Best Indistinct Poems
Oneness
Authored by Chuck Keys
It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.
There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.
Thinking multi-physically
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically
It wasn't here or there and it was.
With no distinction,
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.
It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.
In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.
The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."
Differences exist for differences,
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.
DEDICATION:
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.
www.gandhiking.ning.com
Saint Tropez is a summer town.
Smaller than it ought to be, really.
Like when you realize the French quarter,
in New Orleans, is just three blocks wide and long.
In the fall, there’s a feeling of disuse in Saint Tropez.
A turquoise bike leans haggard against a tree,
and summer leaves gather in gutters like trash.
Your appearance in a bar is treated like a surprise.
The wait staff gathers, like they might take your picture
and not your order - one brings napkins another the menu.
Summer memories are indistinct now, from disuse.
You aren’t sedated by sunlight and warm ocean airs.
Was summer some French, romantic, cinematic fantasy,
like "La Belle et la Bête" or "And God Created Woman"?
Or was it deliciously bright, seductive and real.
You find yourself saying, “In the summer, when the thyme,
lavender, rosemary, citrus and jasmine bloom, the aromas
are strong, actually physical, like going into an Ulta store,
where a thousand delicate perfumes vie for attention.”
But it’s like describing ghosts or deserts under glass.
You search for the words, like a poet or an actress, unable
to remember her lines - lines that would make it real,
invoke it, precious and immediate - like a spell.
The Saint Tropez of summer.
Morning Fog
This morning
when there is much to do inside,
there is fog outside my window.
The fog I sought two mornings ago
that caused me to dash to the car
in hopes I could grab a coffee
and sit by the lake,
witness to the softening of the world,
treetops indistinct, not yet awakened from their dreams.
By the time I reached the street
rain had dissolved,
captured,
drunk up the tiny molecules
of water playing fog.
I like rain, too, so I stayed on the road,
found myself coffee and a breakfast
by a temperature controlled fireplace.
Despite the rain, the little cafe
quickly became peopled
and I had to move on.
The soft shield of fog
was what I was hungry for,
not the food I left half eaten.
The desire to be
fogged in, alone or companionable,
putting thoughts to paper
or contentedly one
with the downy view,
the lack of detail,
the absence of certainty,
the enveloping moisture
making all things
remember
what it was like to be born.
We are all born
In some kind of moisture --
pushing through the dark damp soil,
or squeezed through a tunnel of flesh,
causing someone pain
for the first of many times.
Or we peck our way through
a fragile/sturdy shell,
wet with possibility,
or we're loosed with a hundred siblings
into a salty waterscape of danger,
calculating our chances.
For all of us,
our first vision must be a little foggy,
our possibility of success unclear.
But
every foggy morning
crawls into my soul
to whisper
what it could be
to be reborn.
" I remember that day
As clear as the crystal springs in June"
only it wasn't June, It was August
the morning air was thick like smoke
it choked me awake
the first blush of day
flushed across the sky
blood red clouds
colored her path
I lay still
like the air
without a hint
of summer's wind
the clock on the wall
tormented me
with the tick, tock,
tick, tock,
its bony hands
seemed to skip along
until I arose from bed
I sipped on coffee
as I took in the news
unsure what my day would bring
...and then I could hear a buzz
as if a fly was making circles
beside the bed, then a ring, ring,
ring echoed within my purse
I stared at the clock
my heart began to beat
faster then time
was it my father
did something happen
I worried as I listened
the voice
was indistinct
as if being choked
I struggled
with my ears
to make sense
of the words
that fell
...and then silence
fell all around
as if deaf
and mute
unable to process
and conceive
the message
my brother,
who turned 49
just the day before
was breathless
like the august wind
no more jokes
or laughter
or candles atop cake
his wick had burned out
within that last breath of air
and it burns, slow
as the years pass
still to this day
yet I'll remember that day
forever more....
pick a line contest
Mustapha Mohammed
"Reflections when the summer breathes"
Sandy Adams 8-22-2013
The promiscuous length of daylight
in the month of June,
spawned from a sunrise that
allocated a childish franchise.
The moorland breeze; that, to
rely upon when indulgence in dewy
pastures, leaves one reminiscencing
in how once the silvery moon shone.
Gildersber wrapped in winters
relentless white blanket, a pledge of
sledge irons to polish in youthful
exuberance, before life to
cherish in tracks of sheer delight,
when profound in greyness
the sky gave one a reason
for happiness.
This simple memory of one’s
sentimentality, somewhat indistinct
yet a zest of devotion in life
across the deep ocean.
Although elsewhere in this a
time warp of evanescent
I only have to dream
to be with you again!
© Harry J Horsman 2008
Angst
when the relationship tanks
Fear
forfeiting all that you've held dear
Uncertainty
heavy fogs covering the destiny
Regret
losing out on your all-in bet
Heartache
turned out to be another flake
False-Hope
clinging on to the last bit of rope
Future
just a synonym of hope, a fancy nomenclature
Lethargic
tired, lifeless, and sick
Sadness
hand in hand with madness
Motions
forsaking the notions
Grief
caused by an emotional thief
Annoyance
unable to avoid their pre-emptive avoidance
Struggle
being stuck in an unpleasant, unbreakable bubble
Pain
unrelenting heart strain
Tomorrow
another day filled with sorrow
Today
everything is indistinct and gray
The Past
the one thing that never lasts
Hell
the place where we just fell
Seeking Redemption Beyond The Horizon
While my mind ventures to unravel the origins of human enmities
Craves to stumble upon a most sagacious and diplomatic solution,
We journey on even when decency is absent without good reason.
Vestiges of a dream imbedded in pages shred to miniscule pieces.
Where did the promises that we had sworn to and to abide by go?
Were eyes blinded by a debris of perverted lies creating paranoia?
Transgressions orchestrated for their politically motivated agenda,
Enact crimes against humanity inflating an already distended ego.
There is no end in sight only the sanctimonious blather of the vile
Or those egregious behavior of autocrats and anarchists seditious.
We must beg the Spirit of Justice to lead and champion our cause,
Liberating hearts from dank dungeons where love remain in exile.
Time is of the essence to end disparities for polarity still envelops,
Like the devil's claw suppressing every gasp of humanity's breath.
The indistinct laughter, a dire warning, heralds an ominous threat,
No escape route or fence to climb, just a row of hangman's ropes.
Optimism's visions blindfolded, subjugated by menacing shadows,
Yet slivers of ethereal light penetrates impregnable walls of doom.
Opportunity transcends hardship driving back the insidious gloom,
It is within our grasp to ignite joy and douse the flame of sorrows!
Penned: 02/10/2023
2:41 p.m.
Las Vegas
Nevada
Night subdues color
till Dawn's light pierces
its indistinct heart
and it bleeds scarlet
onto crimson smeared
alabaster clouds.
(Tableau)
3/18/2021
Tableau - 6 Lines Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
The coda of mourning jays vibrates
In bittersweet tracks when daybreak scans
An almost whipping backdrop, hushed
By low warbles from birds’ paean;
Indistinct as dusty sketches—
Throaty on a lane of funeral’s last rites;
Where the hazily drawn view turns bland
Moistening wail of eyes with a muted song,
Tunes stale, while jays drone on the horizon.
Mixed Senses Contest for nette onclaud
20 Sept 2015
From Amelie Mara ---Music in 9 lines
These days are short, as I begin
to walk—my daily custom now—
toward the place where, after
treatment, you lie resting.
I dream each day of when
I'll come and take you home.
But then I hear my name,
whispered on the wind, and
words besides that simply say,
"Sundial. Five o'clock today.
A message waits for you."
And with this, the wind falls silent.
On langourous summer days we'd often
wander in the park until we came to
where that sentinel of silence stood and
watched, as minutes drifted by,
implacably, the gnomon's shadow gliding—
one polished marble marker to the next.
Well into season now, the
autumn air has chilled my face.
And westward, the ruddy sun's
disk settles, its destiny fulfilled.
I look down toward the dial just
as the shadow grows indistinct.
The mark etched there means
that five o'clock has just passed.
I pause awhile but then turn back
to where l had just come, for
in the silence there that deafens,
I know that you are gone.
Dedicated to those who have lost a loved one to the Covirus and disdain for those who don't seem to care; their number is legion.
Snowing tonight ~ whispering, luminescent, dazzling,
Air misty, heavy ~ wind calm, serene,
Sights outside blurred, indistinct through the hazy window glasses,
Rooftops getting blanketed with white laces ~
A picturesque winter wonderland,
Treetops embellished with silver ornaments,
grasses caressed by soft touches of snow,
My heart is with you,
Craving for the profound tenderness of your company ~
If only you knew.
At the first demure light of dawn, open my eyes,
It's only you I think of.
In between numerous mundane chores,
Multitude of unavoidable responsibilities,
Hours of running meaningless errands,
I ponder about you.
At the end of an arduous day, before retiring to bed,
who fills my heart with magical dreams?
You ~ and the twinkle of your eyes ~
If only you knew!
So far away, exuberantly exploring unfamiliar countries,
You are immersed, building a meaningfully bright future,
Surrounded by charming delightful folks,
Sometimes a mysterious dream may wake you up at midnight,
You wonder why!
I write and write, pour my deepest thoughts,
My innermost hopes and desires, pains and agony,
Spend sleepless nights until my eyelids droop in slumber ~
If only you knew!
October 25, 2020
For "If Only You Knew" Contest (Second Place)
Sponsor: Silent One
Napping on small boat,
adrift in the bay currents,
crimson moon rose enticing.
Red rays in the dark.
A shadow jumped like a fish.
Too indistinct in the darkness.
Did I hear a laugh in the moonlight?
Vi's faded jeans
folded for another occasion.
Their distinction -
a silver arrow on main pocket
Friends would ask of
its significance,
but Vi became vague
and slowly indistinct
It was large, so prominent...
A silver arrow pointing down
with determination
to the reddish Texas earth
4/21/2015
Indistinct, they circumnavigate in the raw ~
they’re thoughts unprocessed and unpolished
ethereal and feral, nothing more than impulses really
If it were up to me, I might drown in that sea of ambiguity
and forego all communication with the outside world
forever content staying confined to my private universe
In most instances I couldn’t be bothered
yet at times I’d almost want to scream to be heard
that’s when I’d want to be as loud and clear as I could be
But sometimes the words refuse to form
at times so deep they must be mined
and surface in their own time that can’t be rushed
So I write because it allows me to think at my own pace
I can capture what I feel, what I remember
I can seize it and can verbalize it
I write for different reasons
I write because most people
never ask what’s on my mind when the time’s right
or won’t wait for me to put my thoughts to words
I write because I want to say it right
I want to choose my words
not be misquoted
Mostly I write to capture time
time as a memory, time as a treasure
time as tangible, time as a toy to amuse
Mostly I write to be heard
I write so I can say I’ve done my part
I’ve said my bit and can’t be faulted for staying quiet
I write so I won’t die
without a voice, without saying my piece
without having said all I had to say
AP: 1st place 2022
Posted on September 2, 2022
I peer at myself in the mirror.
My forehead is nice though I like it covered with bangs.
Lines there are to be expected,
and so too, the crows’ feet at my eyes.
At the base of my forehead are dark brown brows.
They are the one aspect of my face
that I’ve deliberately and totally transformed.
No longer Brook Shield eyebrow lookalikes,
they have been plucked into the tamer form I desired.
My nose is the same long nose with its strange small hump
that I detested since my youth,
but I have learned to live with it.
Though I am not fond of my profile,
when I see myself straight on, I find my nose rather cute.
As with all things in my life that I learned to accept with time,
I now accept the length of my nose as a quality which gives it character.
My extradordinary Roman nose is part of who I am,
regardless of the fact I have no Italian blood!
When I really analyze my aging face,
I see that the weight of all my years has lengthened it.
My face was always long, but nicely oval.
It’s even longer now, thin, and just a tad droopy.
Yes, life has pulled it down,
and I’m not terribly pleased about that.
Chipmunk cheeks above smiling dimples
have given way for a somewhat more somber look
due to my laugh lines (no laughing matter)
having grown more defined.
Those deeper lines I think reflect
my having delved more deeply by now
into things of which fresh youth
can simply not conceive.
If I could use a veil,
my long-lashed eyes above it would seem the same
as I have remembered them since my guiless youth.
Their light, indistinct color (Grey? Green? Blue?)
stays forever lovely. Find me behind them.
There I am ageless.
Dec. 22, 2019
for the The Metaphor Of Your Face Poetry Contest of John Lawless
March 18, 2022 for 'A BRIAN STRAND 1092' Contest