Best Unreported Poems
If I wasn't there,
the rain swollen clouds
would have still dumped
their dark weight over the bay
and through a gaping tear,
let down a curtain of sunlight
to start the day.
And if I wasn't there,
the old, arthritic labrador
would have still waddled
along the street
with its bent but steady gait,
undistracted, self absorbed
and fixed in its own stare
that allowed no deviation
from years of devoted plod.
The morning had no need
for me, what happened
would have happened anyway.
There's an annoying sadness
in knowing the earth
doesn't seem to care
if things pass unnoticed.
Sunsets and waterfalls
carry no favor.
To it, the achingly beautiful
and the catastrophic can
happily go unreported.
And yet I still ask -
what's the point -
and entertain the notion
that the universe has this
innate and unfathomable need
for a witness
to take in Creations
unfolding riddle
and make it fit together.
I could be wrong,
but for each of us,
the privilege of being here
on this gifted earth,
to understand, care for
and tell its story in song
fulfills a purpose,
if only to this end -
or something more.
On the streets of sin city, on the high roller's main drag,
Known as the Las Vegas Strip, a gentlemen phantom
Does stroll dressed in all black attire, striding forth with his golden Cain,
Flipping a silver chip into the air, and mocking at its power.
The devil's agent of deception is he, retaining a list of names
To collect upon, this gentlemen bandit of the forsaken.
He is here on the dark master’s behalf, ready to claim on
The I.O.U's signed by the greedy, and innocence fallen.
Quietly, moving amongst the crowded venues, he waits
Until his lord calls the name of the unlucky, to be reposed.
Dance do the neon lights, flashing towards pleasure dens of iniquity,
As ladies whom belong unto the night itself, offer their
Tokens of favor, for a working man's paycheck.
Black jacks twenty-one, cut those cards, and pass them out
The first timers dumb luck, will deliver him unto evil,
On this walkers dead man's list tonight.
Against the loaded dice, no soul is left unsanctified,
On the sacred green velvet altar, the wheel of fortune
Spins out of control, then hitting the baccarat tables
Wooden wall, someone screams snake eyes.
Then all is lost, faded are the dreams of illusion, melting away
Into the harsh desert soil, along the road side leading to sin city.
Beneath the arid sandy duns, lies the grave yard
Of the unknown unidentified, a missing persons
Smorgasbord of the rich and infamous, lying right
Beside, the unreported poor man corpse.
This is the Grim Reapers play ground, taunting
And tormenting, those begging for redemptions
Last chance to gain a reprieves pardon.
But when tapped by his golden cain of death,
Your life's essence has wagered it's last bet,
To the winner goes the spoils, and now you
Belong unto the devil.
People say what happens in Vegas stays
There, and rightly so will he agree, with his blackened
Heart and soul, for after all is this not
The capital of hell on earth, known as
Sin City, Las Vegas, Nevada.
The populations of the undead just added
Another’s names tally and the gentlemen
Dressed all in black, is sent a wandering
Again amongst the crowed streets, to claim
Another victim in the dark master’s wrath of
Vengeance.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Am on my knees Father
Bearing in mind that you never sleep
Crying for those trapped in a foreign country
Dark days have befallen them
Equality rules broken, screwed humanity
Frequent hunger, little or no pay and slaving labour
Golden days are over for them
Having greener pastures and better opportunities
Is a dream that burnt on their arrival
Just want to go back home, even in poverty
Keeping their fingers crossed, for safe arrival
Looking forward to getting out of captivity, passports in hands
Making every effort because there is no place like home.
*For those suffering in places like Lebanon, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Bahrain etc. After going for better opportunities/jobs but they end up in the hands of mistreating employers. They sign long contracts and their documents are taken. There are many cases of abuse and neglects, some reported & some unreported.
