Best Unreadable Poems
The Name Game
Understanding human nature can be very complex indeed
Especially when there are people whose names are hard to read
Let me give you some examples to explain what I m talking about
There is no simple rule to follow, no single rule to flout
Perhaps you can take for instance the case of Marylou
Underneath her disarming nature could be a cold and heartless shrew
Or when Mary Jane who’s far from plain is a stunning movie star
And Johnny who never stole any sugar or uttered Yes Papa
One should never plan a vacation based solely on the name of a town
“Accident” a place in Maryland is actually quite safe and sound
Or” End of the Road” is the name of store and does not refer to a street
There you can find everything you need from shoes to books to meat.
Consider why Ideo locator merely means a “you are here” sign
Or Morton’s toe simply means your toes are not arranged in line
Griffonage , unreadable writing , they should simply say hard to spell
Honestly with names like that , one really cannot tell
Have you ever wondered why no rats have ever run a rat race
Or a slip of your tongue seems silly when your tongue is firmly in place
What’s in a name asks Shakespeare, really there’s quite a lot
Would you smell a rose if it were called a Stinky touch me not?
“joy, empathy, compassion
on an upward arc
an effervescence eternal
causes bliss ignition to start” ~ Unseeking Seeker
I unlock the crystal frames
of these honest eyes,
to the sizzling sparks ~
the seraphic wings
of iridescent effulgence,
swirling and swaying in silence
between spaces of rising stars.
It’s a priceless adoration,
this soul’s cosmic compassion
surfing in sync with persistent passion,
in lyrics that Kundalini light illustrates
to the chakras of nameless existence,
where material mists
do not manipulate my faceless muse,
nor impress the magnetic rhythm
of flames entwined in faultless faith…
O phoenix sun ~ peace pursuer ~
my clarity verbalized in calm vowels,
I cradle the intuitive
activator of awakening,
an ambience of amplified auroras
alive and aroused by the hypnotic scent
of ivory roses,
blooming within inner conscience.
For you are the glass sky
that stirs my spirit in patience ~
unclothing the confusions
that cloud the
cerulean of my heart’s eden,
for love is a reborn feeling,
enlightening the weariness of breeze
to return like empathetic embers
amidst the
air flowing in blissful balminess…
Tonight, I b r e a t h e
the resurgent radiance
of everlasting agape,
hold the warmth
of relentless rippling romanticism,
as fingers quiver in quiescence,
as thoughts place their trust
in erasing erratic errors of ego,
that once blinded me from attaining
the divine affection
of desire draped in the formless
flowering lotus blaze,
listening as this ink release
the rhythmic runes of resistance,
engrossed in effervescence eternal,
to feel the
fuel of fragranced illumination…
So move through the pulse
of these metaphors
and alliterated verses,
melt into the unmetered mellifluence
of magical monologues,
so effortlessly,
whilst intoxicated by the stimulation
of deep awareness ~
O beloved dawn, I am the manifestation
of ineffable metamorphosis,
I speak in coherent reveries of peace,
wearing the tiara of truth,
crowned through
woven zephyrs of zestful trust,
as you now remain,
sculpted into these amorous veins
like an unreadable engraving,
a pristine presence;
heaven handwritten,
only my conscious sighs can render…
in an
angst- saturated
moment i find you there in
my travel bag, injured by the neglect of
a poorly screwed-on sparkling water bottle cap:
my beloved poetry notebook of fifteen years. You are
now one-third soaked and stained at the top. I shudder to
think of throwing you away or burying you in the cemetery of
old college diaries and love letters. You were my faithful collector of
anxiety and pleasure, cleverness and drought, loneliness and victory;
oftentimes tucked away for months at a time as creative energies were
diverted to other outlets. Like a loyal dog whose master travels away, you
never gave up on me. How many times the tears stained your inky pages
long before I even knew that sparkling water was a thing! When friends
moved away, or betrayed me (how i wished THEY would move away), when loved ones died too young, or old ones lived too long (how they wished THEY could die instead), when my son was slaying dragons and my daughter was breaking up with an inattentive boyfriend; when my wife struggled with her sisters, or when I agonized through physical therapy or cancer surgery, you were patiently there for me. Even as my joints and stitches eventually healed, you continue to be my invaluable companion, both for my history you contain to the left, and for the blank, hope-filled pages to the right. Like me, you are aging, stained, lumpy, scarred, but two-thirds useful as i write under the stain.
