Best Unoccupied Poems
Hibiscus rays of light herald
sun's stretch from night to twilight
in wakening blooms of ravishing red passion—
Oh! how I despise dawn's
blushing optimism and lust for life
for I am too young to cry but too old not to
featherlight the dandelion puff
as zephyrs blew seeds of our fantasies
free to fly the whims and sighs of our summer days
till breezes laid our pixie-dust down
wishes taking root in fast flourish—
pollen-plush dream-weeds grew in fields of gold
champagne flowed voluptuously through our veins
we laughed and pulsed with ambrosia-arousal
and with every nectarous nip
we lived as though we would celebrate love
f o r e v e r
a handful of heartbeats ago
we crystal-gazed into moon’s silver circle
believing in foretold fortunes of our future
our mythologies shaped in affectionate frescoes
sculpted softly into plum-dyed skies
constellations born from fireworks in our wooing eyes
—until the heart-twisting dawn-to-dark
when a cloud of angels cradled
sun-gilded harps
against their white-rose-hearts
teardrops in ecstasies of grief and joy
strummed celestial strings in virgin blue glissandos
lifting his lustrous soul away from me— lifting him
across the bridge to bliss —somewhere beyond me
and behind snowy veils of virtue
I am anemic
if not nothing now
adulterated
by loss of innocence
dwindling
in a dreamless star-broken state
unoccupied
but for the lurid loss that fills me—
and my black skies storm with shrieking tears!
Categories:
unoccupied, bereavement, death, innocence, loss,
Form:
Free verse
Sixteen years old and in a world of her own
Confined to life lived in a wheelchair
Ever since birth, doctors don’t know what went wrong
But, it was like no one was at home in there
One summer vacation with the other kids in tow
The family visited a Kentucky horse stable
They left her alone in a sunny grass meadow
While off riding with the children who were able
While sitting alone in a catatonic state
Staring out somewhere in space
A gelding that was grazing, Mr. Truly Amazing
Came up and licked her on the face
The family returned to a shocking surprise
Seeing the wheelchair left unoccupied
They looked all around, then couldn’t believe their eyes
When they saw her standing with a horse by her side
She was petting his nose, feeding him an apple
And seemed to be whispering something
They were frozen in their tracks not believing the fact
That their Jenny was no longer a nothing
The mother walked up, in a delicate manner
Not wanting to interrupt this miracle’s course
When Jenny turned to her and in a shallow voice
Whispered, “Look, Mommy, I have a horse”
Categories:
unoccupied, animals, inspirationalfamily, family, horse,
Form:
Rhyme
The inn of my Heart
has many rooms;
I thought I knew them all.
They were peopled with
husband, children,
family and friends.
Even God had a room,
and I visited them all frequently.
I really didn't think
there were any more rooms;
Until one day,
while walking through my Inn,
I discovered a suite of rooms
unoccupied.
"Who is this for?"
I loudly asked,
"And why have not these rooms
been used?"
No one could tell me who,
and no one could tell me why.
So I stumbled around the rooms
exclaiming over the things
that I found there.
But as surely as day must dawn
the realization slowly came,
and with such a sense of discovery,
I stood there in awe
wondering what I would do.
For I had entered the rooms
filled with the essence of me.
There were all the hopes,
and dreams,
and feelings,
of one human soul.
And when I looked with understanding,
I saw that even the ugly things
had not been forgotten here.
It was a fearful thing
to be confronted with myself,
to see so clearly all the things
I had long ignored.
You see, the things we ignore,
hoping they'll go away,
simply move into our rooms
and wait for rediscovery.
Your turn will come,
if it hasn't already,
to enter your suite of rooms
and be confronted
with all the essence of you.
What will you do?
And, what am I going to do now?
Escape and close the door?
Lock it?
Build a wall in front of it?
Try to forget the things I found
in my suite of rooms?
Put my blinders back on?
