Long Unrefined Poems
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O kabab merchant, thy skewer!
Fresh fish on the line!
And, moreover, in a blur -
Life, be unrefined!
Tangled are the strands of Fate?
Causality, roam!
Make a meal of small, ye great?
Lie down in the loam?
Well, we hope not, young fellow.
Let's keep it mellow.
Otherwise the killing blow?
Mine or thine below?
That is how it tends toward.
Yes, but why this time?
O ye tigers, how you purred!
Sirens, sing sublime!
Poverty for poets?
Depends on how they write.
Songwriter, sing well thy hits!
Erebus means Night!
Think it through. Tomorrow.
Surcease of sorrow?
O ye beggars, doth borrow?
Whiskey, flies, thy jar o'?
Formulate or fix? Foment?
Liquor? Liniment?
O Queen Dido, thy lament?
Roundabout repent?
I, the fabled Carthage Queen!
All that I have seen!
Automaton, thy machine!
Frog-skins wrought a-green!
This I tell ye, O wild youth!
Flicker as ye fall!
Woman Night, thy cold phone booth!
Funeral, thy pall!
Agony. It comes and goes?
Waits for tomorrows?
O for carrion feeding crows!
Blessed roads a-chose!
But! Great queens about me stand!
Hard be not our hand!
Aryan King, thy path is manned?
Blighted by the banned?
We say not! Give it no thought!
Sparks in wire a-wrought!
Buried treasure, are you bought?
Foreign wars a-fought?
You have our love, and each ear!
Therefore nothing fear!
O for those who don't hold dear!
Whisper in thy beer!
Madam, thy best blessing...!
I trial and tumult seek?
No more time for guessing!
Plant one on my cheek...
Spirits wander in and wander out
met usually with a painful shout
They give me chills but also wonder
are they real or tales from dark under?
This story is true, happened few years past.
We keep telling so memory lasts.
Four friends were at Joyce's house one day
when Niece Sue stopped by on her way.
Likes genealogy she says now;
found great-grandma with Ancestry's prow.
Her portrait is on my bookcase, Joyce notes.
We'll look before leaving, a friend votes.
She might have died in disgrace, Sue states:
abortion is what her obit relates.
Back in the year eighteen eighty-nine
quite common--birth control unrefined.
just then a loud crash in bookcase room--
sounds of glass breaking--impending doom!
All rushed in to find, faded and worn,
Grandma's portrait had been cut and torn.
No living creature was in that room
to push the portrait to final doom.
Her spirit may have disliked words said
she wants to leave that incident dead.
I believe spirits are here night and day,
rather not see them, if that's okay.
January 10, 2022
for Angela Tune's Ghost Story Contest
Don't be mad at yourself on this
On me; my supposed dear, take it easy
Live in the memory of your true feelings
But regret not the best of your past dealings
Hunting your present you regard future
Rough days are nice if you are mature
Mature enough to get tough handling matters
Served in light hearted soft gold platters
Be careful of falling back
Rather be logical to attack
I may not be there to stand in place
My best wishes are of good will in grace
Thinking it karma may be harsh
Probably I did cos you were never for me- a marsh
Most individual ability are discovered marching alone
Being apart but you my heart never disown
Bear your ego checking back in time
Cursing my egg that fertilized your deposit to its prime
Minister to stand my worst treat ever received
Down the lane of heart, mind was deceived
By no reason to sanity loving fairness
How much loyalty deposited paints faint awareness
Game of bleary heart woos distinct mind
Intending to roll and rock her world in faulty grind
Get your life full before you define purpose
Make mistakes before you correct the blue rose
Or accusing the unrefined gold of endurance
Forgetting our unity's fruit suffers severance
Per chance in fearful preference of no conviction
Landing on my gentle soul a lot of affliction
More than I could ever bear without care
Now, apology sings our affair into reasonable repair
Dream of you all your life as the father of my son
For its reality would never fulfill your desire under the sun
Petunia is the plain little sister
who gets overlooked and passed over.
She’s not the pretty one,
always quiet and reserved,
not classy, fancy or graceful.
She takes backstage at every turn.
No games, no false pretenses.
She’s frumpy, floppy and flimsy.
Her scent is unrefined,
not confused with real perfumes.
She’s somewhat of an ugly duckling
but when the going gets tough,
we can’t help but admire
her tenacity when facing adversity.
Slow and steady wins the race.
She’s low maintenance, demure and bashful.
So reliable is her performance,
she’s been known to outshine competition.
Unpretentious and free from vanity
Yet, fact not known… surprise ~
petunia blooms are edible !
AP: 2nd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025
At cockcrow, the slightest breeze,
wee more than a whisper though.
Echoing it's communique through the trees,
A message, as if I alone, needed know.
But ere my day began to unwind,
It approached a gale, forceful and growing.
Spitting leaves at me, acting unrefined,
Sending signals that I cared not knowing.
But this much I know and yet believe,
It gave me pause to stop and stare.
Trying within myself to conceive,
This lingering message of the air.
Then, at eye's wink, I stood in time,
And with chilling rain now falling.
The answer came to the wind's little rhyme,
That winter would quickly be calling.
Ignorance is a rhyme without a soul, an art fading into slow oblivion,
like fallen tulips swirling through captive rays of a weary sun,
amidst hot sighs tearing through the deafening silence of the evening,
and they are more than the burning thorns of a phoenix rose moon,
infused in scarlet elixirs of an enchanted dusk weaving its silent spell,
braiding love into golden glimmers, among double scales of blazing flames,
burning my velvety heart and asking, could you be the galactic gardener,
the one who waters my weary spirit, when I am but a simple memory,
tangled in vengeful vines of vanity that choke and smother,
for I have a voice and sing with the grace of garnet amidst ignorant silence...
If tomorrow you feel my heartbeat among old and forgotten verses,
of a scentless sonnet, long erased and lost in the mists of time,
remember that I am the silk and the sage, the untamed silhouette of a flower,
a gentle flower that refuses to breathe in the ossuary of withered petals and dreams,
wrinkled and ostracized dreams by the thorns of prejudice and unrefined ink,
which sting the soft stems facing cyclones of greed and arrogance,
spinning in circles of pure and dazzling vanity that know no bounds...
Tonight, I follow the warmth of the hyacinth, of unwavering and burning desire,
drawing bloody smoke of love with a thread of winged and fragile gossamer,
tied to the fragrant roots of horizons untouched by shadows,
as I craft promises of petrichor along the spine of a nocturnal garden,
where handmade wreaths of hope and faith feel softer,
softer than the moonlight that caresses and soothes the bare soul,
while my heart resembles a maternal bouquet of burgundy happiness,
a woman who does not heed misogynistic mantras, but follows her own path.
Last Name, First Name (Nom Prénom)
Addressing a person by their surname
Without salutation rather than by their first
May show disrespect and suggest contempt
To the individual referenced.
If it’s your intention to use the latter,
Say, “Mr., Mrs., Mis., Miss., or Mx.” prior.
Be courteous and display good manners;
Polished behaviours will take you further.
Given names are chosen and assigned at birth
To human beings for distinction with class.
It’s polite to address people by their first name
Or with a courtesy title before their last.
Though using just surnames is prevalent,
It’s considered unrefined etiquette.
Of words unspoken,
That you will never know.
Warm embrace,
You will never feel.
Tears not cried,
That I can’t wipe away.
Joy unsatisfied,
Hope unfulfilled,
I take them as my own.
To honour times never spent,
To sweet, bitter, forever lament.
Aching short moments,
I treasure dear.
Loss that lies deep,
In the pores of my flesh.
Your little limbs,
So perfectly formed.
Innocence divine,
Purity unrefined,
I will remember you always.
To honour times never spent,
To sweet, bitter, forever lament.
I cradle arms bare,
As I laid you to rest.
On blankets soft,
With teddies and treats.
The day I held you,
Oh, so bitter sweet.
Gentle blue eyes,
Premature goodbye,
I miss you all the time.
To honour times never spent,
To sweet, bitter, forever lament.
My true little fighter,
Right until the end.
You held on enough,
To look into my eyes.
Then you slept,
In my loving arms.
Rest assured darling,
Love’s nature guiding,
I will never leave your side.
To honour times never spent,
To sweet, bitter, forever lament.
28/04/2019
Stones left unturned for those that seek truth among the urns.
I care not to seek out answers requiring a life’s sacrifice of family and name.
Secrets revealed. Kingdoms rise, then disappear. Buried beneath silicon dunes of unrefined glass. Reflected back a whisper of their past.
The abyss now lay claim to their lands.
Endless cyclical tides, wash ashore smashed relics of a time long forgotten.
Blending perfectly with tumbling mollusks and stone.
But, all too soon. Quicker than we think. Our bodies reduced to boney fragments. Charging towards some beach.
Stones left unturned, are left better unlearned. History unfolds lessons, that are left better; alone
Whores of Babylon, I breathe amongst you everyday
On city streets, in country lanes, along lone alleyways
Selling illegal merchandise, cheap, tainted, unrefined
Tempting this incognito angel, back into my own kind
Dens of iniquity, hedonistic programs, carnal pleasure
Take me to your pimp, I’ve got a wallet full of treasure
Bring good gear, Snow White, not crude crystal meth
Tonight I’m getting wasted, to within one inch of death
Seedy massage parlors, proffering rubdowns, with oils
This upstanding citizen, on tables of unembellished soil
Licking toads back, my penchant, as I pray to the gods
Yapping like a puppy, choke chained, spanked with rods
Cesspools of assignation, motel rooms, knocking shops
Gonna keep banging up, til my veins collapse from shock
Tomorrow chase the dragon, before addressing a church
Sermons of fire and brimstone, damning you, is my purge.
By
David Kavanagh