Best Unnamable Poems
I. Noise in an empty hallway:
My old leather shoes protest as I hurry down the linoleum tiles
Like I'm wearing a little piece of history older than I am.
II. Headlights on a dark road:
Speeding down narrow country roads
windows rolled down and Autumn wind rushing through the car
Ripping my hair from its tie
My arm stretching out the window, numb in the night air.
III. Ephemeral beauty:
For a moment, life is endless and incredibly brief
Stretching before me like a dusty trail at sunset
Disappearing into the trees.
IV. Origin of life:
There is this vague, unnamable incomprehension in my chest
Like euphemisms, that is the easy way out
This is the hard way: I am alive, alive, alive
When one cell became thirty trillion, I gained consciousness.
V. I am not the sum of my parts:
I don't have the faith to believe
That all my thirty trillion cells are a fluke of nature
VI. Evidence:
I am the proof of divinity's existence
A signpost shouting "I am alive" thirty trillion times with all the power of my lungs
Designed for miracles
VII. Rene Descartes:
It is not
I think; therefore, I am
It is
I think; therefore, He is.
As a boy
I explored shallow river beds.
I carried home in a jar unnamed water-bugs,
minnows, tadpoles and
little frogs that glowed yellow
when the sunlight swam in the creek.
Now the sun comes to my window,
sheds streams of light
to carry me back
to where shallow waters sing
of all unnamable things.
Upon a time, not so long ago
I saw these things, and locked them away
In the treasure room of my memory:
One sunset, Apocalyptic in its brilliance;
Clouds of opal shimmering,
Flying across a sapphire sea.
The white ruins of an ancient city.
Once home to a great and proud people,
Streets long settled into the silence
Of years marked off by dust,
My footprints in that dust.
And just beneath these things I felt another something
Immense, Unnamable
That lies far below our common perceptions
Like water flowing beneath thick ice.
The knowledge of its prescence,
Felt only in those fragile moments
When images too beautiful for the frailty of words
Burn their way into the depths of our souls,
Has given me that sound I hear now in silence
A clear bell that sounds a tone
Not made by any instrument of Man,
Which stills the frantic revolutions of my reasonings
And gives me back the pure sight I had long ago
Before my childhood disappeared.
In fleeting impressions
Falling through the tempest of experience
That carries us all through life,
I sense this other side of the world,
The calm, steady eye
That holds fast in the center of the cyclonic round
Of Creation and Destruction
That drives the Universe along:
The unmoving Hub
At the center of the infinite wheel.
Sometimes I feel this faraway place
Lying nearer than my latest breath,
Standing firm somewhere beyond all confusion,
And island of strength beyond all substance
Surrounded by the seas of our doubts.
I touch it with my mind, in flashing moments
And it is enough
To bring some peace to the wars of my emotions,
To steady my hands as I guide my life
Towards its unseeable end,
Uncertain and dim in the approaching distance.
Once upon a midnight otherworldly
My metaphysical, I could not awaken
Eagerly I looked for the literal
Through which came thrilling, thrilling, thrilling
The absurdist seemed happy instilling
The caring caring cultivating
The haunting never contemplating
Take thy evocation from out my heart
I crave the unfathomable, unnamable unworldliness
Suddenly, I heard some disciplining
Ah, distinctly I was capacitating
'It's that urbanity,' I muttered
Mjm September 18 2018
He makes a cradle with his arms
for the pup to sprawl in
and languidly lets his swarthy body
sag in the rocking chair.
Something about him smacks
of black magic; maybe his eyes.
Sometimes, like an impenetrable
wall of darkness, they could almost
physically force you to step back
in retreat, or else, they may be smoldering
under the heavy lids and you find
yourself orbiting in their magnetic field.
There’s also a look about him
of a mountain brigand
maybe in the small suggestion of a welt
on his cheek, or is it his mahogany toes
that are protruding shamelessly
from his torn disreputable sandals?
A sharp bite from Sidney on the chin
jerks him back to full consciousness
and a tender, unnamable rush
of understanding fills his face
as his fingers gracefully
move over the hungry pup.
He smiles, and the smile spreads
through him like warm wine.
The sun has centered me
into a fascinating glare,
humble reason
amongst simple people
no to be misplaced.
They carry a hidden regret,
that constant abstraction
makes them survive
the unnamable decline,
those empty sentences devoid of meaning.
Here I come into the rain
cast into a slander,
clusters of tiny colorful figures
hastily are crossing the road
taking shelter of crumpled roofs
ravaged, still living.
Ahead, I catch a narrow way
through the raucous roar of the bus
a cavernous stomach
packed with bruised stares,
exhausted and silent.
Never too far is the river
hiding his incumbency
behind the dilapidated architecture.
