Best Unobtrusively Poems
A fire blazes behind the veil
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This veil I wear
is not made of cloth
for no fabric could withstand
the incendiary passion
I command
It's self-imposed
not forced
no man's hand
would dare cover me
yet here I am
swathed in these layers...
folds of security
you see
it's easier
much easier
just to be like the rest
not a subject of discussion
or the brunt of derision
with meanings misconstrued
by the crass and the rude...
thus,
anonymity allures
I finger the veil
its threads: religious doctrine
its dye: denial
its paisley patterns: protocol
culturally appropriate
I stand:
~chaste~
silence simmering
with actions inactive
I stand: quiet, demure, serene
but my thoughts burning, unseen
and behind the veil
I smolder
passion flares through my eyes
the only indication
that I'm alive
I pass you by
another woman
unseen
unknown
unacknowledged
I pass you by
you...frivolous in your freedom
you...unappreciative of accpetance
I pass you by
and yet, inwardly I smile
warmed by inner flames
emanating from my core
I know…so much more
There's potential...
potential this woman has in store
for this I know
when the time has come
when I'm ready
it will fall away
by my own hand
unobtrusively grand
and you will see the sight
the walking, breathing delight
of the unveiled woman
confident
sublime
a woman
calmly, gracefully, purposefully
passing you by....
Eileen Manassian
This is not meant to be offense to anyone from the Islamic faith. The veil has symbolic meaning.
For PD's Collaboration Contest
August 28, 2015
By: Eileen Manassian
Thank you for this string of pearls
What a beautiful sight!
Right?
Yes.....a sheer delight.
You look surprised!
You gifted them to me
Can't you see?
This beautiful pearl tapestry
Exquisite jewelry!!!
One by one....
They came to be
A word, a look, a gesture....
Each one...an irritant
You slipped into the softness of me
So....unobtrusively
You forgot to set them free
As for me?
I had to survive
Had to stay alive
Forged from what pained
My nacre tears rained
With each silky one
I spun and I spun
Now...I'm all done!
This necklace you see
YOU gifted to me
****** ******* *****
The pearl you wear,
Can't be compared
The inner beauty
Your shell gives
A surprise you gave
Upon my face
Blind by beauty upon your grace
A jewel not easy to trace
Perfect in every way, you trend
Hidden deep
Beneath the sea
Grains of sand lost peacefully
Your strength came in a form,
While being intruded on
So precious, breathless
I needed more
Layers of nacre
touch my greedy hands
A pearly tapestry
I gave my loved one
You shun away, giving shine
The Mother of Pearls
I rest my case!
~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~
...inspired by 'Portrait of a Lady' by T.S. Eliot
On winter days the view outside is nebulous at best,
within, the furniture is as it alway was, and I am waiting,
waiting for a glimpse of you to silence my equivocating.
Somber is my attitude, the light is dim, curtains at rest,
as dust mites dance, the clock ticks unobtrusively,
marking time, the chamber maids make ready for my guest,
and dust the tables, clean the silver, place the flowers perfectly.
You return from 'La Boheme,' affected by the tragedy,
emboldened by Puccini's art, transfiguring his sadness
to an everlasting theme of hope eternal, with no misery.
A small group of confederates who seize the meaning clearly,
examine his conceptions with a true and honest face,
only those who can conceptualize his grace.
And we are bereft of conversation.
The curtain falls between our faces,
we are left with little else to say.
Gone are common talk, and airs and graces,
walls have grown, and bars along the way.
Your friends have grown in stature, tried and true,
reflecting what you feel within your soul,
and you must follow them and share their view,
as long as it will bring you to your goal.
Friendship is a bond that can't be broken,
even though you dally in your heart,
you cannot break the bond, the sacred token,
that keeps your deepest feelings pure to art.
Your friends are true disciples of your creed,
they will legitimize your need
to pave your way to conquer and succeed.
Within the screeching of the violins,
the humming of the basses and the horns,
I hear a tattoo beating all alone,
the bass drum then begins
to pound a loud crescendo of its own.
I listen, is there something out of tone?
With cigarettes and sherry, unconcerned,
we wander through the garden unaware,
take in the sights and pass without a care,
as if our differences didn't matter,
we give ourselves to nonsense, idle chatter.
Roses now are brightly blooming,
to your friends now you are calling.
I know not of what you speak,
I cannot fathom your delight.
You say: 'Try to understand my mission,
learn to trust in things unseen,
I must find what nature seeks
and follow its eternal yearning.
