Best Unintelligible Poems
Such a finely honed sword is this loneliness
Slicing through tenuous sinews of yesterday.
I search for obscure corridors of happiness
Knowing that somehow I forgot the way.
From gloomy clouds I harvest the sorrow
Dripping into the cupped hands of my heart.
For there is no optimistic promise of tomorrow
As I curse my ship and unintelligible chart.
How bitter sweet this gateaux of quiet solitude
I garnish it with sprinkles of immense silence.
For loneliness is but a mere shift of attitude
From peaceful design to destructive violence.
I gather the jigsaw pieces of empty conversation
Falling snippets swirling on the winds of sound.
A soliloquy of madness expressed in futile oration
In chilling isolation the laughter of my soul is bound.
I strain to catch the words swirling on the breeze
Yesterday was surely a symphony of chatter.
This finely honed sword cuts deeply with ease
And though I bleed... it surely doesn't matter.
In the blink of an eye the time passes so fast it flies by
Define time
Lives a ***** then you die
Eye of the storm watches over my lifestyles fate
In dire straight bathing as the holy water washes over my tired face
I sate thirst
I taste black words emerge that I wanna say
and they say I'm shot away
First and second take pressing play checking the record again
Third I gotta change
Forth, fifth, sixth day Armageddon
Getting too close to the edges better slow down ya fast progression of mad acts of mankind's expansion of minds
Enhanced heights
Drawing a line's unintelligible in the advancement of time
At the end of our time do we start again?
Running the marathon man labyrinth
Passionate
Partaking in challenges
Participant champion triumphs
No standing on iron shoulders of arrogant giants
I'm the desert rat blazing a trail in my chariot of fire
Call me Pisces Iscariot sia-mese dream
Twin town hide and seek
Me, myself and I feature split minds spitefully
My real self hides inside myself and screams blue murder
From the tomb where my wounds tumor
Terminal doom soon turns gloomier
Duma key frenzied telepath terror streak
reeks havoc and brings sheer panic to every street
Splashing ink on a blank canvas
Painting the future with an exact accurate dooms day
In fact grab a seat at the master piece gallery of art of new fate
As a new day dawns ya fates drawn
Ya destiny's death till then you'll work just to pay for it
I'm sleep walking with one foot in my grave scourging in flames and the pains more moreish than this draw that I crave
Mad thoughts on my brain scattered funny
I'm that ex druggy heard talking to my sex life in a language I actually haven't studied
Which way is up cus this ascension gets me spinning out twisting figure eights into eyes of the thickest clouds
Brainstorm demon outcast from our modern lands
Phantom of the opera mask
Shock horror comic graph-ic novel
Zombie slash monster mash
Rapid action packed chapters
This mad dog's rabid
Scattering the ashes and rise a hundred phoenix
Evoke the cross ghosts demons and summon the spirits of lost souls
I'm like a poltergeist with a cross bow with poisonous bolts
I'll possess any joyous host
Annoy me I'll destroy every toy ya own
I enjoy walking through this void alone
It could have been me,
It might have been you.
Race and color is baloney,
When another hurts you!
Three huge men, watched
a New York woman die.
They even shut the door.
I was both angry and wanted
to cry.
Her face was smashed by his
gigantic feet.
But those three men, who did
not a thing, explain that to your
maker when His face you meet!
It's easy to stop disaster... stop
being a wimp!
Open your mouth, distract them,
don't be a useless gimp.
Here's a simple ploy, that stops
any bully of a man!
Yell......"Your fly is open," he
becomes dis-manned.
I did that myself on the streets
of San Francisco!
A man beating a woman in
broad daylight, oh?
Blood flying just everywhere,
pedestrians ignored it?
I just got in his face, told him
to stop hitting her this minute!
Don't ask me where that courage
came from!
I just saw pain and wanted to
stop the bum!
He swore at me, in words quite
unintelligible!
Turned angrily away, and ran on
the double.
I helped the woman pick up her things.
She said, thank you and went about
on about her meanderings.
"Don't be a wuss, and ever allow another
to be beaten!"
Being a good Samaritan means you are
a credit to the human race.
Something that neither time nor age can
ever deface!
When police are not in the area to assist
you....
Support your fellow human,
Walking away, I heartily eschew!
Perhaps it was two beatings, I endured in
Chicago Public Schools?
That gave me the courage to make protecting
another, my life's golden rule!
