"tidily" poems
The feds are making headway
(generously passing out their treats!)
*while the whistle blower
and his boon companion
hit the 22nd floor*
fiscal plans
are tidily falling into place
and the suits are all busy
chasing their dimes
dancing around the spire
full of wine and cheer
(seems the demand side imbalance
has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!)
they’re all studying their bollinger bands
MACD's, and treasuries
just like the good old days
santali would say
while capitol hill is busy
with its own pleasantries;
*repatriate that currency
hold those rates
bring the boys back home!*
the affirmations are robust
and filled with glee!
conspiracy thinkers
are busy in their own back rooms
initiating the trade
and building their counter claims
as pork bellies
and soybeans
continue to soar
(looks like eddy and the margin men
are at it again!)
what happened to that bear masquerade anyways?
they really were a band of brothers
colourful clowns
with big painted smiles
ready to lead in any parade
but they met with the resistance
a horned wall
satan’s horsemen riding high
with bags hung heavy
under dark squinting eyes
are we near an end?
the undertakers will say
it's only a blink of an eye
to the thin red line
where risk takers and front men
all jump ship
debt addiction is crippling
and hell breaks loose
when entitlements are out
and towels are thrown in
there’s a center piece here
those pugnacious statesmen
with invigorating tales
have had their place
time to clip them at the limbs
and pull the punch from the bowl
(sobriety has its merits you know!)
let’s head to the commission
and throw darts to the board ~
seems the moral blueprints are fading
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.
There all the things are waxen neat
And set in decorous lines;
And there are posies, round and sweet,
And little, straightened vines.
Her mind lives tidily, apart
From cold and noise and pain,
And bolts the door against her heart,
Out wailing in the rain.
5.2k
not the milk, you see, is too sweet,
thick, which will rhyme if i write,
for me.
thick like the wool that filled
breaches in the wall, saved the lives.
save some with shelter, needing shelter,
while others lean to watch the birds fly,
talk of the bell tower, and all the implications.
the man parked his car, tidily went to poundland,
bought cards.
sbm.
*notes verb
verb: condense; 3rd person present: condenses; past tense: condensed; past participle: condensed; gerund or present participle: condensing
1.
make (something) denser or more concentrated.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 2:44 AM UTC
My great grandfather stood on the sixth of June
Nineteen forty four hoping to return home soon.
A non-wavering ball at the pit of his belly
Told him constantly that he was not ready.
He feared for his life, his safety, his wife;
Being stood at home holding a bread knife,
Making sandwiches with that same non wavering ball
Hidden tidily away for the safety of them all.
His children knew he was on a boat
Being so brave that they could gloat
About how their dad was marching around,
Saving innocent people n that stolen ground.
But what they didn't know quite then
Was how his life very well may soon end.
Fighting with hundreds of thousands of worries soldiers
On five thousand ships not nearly as strong as boulders.
For the day he fought with many men
Against not all Axis; only ten
Thousand but still quite a few
Because he knew so much justice was overdue.
People back back at home saw only weeks before
Large green vehicles passing by their door.
The children wondered and parents knew why,
But not as much as the soldiers about to pass by.
The soldiers said "Don't fear for me,
I'll be back home so soon you wont miss me!"
My great grandfather said the exact same thing
To his wife, his kids, although not willing.
Of the three thousand that died on that day alone,
My great grandfather was lucky to be one
Of my family to come home life intact.
I am just grateful that God had his back.
For all of those that did die on that day
The memory of their bravery will never go away.
we will always cherish the thought of their fearlessness,
Their courage, determination and dauntlessness.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
Jesus was looking impatient
It was already quarter past nine
He was sure he'd sent out invitations
And he'd turned all the water to wine
He'd promised a memorable banquet
As tomorrow he'd surely be dead
But the shops had been short of a few things
So he'd just had to settle for bread
When a knock at the door made him flutter
He adjusted his dress and his hair
He opened and bid all assembled
"Wipe your feet and then sit over there"
They shuffled and took to their places
But they looked slightly I'll at their ease
They could see all the wine and the bread rolls
But what of the ham and the cheese?
Jesus said grace in his fashion
"Cheers Dad" with his thumb held up high
"But be careful, this bread is my body"
"Now who wants a nice bit of thigh?"
