I shall never get out of this!  There are two of me now:
This new absolutely white person and the old yellow one,
And the white person is certainly the superior one.
She doesn't need food, she is one of the real saints.
At the beginning I hated her, she had no personality --
She lay in bed with me like a dead body
And I was scared, because she was shaped just the way I was

Only much whiter and unbreakable and with no complaints.
I couldn't sleep for a week, she was so cold.
I blamed her for everything, but she didn't answer.
I couldn't understand her stupid behavior!
When I hit her she held still, like a true pacifist.
Then I realized what she wanted was for me to love her:
She began to warm up, and I saw her advantages.

Without me, she wouldn't exist, so of course she was grateful.
I gave her a soul, I bloomed out of her as a rose
Blooms out of a vase of not very valuable porcelain,
And it was I who attracted everybody's attention,
Not her whiteness and beauty, as I had at first supposed.
I patronized her a little, and she lapped it up --
You could tell almost at once she had a slave mentality.

I didn't mind her waiting on me, and she adored it.
In the morning she woke me early, reflecting the sun
From her amazingly white torso, and I couldn't help but notice
Her tidiness and her calmness and her patience:
She humored my weakness like the best of nurses,
Holding my bones in place so they would mend properly.
In time our relationship grew more intense.

She stopped fitting me so closely and seemed offish.
I felt her criticizing me in spite of herself,
As if my habits offended her in some way.
She let in the drafts and became more and more absent-minded.
And my skin itched and flaked away in soft pieces
Simply because she looked after me so badly.
Then I saw what the trouble was:  she thought she was immortal.

She wanted to leave me, she thought she was superior,
And I'd been keeping her in the dark, and she was resentful --
Wasting her days waiting on a half-corpse!
And secretly she began to hope I'd die.
Then she could cover my mouth and eyes, cover me entirely,
And wear my painted face the way a mummy-case
Wears the face of a pharaoh, though it's made of mud and water.

I wasn't in any position to get rid of her.
She'd supported me for so long I was quite limp --
I had forgotten how to walk or sit,
So I was careful not to upset her in any way
Or brag ahead of time how I'd avenge myself.
Living with her was like living with my own coffin:
Yet I still depended on her, though I did it regretfully.

I used to think we might make a go of it together --
After all, it was a kind of marriage, being so close.
Now I see it must be one or the other of us.
She may be a saint, and I may be ugly and hairy,
But she'll soon find out that that doesn't matter a bit.
I'm collecting my strength; one day I shall manage without her,
And she'll perish with emptiness then, and begin to miss me.

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

It had been a long day, an early start, a hundred mile drive, and he was going home, back to a quiet evening before another busy week.
 
The January afternoon was the wrong side of three o'clock, but the relentless wind and rain of the morning had subsided leaving clearer skies, thin high clouds. He had driven a few miles out of town, metaphorically shaken the dust of its Sunday streets from his shoes. Either side of the road vistas of vast fields stretched into the distance. There was an 8-sail windmill, a sign to a doll museum, the occasional church spire rising above trees. He found himself looking to turn off the main road: to wander into unknown country, to stop the car and walk a little. A few miles further on he saw a promising turning and left the main road.
 
The house stood on its own a 100 yards distant from the road. In front no garden, just an expanse of cropped grass, where one could imagine croquet being played on a summer's day. The building was probably early Victorian, a balanced structure, a porched front door separating two large rooms with French doors leading out to a gravelled drive. The masonry was painted a subtle mustard brown, the window frames and doors a brisk white. A gentleman's residence of another age; perhaps the former vicarage of the redundant church he had strolled to explore a little further up the road. There, he had peered into the locked building to see an expanse of black plastic sheeting hiding the once pews, and at the end of a side chapel an arresting stained glass window glowing in Mediterranean blue.
 
From the churchyard unfenced grazing land lay unanimaled, sheepless, and cattlefree. Large oaks held singular positions against the steep fall of the sky to the far horizon. In the nearer distance woodland stood in a general air of managed tidiness.
 
A little further down the road a fallow field beckoned his interest. Its grass winter-bleached in a ten-acre square, fenced, and before a wood. He took out his camera and composed a shot. The image held stark simplicity: the field, the fence, the wood, a touch of sky.
 
He realised these environs into which he had wandered were quite unpeopled, empty of life. Only rooks swirled around the church tower. And silence. No cars on the single-track road. No tractors in the wind-parched fields.
 