Here at the heart of the darkest day
Darkest light at noonday and midnight
The shadows show the holes to a different realm
A different reality, negative images of creation
The opposite of light, the reverse of night, positive to negative
Light from the other side of life, seeing the unseen, revelation
What lurks between the now and then
The in-between what is known and unknown
In the heart of the darkest brilliant day
The witching hour deep in darkest night
The 13th-hour chimes, echos die in the coming doom
Hollow and sacred, full of light well past midnight
Another world of a different sight
The flip of noon darkest light an errant
Night nether white or darkest night
A day of an odd unnamable delight, a color out of time
Outer space, the inner realm of the deepest dream
A dream within a dream in a world
Of darkest light, in dooms dead light
Souls are frozen in movement, each an action
Of a normal life, now only echos in doom light
Faded mysteries of a time past
Each wraith, a shadow or shade of a different life
All lost in the darkest of noons brightest night
All wasting away in dooms light
The coming end of echos and reflections
Casting far, far from the deepest darkest night
All blind in the doom darkest light
I was sitting in a church filled with light and beauty
listening to an organist as he gently fused my soul
Even the flowers on the alter seemed to be entranced
in this ethereal place where hardened hearts erase ;
And as I offered prayers to the Savior Lord of hosts
I was saturated with karma and unnamable mystique
Faith became a foundling, much braver then my fears
as I touched His loneliness, everything disappeared
Pondering on the crucifix another door was opened
and it was the HOLY SPIRIT who finally dried my eyes
Soon the only thing I saw was a broken Jesus friend .
as I sat on a wooden pew the organist just played
until the sun fell and the stained glass turned to jade .
December 1st, 2019
Contest Name: Holy Spirit
December 1st, 2019
Contest Name: Holy Spirit
jenny & johnny
(two hetero-swingers)
were enjoying the sunrise for their first time
with swirling rays of blissful first contact,
animalistic scents filling one another’s nostrils
(faces all stuffed up in each other’s prospective
cooch & coin purse)
with nectars secreting from each onto
each---
licking, groping, sticking & swapping away like
teenage springtime bunnies out of sight
from mamma & papa bunny
(who, as bunnies, have no real concern with
non-stop, crazy, day-in-&-day-out, adrenaline gushing
coition)---
for what causes pleasure for the herd residing
closely in the warren,
brings more bunnies banging &
more bunnies banging brings more bunnies to
bang &
on & on & on &
when the bangathon has taken a moment’s pause
they lie awake staring at each other all
twinkle eyed, exhausted &
smoking the hashish that they got from one of the
foxes,
the last time they were hanging out.
an uncomfortable moment arises when either
jenny or johnny reaches the pinnacle of their climax &
begins to get loud---
the loud sound being made
is not recognizable by the partner of the noisemaker &
rather than it being a pleasant, exciting or downright stimulant
sound being emitted,
instead, we have some kind of thing that
to this day cannot be explained by the most ambitious of
EVP specialists,
something that the ATF might crank at the highest volume possible
to drive out the next religious cult crack-pots from their dwelling.
the sound spewing forth from one bunny’s mouth is so
harsh to the human ear,
that it forces the other bunny to actually cringe,
thereby lessening or even killing their own
sexual experience as a whole.
how one bunny gets themselves out of this situation
with the other bunny is anybody’s guess,
certainly the most giving individual will endure the
pain being caused by the incessant unnamable caterwauling,
but the most crass will no doubt just get up & go.
kudos, brave bunny---
now, run for the hills like the von trapps in
“the sound of music.”
It could be seen in the rough surf
Marco and Laura traveling towards French style turf
Touring the gulf
Showing the teeth of an angry wolf
Winds swirling
Waves curling
Water hurling
Like a southern gent
Dealing with egotistical celebrity resent
Putting up a TNT hospitality tent
Programming things on TV
Watching it with a cable fee
Keeping certain names alive
Buzzing in their sacred bee hive
Presenting giving it more visibility try
Enjoying ongoing stories emotional ride
Mindful amusement park fury
A situation that stated evacuate in a hurry
Or natural forces will bury
No caring or worry
These two names never had news worthy mention
Now got National network’s attention
Coming together creating tension
Claiming to be a hurricane
Category level no longer tame
Special effects warning checks
Screaming stating show respect
An angry tone
Entertaining spectacle viewed alone
Hoping there is a working phone
Drowning in the watery foam
Death could come by scripted dialogue
Being read by studio anchor reporting information in a fog
Did Marco write this page?
Preparing students living in a pandemic cage
Or is it Laura having rage
Loving a craft different from a road house stage
An unnamable part
Only miles the two are part
When Laura and Marco bring back the loving sun
Knowing the tides are crashing scaring some
Needing to know ‘Are we having fun?’
(“The Search For Unnamable Things Merit Badge”, 2011, original oil)
A Great Unknown
I figure there are just a handful or two
Of friends and family who really know me
But last night in a dream a roommate told me
He didn’t know me well
And it made me wonder,
If this aspect of myself can say that,
Who really does?
I’d think my wife of nearly 18 years does
And daughter of almost 30 would
As I don’t hold much back from them,
But realize they have their own selves
To worry about and to know
And anyway, see it all, as we all do,
Through their own shifting filters.