Or will I have the courage
to move into my rooms;
to become familiar with those intangibles
that exist in all of us;
To learn to live with
the ugly things,
and not be defeated by them;
To sort out the useable
from all the rest,
and use it with enthusiasm;
To know that what I found here
won't always suit those around me,
But acknowledge it anyway.
I stand now in the doorway,
looking out, looking in,
wondering . . .
Submitted 17 Sept 2016
To Contest: What Might They Find There
Categories:
unoccupied, identity,
Form:
Free verse
Faint heart once overflown empties alone
sinking beneath shell's hardened clay.
Saving face, only to trace ring line shown
conspicuous on finger yesterday.
Blue veins weave below fair skin, weakening.
Disturb the routine, no one cares;
frown lines curve lower still deepening.
Save what's left - dig through hidden layers.
Cast out the hatred, the past's mistakes,
rise above, be spared future burdened.
In spaces unoccupied, heartache's
existence spurs apathy to mend.
Whoever refuses to sift from the earth
promise of gold buried underground
and an unsure hand has forgotten the worth
of that most precious which can be found.
Categories:
unoccupied, absence, betrayal,
Form:
Quatrain
He came each day, when the sun showed noon,
Two heels in a plastic bag-
Thermos of hot tea
To have lunch and
Read passages to the yellow birds-
Usually an hour, til they took flight.
But today the bench is unoccupied-
Empty, except for a plate of hardened ice,
Stuck smooth and tight on the iron,
and frozen sheets on the lath.
Yesterday his footprints showed-
They were longer than most,
From shuffling feet and a small round circle
At the side, from the walking stick...
But now they are gone-
Covered by snow on the path.
The ducks look, and for awhile they wait,
Funny squawks and squeaks in their throats,
Heads bobbing with each step of feet,
Perhaps the only ones to notice the empty bench.
Strange, they have not flown south yet,
As their pond is nothing but a white icedrome.
Perhaps they were waiting for their
Friend to go first, and now that
he has gone, they will soon take flight.
He walks spry in a gentler land,
Beard no longer gray,
Sitting warm- no aches or pains,
Face with no creased lines...
Feeding the yellow birds
on a silver pond each day at noon.
Categories:
unoccupied, absence, death of a
Form:
Enclosed Rhyme
I don't have filled spaces.
Nonexisting time lies to me,
making me feel as if I were not empty.
Space remains painfully unoccupied in me.
There is no prince
no poetry or sigh
that a sigh without cause is consequence of passion.
There is no romance or excitement.
Word or song.
Meaning or ignorance.
I don't have time, it's true,
for I am filled with the strange intensity of freedom and youth.
However, all the space of my soul I keep
like a ballroom with no ball.
. . . If someone shouted in me . . .
it would echo.
Patricia Evans
Categories:
unoccupied, introspection, life, love, mystery,
Form:
Free verse
Oh, Poverty,
You merciless ruler of billions,
Your empire of want, across the globe
You have stretched
As
In your unpitying passage,
No village
No town
No city
No nation
No continent is left
Unoccupied
By
Your ruthless forces:
Of suffering
Of Misery
Of agony
Of despair, and
Of calamitous death.
-
The innumerable subjects of yours
Subjugated are
By
The powerful heartless few
Who
Their ruthless decrees:
Of cruelty
Of indifference
Of inconsideration, and
Of shameful exploitation have been
For centuries, unmercifully applying,
Grinding your subjects in
Their shameful mills of fathomless greed,
Always,
Taking for themselves the lions share, first,
And then for more are they asking,
While
The deprived multitude of starving
Women, men, and children
On empty stomachs, they march
The
Horrid enemy of starvation to face
On
Famine’s unforgiving front of their demise,
Wishing thus
To die in the battle of survival with dignity,
Than
In agony to live another day
Without hope that their dream of satiety
Will ever come alive!
