Best Unbrushed Poems
Ceaseless demands
each one a folly
To which I respond
my answers jolly
Lesson time
Minds are weary
Endless chopping
Meals so healthy
Shopping ordered
Food a plenty
Excursion time
To burn the energy
Fall from tree
call emergency
Lost child
Panic temporary
Sibling bickering
I Chide impatiently
Bath time soon
Wet and slippery
Brushing teeth
No help from me
Each to sleep,
Cuddling frenzy
Stealthily creep
To bed with mummy
Waking together
Hour so early
Getting dressed
Uniform ready
Breakfast now
Clothes grubby
An hour to spare
Time to go crazy
I love to join in
Childish levity
Forget the time
Need to be hasty
Unbrushed hair
That’s got sticky
Scramble for bags
For each activity
Unkempt they go
To school so happy.
T`was all in a day, but a day long gone.
Though in that house
Shadows of our former selves,
Forever shall live on.
William kekaula all in a day 09/09/2020
for no reason
whatsoever.
All the little ways
and threads aligned
because I paid attention
to the ups and downs,
the lefts and rights
of the here
(a hot day in April)
and the now
(laughter on the trampoline)
while I write this
on my bed
and smile quietly
to myself
with gratitude
for a life that was gifted
to me.
I see me in the mirror
of my Toyota Corola
and my reflection
comforts me.
My middle-aged eyes
and unbrushed lose hair
look free and unfettered
by trying society.
A homeless man
crosses the road
on his bike, many bags
tied to it.
That could be me.
It might be, tomorrow.
I don't read magazines
or read the news.
All of that is already old
before it is new.
I am going to watch
the trees that will be here
before my life is done,
hopefully.
This was all theirs
before it was ever mine
anyway.
My mother had a box of perfumes that she wore, each one had a different thing it was for
The best days were the ones when she chose the yellow bottle that smelled like rose
When she wore it she was always beaming, with good times and joy she was teeming
If she smelt of violets then you knew, that day she was feeling quite terribly blue
She'd wear something vanilla if rushed, makeup not done and hair still unbrushed
When feeling particularly young, on her skin the smell of cotton candy sung
She'd smell of baby powder when she was feeling older, her face a dangerous smolder
She was going to get things done if she smelled like fresh pine and sun
The day or the mood you could always tell just from the way my mother smelled
My co-worker posed a theory to me
That our boss was born one hundred years later than she was supposed to be
Neither of us could exactly put our finger on why, but I had to agree
No makeup, unbrushed hair, bad teeth
As though she just awoke from a long, troubled sleep
Her mannerisms seem out of sync somehow with contemporary company;
Solitarily sorting books in the back room of the used bookstore she manages each day
to remain distant and dazed, as though unfamiliar with a world that has dramatically changed
Nobody knows how old she is, but I’d guess upper-middle-aged
She never seems relaxed or at home with where she has landed, always looking around as she walks through a room or doorway, ever vigilant
She shows up each day looking like last night was another rough one, but her speech and ways seem oddly quaint and well-bred,
strangely legalistic and more formal than needed in this squalid environment.
She simply doesn’t seem at home in this place;
She can stand two feet away from me and a co-worker as we’re sorting while joking and, while our hands are busy working, our minds are away playing,
But she is immune to the general contagion of the strange repartee and laughs exchanged, seeming to hear nothing we’re saying.
Never laughing herself nor conversing, guarding her thoughts, observations, and history from judgment, and getting lost in her own world such that the sudden awareness of the presence of another person can induce a violently startled jump the other way.
And I know what that’s like, as I’ve spent many years in that state,
so it is painful to see it in another neglected appearance
and another needlessly nervous wreck of a person who is
wishing to just go home or one day somehow escape this place
where her body has ended up by way of a misdirected fate.
But today she took my co-worker and I by surprise when, after being shown a book with a cover featuring a picture of Jesus playing golf, she smiled widely and lively, and she replied,
“That’s ridiculous! Everyone knows Jesus only played tennis!!”
It was just a small joke, but it was like seeing a rainbow in the refracted light on a dark sky
It gave me hope that, despite being meant for a time perhaps one hundred years ago, in this day where she was nonetheless sent, she may someday come home.
She
brought with her
roasted chicken.
I opened my mouth and
shut it.
Her
sweetest lips
come to kiss mine
as her white teeth was so
unbrushed.
With
nudity
she gained my lust.
Which causes me to run
away.
Her
present worth
a great value.
Knowing fully she is
a whore
By Fatmir Terziu
What could I tell a Londoner about the Fatherland? The adverts
Are copies of the unscrupulous inscriptions in tombstones,
Just as we are copies of the bestial goods,
Of our egoistic laughable thoughts,
Like fortune-telling using broken coffee-cups
which contain pieces of the phantasmagoric fates of our fear,
The yellow pages of history.
