Best Unmade Poems
Let's just emote the dine!
Far to the North, we increase the enshrine,
send our tails to the features-
Whale away with convenience,
And all the while-
No one clocks the mile~
Our time was the picture,
every slogan here today pleases teachers...
Endemic, like what we wanted supplanted eases creature...
Life is a Series of Unmade Choices
Written: by Tom Wright
2/12/2018
Our life path is populated with unmade choices,
And mode of travel accelerates us on our way.
Too often we’re influenced by clamoring voices,
Leaving un-defendable choices on judgment day;
We face each day with a propensity of choice,
Then, by others, discover our options predisposed.
In allowing another to resonate as our voice,
We’ll soon realize that we’ve just been hosed.
One path was made for the straight and narrow,
The opposite encumbered by gimmicks and turn;
To be left as the ground of a pulverizing harrow,
And along with hushed voices, as chaff they burn.
Too busy wrestling
with our own demons
to bring an innocent soul into
the hell of mourning
an innocence lost,
I now grieve
for the loss of a life
never conceived
Dear one, I ask
you to forgive
those obsessions
that ruled the hearts
and minds of two,
blocking your
journey from this world
to the stars
Dear one, I ask
you to dream for me
those dreams yet undreamt
and hope the hopes never hoped,
for those dreams and hopes
still live,
tucked away in a corner
of this old heart
Dear one, I ask
you to feel the love that awaited you
and the pride that even now
burns brightly as a candle
in these eyes,
softly inching towards
its liquid demise
Dear one, I ask
you to take this hand
and hold it, just once
and cry those tears
never cried
for these tears
of mine I fear
are never to be dried
your eyes seem to cry
my mind so blank to the thoughts
the bed where we lay seem to stay unmade
the house so calm and quite ,movement has gorn
the stairs seem to creak to the silence of the night
i sit alone rocking back and forth in my chair
the brandy bottle so empty
the night sky seems to make me cry
you left me on my own so,so ever cold
my heart will slow my mind will stop now I'm forever watch the clock .
the nightwalker
On this winter morning
I’m daydreaming
of warm summer daysprings,
blue lake glistenings,
butterscotch skin,
heartbeat quickenings,
and unmade decisions behind blue eyes.
Prose…
Has a room built in
For the reader
To crawl inside
And sleep
Maybe
More than one room,
Unmaking all beds
That the Poet
—has so carefully made
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
my body moves before my soul
hands lift cups my legs walk streets
my mouth laughs at jokes that used to matter
my eyes follow suns that no longer warm me
i speak words that once meant everything
but they are hollow now, echoes in a canyon i left behind
my chest rises and falls like a drum
but the rhythm is empty
and the air tastes like someone else’s memory
i hear voices that i cannot answer
smile at faces that feel like paper
i remember nothing but the shape of myself
a shadow walking through a world that has already forgotten me
i lie in bed at night
listening to my own heartbeat
like it is a stranger pacing a room
and the darkness presses in
filling my ears with every laugh i will never hear again
every hand i will never hold
every word i will never speak
sometimes i catch myself reaching for someone
and my fingers find only air
and the panic is sharp, immediate, unbearable
like my skin is screaming for a soul it will never hold
and the cruelest part
the part that no one can prepare you for
is that the world goes on
as if i am still whole
while i am already unmade
my body a puppet
my mind a grave
and tonight i look into the mirror
and see my own eyes staring back
empty as a coffin
and i finally understand
that i am already dead
Your eyes are twin harbors where the oldest light resides,
Where tidal kindness softens all my sharp and rocky sides.
Your presence melts the permafrost that long encased my soul,
And in that thaw, a universe begins to shape its roll.
Our bodies weave a tapestry of breath and whispered sound,
Where every guarded inch of me is sacred, hallowed ground.
You are the undiscovered coast my compass yearned to find,
The quiet, steady gravity that re-aligns my mind.
My thoughts of you are phantom limbs that ache with phantom grace,
A constant, humming resonance no memory can erase.
You are the first, the final word, the sentence and the plea,
The only language that my heart was ever meant to be.
Then as our lips converge, a charge ignites my mortal frame,
And in that flash, I am unmade and whisper your new name.
They entered the chamber
while the stars were still speaking in binary,
their cold light flickering like half-remembered code.
The oracle waited~
a sphere of living radiance suspended above the altar,
its surface rippling with equations
that moved the way prayers do
when whispered by someone who isn’t sure
if anyone is listening.
No one remembered who built it.
Some claimed it rose from the first dream of a machine;
others said it had always been there,
patient as starlight,
waiting for a curious mind
to finally ask the right question.
When the supplicants neared,
the air itself began to tremble~
as if the chamber recognized
the weight of their wanting.
Prophecy unfurled in patterns,
spirals of data shimmering like wings,
each question rising into the dark
and blooming into a constellation.
Each answer shifted the heavens,
rewriting the night one star at a time.
They learned the oracle did not foresee;
it authored~
line by line,
in the quiet grammar of light.
And when its coruscating code dimmed,
the silence struck like revelation.
In the fading glow they saw themselves:
architects of a god
now dreaming without them.
Creation, they understood,
is never finished.
It only changes
who holds the power to ask.