They tucked in with nervous expressions
He'd been guzzling since they had arrived
He explained "It's my blood in these bottles"
"And without it I'd not have survived"
The apostles were forming conclusions
Their boss had been ****** all these years
But the wine washed away their objections
And the music drowned out all their fears
So they partied and danced on the table
They played twister and tidily-winks
Then stumbled off out to a nightclub
Because Judas was buying the drinks
They caroused and they conga'd till morning
Till their stomachs and bladders had failed
And that's how young Jesus got hammered
And the very next day he got nailed
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
Lizbeth stood in front
of the tall mirror
inside her mother's wardrobe
she was wearing
a short black dress
her hair was tied
in a bun at the back
I stood watching her
uncertain why
we were in her parents' bedroom
and why she was *********
her mother’s clothes
hanging on hangers inside
I looked around the room
a big bed made tidily
a chest of drawers
a built in cupboard
a picture on the wall
opposite the bed
of some country scene
and above the bed
a huge crucifix
made from wood
with a plaster Christ
look at this one
Lizbeth said
I looked at her hand
taking out a long red dress
she held it up
then put in front of herself
and turned to face me
what do you think?
it's a bit gaudy
I said
shall I try it on?
no I can see
what it would
look like on you
I said
she sniffed it
she must bathe
in **** scent
Lizbeth said
she did a spin
holding the dress
against her
how do I look in it?
she's taller than you
it'll fit her better
I said
not so sure
Lizbeth said
hold this
I held the dress in my hand
she unzipped her black dress
at the back
and pulled the black dress
over her head
and stood there
in a white bra and *******
give it here
she said
and taking the dress
she put it on
her own black dress
was on the floor
here zip me up
at the back
she said
I zipped her up
at the back
watching the straps
of the white bra disappear
as I zipped her up
she turned on the spot
and looked at herself
in the tall mirror
well? how do I look now?
well at least
it's longer
than your own black dress
I said
it came to her ankles
she looked down at it
yes too ****** long
she said
unzip me Benny
she said
I unzipped her
seeing the strap
of the white bra
come back into view
she pulled the dress
over her head
and put it back
on the hanger
she stood there
in bra and *******
how do I look now?
undressed
I said
do you like me
like this?
I feel kind of
uncomfortable
you standing like that
I said
why do you feel
uncomfortable?
what if your parents
come home now
and see you like this
and me here with you
and you in your underclothes?
she smiled
guess they'll feel
uncomfortable then
she said
I picked up her black dress
best out it on
I said
now?
yes now
my parent's bed is over there
all made up and fresh
and waiting for us
she said sexily
I stood holding
the black dress in my hand
where are your parents?
out some place
when will they be back?
don't know
best get your dress on
and out of their room
I said
what about my room?
the bed's smaller
and unmade
and the room's untidy
but we can still
do it there?
I heard voices from downstairs
is that them back?
I said in a low voice
Lizbeth pulled a face
**** me yes
let's get to my room
and so she put
the red dress back
in the wardrobe
and shut it up
and we rushed across
the landing to her room
and shut the door
behind us
I looked around her room
it was as she said
untidy
the bed unmade
books
LPs
soiled washing
over the floor
and the curtains unopened
that was kind of close
she said
yes
I said
downstairs the voices
were loud
and a row seemed
to be going on
but Lizbeth seemed unconcerned
standing there
in her white *******
and bra
holding the black dress
gazing towards
the unmade bed
but I had other problems
swimming around
inside my teenage head.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
Fumble in the dark,
Become a tangled, clumsy mess,
Then laugh at it all hysterically-
Oh how deeply I relish Awkwardness
Awkwardness in love,
In little things I do- in everything I do,
The 'neat and clean' ones won't get it,
But it's known to us blundering fools
That tidily cutting slices of cake
And eating them in plates with spoons
Comes nowhere close to devouring cream
In fistfuls and untamed scoops,
And licking the blueberry syrup
As it trickles down your hand,
And fighting over the part
With most icing,
Getting some on your cheeks in return.
Shyly wiping it away from your lover's face
With a tissue comes nowhere close
To kissing it off his skin,
Don't you think?
Awkwardness is real,
Proof that we are alive, not merely living,
So, taste the deliciousness of it,
Let go, and dig in!
