Best Unrecorded Poems
To all the fallen of Covid 19
whose deaths were unrecorded and unseen
To those who languished in intensive care
where Fear unmasked itself to mock each prayer
To mothers shedding tears from dawn till night
while clutching keepsakes of their children tight
To fathers who must raise their kids alone
who stoic in their grief, suppress each groan
To nurses, doctors, first responders, all
who risked their lives in answering the call
to face the mayhem, doing what it takes
Yet every day the virus raised the stakes
To those deprived of saying their goodbyes
who could not wipe the tears from closing eyes
To those who stood alone beside a grave
who mourned the youth that doctors could not save
To you now isolated in your house
who care for stricken child or unwell spouse
To you whose nightmares will not let you sleep
who plead of God your loved ones' souls to keep
What comfort can I give you who remain
when in the news there's talk of a new strain?
Just this that Covid 19 will not win
To let it crush our souls would be as sin
One day we're sure to leave the "hiding place",
and not to face our deaths, but live in grace
Though normalcy may not be like before,
I know that there are blessings still in store
Our faith and dreams remain pandemic free...
These Covid cannot steal from you or me
Humanity has learned what things are dear
We found new ways to keep our loved ones near
Eileen Manassian
Denial is a can of peas
whose contents
should never be indulged
beyond the expiration date.
Yet there I stood,
evidence screaming reality
at my eyes, their gaze steadfast
upon the wailing baby girl
before me in her bassinet.
My mind then confidently knew
that what lay there
could have never come
from briefest self-indulgence.
Still, my heart wouldn't listen—
And rightly so.
I turned and faced
a solitary window,
which framed a cold and gray
November day
that froze as well
the unrecorded moment.
Though soft upon my parted lips
came unbidden words:
“I love you, dearest child”—
knowing all that was yet to be,
for here lay an open book
in which life would write about
a young girl’s timeless, playful mirth,
but also test her brazen dreams
and tireless hopes alike.
On life’s other end,
my mother wearies
of her endless days
and puzzles
over life prolonged well past
these ninety-seven years—
asking with familiar eyes,
undimmed by age,
the reason why,
which none can answer,
and which none tries,
and silence reigns.
Then, soon enough
both memories and questions fade,
their cycles now complete.
Mark B. Peterson, Any Poem/Any Form, December 26, 2013
Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep. Even the hot chocolate did not do
much to help sedate the excitement.
We were hoping for sleds that year. The snow was perfect for
sledding especially like we did it. We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up
and were pulled through the hills. We got our sleds. My dad and my uncle made
them for us.
No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the
radio. Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use. We spent many hours
playing cards or games.
I took time out and went to high school and college and got my
teaching certificate.
My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government
turned the schools over to the local government.
The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and
Indian families were living in them. The school was dirty and unkept.
Now the school is gone. The ancestors who once walked these
dusty plains are gone. The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
They are Ghosts. Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.
Ghosts who still chop wood on those sub zero nights. And the drums we heard
in the middle of the nights are still beating. They beat as strongly as the heart
beats in a healthy body. The laughter of the children still echoes under the
bridge.
The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin. The Battle of
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought between the white man and the
Indian on the northern plains. It's cries still echo across the land.
My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left
in the dust. But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven
still lives. And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.
He was young and attractive and quite debonair,
An upstanding young man who was going somewhere.
Or so it would seem if you knew not his history.
To we in the know he’s repulsive dark mystery.
When I think of it now I feel chills descending,
He went to same school my child was attending.
But as far as I know, he hadn’t yet killed.
At that art, with practice, he became very skilled.
In 1974 women were disappearing.
While Ted with his studies was still persevering.
He had way of asking for their sympathy
By pretending to have broken arm or bum knee.
By now the police knew their suspect was called Ted
Clued in by some girls who escaped being dead.
Many others who listened were not seen again
And parents were left with unbearable pain.
Not born in our state, had moved here at age five
So much better if he’d been born dead not alive.
Wherever he went there was death visitation.
The mysteries were a multi-state-wide sensation.
Nita Neary came home and found her door ajar.
She saw a man carry a log to his car.
What she found in her home were two roommates dead.
Each was bludgeoned to death in her very own bed.
He was stopped by police for traffic violation,
What they found in his car was a gross aberration.
There were handcuffs and ice-pick, crowbar, and mask.
He was questioned by those with right questions to ask.
He was arrested and tried for his various crimes
But somehow escaped from justice three times.
Wherever he went he was brutal and bold.
His last victim of all was just twelve years old.
Ted Bundy died in the electric chair
The most hated man that ever went there,
A hundred dead females at least was the count.
Other lives shattered, unrecorded amount.
Written May 26, 13 A true story.
