Best Knackered Poems
She had a bit of a problem
Of which she was reluctant to disclose
Her wardrobe was full to overflowing
With a wild array of clothes
She justified this behaviour
By insisting it was cheap stuff
Purchased from the op shops
She couldn't get enough
Because it was so cheap
She'd buy three things instead of one
Her shirts multiplied in dozens
And her dresses by the tonne
The day eventually arrived
The wardrobe door would close no more
The drawers were overstuffed
Things were piled up on the floor
Clearly drastic action was needed
And obviously, without a doubt
This would require some discipline
And red wine to sort it out
Hours later, knackered and dishevelled
She had reduced her clothing stash
She promised never to repeat this mistake
And instead save herself the cash
She staggered to the op shop
Weighed down with bags of gear
But naturally, there was a sale on
And really, she had nothing left to wear...
>Although I love writing, I would also like my books to sell. Then I can grant my wife her wishes and buy her a house by the sea. And if there is enough in the kitty one for me. I never miss a chance of free publicity. Last year our local BBC Radio Station, had an open day. I was raising funds in a small way for their charity of the year Suffolk Family Carers, So I was given a ticket by the nice lady on reception. Lots of local celebrities were there and me. Tractor Boy is football spokesman.
Have you met tractor boy?
I have and him perhaps did annoy.
I criticised them men in blue.
Well it's something, controversial to do.
Was because I'm a writer see.
Wanted some free publicity.
But when him I did meet.
He was sitting, not on his feet..
Was on a certain radio station open day.
The name I'm not allowed to say.
As when on their Facebook page did write.
They struck me off, they did one night.
Was only in a light-hearted way.
I mentioned my Smarty dog's I say.
Alright they spoke, both night and day.
Usually agreeing with what I did say.
But now my laptop's sick and away.
At the menders now I say.
So I don't worry night or day.
About that page, where I have no say.
I can get on with my Smarty book.
But at my files, when I did look.
I see I finished his latest book.
Oh this poem was about Tractor Boy.
I used his name, just as a ploy.
Just so you would read, about Smarty.
And his author, blinking me.
I'll try a short poem.
Having a tiring day.
Come on hands, knees and toes.
As upstairs I climb with those.
When day ends and I retire.
Where can I find new ones to hire?
As when that final step I take.
Make my weary way to bed.
I wish it was a stairless house.
A bungalow and not a house.
I know I used the house word twice.
Both the same reason, not poetically nice.
But if a bungalow I had got.
My hands, knees and toes, knackered, would be not.
I know that last line, sounded not right.
But was how I felt, is that alright?
But as I climb those stairs each night.
A bungalow, would serve me right.<
The clothing she wears is obscene,
And knackered her washing machine,
She washes by hand,
But please understand,
Her knickers are never too clean...
for Jan's Limerick contest
Wrested from my writing by a drone
which signified that I was not alone
in its black and yellow jumper it had come
fat and furry, bigger than my thumb
it cruised around the room in lazy eights
before it worked itself into a state
against the window wings fizzed on the glass
as fruitlessly it struggled to get past
annoyed at every corner on inspection
too close to even see it's own reflection
the outside world all plainly in it's sight
but out of reach, no this cannot be right
it thought “the flowers in the garden I can see
but cannot fly to them- how can this bee?”
I pitied this paradox of aviation
for being in a desperate situation
it's compound eyes with panoramic view
blind to the neighbouring window it flew through.
“ I feel your pane” I told the frame inspector
too knackered now to gather any nectar
and went and fetched a beaker and some card
then scooped it up, released it in the yard.
We, too, in life in lazy circles go
until whatever circumstances throw
leaves us adrift, no chance of some release
we thrash round for solutions, have no peace
take on our problems close up, face to face
instead of stepping back and giving space
so we may then take in the wider view
the answer is nearby what we should do
so stop banging your head and then you'll see
you won't need glass and card.
Unlike the bee.
T’was the night before Christmas
at home by the fire.
as weary and knackered we thought we’d retire,
but then we both heard it, a knock on the door,
and chaos descended in one mighty roar.
Our children and grandkids,
so lovely to see,
alas they all come when it’s time for our tea.
So screaming and fighting,
no time now for rest.
grandparents must always
remain at their best.
No matter how tired,
whatever the pains,
there’s pleasure in joining
the kids in their games.
The time comes for leaving
they turn with a smile
and back out the door
now they’ve stayed for a while.
So shattered but happy
we creep to our bed,
to rest till the morrow
when they’re back to be fed!
Ivor G Davies
What are these on my nose?
They're also hooked on my ears,
Oh of course it's my glasses,
So I can see things near.
What's that creaking noise?
It sounds like rusty hinges,
Oh of course it's my aching bones,
Time for steroid filled syringes.
What's that in the corner?
It's made of cold hard steel
Oh of course it's my Zimmer frame,
This old age thing is real.