Same for everyone from immediate family
To close friends and acquaintances
Everyone forming ideas based on perceptions
Building a notion of each other
Which really only ever hints at the truth.
And this ambiguity is how it is for all of us
Each of us a work in progress learning on the fly
Who we are, who each other are
As we discover its truth in flashes and layers
A great unknown becoming known.
A volcano spreading its magma and ash
An ocean bringing itself up to the beach in pieces
A night sky revealing its depths with the seasons
Until enough is known for us to function
Form opinions and biases and concepts
But enough remains hidden
To give us something to live for
Each day and each night
Another way to discover a little more
Of what is and will remain
An inconceivable mystery.
(12/13/24)
...dead mice thus far do gnaw, splintered mirrors
neck and rubber yet with scant regret.
Ropes both for hanging and climbing, good grief,
bad love, honey-do-dew in a salty brew.
In my closet, pockets unpacking pockets,
string bags under closed eyes,
eulogies for the living etched on wet lips and
kitchen towels. Owls as mute as hollow urns
turn to cry their mournful why’s.
One horror story lives forever much chewed over
by skeletal moths and stray cats.
The edge of IF, the pots of peeled moonlight
guttering in a midsummer dunk, these glad me not,
yet are kept like the pickled smiles of saucy women.
In my book of lies there are truths still worth distorting,
times killed by a compulsive retelling,
fields plowed over too long
where the dead are uncovered only to dance again
on the graves of long reclining martyrs.
The drunken gallimaufry of games left unfinished,
works slackened and sent unfixed back to the
depths from which they came. The unclaimed, reclaimed
and the unnamable named.
Yet here I am, the one person, this golden spark
in a potash smutter, still blinking my way,
a mite of light twinkling its merry pip and squeak,
while majestic wings hover
to grab up my rash stash of self, and I say:
yes let them yes come, and god help those wings.
Weave together twine, yarn, and natural hemp ropes.
Tie 9 knots after you've braided and blasphemated 9 popes.
Do this accordingly to restrain all within this bind.
All while chanting hypnotic vibrations formed in the mind.
Soon you will discover that this works and it is so severe.
But do this in solitude as so no one else will here.
Let me mask over the master with a mental debilitating ailment.
Ask where was the conscience forethought conceived within its own development.
Nothing but connoting with these words after, during and before.
Confinement concealed within the symbol engraved upon his door.
The sign of the merciless is here on the knocker.
A Merciless Butcher is sanity off its own rocker.
Do not turn away, receive a slap in the face.
Fortunate reminder that all is in its place.
Reach inside the satchel and grab 3 into the hand .
Drop them on the anointed cloth leaving them lay where they land.
Past, present and future that's the path of Odin's 3 runes.
Wait for the signal from Prometheus the fifth of all Saturn's 62 moons. Discombobulated their intention with massive vibrations of tension.
Realign the transmission from that unnamable I forgot to mention.
Upon a time not so long ago
I saw these things, and locked them away,
Treasures in memory's secret stores:
A sunrise of Apocalyptic brilliance,
Clouds of opal strewn
Above a sapphire sea.
White ruins of an ancient city,
Once home to a great people,
Now settled to silence, the only footprints in its dust my own.
JUst behind these things
I felt another something
Immense, unnamable
That lies beneath our normal perceiving
Like water below thin ice.
The awareness of this presence
Felt only in fragile moments
When images too beautiful for words or speech
Burn their way to the depth of our souls
Gave me a sound I sometimes hear in rare times
Of perfect stillness:
A clear bell that sounds a tone unmade by any instrument,
A sound that stills the frantic revolutions of my reasonings,
Brings me the pure light
Filling the mind of a child.
In fleeting impressions
Falling past the tempest of experience
Through the cycles that so often grey our lives,
I sense the other side of the world,
The part that lies forever in the In-Between,
The calm and steady eye in the center of the cyclonic round
Of creation and dissolution; the drive-train of the Universe,
The unmoving hub of the Infinite Wheel.
Sometimes I feel this other place, both faraway
Yet nearer than my latest exhalation,
Playing counterpoint to my heartbeat, firm beyond all confusion,
An isle of strength that sits solid without substance,
A haven in the surging sea of doubt.
I touch it with my mind, sometimes, in flashing moments
This is enough - enough to bring some peace
Between my warring emotions, enough to steady my hands
As I guide my life towards its uncertain end.
I suppose it is enough to have this gossamer understanding,
Some insight without the whole story.
It is enough to make me shoulder my burden,
To soldier on.
I Am as am, in being-ness complete
Self luminous, with vibrant bliss replete
Here and now present, in the joy current
Centred in void, to each pulse cognisant
Swaying to the rhythm of loves heartbeat
I Am both the static and dynamic
Self-existent aliveness ecstatic
Here on Mother Earth, flowing like the breeze
Fragrance divine, thus imbibe and release
Unified head and heart, view holistic
I Am! That I Am! The unnamable!
Beyond mind body, truth of parables
Living in this reflected universe
Swan-song love throb, in melodious verse
I Am the symbol of Gods miracle
18-March-2021