Tapped Poems | Examples

Unsaid

There once was a lady
confined to her bed.
The other alternatives?
Best left unsaid.

She’d danced with the demons,
the belle of the ball.
Kisqali, Abraxane, 
she’d sampled them all.

Enhertu played tango
at least for a while
Til Master Trodelvy
tapped in with a smile.

Exhausted, she holds off
the devil in red;
what he has in mind
is best left unsaid.

No, she’ll take the bridegroom
when he comes to call,
For he sees her beauty
though wasted and small.

And I’ll let him have her
though I’d be remiss
to send her off heavenly 
sans one last kiss.

Though I’d like an answer
a voice in my head
says although you can, sir
it’s best left unsaid.

Tapped Out

I can’t afford
pride
I’m poorer
than that

I can’t afford
humility
Accomplishment
lacks

I can’t afford
vengeance
All hate
for myself

And least afford
love
Emotion
— unfelt

(Dreamsleep: August, 2025)

Borrowed Saints

i sit behind the bodega counter,
breath trapped in wax and soft flicker 
watch the old men tap pockets
for lotto dreams and loose change faith.

they light me when the landlord knocks too hard,
when the roaches dance too bold,
when the rent feels like a knife under the door.

i swallow the prayers like chiclets 
sweet for a second, gone before dawn.

abuela calls my name over simmering beans,
tells the kids hush, hush, he listening 
like i’m some holy wire tapped
straight to god’s ear.

i ain’t no miracle, mija.
i’m just borrowed light 
a warm lie to keep the dark outside the door.

i hear the gossip slip under mattresses 
baby jesus under titi carmen’s springs,
rats chewing faith at the corners.

i smell the cigar smoke floating up 
promise carried in every puff,
sin curled soft in the ashtray.

still, i burn.
still, i stand watch
over scratched lotto slips,
over prayers paid in quarters,
over soft curses when the numbers don’t hit.

i ain’t no savior.

i’m just a borrowed saint,
a Harlem hush, a flicker in the dark 
holding your secrets safe
‘til morning comes knocking.

The Clumsy City

I wandered on streets of that clumsy city, 
Like a cloud that hangs below the sky,
And sits over the hills, dull and so heavy, 
Then it breaks into tears silently over the night.

The glowing moon stretched through to the dewy grass, 
The crystals shone, the ghost town streets' lights,
My stealthy steps tapped, and maybe echoes of breathe, 
Amidst a dense thunder of inherent thoughts.

Dense masses flew and hugged with a spark,
Like shooting stars; bright and quick,
And roared; soaring high in the squall, 
The city was a horror in a dark movie hall.

Embracing the marvel is catching smoke on hand,
I wish I had wings to fly high and meet them,
They scattered, larking far away and beyond,
Left still; longing in brainstorm like a lost dog.

Hazel Eyed Stars on the Rise

The 49er arrives with the virgin sunrise.
but the golden veins have long ago dried. 
Pick axe in hand Dynomite in his good eye.
He's the only one left of the callused kind.
Back in spring Blackjack the burro broke free 
bolting for the last watering hole
licking the salt from his reigns.

Deeper and deeper the miner burrows in.
It's all about double blind commitment now.
The poison of pride over the succulence of time-
Willowy faith over the slag of good reason-
The gristle of isolation over nectar of companionship.

At the very edge of the dimming lamp light
the black snake has tapped the vein dry. 
A dusty angel sips the last of the moonshine.
The 49er rolls two stones over two black holes
that once were hazel stars on the rise.

Night Watch - For Rembrandt

The stars have descended a little lower, to keep us —
My kinsmen and I —company on this night watch
On a newly roused African night.
We filch a little bit of the effulgence of the waking moon,
Reluctant, with the invasion of jealous clouds, their plumes
Fragile with inconsistency.
We rely on the luminescence of each other’s eyes and the trust
In our hearts
Tinder, broken by flying flickers of fireflies,
Shine through the breath of darkness, dis-virgining the chunky yolk
Of secrets and the clout of night, so corvine.
Every breath keeps us warm and frightens the monsters lurking
Around the lean corridors of the enchanted thresholds.


The heavens stare downward —witnesses to a stifling explosion of
Will; so are the crepitating crickets and cicadas —in prayers they
Egg us on, and through borrowed liturgy of nocturnal canticles.
The heartbeats in us make silenced music —loud only by the essence of
Gaiety and humming drums lightly tapped by ancestral fingers,
Helping to warm our hearts and will in the face of the severest darkness


Made lighter by the glows of slow-running lights — the broad painting of
Dawn.

silencio

When I’m not tapped into a music stream.

I like quiet
no - let’s be exact,
I like silence
ear plugs in - deafening quiet
or better yet, noise cancelled anti-sound
That’s relatively new technology
My mom mentioned new studies suggest it may rewire things
gray matter wise, you know, behind the eyes
like the patterns sound forms in sand.