4/1/2021
~5~
The whole truth
and nothing but the fu(king truth
That laws, and math, only help solve
local temporary problems,
All of which fall way short
on the infinite needs scale
were we rely on estimates, theories,
and other manmade truths
Still here we are,
alone on a goldilocks planet
All 8 billion of us milling around,
living our lives
guaranteed nothing
other than this moment
and whatever came before
To think otherwise
would be presumptuously human
As for choice is there really any
other than try feed ourselves
and sate the instinct to survive and thrive
We are a civilisation built on
disparate societal values and creeds
Each day is an imperceptible handover
from one generation to the next,
with no guarantee they’ll do a better job
But the real problem is not truth,
It’s why!
Why anything at all,
Why life
Why the fu(k am I asking these questions
I’m apostate, No!
I have little faith, No!
I am honest, No!
A nihilist, No
It’s because I have a sentient,
curious, unapologetic mind
that compels me to ask why!
Sometimes I think
i’d be better off a sponge
floating in crystal clear turquoise balmy oceans
Soaking up oblivious unintelligible surroundings
Indifferent to mortality and the universe,
popping off a few buds every once in a while,
or whatever sponges
brainlessly do to further their species
Such basic life is so very tempting
but just doesn’t sit right
Never to experience love
however fleeting,
Never to endure pain
However crushing,
Never to feel like throwing in the towel,
Even if just to mop blood
off the floor like a sponge
See, I’ve had moments
unimaginably beautiful,
Alongside unconscionably awful ones,
Moments so real
they can’t have been synthesised
by any stretch of any imagination
I believe a God or the universe
created me as a vessel of interpretation
to perceive itself
from my unique perspective
Well not unique per se,
more a personalised handicapped view
I am nothing and everything
in the grand scheme of things
No more! No less!
One that uses swear words
language you may not like,
yet clearly understand
The weirdest part is not the feeling
I’ve written this fu(ked up poem
in previous carnations
It’s my swearing
just seems to be getting worse
By
David Kavanagh
As I was checking out a father at the bookstore his son began to talk to me…
before I finish…I think it’s time for a little history…
For 39 years I taught Autistic students…a career that was as wonderful as it was long…
My job was to help my students, in spite of their weakness…find what made them strong.
I had successes…I had failures…each made me more compelled…
to see their Autism not as something we needed to ignore…
nor as a place we needed to dwell.
I think the moment I became a good teacher was the moment I learned to see…
not the label but the person who was staring back at me.
I return often to that moment when my understanding and my empathy grew…
for not only did it make me a better teacher…but a better person too.
Which brings me back to the young man talking to me…he was wildly gesturing with is hands…his speech was mostly unintelligible…impossible to understand.
So I listened even harder…his eyes I tried to meet…and when he finished I said,
“Sure…it’s on the corner…just across the street.”
His dad’s eyes widened…his mouth dropped even as he continued paying…
“You mean to tell me you understood…” he asked, “everything my son was saying?”
“Oh God no!” I smiled. “My hearing’s not that good.”
but I believe I heard him mention ‘ice cream’ and those two words I understood.”
The father smiled as I handed him his book…his transaction was complete…
then he and his son headed out the door…to the ice cream shop across the street.
And once again I thanked my Autistic students…
for helping me discover a way…
to look a little closer
and listen a little harder
to what people are trying to say.
Sat all alone beside that muttering shoreline he busied
Himself, diligently, and sewed.
And whilst sewing, sang, in a redundant tongue,
Tales of an unforgiving sea...for in him resided the only
Remaining refuge of the old fathers songs;
But then he had been sired from the loins of a rarer kind...
The last native of a vanished tribe.
Bowed, pale blue mountains in mourning behind,
The forlorn mists slowly gathering below;
Unintelligible utterances from weeping seabirds, those
Shrill, demented cries
Resonating across the marooned, windless bay; plunging
Down, the abrupt outline of towering cliffsides;
And in his voice a great sorrow...that which only the
Truly forsaken could ever possibly know.
Now just abandoned longboats lying beached above the
High-water mark; white sands
And white pebbles still washed by lulling tides;
Sometimes, from out of this little cove, a troubling breeze;
And carrying on this breeze, faint sounds of muted,
Despairing sighs.
For it is the longboats that sigh. They sigh for the
Passing of well schooled and patient hands.
hey dad,
it’s been a while. thirteen years and six months if we’re being precise.
i write your title a lot nowadays
‘dad’
but you dont know me
i’ll introduce
my name is emry grace henderson
im fourteen, with blonde hair and green eyes (which everyone seems keen on commenting about- i think the gold flecks are from your amber ones)
i love music
love the sound of strings vibrating on a flat surface, haunting melodies
(or in our case, Irish folk songs- though i suppose you wouldnt know that?)
