Short Unready Poems

now that things will end
I realise I’m not ready
to do anything...

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Here, but not touched.
Waiting...
for none but another ending.
Figurative pages are flexed, flattened
and shadows remain ungrasped.
Breath is unready for impact.
Staring at a stationary page marker stone,
I observe the outcome....

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not so funny, brother
when the bitter pills
of undue death
hit the rain-leaked roofs -
when the bomb-buried legs
shoot out 
fearing for the unready burial -
when the pregnant woman
in dying curses the unborn
child from afflictions 
& impositions of poverty -
then 'tis then
that a toad runs at noon for naught!...

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In the midst of the night mist
A lone blackbird sat
Considering his options
Knowing he had choices
To bring death or silence
Or silent death
Unready to decide, he sat quietly
Surrounded by swirls of confusion and fear
Loving the consternation his presence brought
Listening to the howl of a lone wolf in the night...

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They create a terrible monster of him
So that they can easily destroy him 
Dangerous is termed the word from him
Because it pierces deeply from him
Annoying the unready listening to him

So they never can withstand him
And they choose not to know him
Because they are not sure of him
Unchanging every time you hear him...

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Sometimes I fancy
the most impossible things;
purple and white seas,

Blue crystalline trees,
bloody tears and fairy kings,
words spoken freely:

The thing that is key
to the veil of worlds falling
is utter folly.

Blessed Insanity;
three’s the number revealing
paths to unity.

Our world unready
for events culminating
in all of us free....

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The ancient four legged poem
had been premeditatedly cut loose 
and now it haunts
the unready, frail and ailing poet.
It barks abruptly from underneath the lush hortensia bushes
shocking the blue light of an unready poet observations,
casting impetus over the faux peace,
rolling around aimlessly. 
An apple of discord, fallen
from the mischievous bosom
of a spirited muse....

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there is a party underwater
nobody is really celebrating
i swim amidst the decay
very soon i will be a member

there is a party underwater
the mold is so overwhelming
i swim amidst the apparent danger
very soon i will be a perfect match

there is a party underwater
many unready poems from broken spirits
i swim amidst the toxic stench of creepy cold regret
very soon i will add my similarly unread collection...

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The bones are loud and heavy
they don't like exercise anymore.
The treadmill chugs along
while vertigo topples unready toes.
Nothing can push these bones along,
time has filled them with concrete,
the rubble of marathons once run.
A young woman sprinting effortlessly
beside me smirks my way
as I stumble through a flat-footed mile.
Maybe she cannot see her future yet
while mine is clearly
painted on a wall I will soon hit....

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Can it be poetry
If it makes no sense?
Can it be poetry
If it has to be explained?
Can it be poetry if it rolls around moaning and groaning?
Can it be poetry if it is mean and distasteful?
Can if be poetry if it is unsure of itself?
What if it is unready to be shared?
What if it is incomplete?
Can it be poetry if it is slick and sharp?
What if it hurts my feelings?
Is it poetry then?
Who gets to make the call?
What if even the poet is underwhelmed?
Is it poetry then?...

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