Best Unbothered Poems
It stood on the other side of the wall rooted firmly
for the white bougainvillea tree did not belong to me
Wondered why it always branched this side
paving my walkway with blooms of white
While I patiently waited for my rose bush to flower
it nonchalantly continued its year-long showers
Unbothered unfettered by the gardener’s reaper, it grew
in every direction, old branches shooting off the new
Assiduously each day I tried to broom them away
but they, like a mother’s kisses were always there
Falling softly like advices from an old friend
they were fragile, paper-white, yet persistent
With gentle breeze they glide to me be it summer rain or spring
Innumerable, countless like God’s many blessings.
I dream of the feeling, of not feeling too much
Being pleasantly mild, unbothered by touch
I imagine, I’m average and pleased to know
Achievements take effort. I’ll go where I’ll go
As for uncertainty, I’d choose not to dwell
But go with the flow, through life I would sail
A change of direction would not stunt my growth
To new opportunities, I’d dare not be loath
I’d swiftly adapt as my options evolved
No chores left undone. No problem unsolved
I’d begin living life, beyond my emotions
Concrete and 3D, new doors would be opened
But even this longing, is only dream deep
The cost would be high and path, far too steep
To compromise intensity, passion and brains
Would flush my own gifts down society’s drain
I’ll accept my quirks, extreme highs and lows
I’ll live my best life, without letting “me” go
I forgot what it's like to laugh
To laugh and be in a moment
I forgot what it's like to smile
And be filled with genuine happiness
Is it just me or do you notice it?
My eyes dont shine as birght no more
My skin has lost it's beauty
And can't recall how it looked before
No I'm not depressed
And I refuse to believe I am
I've just been going through some things
And no one ever tries to understand
How dare you try to judge me!?
And say I lack attention
Hey, maybe I do
But I'm unbothered by your opinion
I see beyond the
sea-snake crown
of thick-leaved jewels,
as a gossamer veil
conceals jealous goblins
shape-shifting above
a snow-dappled forest
of freckled weeds…
there third-eye rests
amidst tangerine tentacles
tearing my cinnamon
green clemency
glazed with holographic
lime gold clover….
now I’m torn
between wicked willows,
and a weeping angel,
vying for my
peridot throne,
embellished with
envious emeralds,
piercing passionately
through sparkling scales
of mermaid skin,
as peacock oceanic fairies
within skeleton silence
flutter mint-teal memoirs
of a narcissistic mantis~
tangling starry soliloquies..
there eagle-spotted
mantas swirl across
moon-kissed streams
unfolding marine magnificence
through mysteriously
malevolent musings..
I care not for the
rustic trinkets you wear
on fiery feathers
like cluttered calligraphy~
screaming in
high-pitched stillness,
longing to be seen and heard,
their faded fragrance
glows now within
tranquil twilight roots
like a forgotten facade,
while I sit secluded~
in my flaming coral garden,
as the modest maiden
of the rosemary sun,
unmoved and unbothered,
by the wailing wind
carrying notorious narratives
of eclipsed echoes
from sorrowful souls,
where hollow fangs
caress cruel
currents of chaos,
oblivious to the
sonatas of jasmine rain,
for I sing not for the spiteful
tides of tethered turquoise,
rippling with
salt-soaked souvenirs
mirroring the
untamable agony
of lost ancestors.
In my blooming brokenness,
I seek for a
clue of something meaningful,
but what if nothing of velvety value
ever lies within material items,
frozen in trembling time,
soaked in raining blood roses,
yet holds memories inscribed~
with blushing beams of blueberry glows,
drifting above hushed hills
sitting in the hollow hallways
in hallowed motionlessness.
Is it ironic that a golden mirror
emanates reflections
of more than just my
bronze silhouette?
It weighs heavy with seething secrets,
lost between changing seasons
and deranged emotions,
resigned in rhythmic requiems
of restrained freedom.
I remember the suppressed
sagas of silvery glass,
that stretched beyond my watery iris,
written with russet skin of fallen feathers...
and I whisper to the vermilion wallflowers
within my burgundy room,
of how I found the magical mirror
to my aching soul,
in a retail store, illuminated
by medieval chandeliers,
hanging in Victorian gloominess.
I used to sculpt crystalline chronicles
along the caramel-tinted frames,
that have seen stars of summer fade
into fragile springs,
while autumn arrived,
knocking on my conscience,
to cloak me in sparkling
champagne warmth.
But time is a relentless reminder
of how the garnet moon wanes,
and constellations of
glistening truth crack.