I’ve missed you- though i suppose thats also a bit of an understatement
im not sure i understand you
understand why
no matter how hard my grandmother explains
on a sunday evening
although ive heard we are pathologically similar
(i wouldnt know)
how are you?
what are you like?
ive a vague outline of you
faded and blurry, yet as vibrant as autumn in virginia
(i never did tell you about that trip did i?)
it’s good to get this out- im not sure i could speak it aloud- ive a way of fumbling the words until their unintelligible,
only understood by the leaves that shake in the wind, by the hummingbirds in the skies, by the black bose i wear as a grounding element
somedays i wonder if this was ever meant for me
do you feel like this?
(from what ive heard you collapsed under the weight- i hope not to)
they say we’re similar
though bitterness kept me from acknowledging this truth
i hope you’ll meet me someday
when the voices are less present- and you are free from the weight of this world- because i’d love to finally meet you.
A Blank Stare
I’m sitting on this comfy chair with a pale like blank stare
Knowing many an excellent word but they just won’t come out
My mind is full of knowledge but still it rages on with a dare.
In my brain there-in these thoughts still do invade
Unintelligible thoughts my friends just stare at me
I give no uninvited thought to which I will share with thee.
My friends really wants to stay and thus help me
But still I’m filled with hesitant heartfelt doubt
The only person whom can help is just within me.
I’m all by myself I have to let the thoughts bring out
I’ll then write a little note of contemporary words
For all my friends so they can dearly read and see.
That I have never initially brought forth and left them
Harken! My words are just stubborn as stubborn like me
Here to my pen and paper will write just from within me.
Written: Nov. 25, 2014
Humming-Bird
Once,
About ten minutes ago in the year
2006 or
2549, depending upon which avatar or
Messiah is consulted, I
Tumbled out of my bed to the
Untranslatable
Predawn
Cackle of
Frantic voices
Descending.
So, with urgency
Rarely experienced since the
Evacuation of my spirit
From the Land of
Possession Addiction, I was called to summon previously
Unknown prowess
Chancing traffic choked streets
Of Nakhorn (used to mean “New City” 700 years ago but not sure now)
Chiang Mai.
So there I was
Aboard my mostly pint-sized for a European descendent Kawasaki 112,
Red-blooded American head
Protruding
turret-like out of an
Undersized helmet that,
If nothing else,
Officially pronounced me foreign
Blazing a jutted path around
Decrepit trishaws,
Ubiquitously red baht busses and,
Not the least, a motorcycle with a sidecar bandaged to its
Aching side just in time to witness a
Spit-shined just out of the wrapper BMW
Brusque aside a
Sardine packed dump truck
Loaded,
Not with dirt, but five dollar a day
Laborers.
All this and more
Just moments before
Mounting the silted Ping and
Stampeding city gates, I glimpsed
Censored Snippets of TV reports blurting something unintelligible like
“Bangkok coup”,
“Corruption”,
“A King”
And
Somewhere,
Quite uncensored, of a not so pleased
Laozi,
Lotus splayed in
Meditation
Kneading the Eastern soil one
Daoist grain at a time,
Before ancient city walls
Rose up,
Monolithic in my path.
And then the recall that
Centuries before,
Burmese raiders
Resplendent in warrior garb
Plundered the palace and soul
Of the kingdom Thai before stealthily
Creeping back to their lairs,
Buddha-fat with riches.
That leaves the Siamese of 1935
And me, to wonder
Where is freedom
When we travel so far
Pell mell and
Peril, only to discover
In a fleeting brief moment the road to
Iniquity marked, rather
Erroneously, with the signpost to
Promises?
My soul cries out to dejected refugees
Forced to leave their homeland, lives and cultures
Victims of natural disasters, disease and war
Remembering the smell of their favourite foods
The sounds of roosters who never sleep
Proud tall coconuts swaying gently in the evening breeze
or battered unmercifully by ferocious winds
The cerise colours of sunsets that delighted sailors or
gave them warning in the morning
The myriad shades of the blue ocean shimmering
In the noonday sun
Refugees unwelcome in a foreign world
Migrants lost in time and place
Longing to remember the warmth of family,
Nature’s beauty in their eyes
Songs in their hearts drowned by unintelligible sounds
resounding in their ears
Afraid, hurting and homesick
Their futures colourless and grim
A capricious old wizard, with fastidious old cat
In an idyllic cottage, wears a manta and hat
Gulps an insidious potion, of chrysalises crushed
With dragon jam, root pulp, and magical dust
A rhapsodic litany, of unintelligible, verse
In evanescent malaise, conjures his curse
(mumbling curse)
suoicirpac suoiditsaf cillydi atnam suoidisni
sesilasyrhc cidospahr ynatil tnecsenave esialam
namsilat serihppas teclud yticilef tnaidar
regnibrah arohtelp citamsirahc ytiminauqe nale
Waves a talisman of sapphires, afixed to his staff
Emits dulcet humming, suddenly he laughs
Starts spinning midair, in felicity
In a radiant flash, a harbinger is seen
A chimera where fire breathing dragons are lore
And a plethora, of broom riding witches no more
The charismatic old soothsayer floats to his feet
In exhausted equanimity drifts off to sleep
The elan harbinger visits his dream
Reassuring the old man of all he had seen
words are spelled backwards in the chant. "Poemdog" Daniel Turner
20 word challenge
Curiosity killed the cat
How far will we go
To perpetuate self-destruction
Wallowing in self pity
Until our throats close up.