He felt himself rest in the peace of it all: the house, the church, the fields, the empty road. At his feet yellow aconites graced a shallow ditch: a  grateful sudden colour in a washed out landscape. It was all of a piece this place, nothing and everything. He had come, stayed a while, would get back in the car a little colder than when he'd left it. Was there some story here he would never know? A village-less church? Or was this a place to trigger fiction, on which to bring the imagination to bear. He thought himself into the gentleman's residence. Sitting at his worktable before the almost French windows. She would enter, only the rustle of her dark dress a welcome disturbance. She would place her hand on the back of his neck. He would close his eyes in gratitude and in love that all this should be so.

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

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.

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 19, 2019)

An asset is what they call web content, but in accounting
books the value is zero, because words are not assets.
CMS stands for content management system,
delivering content through website databases.
Everyone emigrates from system to system,
firing one when it’s presumed not to function,
getting shareholders their gold watches from
hungry startups with execs looking duly harried.
I’ve gone through many integrations and migrations
just like every other jolly content pro who prays to
karma or a Kickstarter for all the madness to stop.
Look at all the wasted hours of labor and you’ll see
much more time spent moving assets from
node to container to module to bock to
orb to cages that only entrap ourselves.
Pity us that we can’t perceive the absurd
quicksand, that we can’t quit the unwinnable,
reverse course and reckon with the real problem.
Storage is for hoarding stooges and
text is not a template. It’s a ceremony,
un-formulable, not useful within storage
vats. Outside of tidiness and vanity,
words are wandering like prophets in search of
X on a map or xylem in the stem. Which is all to say,
you might want to check out my yearling CMS,
Zen-content for the zealously organized bodhisattva.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

I am inspired by
the word
Centuries
but will be remembered
for my tidiness.

Sara Fielder © Mar 2021

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.

Most favored renter status imposed on us
i.e. meaning myself;
(one tarnished prince of Highland Manor)
and the missus, his princess consort
who must abide by rigorous writ
of tidiness, whereby
every flat surface cleaned
(with our) elbow grease and spit
which weekly inspections
includes a triumvirate,
and when they enter unit b44,
yours truly feigns being a nitwit
paying obeisance to mindless regulations
ranked on par with happy horsesh*t.

In an effort to remain compliance
amidst these green acres
Rural Housing of
Southeastern Montgomery County,
Pennsylvania, the keystone state
one randomly chosen household
unbeknownst to he/him, she/her, they/them...,
which yoked, mandated, and foisted selection,
predicated on recipients;
(courtesy me nsync with frau majesty,
a germane, humble and intelligent jovial
kindred, lovely, mild mannered
natty, opinionated, personable,
quirky, rational, sporty tigress)
presenting outstanding well heeled
spur of the moment ad libbed burlesque.

We spent the better part
of our last seven salad days
dressing up as merry maids;
tidying up our web crawler space
sweeping debris off carpeted floors,
then running vacuum across same areas,
scrubbing the ceilings and walls
of fruit fly feces (say that five times fast),
taking frequent snack breaks
savoring our favorite
cinnamon bun with modest glaze
and for dessert
bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich
healthily lavished with mayonnaise.

Nevertheless, the storm troopers
might find reason
(without rhyme) to evict husband
with dry humor and his wife
(messiness interpreted as insubordination),
whose domestic predilections
yes verge toward universal disorder,
cuz chaos ranks as modus operandi
despite serious intent to impose
gameplan of neatness and tidiness.

I turn toward cosmic consciousness
for guidance and salvation
broadcast courtesy following electronic SOS.

Well...an average sized house
to rent would do the trick
re: lease older married couple
from oppressive scrutiny
Grosse & Quade evince bone to pique,
which low cost accommodations
to occupy one bedroom apartment
here in Schwenksville  
checking account experiences marginal nick,
and reasonable rhyme aside -

which fanciful flirtation with words
does give me Hawaiian punch kick,
but anyway WE NEED/WANT
SAFE AND SECURE PLACE,
whose charisma, dogma, karma
and persona with landlord doth click
ideally indeed livingsocial
within complex edifice
strong as stone and/or
Rhodesian yellow brick.

