Long Tatty Poems
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A box of old shoes under the stair,
Discarded, unwanted, no matching pair.
No longer needed, pushed out of sight.
Resigned to this box, and a fast fading light.
Soft supple leather with creases to spare,
Polished and nourished with infinite care,
Deep, deepest red, black cherry hue,
Once, long ago, a fine ladies shoe.
Dirty old canvas all tatty and frayed,
Laces have gone with age they have strayed.
Way back in time in Olympics it shone,
The end of an era, the last race is run.
A crusty old boot with steel in the hide,
Remembers the days the land it would stride,
Helped build this country relished the role,
Undaunted, unbowed, grit in the sole.
A soft velvet slipper its partner long gone,
Lies quiet in the box while the world moves along,
Once in a while a pale silken glove,
Holds it so gently and strokes it with love.
Such a wearisome time in this box of rejects,
What happens now? What happens next?
Each knows the answer. No use debating.
It’s the end of the line, and Heaven is waiting.
Have you ever had a massage of any kind?
During the process,did you,your teeth, grind?
I always thought you get this tender,sweet, relaxing feeling;
Until I became a massage client who left squealing.
What was going on inside my brain,
Accepting one to mount that pressure where there was pain?
I'm not a fool, but I hate that often times, I act dense;
Closing my eyes, toughening, that you may think I'm meditating upon sense.
Once upon a time, I willingly used my hand and chose,from the variety,a tatty dress;
I took that rag home, put it on,glanced and smiled at my beauty all as a mess!
So, I was talking about a body massage,
A body manipulation that feels good only as a mirage.
Resenting what is truth on ground,I winced;
Upon my therapist drawing closer,I flinched.
A burning sensation of discomfort and pain,
Digging through my tissues to the thinnest vein,
It's a wriggle,wiggle motion, in solemn responce to the tingle;
Love is a beautiful thing,yet, I choose to remain single,
For disappointments await in all corners,
It's an all-around world,like the defence of snorters.
The doctor gave me rules, one; that I should get massage oil;
And now, to the men that enjoy smooth ladies doing it,I was yet to be a foil!
Two,she said warm water could do; this sounded more natural;
Healing by something made by the one,whose powers are supernatural!
The massage oil in my bag,a cool melody ringing in my heart,
Out of my home, I walked with good posture,perfect gait,all smart;
Ready to meet my doctor,to feel the soothing touch.
And the long felt back pain would be no more, for I the other day,I prayed about it in church.
What,I thought was the perfect therapeutic body massage,
A moment in a hell of torment I spent,like playing a visage!
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
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.
abandoned beautiful child wandering like a lost leaf
all she can do is quiver as rain splinters fall like a river
her name was Clara and she has scary thoughts chimera
she has "tattered, tangled, tatty" hair with eyes aching
she is "hungry, hunched, hurt" a fragment in a chasm abysm
"dangerous, dark, daunting" doorways she seeks as a sleeping place
frail, gaunt, helpless her spirit is disconnected and broken_
in the morn' dead on the cement . . . ending her torment
_________________________
September 12, 2022
Poetry/Verse/FRAGMENT
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1486-757-12
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, 'The A's Have It '
sponsor, Joseph May, Judged 10/02/2022
Fourth Place
A Secret Recipe
I have a secret recipe.I bake it in a pan.
I got it from my mother, who had it from her Gran
Her gran was five and forty when she found it in a book.
She baked it on a big black range. She was a wondrous cook.
The book was old and tatty, belonging to her aunt
Who got it from the tally man, he was a handsome gent
The tally man was Irish.The book his mother‘s pride.
He didn’t want to part with it for her spirit was inside
His mother was a spay wife. Her writing it was bold.
She copied down her recipe that never can be told
Aunt Annie loved the tally man, and so became the heir
To the very precious recipe that no one else could share
Until Great granny found it, after auntie died,
but she knew it was a secret and a secret it would bide.
And so it passed on down the line, until it came to me.
I treasure that old tatty book that no one else can see
I’ll leave it to my daughter when I go off to heaven
That precious old and tatty book from eighteen twenty seven.