///NOTE: the shape above roughly mirrors the unstained portion of my notebook, which I will continue to use in its deformed and lumpy new state!
Also, no poems were harmed in the making of this poem. I write in pencil, so the water didn't render any previous pages unreadable, thankfully!///
A freak of literature
Designed by those mad poets
But escaped the lab:
the English classroom,
Its me G the hybrid word:
With added punctuation and
bold character so im strong-
Arial be my font family but I paced away,
So I ain't close to them
So sorry paragraphs and stanzas!
I guess the writer knows my verses.
A lonely word, a sentence out cast:
Low self esteem and narrow stem
Serifs sticking out so im teased!
Roaming the lines, in the bottom line
Seeing meaningless words and incorrect spellings;
Paragraphs hanging in the margins ,
Looking out for erasers and ink removers
No word dreams of spending their literature:
Stroked out; erased and torn out;
Threw in a garbage can: that hell!
O please writers answer us!
We just want to be read in harmony,
And spelled correctly.
We words know:
That these are the last Summarized times
so the poem might end
But let me finish up,
The writers know the poetry
The whole story, they created us!
Words of this Chapter
The freak of literature,
How do I know? it's the writer
The prophecy of the chosen word:
The son of poets and the proper nouns
So they all capital letters,
Yeah! They coming for yeah!
The errors, words that have been erased
The undead, the unreadable
Damn the legible,
Think they better than us!
Cause they accepted by the writers,
Writing and prophesizing sentences
Those verses forming stories,
It's war: words stroked
Cold inked so they erased,
Torn out papers!
This is deeper than writing!
We all words destined to be read
So some are reasoning,
Is this a verse or a poem?
Many words are beginning-
to question their literature,
Begging writers to write evenly,
No orphans and widows:
We just want to be spaced out,
Adjustments and justified
In lined sentences-so we spread out
Properly uniting calling paragraphs;
Growing in numbers to stanzas,
So all the readers read us as one story.
What if Heaven….
is HELL….
The ultimate
gated
retirement community.
No “crazy” old neighbors
talking to their cats,
feeding their plastic flamingoes
styrofoam packing peanuts.
No music
unless downloaded
from a select play list,
no flags, no bumper stickers,
(unreadable wrinkled tattoos – OK).
No churches
if you’re here
you should know why.
Just forever smiling
angelic faces
aching
to drop a cannonball
into the pool.
John G. Lawless
©4/4/2019
silly little things
odd, unreadable things
strange, twisted being
confusing, mind numbing
heart breaking
finger twisting
people
they have this unbelievably strong
ability to attract us
to appeal to everything we want
giving us hope for a bright
happy future
they say the right things
do the right things
they lure you out of your cage
your cave your fortress of safety
they make you let your guard down
just when you think you have found the one
when you think
you have discovered the reason
the one exception
the one person that means something
that shows you
they are not all the same
they betray you
hurt you
destroy you
it could be so easy for them
to let you go
cut the strings you held on too
with such force and passion
to kick you off that cliff he had lead you too
to leave you in the field of unknown obstacles and dangers
to take your heart
and never give it back
but what is so easy for them
leaves you,
leaves us with such a difficult task
of finding ourselves again
of getting over what we had lost
but where do we find that strength
that courage
that love
to get back and continue on the search
search of happiness
when you climb so high
and go so far to follow one thing.
when back at the beginning,
its hard to start over
why do they do what they do
and hurt us so much
i just want to know why
Written: September 29, 2023
____________________________________________________________
Walking through the corridors of my dream,
Down the boulevard of anguish, it seems,
Breathing in the knell of an unreadable sky,
Haunt Harbinger hypostatization, holding high
Dimly lit guests, snow troopers, and a piano key
Playing a dismal dirge, an internal funeral melody.
Insightful memories on the dark side warn us
Anger and passion, the cusp of nuclear dourness
Letters written in sepia script, a child's scare
In this circumstance, an illustration of despair
A startled, hoary invoice manifests in the mail.
Chaste in Gulag, cognizant of the time roll on stale
Shattering and breaking through the glass box.
The axe grooves on raw wood and blocks.
A misheard song, carefully shattering a splash.
The spear is reflected in the water by a slash.
Hope mirrors shake fate spears to consume.
A rare bedazzlement, a reflection of optimism.
Swords of inertia rattle, eager for consumerism.
But I drudge, unfazed, in this dream, I resume
Where the power of a single act of kindness
Can shatter darkness and bestow brightness.
I walk on, carrying the weight of the past.