On site of this forgotten Babylon
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in this annihilated place
What strange creature’s kin
to inhuman race
Dwell deep in antediluvian hells
Uncanny things creep
and scurry in forgotten realms
where Poseidon reigns in dark
crumbling cathedrals built
to worship cryptic gods from
outer voids darkest empires
What hell is this of undiscovered divinities
Babylon burns as nations
of man conspiring to touch
the face of an imperfect god
sink to depths deeper undefined
What afterbirth of leviathan
hide in secret chambers
plot damnation to human minds
insanities spawn monstrosities
that doom mens soul and break their realities
In sight of this forgotten Babylon
Along a desolate Mesopotamian shore
What powerful unrecorded species
dwell with in this annihilated place
Where strange creatures akin
to the human race
Dwell deep in antediluvian hells
Ode to Lovecraftian lore…
Mom and Dad's wedding picture
frames a glass-covered black and white frozen moment
with warm smiles
for invisible cameras.
He in his WWII uniform
of a first class private Republican
with recent patriotic death technology experience.
She in a white satin dress,
veil innocently pulled back,
rosy, more democratic, cheeks
even black and white monotheism
cannot fully suppress.
And,
I am in there too,
on their first day
of my realistic political and biological chance
to become
together
with who we are
together
this morning
in this home
in this town
in this State
in this Nation
on this Earth
In this time
of climate health and pathology
and spiritual health longing to belong
and economic health as probably less hoarded wealth
and political health and supremacist pathology
and mental health and issues,
crisis,
opportunities of Yang wealth
and risks of not yet enough restoring Yin-Matriarchal health.
This white satin laced bride
and this uniformed groom
smile together in black and white
monoculturing wedding pictured,
where white carries the main Yang history
while black
was lack
of negative information,
understory,
They too
had been understory health potentials
when my grandparents,
matriarchal and patriarchal,
smiled without black and white cameras
through their pre-WWI wedding days.
On back
through unrecorded 4D polyculturing histories
of full-color wedding days.
On back
to before patriarchal and matriarchal commitment smiles,
invested in future cooperative economies
and, preferably, synergetic family politics,
relationships and transactions
of all nutritional varieties,
had ever thought of public wedded vows
to love and cherish
potential Elders in Her EarthMother Womb.
Frozen moments
restoring new climate potentials
through cooperative commitments
to future lives,
their health,
our health,
Elders' health potential of wealth
all together
in this one black and white
wedding picture frame.
In my hand the ink drips,
commotional emotions at large,
patches has failed.
Nails and swords, pierce the hearing ear,
fussed drops of lethal dose,
push me to the edge,
for adrenaline chokes my conscience,
lead tracks,
Perforation of daunted untrampled dark corners of my mind,
diffuse me from this dungeons,
Let the near and afar witness
and preserve my presence
for days have surpassed others unrecorded,
I'm poetic ink,
unleash and infiltrate the soul
for the present to inherit the marks,
Was just an ink, they said,
Lil to their knowledge,
This is a force to be reckoned with,
if today imparts none,
Tommorow might be in vain,
shallow and void,
the ink drips.
Feed the soul for the mind is unguided and clouded by rage, assert the uncertain, pull me closer for the desire is ravenous.
Hand me the cannon, mass distraction at need.
I blow the missiles my presence is not for the immediate
but the wild and beastly,
human essence at awe,
look and listen,
read and understand,
this ink echoes, wisdom
and intellectualism.
breed the inbred.
My crime would not go unpunished,
spilling the ink is my servitude,
don't wanna account for my silence,
for I'm delegated,
to empty this ink before my return,
dust to dust, ash to ashes,
none must pass here before bowing
and acknowledging the spillage,
for I am poetic ink.
#Poetic_Ink
First Verse: God created the heavens and earth
In the 27th, made his mistake, gave men they birth
and also blessed us with our greatest accomplice
a glorius, fair faced, and bodied enchantress
and then came our end, the doom of all their kin
when Eve in 3-6 committed the first sin,
and what's sad, it was 'bout the only one possible,
it came so fast proving, we could do the implausible
17 verses later kicked out the garden by God
then upon unforgiving deserts they're forced to plod.
and who was shocked, when Cain killed Able in 4-8
do it to our own brothas now, outta less than hate
but 4-14 comes as a biblical mystery
Cain talks 'bout dyin to men unrecorded in history
God, you leavin' parts out and I'm hella confused,
cause I'm readin' your word, and it's not so well fused.
The pen is greater than the sword or so it’s often said.
A poet’s word still stirs the heart long after he is dead.
The "Elegy" of Thomas Gray can still provoke a thought.
And Campbell’s "Ullin’s Daughter" proves that anger gains you nought.
What of the tales of Highwaymen that Alfred Noyes wrote,
We all felt sorry for the man with lace bunched at his throat.
Omar Khayyam’s finger writes and having writ moves on.
But still his clever verse delights long after he has gone.
Why is it John Clare’s "Morning" or Tennyson’s "The Brook?."
When found in an anthology still make us stop to look.
Its true Maysfield’s "Sea Fever" will cause an inner ache.
In any landlocked seaman’s heart who’s seen a grey dawn break.
As Newbolt’s "Fighting Temeraire" will always last the distance.
Likewise will Marks Poem Code for the French Resistance.