Now the mirror that heard
the unsung songs
beneath my marigold lipstick,
is reluctant to see the unspoken wounds,
leaving me stranded
in an accidental battle
with rhyme-less words,
for all that remains, untamed,
are hopelessly claimed strings
of familiar, once-upon-a-fairytales...
So it refracts, stands, unbothered,
like a forgotten ornament
left under a broken tree,
with weeping leaves and tainted twigs,
without a companion~
wrapped as a pleasant present
ribboned with riddles
of a weathered d r e a m …..
I have no desire to mindlessly
objectify an abandoned object
with mosaic metaphors…
Some dream of palaces full of silver and gold
In the future of their afterlife, something to behold
Others dream of heaven, and pearly white gates
Passing the judgement, and receiving their fate
But all that I wish is to live as a star
Forever unbothered, my worries so far
Burning with bright blue beautiful light
My siblings the constellation that you see at night
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Midwinter’s blush—not born of frost,
but coaxed from shadows when days shrink
to slivers. A star-shaped constellation
pressed between panes, each scarlet leaf
a silent flare against winter’s gray.
Some call it flor de Nochebuena,
flower of the Holy Night~
as if crimson could hold reverence,
as if a plant remembers angels
or the weight of a child’s breath.
Yet here it stands: unbothered by theology,
a bold geometry of joy.
Watch how its gold-tipped stamens
ignite like votives~
not praying, simply being light.
Beyond the Batumi city, i am endlessly unclothed
A.m., rose, i ran out of my bed
Hopped into a vile pleasure Naked and unbothered
Being Naked, i started my morning with dancing and singing nursery rhymes.
Moloch departed for battle, signs in my dreams
Burning of written works and poems, Naked by my window
In the ashes, dancing, chilled chicken noodle soup
Singing high-minded incantations, beneath a blood-red morning cloud.
Naked and making breakfast, amid the morning grins
Children playing in the dirt while dancing freely in front of the window
Elvis under shivering lightning clouds is playing ecstatically in my apartment
Temuri plays guitar while skeletons twirl, oh magnificent Georgia.
Naked watching the sparkling plastic sea to sea
Free of fixed identity
Everyone sees the pacific ocean voyage coming to an end
Falling into the after train misses switch.
Silence is the ultimate
In the praise's of the Lord
-------
It seeps' of servility
And tremble's
With authentic unbothered
Change
-------
But with Servility
Fore He hath given us
So much
For so long and so fully
--------
Well I commend thee
I give to Him all the praise's
And the dominion
Over man fore it is His privy
---- Never the Less ----
I shall give unto Him all of my
Abidance in being
Hail to all that which is His
In-order that I may be
Sanctimoniously entangled
And enthralled
Fore I am at His feet
Gary Fields
Poet/Author
From: "The Cross"
Xlribis.com book #106627
Rev. (NOV2013)
Part 2.
Into the wasteland he flies
To bury the souls of lies,
Beneath the leaves of time,
Dirty deeds must dirty die.
This then the watchman must do:
Step on the fingers that try,
With downward pulls to pry,
Into doom flower faces,
These flowers must not die.
--
The conquistador arrived.
He gazed at the unscathed bounty standing
Respect-less before him and squinted.
Surveying the laughing land,
He made up his mind with astute rat-like grace
And thrust with self-satisfied lust his mighty sword into the sand.
God’s word thus bespoken he listened, breathlessly.
The jungle though could not understand
Tectetan, tectetan, tectetan
Nor chose to hear or fear
This little man,
Oh thou little man, thou little man
What is your plan,
Little man?
The jungle laughed, unbothered
Unmoved it ignored
Untouched it continued
Unfettered it roared
With sparkling green verdant song to sing,
It sang.
The conquistador fumed
Scarlet red
Vino roja bottled fumes
Of smoky rage
Stomping he retorted
Thou art doomed
Veni Vidi Vici he screamed
Satisfied, mesmerized
With scroll in hand he did announce
All that is yours is mine
It says so in this paper
The King has made it divine
Mine Mine and only Mine
Did he but announce
Without a golden ounce
Of irony’s feathered face
Whose trace,
With obsidian plans to erase
Surely soon he would get to know.
Breathlessly he stood once again, the conquistador did
Assuming
The noise, ploys and feathery joys
Of the jungle toys he heard
Marked abdications hour
At work already
At hand
To make this land
His.