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Sophia was out of luck
if she thought Benedict
was going to fall for that
that mid morning ****
and on
old Mr Atkinson's bed
(how he liked
his Wagner)
creeping up
on him like that
grabbing him
around the waist
and pushing him
to the bed
and saying
O come on
just a quickie for me
(Polish accent
not shown here)
no no
he said
not here and now
I’ve jobs to do
baths to attend to
old men
to get ready
and she lay over him
spread out on him
her bulging *******
kind of pinning him down
but it is my birthday
she said
it is good to do
the unexpected
now and then
her breath smelt
of peppermint
her body
eased on him deeper
he kept his hands
away from her
at his sides
best he could
all temptations
held in check
you can do
what you like
she said
good then
let me go
and I’ll go run
some baths
he said
anyway
it's near morning
coffee break
I need my fill
of coffee
you could take me here
she said
from the front or rear
no no
he said
trying to get off
the bed
his hands attempting
to push her off
touching her body
soft and supple
her breast touched
accidentally
what if I scream out
and say you tried
to have me?
she said
go ahead
he said
they know me
they know
you're always after me
I’ll say you tried
to have me here
on Mr Atkinson's bed
they believe me
she said
I'm the female
go ahead then
scream off your head
he said
but she moved off of him
and arranged
her clothes tidily
pushed her hair
into shape
and said
I’ll have you next time
Benny boy
next time
we have it quick
and on some other bed
and he rearranged
his shirt and tie
and watched
as she walked off
down the passageway
her fine behind
giving it
that **** sway.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
The house is now silent,
as if always it was this calm -
all asleep, all tidily done -
and in a thoughtful gesture
she reaches for the quilt,
grabbling for the needle minder.
In her mind, a coloured trickle
of threads draws upon the
inlaid tree branch - oh, the blossom
would happen before us,
would we look it trough her eyes
- as she picks a flaming orange
for the feather stich
and an ocean blue one
for a stich of satin feeling
and - there!, it starts showing,
the bird she nested for so long,
that bird bursting into songs
- now and forever catching your eye
here, molded by her hands.
It is so late, now.
Slowly, the unfinished quilt
is folded, threads and needle kept away.
The bird in esquisse flutters in her heart,
watching her stepping down
into the dark frown of the bedroom.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 1:14 PM UTC
a Saturday afternoon love song
<>
finally the breezes have sheared the humidity,
away, away, out, out sluggish, do nothing thoughted spots,
so peculiar to a Saturday August afternoon,
passing like a last exhaling breath,
quiet like, no receipt, no return, no raising of the turgid, languid lungs
one more time
alone with quiet contemplation for sole companionship,
observe a regatta of sailing board boats, silenced passerby's,
orderly and regal, the wind keeping them tidily single filed
their empowering wind makes me prone to
thoughts of singing,
Leon Russell's A Song For You,
up next on the playlist,
but the squirrels beg off,
the rabbits hide away 'neath the deck,
the craven ravens retreat to the highest branches,
alone, laughing at their impolite, unsubtle slipping away of the
dearly departed
earbud a semi-solo performance, a duet,
me backed up by
Leon and the river-baying waves,
a city boy singin$ rockily,
in a place where a city boy has no earthly business to be, ^
especially singing,
chanting to everyone, no one in particular,
listening real careful like to the words of two oaky, growly voices,
leftovers from the Sixties, sing a song to the ones they love
*"I love you in a place where there's no space or time,
I love you for my life, You're a friend of mine
And when my life is over, Remember when we were together,
We were alone and I was singing this song to you"*
sometimes it just doesn't get any better,
under the wings of the sky and its multi-shaded blue blessings,
don't need counting, enumerating, all kind of blending going on
the old alone days been on the mind,
those laser clouded future gazing hazing days,
when you listened to music non-stop, but never sung along,
strange though, I wept then, and weeping now,
can't quite make the connection...
*guess my singing is still
just that bad*
<>
August 13, 2016
05:50pm
S.I.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 5:38 PM UTC
the colour of a collar,
is not a mood ring,
it's blue or white,
it doesn't suddenly change,
depending on how you feel.
the division of classes,
is not hopscotch,
you can't simply jump
from square to square,
gracefully,
over stones.
debt,
like other four-letter words,
is a constant that cannot be erased,
regardless of fancy business cards,
or the poetry of your scalpel.
doubt,
like other underlying emotions,
sprouts and blooms,
when least convenient,
let logic be the shears,
that keep your mind
green, and tidily kept.
let your experience
grant you perspective,
never get caught up
in show and tell,
ant farms,
and pet rocks,
cannot be compared.
never hold with derision
what you've overcome,
or come from,
wear those badges proudly,
like a child wears
bike scars (3 stitches).
never let the memories,
of adversity
fade, let them remind
you of circumstances,
never to be repeated.
past purchases,
do not determine worth,
tie clips are superfluous,
silk and polyester,
are not discernible from a distance.
let the lack of a title,
in your pedigree,
fill you with pride,
not embarrassment.
let the sacrifices of those
before you,
ring with honour,
not with shame.
let your actions
be a logical extension,
of the dreams deferred
on your behalf.
let the blue of your collar
never fade with washing,
regardless of what's implied
by initials after names.
