"tidiness" poems
It's dusk, and
soft whispers of spittle fall from the sky
like the tears of a lover who cannot cry.
The icy air is languid
a slumberous echo of the wind so anxious,
whilst the foam thrusts lazily against the sand.
A rotting carcass of a boat,
it's flush'd red colour peeling from the throat.
The considerate neglect of the scattered leaves,
creates patterns of vines so finely weaved.
And outside,
Tough boots withered away like tidiness disturbed,
as though fond memories are keen to be preserved.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
Try walking around barefoot
even if for just a few hours;
it provides a new appreciation
for proper posture and tidiness.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
Minimal
Live could be more optimal
If you let go of things, trivial
And focus on the real capital
Time and space, the memory
Of experiences, friends, and family
Nice gestures and charity
The joy of clarity
The depth of sanity
A better grasp of reality
More options through more money
By spending on what matters
Minimal
To love people and not things
To be who you are and not what you own
A tidiness in hindsight, in the mind
A sense of being light, feeling right
Another understanding of freedom and slavery
The slavery of things
When you don’t own things but things you
Because things hold you back and therefore
Freedom comes from less stuff, not more
Nostalgia?
But here is the thing
Memories might die
If you cut off their wings
If you capture them in things
And lock them up in dark closets
They live in your mind, not in items
They need to be free
Fresh, revived, preserved
Through presence, not hoarding
Memories live
Through pictures
Digitized in devices
Always in your pocket
Cherished in your mind
Memories live
Through words
Written by you
In diaries worth keeping
Which take you back in time
But don’t fill up your space
Memories live
Through stories
You tell others and others tell you
Face to face and soul to soul
With some coffee in-between
Minimal
Clutter is not optional
Get rid of worthless stuff
Boxes and countless little toys
One zillion paper clips
Sad chairs and old clothes
And all the dusty things
That occupy your life
And turn it into junk
Spend less
Less things
Think more
Be free
Live life
Minimal
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
The pillows are arranged
the chairs all un-sat in
my bedclothes pressed
as if no one has slept in them
My desk is tidy
the pens in a jar
notebooks stacked
as if I never struggle
My shelves are full
novels organized by author
the remote next to the TV
as if I never indulge
The floor is spotless,
the carpet is straight
the shoes in are rows
as if I never go anywhere
My bedroom, newly cleaned
stares at me
with wide blinds
and an open door
As if I am a stranger
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
to air and store, to host
the mouse that eats the soap.
no longer . it is stored in tins,
now, even the chewed bits.
it left the government soap
alone, that just dried out slowly.
in the tidying we lost
the bandages and rattling threads,
found remembered handkerchiefs,
starched, boxed with pins.
oh joy of tidiness, so much could be
thrown, so much can be kept.
these are the falling days.
sbm.
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 1:58 AM UTC
If I were watching you now
sat at your lap
desk bare and clinical
like your sharp eyes,
if I were watching you now
I think I would look right into you
and I would see the war scars
that you buried in orderly dysfunction
and raging fits of tidiness,
I don't think you walked away
from those burning screaming
German towns bearing your name.
You ran. you ran hard.
back to your horses and simple fields,
back to a life that was entirely too chaotic
in its gentleness.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
The small dinner party had gone
Off well, Hazel thinks, sitting at
The dressing table, gazing at herself
In the mirror, seeing her hair done
Up just so, the way her maid, Dunne
Painstakingly did it for her. She begins
To unpin her hair, placing the pins in
The small glass dish, her fingers unused
To the task. Dunne is down in the kitchen
With the temporary cook, helping to clear
Up, tidy things away as is her want, her
Tidiness part of her character. She sits her
Hair unpinned, staring at her features,
At her eyes, the mouth slightly open, the
Teeth even and white. In the mirror she
Can see the made up bed, the covers
Turned down, the china hot water bottle
She knows just under the covers, put there
By Dunne. She’ll be there soon, Dunne,
Her maid, her lover, ********** her and
Herself. She has her own room and bed
Up in the attic, but she seldom uses it unless
Guests are there over night or are staying
For a few days. Tonight she will be here,
Hazel muses, rubbing a tongue licked finger
Over her brow, and they will snuggle down
And talk of their day and then make love,
Then sleep. Since her father’s death and the
Truth of his deeds and what he made Dunne
Do and the forced *** she feels a mixture
Of anger and grief mixed into a compound
That makes her tired and confused. She waits.