He sits there on the pavement
Under an unforgiving sky
As rain pours down he pleads for help
But the people just pass by
His little dog lies at his feet
There's a tin cup by his side
He's wrapped in a torn dirty blanket
But still he is denied
By him stands a notice
Made from a tatty torn card
Saying “homeless please will you help me”
Life on the streets is hard
In his cup there's two pounds fifty
Not even enough for a meal
He will feed his dog before he feeds himself
But he'll never resort to steal
He once had money he once had a job
Until they let him go
He once had a house and a wife and kids
Now he's out in the rain and snow
Will no one take pity on this poor man?
Will nobody stop to talk?
If they did they may see the man he once was
But they just turn their heads and walk
So if you see a beggar there on the street
Please don't walk on by
Give him your time and something to eat
Or there on the street he may die
Just remember he could be you
If your life took a turn for the worse
So show some compassion show some love
Open your heart and your purse
I hope these lines have brought home to you
The pain of a homeless life
Just think when you're home in your nice warm house
Of him and his struggle for life
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
Last Halloween was scary
with evil brewing strong
when Peggy planned a party
and things went off all wrong
In tatty robe, her hair awry
she slaved all day with care
her neighborhood to satisfy
with an elegant affair
Fine treats she baked and broiled
and decorated in detail
until her appetite was spoiled
and strength had almost failed
The house she'd scrubbed and polished
to a frighteningly bright sheen
every speck of dust demolished
she worked like a machine!
But, oh- the guests arrived too early
before she was quite dressed
and between her looks, and manner surly
were somewhat less than impressed
And to make things even worse
they quipped in her living room
their clever lines, so well-rehearsed
“Oh Peg, we LOVE your costume!”
They waited half a second, while
still within earshot
and sniped with vicious smiles
about all her house was not
How her home was far too small
to host this gathering
with depressing rooms and narrow hall
too shabby for anything!
The kids came in rolled their eyes
at tacky Halloween kitsch
and consoled themselves by cracking-wise
about it all with Mitch
Now Mitch was Peggy's husband
and should've known her mind
but he said things offhand
that came off as unkind
Then Nan came in with Merrilee
a chef of snobby taste
who (nose turned up), quite warily
declared the food “a waste”
Then as the midnight beckoned
Peg raged against the room
(a “woman scorned”, I reckon...)
the party met their doom!
___
A Halloween poem to make up for my deceptively titled 'The Living Dead' poem... which has nothing to do with the holiday!
The teacher got up on the stage and welcomed one and all
We're putting on a dog show and we'll hold it in the hall
We're laying on some fizzy drinks and lots of lovely eats
And the winner of the dog show gets a great big bag of sweets
Now Spud was struggling to survive on breakfast, lunch and dinner
He had to nab that bag of sweets, he had to be the winner
But one small detail blocked his plan to satiate his greed
His own dog was a tatty mutt of some unknown breed
Someone told him Franky's dog was la-de-da variety
Like the ones that film stars have in la-de-da society
If Spud was gonna win those sweets to stay his rumbling gut
He'd have to borrow Franky's dog, he'd have to nab that mutt
And on the day the show was held and each kid brought their pet
Spud was not too bothered that he had no dog as yet
He looked around to find his victim, Franky, by the door
A vicious looking Doberman behind him paced the floor
Spud snuck up on Franky and he growled into his ear
I'll have your dog, I'll need its leash, so hand it over here
I'm bound to win because your dog is quite an awesome sight
But one thing that I need to know is does your posh dog bite?
Franky said, I wouldn't bring a mad dog to the show
And yet you ask if my dog bites, my dog is trained, so, no
Spud grabbed the leash and tried to clip it on the studded collar
The dog chomped down on Spud's right arm, which really made him holler
Spud's arm was torn and tattered, it was quite a gruesome sight
And Spud cried out you must have lied, you said your dog don't bite
So Franky stroked a wrinkly dog, which looked more like a frog
Then eyed the snarling Doberman...
That is not my dog!