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
will you wear black, look uncomfortable
sip tea. will you park your car
tidily? i passed through the
village yesterday.
will you ever know?
sbm.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
Remembrance of a bad memory is
The only memory he will remember.
His mind is always racing over all of
These atrocities, not one pleasing,
His cause is fault by familiar faces.
Trying to steal his touch from
Old and dusty photographs,
Four stone walls trap suffocated
Screams of a doted past,
Flash of silver and red, a mélange
Of animalistic fervour and love.
The chalk will wear thin some day,
Soon he'll lose track of pure reality,
Forgetting is obliged but is it a cure?
The gruel splattering on the plates,
Dimmer becomes his pure identity.
Eyes scrunch, blood-red shadow,
Not enough to hide a past
Which is screaming obscenities
Within him, even Houdini would
Struggle to free himself from these
Self inflicted knots.
Lying on stone bed, comfort from
Dropping so high to places so low.
The boots that kicked his child’s soul,
Battered tidily into empty cars boot.
His son's wounds left torturing mind.
The appropriate father
Lying dead under his thinning
Crown, a forest of follicles
Giving way to exasperation,
Remorse and a manic lust for
Changing history.
Cleansing red drips from his palm,
Constant stains conspiring in mind.
The pre maternal shatters fear in tear,
No love left to bail the blood thirst.
Maybe if he could love lucks lie, then
He may glimpse a cooler freedom.
Hath he not heard the plea
Of kin, fragility wavering
In the shadow of a beast,
Tis' he who peeled back his
Own flesh to see nothing but
Blood and yesterday's regret.
The bliss of fine white hairs fall top,
Blisters burning from the foul cycle.
Flickers of mellow memories save a
Soul to reconsider his own judgment.
But time was arch from the first stab
Into the child, mercy rejects his grief.
Former clown's face steals
Sorrow from his slashed canvas,
And ***** stained swinging shadow
Cannot trip the hollow child with
Black eyes, who is forever whispering
Into his ear, “Why, Daddy?”
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 6:51 AM UTC
I saw it in a magazine,
on a gloomy indoors night.
The art of deconstructing;
I read the article.
It took things apart,
but didn't place them
back together.
Deconstructing,
where taking apart
someone's soul
becomes as easy as
unscrewing a box.
Deconstructing,
we take each part and
lay it tidily over a white table.
And we do too,
deconstruct.
Like children unhappy
of their building blocks masterpiece,
we
fall
apart.
Everything we ever thought
we were comes away
with a blow of the wind.
We dissect our minds,
and become like all the others,
broken,
empty.
We deconstruct and build
ourselves upon society's
stereotypes.
We moun our lawn
of personality,
all of our flowers
gone.
Crushes, smashes,
sounds of death.
We have become
like all the others.
The art of deconstructing,
or as they call it,
the Art of tiding up.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
Jingle bells,
Christmas smells.
The turkey's bubbling.
The skittish kids are bouncing off the walls all round the room.
The sugar rush is toxic.
Makes them buzz real quick.
The presence of Christmas and Christmas presents.
Tidily stacked under the tree.
For a minute or three.
Mum is flapping passion.
More than the once flapping turkey's wings ever could.
Dad he's supping from his can.
It's Christmas time and he's a man.
Gets away with ******
Every year he always does.
He sits there getting pickled.
While mum fights with the oven gloves.
With bloated face and rosy cheeks he screamed at her.
"Hurry up, I'm hungry."
You would think he hadn't eaten for weeks.
Sanctimonious twerp.
Mother beautifully dished up dinner for her brood of starving youth.
Instead of dishing the same up for dad, she dished up something really bad.
Slices of turkey covered in gravy.
Designed to burst his pompous bubble.
Enough's enough she thought to herself
Traces of spicy gravy, covered his designer stubble.
Half a tub of chilli powder had laced the gravy on his plate.
Cooked to absolute perfection.
Obviously, to enhance the wonderful flavour.
And mum said, " it's a new recipe, I fetched it from a magazine".
Something only mama knew.
The children enjoyed their Christmas dinner.
Mum chuckled to herself after scoring a winner.
