Best Unswept Poems
Morning Thoughts
By: Miracle Man
1-10-2020
This morning,
Shadows from days gone, whisper past;
Of other times, other people, other places.
“Dust Bunnies” from psyche’s unswept corners,
where so long they’ve rested undisturbed.
Some so vague they no longer have faces,
just names, or circumstances.
I sit, eyes half glassed, bathing in thoughts
that crawl across my mind like a Snail,
and now vanishing with the speed of a Cheetah.
Confoundly forward marches the soldiers bravely twords the war
On going is the beat of the drum that leads these men
To where the single trumpet plays a rebeling score
A battle ground where battles implore gore, the grapheties of war
The generals encharge more, once again obeastities twords the poor
This includes those enchored, the entangled, the ignored
War, it's so upstrangled, oh and I disincluded those forced
So have I yet struck a displaced chord, should I this poem abort
Caught between the memories, the struggle just to make it through
An empty wide open, and the millions of motions which gracefully do
Fought where theres freedom, brought here just for you
Those feelings make you an empty crew, fight it, don't get blue
Because now in this silience it's just me and you
Nothing more left here that will ever be new
I walked ten miles tonight
Attention diverted arms draw up tight
I surrenered the time
To get the answers right
The question forever there remains the same
I am no longer there, your to blame
Spinning circles emotions bringing forth the cause
I felt the whole world open putting that time on pause
The dawn begins at zero hour
The canyons flames burn at its blistering bowels
The range is now a burning ridge
My thoughts are now only a burning bridge
My eyes feel so empty without you in by my side
It hurts so much the whole crew got caught in the fight
With unswept memories I only stir though the night
I've wept, I've prayed, and then I cried
Searching for an answers of why you died
ma nature cleans house....
under a carpet of snow
piles of unswept leaves
Blood-full, swollen
Ripe with hunger
of all varieties
Fevered, sweltering
A sweaty temple
Rusted, cobwebbed
Unswept and unwashed
Distant, Left swinging
In the wind, far from notice
Heat lightning! Strike the ground!
Boil, tumble, the shape of your mouth!
Fire, fire, red fire! Melting to the bone..
Oh, oh, oh! Before, during, after!
All the time! More, more, more butterflies
More everything, more throbbing, heaving!
Oh god, can't stop laughing!
..
Failed, glass-blown thing
Knocked off the edge of a ship
Filling with silt, cement and bile
Smothered, frozen veins,
locked into place, eyes closed
Too tired, too heavy
To utter another word
Peeking through a keyhole
Moving around in the chrysalis
Thinking, only a little, about
Reaching out, or in, or in between
Sleepy but curious, again
Flesh is building up, maybe it's time
to come down stairs for breakfast
A dark whispering fear clogs
my mind like an old Victorian
chimney, unswept for decades.
An over anxious lump sticks to
my throat like the mucus of a
thousands deadly plagues.
Insomniac mist settles on my
eyelids only to be disturbed by
the halluigenic patterns of the
wallpaper dancing in 3D before
my eyes.
The pit of my stomach like an
endless well.
Hot irons impending their
flames with every twist of my
sleepless night.
My instinctual nature alive,
alert and awakened - my
civilised mind screams for
sleep.
The shadows pull my eyes into
a satanic blank stare.
My reflection is only
recognisable by habit.
The clock - tick tocks.
Dawn breaks.
Only to begin again.
Although it’s almost autumn
And the stands are stacked with mums,
It somehow feels like we’ve been stuck
With summer’s unswept crumbs.
For temps are in the 70’s,
So folks are wearing shorts;
And baseball scores are still a part
Of all the sports reports.
There’s watermelon in the stores
And burgers on the grill;
Mosquitoes buzz around the screens,
Their thirst for blood to fill.
Yet shops are decked for Halloween
And football season’s started.
Ice cream trucks have hushed their bells
And for the south departed.
The almost-fall’s confusing.
We’re betwixt and we’re between;
But Mother Nature, with her paintbrush,
Soon will intervene.
When oaks and elms and maples
Sport their red or russet hues,
Then autumn will be here for real
And we won’t have to choose.
You may talk of submarines
And of other war machines
As you sip your beer and talk of yesteryear.
You may even look with awe
At the ships that roll and yaw,
And the carriers as steady as a rock.
And what’s prettier to see
Than a ‘can’ while out at sea
With her bow that’s dancing through the brine.
A destroyer, tough as nails
Boarding seas bury her rails
Staying vertical is truly an ordeal.
To the frigates plaudits go
They put on a graceful show
As they sleekly speed along at sea.
But there is a far-famed ship
And to her our caps we tip
To the Sweeper who was where we’re heading now.
See their sweeps when they outreach
Clearing paths from deep to beach
For landing craft to bring the soldiers through.
Knowing mines unswept ahead,
Resolutely then they thread
And their sweep gear clears a channel for the fleet.
So we give them our salute
Every mine-sweeping galoot.
And raise a toast to them when they’re ashore.