What could I draw to the attention of a Londoner,
The early flight of the sleeping thoughts,
I pity the forgotten contemplation,
I fear the future views,
The never-formed ideas stir my soul,
Six hundred years have I been drinking from the sea of thought.
I shrink in spirit, shy away from walking the streets,
Hide amongst the whispers,
The adverts of the land, adverts for the Father-land,
Advice about unbrushed teeth,
Instructions about uncut nails,
Adverts for baby nappies, adverts for Mercedes,
Adverts for slimming pills, packets for slimming belts,
What could I say about the Fatherland to a Londoner...
MOSCOW SHOP GIRL’S ANGER
Never knew quite what wind blew up her skirt
Maybe the way I dressed or my shoe’s unbrushed dirt
Like a woman scorned, her fury knew no bounds
Like when the fox has successfully eluded the hounds
The tongue-lashing was the first salvo in her armament
Couldn’t even get a word in to show my disagreement
Oh but the extremes of modulation in her voice tone
Made me glad I could see her and not just be on the phone
For the facial gestures and the eyelash lashes she performed
Were an accompaniment not to miss in her tirade as she stormed
Through Act I into Act II when the hands on hips were a prelude
To a theatrical show that simply had to be viewed
Then the head was tossed several times for effect
And the brushed hair floated around in a circle perfect
I’m sure the audience was rapt and about to applaud
Had they not seen something about her display which was flawed
Her rhetorical questions, her cleft sentences, her exclamation marks
Left no impression on her target, like smiling at a dog that barks
This guy, they thought, must be deaf, dumb and blind
To be so unimpressed by a prima donna performance of this kind?
Maybe he is straight off the funny farm and unaware of her sarcasm?
Or perhaps he has a weak constitution and is about to have a spasm?
They had no inkling and neither did she : the reason for my lack of discussion
Was simply that I didn’t understand her spoken Russian.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ... . . . . . . . . . ..
Entered in Andrea's Contest
SHOW ME THE FUNNY PART TWO
These castle walls are cracked and moonlight seeps through, i hug my knees to my chest as
a sob threatens to break out of my throat. My skin is pale and thin; my bones stab through
my skin-nearly breaking it, I would look like a scraggly porcelain doll if I ever looked
in the mirror, but being trapped in this damned place for however long I have no access to
such a luxury.
My eyes are wet, my hair is tangled and knotted-unbrushed for at least three weeks. My
fingers resemble the bone underneath. I hear wolves call from under the ten foot tower, I
shake in my corner and wish to get a nights sleep that I know would never come. The marks
on my back from the whip stings like hell.
My limbs hurt; feeling stretched as if they were pulled by horses. A pain in my skull just
behind my eyes pounds rhythmically like hoofbeats galloping drunkenly on the hard
cobblestone streets of London.
The silver glow of the moon glows brighter as the silver orb centers itself in the sky.
The pain in my limbs grows more intense, the urge to scream in agony is tempting, but I
don't. I should, but do not. It will get me nowhere, and it will not help me. So, I sit in
the corner and suffer silently through such torture. The moon rises higher toward the
center, the pain grows; soon enough, I am unable to hold in the screams.
I scream.
Granted that citizens below can hear me; do they come? Do they wonder what or who could be
enduring such torture and pain? No...they do not. Never have.
I go through this for six centuries, no one looks up at the thin, slanted and dark window.
No one comes clambering, clumsily up the stairs of the tower to where my screams grow
louder and are the dominant instrument in this dark, cobblestone hell. No one comes-some
may wonder, I do not invade their minds-nor have I tried.
But, I fear not that they do wonder, probably are just afraid of what dark, evil creature
awaits them to their death. I am but a nightmare, not exactly a dream, but neither a
nightmare shrouded in shadows and hidden in scraggly, ugly branches like long, clawed
fingernails.
So, yes, I am nothing but what I perceive myself. What others perceive me as, I know not
what to think; I scream, no one comes...yet, my life is lived more for me as I am living
locked up in this hole. Locked up, and suffering. No one to hear me scream.
“Seriously,” the comedienne rasps: “can we talk about coffee?!”
The palms of my feet grind the beans in my sleep.
My bathrobe ties dangle, my hair’s unbrushed.
Can of spinach don’t do much, but caffeine aroma lifts me up.
The tilt wand opens my eyes, i can barely see through the slats
Sweet savory cream kisses my Olive Oil lips, Popeye laughs,
“A-gah-gah-gah-gah-gah!”
After two gallons, the pull cord opens the theatrical blinds, full strength.
Kim Rodrigues © 2017
Popeye and Olive Oil are cartoon characters created by Elzie Crisler Segar
The best words I've ever said stayed
in my head, the people are fine, dogs
walking too.
The water glitters, the gulls make gull sounds.
I thought I had secrets but
God knows there's none to
be found. I'm as wide as any
book, smaller than the ants too.
I'm on my way to places
that welcome you in
dirty underwear, unbrushed
teeth and dandruff in your
hair. I haven't seen my face
in a long time, it's no longer
really there.
