Featureless Poems | Examples

Her Mind is a Carnival of Picasso Harlequins

"Her Mind is a Carnival of Picasso Harlequins"

Walking through the poetic frames of featureless ghosts
her fingers play like harps their ectoplasmic cages
strange symbols that clang the frivolity of vacuumed cleaned emptiness
dissolving in the invisible time wasted in the chronicles of their newfound empires
  
the meaning of their spectral presence swings

like canaries singing home all their honeys sweetly
it’s all bluebirds entertaining the wisdom of lovelorn owls watching on
like they are azure feathered blind mice adorned with halos, 
while the carnal vultures smile winging it above them all in prayer circles predatory

“her tongue is an arena of silent conflicts”

her mind is a carnival of Picasso harlequins
balancing the trapeze, the affairs of a wild heart 
scorched and stinging with fragments of cubist love collages 
arriving like ashes within the flames of her phoenix stages; 
some newly burnt Aphrodite.

elements closer to reality than the abstractions of geometry


CandideDiderot. ‘25

Miramichi Afternoon

Miramichi Afternoon
The sloping shoulders of the river
tumble down rock on rock toward 
the wind-riffled, slow flowing water.
Alder and grass creep down the slope
but will be ripped out once again by
the ice out floods of early spring.
The stones and haphazard boulders
 are sun baked into featureless gray,
their bright minerals shrouded from view.
Land living things are more sparce here 
and those present are paused by the heat.
Out on the water a dimple of a ring rise, 
perhaps a salmon, more likely a trout.
A noiseless punctuation of somnolence.

Intimations

The sky broke, it did not rain,
the clouds did not part,
a faded blue did not fade away,
behind that, an intimation,
a featureless back-lit gray
watched.
Eyes blinked, heads turned,
a silent cacophony plucked 
at a collective deafness.
Some presumed, other's assumed,
but all knew
that the space between us, and the All,
was as fragile as the air in our lungs
or those turbulent skies 
behind our eyes.

I'm coming back from Astana

Although the sky is cloudy, we have a clear direction,
We soar through the thick clouds or cloud disruption.
When the pure white clouds spread like a carpet,
We glide over them like seagulls in flight target.

It resembles the smoke of a steamboat,
The swirling cloud is approaching about.
I realized I had entered the West border,
Gazing intently at the shape of Earth order.

Everything looks even and featureless,
The gray steppe, the mountains, the winding dunes.
The ravines carve through relentless,
Like the wrinkles of an old person on Earth’s surface.

In the distance, a settlement waves,
Did the people there see us from the graves?
“I’ll be a pilot when I grow,” the boy dreams,
With that ambition, he set his sights!

No matter how vast the land may spread,
From the sky, it's just a palm instead.
When my feet touch the ground below,
I’ll be as small as that hand in tow!

The Figure

The  Figure 

The day ends
in a long drawn out sigh
as if done with the heat,
folding into the evening
to soothe where sunburn
has peeled back life
to a hurt.
 
The dry earth waits 
for a few drops 
of dew to fall
from trees.
Flying overhead 
the dark silhouettes 
of fruit bats 
give a menace
to the skies,
they seem like angels 
fleeing from hell.

This is the time 
he emerges 
from the shadows,
his course close to walls
as if trying to avoid 
open ground.
Some have almost caught
a glimpse of his face
when rounding a corner,
head down, intent 
to look away
and avoid a stare.
He appears featureless.

And yet all know him, 
his shape filling
a familiar space
reserved for fear.
If you call out
he will never 
answer but just
retreat further
into the night, deeper 
into your mind.

Just Clouds

Just Clouds

They seem just ordinary fill
for a background, a fuzzy white
or gray that doesn't grab the eye
and distract from the more deserving
stuff like trees, sweeping ocean views
and mountain lakes. Clouds lack
a clean line.

They seldom get prime billing
unless infused with anger and about
to burst, or wear the outrageous 
colors of a rising or setting sun.
Many exclude them altogether 
with a preference for a blue, 
totally cloudless sky.

Frankly, total blue is boring to me.
Give me tufts of purest white
drifting soundlessly across 
an otherwise featureless sky,
big bellied storm clouds, dark
and sagging with weight, 
rumbling with thunder, 
letting their load of water go.

And wrap me 
in the soft, filtered light 
of low, misty clouds that have learnt 
how to weep, keep me safe
from the big towering giants 
that grow with menace on a distant
horizon and bless me 
with the unseen ones
that send down a gentle rain at night
to lull me off to sleep.

Morning Reservation

Everything seems to fit
into this morning's 
vast mosaic as if each
piece has been shaped 
to occupy a given place.
Even the broken sea shells
that first appeared redundant,
strewn haphazardly 
along the beach
now give pause and interest
to the sands otherwise 
featureless reach.

Trees occupy their allotted
space, the rotunda claims
its usual ground and clouds drift
the wide freedom of the sky.
Silence cups like an ear
to receive the days 
waking sounds and in a corner 
where the pier slots so neatly 
into the sea, small boats bob
about in their moorings
overlooked by a hollow made
in air that seems to fit 
my contours just perfectly.

Sutra of One Thought

One seed - just one.

Be like a blackbird that glows,
in a blind featureless night,
knowing you are
all that is, was,
and ever will be.

Be like a black cat in a dark room -
shine like that.

One thought.

Looking

A weak sunlight
backlights a featureless window,
until a reflection looks out
clearly defining a world
locked into its mind

A Tunnel Called Dusk

fascinated by the things
hovering in the punishing
sky. both the wicked and winged,
or the bare and featureless. pulled
along in a conveyor belt parade,
a silent march in the stratosphere.
floating forward to the place called
Limbo.

jagged horns pop the
clouds like balloons, withering skin
grazes the twilight. the softest
sky being cut into ribbons as
if it was a present that was
meant to be ripped open all along.
those foggy phantoms following
along. reaping the seeds they
sowed when they were more than
souls.

what a wonderful gift it must be
to hover over this hollow place.

Somnium

In lucid dreams.

Her silhouette appeared.

Out of deep azure.

Into fusion. 

To recall the time of us.

Ethereal reverb.

Noetic divine.

Coalesced.

Her heart did with mine.

Though In better times.

At last the dream faded.

As did the time of she.

Her face now featureless.

Returning forever.

Into the azure deep.

Penang

There was a beach in Penang once,
it is there now, but for us,
only in this moment and no other.

You and I walk along a golden ray of sunset.
I think the small boarding house
has gone somewhere else.
I cannot recall its shape, its walls, and windows,
they have flown away, they roost now
like the fruit bats that hang
from those cloud forest mists laden dawns.

Yet, here you are in the palm of my hand
laughing still at a silly joke I made out of thin air.
In that moment
the whole world was an audience for us.
We did not overhear
the surf whispering to the dusk:
how all that is or ever was, returns to leave
in the same moment.
We did not see, nightfall blindfolding the sea.

That tropical Island, has moved on
to another beach, another sunset,
and now only appears to us,
as a featureless blue sky, and the sound
of distant laughter.

The Inward Artist

A washed-out skyscape
where mountains climb,
only to be ripped apart
by small gusts of wayward winds.

Is it that my eye is gray, or is the day
waiting to be colored?
Sky high hues
are contained in small paint pots.

Our inner artist
is looking upon its featureless soul.

That unseen picture
needs us to complete the rainbows,
fill-in the vivid and half-hidden,
to add color to drab fields,
sparkling reflections to every window
in all bricked-up cities.
To daub uniqueness onto the ordinary.

To take a different and another look
at how it is we,
that can wash in the washed out
with an ever-willing eye.

Poetry of Shapes An Open Form

POETRY OF SHAPES
haunting
 enigmatic
in
poetry
  of the everyday
so approachable,
 yet mysterious
encounters
with the
 metaphysical
a silent reckoning
endlessly
rearranged
in  solitude
of the simultaneous
of
banality the
moment
of the
featureless
 space
 underlined
in the
 significant
of
 a spiritual
consciousness


 enigma
is still life
 passion as
 beyond the calm
 looks organic
& envisions
an intimation
self
of
sympathised
in the
 neoreal
love
in
 humanity

No Reply

There are faces 
that stare out of an inner dark
that are featureless and have
no name. They haunt memory, 
some prodding a nerve
sending a regret off 
in search of a home.
Others pick at a wound
not quite healed somewhere
in a hard to reach place
of a life. There are those
faces that are lost somewhere,
trapped in a moment,
unable to move on.

I never saw your face, 
your brief existence covered over
by a label wearing the anonymity 
of just a surname. That
was the way they did it back then,
stopper grief with denial.
Your lifetime was measured
in minutes. You would be
forty five this year.
My mind often fills 
those years with dream,
wondering what we could
have done, the meaningful
and silly stuff a father usually
does with a son. 
There is a place I sometimes 
go to stare into the face
of an unfathomable silence.
I whisper a name 
but there is no reply.

• Short Featureless Poems
• Famous Featureless Poems
• Best Featureless Poems
• Read Featureless Poems
• Long Featureless Poems
• Featureless Quotes