Best Unstrung Poems
Dr. Zhivago, 12 angry men Valdez is coming Clear and Present danger Scent of a woman Armageddon Medicine Man
Top Gun the ninth gate Dangerous minds, Milk money wings of the dove
Cider house rules and shangi noon
The shadow {knows} Bugsy the firm dangerous dogs Jack
Men of honor Quills WATERBOY
the way we were Dead Poets Society bird on a Wire 50 first dates
Never been kissed
gone with the wind Cactus flower Serpico The little mermaid
good will hunting unstrung heros
The Labarinth Wizard of Oz Miracle on 34 th street
Scrooge
Beguiled the good the bad and the ugly High plains drifter
Love Story, 2001 a space Odyssey 16 candles
Pretty in Pink Star wars The Robe...
You are not enough...
Your body, the lethargic blood in your veins, little red rivers...
Your aging heart, gallantly beating –
I want to kiss its straining crimson chambers,
Bless it, the poor doomed thing...
You are just not enough
Your skin is too frail, your hair too cashmere-soft,
Your calcified bones are so – breakable
I lie beside you and trace my fingers over your face,
Receiving the butterfly kisses of your brittle eyelashes,
And behind them, those cocoa-dark eyes, windows to a soul that sleeps
Benevolent in its oblivion...
Then down, softly down my fingertips dance, to the cupid’s bow of your lips,
Unstrung, slack with weariness…
I bend my head and touch my lips to yours – and shudder, tenderly
Your kisses have the seal of death upon them, the bittersweet reek of coffin fodder
You are not enough…
You could never be enough, not for me
My hunger for you is insatiable, unquenchable,
I want to swallow you whole; I want to climb down your throat and sleep,
Tucked safely inside your skin,
A parasite composed of love and ravenous yearning
I want to eat your very soul, or catch it in my fist and pour it into a
Diamond jar, never to be unleashed –
But to be hoarded, like a magic ring, a Holy Grail of gently glimmering love
I want you to be mine – forever…
And once I have you,
Locked inside that little diamond vessel,
Oh my sweetheart…I will never let you go
Spring hasn't sprung: No bees have stung;
No painter's fallen off a ladder's rung.
No miner's contracted black lung.
Spring hasn't sprung: No batter has swung
At a strike three pitch that no hurler has flung
In a ballpark where Opening Day Game banners
have yet to be hung.
Spring hasn't sprung: No dry parched tongue
Has yet been clinged or been clung
To lips burnt by the rays of the sun.
Spring hasn't sprung: No song has been sung
Off-tune and off-key in an obscure mother tongue
By a lone crooner bereft of a love unstrung.
Yes: It's ok that Spring hasn't sprung:
--If certain particular news is not brung.
March 30, 2018
Contest entry in "Spring Fling Zing Thing King (or Queen)"
Sponsor - Michael Vacek
RUBBISHITROCKS
rubbish bins rot their
stenchsimmers in dark
lanes
the gluttony of pots
slopslaughters of
remains
rodents hiding behind
verminrocks
stonethrowers
feeble weedywarts
carcasses fried with
flies in the heat
of stillstopping
hearts
who knock at the door with violins unstrung…
to bid enter would force a
stand before their
watercoloured
court
where writes turn
to anaemic
amoebia’s of the
fragileflopfaint
verses of yawn open doors
to drain the wounds
of weary wacko’s
in their wake
@ Kim van Breda
I am unstrung pearls,
rolling about in the dark
that dying ember
that once was a glowing spark
a flower petal, fallen
lying withered on the ground
the wind, now hushed
too diminished to blow around
a drop of cold wax
where once a warm candle burned
a heart, sadly imprisoned
caged by a love that was spurned
a whisper, never spoken
silenced by promises now broken
a grain of sand stuck in time
held captive inside an hourglass
a thousand tears wept
while I wait for heartache to pass
We heard it said repeatedly,
in adage olden and far-flung,
through springs misspent too heatedly,
that youth is wasted on the young.
