Simply poetic yet ill-defined
The gassed up Hemi amply drives
Concrete and to the point
The cherub is anoint
Like grabbing stars from demission
ill
sick
diseased
ill-behaved
naughty
wild
untamed
untethered
ill-defined
one-of-a-kind
chameleon
mercurial
Renaissance brain
cannot be categorized
Illuminated
Certainly not ill
Is there consciousness
without language ...
how would you know
I believe that there is
but have nothing
to show
The ‘Hard Problem’
continues ...
unmetered unrhymed
Restated
unproven
— and left ill defined
(Radnor High School: January, 2026)
A rising tide lifts all boats yet not all enjoy the lift.
Some boats are in fact useless, abandoned
On the shore, and the tide only bringing more woe
Showing just how broken and hollow
They have become.
And in a world of such abundance
The shores clutter with such abandon
Lining streets and alleys, parks and plazas
Waiting for something vague and ill-defined
Hands out in passive supplication.
Last week the masses protested No Kings
And this they beg their masters
For the food they haven’t bothered to earn
Or save, unaware they are the victims
Of nothing but their own karmas.
Beggars rely upon the generosity of strangers
Or the redistribution of wealth
By the powers that be
Who steal for them
To keep the peace.
A master may beg as well, but being wise
With gratitude and equanimity
Knows it’s all good, but only for a moment.
While the fool views it all with a grasping mind
Thinking it will last forever.
Beggars, thieves and fools mix and mingle
In the marketplace, sometimes all in one,
But more often in different forms and roles.
Sharp and shiny suits or soiled and tattered rags
Are no proof of who is who.
(10/29/25)
Worshipping
at the altar
of self-destruction
western man enshrined
Paying false homage
to every tree
the forest
in deep decline
Losing his place
among God’s creatures
to wander
far and wide
Asking flawed questions
running in place
consensus
— ill defined
(The 1st Book Of Prayers: March, 2025)
Concept was fuzzy, ill-defined, unclear
I accidentally said this with the teacher near
In the days when she could beat my rear
I had a horrific time in school that year
The pushing pelvis,
the slippery and new -
minus recall.
Amnesia drone
coming or going
home,
cyclic rebirth,
peddling hard to uncertainty.
Dozy or bright
dynamo light
self-made
doomed to fade
uphill and over
pushing through
toward an ill-defined 'it.'
A lifelong nap,
a newborn holler
into the latex catcher's mitt.
Headlong life buzz.
Squeezing through forgetfulness.
Born again into the holy whirlpool,
of - what to do next,
eat, crap, join something.
Leap or roll
through the big paper ring,
burst into the unknown
as the cheering dies.
Tired, exhausted, with headache
I left my cares, foibles and troubles far behind.
Took a break.
In car I jumped.
Dialed random for 'peace of mind'.
All pumped,
To go
Free Ill-defined,
Faux.
Tired, exhausted, with headache,
In car I jumped
To go.
The sky is a dull blur this morning.
At such opaque times,
I clean the lens of mind,
to see what clarity is behind
the gray filters.
Surprisingly, I perceive,
some last snowflakes
have been painted emerald,
by thin rays of light,
The air appears now,
as an ethereal lathe
turning the ill-defined into
buoyant landscapes.
Wiping my glasses,
the sky and earth
sparkle brighter still,
behind a clearer mind.
Obtuse Thought
David J Walker
It is
out of the nothingness
that everything abide
where
imaginations collide
with
ill-defined reality
it is
of a meaningless
language of the adjective
from the
imaginative
tongue of
no one
in particular
where
everyone is
peculiar
and nothing is as
mundane
as the usual
it is
the obtuse thought
of what is real
and what
is not
though
no one should care
when or what
they might wear
into oblivion
I see it now, a Highland stag
Magnificent!
I felt no love for it,
it also was free of such bonds.
Yet animal to animal
we shared the same shadowed soul.
It moves away,
disappearing behind a ridge,
strange, but now that it is gone,
I miss it as if I loved it.
So it is with those
who have appeared and disappeared
over the strung-out years.
Many went away,
then came back as ghosts -
not dead, but ghosts, nevertheless.
That word ‘love',
maybe I am misinterpreting it,
I know I have been misled often
by its appearance.
There is something much better
than that ill-defined verbalized face,
something worth missing.
Again I recall the stag,
how only after its disappearance,
only then did I love it.
If I had alternative choices with a D
I would take my druthers all over the world,
making a difference
choosing other ways of seeing.
I will need a million trail-cams,
and a million gateposts, trees
or lampposts
to attach them to.
I want to see what's going on
when we are not looking.
I want to choose
between the strange, the ill-defined,
the inexplicable and
whatever other world
we are interacting with.
That would be my mission -
my druthers.
A million trail-cameras
snapping the world
while we all sleep or wake,
none of us
suspecting that our pictures
are being taken.
The neural spark
is ill-defined, a cloud of unknowing.
Nothing begins anywhere.
The tail of the snake
is its neck.
The body grows out of its closed eyes.
An uncertain vapor trail
sheds hieroglyphic fragments,
they could be words,
or only
the residual cooling of a brief potency,
a fast-evaporating speculation
now only a dilatorily dripping
from its dormant inkwell.
You don't know, you just don't get it,
until it takes shape,
then a flint strikes a low adumbrate sky,
only then does meaning arrive
to burn your tongue.
You, (this is your part),
with have to make changes,
fillet out the serpent's pin-bones,
or words will stick in your mouth.
This is how a poem begins.
This is how a poem begins,
not with a thought or a whisper
but with a sly electric slither.
The reason we give it so much verbiage
the reason we give it time
The reason we search the light fantastic
the reasons left ill defined
The reason the choices finally matter
the reason we pick and choose
The reason we leave a trail behind us
the reasons we’re not bemused
The reason the voices call within us
the reason the nights are long
The reason each season traps our longing
the reasons both right and wrong
The reason when nothing’s left to answer
the reason no sirens call
The reason we leave the past unanswered
—the reasons we can’t recall
(The New Room: March, 2023)
Scummy waters slow lap
an ill-defined edge.
Broken Spider-tangles
drift like torn wedding veils.
The surface of the pond
is thick with rot
bracken, slime soaked weeds,
the yellowing seep of decay
smears the turgid water.
Yet now a ray of sun
stabs through the detritus.
I watch as a circle blooms
within the crud
light dancing beneath.
Clear water smiles upward!
The heart of the pond
is still beating bright.
I holler 'Amen' to the sky
and don't ask why.
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