What's that on my bedside cabinet?
There at nights mainly,
Oh, of course it's my teeth,
Grinning at me insanely.
When did all this happen?
I only blinked my eyes,
Now I have wrinkles,
I look like I'm in disguise.
What use is wisdom?
When you're too knackered to care,
Yes, I'm going grey,
But at least I've still got hair.
What happened to my youthfulness?
I used to be so sprightly,
Now I have to pee,
Ten times nightly.
I might as well accept it,
But I'm not impressed,
I'll just sit here with my rollers in,
I'm not getting dressed.
I'll grow old disgracefully,
Be who I've always been,
I promise to be a kind old dear,
Not a grumpy old fart, who's mean.
Absolute is her adorable attitude,
blessed and bestowed with a burning benignity,
city girl caught within life’s calamitousness,
darling to all that dare dote upon her. Naked!
Economize, be efficient, enthuse she must,
Fight! For her felicity. Feel! For those whom fall,
groping gouging with a grotesque gravitation,
hold on to her hospitable habitation!
Indurate through incest! Injured through inurement,
justice she seeks, a juvenile Judy no more,
kicked by society, knackered by its keepers,
laminated personalities lost in love!
Morning time! Brings the sunlight, the mist the misery,
Nymph nurtured by noble, just to serve motley men,
Org*sm Cried off, just an opaque memory,
primate pants, within the woodland glen!
Quaint in monthly quarantine, desire still to quell,
rebellious rivals, rustic, but youth on side,
sanctimonious salutations satisfy,
the test for technique, tediously still apply!
Unable to command usage. “Utensil spent”
Valuation decreasing via vulgar gent,
wise mind, weary body responds to the wanker,
xquisite flame soon xtinguish by the banker!
Yet she that lived in yonder past, youthfulness yielded,
zero hour approaches. “Erotic zone no more!”
because of censorships some words had to be removed or changed.
© Harry J Horsman 1993
Alliteration and Abecedarian poem
entered into A Poet Destroyers 004 contest
Knitting gives me pleasure.
Keeping me occupied.
Keen to create with some
Kaleidoscope colors.
Knowing cold winter has
Kinfolk's teeth chattering.
Knackered knitting for them.
Behind my wheel of life is a will to drive on but
When my wheel is faulty and rusty
When the spokes are reluctant to roll
When my wheel loses its drive
And the heat gets to the skin
When the body begins to tear up
And the underlays are revealed
Then the will behind the wheel will be tested
Then my will shall be tired, angered, haggard and knackered
When the will to go on ceases
When confusion and depression sets in
When the wheel is in disarray, striving, steering and stirring to no avail
When there is no movement and
The wheel is at a standstill
Then I realize that I have made the wheel mine and
I have driven the wheel as mine and to a standstill
When I lose the power to move on
When I lose the drive to rule the world
When my body begins to give way and
The inner layers are exposed
When it feels all hope is gone and
I throw my hands up in defeat
Then I realize the wheel is not mine but His
He gave me the wheel for a reason in this season
When I break down in tears and
My tears turns to weep and
My weep turns to sobs
Uncontrollable sobs like I lost a loved one and
My engine fumes and splutters in annoyance
Then I know it’s time to consult the maker
Then I know it’s time for His will to be done
Not my Will but the Father’s Will
Though I am behind my wheel
I need to surrender the wheel to His Will
For my wheel to move forward
For my wheel to shine through
I need to pray A PRAYER
I need to commit to His will
Then He stretches out His hands in love
He cuddles and scoops me up in love
He smiles at me and says
“Child, despite all I still love you
And you are coming out of the rut
You are coming through
Though weeping may endure for the night
Your joy comes in the morning
You are coming out
You are coming through."
To those who have sold their souls to be evil.
To those who worship none but devil.
To those who can’t enjoy life without causing harm to the others.
To those who pretend to be friends, monitors and fathers.
To those who have challenged God’s cannons and claimed to be liberal.
To those who claim perfection, your frailties are several.
To you I address my talk today.
To you I would say:
That you one day bitterly will pay.
The day of departure is never far away.
Sooner or later, you will surely pass away.
But the pain you have caused will never wither or go away.
Innocents’ people dreams you have horrifically slain .
You’ve curtailed their ambitions and would kill them if they complain.
You left them disorientated and knackered of this prolonged battle.
Iit’s not about religion that I am speaking.
But about their torn humanities that I am grieving.
Because religion is not preaching, but its’ about well treating.
Let my voice blast the obstacle of silence that prevented speaking.
Let my heart be healed of the agony he is always keeping .
My talk is not about pleasures or money. I know it’s freaking.
But life is ephemeral. So, think twice as long as you are breathing.