Youth will never gather roses,
never see beyond the garden.'
I will stay forever in the cold.
The rippled lake ebbs strangely silent
while memories cling to me---
there's not a tinge of you here anymore
and my fiery pulse now withers:
I roam upon the dunes of time
as current’s surge echoes like waves' blare,
your indifferent glance marks
a broken oath without even one phrase told...
How I feel heart's nudge
this mindful certainty allowing me
to grasp the quicksand of truth--
You are not coming back, ever,
that from instinct's light, I finally concede
when quelled language
numb as a crest unobtrusively waning
-----------------means a goodbye not uttered.
For Richard Lamoureux 's Contest
Honourable Mentions Worth Mentioning
Re-posted 01/05/2019
---------------
This is perhaps one of my poems which touched
me dearly when I wrote it. I felt the anguish
of not being able to speak what the heart needed
to express by using metaphors and symbolism.
With sincerity, I did not expect to get an HM. Thank you.
The Last Hope, Translation of Paul Verlaine’s sonnet : Dernier espoir
There stands a tree in the cemetery
Thrusting itself up in total freedom,
By no means the fruit of bereavement –
Spreading itself out on stone unobtrusively.
In this tree, be it summer or winter,
A bird alights to trill clearly
It’s sad song of such fidelity.
This tree and this bird do us bind together :
You the object of my thoughts, I the absence
That time takes stock of in evanescence…
Ah ! To live again propped up against your knees !
Ah ! To be alive again ! But stay yet awhile, my lover,
Let not the void be my chilling victor…
At the least, say : I live but in your intimate core ?
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013
Wending my way down a country road in my air-conditioned car,
In yon vale a weathered church steeple beckoned me from afar.
'Twas Sunday morning and the clarion peal of its bell caught my ear.
There stood a simple House of God with a graveyard in the rear.
My faithfulness in matters religious had never been that good,
Since attending Church and Sunday School in my childhood.
But something ethereal drew me to that bucolic setting so serene;
I craved deliverance from my stressful and very hectic routine.
I unobtrusively entered the sanctuary and sat in the very last pew.
An elderly pastor ministered to his flock, who numbered a scanty few.
The ancient hymns they sang evoked fond memories as a lad;
My eyes grew misty as I recalled singing them with Mom and Dad.
The pastor preached a simple sermon based on John Three-sixteen,
That would have stirred the soul of a reigning king or queen!
I left that modest but sacred place with renewed hope in my heart,
Inspired by those timeless truths that old pastor did impart.
I've heard profound oratory in majestic cathedrals o'er this sphere,
But never a more soul-searching sermon will I ever hear,
Than from that humble pastor imparting that message of old,
For the ears and souls of his faithful, God-fearing fold.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
I stare at the stark darkness ahead,
My hands squeeze the steering wheel
While a simple trepidation musters its way to my heart
The road is long, my headlights keeping shadows in check
I see the smooth path, intrigued by its uniform contentment
My tires and many tires before have moseyed yonder upon it
In the dark and light alike, with perspectives all their own,
Had they once thought, in the dusk or in the sun,
How much more will this road tolerate?
How much harder will the sun beat upon it,
And will the chilled darkness one night crumble it to nothingness?
There is no answer of course,
For they are silly inquiries, dimming campfire talks
And really, questions stem from a lonely mind blabbering alone…
The road moves unobtrusively,
Or am I moving?
Pressing this car with privilege to play its role,
Bravely contacted with the cold
Running steadily
Through the friction of the tires
This road, it will crack someday, in all the usual places
Dulling, eroding, becoming near-natural
Just to be made new and safe again
Ready for man and roadkill…
I will ask one more time for solitude’s sake,
Why is it so perpetually smooth?
I expected a bumpy night in this desolate stretch
But we should not have the ability to expect what disturbs us…
I am reminded that roads do not mean to satisfy little wonderments
Can care less for these zooming contrivances
That we sit in comfortably, turning on the radio to drown out the mutability
Tonight I bask in it, and though I am not fully lost in the night,
The road and this car keep me feeling secure,
Even when surrounded by wilderness
It occurs to me a lot—
How can one feel so human?