As genuine appreciation...
I would do calisthenics
and analogous to Origami
backward and forward bend
quickly tearing clammy muscles,
now wonders on a star
if you might become sought after friend
this amiable fellow and counterpart -
a salvation goddess or godsend
to perform property caretaker tasks

cuz I possess aptitude, fortitude,  
and magnitude of motivation,
plus these strong hands lend
for any mechanical appliances
that require attention to mend,
and of course provide necessary
requisite financial compensation
for other expenses to spend
so peace of body, mind and spirit
this clan of deux destine
property tasks dialed up
regarding coast of living zest can tend.

Additionally notion floated
across roiling cyber sea waves
if only some benevolent force
could bestow monetary aid
or mebbe a Good Samaritan
could wave a magic wand
making a NIKE whoosh sound
thru the air like a sharp blade
ah...than the path
to happiness twould be laid.

(warning ungapatchka language ahead)

Hence plead ding for
Mary Poppins wannabe
with snap of her fingers
can affect ship shape
tidiness, which task
needed before May 2022
when yearly inspection
indeed takes place.

Flush with rage the spouse
will become allied
if reference made
how she buzzfeeds disorder
altercation especially likely
if divorce blurted
making me wish
to experience (immediately)
bartered bride, when mine
pointed finger doth
nonverbally chide
markedly appalling untidy
predilection she blithely
exhibits woeful scant
interest to maintain
can-do spirit affecting plea

zing aesthetic humble abode
ofttimes slacking
off cleaning trail
of abomination, which talent
includes unwittingly cultivating
qua primordial
soup possibly
duplicating conditions when life
originated (bajillion years ago)
on planet Earth
witnessed courtesy think
gummy, groovy, gooey,
gloppy, (nippy, nap, noopy)
protoplasmic slimy
oozing blob (starring
Steve McQueen) amoeba

like swallowing small towns
with names such as
Chester Springs, Downingtown,
Phoenixville, & Royersford
hungering, hinting, and hankering
to hasten home hearing
Harris harridan hooligan
hoopla conniption purportedly
linked into order
issued courtesy board of health
for hen pecking
wife to hustle &
make house beautiful for Biden
(accompanied with hit parade)
announcing (yea)

at long last Republican
administration overhaul
which fête yours truly slated
to host determined
(weeks ago), thus
necessitating legally wedded
counterpart to apply
elbow grease in tandem
to render **** & span
where unsightly food scraps,
soiled clothes, scattered papers,
et cetera strewn
helter skelter, the disarray
the culmination of 4+
years occupying these digs
in Schwenksville, Pa.

Upon being told
"get the place in ship shape order"
she went ballistic like bupkis
fired out me gluteus
maximus, (whereat
I couldn't help but think ICBM)
yea, an incongruous thought
as she rattled vitriolic,
colorful expletives
coarse language enough would
make sailor blush
shutting his yapper uttering before
he even uttered
"shiver me timbers," hence clatter
and din created cacophonous
noise as my fair lady

affected one woman
siege warfare as pots and pans
flew pell mell thru air
while I took refuge in fallout
shelter unused since
total mortal kombat destroyed
major swath of webbed
wide world, global debacle
our dear leader triggered
(when in pensive mood) he
lobbed weapons of
mass destruction after being axed
to "go back home" meaning
his mother planet Uranus.

I
Ask for the blessing
I ask for your eye  
And knowing smile
  
When seeking  
And carving out
The brutal travels of hands
In ****** earth  
Of time  
Its squeeze of dirt  
Hiding footprints  
With the elliptical youth of days
Their revolution  
Into hardened tidiness  
  
I climb stories up
And time flings back
Into the recesses
To find cool and gentle rooms  
Where solitary men  
Had left red woven  
Rugs and charred prayers
Of rolling wax  
And a match to strike  
  
I begin it again
The flame is yellow  
It dances  
And sees me
I take this as a nod
A gesture of deliverance
  
And stand
  
Gazing out of doors  
To skied God
And the bellied drop below me
Tempts me to fall into it
Hurdle me from myself
Cry for mercy in my plummeting  
Wide awake to the impact  
And full force  
Of ground to belly
And my face to the desert floor
  
This is Set
  
I remember the cool chamber
My grip on the outcropping to pull up
The light that flickered
And how it found me
The dance of days on my skin
And in my head  
And from my tongue  
  
While laying here
While crumpled and cracked
With the body of utter defeat
With miserable failure  
My aspect and injury
  
I ask for the blessing  
I ask for your eye
And knowing smile
  
I begin it again
The flame will be yellow  
In my sight skied God  
And below me the fall