"untidily" poems
My new neighbour depression,
lives in a house rotting in the ground,
scarred wood torn away and roof tiles scattered,
with garden flowers withering away,
trees cracking at the slightest move of the wind.
Ever since he moved in a storm cloud
hangs low over the neighbourhood,
soaking my lawn and treading on my grass.
My neighbour depression
throws heavy stones to crack my windows,
leaves untidily scrawled messages of hatred in my letterbox,
leaving a trail of black paint up to his backgate.
My neighbour depression
takes advantage of my protection of thin walls,
and each day attempts to crash through them like a wrecking ball,
slowly dimming my lights and making shadows in my room
appear darker and bigger.
My neighbour depression
walks down the street like a black hole,
******* out all the sound around him.
And my neighbour depression
is starting to make me forget what my voice sounded like.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
It started at the beginning of adulthood
where the wandering into the new house
became a chore. The doorway greeted me
by snagging my woollen jumper.
The motorway was screaming, the battered gate happily hanging from its hinges.
His image first flashed into my sight,
And when I stared through the fogged up windows
I could still figure out his figure.
Loutish, he sauntered past
On a hillside, desolate.
He didn’t move for three hours.
He was most probably entwining the thorns from the bush
into his complex mind. Maybe
the boy with the thorn in his side
Had been brought to life by this mystery animal
With a mass of unkempt mane.
Unruly, unnecessary, untouched.
The notebook on my kitchen table lay untidily
waiting to be roughened up. I picked it up
and cast light over the paper.
I imagined him doing the same
But his art was thunderstorms
And mine merely a drizzle of rain.
I made progress
and the flowers were growing from my fountain pen.
Confidence developing, I invited him inside
And there were still no words from his unfathomable jaw.
A month later, we became one
and I still didn’t know where his intentions were lying.
I’m a girl afraid, does he even have any?
Ink *** after ink ***
I ran even further in this marathon of confusion.
I slowly slid from his dismissive grasp, his matted paws light
I had drawn graffiti over his portrait.
a permanent marker changed beauty into art.
I crept before his wake, into his sleep
And his lyricism lay imbibed in the walls, the desk, the door.
I felt the gale force energy cry inside
Which erupted like a volcano, turning remnants into ashes.
Face down, mane rough, scars bright, fur singed
Interior managed.
In the morning, I lifted his heavy paw away from me
And placed it peacefully beside him.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
My chin rests on the dent of my palm,
I am hopefully staring into space
where the blur of the white wall that is before me
becomes an empty palette for me to draw on
to paint a map of the future,
of the roads and paths and routes
untidily scribbled on the
blank canvas plotting my dreams
with sketchy untidy thoughts with blurred out edges
of a vision full of innocence and lack of experience
but making the raw marks easily amendable
leaving room for mature modifications
as my dreams ripen
I am dreaming of days that will come,
Dreaming of ways that will let me become
But our dreams are like clouds,
They are made in the air
They keep floating with time
Further from us
To distant places where they will be lost
And we will be left staring at an empty sky
Not knowing in which direction to go.
If we sit idle,
Lying in the grass, staring away
expecting the cloud to descend one day
We are mistaken
because dreams are meant to live in the skies
high up above which is why we strive
and achieve for higher ground
because if they were as prevalent as the flowers
on the verdant grass
anyone could pluck it without any stress
but like clouds our dreams travel with time
mature with wisdom and age
the further they blow away
They become faint distant memories
so don’t just sit and stare
and always be aware
gather pieces from your life, and create a platform
pieces of experience
that will stack up to create
a stairway bringing you closer
to help you attain your cloud shaped dream
and when you are near, hold it close,
nurture it and help it grow
and never let it go
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
Early July
and Judith sat
on the wooden fence
beside you
over looking the pond
which she called the lake
dressed in a plain grey skirt
and green blouse
her brown hair
brushed untidily
as was per norm
her hands beside her
balancing her
on the top beam
mum said men
are not to be trusted
Judith said
me included?
you asked
you especially
she said smiling
she didn’t mention you by name
just said men in general
and my dad looked at her
sideways on
pulled a face
then carried on
with his breakfast
a jackdaw flew across
the pond noisily
making Judith jump
****** bird
nigh on made me
wet myself
she said
following the bird’s flight
what made your mother
go on an anti men campaign?
