Best Unlabeled Poems
hate knows no limits
Boston or Beirut Bombings
innocent ones die
in Paris or Pakistan
atrocities unlabeled
innocent ones die
Baghdad or Berlin
Lives should have the same value
innocent ones die
innocent ones die
religion or politics~~~
extremism kills
Terrorism reigns
the world is no longer safe
innocent ones die
say a prayer for all
terror plays no favorites
innocent ones die
Eileen
Under a grin, redirected,
A sniff of grief claws
Through, revealing
A sad blue artery,
A pain 24-7.
Underscored with carefully
Emoted verbs,
And adjectives imbedded with
Mock sincerity,
A simple sentence: a right to be honest.
Beneath the pulse in heartbeats encephalo
A few tearful regrets
Lob empty phrases into
A field with no guilt, washed and dried,
And returned unlabeled.
My old friend struggles
with his life's meaning.
Familiar with dead cats, Newton,
Einstein and incredible fractals,
he gleans patterns instantly
and misses nothing
in his galactic surveys,
nor leave a clue unglued.
He can entertain the most bazaare
concepts in the fervent hope
that truth will emerge from under
some unlabeled rock.
But all such inquiry always gyres back
to herds and migrations,
lemmings and old habits,
and wave upon wave upon
an ancient beach,
simply maya and samsura.
Twelve steaming appetizers, artistically set.
Seven sea morsels in a bird's nest net.
Great pies of meat cooked in butter and sweat.
Puddings and pastries and a heart-thumping bet:
That you'll eat to live in and live to eat out,
And never see your little piggies wiggle, twist and shout.
The steering wheel gets closer every time you drive,
Huffing, puffing, car seat buffing, hefty hungry hide.
Your tires flatten daily, their pressure put to task.
The trunk is strewn with Devil Dogs and a strange unlabeled flask.
Puffed with dough and chocolate, your massive stomach changes --
Scattering civilians as a seismic needle rages.
No stopping fatty acid or blubber when it's fed.
The time will come when the heart is done
And a lump of lard is dead.
Don't mourn but learn and prosper
From a waste of God's good mud:
Moderation and self-sacrifice is the way to love a Bud.
Now down to the top -- with eyes as bright as phosphor!
Twelve steaming appetizers, artistically set.
Seven sea morsels in a bird's nest net.
Great pies of meat cooked in butter and sweat.
Puddings and pastries and a heart-thumping bet:
That you'll eat to live in and live to eat out,
And never see your little piggies wiggle, twist and shout.
Naked to Nurture. Naked, to Nurture.
Why not naked into woods?
We yank up gumboots.
Enshroud our piggies in wicking and itching sockbags.
Hoping to holdfast against the forfeiture of bought heat.
The city slickers in their shiny slickers
clasp and buckle, zip and bundle
before they trudge and trundle
into the Great Unlabeled, the alien birthright.
An undershirt, a tank, a tee, and then an overthing!
And this in Spring, in Summer. Winter's another thickening:
strappings wrapping trappings, coalgulable clottings clogging
scarf-shrouded and unceremonious cerements.
The gloves, if cold or wet. The hat and muffs, if blustering.
We insulate ourselves from the uninsulated.
Remove ourselves from that which we aim to enter.
To re-enter. To be received by. Naked as we came, now
at our peril, apparently apparelled in unparalleled antiferalelry.
Each civilized entrant into sylvan realms-
textile banished for fear of cold,
for fear of wet, for fear of dirt.
The mind must first give up its notions
of propriety to hope to slake the self in the
sunlit and secreted shimmerings of sanctity.
Be bare of sole, skin to wind.
Be bare of soul, Yin to begin.
Why not naked into woods?
they do, so certainly, come naked...
into us.
In his songbook,
are raving songs of beauty,
which thrushes around the phrases of my mind
and embroiders my soul on an errand
into a white night of a white Christmas,
in a white dreamland,
and having sleepless dreams,
and numerous pictures,
which I can’t clearly depict
but I could reminder an auction,
where flood, was sold at a discount
and breath, to the tallest bidder
Therein in,
my late hero brother,
cheerfully sang from his hero’s songbook
and I astonishingly sang along
with a bright smile and cry,
craving for a new hug,
but we could not hug nor shake hands
And he palely said to me,
I am back to stay,
never to leave
But I woke up, to notice it was a white lie,
Why so, my hero brother?
I try to anger in white lightning,
but I notice that my anger is colourless
and my sweat is adourless
I also try to use white magical feelings to give him a hug or bring him back,
but I could not,
because I am not a professional white witch,
My emotions has been white washed,
and I feel like white trash,
because my hero brother has been trash away from me,
by death
I feel like giving up my white ghost,
like a prostituted white slave,
by drinking up a full tank of white spirit liquid,
so I could be on his ream
But my hero brother begged me not to
He consoled me by saying;
that no matter how transparently apart we where,
his soul will never stop blowing the whistle of joy
or flash a white flag in surrender to death
Because his music will never end, nor will his whistle blend,
because the only thing he has freely given to death is a white feather of shame
This filled me will plenty white hope,
I will sob no more!
Because I now know that my hero late brother is a white knight
I will wait for him, in this unlabeled white land
till we meet and share hugs again
you said to me once - that
you would let me know - if
there was anything I could - do
to help
and at the end, lying in that
hospital
all your futures lost to an
unlabeled sickness
all your brilliant pasts
standing in stark relief with
the pain
you must have not thought ...
that I could do anything to
help,
but
you were wrong. you were
you were you were
'cause I could have come to you,
and held your hand,
and looked into your eyes,
and left with you.
i could have kept you from being
alone
and myself from being left behind
Please tell me why it's meaningless,
When a woman is assaulted.
Is it because somehow she must'v asked for it,
Why is she the one who's faulted?
Why, is it more believable,
When a man says it isn't true?
Even when his friends know,
It's something he would do.
He gets to walk around unlabeled.
While we pay for therapy.
His life, never really changed.
It must be nice, to be granted that luxury.
And why are we the ones made to live in fear,
While their women fight venomously, by their side.
As if that somehow confirms nothing ever happened.
But I'm not the one, with something to hide.
Maverick Free verse
My grandmother’s velvet covered album
was not coveted by any of my siblings.
I pretended not to care so as not spark their interest,
but I was happy when it was scorned by others.
It is now in my possession and proudly
shown on my coffee table. Unlabeled
photos from the 1800’s fill it.
I can only guess who might be whom.
I try to find resemblances to my siblings, or myself
and make up stories to fit the characters.
The real stories of their lives are lost to the past.
How sad that they did not have the cameras and
videos of the modern age, to record they’re stories.
My pictures are memories tucked into a silver frame
or in between some pages glued as part of the past.
My daddy sitting proud and tall, Mama’s hand upon his arm
Driving his young and lively team.
I wrote their names on the back for posterity.
Here is one of their first cars, just see my mama’s smile.
As I’ve heard tell it was the one that broke down every mile
As the many babies came along, they added them one by one
into the family portrait, seven kids all told.
Through marriages and grand-kids, everyone is shown with pride.
Now with my labeled names and other bits of information they will
be real to the following generations.
That Kodak recorded lifetimes, before it up and died.
They’d be surprised if they could see the pictures of today.
We take them now with digital and email them away to all..
I’ve gathered old and new alike, to place upon my screen.
In color or in black and white, my family’s story
shall be saved for all who care..
For John's Maverick Free contest won no. 4 place
God forbid we should draw inspiration
From fellow neighbors who try to comply
To better a craft, push beyond limitation
Expanding the graveyards where sunsets die
Envy runs rampant within the benign
Sucking the life out of lessons to teach
While sticking new frames on old designs
They rant and rave, practice and preach
And hide there faces while spitting in the wind
Like not being able to face their fears
Like false starts in rearward races begin
Or crying in rainstorms to camouflage tears
They stand for elite ones in business suites
Forgetting of the ones down in the dirt
While reaping rewards and picking the fruit
Anchored in faith that contests such hurt
Protesting the feelings that all of us know
Unlabeled compliance humanely built
Confessing true lies, while hoping to grow
And cover with tree shade their feelings of guilt
The scene from indulgent debt ridden family:
Toad AIG strings notes to unlabeled bonus fields,
Unconcerned a Grand Old Person dances to tune,
Yonder the mirror conceals TG's under the belt shot,
Awakened transparency in desperate steps:
Untouched assets loose weight in real estate structure,
Take a hit to tumble below contracted capital,
Owners ride the trough swallowed by insiders’ guilt.
Pay by the nose or choose to drown in unjust tilt.
Future is bright the signals strong and critical;
Heed to the demand for a new family song.
Image Location:-
http://img.skitch.com/20090321-kqcd9e9b9ewdeg8i5xdjy6dpxd.jpg
Picture Quote:-
“Bringing this back around…
The young boy is AIG, the dancing lady is the GOP, the shortsless guy is Geithner and the
older woman just coming into the room is the American public.”
GOP:-
C-SPAN Congressional Glossary
Term Definition Used In
"GOP" "GOP" stands for "Grand Old Party." Used for the Republican party, the term
originated in the late 1870's, coined by newspaper headlines, to refer to the dominance of
the Republican party.
Until Franklin Roosevelt's election in 1933, Republicans had controlled the White House
for 56 years, the Senate for 60 years, and the House of Representatives for 50 years.
House & Senate
Immeasurable,
unlabeled, word-
less by
studded
tears
and
voice,
APHONIC.
Only death by
tenderness
swoops down
as eternity
and her hands,
soft as fire;
as time
the flesh;
a billboard
the soul
neon lights.
:: 11-06-2017 ::
If nothing else, I do amuse myself;
I chuckle, thinking where this all will end -
all my possessions, lined up on the shelf,
with which, one day, my children will contend.
Five years ago, my mother passed away,
her photos stored in boxes in my home.
I opened up the first the other day;
at first, it seemed a wondrous place to roam.
A thousand images of times gone by,
unlabeled faces from so long ago,
have all gone to a cardboard tomb to die,
kept there for reasons only Mom would know.
My poems, like my mother’s photographs:
In me, I see my kids, and I just laugh…
Perusing some recently mindless & unlabeled
shelfed works (my recently ancient poems),
benumbed fingers pluck jumbled words;
musings that had much meaning once
but now seem more like
the random scattering of monkey turds.
A thousand keyboards are buried in my brains landfill,
and here come the plucky and ribald seagulls
to peck at the words still wriggling through
unplugged motherboards.
Still and all, there may be a line or two
that have escaped the ravishes
of times disinterest and ennui,
there may be a poem here - somewhere,
its small, quivering spirit still hopefully squeaking:
"pick me, pick me!"
To use one word to describe
one so beautiful and wise
seems an impossible task,
but why not try.
Gorgeous? Delicate? Ethereal?
No, they sound too focused on the physical.
Bright? Witty? Smart?
But then you lose the art.
No matter the effort.
No matter the might.
To reduce to one word
your celestial light
is too big a job for me
and my ability to fight.
So for now you'll go unlabeled.
Unable to be confined
to a box that would bind
your body and mind.