Ill Defined Poems

Dead Vision Quest

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)

when teachers could beat you

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

Cyclical

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.

Random Path To Freedom - Minichu

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.

Changing Lenses

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

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

Stag

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.

Cams

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.

Subject to Change

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.

L'Allegro Remembered

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)

Scum

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.

Coming About

We make the truth we need
to worship gods of time
And love in spite of hate
whose conjure ill defined

We set the past in stone
to keep tomorrow chaste
And travel inward free of both
—whose presence we displace

(Dreamsleep: January, 2023)

Codes

Start with words
pick up their sticks
make a now-man.

                          No eyes yet,
                          maybe the garden grackles
                          will peck out some.

Life at this hour needs a password.
There are boxes to tick, negotiations
to be made
with an ill-defined self.

                          It's morning already
                          the sun is glaring blue
                          on the hard silent snow.

Going to need a key that perfectly fits
                                 a gated community,
a playground, a parking lot, a dog park,
                                 any door that opens
       all those dark spaces hidden inside
unlit clouds,

and at this time

                            there are no further
                                        instructions
                                            available.

Open Door

Glow from slight open door shining my way
casting a long shadow of me behind.
I stand alone and think awhile, midway;
glow from slight open door shining my way.
Portal crossed, shadows fall the other way,
as does the light. The choice is ill-defined.
Glow from slight open door shining my way,
casting a long shadow of me behind.

A Weather Calendar Has No Lines

The wind came knocking on my window last night,
it shook a skeleton wrist and rattled its bones
hard upon the glass.

It sounded like winter
was roaring through Fall with early
howls and growls,
it sounded like a warning
from a hound of hell.

I sat listening to its mournful wail
until dozing in a chair
I slept.

By morning, nothing of the storm was left
but fallen branches and naked trees.

Yet I heard a troubled sky last night
it entered my mind where it still prowls
tearing up roots,
it thuds upon a fortress of fear,
or any ill-defined or false barrier
I had thought to place between
one season or another.

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