Long Tatty Poems
Long Tatty Poems. Below are the most popular long Tatty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tatty poems by poem length and keyword.
WHEELCHAIR BOUND
Dots appeared and disappeared
a single sunray flashed onto
wheelspokes, canvas seat
comfortably frayed
bought secondhand
her unexercised legs flabby
window bars rusted, panes cracked
nobody cared
there she sat thinking about
cooking porridge with cinnamon
tricky to wheel in
two meter wide kitchen
lighting gas stove sitting no easy feat
this was charnel ground
no cash oozing pockets or
colour disappearing into op-art
no bra-strap laughter
or fruit bowl decorations
no one visited
thought wheelchair bound infectious
what if they too had to
sit for a narrow cold shower
or pop-a-wheely to see
a bird swallow a caterpillar ?
here trees were being chopped
their screaming pain slicing her nerves
cockroaches, ego-deaths
not knowing about this phase
of unpalatable life
she wheeled to a sunny patch
her relegated cement square
stared at Sun questioningly
He smiled at her pain
saying it was not in vain
she grimaced, then smiled in return
remembering cinema days
mall ice-cream, walks on beaches
vague memories round and round
with wheel tires, like neglected hamsters
nobody wanted to hoist wheelchair into air
then car booth, all too much trouble
had too much to do
shattered human perceptions falling
to be buried
chair had tatty armrests for lifting body
she could not buttocks rise up
to call street boy for corner shop loaf
hunger had to wait
till neighbour knocked
Buddha said all bodies merge
with charnel ground
sooner or later heads, arms, ears
are broken down
images across a sieve screen
Plato saw this too as shadows
still they feared coming near
locked into an eye flap timeline which said
what if I too ?
when wheels become legs
and humans less, sight clears
what was once flotsam and jetsam
floats away into goodbye bays
enjoyment of senses merely a persistent
layer of life
wheelchair bound is part of Plan
so sound, a mechanism for peeling
two wheels become friends
grinding ignorance, flattens what serves not
unfolding a Mode of Goodness
every spoked circle has a
tacit teaching agenda
No experience in virtue vain
[Contains - for effect - deliberate miss-spelling
and bad grammar]
That old pirate cave was a tourist attraction
The guide was in period dress
In old pirate garb and a well practiced script
This tale he would tell to impress…
*
“Rob ‘The Rum’ was often glum
It’s how the grog would make him
And spiteful too, with things he’d do
And kids would go home shaking
He’d scare with ‘pirate antics’ boasts
And frighten them with tales of ghosts
Until one day they all fled, crying
But horses hooves left six there, dying
At threat of the noose they told him deny
the stories he’d told and that ghosts were a lie
At last he conceded, then lost and dejected
said, ‘There ain’t no ghosts, I stand here corrected.’
But justice it seems weren’t too fair in them days
So though he concurred he was hanged anyways
But maybe his God tried to save that old sot
For his neck never broke with the slip of the knot
And so with legs kickin like some headless chicken
He begged and he pleaded to be cutted down
And folk turned away but one heard him say
‘My ghost shall forever lay waste to this town.’
And even today there’s people what say
They’ve seen old Rob here in his cave
I do not deceive and you should believe
That you’re either you’re stupid or brave.”
*
Then outside the cave into which they were crammed
A loud banging sound as a car door slammed
Every head turned to see what went on
And the Pirate announced it was time he was gone
An angry, but tatty, faux pirate, appeared
In fancy dress clothes and a clearly fake beard
At first he said nothing, his face wore a sneer
And then he yelled, “How did you lot get in here?”
One visitor said, “Yer man let us in,
the one with ugly great scar on his chin.”
The faux pirate said “It’s a slack time of year
It’s the middle of winter… there’s only me here.”
He turned to the clatter of horses on cobbles
And fled when he had an attack of the wobbles
And a voice, just an echo announced to the party
“You do know there ain’t any ghosts…
Me hearty.”