But never forget that it won't last.
In this dream, I find solace and peace.
In the midst of chaos, pain, and cease
The blue sky is melting into green.
A symbol of hope, of a raw scene.
let’s not get carried away
with my cache of failings
and unbless’ed idioscyncrasies
the brain mysterious,
untouchable
mazed, unreadable
the heart lethal,
more ingenious
blowing smoke, big guns
bang, bang
love
bang bang, love
I’ll cover your skin
like soft, warm
cashmere
kissing the inbetweens
moments of sweet seduction
hypnotised, I’ll take
your swelling soul in
bang, bang
love
I’m a gangsta,
Sweet Sin,
Love
is a libertine
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Sweet Sin. Love. Libertine.
Rereading the poems of others
and my own. Community across
time and graves. What's left
exceeds in significance
one's last moment. Yet
his last moment must have been
exceedingly important
for the poet.
Nothing he did that day will seem meaningful.
While we prosecute the war
a pileated woodpecker and red squirrel
compete for sunflower seeds.
A winter slow
to assert itself.
I can still see my mother's father and his bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts
quiet weekday mornings.
Both grandfathers read sports
pages religiously. I don't know
if my grandmother who gave me the
anthology of, to date, dated
unreadable poems read poetry.
I remember my mother's mother spoke
rarely as an animal.
Writing but not knowing where I'm going
unlike Joan Didion justly
cannibalizing candidates
who didn't read the Constitution, Bill of Rights or
Federalist Papers. It's late,
I have not vacuumed or shopped for food.
Instead I reread
Phil Levine's Salami.
Specter of a Hero's Tortured
Soul
Forfeiting faith to successors to
sacrifice self for others...he
believes not in himself but his
progeny...
Eternal life and inflexible
determination prevent waning
love...his ceaseless adoration
powerful to the point of self
harm...
Unwillingness to ever relinquish
the shards of his heart...or the
memory of possible fates...
Soul scarred with unfathomable
secrets and wounds...alone and
concealed he is known to not
even himself...
Heart struggling to conquer
inner demons and loss...mind
overworked to find salvation
from hell's burning wrath...
Indescribable like smoke blown
through trees on a moonless
night...
Intricately woven to be as
substantial as the steam which
fuels his passion...
Never surrendering...never
retreating...never giving in to
any opposition...
Steadfast and valiant he will
never be
conquered...unreadable and
undecipherable...he will never
be understood...
Why does one write poetry?
To get lost in the solace of words,
to encourage one to look at birds;
or is it something much less communicable:
a state of being, like a look in the eye,
that is unreadable?
We could talk night and day,
about the how and why,
but the only thing that is foreseeable
is the poet coming back again
for the ink and pen.
"Phoenix Wings"
Suede heart turns tin star
wears the shining part
on the outside stitched up
blue silk now
glistening
tears in time forgotten
justice in the frozen cut glass
criminal, wasted memories
clairvoyant signs
electric lines writes and
truth speaks codex sublime
in the haze seen
that which others cast aside
inconsequential significance
in the unreadable
useless hieroglyphics
sensed red, written
blood and private wars
kept caged in the place
where skin sheds
metamorphosis happening
birthing something
in the lost words there
some strange beauty reigns
in the fire borne rage
summoning beautiful majik
strange poetry remote
dissipating eventually
unlikely understood
touching the distance
welcomed in like a
new phantom invisible
illuminating
the unseen
meaning of smoke rings
tears the past's flimsy
wedding veil the face kept
imaginary diamonds
carried off
above it all
dousing the commotion
another chapter
another season
burnished not banished
like walking faith
on an Ocean
kept
Winter wraps itself
sensuously some feeling
in the falling leaves, still
quietly persistent
watching abandoned
Autumn stories
warmly stoked
under blankets
heat rising
magic spills lit
under the tempest
lifting upwards
the cracked yoke
freedom tasting
blue sky
kissing cupid’s bow
unfurling
life stirs there somehow
sensed in hidden meaning
heat beneath the smoke rings
opening up, the heart beats
skywards in the thrust
blue silk glistening
in the phoenix wings
(LadyLabyrinth / 2021)
"Smoke Ring" / Robert Levon Been
https://youtu.be/YyyN2hnInpI
"You never wake up from a dream
It never leaves you
But now it hurts you,
leaves you down the straight line
You never split a glass of milk
You’ve never cried and cried..."
"You are the smoke ring
You are the majesty.."
