand total of four days
to sew up your patchwork heart
pack your tatty suitcase,
ricochet off her like a purposed misfire
and attempt to lodge yourself into me.
four days seems about right...
took you four days to go from ME to HER
in the first place
good thing i took that target
off my chest
you'll be missing
this time.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 3:00 AM UTC
I slowly walked into the Boardroom
Silence
You could here a pin drop
Silence
Locked the door behind me
Silence
Opened up my tatty briefcase
Silence
Pulled out two Beretta 93R automatic pistols
*Silence
Chaos*
**Corporate ******** annihilated**
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 5:13 AM UTC
He’s standing in front of me
Wearing a ten-gallon hat
And I think, take it off
You’re in the city, you look like a prat
But it’s only when you get a talking
That you really begin to understand
He may be an old cowpoke
But he’s really worked the land
Sweating in the midday sun
With a little cowgirl on the side
A smile flashes across his face
A knowing that he can’t hide
Yes I’ve drank in smoky barrooms
I’ve taken a few hotties on the lash
I’ve seen clear mountain mornings
I’ve even railed with Johnny Cash
So don’t judge me by the tatty hat
Or by my faded wrangler jeans
Because looks can be deceptive
When everything’s not as it seems
I’ve seen the world, I’ve been to town
I’ve know the love on a woman’s breath
I don’t mean to bone, but leave me alone
Now while I collect my redundancy cheque.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
Music blares,
Through tatty headphones,
Hoods hide heads,
Spotted, youthful faces,
Glum and wretched,
'The whole world's against me'
Strict regulations,
Never free, Obeying
Someones orders,
Parents, teachers, what do they care?
One day adulthood will catch up,
Money and worries, work and stress,
Whereas now, all there is to think...
What can I do today?
eat what I like,
Buy what I like,
Dress how I like,
Simple and carefree,
Glad and happy,
Pink prom dresses,
And new cinema tickets,
Soon be replaced by grey papers,
Responsibility, tea and TV
The sun shines and doubt is lost,
The teens of today scream
They know what they want,
They are lucky to have it.
Mar 19, 2010
Mar 19, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
Sweet Yesteryears’
A sound from the radio taps at her ear
And brings back a memory from sweet yesteryear
A smile tugs her lips as she goes down that path
To days of a childhood where hearts seemed to laugh!
Back home in her garden with all of the clan
Knees bruised from scrumping the fruits of the land
Clothes worn and tatty but nobody cared
As laughter was plenty in the house which they shared!
They all made their pastimes with games which were free
Conkers on strings also climbing the trees
Chalking on pavements to play some hopscotch
All was unruly but they felt like top-notch!
A sound from the radio beckons once more
Closing the gate tight from this magnificent tour
Sweet yesteryears‘ over but will never depart
So unwrap it real careful to spread light on your dark!
© By LynnKaren
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:31 AM UTC
A dog on a silver lead walked past a shiny window
In the reflection he was horrified what he saw
He had no fur, no silky hair on his head, bald
Just skin and bone from his tail to his paw.
He thought to himself , "now don't I look a fright"
"You would have thought they would have helped me."
His thoughts mulled over in his little brain all day
and he eventually put together a rather good plea.
He sat signalling to his owner rubbing his paw on his head
Twiddling the air in a manner suggesting something big
Then pointing to this sofa with his tip of his tail
Therefore in doggy language he wanted a brown hairy wig.
But his master was confused and thought he'd gone mad
thought he needed to go outside to relieve himself
But the dog now at the point of uselessness was bartking
and began sniffing and crying at the brush on the shelf.
"If only I could make him see what I need"
Gesturing to the hairs hanging from this tatty brush.
"I need a wig, something to adorn my skin, cant you see"
"dont walk away stop telling me to shush."
He tried to bark his talk mimicking "I need a wig"
in four short sharp barks, " woof, woof, woof, woof. "
He should understand that, that's done the trick
I have portrayed my message, that is enough.
His eyes dropped to the floor when he saw his prize
It is enough to make the angry pooch bleed.
It wasn't a nice furry wig or coat that came
I was his trusty, now so hated silver lead. ****
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 12:30 AM UTC
Seeing a vessel.
A catcher of fishes.
Espies another catcher of fishes.
These little fellows are destined for dishes.
Crew watching the crying ones.
The gulls as they rise.
Screaming wildly, they're on fire with excitement.
Gulls watch the Herrings, as they're breaching the foam.
Flapping and flipping, they're struggling to breathe.
The trawler man in the South westerly squall.
Struggling to cling to the slippery deck.
Tries hard not to fall.
He's used to it.
Another dollar.
Another day.
Only way to scoop his pay.
He's landing his fish.
Amid the squawking and bombing.
Keen and mean.
Tatty old trawler, chugs into the safe haven of harbour.
Today's catch thrown onto the dockside.
A different gull swoops.
A sly diving skydiver,
He's diving for dinner.
Never a loser.
Always a winner.
(C) Livvi
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
In her pram which is a trolley
she carries a baby, which is really
the life that she has in old carrier bags
and a holdall which carries
nothing.
She lives in her dream of
french fries,scones and cream,
kindly people would pass her
and offer some coin,
she accepted,quite gracefully
fully aware that dreaming or not
she needed her pennies to buy her a ***
of London Dry Gin.
She spoke in third person as
if she was not there at all,
a bit like the holdall,
empty.