Staccato sounds and guttural groans
Unintelligible murmurs
Morse code on my shoulder
Giving way to the last request
For open communication.
Curiosity killed the cat
Did you bring your night vision goggles?
We’ll venture deep into the foliage
Tonight we’ll test boundaries.
Is it malleability or elasticity
Of that which we push off from
Trying to reap what we’ve sown
From the greener grass.
Curiosity killed the cat
But the cat was always dead
No fur balls to hack
For strapped to its back
Was a ticking time pack
With old brass buttons
It couldn’t help to press.
Long ago there was betold
a tale that many have descried,
of a creature, scaled and icy cold
havin' two black bulging eyes.
An impudent beast, brassy and bold,
bewitched because of foolish pride.
The myth tells she's often seen
withered, wrinkled and omg mean!
A bitter and ugly nasty ole fiend,
bellowing in screeches is her choice
in dead of night and midst of day.
Stench of breath from tooth decay.
Close your ears to that shrill voice.
Don't let your children out to play.
Don't get close or point your finger.
She'll bite, chew and claw at you,
so do not pause and do not linger.
With sharpened talons she scribbles
unintelligible things in bloody dribbles.
Heed this warning and you'll be spared
from the furious fire breathing dragon.
From in her cavern she once even dared
to scream in defiance at the morning sun,
yelling curses with her waggin' tongue.
Then she nestled in the back of her cave,
resting her head upon a pillow of dung.
How can you say the things
that make me want to scream?
How can you hear the words
that make me want to cry?
Why does my life
feel like a constant cliche
and why are you
content to care
about a creature who cares
about nothing at all?
i said i had lost my priorities
but i know i just finally
realized what they are:
"wallowing in self-imposed misery"
ranks first
and manipulation
and selfishness
come in a close second and third
if there is much difference
between them at all.
Can you tell
that i'm out of words?
all i can do
is scream and cry
sigh at life's inevitability
about the mess that is me
and i wish sometimes
that i could let go
float on the flow
of my tears and waters
that teem with my screams
swim
and actually get somewhere.
i try to return to the past
but my creative juices
have fled
watered down by time
and repetitive experiences
and this is new
but not so much so
that there's anything more
to say
that hasn't already
been said.
i've related to you
the over-used lines
i seem to spill at these times
don't be surprised if
i am reduced
to repeating 4 words:
"what do i do?"
'cause that's all it comes down to.
i write because
it feels like something accurate
-- and that still effects deeply and intensely --
might come out
the next time
or the next time
when really
i read over my old poems
and realize
i've exhausted my supplies
of deep, intense effective poems
and all that's left
is just chicken scratch.
i
don't want to
am not able to
write anything more
all i can do
is lay my head
on the naked pillow
and hope that i won't rise
or if i do
i won't be me.
i can write the words
that make me want to cry
i can write the things
that make me want to scream
but how you can say and hear
i'll never know
'cause i've gone
far beyond the realm
where that is
a plausible
possible
option
but here i can retreat to
and "fire at will
from behind my hideout
of faux-i-don't-care".
and as i write
i realize that that is the one thing
i can say
that is utterly true
because i am
sorry
and there's nothing i can do
to change that.
have you ever heard a song
sung pitifully by a tongue-less nightingale
vomiting blood on a treetop bathed in the moonlight
the soft sound softer than the moonlight
the clear sound clearer than the early morning dew;
even constantly chattering water pauses for a moment
to listen her enchanting song more attractive than the sirens’
she was once roaming around the sky above Leibethra at night,
she sang a requiem with her flawless clear voice
calling and gathering to comfort the soul
that was torn to pieces and dumped in a river,
now she is trying to tell her bitter and resentful story,
and how her tongue was cut off but with her hoarse voice;
it’s unintelligible like Cassandra’s prophesy, an entangled skein of thread never able to undo, it sounds hollow like an echo from mouth of a cave that can never be understood
the nightingale’s low moan of despair
is the scar that never goes away, and when this scar
becomes a terrible pain. unbearable, the nightingale,
as if moonlight covering a passing cloud, flies away
abandoning the branch
Note. Nightingale: Philomela