Marauding through the suburban
Merry-go-rounding through the city landscapes,
Marauding through the city ghettos;
Merry-go-rounding through the Metropolitan,
Marauding through the city gates,
Spluttering armoured tank roaring and rolling on
reconnoitered,
Mobilizing blazing mobile container lopped out of control,
Revving monster enthroned as the villain of the road,
Wailing ramshackle, the knackered one hell of a horse-power
plodded on,
All knee-jerk wounded out in roughly cut steel;
More the crawling millipede, speeding on roughly curl ruin
city,
A tangy flaming yellow lorry burnt into bleeding hearse
lorry;
Virulent virus attacking circulatory fortresses,
A living daylight nightmare dream haunting folks,
As the devouring beast fumed and purred proudly,
Off debris fragrance suspended in lasting pall
Gassing leering leaded blanket of Carbon,
Attacking painful and searing sore-blindness as a bat
And daunting shedding deadly poisonous mournful flowing
tears;
(to be read out loud)
I'll eat the nibble naggle nooky nickel
nipple nappy mum mum mum
I'll chew your gooble gobble giggle gaggle
gimpy grampa's gum gum gum.
I'll call the wimpy wappy wiggle waggle
wacky wobble wum wum wum
I'll drink the wiggin' wimple whoopy whacker
wookie worker's rum rum rum.
Woo wow wee wah
Geegaw mee mah
Hee haw hoo har hey hey hey.
Mao moo mud muck
Wigwam poobah
Mad mook mick mack yay yay yay.
I'll have a murky muddle maple maggot
monkey marbles chum chum chum
I raised a ticky tacky tinky tonka
tailor's tiny thumb thumb thumb.
I'm really punky pickled pooka puckers
pitter patter dumb dumb dumb
I hear my diggle daggle doggy dingle
diddle daddled hum hum hum.
Bad evils are flying in my stomach.
Inferno is burning out and reaching its apex in my heart.
My nitpicking mind is calculating the pain of my innocent soul.
The devil is dancing on my head and making me untamed.
Shadows of my inside evil is blocking the lightning way of my cheerful life.
The lingering quench of my anguished soul for living happy life is some how being suppressed by the shadows of my jealousy and peculiar needs.
My internal happiness is resting in peace.
My lips expands to pretend as I am smiling but my heart is shrinking inside.
My ears and eyes are working as spy for my mind which diverts my anguished soul.
The thirst of living happy life has been knackered.
The hope of changing the world has been smothered.
The smoke of burning inferno inside my heart is being converted into tears and they are finding their way out by making my eyes as their exit door .
Is this life?
Is this world?
Is this the law of nature?
A Sly Skunk’s Non’scents’
If you remember correctly, one night, I came upon Steve.
‘Twas a normal day that led to such a befuddling eve.
For, Steve is a skunk who decided to bunk and not leave.
I’ve learned just how quickly this sly little guy can deceive.
You won’t believe what he’s done in my house in the span of a day!
Departure day, hopeful, I woke up, a man almost free.
As I knew Steve the skunk would be taken to Pet Love Friendly.
But as the time soon approached, Steve was gone. Where could he be?
When suddenly, odors erupted like sewers and coffee
I dashed to the kitchen where my Keurig held Steve stuck like prey!
As I tugged on that skunk, my frustration grew into full ire.
When Steve finally popped, flying fur fled like his tail was on fire!
Before I could stop him, Steve started to chew on some wire.
Steve was a black and white firework; I was a crier!
Then suddenly, all electricity slipped away.
Steve let go of the wire and landed in a soft heap.
I rushed to his side just to check for a pulse, a life keep.
His eyes closed, my heart sank, for I liked Steve, not really deep.
As I reached out, Steve jumped up and screamed, “I WAS ONLY ASLEEP!”
Defeated and knackered, I knelt down beside Steve to pray…
Contest: Tall Tales 2
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser
Date Written: 04-27-2022
Coffee, I adore thee,
somehow you never bore me.
Bold and dark or mild and smooth,
you get me up and on the move.
In warm embrace or cool frappe,
mocha, french roast, or tall latte,
crema, sospeso or con panna,
you never fail to make my day.
It’s the best thing ever manufactured,
without it, my mind is slow and scattered,
for a quiz or formulating I’d be knackered,
every morning the Keurig is where we gather.
You pick me up and keep me keen,
in complementing any cuisine,
by delivering a dose of sweet caffeine,
you are the original magic bean.
In doses quick or lingered over,
on mornings with a hangover,
I reach for you, your warm embrace,
the morning fogginess to erase.
The flavor, the scent, which is the best?
They are of compound Interest.
French press or espresso - take your pick
- they all provide that delicious kick.
Jitter juice, rocket fuel, cup of joe,
cuppa, morning brew or ristretto,
your flavors please, your scent rouses,
a coffee shop is where the crowd is.
In slang they call it Mormon-crack,
but sugared up or with a snack,
with creamy art or straight-up black
once I’ve got it, you won’t get it back
.
.
Webster: Knackered = “very tired or exhausted.”