Oh, poverty,
Don’t ask me how did I come
Your grimy nature so well to know
But
If ever I were asked,
Here is my reply:
" I know you, oh poverty so well,
for
since my birth, a loyal subject of yours I have been
and still a loyal subject of yours
I remain to this day!"
© Demetrios Trifiatis
25 May 2021
Categories:
unoccupied, food, humanity, poverty,
Form:
Free verse
I thought it'd be a blessing
to reminisce
knowing I, the conveyer
A-I took over
as I spoke what ought
A-I did naught
it typed out its choice
none was my voice
as I watched the monitor
do its my detour
of every word that I had said
went in the water--dead
every thought of blessing
became depressing
my time out to reminisce
turned out to be a mess
and so I thought I'd enough
and just press it off
an unoccupied room a computer sits idle
in front of it sits an opened bible
A-I has nothing to offer
without The Author
Categories:
unoccupied, analogy, appreciation, bible, blessing,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
Vallaha as Valkyries scream from
the depths of hell.
Charging out
into the vacuum
of an unoccupied mind
deafening all who listen
to their monstrous cry
from the bleak wilderness
called Vallaha.
Scream out to Odin
the scourger, charmer, enchanter.
Bewitched sinner sirens,
resonant, ensouling the strings
of unattended souls.
Lyrics whispered into
the trance of an ephemeral ballet
yet, appearing
epic in length and nature.
Categories:
unoccupied, fantasy
Form:
Verse
I had survived how many summers? Five?
Six? 'til, self-taught, I learned at last
of terror that lurks in situations
which those I trust (myself included)
would swear offer only perfect safety...
My ball rolled under my Grandma's house
and I, well-guarded, scuttered after to retrieve it,
mindless of the tarry soil fleeced with fluffy,
small red feathers, newly molted by matrons:
hens that clucked contentment,
set upon their hidden egg troves.
Spying their nests, I thought to rob them
and so earn a Grandma's love for a city boy
unversed in country ways. Thinking, I acted,
reaching for a nest unoccupied,
half hid behind a house block.
I closed my soft, expectant hand
upon a wriggling creature coiled among the eggs,
drew back like lightning to watch
a brightly spotted snake slide off
into the farther, deeper darkness
amid a squall of squawks.
Emerging empty handed, terrified,
it wasn't Grandma's love I earned that day.
I have always since encountered similar brilliant colored
dangers whenever I have thought to grab,
for myself or others, unclaimed treasures
in strange places, in warmer or in cooler weathers.
Categories:
unoccupied, childhood, education, family, life,
Form:
Narrative
The morning sun hovers coyly
behind broad shoulders of the John Crow Mountain
before unwrapping petals of fever plant and Venice.
Mama’s countenance was far contrast to one so radiant,
so when the old Leyland bus went shuddering along gravel road
the first beams break through pinewood forest.
The old New Hampshire Red was up last night,
bamboozled by the plump moon,
but all was still in the petite hours ‘fore daybreak.
His first boast was far too late;
Banties have already blown their tops,
and warm rays long ago penetrated rabbit fence.
Leghorns proudly announced fresh eggs.
Beds were unoccupied and unmade.
Voices came, children in euphoria;
oppressors were off to nine to five.
Nightingale sang an encore
before morning forage,
and gaiety commences.
Brown skinned pickneys,
like the color of the Balaclava clay,
with reflections of innards on innocuous visages.
The hoopla lived until the Leyland snaked along treacherous drop
and the sun hastened to avoid mama’s air.
Chores rushed,
and mama voice ruined our names.
Tomorrow, at first light, we will be children again.
Most of us have heard of lands where dogs licked their humans’ faces
and are driven about in carriages in nappies,
while we loathe our predicament
some counterparts wrestle in grown-ups’ arenas;
innocence lost to palm wine and brown-brown,
and blood moves consciences far less than September’s rain.
Will tomorrow’s shoots be allowed to be children,
delightful progenies?
Let the bright sun shine on Columbia, Cambodia, Guatemala, and Sierra Leone.