And dad did the dishes with his fiery tail firmly stuck between his legs
(C) Livvi
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:20 AM UTC
we dig our selves into the hillside
the time you talk about unremembered.
perhaps I was never there
or unaware
so have dug into this hillside
placed tidily in awareness
of all that is happened,
happening
Dec 5, 2024
Dec 5, 2024 at 1:22 AM UTC
Every Sunday he went to the church
wasn't too religious not really much
dressed in his best and tidily neat
he followed the routine by sheer habit
he sought nothing never spelt his wants
joined the others in the rhythmic chants
till years made him frail and old
found him a coffin dark and cold
carried on the hearse to the church he went
prayers were held he remained silent.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
Our moments of silence
meant more than
vocal outbursts...
We lingered heads gently
leaning on the others.
Thoughts, just smiling ..
Were a mess, tidily wrapped within
each others eyes...
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
i detour on the way home
to the light house on the headland
such a grandiose appellation
for a stolid white box with
a light in it...
more utalitarian than romantic
but still it is nice to see it blink on
but i digress ... i am so ****** tired
beyond the bone, right down to the marrow
god this winter has been so long
and the grief i drag around,
in tattered threads... and sepia tones
leaves me cold....
my heart not in the teaching...
i feel disjointed, displaced .
i have misplaced the knack
to find the joy in youthful creativity
and am running this marathon by rote
i worry that the key won't turn in the lock
and i will be caught within
this cage...
an exhibition in the museum
to has-beens and never-were's
yet paradoxically...
my performance stellar
sometimes so good
that i fool myself...
god send spring soon....
or i fear am come undone
it has rained for a week
cold and bitter here
give strengnth to the roots
of my tidily packaged fears
and if i don't see spring soon
they will be spread and torn and ripped
and you will see the inside and
understand the grift
and there the light blinks on
sending out the saving beam
safe secure and strong
and in the shadows
you see the woman
scrabbling at the earth
burying deep in sandy loam
the thoughts birthed from
an overtired mind
the thoughts that she
must not nurture ...
that needs be left behind
buried deep, stomped hard
into the ground...
and as she stands in the lee of the light
and looks to the sea ..... she sighs heavily
the turns back into the deepening night
less heavy of heart....able to continue
the fight..... one last look...
then homeward bound....
thanking the lighthouse
and leaving sacred ground.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
A tepid tear thronged tidily
down her crimson colored cheek.
A promising past plunged down
to a future profoundly bleak.
Heated hands held together
sweating stressful strain of its own.
Whipping words withered from her mouth
to her marvelous Master,"I'm tired of being alone."
Calmly cupping her clinched chin,
He swept back the stinging sobs off her flushed face.
He smiled suavely with tender truth
as she entered into a reassuring place.
He sat her beside on His tall throne
telling her what was willingly written.
He held her hurting head and said
"Everything you've ever done is forgiven."
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 3:40 PM UTC
the mainstream media feeds us
a lot of clap trap
it rarely reports the other side
of the news flap
we're drawn in by what is supposed
to be the story proper
yet there is independent
coverage on offer
mainstream media and governments
are in constant cahoots
to get to the nub of the story
the public should untangle their roots
it has been shown time and again
that we're been lead up the wrong story vein
so much of the truth is diluted
by the big media men
as they are so accommodating
of those policy making men
the facts are not always presented
in an accurate or exact way
regularly the state of the situation
is buried tidily away
the big media organizations
are our eyes and ears
to the world's happenings
but we the world community
would certainly like less of our news
undergoing all the sanitizing
linkages of media to government
do indeed exist
this ever so cozy arrangement
reports but only this combinations twist
independent news is there to give us balance
to the stories that are out there
the angels that it depicts give equilibrium
to the mainstreams daily fair
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
I’m slowly realizing just how finite
we all are, that my days on this Earth are
numbered. but I know, too, that death is just
as impending as any other far
prospected tomorrow that I may face.
Tomorrow may come in the shell of an
Adventure; it could be the day I find
the courage to live, that I desperately
seek. Perhaps today I will find nothing
Or maybe what I look for is by now
found. Recently my days have been passing
quietly. I’ve been keeping my head down
And living life tidily, afraid to
look up and find that what I might see is
just another day quickly passing me.
But my head has been held down for too long -
I’ve been watching my feet move busily
While I should have kept my eyes on the stars
Turning slowly in seasons like the leaves
on the trees. Instead I have only watched
the slow and sickle buckle in my knees
Where have my eyes been focused as of late?
I could have sworn that ten years ago was
only a yesterday ago. Instead,
it is a recollection floating right
behind the veil of memory that has
become too transparent to really see.
Where do we draw the line between today
and tomorrow; when did the spilt blood of
then trickle into the veins of today?
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC