Best Unamused Poems
Im sitting and falling
Im dancing and crawling
im upside down right side up
im parched with a full cup
im perfectly confused
happily unamused
I enoy the sunny night
as i curse the dark light
To you my words appear wrong
but what you do not know is this my life's song
Let us go chase some tail I say
So we all run into the yard
Screeching our truth
Squirrels scatter
Now what? Trixie, my prissy muse asks.
Unamused by me; rather haughtily indignant
This is all you got?
Let’s not go to a store I suggest.
We play some music and dance our truth
Kickboxing our way through a living room of zombies
Who used to be relatives
But all died of same-oh, same oh.
The skeletons nod at us, their teeth chattering
Neighbor phones to ask us to put the music down.
A human voice! We are excited.
Pandemic zero today, us six as we begin roller skating in the house
After eating peanut butter pancakes and throwing water balloons out the window
Hitting no one as no one is here anymore
Let’s go mad, today Trixie suggests.
Too late
We are already there.
Some kind of Boccaccio
they open The Book,
borrowing thoughts
and stories from muses,
for it is a tome
in its entirety,
each muse, a Page, unamused,
to be plucked from tomb,
those sepia petals thrown up in the air,
unravel, the yarns like confetti,
land at the feet
of others
weeds and rows of perennials,
who bend like willows
backwards, they watch
unhooded falcons soar up
against the sky,
all shades of colour
the ever-moving clouds
like music, divine,
pull them up as if on strings
threaded through needlepoint
of a sharper mind,
they are carried away, drugged,
making wishes, like dandelions
blowing each the other,
they become - more - storks,
each a story, undone,
sewn and seeded
for the larger Ovid
in exchange for kinder souls
they dangle, each and every one
their spines entitled,
The Decameron
opened up,
lives fluttering,
they are read
as the in-betweens
some Prencipe Galeotto
engaged with Dante’s trust
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Page
stork, stalk
the Decameron
Prencipe Galeotto
Dante
Ovid
spare forgotten, now flat, abused,
like some veteran overused
in at least two world wars
whose alleged treads are darkened scars,
burnt, rubbed off rubber, unamused,
frayed steel threads, no, I'm not excused.
Open the door and you will see,
A protruding rose as youthful as can be.
By the tree; the evergreen tree,
Masked in all its glory.
Fresh and beautiful it sits poised,
Various array there is to see.
Its plume is beckoning and welcoming you.
To the tree! The evergreen tree!
Everyone walks past them,
Bustling about as the rose stares.
It stares at us; fragrant and free.
By the tree; the evergreen tree,
It doesn’t flee, gripping tightly.
Rooted down, it’s stagnant.
It’s true, the birds say as they flew
And the rose sits unamused.
It is not as fleeting as us,
It remains deep rooted and undisputed!
Over here in an Emotional plebiscite;
Knowing it's do or die
Sparked by emotional suicide
These feelings linger like a pesticide,
While I'm trying to go overdrive.
Finally asking myself why!?
Why?
Why does this feel like emphatic repetition,
Being manipulated by my perceptive premonitions,...
Is this fate..
Or is it just intuition
Oh curse these feelings of judgemental superstition!
How I wish for cognitive bliss;
To escape from my eternal cage of undue stress.
And elope with my loving mistress or rather a damsel in distress.
What is my definition of happiness?
What am I to be? Elated or saddened by trivial destinies pursued.
It is said that those that live in the past remain unamused;
But I refuse to listen!
Am I wrong for reliving moments from my past to feel contented;
or am I just another demented Soul.
Haunted by my unconscious consciousness;
Justifying my 'skeletons in the closet ' as assimilated heirlooms..
"Oh God! someone pass me a broom!"
As I sweep my past from my conscious and fumigate my overflowing closet,
may these feelings of promiscuous intentions and cognitive dissonance be purged from my unwilling conscious!
Copyright © Emmanuel Nyeko! Year Posted 2019
Rays of sunlight gather to shine through the tree's to dry the morning dew.
Nature awakens with the chatter of red squirrels, leaping from branch to branch.
A spotted fawn on shakey legs looks to it's mother to greet this day with a new sense of
security.
Sitting on the high ridge watching the world come alive, sitting, watching, and waiting.
A whisper of wind brings me the smells of the forest always gratefullly accepted.
The robins chirp, and morning doves coo to greet me as I descend the ridge for water from
a creek.
The hare darts from left to right for escape as I wipe the moisture from the creek from my
lips.
The moisture cool like that of a forgotten kiss once held deep within.
The owl looks down towards me from it's treestand unamused with it's new company.
The fox dashes and jumps in it's quest for field mice for it's morning breakfast.
For me it's to ascend another hill, to another ridge for some sitting, watching, and waiting.
The morning will come with another thirst forcing me to descend to another creek, for
another drink, to wipe moisture from my lips.
With that the memories of the forgotten kiss waiting to be once again held deep within.
A Chowder Of Cats
There's a chowder of cats on the corner
an exultation of larks in the sky
a troop of monkeys high in the trees
where the rhino's doth daily crash by
A pack of dogs patrolling the lane-way
a herd of cows at rest in the byre
a bellow of bullfinches grasping hawthorn
A mischief of mice staying warm by the fire
A parliament of owls swoop over golden corn
where an army of caterpillars stay low
a flock of sheep look down from the hills high above
a congregation of alligators sleeping in a row
A pandemonium of parrots rudely laughing
an unkindness of ravens unamused
a drove of bullocks seriously unimpressed
a bloat of hippopotami singing twelve-bar blues
Uncle Russ, never made much a fuss,
he was just kinda sorta rambunctious.
The whole whetsell bunch, when in a crunch
bent the rules without much compunction.
The cops, unamused, and very short-fused,
in Detroit they did ruff up my dad.
But that’s not so bad, when Russ they did grab
in Chicago and pounded him dead.
Now, none of this mess, you ever would guess,
had to do with those two I detailed.
But was my uncle Melf, a felon himself
so illusive, he never was jailed.
Snappy dressers, but never confessors,
dad and Russ remained so tight-lipped
Melf split so fast, the cops were aghast.
that they never knew when he skipped.
FBI with binocs, surrounded the block
at granny’s memorial service,
hoping that Melf, might show up himself
to pay some respects, although nervous.
Melf vaporized, the cops realized,
and they stopped accosting the clan.
Too late for Russ, since all of this fuss
cost him literally all that he had.
I see a flame burning in a river
I see a rainbow twinkling in the sky
I see the moon throwing moonly radiations
I see a fish, rather at the high.
Yes, I see the world upside down!
I sleep at noon, I wake at night
I sleep by sitting, I sit by lying
I sleep with my almirah serving as my bed
I sleep only in the daylight’s shed.
Yes, I see the world upside down!
I befriend the lizard
I detest rabbit
I blow up my chair
And the water I’d kick
Yes, I see the world upside down!
I know you from the bottom
Unamused by your ‘out’
I know what you think
Ignoring up your shout.
Yes, I see the world upside down!
I could see anything, what you hides
I could sense the truth behind your ‘pleasant’
I could see you fooling, hiding your smiles
Beware of me whenever I am present.
‘Coz, I see the world upside down!!!
Five Little Souls
In this house
even the bathroom’s
a place of no peace.
I huddle there Sundays
enthroned with whatever
they’ve left of the paper.
Off the door, the great blitz:
rubber balls, little fists,
soles of bare feet.
Unamused, still perusing,
I sit there refusing
to vacate my sanctum.
Blitz your bare feet!
Donal Mahoney
New Yorkers, in general, are very notorious
for walking way too fast, not moderately:
it's seen as an unpleasant remark;
tourists keep thinking to themselves,
" They're funny! " It's a stereotype they mock,
" Do New Yorkers ever rush to Central Park? "
An outsider asked a stern policeman,
" Why is everybody running? "
" Is the President coming? "
And the cop stared at him saying,
" You are an outsider, not so lean,
catch up to the marathon race:
they are rushing for the train:
they are going to their working place! "
And the shocked red-neck with a freckled,
peachy, round face grinningly replied,
" I never knew they raced like wild horses
to catch a train; we Southerners take our time,
and stress less, we play songs in our guitars
and drink lots of whiskey, we never walk a mile! "
How could the unamused officer take offence and contain his disdain...
when the naive dude offended every New Yorker?
His reply was a shock to the poor guy on naproxen,
" Run like them before I throw you in jail, or take the Southern Border! "
Note: No pun is intended, it's only to spike up some humor!
I looked at you, you were looking at me, I looked away.
Should I have said something funny or hold you at bay?
Should I play hard to get, act unamused
when you try to make me laugh? I think you're funny and you know I do.
I'm like a child that knows nothing but feels everything.
I'm not sure what this is but I know I like the feeling.
I want to sink, sink into the ocean ten feet over my head with you
just so I could hold on to you and give you the chance to,
the chance to save me if you wanted to.
You just caught me looking again, you're on to me, aren't you?
I kept you a secret, out of the reach of my friends.
Afraid if it were revealed, it would wither and soon end.
Afraid you'd know my feelings and find out you feel the same.
Afraid to wake up some day, wearing your last name.
Scared you'll never be mine, scared you never think of me.
You just smiled, I think you're on to me.
But how could you possibly know?
I've been so careful not to let it show.
I haven't even been honest with myself,
pretending these feelings are the effects of bad health.
Trying in every way, these feelings to resist.
Going so far as to decide you don't exist.
Clenching my fists so I don't jump at the sound of your name.
I turn to look to read if you feel the same.
Oh! You caught me...I'm glad you caught me.
You're walking over to say that you're on to me.
Spreading whiteness before my eeys
waiting for letters,
letters making words
making syllabic riffs.
Empty page reflects blankness
of a mind's vocation:
No Thinking Allowed ...
to no purpose. Its time to trade
this page for prose.
Unamused muse empty now
in an 8 x 11 world
of stark, bright wood pulp
pressed flat as my brain.
Tabula Rasa?
Locke to thank
I’ve come across a
page that’s blank...