"tidying" poems
A designer ******
A nip and a tuck
A trim of the curtains
A tightening up
A complementary adjustment
A tidying of bits
Matches the uplift
You had on your ****
So 6 months it took
To create the perfect ******
Only to find he's left you tonight
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 7:35 PM UTC
we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).
still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.
here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
this
machine [her body]
can do."
but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
swallowing
and
it makes me uncomfortable
but
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."
I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean
anything?
"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.
"mazel tov," I say.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
Do you really know me?
Can you really say that?
Do you really know me
For who I really am?
I've heard things you've said about me
That are not really true
So why should you think that I'm that person
When I really wasn't
You say I love my sleep
Getting an early night
You say I love spending
On anything I see
You say I love drawing
Drawing all day long
You say I love staying at home
Just resting my feet
You say I'm girly
I love doing my nails
You say I love my make up
Having my hair down
You say I love cleaning
Tidying up the house
You say I love doing the housework
Like a proper housewife
You say I love going to the gym
Burning my muscles
You say I love champagne
Drinking wine all night long
You say I'm always happy
Because I smile
You say I look fine
Nothing wrong with me
You say I love cooking
Because I made homemade food
You say I prefer to watch TV
Rather than play in the garden
You say a lot of things
That I never said I love doing
You say things that are not true
So why did you say that?
Please don't think what I'm like
Don't think of the things you think I love doing
Don't think or guess because it's not fair
If everyone else gets the wrong idea too
If I tell you what I really am
You'll be surprised
I am not who you thought I am
Apparently
If only you'd listen to the words I say
And ask me nicely if that's what I love doing
Just don't jump into conclusion
And assume that's who I am
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Being away.
It matters not the specific amount of time.
Constantly I wish that you could just always stay.
Previously feelings of distress and desperation; the rhyme.
HaHa, I am actually surprised that I have not made a shrine.
Although maybe I should have, to help stabilize my emotions; keep them level; in line.
I'm busy tidying my friends' house.
As quiet as a mouse.
The doorbell rings.
The short tune, it sings.
I quickly glide across the freshly cleaned floor.
Drawing back the door.
"Hey!"
"You?...I?....Here?.....AH!......NOWAY! NOWAY! NOWAY!"
Despite my best efforts to self-compose.
I cannot keep the repeating chant at bay.
And judging by the look on your face, it shows.
"HaHa. So Spider Monkey, can I come in or should I just stand out here and let my body decay?"
I pull you over the threshold without delay.
"Whoa! So, I'm guessing that you missed me? Is that safe to say?"
"Hmm?...Let me think...Only more and more with each passing day!!"
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
Where was I, when you were alive?
Was I sleeping, dreaming, kicking, screaming,
Staring in wonder at the bright stars a-gleaming?
Where was I when you were crying?
Was I thinking of life after dying,
Seeing as it was, or blind and sighing,
Where was I when you were crying?
When you were born, what was I doing?
Was I speaking, walking, peeking, stalking,
Dancing, singing, laughing, mingling,
Looking, lying, toking, trying?
Where was I when you were on the beach,
Staring out towards the sea?
Perhaps I was taking a ***
Or sipping my hot cup of tea?
Where was I when you were sleeping?
Perhaps I was in mid-air, leaping,
Or watching as MTV was bleeping swearwords.
Where was I when you fell ill?
Was I parked up on a hill,
Waiting for life to arrive
With a plan it did contrive?
When you were driving,
Or tidying,
Perhaps on a snowboard somewhere, sliding,
Was I alone at home and hiding?
Or on the bike somewhere, and riding?
Maybe I was wide-awake,
Or laughing with my friends, while baked,
Or greasing a pan to bake a cake,
Contemplating what makes a lake.
Or perhaps I was asleep and dreaming,
and lost in my subconscious readings,
With avatars of all my friends,
Buying a Mercedes Benz.
Where was I when you were wasted?
Was I laughing at old hatreds,
Staring at a crawling aphid,
Or in the shower, and stark naked?