Our ‘salad days’ of judgment green
found life a song to still be sung,
a wanton time when slate seemed clean.
Ah, youth is wasted on the young.
If mad pursuits of senseless aims
left us ‘at sea’, burned-out, unstrung,
from revelry in ‘fun and games’,
then youth is wasted on the young.
When ages past maturity
those words oft heard have freshly stung,
we see with blinding surety
that youth is wasted on the young.
Yet, wiser than we were before,
we heed the chimes at midnight rung
and anchor vagaries ashore.
Aye, youth is wasted on the young.
We seek enlightened paths to know
and glory just to dwell among
the blossoms of an inner glow.
Oh, youth is wasted on the young.
And golden years bring different dream,
when passion’s lost her silver tongue,
for lasting peace to reign supreme.
Yes, youth is wasted on the young.
~ Harley White
John was a boy who loved to whittle.
One day he made himself a fiddle.
It produced a bad sound
The worst to be found.
Forcing John to decide to whittle little.
Silent Conversations
The wind is up today
Coastal clouds
Playing tag with dust devils
On the shimmering bent mirages
Wavering their uncertainty of heat
Where the sea rolls its ice cream caps
Cool in the blue hinted sweeps of grey
In the chill air con bar
We sat upon empty stools
The languid condensations of beer
Trickling their refreshments
Of cool back of the throat smiles
I hold converse with the vacant air
While every demoralised seat
Longs to have you safely ensconced
And listen to silent conversations
But they watch instead my empty stare
The wind is up today
Carrying beach kites dancing in acrobat wheels
While unstrung gulls rock unsteady
On the gusts of southern Sarah
And the dust devils dance their own display
Of hot dry air
The gold lustre slowly sipped
With the curling tongs of cigarettes
And the deep dark amber of ancient teak
Thinks of auburn caught in a giggle
Rests upon my elbows
With unsteady poise
The wind is up today
Sneaking through niches and humming to itself
A song that I wish would carry her voice
And the dust devils tweak and twirl at the sky
But not with any dance of mine
I sit and hold silent conversations
With pillaged and abandoned chairs
An old grey barn owl sat on a limb;
He looked weary and a bit forlorned.
A young blue jay flew up beside him;
with brilliant blue plumage he was adorned.
The jay to the owl, “Why are you so sad;
You have everything going for you.
You are old and wise, a good life you’ve had,
And still you are sad and blue.”
“My mate is away,” said the owl to the jay;
“She’s off giving care to our young;
And I’m left all alone when she is away,
And I feel like I’m coming unstrung.”
The jay to the owl, “You should be glad old friend;
I’ve seen many young females today;
And there’s an old saying that’s been penned,
‘When the cat’s away, the mice can play.’”
“My dear friend jay, you are such a fool;
You must know that owls mate for life.
To lure me with forbidden pleasures is cruel;
I would never do that to my wife.
I’m wise enough to know that would be dim,
and I would forever be scorned.
And that is why I’m sitting here on this limb,
and I’m looking a bit forlorned.