I can see it in your eyes
your brain ticks over
search supplies
the lie with fall cover
Because mother always used to say be aware of those around you
their reaction to your actions giving clues how to act with them
so I did but it didn’t flick the impulse switch off
appearing distant as if I don’t look
assured I wasn’t tell me off believing I wasn’t
yell at me too need to look already was
now I looked hard saw what I shouldn’t
suddenly impulse takes control
I look so quickly at lying eyes behold
dishonesty or truth the 2 sights sold
see through whilst my impulse confuse
actions speech diverting you
insults words no filter just blurt
yet within all this I still observe
every week my psychology observed
experts spoke to my parents helped me learn
conversations of why I don’t concentrate and learn
adhd gave me selective interests
psychology one where calories invest
I was impressed my hyper mind never rests
find focus and psychology progressed
disguised by impulse so natural
paying attention looking as though I wasn’t at all
made me realise I’m unreadable
and it confuses so learnt to use this tool
random strange so you can’t work out my brain
I'm looking insane whilst I calculate game
focus on situations
knowing their intentions
what motivated seeing their options
string the circumstances
how and what is their rewarding destination to pace on
leave no chances I'm ahead
stop them became so good tease and seem close no problem
make them a fool
you think I’m cruel
avoiding a brawl
make them look small,
them target me retardently,
but I’m weird cus I get psychology
so I fight physical now psycho probably,
but if men didn’t challenge my alpha status
I would live normally,
it’s them but you blame me not their insecurities.
I was 7 or 8 when I first learnt psychology
smart people only use it in defense you see
If I see scum manipulate for selfish gain
I beat them at their own game
“The Waves”
The waves are full of viscous hyperbole -
the looped feedback reeking vicious bleeds
into hungry sharp-toothed grins
wanting pure metaphoric new feeds.
What is a novice to believe?
Love reflects Love?
As below
So above?
Fighting the incessant misery,
Lionlike a demiurge swallows
its own serpentlike tale – and crows -
"believe in me".
What is a novice to believe?
Hecate holds a new book
full of lost Sophia syzygy keys,
casting her ill-born progeny into a soiled world
purring and hissing,
walking un-straight lines into the corruption
of unwalkable deep burley seas.
Her eyes mirror yours incessantly,
while You, the unreadable read
lazy Skys of blue.
She touches your soft bare sandy watermark
calm waters rippling stormy deep beliefs…
Though, you would disagree -
through The Great Sleep.
What she dreams,
seems to be
becoming real,
it brings you to your knees ...
late prayers arrive
like unwanted help.
The Lost
are hung upside down
seeking vindication like Peter -
You find yourself, now holding his keys.
Angels arrive unceremoniously,
in their much looked for legions
heaven sent ...
in moments of divine agony,
they stand in front of you like precognized warnings,
burning all with their glorious torches of Love -
all too late;
without Books in hand –
some revolutionaries let their fires loose,
unheralded, they make it through … The Gate,
after the cock crows.
Three times ... and,
You’re out.
The majority hesitates.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
“Before a rooster crows, you will deny Me three times.”
Matthew 26:74-75 (NIV)
“Something is here
I can hear them breathe
Something is here
But I'm not scared
Beg to your gods
But I don't believe
Nothing in here
Can help me now
[Chorus]
Cold warning comes
Cold warning comes for me
Cold warning comes
Cold warning comes for me…”
(excerpt, “Cold Warning”, Gary Numan)
No Recommendation
Unreadable ideograms
Beaten thin leaf to tenuous holds
Of failing parchments
Brittle in their folds of tears
Remember, they struggle for survival
In clasps ever present
Reverberate continual back down
The long lost corridors
Searching for the regurgitation of their meaning
Black and white memories
Of some sickness
Which threw off kilter
Every next days other day of life
The heat of its brand, a whimper
Kicked on late stirrings against a pillow sleeping
Fizzog fierce of demons forming
From an ugly defining rampage torturous
No recommendation
Other than a scar to pit against its will
Other than the pain burns continual
Of insubstantial rape
Its shame to twist and wring the neck
Till breathing burdened
Utters not
Its last and inconsequential gasp
Released
The lump constricted full of throat
Strives to cough up on agonies point
The vendetta it holds against the past
And its freedom overburdened by desire
Children, screaming into silence
With a wish of blooded nails
To scrub away the indelible marks
And eaten hours
Rips against the mirror inside a heart
Cold implacable bleeds
The warm vein of isolation
Designs its unreadable ideograms
There are no recommendations