9 January 2022
Contest: A Ghost Story
Sponsor: Angela Tune
On a train going south on business
For what seemed an eternity,
I chanced upon a memorable man
Who changed the path of my destiny
He was itinerant to look at
With tatty coat and shabby shoes,
An unshaven face, his hair unkempt
And string, as a belt on his ‘trews’
He boarded the train, peoples heads dropped
For fear that his gaze they’d meet
He walked down the aisle, disappointed,
As no-one would give up a seat
I offered the seat beside me
He thanked me for making the space
I replied with a sincere ‘you’re welcome’
And a smile warmed his weathered face
He asked me about my journey
And I asked of his in return
I felt in my heart, that by talking to him
There was much about life I could learn
I bought us both refreshments
As he told of his life’s history,
Once in a while I would interject
With a small anecdote about me
Behind the shabby persona,
Was a man of intelligent mind
He’d lived on the edge in finance,
Made his fortune, left it behind
As his bank account grew he’d lost everything
His family, his friends, his wife
He’d found out, too late, and at great cost
That there was so much more to life
‘You have to stop and smell the roses,
Make some time for those you hold dear’
And as he spoke, down his rugged cheek
I saw the track of a small, salty tear
As we reached the end of our journey
He clasped my hand at our time to part,
He thanked me for my company
And told me I had a good heart
When I got to my lonely hotel room,
I called my daughters on the phone
And told them ‘we’ll be together soon
I’m taking some time off when I get home.’
Sometimes it takes a chance meeting
To give your whole life a shake
I felt I had met my ‘Hermes’
And now had decisions to make
When I got home, I made a decision
The missed years with my girls I’d amend,
My life took a different direction
All down to my indigent friend
You can’t judge a man on appearance
But if you look in their eyes you can,
I knew in the instant I gave up the seat
I had met a remarkable man.
Old letter
Old letter in the bottom of my drawer,
Old thoughts laid on the paper many-many moons
ago;
Old ideas hidden in a tattered envelope,
Old feelings gathered on a sheet of paper,
Now yellow and tatty like the envelope.
Who is the sender?
Who is the receiver?
I cannot see..... I cannot tell....
The ink is old, almost invisible;
A few letters, maybe a syllable....hard to guess...
Hard to read......
Old letter in the bottom of my drawer,
What is your secret?
What are you hiding?
Are you a love letter?
Or maybe just a friendly reply to another
letter lost in time?
Or tear soaked sad thoughts of a broken heart?
Or are you a happy letter, a happy sphere of
thoughts
Shared with someone close,
maybe a friend, a relative,
Or shared with a brother or a sister, a parent
or an aunt perhaps?
Or maybe an official letter starting with
“Dear Sir....or Madam...” .
Little and torn and ragged and
fold in quarters, tatty, old letter
What is your secret?
I am begging you.......reveal!
I am standing here, in the room,
with the letter in my hand;
Quiet, hardly breathing even,
Maybe a miracle will happen....
Maybe the tatty letter like a portal key
Will open up and will beam me back in time
And just as I am stepping out of mist
the sender will
Be brought to light sitting on the porch,
or in the shade of a tree;
Scribbling his thoughts on a silky,
snow white sheet of paper.....
lifting his head now and then to gather his
thoughts and scribble away again....
I am almost afraid he might see me,
So cautiously I step back;
but nothing happens,
and I am still in my room
standing by the window
with this timeworn letter in my hand,
still wondering When? Where? Why? and Who?
And smiling I am thinking at this antique letter
With its long forgotten thoughts,
Maybe it’s not my place to know your secret,
So little letter torn at corners, yellowed in time
Your secret will be safe with me
Well hidden deep
In the belly of my drawer.....
(02.01.2011)
Form:
They say you can’t be in two places at the same time.
Like so many errors, that knowledge is based on fact and not experience.
I know this is true because I have been in many places at once.
The other day, for instance, I was lying on top of the stone wall of a small bridge that spanned a creek. It was along the Old Harrisburg Pike just outside Lancaster, Pa. As the warmth of the sun bathed my body I could feel sunbeams resting on my legs from the bottom of my cut off jeans to the top of my black high-top sneakers. My spindly thirteen-year-old arms poked through what used to be a white t-shirt, now gray and tatty after being worn all summer; washed only from the creeks and rivers I visited. As I lay on the bridge, I knew I was also someplace else, running room to room in my grandmother’s big house knowing I could stop anywhere for a hug or to ride a knee, or feel a huge hand tousle my hair and call me ‘beautiful boy’.
As certain as I was that I was there on that bridge that day savoring the sunlight, I was also there savoring the love in that big house.
Now, I am here with you as you read this. The truth is, I am in all places where the human heart knows love as I have known it.
I can be in much more than two places at one time.
I can be in all places where there is warmth and love.
