Long Tidy up Poems
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Institutional Jargon
Strait lined jacket,
A wheelchair line-up peruses the pasty walls
In synchronized fashion
Secured by schedule
Where the pristine uniform
Clicks heels and strides with purpose
Adorned the fob with pen in pocket
To check the clock and the parade
Of faceless dozers where faraway tellies drone
Dismissed the saline droplet from folded eye
Ignored the fragmented desire to talk
Removed the self seeker to elsewhere
A teacup trolley breaches the languor
And summons the sleepers to take a drink
The war hero must wear his plastic pinny
He wears it with pride just like his medals
As he slobbers the luke-warm liquid
Dished out by the silent and the sullen
Quick automated wipes all round
That tidy up, maintain a dignity
Then charted as fluids taken well
Documented protocol of excellence
That safeguards an ordered day
And eliminates disruptive sound
That cause the uniform to sigh
And break from flippant social chat
To conceal the noise in far off room
Because she’s wearing anothers clothes
And so the day drifts into eve
Food hastened to maintain an early night
And ease the plight of the nocturnal uniform
Nothing untoward in this institutional paradise
There’s nothing at all.
Dear wife when I leave my red-light-lit
war room behind me
can you tidy up my love.
Sorry about the mess,
I was a befuddled general,
I led far too many
into my own dark fears.
Can you put way my cluttered
battle maps, dire dispatches
and unbroken codes,
then please take my desk and chair
into the sunlight
where in time they might become
mossy and ornamental
for your small garden?
The abandoned room
should be turned into a nursery
for green and yellow plantings.
The war chest is open and empty,
make it a crib
for all the infants who can now live
forever peacefully with themselves.
It's been difficult for us all
Being restricted isn't cool
Especially for children
Who would rather be at school
You can do this
But you can't do that
You can't touch or cuddle
Or even pat
The dog looks grumpy
The cat forlorn
Dad's in the garden
Mowing the lawn
Mum's in the kitchen
Baking away
It seems since the pandemic
She's baked every day
The kids are getting bored
With all their indoor games
They have started to call
Each other rude names
Mum is horrified
Dad is amused
That was short-lived
The telly blew a fuse
"Why can't we have the telly on,
It's all gone black."
Mum went very pale and wan
And fell on her back
The baby started screaming
She needed her bottle
Dad took a long look round
To find something to throttle
Mum recovered
From her touch of vapours
Dad started to tidy up
The toys and the papers
The kids resumed their fighting
One accidentally thrust his knee
Smack, Bang, Wallop
Whacking the blank TV
Suddenly another noise
A very different sound
The children, both girls and boys
Got up off the ground
Dad smiled at Mum
She smiled back at Dad with glee
Miracle of Miracles
On came the TV
They say tomorrow never comes
believe me it’s so true,
I’ve got a massive list
of tasks I’ve got to do.
I shouldn’t put off those jobs
until a rainy day,
and all my good intentions
just add to the delay.
My desk is very messy
there’s a growing pile of dust,
I say I’ll tidy up tomorrow
I‘ll do it, yes I must!
I know the root of my trouble
I come up with an excuse,
and by saying I’ll do it tomorrow’
it really is no use.
So I’ll stop procrastinating
and I’ll forgo the sunny weather,
but I can’t tidy up today -
I’m having lunch with Heather!
Tomorrow Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh
11/26/18
I live in a small pueblo where every day or so
my neighbours sweep the pavement to keep
their side of the road clean and pick up the litter
And I like Beppo the Street Sweeper in Momo
by Michael Ende who always has the time
to speak a kind word to his legendary mates
Never liked to litter with trash rubbish or garbage
but I have cast words and actions upon my fellows
sometimes in anger and others in vulnerable pain
and they need not forget forgive or reward me
for my apologies must not sanction me with a medal
‘Purple Heart’ for my own suffering through the offence
which became a junk yard for wrong actions and speech
Life is short and wasteful memories can be long
but a short ‘I am sorry’ does not do any harm
as long as its honest and not for scoring immaculate
points on a spread sheet of blemishes and deceit
From my door step I voice ‘Hola’ and ‘Que pasa?’
to the little old ladies with the curlers and brooms
Dettol in hand and staggering steps in their stride
and wish to put my failings into the recycling bin
sanitize with truthful acceptance of my part in a toxic
environment that needs a tidy up before it sticks
like dog poo on a foul conscience and reeks havoc
‘Disculpe’ and ‘Lo siento’ as a tiny ‘mea culpa’
is simply an offer of truce not a white shiny flag
of capitulation or forced armistice under duress
but Peace and social encounters are tough enough
even without grievances and self-righteous pride
I can’t turn into perfume and on some occasions
an ‘I beg your pardon’ was not granted the request
my appeal for friendship was rebuffed and thrown
straight back into my face with fierce vengeance
but more often than not a land fill site of regret was
granted a home for a sincere olive branch in the shelter
of simply doing the right thing as the best one can do
23rd May 2021
I have almost absolved myself
from causing that emotional mayhem
that a youthful spirit engages upon
not having yet acclimatized itself
to whom it is, or what it would become.