Impatient
Making up his mind
Marching straightforwardly
Towards the eye of the jungle
Sacking with gaze the mighty maze
Of spider green vines hiding before him
The craze of ores whose mint would course the earth
Soon to raise his rank to that of Jerusalem’s teutonic bearded men
He was surprised when he saw
Three sets of steely indian eyes
Peering through the jungle wall
And the flying hatchet hit him hard and true
And for all we knew he never came back again
“Ecab cotoch”
Fistful butterflies sway along with the wind.
Ever frolicking through the vibrant desires.
Fistful sand slipping down in haste.
Unbothered about the delays and tussles around.
Fistful days flipping over.
Highlighting every single day.
Fistful memories binding themselves together.
Creating a most treasured treatise.
Fistful wishes probable, contingent or disguise.
Forever igniting the coal inside.
Fistful choices through the passable maze.
Attempt to escape but no respite.
Fistful thoughts sparkling out of palpitating chords.
Capable of entangling entire life.
Fistful learning running through the veins.
Enabling sturdy stature to prevent the derail.
Fistful steps towards the embarkation.
Creating a journey that travels through the stars.
Fistful smiles fluttering around in joy.
Contagiously sorting out the difficulties and sorrow.
Fistful opportunities that emanate from hard work.
Enough to be the cynosure through the rise.
Fistful always lets the phoenix rise.
Every creation is a conscious choice.
Fistful time .....may what....may I write!
3min Write' Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
Dated: 16.09.2024
I wish I had some filters
knew how to play the game
was good at superficial
adept at hiding shame
I wish I were unbothered
by things I hear and see
not quick to care for others
Focused much more on me
I wish I were more hidden
on who I like and why
then it would never matter
when they don't even try
I wish I were more stoic
impassive in the storm
I'm tired of being fragile
So unlike every norm
I wish that validation
were not what I so crave
I wish I could give in
not fake at being brave
I wish I could stop loving
Those not worth my while
Just cut them from my life
I wish that were my style
I wish my heart was stone like
so that I wouldn't feel
the pain of those oppressed
with no right of appeal
I wish, I wish, I wish, God
That I'd never been born
To see my loved ones die
just leaves me broken, torn
One day wishes will end, Lord
and I'll be laid to rest
For now, I struggle on
I try to do my best
But my heart's old and tired
My soul's an aching mess
If I love with all I've got
Why must I be loved less?
Eileen Manassian
I passed a street light with googles on,
A cheerful smile,
With a new hope,
Quite unknown about the world,
I kept on walking,
Unbothered about the cries around,
I kept on singing,
My feet swirled in their own flow,
Until I heard a voice quite low.
I was baffled, I froze,
Frozen to come to reality,
With marks on my forehead,
I rethought.
Thoughts of despair,
Shadows of sadness,
Clouds of empty bowls,
Cries of broken hands,
Woke me up to harsh real...
The world is not merely my tales of fairies,
The world is not merely my part of sadness,
The world needs peace,
The world needs space,
The world needs to rest,
To slow down its race..
A moment is enough for a helping hand,
A word of hope is more for a shattered end.
Wake up to the cries around,
Ask yourself what do you surround,
Level of emptiness is on its height,
Dont let hollowness to survive..
It's a beautiful night
the sky's clear, the clouds giving way
the moon in full, casting its light
brightness all over, darkness gone away.
Like fireflies having fiesta on a treetop
Family celebrating dancing around the fire.
Baby having nap in her mother's lap
peacefully unbothered little sire.
It's a perfect night
to play hide and seek,
the owl's on guard in site
to watch every step that stake.
Like best friends gathering, having little chats
siblings together sharing little dreams,
revealing secrets teasing each other's guts
singing, humming their joyous screams.
It's a special night
cuddling in your mother's lap
sways by your father's arms at night
playing with your siblings having laughs.
A beautiful affair
Perfect night to leisure
A special family fare
Moments of life to treasure.
12/10/20
Sandburg saw you
more than a century ago
in prairie-town Galesburg -
an old lady on the porch -
unbothered by the whooping cries
of ball-playing boys.
Strangely, you had become a missing piece
in the jigsaw puzzle of my life
and I found myself on a quest to find you.
A caption to a missing image alerted me -
followed by a tale
of deleted files and
hard drive crashes
until a reply
from a Knoxville college -
they had a picture of you!
A beggared five dollars later
your image arrived,
and I shared you with the world-
so that everyone may know
the face of the woman who taught us
the importance of little things.
____________________________________________________
Julia Carney (1823-1908) is the author of "Little drops of Water".