September 22, 2017
Unstrung as the brave
Nonviolent in protests
Questioning moral wrong
Unfavorable of unfairness
Extravagant in ideas
Supporting freedom
Taunted by the ignorant
Irascible over foolishness
Obsessed by cleanliness
Nameless to the envious
Ambiguous in everything
Bountiful in blessings
Liberal in thoughts
Enthused by laughter
THE browning Version
ET> Unstrung heros Premonition
Enemy of the State
Good will hunting
Mystery, Alaska The family man
Galaxy Quest Hook ghost busters
CARNAL KNOWLEDGE
5 easy pieces Last American Hero
WITNESS
High fidelity
PULP FICTION
HEIST
Waterworld The Big Lebowski
GO TO WHITE CASTLE---DEAD PRESIDENTS
the scarlet letter
Nixon
3,000 miles to Graceland
Luke 11:9
In a state of half a dream and half awake
I await I await you and anticipate
tantra trinkets glitter across old crone skies
scattered stars the litter of our synchronized wishes
broken symbols of our disenchanted rune
cosmic poets cursed lutestring-verse rhymed for us
I’m lost astray a pearl loosed from a fractured string
lost in ashes of embers our fire that fed the sun
will you search a cosmos of starving stars
their shimmer growing dimmer til light withers
will you search a famished universe to find me
a spec of earthly widow-dust settled ..stilled
sweet Venus intercede before dark recedes
listen a nightingale’s sonnet song rides night air
melody’s flame melts ice-blonde moonbeams
a buttery pool the smitten singer’s spotlight
—his rhapsody brims his beloved to swoon
oh Venus let lyric-desire be my angel’s glide path
in a state of half a dream and half awake
my sensual soulmate I anticipate
invite for my griever-skin to frost-bite-tingle in thaw
touch me warm my angel touch me warm
billow tender breeze through window’s yawn
pale cheeks brushed lips shushed a lover’s rush
a rush as light as a silk scarf’s skim on skin
I tremble like a sonata cello string
soft breaths move curtains and swell my sighs
wind spirit croons my name I close my eyes
your ethereal presence glides on wind song
your physical absence abides in our bed
how poetic this dual ache
throbbing the same passion space
in a state of half a dream and half awake
I’m a pearl knotted yet unstrung
Dog-human
When the human dog attacks ya,
The monkey brain goes slack,
A savage dog is at ya,
And instinct fills the cracks,
Reflex is in gear?
When a woman is being strangled,
She will claw at his face,
Thought’s of death entangled ,
Animal instinct interface!
Instinctive action, fear!
Animal bird protects her young,
As the Goanna goes for her eggs,
She dives and swoops to bring unstrung,
And pecks his back and legs,
Departing lizard, here?
Duality means, 2 owners appear,
Animal man, is only one,
The spirit sane, controls the brain,
Till passion interferes,
And slaughter has been done?
And conscience mourns de dumb,
Too bloody late my dear?
Spirit man is quite sincere,
But brain control aint won,
When the nasty dog, kills off a frog,
The voices worry, some,
Too late to interfere,
The animal dog has 1
Don Johnson
Who am I to judge your instinctive desire,
To quench the passionate yearnings you require?
Freely, we placed our inhibition to the side,
Tangled up as one, why should you be crucified?
Such a glorious act, marred by double standard.
One’s perceived as a hero, the other is slandered.
I urge ye without sin, to please cast the first stone.
If that title befits you, you’ll find you’re alone.
Even if it’s a temporary illusion,
You give me a way to suspend my seclusion.
When all of life’s hardships bend my mind out of shape,
You are there to aid as my cathartic escape.
For the strength that you show, you’re a hero, unsung.
Subject to disapproval, you remain unstrung.
Your unmatched composure, can take a demanding toll.
Since you’re good to my body, I’ll take care of your soul.
Declare me as nonsense,
Your deaf-eared head shaking
unstrung with disorder
dusty cobwebs of bent thoughts
--and a paltry two cents
(I know what you really mean though)
“my $0.02 > your $0.02”
Truly rich men need not admit such fears,
for their wallets only open
less the close minded
Our solace seems born between the dark and the day,
beneath the fullest of moons
=spun of white silk and dust
But today's clay breaks asunder--
Blank checks like yester's echoes
painting freedoms amongst the longest halls
each hardwired in a plethora of words ending in some form,
of hateful [-ism]
Yet I manage to only hear one voice
the voice that tells me to be kind with my rage--
to rip the paint from the walls with talons draped in silk
to dine alone on these sharp tasting thoughts of vengeance
One rose with a hundred sharpened thorns, my mind blooms--
and forgotten be the thoughts that deny my good sense,
to only listen to your two
July 26, 2016