you asked
watching two ducks
move across
the water’s skin
I think she saw us
coming through the woods
behind your house
yesterday after school
Judith said
we were too close together
mum said
but where she was
to see us I have no idea
hanging from a tree maybe
you said
don’t think so
Judith said smiling
maybe she’s spying on us now?
you suggested
Judith looked around her
then back at you
don’t say that
I almost had kittens
it’s not kittens
you have to worry about
you said
sunlight flickered
through high branches
birds sang
white clouds
moved slowly overhead
you touched her hand
with yours
felt her warm skin
her fingers
her short fingernails
she looked at the flickering sunlight
I know
she said softly
come on
let’s go near the lake
she said
and jumped off the fence
and so did you
and walked over
the grass
to the pond’s side
under a vast sky of blue.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:56 AM UTC
A while ago I found a photo
Of you. Before I knew you.
Blazing brown and beautiful in the Australian sun
I traced my finger across
The line of your hip
Sunglasses perched untidily upon your bleached blonde hair
Hands that had not yet held me
clutching a windswept map And a lit cigarette
your eyes
Squinting at the sun, glimmering with hope
Is it you? The same woman
Who gave me light
Who I tore apart with my anger but also my love?
I hope you remember, when you look in our eyes
You may not always have been my mother
But I was always your child
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 7:20 PM UTC
death and dying
is there love still in the air?
does anybody anymore care?
------
forget? how dare,
our moral
despair.
a hundred years later,
we still won't repair
the tear stripped too
bare. ever too soon. i can
feel it you in my arms.
swooning you a tune.
our tune, our time.
infantile. without a rhyme.
what is the reason?
that you have been chosen
for leaving? why did God chose
you. over the fight...
I struggle
and always lose
as the ties come
untidily loose
*i never had
time to share
one last cuddle.
so shy as you were
we never did speak
but those marble blue
brilliantly hued always
drew my heart weak*
I think of you, my Jay
in the dead of night,
i think of you
with every butterfly
that flies in my sight.
what you might
with your might
you are might;
my might:
looking death
without fright.
i look at you.
my guardian cherub
born and true.
i await the next time
you come four your due.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
In a dark alley
Behind The Rex
Mary Carey executed her ex
Dumped him by the side of the street
Revenge was sweet
She cut off his head
Collecting his thoughts in a black plastic bag.
Took it home and showed her Mother
Who took Mary to the attic
And showed her the others
“You did all this?” gasped Mary Carey
“No, some of them are Nana’s
And Great-Grandma’s too
There’s allsorts here
***** ***** buggers every one
Christian, Jew and Hindu.
Men, they’re all the same.”
Which would be nice if you were talking world peace.
Mary Carey had a daughter
And, in an attempt to break the family tradition,
Gave her away to the nuns at the Mission
Grown, they sent her to Rome.
Where, in St Peter's Square
She bedded
Deaded then
Beheaded every man who tried to kiss her
Leaving behind a trail of bloodied mitres
And a pile of bin liners that might have been tied tighter.
“Can’t stop
Myself.”
And off she popped in search of other buggers.
But the plastic bags in St Peter’s Square are suppurating
And, far away from the Catholics,
The collected thoughts of de-bodied Protestant
Muslim, Hindu, Rastafarian and Jewish men
Are flatulating through the puckered bum-holes of untidily tied knots.
Some smell of roses
Some of Forget-Me-Nots
Of Valentine’s bouquets
A lot of them smell like old ashtrays.
And one or two of rotten apples.
These waft across the polished toecaps of young girls
And leave a nasty stain.
***** minds:
They're all the same.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
While constipation kept me in arrears,
asper daily writing,
thus ordinarily straight forward
practiced process culling material,
(a daily endeavor generally mastered
by your truly), this moment bares
with more difficulty, thus derriere's
functionality created backlog
(of personal business),
hence presenting literary chops,
a real ****** today,
disgruntlement with ***** Pack,
(which gripe flares
cheeks) pitted me considerably
behind schedule, so...here's
the scoop (hoop fully solid explanation
for my absence) amidst
virtual chattering class
otherwise known as Face booking,
Instagramming, and Whatsapp
pin with ma Jeers
zee Boyz'n the hood,
ah...also dem "Back Street Boys"
oh mother f***er...,
I just learned day got eliminated
and blocked, (cuz o' their wiped out,
wasted, sunken,
flushed, dumpy untidily
bowled over appearances),
Sargeant Scott Coreless forced their
evacuation citing Lumineers
as more *** toot,
hence the emcee then welcomed,
opening dreck "Johnny On The Spot,"
and the "The Proctologists,"
who performed before nares
Naked Lady sighted spectators, with
lovers spooning within cheeky pairs
otherwise, essentially a pooped out crowd
sitting on their haunches,
while myself perched
some distance away
with my comfortably numb tuckus
atop the porcelain Goddess
a awaiting emetic to expel
for iCloud to finish updating
before continuing with sign out...