She wants Dunne there, wants her fingers
To undo her zips and buttons, brush her hair,
Feeling the fingers on her skin, in her hair.
She wants to feel Dunne’s lips on hers, needs
Dunne’s fingers moving over her body, wants
To know each aspect of her maid’s body. In
Her mind she can sense the feel, remember
The point of high sensation, as if her whole
Body was taken to the limits of exhilaration
Of passion, as if she might explode and all her
Being be scattered into ***** of sensuality.
She can’t find the exact words to express it.
She sits and waits, waits sitting, breathes
In, breathe out. Dinner had gone very well.
The evening guests talked of this and that,
Had their laughs and jokes. Mr Phibuster
Had lectured to her on the economy, how
Some upstart in Germany was stirring up
Trouble. She couldn’t have cared less. Her
Eyes kept going to Dunne, watching her
Coming and going with dishes and glasses.
She sits up straight, Dunne is coming, she
Hears her footstep in the passage, her voice,
Some Mozart aria is tunefully humming.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
Curious and uncomfortable
here is the tidiness, a lack of nostalgia,
a mutual waiting, spacing out,
reckoning a future past
that naturally would run its course.
All around still green and too gray
ruling a no man’s land
where to stand on toes,
holding my breath over the level
of time, when coming to a standstill
it always leaves his deepest mark.
Downsizing, justifying
what I have and what I have not.
Never I was left without my only gift
the carefulness of the loving sun,
that hint to refract inertia and will
for I live the light across.
If through one rainy night
It sounded like you changed it all.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 3:55 AM UTC
Father James took
you and Gareth
and George
postulant monks
to a convent
in Newport
he had mass to serve
and confessions
to hear
so you were all
shown into a parlour
with the smell
of home bake bread
and starched sheets
and a young nun
came in
carrying a tray
with teapot
and cups
and sugar bowl
and jug of milk
all in a dull white
and as she set
the tray down
on the table
her eyes moved
from each one of you
taking in no doubt
young novices
in the training
the plain clothes
the black and white
the neat cut hairs
the shaven chins
and then she smiled
and went her way
no wiggling of hips
or female sway
carrying the tray
and Gareth spoke
of Wittgenstein
and the Tractatus
Logico Philosophicus
while George took in
the tidiness
of the room
the ****** smell
the taste
of aging flesh
while you half listened
on Wittgenstein
and the scent
of passing youth
remembering
the young nun’s smile
awaiting truth.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 7:29 AM UTC
i want to write you the perfect poem
i want to string words together so spectacularly that you tattoo them on the inside of your eyelids
i want to write you the world, wrap these lines in a bow and leave the package on your doorstep
i want to write you the perfect poem,
but i'm an imperfect person and love,
so are you
you are the bags under my eyes
i carry you with me wherever i go
and you draw the most attention to the brightest parts of me
my under eye bags are the only cosmetics i wear daily;
you are the result of late nights of laughter and 1 AM drives home
you sopped up the spilled cherry coke in the back of my car with napkins from my glove box
i braked too hard and it spilled all over your feet
it was a quiet ride home
my knuckles were white on the steering wheel and my head a blur of apology
my favorite mop;
my messes are yours and yours will be mine and i've never been one for tidiness but i'd scrub the world clean for your smile
you are
the dent in my passenger side door,
the soreness in my muscles,
the paint stains in all of my jeans;
i can’t get rid of it, i’ll never get rid of it;
the dent gives my car character
the soreness makes my body feel real
the stains make me feel free and the jeans fit me like a glove
i like routine and you are a part of mine
text you tease you love you
wash rinse repeat
i could send you a thousand love letters