Where were you while I was thinking?
Perhaps you were awake and blinking,
All the sleep out of your eyes,
After dreaming of cute Albanian guys?
Where is everyone this second?
I mean, this specific second,
As I write or read this poem,
Perform it for a crowd so wholesome,
Where am I as you read this?
Up on a stage and fighting fears false lisp,
To make sure all of these words are crisp,
Or eating bread with ham and swiss?
Are you dead, or are you living?
A minion to society's bidding,
Or policing streets and finally ridding
Pavement of the hobos twitching out of crystal ****
Perhaps you're firing a gun,
Or you've found the only 'one,'
To love through thick and thin, till death;
Or thinking, "Wow, poor old MacBeth."
In this moment, is it all;
So listen to the moments call,
And cancel all your texting plans,
And use those thumbs to grasp the hand,
Of a loved one next to you;
"The day before" was never true,
So there's no better time for you,
To look for some more love to brew.
So get up, and go do.
Go do it.
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 12:10 PM UTC
Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.
She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses
herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises
from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours
cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash
me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.
She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,
rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.
Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the
nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed
against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens
the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross
on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one
side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers
growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun
is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.
Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin
to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never
make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never
told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.
Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
I’m sitting down to write a poem
Instead of tidying up
Or dusting off the mantelpiece
Or washing up my cups
Or ironing or vacuuming
Or looking for a job
Or moving all those papers
That have settled on the hob.
Its not really a poem
It’s a reason and excuse
because when it comes to housework
I’m just no bleedin’ use!
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 6:27 PM UTC
It might be the pungent steam from a ***
steeping herbs meant to bend its sippers'
minds to potent effect, or an unanticipated
digestive reckoning from that mawkishly flavored
brand of store-bought paste they pass as butter.
However the dough arises, their collective
recollection of storied events, lengthwise sliced
and ritually rehearsed, hops facilely on the ****
of a bucking and overtly nonsensical wind.
Tea parties with slippery perspectives
have been shown quite clinically to induce
heightened sensitivity in participants,
so it's prudent to set about tidying the facts:
The hatter, it's become clear, shifted one place
too many and disappeared with a trace -- leaving
behind his hat to nobody's great advantage.
Lacking a wearer, the headgear's reputation for
producing madness has rapidly diminished.
The march hare pulls off his change in a very
separate and seasonal way: the bunny's
bottom half somersaults its top to occupy
both his spot and the hatter's vacated seat.
The dormouse upon its latest arousal
is re-visioned to be small, but not much mouse
at all. He's plush with the long-in-the-ear habit
of a pink stuffed rabbit, which the crusading hare
furiously declares is most curious, casting
doubt on the vermin's commitment to "no room."
Alice remains foremost in tact and is given
a bonus of two spare feet complete with slackened
bootstraps. She keeps them and her other luxury
items well-sheltered behind a stout table leg.
The absentee hatter doesn't dare shame her
with a radio-show call-in decrying
the waste. She's generously agreed to
cover the medical expenses from his firm flop.
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 2:54 PM UTC
I never thought the two of us would be on this plane
Here we are, diving headfirst into a charade done in vain
Loosely tidying up encounters we remark back on with scoffs
Fun times they were, those sudden acts of lust
If this be another, you will have demolished the last of my trust
There’s nothing worse than the feeling of being used
Manipulate me again, I’ll find another muse
And what we have just done will be another addition to our plain of “fun”
Something consistent is all I desire
Even consistently fondling carries some kind of longing acquired over time
To be longed for, to be desired…
I’m oh so tired of being devoid of the wondrous sensation that fills one with absolute joy…
to where one cannot think straight or hold responsible their foolish acts because it’s all in the name of love
That single word holds so much power, so much meaning, yet is tossed around left and right by those who deserve nothing of it and leave those who possess sincerity to suffer
But there is a lesser form of love; an equally complicated form that has touched me often, yet leaves the ground beneath my feet shaken only temporarily
… except for those Irish eyes…
Now, you have been here before, capturing my eye
Bluntly you can see the spark, yet I’m amazed to know you noticed and didn’t completely fade from my sight
I seem to humor you with my timid presence while you humor me with your strange persona
Typically not a perfect pair, but ultimately compatible
You never cease to amaze me
The words that drip from the ink you hold
to the beautiful arrangements of notes your fingers unfold
Your passion for such an art that moves others in various ways intrigues me
I’m a bit envious, really
I wish I could possess the commitment for something I adored
And the way you convey your thoughts on paper sends shivers down my spine
You were always someone I admired, though I never imagined you wanted to chance your time
Things have changed, we too have evolved
Maybe now nature will make the call
And set the sword in stone for the two of us to pull free
You seem careless now, but what does it hurt to try?