The tears I cry through recollections are not tears of loss, they are tears of recognition. I recognize now that I am present in all places of love. It is my home. These places are in me forever, they are in us all. we have but to look for them. So, those who say you cannot be in two places at once are wrong.
You can be in two places at the same time. You can be in all places at the same time. One day you will be. They are also wrong about something else. They say: “you can never go home again”, but, you can go home again.
Each day we are traveling a road that leads us home together.
it is the most beautiful journey we will ever take.
my soul is the shape of a bloodstain
poured there by Nadine Maraschino
my right eye sits
in the ruby voodoo goblet
that she wears upon her head
Nadine was a 3-toed egg laying harpy
from the cauldron of shame
but she used her brain cleverly
with candor and anti-obfuscatory ardor
it was the mystic East
humping the mystic West
so said the gaming industry statistics
don’t believe me then
talk to my lawyers then
Circumstance & Circumstance
writs tarts and exonerations
they’ll tell you of the settlement
coded instruction to the next generation
Nadine's heart was as big as a catcher's mitt
her white garments billowed
like clouds passing before the moon
we met in an emergency room
after I pulled my best pickup line
hi I'm a friend to the entire human race
and she countered with
want auntie Nadine to show you
how to be a big boy
a buzzard shadow passed over her face
she pulled me close and hissed
if no one wants to look foolish
why so many truth murdering fools
I weakly countered with
if thoughts are differentiated
one from the other then so are you
Nadine’s lizard tongue gave him
the secret to the garden
descending down his throat
like a black lung miner
how can you tell if it's morning noon or night
hint you'll need a sense of sequence
hers was a dangerous mission
for both covert and overt ends
the life's a ***** and then you die cynics
took us for a pack of numbskulls
well we were arrayed in a tatty splendor
consisting of zero camouflage
but there was no substitute for living deep
even in Happy Valley
the slightly assisted living community
well hell we're all assisted
aren't we supposed to get smarter
as time scurries us along
and last I'd like to thank
my non-existent financial backers
for timely script development
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
Artist Portfolio: http://walteralter.byethost32.com/
Unkempt, bedraggled,
Pushing her life before her
In a tatty shopping trolley,
Covered in a dirty duvet.
She moves around the town,
Slowly,
Head down,
Hugging the walls and side alleys,
Trying to be inconspicuous.
One day with curious concern, I approach.
"Hello, how are you today?"
She stares at me with wild eyes.
"Do you need anything,
A drink, something to eat?"
She opens her mouth,
Exposing rotten, stumpy teeth,
And replies, "I need peace - piss off."
Perhaps I'll try another day.
Weeks later I see her,
Hunched on a park bench,
Faithful trolley by her side.
She studies something in her hand.
I ponder on her age.
What reduced her to this life?
Rummaging in bins for food.
Sleeping in the underground carpark.
Does she have any family?
How does she survive the bitter, winter nights?
I pluck up the courage and walk over.
I notice white lines down her weathered cheeks,
Revealingly tear tracks,
Unveiling her sadness.
I sit on the bench beside her.
"Hello, can I help you?"
"Go away, leave me alone." She croaks
I press on, "Can I buy you a hot drink
And something to eat before I go?"
She shrugs, wafting her unpleasant odour.
"What would you like?"
She shrugs again, not raising her head.
I go to a nearby refreshment shed
Purchase a sugared tea and bacon roll.
She doesn't look up as I place them on the bench beside her.
Then she utters, "You can piss off now."
I go to leave and glance at a dog-eared photo she is holding,
A smiling couple, holding a young child.
Could she possibly be,
The pretty, young woman in the picture?
Maybe it's a son or daughter?
"Who's your photograph of?" I ask.
Clutching the picture to her breast,
She wildly looks at me,
Then shouts,
"I said, PISS OFF!"
I retreat.
Peering back over my shoulder
I see her,
Drinking tea and eating her roll,
Head down.
Perhaps I'll try again another day.
Form:
Mothballs and Lavender
There’s a rug on the hearth and a fire in the grate
and Grandma and Grandad sit with me to wait
while the black-leaded oven is cooking our tea
of ‘tatty-ash’ stew made especially for me.
We’re red hot on our fronts, but cold on our backs,
with drafts round our feet as the fire draws air back.
But we’re warm in our hearts and as cosy as toast,
for dinner we’d all shared Gran’s tasty beef roast.
I can stay for the weekend and will sleep here you see,
on my own in the spare room, when I’ve had my tea.
There’s real flannel sheets and a big comfy bed
with soft feather pillows to lay down my head.