Categories:
unoccupied, childhoodold, children, morning, old,
Form:
Lyric
The last train to my destination
Sparsely crowded, seats unoccupied here and there
Its weariness is palpable, even the lights are blinking
A group of commuters remain huddled together
After the day’s hard work they prefer nodding upon each others’ shoulder
The train runs sleepily, now and again lights from outside
Flash upon the saint-like faces of the people inside
The train gradually slows down, presently it’s a stop
The platform receives some home bound bodies, someone
Jumps into the compartment carrying a group of young girls
They are perhaps returning from their school fest
They have revelled much, played and sang and danced
So rightfully they are tired, momentary rings on their mobiles
Are responded to, and then silence again
One of them suddenly opens up her eyes
The obscene nudge in her breast can not be mistaken
Can she protest? Would she…
Her meek eyes show helplessness
The lustful hand strikes again… she sobs…
All of a sudden a slap on the face of the rascal
Reverberates through the compartment, a woman in tattered clothes
Raises her finger to him, she’s one of them who go to the town
To earn their daily bread
Next halt, the girls get down
The blinking back light of the train disappears, leaving a trail of dust
Categories:
unoccupied, evil, horror,
Form:
Narrative
It happens when you’re debilitated, laid-up, sick;
random images, memories
coalesce within the unoccupied reason of your mind.
Maybe you have a memory, standing on a hill, chilled,
watching the final high school football game of the season.
Maybe you are a fictional character writing about mixed emotions:
your youth transcending societal doubt.
You could be a real person
fictionalizing a pubescent experience
upon a million future pages
describing insecurity at a time of social transition.
Agerstown Pennsylvania wasn’t a bad place to live,
but Pencey was a haven of unforgiving classmates.
Absent mindedness was no excuse
and a lack of self-discipline was grounds for expulsion.
The History instructor was an engaging and affable fellow,
like instructors are.
He was concerned about you,
that instructor that spoke with you
and was aware of the student unable to apply his self
in the presence of teenage shenanigans and impulsive drama.
It seems you were a victim
or a misapprehension of circumstance.
The lack of women at Pencey Prep School was obvious.
The slovenly plain and fidgeting daughter of the headmaster drew your eye.
A growing libido and an ailing fantasy life is no way to grow up.
And while such things make for an interesting read,
they are thin of poetry, romance, and sexual deeds.
Upon the hill pondering flashes of memory,
physical youth seems pleasurable compared to a bleak, unknowable future.
Some good-byes are worth waiting for, some are not.
We always seem to remember bad good-byes.
It is remembering what could-have-been
that keeps us recounting such random and undesired images.
Categories:
unoccupied, books, character, education, growing
Form:
Free verse
Its always gonna try you hard,
and make you break,
it will always make you show face and terrorize in pink lace...
Because I see movement of the waste-
its choreography decorates cake,
lets the whole place be a plate-
lets the rafters wave in place...
Because costly stages just might break,
and rotting basements just might take...
So slither away
and eat a homeless mans birthday,
in one try-
or one way.
Seizing the opportunity to come through to me,
just like a well seasoned spring,
coming and hugging,
like weed in the rain,
on a terrace-
unoccupied by the pain,
or people who bring the insane.
Not to sound wealthy but I'd go there again,
show my teeth breathing smoke and the thing,
being meaner than the bear losing her cubs to recycling.
Categories:
unoccupied, angst, dance, fantasy, pain,
Form:
Imagism
Drained,
unoccupied thoughts
form empty sadness
Drained
of those moments
now never again
Drained,
what little is left
will soon evaporate
Drained,
smiles are forgotten
frowns become the norm
Drained
of that voice
sung in times of need
Drained,
drab wilted flowers
where pinks and yellows once bloomed
Drained,
sunny days now darken
neath clouded dreams
Drained,
never to be full ...
again
Categories:
unoccupied, sad,
Form:
Free verse