Could we forget Keats’s "Gypsy Meg" with bed of brown heath turf,
or John Hays "The Enchanted Shirt" so full of subtle mirth
When Wordsworth’s "Golden Daffodils" herald in the spring.
Along with Housman’s "Cherry Tree" it makes your spirit sing.
Whilst Thomas Hardy’s "Darkling Thrush" when frost was spectre grey
captures for eternity a dying winters day
Kipling’s classic poem "If" sets rules for living by.
Whereas his "Undertakers Horse" reminds us that we die.
The beauty of the written verse out lives whoever wrote it,
So throughout the centuries' others oft will quote it.
The Poets fame will light a flame in hearts of all mankind.
When those who led great armies, long since are left behind.
So remember all who fight for right with gun and bomb and sword.
Your deeds are unrecorded until someone writes the word
Today is the day you show us your worth.
You recede,
you retract,
a retarded new birth.
This taking motion.
Your body paints on the canvas of its life,
an outpouring of you without control.
An abstract,
a schoolboy erraticism,
in colours not seen by your eye.
They take you.
Your canvas awash with human error,
they break you,
they shape you,
they paint you a colour.
These tones are not yours,
a model,
a floorshow,
with no applause.
All of your motions undetected in this hour.
This world has no time for you,
but you are measured,
in black fingernails,
patches in veins,
stitched lips,
in coolth.
They gift you,
cold,
in this place of warmth,
this home.
Unrecorded timelapse shows majestic animation,
interrupted by fast comings,
and faster goings,
and
teardrop
explosions.
You are home,
your home,
our home.
oh, those years of sit down and be quiet,
of all our shortcomings,
our
hearts
darkest
riot.
INVASION OF DREAMLAND
How is it that you still invade my dreams and stir up such feelings of desire?
Motives reproachful for me you had yet subconsciously suppressed you are'nt
Not a thought for you during waking hours is given yet my dreams you haunt by
your presence
Yearnings for you exist even if only on subliminal levels
One AM I turn in my sleep and the dream rushes to memory as vivid as reality
I am a slave to this pen and pad no sleep will be attained if these events go
unrecorded
Truly blessed I am for this gift of creativity; grateful am I for my ability to express
even my darkest emotions beautifully
Off to the land where no lies can be told...
Off to the land where one’s deepest wants are expressed...
Pride and shy hold no existence here...
Focus on the most wanted desires before landing there and maybe, just maybe,
you will experience them
Welcome to dreamland...
Written By Shivon Mejias
Under No Management
A sad state of mind emergency,
rooted sorrow buried deep within.
Evacuated thought mind urgency,
isolated all alone to weep again.
Sirens, horns, lights flashing,
mentally dialing 911 inside.
Trains, cars, planes all crashing,
wreckages of tears eternally cried.
Mental blue spaced handicap parking,
unrecorded reality in empty closet space.
The brightlights pen flashed sparkling,
No manager home to manage this place...
bmdavey@
002/24/17
When the dark mother enters through sleepface,
And dissolves every thought into nightmare or sweetlace,
Unrecorded distortions are applied from experience,
Undefined by dimension to subtly take shape.
Disturbing drafts of ideas,
Entranced by a vast shifting scape,
Where images bleed and twine in the synapse fire,
Drafting unreal scenarios without disbelief.
To leave and be free of the person you try to be,
Yielding control to near infinite possibility.
Now dream, unflinchingly, under your cover,
With a slumbering kiss in your head from the other.
Initially, I was convinced
that she barked madly at the moon,
enraged to find that tasty bit
of cheese was out of reach again,
diurnal pantomime played out,
quixotic tiltings of the mind,
quotidian, unfiltered thoughts
best left to unrecorded dreams.
But unbeknownst to me, there lay
hidden within those stranger lines,
contagion or a viral code,
a stowaway that slipped through the
defenses of my mind and made
its home within my furrowed brow.
What wondrous, vile, infecting muse
is this that I now too am drawn
to cycles cursed, responding with
a seeming lack of will, as does
regard this free and rambling form?
I do not know, and caring less,
I seek the tasty bits with great
delight, to savor, contemplate
until again, I can draw near.
[Continued from Part 3]
“As you say, o’er many kingdoms and proud lands the sun will reign,
Yet, in all, deceptive rulers Heaven’s leave and nod will claim.
They will bind their every subject to their taxes and their laws:
By perversion of religion they will spread their wicked claws.”
“Your chagrin was not incited by their faith or by their Lord:
Dipped in bigotry and falsehood is the sharp blade of their sword!
Whole millennia may follow before rulers understand
That, to gain our true acceptance, they should never raise their hand.”
“Though the arts and the fine letters of great Rome may turn to dust,
Is there truly any culture whose great deeds are bound to last?
In both near and distant future, some will think that their own world
Might survive for many eons without falling to the sword.”
“What our history has proven, and shall demonstrate again,
Is that even kings can vanish unrecorded by the pen.
Vain, indeed, are men’s desires and their fantasies on earth;
Unto certain death and ruin are we destined from our birth!”
[THE END]
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com