When I’ve eaten my tea Gran will take me upstairs
and stay by my side while I’m saying my prayers.
She’ll tuck in my blankets and kiss me goodnight,
then wish me ‘God Bless’ as she bids me sleep tight.
The sweet smell of lavender rests on the air
from the bunches my Grandma has hung everywhere.
But I know if I open the drawers by the walls,
I’ll wrinkle my nose from the smell of mothballs.
I lay there and think of good things while I rest,
at home my own bedroom is one of the best.
A computer and tele’, and my own phone as well,
why is it Gran’s house then can cast such a spell?
I know everyone loves me, both here and at home,
but staying at Grandma’s makes me feel quite grown.
I find when I’m here, then I do not run wild,
and they never treat me like I was a child.
The thing I’ve decided that I like most here
is the feeling I’m safe and have nothing to fear.
The way they both speak in a soft gentle tone,
it’s much quieter here than it is back at home.
But the thing I love best when I’m lying in bed
is the smell of the room that floats all round my head.
Yes, the smell of the lavender Gran hangs on the walls
and the smell from the drawers of my Grandad’s mothballs!
Ivor G Davies
Nathaniel Bains was a kindly man but had little brains
He was as skinny as a lat
Lived in a small country village
And a bird nested in his tall top hat.
Nathaniel resembled a scarecrow his clothes were well worn and mucky
Although a pleasant man he was born so unlucky
When he was two he fell in a well
And the locals complained because he smelled
When he was three he fell from a tree when he was four he fell on the floor
Poor Nathaniel couldn't do anything right
A walking disaster
But like a good man prayed each night.
When Nathaniel grew up he was nearly seven foot tall
And could peer over the tallest wall
And pick apple off the trees
Until he got stung on the bum by a swarm of bees.
One day in march or may Nathaniel entered a competition
And sent off his entry straight away the prise a cruise
Nathaniel thought he couldn't lose.
Weeks passed by and Nathaniel forgot
If he'd won or not until postman Egbert with letter in hand
Shouted ''Nathaniel''a letters arrived you have won first prize''
Nathaniel never had a letter before and had someone read it by the door.
The village folk were so excited they invited Nathaniel to the squires mansion
And had a ball. hip hip hurrah! our Nathaniel has won a prize and is unlucky no
more went up in a mighty roar.
Nathaniel packed his old tatty suitcase and the village folk went with him to see
him off at the Southampton Docs they waved as the ship set off
But poor Nathaniel wasn't lucky and everyone panicked
It was a prize of a cruise on the Titanic!.
The village folk were so sad he was a pleasant lad and not that bad
They erected a statue in his honour in the town but even that fell down.
Some say sometimes you can still hear Nathaniel whistling as he passes in the
Town after the sun goes down
''Idea came to me in a dream.''
Peter Dome copyright.2014. July.
The House On The Hill
Bleak, the naked
windswept lanes,
Lashing skin,
unforgiving rains
Drenching tatty,
flapping drapes
In a flurry
of flightless capes.
And aged eyes
of darts and stares
Catch new lovers
unawares,
Flitting from sky
to window frame,
Dashing with
their hearts aflame.
Inside, outside
and under eaves,
Upturned collars
and soaken sleeves,
Seeking shelter
from heaven's spill,
Beckoned by
the house on the hill.
Warmly wafts
to welcome them
With lamplit porch
and lacey hem,
Wry smiles
and buttered toast,
Courtesy of
the resident ghost.
Old lady, with your
heart that bleeds,
Dweller in your
loveless needs,
Lonely in your
shadowy niche,
What trickery will your
soul unleash?
Jealous shadows,
creaking floors
Opening windows
and slamming doors,
Trapped young hearts
lay at your feet,
To beat no more
their wreckless beat.
Seething, writhing,
crimson drips,
Sweetly tasted
on bitter lips,
Beside their lifeless
essence rise
With mouths aghast
and fading eyes.
The clock ticks,
the hours pass,
Silence befalls,
in dreams, at last,
No murderous widow,
their lives, could take
Nor break their hearts
before they wake.
Stretching limbs
and sunkissed yawn
A sigh of relief,
a welcomed dawn,
To wander life
as wise old fools,
To knock death's door
before death calls.
Frail, in cumbersome,
aging skin,
Where no more passion
beats within
A little old couple,
with time to kill
Make their home
in the house on the hill.
© RJVHorton2015