One who has anger kept
Has never ever he leapt
Beyond boundary and wept
For his misfortune slept
Because of his wrong concept
As Ashwathama’s concept.
Nobody here is ever unwept;
So don’t always backswept
By certain emotions inept
Like Anger and have percept
Which lead you be a nympholept.
Be the person who has crept
For perfection – void of windswept –
Attained salvation and stepped
Into ever-increasing peace precept.
Those who avoided it adept
To tell that peace in mind unswept;
Anger, A Vice not Virtue except
For those who has clear concept.
Sixty year old cabinet hinge squeaks
Pain as owner bends her knees
A long relationship at its peak
Cling wrap drops upon the floor
Carpal tunnel lessened her grip
Cabinet door hangs loose from core
Stiff painful back slows grabbing wrap
Lying upon unswept white tiles
Angels hoover near as she collapsed
Sunrise beach walkin'
no need for talkin'
when elements transcend all language.
My hand in your hand hold
seashells unswept by calm
receding tide
still swelling.
Burnt umbers stroke aqua
marines break through gull
wing thunder haloed
in hallowness.
No space for shallowness
much less for callowness
hope for tomorrow struts sure gently
proffered, dawn's break of night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Turns me on!
His seared look, from a painted gird brow dons,
a face like Van Gogh with both ears, though just,
as lost, looks about an empty room of challenges,
that is built high on lost convictions, drowns in a,
festering of desperation, as sweats beads a stench,
on an unswept floor, wavering, between old unhealed,
wounds of a, dark past, all attached to young love,
and their new miseries.
He takes a swig and walks away from a sultry,
sway as a piano's light tune, breaks off key and,
holds, as a blown off woman pops her gum and,
snobs at his direction unnoticed and wanders off,
while a glib man in slick clothes offers a chance at,
cards, he simply walks away until a chair moves,
from behind, it's slick, he then stops with his back,
still faces him, a chair slides back, he walks on.
He comes up to the man at the piano, who is a bit,
jittery, asked hm if he knew a song called, 'Ole
Susanna', he replied saying that he never heard of,
that song, he then steps back a spell and figured,
him to be from the north, and gives him a look like,
a Picasso painting for he knows that people out West,
knows, 'Ole Susanna', so he's thinking that things are,
afoot here in this town, as he looks around at stares.
He backs away, on back to the bar, takes a final swig,
as a jingled coin settles to silence in the uncanniness,
of a quietude western bar, as he dons his hat, the,
bartender hollers that set the bar back to its norm, girls,
giggling, cards shuffling, piano playing, and all of the,
joviality returns, as the new guy in town, hops on a horse,
and pulls away as a normal western town fades in the sun as,
a drifter stops, turns and sees afar off, a painting by Monet.
Blaring lights of glaring savauge,
Gaudy surmise ceased to suprise
Light of darkness, sun to the sky,
In sight to sanitise the tear of thy eye
Unswept and wept 'pon broken bodice,
Wept and kept and hounded the goddess
Fanned the fawn of cauterised fallace,
Hell of cold, unearthly palace
Chaste and torn chest of satis,
Man to maid and hound of malice
Seam to see unravel of ravage,
Goddess to test the fondest of savage.
Unrestrained Summer Fun
Unrestrained summer fun. Uninvited Feds frolicking, throwing unarmed people in unmarked vans. Rollers ride, with unchecked power, distributing death to those undeserving of it. Millions sick, from unseen marauders. Poets fueled, by undead spirits.
Unrestrained summer fun.
Under a bridge sleeps the undignified welcome committee for the unjustly unemployed. Unpaid rent leads to under-served sleep on unswept ground. Underneath is an under current, threatening to leave an entire nation undone.
Unrestrained summer fun.
Understanding what it means to be under the undermining influence of unrestrained summer fun is undesirable. Patiently we wait to no longer live under the gun.
A train travels under a bridge. I’ll try not to end up underneath it.
White rope of sunlight
Tethered through my chest
Shot clean through to my spine.
Gordion knotted to my backbone.
I can feel the knuckles of it
Between my shoulder blades.
Pinching rope with a yawn.
No contortion reaches the lonely
Mark, the treasure on a map.
I have never begged for the sword,
I never imagined needing it.
My wrists are too weak,
Sinew is salt, muscle manicled.
Sometimes, as if in a dream
The rope slackens as sunlight
Slips beneath the sleep crusted
eyelid of dusk. Dust on the
windowsill dances—-Celebrating.
Is it for me? A reverie? Or
The potential, praise for one more day
Unswept, unkempt, a knot of effort
Unmassaged can swell to blackness.
If love was nothing more
Than a room to be decored,
Then mine would be a mess
Unkept, unswept, and left.
If love was nothing but
An empty cooking pot,
Then mine would have ingredients
Without the heat or instructions!
But love is not like this:
A simple metaphor.
A song so sweet, a game of twists,
As real as touch! Yet nor.
But rather love is that:
A metaphor itself.
When all pieces mix and match,
Creating something else.