Long Unclaimed Poems
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When Dad Was Daddy,
Siblings,
By: Tom Wright
8/14/00
taking turns running to meet him,
after he passed the corner of our block.
Toting his lunch pail after his daily task.
A stoop, a hug, from his unshaved face,
was not all that we would ask.
For oft times inside his pail, unclaimed,
a prize of sheer delight.
In a Hostess cupcake saved, or egg sandwich,
perhaps of either, just a bite.
In his vacuum bottle remained,
just a swallow of, by then, cold coffee.
Of course, then,
we assumed he'd had too much to eat,
only later did I realize,
that it was saved to be our treat.
Most items, were purposely saved, without fail,
knowing He'd be met, once in our sight,
and that those remnants, to a child,
would make both our day's end right.
follow me
across barren land
where unnamed streets
etch a path
to a town
unborn
watch the nearby hills
come to life
beneath the whisper
of gentle wind
their silhouettes
reflecting the golden hues
of day
their dance
as gentle
as summer's breeze
follow me
down cobblestone streets
forming in the distance
as frames of wood
take shape
beneath the sledge
of hammers
echoing
the screams
of protestors
trying to save
what little beauty
remains
follow me
along the banks
of streams
where deer
come to drink
and racoons
frolic
and play
in the confines
of space
remaining
follow me
down memory lane
where wooded lands
and wildflowers
flourished
nourished
by the rain
as it fell
all around
follow the drop
of rain
as it lands
upon the velvet petals
then trickles down
reclaimed by the roots
of what existed
before houses
took shape
follow the trickle of rain
as it streams
towards edges of creeks
already overflowing
with rain
unclaimed
follow me
down paths
of destruction
as toppled buildings
lay in ruins
as the floods
reclaim the land
follow me
across barren land
where named streets
etch a path
to a town
destroyed
Written: August 05, 2025, for contest Marathon Mile 3 Poetry Contest / Sponsor- Mark Toney
***************
As it rises shakily, the aurora radiates,
Shore gets battered by periwinkle waves.
Scarce alabaster turns to an ebonized sheen.
A sacred, somber, and katabatic sorrow.
A mild ache dances around joyfully,
As kindred souls merge in a forlorn embrace.
And halcyon as paradisal opiate utopia
It is as vast as the unclaimed love.
Your skim was both ethereal and brief,
It hinders my span of lethargic wandering.
Chest pain at every peak: a fipple passion,
Gossamer scenes that wish to last forever.
We gamboled beneath auric heavens,
Effusive murmurs in dulcet hush.
Stringent crave twirled in tricky loops,
A mental usufructuary, weak and eternal.
The limb caresses a vulnerable, airy speck,
An ambrosian ache in a weary world—
Meticulous truths submerged in the deluge,
A shredded hope, a shriveled flame.
Love is a chimera—a ripple on a palimpsest.
Crestfallen spume claws the coast calyx.
Then resiles, bedraggled, into amorphous dusk.
Amort embrace, undone, beshrewed by time.
Now, balmily, you are my nepenthe,
A calix once held—an ambivalent ache.
And I, a desperate-looking romantic,
Forever ephemeral, forever asunder.
Plucked flower once clumsily graced a girl's curls,
Now crushed in the wake of her ascending swirls,
Comfort be gone as bees hold dust for another,
Swarms of butterfly's doth aimlessly hover,
...Yes, it was a bothersome thing,
...It will pass for others to bring,
Drizzling fate from silvery clouds of one-liners,
Trickling o'er laughing grass chuckles from flowers,
Smiles grew everywhere, a forest was chanting,
Far grays thunderous silence mid dull strikes of lightning,
Whilst a cheery red robin sits on a limb,
Gave me a tune and tweeted a hymn,
...A rainbow arc set adrift in motionless skies,
...Half of that lost in obscure disguise,
A moth sits on my clothes, drawn as if it was light,
Does not budge when shaken, not even a strike,
Eyes on me, as they interpret their assessment and define,
Requires close touches, made speechless, 'twas divine,
Teardrops from elated eyes as fetuses of euphoria,
Forms and slides on cheeks fleeted journey of my utopia,
Breeze stems the short blades that grip the weight of me,
As enmeshed toes wrap in taller swords from cool earth neath, be,
...Wanton for more goes unclaimed and was ignored,
...Droplets add, from a few to a downpour, engorged,
Clone the day, immerse it well into aspirations hold, free it back to where fantasy exists, except the one,
Pampered I chased myself homeward, drenched yet fulfilled for having lived this day regardless, except the one.
2019 September 19
Every day lost, like whispers in the breeze,
Mom watches the clock, her heart begging, "Please."
Once, laughter echoed through sun-dappled trees,
Now silence lingers, a soft, aching tease.
Lake trips and river days, where joy used to flow,
Nature walks hand in hand, where love used to grow.
But the kids are all busy, their lives on the go,
Unaware of the moments that slip like the snow.
In the mirror, she sees the gray creeping in,
Wrinkles like stories of where she’s been.
Aches in her body, reminders of time,
Yet her heart beats with youth, still vibrant, still prime.
"Remember the picnics, the stars in the night?
The fireflies dancing, the world feeling right?"
But they nod and they smile, then vanish from sight,
Chasing their dreams, while she waits for the light.
Each day that goes by is a treasure unclaimed,
A canvas of memories, now faded, unnamed.
She longs for their laughter, their stories, their play,
But they’re lost in the hustle, too busy to stay.
"Just one more adventure, one day by the lake,
One moment together, for old times' sake."
But the phone stays silent, the calendar’s bare,
And she wonders if they know how much she still cares.
So she sits by the window, the sun on her face,
Dreaming of days filled with warmth and with grace.
For every day lost is a chance to embrace,
The love that still lingers, the joy of seeing their face.
So she’ll keep on hoping, with each passing dawn,
That they’ll find their way back, before she is gone.
For the heart knows no age, it’s forever in bloom,
And the love of a mother never fades, it's forever true.
Change is never the same
But to change is always the same
I've been down broken roads
Crossed corriod seas
Come to the end of my rope and turned around to make a knot to make sure it goes on
But the thoughts in my head seem so confusing
The direction my life is leaning me towards
Is filled with so many questions
A dream here and dream there and two kids to boot makes me believe life will always be the same
All you need Is love is claimed but to give your kids a chance to live makes a foundation shake
I've built no wealth no nest egg you see
All I get is cracked eggs and jaded edges that cut me down
I want my children to see I am not the failure the reflection sees
But the way Utah continues to grow the faster my pockets fill with lent and unclaimed dream particulars
Is change an answer or is the same the best resolution
So unsure so fearful
All I do is write letters to myself which I call poetic thoughts
But there is no poetry in motion for me
Only clouded thoughts and insufficient means
Where is the solution in an endless sentence I write about my life.
In the judgment of ghosts
my hope is retried
Forgiven or not
their will to decide
To ever move on
or be damned here to stay
To wander my failings
mistakes on display
They fly through my present
back into my past
Not missing a nuance
of slippage I’ve cast
Returning my sentence
their jury unhung
Pronouncing the verdict
— my fate zero sum
********
Memory Lingers
Impropriety
the soul of wit
Audacity
its memory lingers
Incongruity
the leak that drips
Banality
— its bee unstingered
*******
God’s Nation
At the country’s
bicentennial
I came
of age
A hard bitten
patriot
and liberty
sage
Two hundred
years won
through blood
will and pain
To shine
in the glory
God’s nation
— ordained
************
The Ivory Tower
Did you hear
your favorite student
when he spoke
his truth to power
Or when he challenged
what you said
high up
the ivory tower
Do you miss him now
that he has gone
into a world
unclaimed
And free of what
your words did spew
in pander
— false proclaimed
**********
Gears Enmesh
You can sulk
and brood
with Achilles heel
to sit detached in place
Or live in neutral
disengaged
to stay outside
the race
But one free choice
can change all that
to track uncovered
ground
When gears enmesh
to set you free
and turn your world
— around
(The New Room: June, 2026)
Beneath a roof of corrugated sky,
shelves stretch into the haze—
steel sentinels cradling the weight
of repeating cardboard skin.
Sodium lights flicker overhead,
a nervous god with faulty wiring,
casting a pale-yellow glow across the floor.
Refracted rainbows glint
in pooling oil that won't dry.
The air smells of stale rain
buried in the dirt of concrete fields,
and on the tongue
it tastes of metallic memory, oxidized.
A faint click of cooling pipes
syncopates the hum of vents.
Gears scream
ripping through silence,
a warning sound threading the dark.
Conveyor belts drag time,
relentless,
sorting,
without pause.
Surrounded by
pallets stacked high,
of boxes waiting to be read.
Some have dates crossed,
names scratched off—
wrapped and stamped
unclaimed inventory.
Others spill from torn corners,
stained photos—
of metal buckles
and white veils.
I came looking for a box
with a familiar trace—
small handprints,
prayers folded beside lavender wicks,
a letter I forgot I wrote.
I need to know if I’m marked for transit,
or have to stay.
But dust clings to rafters,
settles on shelves,
on forgotten dreams,
gray on gray.
Aisle after aisle,
we could walk forever
and never find our name.
The exit doors seem open.
For the souls on hold,
boxed beneath the cold,
processing signs—
suspended,
longing for the next scan.
Nopalero = one who deals with/sells nopales [edible prickly pear cactus leafs/pads]
Aiiiii, Jimmy --
what shall we say, now that you've gone,
worst fear realized: your body discovered,
days later, in your filthy Mexican rooms,
amid the soiled paper littering the floors,
reeking of cat urine and layer upon layer
of dried and fresher feces. These feral cats
were your most faithful companions.
You thought yourself their benefactor and,
perhaps, their savior. We were told that,
after your demise, when the door opened,
all 21 fled, never to return.
You left us, unbathed, smelly, shunned,
just weeks before your birthday,
having almost (but not quite) suffered
through 80 years, the last 30 spent in
bordertown Mexico. You, daily, crossed
the bridge to claim your mail -- which (for a fee)
promised to guarantee you would be a winner
of lotteries, sweepstakes, miraculous windfalls.
You subsisted on senior coffees at McD's,
and your pitiful government assistance.
You blamed your life on abuse by brothers
(all dead long before you) and you could not
understand why richer acquaintances --
virtually everyone -- were unwilling
to share with you their bounty.
In the plazas, you were a familiar sight,
selling whatever you could: you were
"el viejo gringo," "el Jimmy," "el nopalero,"
and other less generous but, perhaps, appropriate
"apodos". You knew animals, had some expertise
with birds. Your chief preoccupation was
yourself, and your main complaint was
that you never got your just deserts.
No one deserves to end as you did -- unclaimed,
a foreign body, interred in Mexico
in an unmarked pauper's grave:
a "fosa comun." You only wanted to be loved.
RIP my friend; I did not mean to be unkind.
James Milford Pierson, 27 February 1934 - 2 February 2014.
Flying across the white expanse
a dull day becomes coloured
with the distant foggy
black marks of flight
opening wings wide
like a murder of beaks
thirsty for the blood
of the ink of others
on their blunt dry nibs,
it ruffles their feathers
colourful for a short while
between the lines
of a vacant pride, the
worthless worthiness
of removing veils
from other brides,
Faust flapping crows
disguised as angels
come calling like
unclaimed friends
from all quarters, then,
curious bluebirds
dissecting their purpose,
discover something
shining and beautiful
found in the dirt
between the cavities
in all their walls,
behind the ugliness,
jewels like Ariadne
(writer not myth)
possessing
the opposite title
held to the mirror -
"he ventures she wins",
are fished out
and discarded
in the swirling ice,
cubed in the depths
of a dark well
like unclaimed
diamonds,
solid gems, waiting
amidst all those other
melting treasures
to be, or not to be,
found
Candide Diderot. ‘24