No faces to face the faces that faced her
she hid in the barbed wire of unkindly
stares
where the world couldn't find her
and her baby was safe in
the bags in the pram.
Life carries on until it is gone
and then carries on a bit more,
somewhere in between
I bet you have seen her
perhaps
you have been her.
The queen of the street
with jewels on her feet
which are
tatty old shoes
but she lives in her dream
that way
she don't lose.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
Saw the man coming.
Bringer of warmth in a tatty old wagon.
Scruffy old horse with tangled once flowing mane,
Deteriorated into a matted mess.
Coal man's direction in perfection.
Old bay gelding standing patient at the road edge.
Waiting on the coal man to ducking into our yard.
Heard the cellar lid lifting,
He tipped the coal inside.
Asked him when I went to the gate.
Can I trot along for the ride.
Coal fella said "no time today".
Another day maybe.
Said "I'll see".
Never got to ride on top.
Times changed, bought coal from the shop
Many folk switched fuel to gas.
The coalman's assistant put out to grass.
It was the other day.
Sky shone brightly without warning.
A black shiny horse in funeral regalia.
Glass coach with a casket within.
Sign on the side easy to see.
Informed me that the coalman was free.
Driven away in a hearse,
By a friend.
Dependable horse.
Finale for he,
The coalman.
His end.
Reminded me of my childhood.
When life was peaceful and times were good.
"Tara coalman!"
(c)Livvi
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
You could be so pretty
if
your hair was straight
or at least neat
and not fire engine red
You could look so lovely
If
you didn't insist on wearing
tatty jeans
Yellow Dr Marten boots
Dropkick Murphys tees
and you weren't covered in tattoos
You could have a better life
If
You hadn't married
that blue eyed
empty pocket
*** smoking
dreamer
You could have more time to clean
If
you didn't waste it
writing pointless poems
with your head in the clouds
listening to that awful racket
You could be more ladylike
If
you didn't attend protests
railing against politics
didn't smoke, drink,
swear like a sailor
and stayed away from mosh pits.
You could be better
If
you were a lot more me
and a hell of a lot less you
After all I've done
You were not what I was expecting..
Well, it was good talking to you
I love you mum
I love you too..
Lets do this again soon!
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 3:53 AM UTC
I'm a tatty paperback
my covers bent and worn
and all my ink stained pages
are read and roughly torn
there's footnotes in my margins
and typos underlined
and I've been taken out before
but I found it such a bind
my epilogue and prologue
tell so little of my soul
and the ones that misun'stood
have really took their toll
pages torn out to light a fire
that burned so very bright
but only warmed their bodies
for that one forsaken night
my jacket wet with others tears
that lay their hands on me
have left me now in dire need
of love and T L C
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 9:44 PM UTC
when we have people come visit.
i find myself saying, normally, somewhere
within the first half hour.
the following,
in one form or another;
let me explain about the cat. no he is not unwell,
nor does he have a skin condition.
thats the way they come, devon rex's.
yes i know,
they look like
little *** bellied men,
who having been,
startled by the ringing,
of the front doorbell.
have grabbed their
wife's tatty chennile bathrobe,
but then have not,
tied the sash,
so now show,
an almost, indecent
amount of wrinkly flesh.
yes" their fur is so soft, like down,
except for the front paws they are like crushed velvet gloves.
no i am sorry,
he is not a climb up
and snuggle into your lap cat he is a more of a,
stare at you, weigh you up,
find you wanting,
until it's all becomes,
sort of awkward cat.
if he does happen
to approve -
and in all honesty,
he probably won't.
i don't want to get your hopes up,
but if he does,
you will be presented,
with a token,
it may be a lizard or a bug
or moth, but pencils, a sock and pet ***** have also been gifted.
yes, he is unusual
but that is
the beauty of the breed
and the beauty of the Gus,cat.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
"England, ah."
Green and pleasant; full of pleasant trees.
Cottages of chocolate looks, from story books.
Scribes from days gone by, using erstwhile language ,The Baird and Marlowe, E.A.Poe, to name but a few.
Poesy of poets, all rhyming in time, in sonnets and linnets, that tweet from the trees.
Towers of history, subliminal mystery.
Queens and kings and royal things, of palaces and promenades.
Our nation of knights, dames, ladies and gents.
Tatty old flats with extortionate rents, stately, homes and messy houses.
Farms of smells and beasts of burden.
Of pantomime horses, and grassy race courses.
Seashore and see moor.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Chilling in blanket, grey red edged, itching,
Bright clear night,
Leaves him colder,
Fingers smart,
Blue, cold attacked,
Feeling older,
Cloud cover dispersed,
Lack of cloud makes night feel worse!
Holds on to night's mantle , try to keep warm,
His tatty grey blanket protects him from harm,
May warm his heart, if only a little,
It's only the cold that keeps him alive,
My homeless friend, a fight to survive,
Fights on night after night,
Wrapped in winter's chill overnight,
Stern, severe, no desire to be here!
Circumstances beyond his control,
Left him stuck unearthly hole,
It's Friday night,
Greetings abound,
Soup served by poppets,
Angels wrapped in overcoats,
Ladles in hand,
Here again to meet Friday nights,
Supply with demand,
Not societal pariah,
A sad soul, lost in loneliness,
Living, but not alive!
Livvi Kent 29/04/2013
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 12:15 PM UTC