Try me.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
Running here running there
doing this doing that.
calling him calling her.
fixing this fixing that.
Im just tidying up the window dressing .
Fixing the facade.
Going here going there
smiling nicely putting on spin
trying to win the face contest.
Just tidying up the window dressing.
The store is out of stock.
The Tax man is a vamp.
Printing money like stamps.
Busting up my camp.
Time is spinning faster. Playing out the string.
The treadmill tilts a steeper angle.
Winners never quit and quitters never win.
Reaching for the next rung. Just like the one before.
Just tidying up the window dressing.
I got stamina to burn.
Tax man. Gas man. Card man
Med. man. Food man. Clothes man
Mortgage man.Rent man. Car man.
Light man. Water man Boss man.
Tidying up the window dressing
Stressing hard about my stressing.
Too jammed up to count my blessing.
Tell the truth without confessing.
Politicians full of ****
Slippery as quicksilver.
Who the hell they playing with.
Left or right I'm done with it.
AGAIN.
Media. what media. Tell it to
Goebbels.
Just pulling down the window dressing
Tired of playing Bo Peep. Big boy time.
Wakie Wakie.
The old shell game.
Never give a sucker an even break
Or.
Smarten up a chump said W.C
Fields. He was serious. I'm serious.
Who's serious about 1929.
Tearing down the window dressing
Dont believe the hype.
Nero fiddled while Rome burned. He was not mad
He had a plan?
Tearing up the window dressing.
Life is much too short for mucking
about with pit vipers bugged on ecstasy.
I'm serious.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
inside
there is a deep sadness.
you let it in when you ripped
my heart open.
it swarmed to the
open wound.
don't worry,
my heart is fixed now.
she glued it back together
with her love.
do you realise that she spends
her whole life
tidying up after you?
the thing is:
when she closed my heart
she forgot to remove
the sadness from inside.
so now it's trapped.
and it's trying to escape.
my heart is bursting at the seems
as it fights against the muscular walls.
it's going to break free
any moment now.
and the tears will pour.
make sure you don't have a broken heart
or it will come to you next.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 4:55 PM UTC
Other people see only what I let peek through.
Small bits,
The false bottom
Tidying the Dark.
I risk too much in showing.
Yet, somehow,
Despite my efforts,
You startle me.
Glimpsing, somehow, by sheer luck or will or oneness,
That which has never been seen before.
Amazingly,
Miraculously,
Terrifyingly,
You don't look away in horror or shame.
And I begin to unfold.
And you with giant scissors ceremoniously releasing me from myself.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 5:09 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
September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.
-Elizabeth Bishop
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 9:54 AM UTC
Painting abstract and expressive
often on formats quite impressive
when my use of red is too excessive
I get agitated and feel a bit aggressive
might as well do my taxes, so depressive
then I start tidying or other things obsessive
eventually a cup of tea can feel decompressive
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 5:00 AM UTC
twist
pull
rip
tear
repeat
the desk needs tidying
tea boxes scattered
focus on the bed
the comfy bed that
needs to be made
but no one can make you leave
pace 3 steps
you took four
back 5 steps
maybe an hour
in the comfy bed
yea, two hours
3 hours
rise
twist
pull
the desk needs tidying
class missed
pace 4 steps
be fair
back 4 steps
maybe a half hour
tear blanket from bed
but it is dinner time
rip skin
repeat
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 1:15 AM UTC
I put away the dishes
hampering peace of mind
dancing between the counters
handling the quiet
tidying a mess
and unhiding fears
feeling each breath in my throat,
fighting back tears
I picture the most beautiful
and sad, image I've ever had
and wonder if heartache
only gets harder with age
At the arc of my day
Before things go back to different
I shutter in my memories
and put away the dishes
Jul 6, 2021
Jul 6, 2021 at 8:50 PM UTC
Hope has no merciful face.