NB: not all employers are like that & there are those seeking greener pastures that come out satisfied*
Bluefin Tuna are listed as, endangered
because of illegal fishing, of global fish stocks
as eighty five percent, is unreported and unregulated
Overfishing of our oceans, has to be quickly eliminated
Bluefin are the largest tuna, and can live up to 40 years
and they migrate across oceans, and can dive 40 thousand feet
They are made for speed, and built like torpedoes
and have retractable fins, but they still end up in food tins
They are tremendous predators, that seek schools of fish
like herring, mackerel and even slippery eels
They have the sharpest vision, of any bony fish
but that doesn’t help, as they end up on a human dish
Taxes are not talking nor are they taxis. But airports are often very congested. Packed tightly forming queues. Vastly unreported by news. News are neatly arranged newts in a bath licking ice cream. And a single melt of globular sploosh is merely an unwelcome loss. So washing becomes very dextrous in beckoning an eroded surface. Bubbles can form at will from depths of over fifty five feet. Whereupon a steely coloured beast of old will rise to take on even the mightiest of modern weaponry. When travelling in herds step left right left rigidly and always steer to the centre. Cinematic viewpoints of pathways filled with the patterned stardust trails. Break no saucepan in a rage. And cage no plant. It is to be said that at this time the potency of a banana sandwich with jam can run at great athletic speed over a basin drop. So always drag a meal to a ballroom. With chains. It is also wise and often imperative to shield eyes with cups and harness the knives,forks,and spoons. So as to avoid the high fluted champagne glasses who can be very nasty if crossed. Particularly if wearing a nine million pound gown. Sweep no lawn for lawns must be mown with a one centimetre pair of scissors. Many blades. Long time cutting. And dangling off the central high way at midnight is a feat only achieved by a very large circular bat. Pinnacles painting prisons playing political polo parties. And jester moments from the east and west ignite laughter and cheers from birth and south. So far heard by the eleventh moon many miles away. Air current velocity then. In a bowl. Chatting to a ladle about the state the potatoes are arranged in. It us simply not done. Unheard of in fact. To chop and place potatoes next to carrot and cabbage when all must surely know by now that this is unsafe as they simply do not get along together and therefore the soup will taste most sour. Dour diaries digging digital downloaded dreams. And a large portion of porridge in a mist on the horizon. Skipping. Hahahaha face of a thoughtful tissue. Hahaha exclamations exciting existential exotic experiences explicitly. Hahaha rotunda rotating rut. Xxxxx numerology Z that was the latest from the p y q reporting from a morning zoo next to a nice sty. Z cvb jackets Z.
Through my old window I see
The young birds, fluttering and flying free
Wings stretching out so far and wide
As they soar through the open sky.
Their eyes, as beautiful as twilight
Sparkling with a glint of delight
I watch them play and tumble with glee
And envy their freedom so wild and free.
My heart longs to join them in the air
To feel the wind rush through my hair
To fly without a care in the world
And be one with the birds, so pure and unfurled.
My heart has now a tongue of its own
A language that only the birds have known
For they know no boundaries or borders
And their love is felt in every flutter.
No longer bound by earthly ties
I soar with them into the blue
And in their graceful, effortless guise
I find a beauty, pure and true.
Through my old window, I am transported
Into a new world of freedom, where love is unreported
I am one with the birds, and they are one with me
And together we fly, forever wild and free.
The sun no longer burns me
The clouds hugged away the moon last night
The stars sang from behind the curtain
Have you stopped hating me?
The cuckoo returns to the garden
as flowers sway in the breeze
and the nightingale dances on my patio wall.
Have you stopped hating me?
The storms go unreported.
The torrents of rain disappear.
And in the still night, the wolf howls are not heard.
Have you stopped hating me?
There's no more horror in the waves of the sea
The earth no longer shakes
Even the graveyard dogs are silent
Have you stopped hating me?
Unreported Violence in Vilamoura
The couple was nicely suntanned, but the woman had
a black eye, he was very courteous to her tried to hold
her hand, but she didn´t want to and his face reddened
angrily, so she let him hold her hand. Both were nicely
dressed on their way to a restaurant; no doubt when
meeting friends a droll story would be told how she got
that eye. Polite laughter. Men would believe the story,
women would exchange glances because in the eyes of
the hapless woman they saw the truth. They would find
out- women talk- when they went to the ladies to
powder their noses. The unlucky one would beg them
not to say a word. “ He loves me, but has a bad temper;
and when I nag him he slaps me, it is really my fault for
not understanding him better. He was so sorry for giving
me a black eye last night that he cried, promised not to
hit me anymore.”
Mister Government Taxman,
IRe See
you’re reaching into the citizens’
pockets again
Mister Caesar Palace Chamberlain,
your adept eyes
are deeply searching
every pocket square inch
for that last Penny pinch
Mister Vig Publican,
heavyweight coin collector,
you got another clock punchy bantam bettor
in a phantom debt clinch
The interest jabs piles on
every quarterly compound
Principally,
it hurts to tangle
legally ...