i’ll keep them in a shoebox instead
i'll write your name into the stars,
i'll carve my love for you in the moon,
print it on postcards,
press it into my skin
but i cannot write you the perfect poem
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
Woven strands of silken hair
over, under, over, under
Brushed away from face and neck
over, under, over, under
Like the weaver's warp and weft
over, under, over, under
Tidiness made beautiful.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 3:42 AM UTC
There’s tidiness here
And a full dream ahead
Pencil and paper set out
As soldiers wait to die
There’s sadness here
And some words of sorrow
Songs allowed to cry
Tears allowed to fall
There’s humour here
And laughter in my pen
Jokes brewing happily
Smiles served for all
There’s anger here
And a list of needs
Names and faces known
Rights to claim again
There’s true love here
And sweet ambition
Sun and eyes and skin
Ready for kissing
Nov 10, 2020
Nov 10, 2020 at 1:35 PM UTC
when you see me
you only see my exterior
you see my baggy tees
and hazel eyes
you don't see the interesting parts of me
you don't see
my love for films
my adoration for a cat called lavender
my curiosity stored for murderers
my gypsy like spirit
my heart for poetry and literature
my collection of thick blankets and sweaters
my fondness for the brown haired girl miles away
my memories connected to lyrics and concert tickets
my obsession with candles and sunsets
you don't see the real me
unless you want to
and i want you too as well
because when you do
your able to see
my poetry with story upon story
my camera roll of cat and concert pictures
my messy room after a weekend trip
my eyes tired of awakening from sleep
my blush whilst reading
my smile reserved for my cat and loved ones
my tidiness caused from stress and feeling
my 7 am sleepy laugh
my messy self after a week of difficulty
when you see me
you see all of me
the destroyed me, the happy me, all of me
and you'll only see that
if i want you too
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC
we cannot condone those
who trash a writing zone
they waltz in and litter the abode
as if it's theirs alone
well excuse us for not liking
the bad state of our cone
before they turned up everything
had a tidiness in tone
*the ******* has no sense*
of where it should hang out
it just delights in strewing
its self liberally about
we're all wishing that it'll
be on the way out
cause none of us are
fussed at its piling tout
our environment is under
a waste cloud
may we soon see a lifting
of its grotty shroud
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 7:27 AM UTC
Love bequeathed a friend in mauve.
Of falling trees and broken temples.
For promises.
Azure bright blue.
Stunning seas.
Not the Isle of Wight.
I'm so sad to say.
Ferries, cause swell.
The water's not clear, there's a God awful smell.
Not always however, the beaches are pretty, so nice for a stroll.
The affluent fellows strut into Cowes, they're sailing their yachts off into the calm.
Avoiding the storms, they're not going home.
Wife left in the house.
He says she loves gardening.
Who knows, maybe she's a gnomess, a tidiness freak.
Goes off and leaves her every week,
He tells us she likes it that way...
Well, I never know what to say, perhaps he's just a player.
I have my suspicions.
Hovels hiding behind shutter less houses.
Coveted lovers secure in lies.
His lover lay trembling on the ground.
Her pleasant muses they truly astound.
Music and moments, painted in pink.
Designed to make him sit and think.
If the music be power of cannons and smoke, let nobody choke.
Of seasons and flowers,sweet aromatic breezes of night scented Jasmine.
Fragrantly green, very fresh.
I actually love the Isle of Wight...
(c) Livvi MMCV
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
Your hair is rich and dark,
but it's a mess, a bird's nest,
maybe a bit oily.
But as you boldly affirm,
you don't need tidiness,
or even beauty.
You fail to object when I throw
your little poem
to the floor on my way
to your body.
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 2:19 PM UTC