It bludgeons us harder
Than despair
To which it turns
When the result spurns
Our expectations!
Yet ironically
Most adored is hope,
A sauce for the sufferer
A spice to spruce up
The leftover
From the last despair,
Never really tidying
The ashes of shattered dreams
But staying back
Till our last breath
Goading us to hold onto it!
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 7:25 AM UTC
Once there was a day that never ended
A call that was once missed
I sat with my grandmother
By the running of the garden's fountain
She was calling back her children
A mirror that once shattered
I settled my cousin down
To the ghost of this house I once ruined
And I was tidying up the place
The nights have been long this year around
But I am burning deep in my drive
To engines that will soon let me fly
Into that missing night
I'll let them celebrate my birthday
Aug 20, 2024
Aug 20, 2024 at 2:22 AM UTC
*waning sun setting
one leaf clinging to its branch
rake leans against fence*
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 4:13 PM UTC
i like wool, and tidying it,
notice the flecks and textures,
sneezing once again at the mohair,
with no news, no more
of sahara dust, move on
to admire couture of the linen dress,
the bias cut, and tucking, quite a feat
in these days of mass produced.
the duchess wore a coat like no other,
my daughter says it makes no sense
these days, when all others just
grab clothes ****** and get to work.
we reckon her mother in law’s brooch
will be sewn on preventing loss.
we all experience this in some way,
loss that is, not the queen’s jewellery.
i like a working day
sbm.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
solange say self care be a safe space.
a place to love.
to not deal.
months into therapy and i have not begun to heal.
the doctor say i got PTSD.
recommends skills for coping that i done heard before like
post it's of encouragement decorating my vanity
traumatic memories written pretty and rhythmic in a journal
stress wrapped beneath my prayer dress as i kneel in sujood
disorder made neat with Google calendar routines
or
something like that.
solange say self care be your house.
the comfort of hiding.
the keeping your mental safe.
see
i ain't slept in days.
because at some point the journey to bed transcended a frame of time.
became star gazing up at the texture of my ceiling.
became laps around the park at 3 am
became me welcoming lovers into my space to ferry me to my dreams.
solange say self care be your partner.
be eclipsing in the warmth of your love.
staying protected inside of complacency.
i welcomed him. them. the toxicity
my flesh still crawls at the shadow sensation of arms encasing my frame
coiling around me like snakes.
i have yet to understand love but i have grown accustomed to the volition of being ******
or so i tell myself.
solange say self care be a mission.
a journey in itself.
to find rest in oneself.
i may not know nothing about no logical course of action or emotion
but some nights i find myself blazing down highland as if it was aṣ-Ṣirāṭ al-mustaqīm
and i get so frightened to my core of the honking horns and leering strangemen that i **** near prostrate myself on the street and make dua for protection and guidance.
say self care-
self care is...
self care be-
self care be tidying the mess that is i.
braiding my hair just for a ***** to pull on it.
wearing a pretty dress just for somebody to make me feel ***** in it.
coloring just to break the crayons in stupor.
making tea just for it to line my throat as bile.
laying down to sleep just to be awake for hours.
self care be a fight.
be a rush of anxiety imposing upon my nights
self care be a dream
a sweaty nightmare of ****** pressed against my back and weight dropping upon my shoulders.
self care be a struggle
self care be a disorder
self care be disorder
self care be me smiling in the mirror and saying mashallah i'm here ain't it?
it's ok to take this **** day by day.
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:38 PM UTC