In the comfort of a car, we escape the darkness of the wild
Only barely,
And the road behind me,
Well it is abandoned, forgotten for a while
Till more wheels spin across its surface some other day
It is so smooth,
Barren and ordinary
Not existing to dream its own existence
But it is gracefully real, and getting realer
As I continue to gaze through the glass
Earthy barmy leafs scurry
Pulling rapidly in peak flurry
Lamenting blind as mists worry
Crude cool calm earth attacks slowly
Silly calm breeze shoo wholly
Sharp plume vanishes hollowly
Descending riveted cloud gleam
Sputtering upon scratching stream
Hurries vacantly in sprinkling steam
Lying oaks bewail 'n bemoan
Unobtrusively giggling delicately unknown
On clear red foundlings windblown
Deciduous elm trees fluster
As slow clouds be one of cluster
Above and slowly disappears in a duster
Suavity forlorn pebbles grieve
Amongst sluggish ol' buttermilk sky heave
As stars twinkling thru' pea soup vapor retrieve
I saw a dream, the one in color.
That made me wonder if it's real.
I felt desire and felt purpose.
While steering boat made of steel.
.
There was an island on horizon.
And waves were calmly hugging shore.
The Sun was shining, clouds smiling.
And joy pierced air ever more.
.
So unobtrusively inviting
That island called me - "Welcome in".
The Angels sang and fish were jumping.
My heart felt like in ... well, in dream.
.
So, as I paddled little closer
I came to see a tree in sky.
With mighty roots impaling ground,
Thick leaves, ripe fruits and branches high.
.
The quiet voice without tremble
Kept whispering - "man, this is it.
Just look at leaves and fill your pockets.
They are same green as bucks and greed".
.
And suddenly, the Sun was winking,
The fish and crabs became a stew.
The closed doors lost all the lockers.
Unreachable got in foot or two.
.
The life got easier and joyful.
So many friends are rushing in.
The popularity, butt kissing
Shoot through the roof. I'm loved like king.
.
Then I woke up. The fading patches.
The joy inside but pain in heart.
Conflict of animals and Angels.
Feed Soul or Body, that's our fact.
Memory, oh sweet memory,
Lost in dizziness, but found.
Excite my brain to joyfulness.
Pain is sometimes lethal.
Memory loss is just one warning sign of this war.
Add to that: headaches, depression, oh, the mental pain.
Numbness, insomnia, heart palpations, and more, begin slowly.
From whence comes your sweet deception?
My bones ache and I cannot breath in life's memory.
Lost in my own fantasy with dizziness.
Imagining a chemical warfare against the masses.
Common folks like you and me but subjugated peons.
Mushy brains found among the young and innocent thin.
Excite my brain with your pondering, my muse.
To you, I owe this mysterious inkling.
A powerful infiltration, a plan concocted by the enemy.
Chemical warfare on the home front, disguised as pleasure.
Marketed among the unsuspecting –
Aspertine is thy name oh great deceiver
In the name of sweetness, mental acuity dies.
Freely given to the soldiers in Desert Storm, diet soda!
The Plan: Conquer a great nation from within.
Infiltrate every aspect of life in a well-laid plan.
Thus, food and drink may lead to a nation's folly.
Slowly slipping away our freedom to be US.
Quietly. Unobtrusively. Ingeniously. Irreversibly!
Joyfulness, visit me; remove this pain for it is great.
Chemical warfare kills.
Sometimes, we close our eyes.
But we must not.
Lest it becomes lethal to our free nation –
© March 17, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Et cetera Free Poetry
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
RELATED LINK: http://articles.mercola.com/sites/articles/archive/2011/11/06/aspartame-
most-dangerous-substance-added-to-food.aspx
In the darkness a flicker of moonlight,
shadows dance. Kissing her long and sweetly
teasing, capturing her sigh craze delight,
she let out a moan unobtrusively.
"I love you. I murmured, "Just you and I."
You make my body sing and my heart soar.
Is this called love, or is it just a lie?
I found my happiness I yearn for more.
I lie and daydream to belong to her,
feeling so incomplete and so helpless;
in me an ache causing a storm to stir,
holding forever leaving me breathless.
Never had to think of no one throughout,
had only myself to worry about.
7/11/2017
An Open Debate, We Await...
Hohoho.....
Someone is so full of himself and sounded so arrogant...
So full of self importance to come across as belligerent...
Issuing an open challenge for a public debate any time and place in Bolehland...
That brave but brash man is now caught like a deer in a car's headlights in No Man's land...
His open challenge is now officially accepted by a small party's president....
Whose party has unobtrusively accepted the challenge on 29November...
Albeit a political party small in numbers but with a gutsy lady president ....