Round after round
Especially,
with the kangaroo court side
so plaintiff pouch
friendly
Mister Reaper Taxman,
you love to calculate take an
IRS estimate guess
Cost Grimm
is your pal[e] sidekick solicitor
Repo is the death blow
given to any delinquent visitor
Mister B[adge] Taxman,
with the sticky fingers, moneybag hand
Every sting
gives the Federales pot belly
a forfeiture honey tan
Mister Hedgewick Taxman,
you keep furtively
pi offering
shelter scam price add vice
And fee subtracting
a briefcase hefty skim slice
Mister Dachshund Taxman,
the Crown Boss Dollar Hogg
best coin collar hounddog
Sniff the silver scent
leading to the gold hidden —
Unreported income forbidden
Mister Sandman Taxman,
always ready to penalty collect
every garnished debt
Lien dreams
give those default
phat pockets
An open docket behest
Treasury coffer-filled desires
so pillow wet
No po’ usury soul ever due tribute grieve,
when the purse-hated Taxman
corporeal plane untimely departure leave
*IRS is the U.S. Treasury acronym
for Internal Revenue Service
— Romantic Warrior
Discretion
David J Walker
Its wing crooked from some
Unreported collision
The wild Canada goose would
Never fly again
Now left behind
Left to beg at the end
Of driveways when not hiding
Between lawns and lakes
Holding himself in humbled pride
Begging as homeless veterans beg
At an edge of town traffic light
Out of sight of traffic cops
With guns and cuffs and discretion
Once his hunter now his guardian with
Obligations they both understand
There will be corn
At the end of the driveway
every morn
No questions asked
The mine drowned the holler,
many reallocated
to trailer parks along the Interstate.
The school dwindled,
ran out of children
became a garage for dead trucks,
then a beer barn, then a Meth lab,
bubbling feuds resurfaced -
shotguns aimed at open secrets.
Oxycontin mules crisscrossed cricks.
After the sheriff left with a bag of money
the missing went unreported.
The ‘Craft’
(a legend as ancient as flint arrowheads),
emerged from clapboard covens
ginseng and moonshine were sacrificed
for white powder.
Glocks flourished among the Hummel’s.
Traditions persisted
like red paint on wooden signs.
An outbreak of opaque cottage industries,
led to skins inked with blood oaths.
Old women retreated into the mountains
with their recipes.
Spirals of distant smoke
rose from iron cooking pots,
no one spoke of the children.
The people from Hades
It is well known that Trump's are a dynasty from hell
he does not care what people ( the serious press)
writes about him as his base do not read.
They watch Fox News and local papers that write how
great he is.
He has helped killing more Americans, more than his
army ever did, this is deaths out of sight and go
unreported, one is tempted to call him a Stalin type
his callousness is similar in disregard of humanity
his history will be harsh.
It is given he will win a second term in office and
the house of cards will come crashing down.
When America wakes up to the knowledge they are
living in a fascist state and millions will be beggars
the dystopia is complete; the devil made it possible.
Conundrum solvers, puzzle be
Here within the text you see,
Eye two secret missives penned
Crypticwise – responses send
Keek the type, inside lines look,
Thus hidden I’ve words. I took
Wild liberties wit’ my count,
On th’ meter…errors mine will mount.
Let be thrown ‘fore swine words not,
Everyone might try – code’s sought
Through the twist’d poem writ down.
Try first it’s “pithy” mood (nice noun).
Endure should you th’entire note –
Revisiting the “lines” I wrote
So find you might directives mine
Before puzzle hour’s finish line.
Enough conundrum, let us rest.
Forsooth we might pursue this quest
Over “mounds” or over hills. ‘Tis best
Retired, this my rhymed write.
Even though the time is quite
Perfect for to bid good nite,
Unreported – thing one more
Not mentioned it heretofore:
Could you missing thing look for
Songs from a life, sounds like the blues,
microwave fries, pot noodle, stews,
dead on two legs, only half-nine,
saying yes, to the overtime,
this months rent and the kids' new shoes.
Paying forward, paying your dues,
when there isn't much left to lose,
longing for friends, weekends and wine,
songs from a life.
Cut price make up covers the bruise,
somewhere hard cash, won't look for clues,
warning the kids to keep off-line,
praying tomorrow, turns out fine,
unreported on last nights news,
songs from a life.
The applause
I had a drink before going to a poetry reading
since I was nervous
drank a few whiskeys and spoke dramatically about the plight of the Palestinians
I needed help to get down from the stage since my glasses were at the hotel.
The next day, we went to a meeting where the top of
The educated class go, I thought they were idiots
they had erudition but no
learning, So I got up and spoke for fifteen minutes.
The silence was colossal
think of a needle falling from the galaxy
and landing at the Himalayas, I had sinned
said the global warming was a natural disaster and had nothing to do
with global warming.
The meeting was unreported in the local paper
but what do
I do not speak this Roman soldier’s language.