No perfect verse
can be written before sleep;
it's better to procrastinate
than to write when your breath stinks!
No, I am not referring
to unbrushed teeth
and unrinsed mouth,
but lots of gulping drinks!
Even your pen swerves as a wheel of a car;
doesn't influence effects your ability
to put thoughts together!
Food for thought
is not wine, beer or champagne;
they will not stimulate your intellect
when you are unable to think!
Rather they will decrease brain performance,
blocking your thinking process...
like an invalid password not giving you access!
Ever sent one to an editor...
and it was rejected for grammar,
wrong form and misspelling?
He must have smelled alcohol from far!
There was a poet writing
lengthy verses lacking imagination,
they couldn't hold the reader's attention:
when they could have been brief
and to the point without sacrificing artistry!
He always had a bottle of rum
or vodka next to him to keep him company!
Wouldn't you say that...
he was as drunk as his pen?
Writing when your breath stinks,
slows you down and makes you unresponsive
to your surroundings...
failing to notice important things!
There are lots of foolish mouths
spitting out words
with the allude they will be
performed on stage!
Wouldn't the audience be upset,
or show intense rage?
My mouth is closed shut like a zipper cemented onto a pair of light blue jeans.
You don’t have to worry,
Your secret’s safe with me.
I won’t open my lips.
I’ll leave my teeth unbrushed,
But please forgive me when I say I must eat.
My secret is safe with you,
But you don’t know how hard it was to tear out my heart and store it in a box for you.
I’m mad at myself.
I’m mad that I can’t tell you how I feel.
I’m mad at our lips for never touching.
I’m mad at my mouth for never saying those three words.
I’m mad at God,
Because he made me so sentimental and kind- that I don’t resemble your average guy.
I’m mad at you for being so drop dead gorgeous.
And I’m furious with my heart because it never beats rhythmically when you’re around.
My lips are shut,
Your secret is safe.
Our love
Is nonexistent.
World at times is a spring of mirth
And at times a root of melancholiness,
Gaiety and ruth are ineluctable quirk of nature
Where it leaves no beings unbrushed.
Bight trice would shimmer some days
And putrid flash would strike at times,
Discern that's a puissant canon of nature.
When grievance mounts the golden throne,
When relation twists into tears,
When desires wrench into agony,
Never hell bent to confide suicide
For those troubles proceed the incredible comforts that follows
Alike the precession of hell heretofore the heaven.
Whenever melancholic flash haunts you
And coerce you to confide suicide,
Think no other than thy indulgent mother
Who lugged you almost a year in her belly
And who raise you up, with vacant scars
Physically and mentally, all well sound.
She never raise you up, to entertain thy death unnatural and astound,
She just raise you to live a life
And amend world into a ameliorate place to dwell in,
Life is a precious douceur of God
And thy mother is a God in human form,
So let's say no to suicide in all tastes of life.
---
Two wraiths in a gust in-between frames with a Third
...was it when i bumped into you last
a little put out by the awkwardness
something not willed not even by chance
who knows an air of Oh please spare me the excuse
eyes darting from cheek to contorting lips
the turning breeze curling into your bitten bud of an ear
expiring burnt breath
just the intimate release of breathless control
shifting feet somewhere in some other film frame
a door closing creaking in the soft amber sheen
of the flickering street lamp
was it in another slot
of time held in some half-remembered patched-up reel
footsteps slap quick-shuffled the soundtrack dragging the heels
The Third Man
down wet cobbled stones claroscuro classic
withholding comment
no time to grasp even the outstretched hand
a finger or two trailing no the index thumb and Mount of Venus
ever so lightly alerting the eyes yet for a fractured second
averting eye-contact slicing presences
or was it just that i wished to overlook the rebuff
thwart the unkindest cut into my roiling belly juices
the day you took careful aim
for some slight some mite of a pain complaint
a moment so gossamer thin so ephemeral no trace lingers
in the wind-swept thrusts of the pulse in the brain
does one hesitate in the accusing hour
an old sagging man cap in hand wordless and wan
hardly daring to lift lame will and sorry self
for once the back is turned no thoughts
of humped puffing breath bathing the cheeks
the lips the bacteria baked unbrushed stench
and the less than hoped-for wish trailing aghast
when next we stumble and slip
from one another's grasp...
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2017
It must be a muss
This tousled up nest
My mess with no fuss
Untidy, unkept
Shabby and ragged
Rough I confess
A random done gust
Just there with no sense
They’re tangled and knotted
Dreaded, complex
Strands shoot across
In tattered up threads
Interlocking and snarled
Entangled like mesh
Disordered, slipshod
Disheveled I guess
Springing curls go untouched
They sway and adjust
Kinked flinging strings
Frayed and unbrushed
Then carelessly tossed
And tied with the rest
Sloppy I trust
Is how it looks best
So it must be a muss
This tousled up nest
So much of a plus
Yes, it must be a muss.