Who accepted the open challenge and now pursues it too its desired conclusion....
The ignominy of which the proponent surely grasps and understands...
The acceptance for a much desired and publicised political debate...
Comes across in black and white, well phrased and with a glaring caveat...
The proponent is not to withdraw or to cook up excuses of any kind..
To escape his obligations for an open debate he so brashly publicised...
The proof of the pudding or pie is in the eating...
Bolehland awaits if this man has what it takes...
To an open debate on rights and privileges of Sarawak and Sabah...
In the 1963 formation of Bolehland as a free nation...
Hohoho....
Simply put, the question remains, got balls or not.....
Or was it all just a dare me on, just a political talk....
As in the acronym NATO, No Action Talk Only....
A prevalent norm of operations from the ruling party...
Hohoho....
I slip in unobtrusively
and take a seat in back,
the orchestra is tuning up,
I open up my pack
and take a rolled up magazine
with which to play along,
conducting is a passion
I have had since I was young.
The brass, the woodwinds and the strings,
the tympani and all,
play scattered notes and splattered tones
until the maestro's call.
The program is Stravinsky's 'Rite,'
an overture by Brahms,
and there am I gesticulating
wildly with my arms!
A cello player noticed me
and signalled to the Man,
"Come, make music! Step on down
and join this merry band!"
the maestro cried in strident tones,
then summoned me on stage,
with great excitement I obeyed,
as he turned back the page.
"From the beginning!" he enjoined,
and handed me the stick,
I tapped the podium and stared,
I started feeling sick!
But then the downbeat... hell broke loose!
the orchestra responded,
Damn! I guess I nailed the Brahms,
how glorious it sounded!
It was then that I awoke,
my closet was a tip,
I stood in my tuxedo
with a poker in my grip!
The famed Chicago Symphony
with Solti in the lead,
how graciously he'd chosen me,
what better dream indeed!
a practiced smile on her face
a mother’s oenomel breath puffs wind under gossamer wings
reminiscent of the translucent wings of green lacewings—
mistaken for a pest, but beneficial—
to strike out and explore a thorny world
resisting the siren call of spring’s scent
turning their heads with songs of love
emerging personalities
unravel the cocoon spun in love
as naiveté fragmentises into bluster
a mother unobtrusively dries tears
desiring a moral code of empathy towards all
the sweet fragrance of pride
a tantalising selection between
intrinsic values and
natural curiosity—
concomitant heartbeat tempos to dog-eared sheet music of ambition
culminating in Life’s crescendo
natural selection, be damned
as recalcitrant offspring echoes eons of mitochondrial resilience
A Father Clock chimes from a wall in the dining room, refreshing the idle couple that waited.
It was not as if they were reminded of some pressing appointment or some devoted chores that was delegated.
The furniture in the room where they sat idle was ancient and concealed with cryptic scratches stimulating memories of a once lively lifestyle.
An arrowhead seat, brown and sagging occupied one corner of the room making an impression on the carpet conceding that it's been there a while.
In other parts of the room, the faded blue cut pile carpet flaunted gummy substances and foot tracks that were desperately in need of a broom.
Chopin's Nocturne, (seeking their memories of the days of wine and roses), smoothly flowed evenly from the highly varnished Philco console radio and turntable, graced the room.
He sat in a high wing chair opposite her steeped in an art and literature magazine.
Occasionally his deep brown eyes circle with a gray arc would give into a burning need to close and he would nod off, which was a daily routine.
In the highlights of his years, he was a successful entrepreneur, delightful, sophisticated, a celebrated man among his race.
That was more than two decades ago, and although he still hungers for those days he knew that he has grown miserably slow and not able to keep up in a modern-day virtual place.
She sat in her favorite chair that had conformed to her weight over the years.
In her lap was a start of a colorful throw, knitting needles, and shears.
Her honey color skin was slightly creased with tiny folds around her lips and neck.
The imagery of her once sleek body and beauty she deeply reflects.
Her curly snow-white hair rests on her curved shoulders.
She wished that she had not lived her entire life crippled to vanity.
Yet she would think that the fact is, that on the days and nights when love was a cold memory she was grateful for the memories that realistically were a safety net for her sanity,
They both were adrift on a calm sea of tedium.
Boredom breeds contempt and the closeness they once shared disappeared unobtrusively and conjointly with the years
All was left was the bitterness between them along with the tears.
copyright 2016 Looking At The Light At The Bottom of The Lake.