All those lovers and haters
bought into an early copy
an unedited work in progress.
It’s the pity of youth that we
never give each other time for regret.
Apologies may or may not arrive decades later
often they are just told to the sky.
Forgiveness is given and accepted
between distant shadows of us.
We tidy up past regrets in an old room long vacated,
until eventually we arrive
at that state of stabilized imperfection
most of us hope to achieve.
I'm so flexible but I can snap.
So never push me too far.
I'm very strong but I can still break..
My strength depends on how kind you are.
I work well with my own kind..
Together we bounce off the wall.
But just like Humpty Dumpty..
I can't be repaired after a bad fall.
I am resistant to extrusion..
I can bend to accomodate most needs.
If respected I'll stretch the extra length..
And I multitask when asked with a "Please?"
I can hold many items together..
And tidy up a messy space.
My resilience will always rebound..
My versatility can suit any place.
I will always make you look good..
And give your hair a modern style.
I can help you break bad habits..
If you wear me on your wrist for a while.
You'd be surprised how many times I'm needed..
I come in many colours, styles and brands.
My abilities are absolutley endless..
Im your hard working, loyal RUBBERBAND!
We dwelt together,
one hand on a door handle.
Keeping rooms --- a semi-settled living,
parents still squatting in our heads,
rent due spaces,
red buses passing below or above,
according to what level we rose to.
Domestic wreckage evacuated,
a small venerable van stuffed to the gills,
and we with our books
bundled up in raffia rafts,
cats tucked under shawls or coats,
escaping loudly on red bumpy buses.
It is the little things that haunt:
a florescent green plastic handbag,
maroon stockings
draped over a lava lamp,
fluffy toy animals
scented with relationships.
Shades of lipstick on a cracked mirror
unwashed rugby shirts,
the soft tang of old spice aftershave,
vinyl albums revolving in our heads.
I recall it all ---- but no,
not wanting to dwell again with the young,
but to follow the routes of London buses
to past, departures and destinations,
to enter again
those rooms for penniless delinquents,
just to tidy up a little, and perhaps
close drawers and doors left open.
Autumns here, not to cold
Roses are still blooming
Looking around I see lots to do
Dead heading,weeding and pruning
Bulbs ive bought for next year
To pop their heads up here and there
And the sweet pea seed pods
Are drying in the air
It's time to tidy up our plot
With lots of digging too
Weeds to pull, beds to hoe
Lots of things will have to go
You know you have to be a little brave
If that roseyou want to save
But you will learn that over time
You have to be cruel
Just to be kind
The flower beds need a tidy
Take all the dead stuff off the top
Veg plotsbeing well dug over
Waiting for next years crop
Pruning back wayward branches
Collecting seeds, next year to sow
Burning up the collected debre
Long gone are the neat vegies in straight rows
The lawn will soon need it's final cut
All the birds have flown their nests
Must take down the nesting boxes
To clean and get rid of pests
September now with harvest moon
Time will fly and very soon
Christmas will be here
I hear you cry
And then its over
In the blink of an eye
And then ........
Springs around the corner
With wondrous thing to see
Bulbs popping up above the ground
Giving joy to you and me
And when all the hard works done
You can sit back and be pleased
Wind, frost, rain and sun
You've grown all that you need
The seasons cycle will start again
And it will be time
Seed catalogueat the ready
More varieties to find
Seeds to sow , hpoe they'll grow
The lawn will soon need it's 1st mow
The summer months to enjoy
But really it's just a ploy
It all starts again
For another year
For harvest festival
Is here again for another year
I've a bit of a problem here...
in a higgledy-piggledy pickle
torn between housewifery
and creative muses fickle.
Scattered, shattered fragments
of odd ideas, dreams
lay about my den, disguised
not nearly what they seem!
Bits of whimsy, what-nots
all cluttering my desk
covered in thick pixie dust
my housekeeping grotesque.
Higgledy-piggledy hodgepodge
my convoluted mess
a sign of utter genius
(or else mental distress).
I'd planned to tidy up...
to toss a few things out
but as I gaze upon them
they sniffle, weep and pout.
To think that I'd discard them!
Those former hopes and whims
unborn poems, paintings
their destiny quite grim.
Delicately backing out-
I apologize with care
as they cold-shoulder, look away
with such dramatic flair!
And when my husband asks me
just what I've done all day
I simply shrug “not much”
not knowing what to say.
How could I ever mention
the lurking living things
inside my head, upon my desk
that gently pull my strings?
The odd creative forces
that captivate me thus
wildly penning amid my piles
while he remains nonplussed!