from this Macbook Pro,
which aye sheepishly pro state
as the long winded soup peer
re: or (flatulence riddled) explanation.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 8:10 PM UTC
The poet sighed,
took out paper and pen
and waited for inspiration to come.
Nothing.
He stared at the blank page
for hour after hour,
like every day
for the last month,
nothing came to him.
“There is no poetry in my anymore.”
he mumbled weakly,
as if there were not strength in him,
but he hurled the pen across the room
hard enough to gouge the wall.
He got up, went about his day,
he had a lot of things to do,
later, he took up the paper and pen again.
“There is no more poetry in the world.”
he wrote, the words scrawled
untidily across the page,
“No more words
of love or passion,
no more pretty phrases.”
He went on at length,
describing his lack of feelings,
his inability to express his pain.
After a couple of pages he paused,
with a steeling breath
he went on.
“I’ve found a way out
of the pit I’m trapped in,
this empty, emotionless void.”
“I cannot make it out myself,
I will need a ladder.”
“A ladder is a wonderful device,
able to help mankind
rise above troubles,
to lift them up
when their own abilities
fail.”
He put his pen down,
walked out to his garage,
in there, he looked upon the ladder
he had placed under his way out,
a noose.
He stood there for a moment,
thinking about his lack of feeling,
his failures,
the people that betrayed him.
He looked down at the pages in his hand,
placed them carefully on the workbench,
the would be found there,
read and examined.
Thereafter people would understand
why he took this route,
why he could no longer cope
with his inability to write.
He climbed the ladder,
put his head in the noose,
his portal out of the pit.
He stopped for a moment,
looked down at the pages,
then it hit him.
These pages he had written
were his finest writing in months,
perhaps in his life.
Thinking about what he wrote
he realized,
there was the emotion he hadn’t felt,
the words that wouldn’t come.
Startled by the revelation
he stepped back,
off the ladder,
his mind ablaze with ideas.
But the noose, that was his way out of pain,
was still around his neck.
As he hung there,
helpless,
slowly fading away,
he cursed himself.
Why hadn’t he paused
at the base of the ladder,
reread the pages he carried.
Now, it was too late,
everything he still had within him
would die with him.
People would read his words
and never know,
that he had found his voice again,
had come to understand
that numbness and pain
don’t last.
They would read his words
and think less of him.
As these thoughts faded
and darkness claimed him
a single tear crept down his cheek.
A final testament
that he had,
in the end,
regained his humanity.
But sadly,
it would dry and disappear,
long before he was found.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:20 PM UTC
Thank you, thank you,
she said, the girl in
the mental hospital
not right in the head.
Thank you, thank you,
she repeated, like one
defeated. There was
a bright sun in the sky,
but no clouds like shrouds
to mar the warm day.
The nurse walked
away having given
the girl medication,
something to calm
her down to allow
her nerves to relax
like air leaking slow
from a big pink balloon.
The girl went to the
wide window, stared
at the hospital grounds
through window bars,
black painted, glass
smeary, not often
washed or cleaned.
Thank you. she whispered,
her breath on the glass.
Other patients walked
the grounds; some in
dressing gowns, others
dressed untidily, lost
in worlds or thoughts.
Thank you, she repeated
to the wide windowpane.
Out there some place,
beyond the walls and
doors, the world of the sane.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 9:24 AM UTC
Facing It.
Lonely black places engulfing the mind
in caverns of glistening fear.
Phantoms arising from pleasanter times
tauntingly whisper his name in my ear.
Afraid of seeing that smile in my dreams
willingly I lie awake.
Facing relentless ticking of clock keeps
me clocking minutes for sanity's sake.
Ducking below lonely duvet once more,
with broken resolve it is plain.
Sobs fill the space of what life has in store
which will undeniably not be the same.
Words sit in succession inside my head,
spelling clearly the fact he is gone.
But half-empty cupboards untidily left
beg me soon to dry tears and move on.
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC