Short Ill Defined Poems

Rebel’s highway,
toll free line
Drifting median,
ill defined

Sirens distant,
flashing lights
Mocking laughter
—death’s delight

(Memories Of September 30th, 1955)...

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Tarnish not our love,
on this clinquant day
Let the stream 
of consciousness flow

Be not ill-defined 
of the clear waters
As the purity will reflect
my love for you X...

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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)...

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The Doctor and aspiring Judge
  their facts now up for grabs

Agendas twisted, the world at stake
   neoclassic power grab

Memories scarce and memories bent
  all truth behind the lines

With punches far below the belt
  —and justice ill defined

(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2018)...

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        It seems old poems never die,
            remain inchoate, ill-defined.
        No matter how hard we may try,
            they haunt the forests of the mind.

----------

Third Place Winner
for the Bite Size Poem no.44 Poetry Contest
sponsored by Line Gauthier
written 05/15/2022
...

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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....

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What is beauty so ill defined
quantity of what matter?
Yet when I look in your eye,
wild lustrous eye of Mauve,
I am struck dumb with longing
to touch beauty, to be beautiful.

Again, what beauty?
Shall I dim the light?

We are one spirit, human.
Sometimes I see beauty in every
man and woman.  Sometimes
beauty is contained in a single
point of light, in a certain eye....

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Listen to poem:

Broken Stones
David J Walker


Breaking stones and compromise 
The sun arise 
	And I am gone

	I am alone
My bones strewn with
	Broken stones 

Dreams drained of hues 
        And tones

Hills climbed 
        Ill-defined
	Words refined 
With stolen loans

Poetics borrowed 
	In runes and roans  
cantrips laid 
In homophones

 	I am a fool for hopeful things...

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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.
...

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The Wall at Night
By Franklin Price
11/28/2018

The wall at night is haunting
Many names are written there
Ones who gave their lives for freedom
For others in our care

Looking back for all the reasons
Most of them are ill defined
To account for all upon the wall
Who were lost, now brought to mind

Night lights reflect upon the names
When looking East along the wall
The obelisk to our first president
Points to heaven for them all...

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I dove into myself today
And fought the rising tide
Of apathy and ignorance
That I had once denied.

I swam on through my waves of thought
And explored these depths of mind
To give my world some clarity
Among the ill-defined.

I plunged myself into the flow
And embraced the inner me:
The good, the bad, the oh so sad;
The things I’d always be.

I pushed on through the waters deep
And came out the other side
With understanding of myself
To act as my new guide....

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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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Listen to poem:

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
...

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