But if you’re going to scramble my mind
your going to have to wait in line behind
bland 21-year-old issues like:
sleep deprivation
hormonal fluctuations
romantic fog
case study competitions
business model design games (REALGAME)
deductive logic puzzles
irritability and mood swings
mental bandwidth anxiety
cognitive confusion
information overload
assignment stress
premenstrual syndrome
compulsive coping mechanisms
career anxiety
sexual frustration
multitasking shifts (schedule)
canon events (existential dilemmas)
culture shock (new environment)
feeling “scrambled”
family pressures

So, yeah. let’s fn Jettison headphone worries - MOM - shall we??!
.
.
Right Now by The Creatures
A Girl In Trouble (Is a Temporary Thing) by Romeo Void
Your Turn to Run by Malaria!

Gravestone’s Moan

I sit alone where the gravestones moan
   And wicked winds wail wild
Where willows weep and shifting shadows creep
   And the dark is deep and defiled
Ghostly sighs where the lantern light dies
   Death spoke my name in a sable rain
With a voice both grave and grim
   Tapped his bone on the cold gravestone
As a pale cold hand pulled me in

For the grave is wide where the dreamers hide
   And the dead are buried deep
There’s a place for me in the Stygian sea
   Where the restless spirits roam
And the night is kind to the weary mind
   When the Reaper calls you home

A day at the Zoo

I called to the monkey who wore a pinstriped suit,
Found out the giraffe and hippo are mute.
Saw a man stare at a lemur 'til dark,
Like he was waiting for some kind of spark.

The leaves fell from trees, an impressive display,
So I waved my arms like I made it that way.
A woman made comment to me, "Don’t be silly,"
As a flamingo tapped by, all dressed up and frilly.

Sun-bear, lions, and kangaroo too,
A gorilla looked like he had nothing to do.
Sunning themselves, no care in the world,
While a shoebill gave my head quite the whirl.

A man with some popcorn meant for a snack,
Tossed some to pigeons—who launched an attack!
He zigzagged away, arms flailing in dread,
Yelling, “They pooped on my head!” as he fled.

A grandma danced by the penguin parade,
Imitating the shuffle those little ones made.
They watched for a moment, then gave her a glance,
And waddled behind her to join in the dance.

I stretched with a yawn, gave one last glance,
At flamingos mid-strut and a penguin dance.
With a heart full of wonder and shoes full of dirt,
I left the zoo grinning, my cheeks kinda hurt

what works for the underclass

The underclass falls into things
Appreciating food when it comes along
Grateful for a cup of coffee or a hot roast beef sandwich

They do not beg any more
Their relatives are tapped out
Do-gooder church people types seek them out
This is how they get a new pair of shoes

The underclass is surviving
Without apology
Not caring about changing

What works for them
Would not work for many
They have friends who uplift them

Seeding Clouds

We did not speak of rain;
only the wish that our love
could be again.
The air was bone-dry,
with only the merest glimpse, 
of wispy cloud remnants,
in the sky.

But, our thoughts, hopes and wishes
coalesced to form empty 
puffy, fluffy, white cloud receptacles.
That we could seed with intent, 
by prying drops, one at a time,
from memories long forgotten
gone bone dry.

We tapped our reminiscences,
of the good times we shared,
buried deep in our dry parched ground.
We sent each droplet squeezed, 
aloft to gather
in the clouds above.

The clouds darkened with foreboding,
reluctance and trepidation, 
as their burden grew 
with expectation overdue.

At last, the clouds, 
topped up to brimming full,
could hold on no longer!
They burst and gushed out with raindrops. 
That toppled on our heads,
sprouting our seeds, 
watered from the clouds above, 
seeded with our love.

Cheerbird

“Chirpy-chirpy-chirp-chirp-chirp,”
catches my ear, wakes me up.

Yes, I’ve been
awake,

but not like this
for many days.

“Chirp-chirp-chirp-chirp…”
this conversation

goes on. Makes me smile.
Best part of my day?

My best self,
   my innermost
has been tapped

…sappy
…happy
…maybe

today will be a hoot
I hope this is the root

of the whole
healing I need.

Yesterday,
Dad in aphasia

no worries, lasts but a moment,
but my leg’s been a drag for months.

Quietness of chatter
begs a symphony
of relief.

Paris, the tiny star

In a world too big for one so small,
You walked with pride, stood ten feet tall.
A heart of gold in a dainty frame,
Paris, sweet pup, we still say your name.

Your paws once tapped across the floor,
A rhythm we won’t hear anymore.
But echoes linger in every room,
A light that cuts through even gloom.

Wrapped in bows or nestled in bed,
Chasing sunbeams, turning heads.
With ears like sails and eyes so wide,
You ruled our hearts with gentle pride.

Though time was short, the love was deep,
And now in dreams, you softly sleep.
But still we feel you, still you stay—
A piece of us that won't drift away.

The world’s less bright without your cheer,
But we’ll hold you close, forever near.
Rest now, Paris, your journey done,
Our little star, our tiny sun.

Big Brother’s Fall

“When the Screens Went Dark”

They said the clocks had stopped at thirteen,
but we remembered twelve.
Somewhere in the cracks between slogans,
truth lingered like a forbidden song.

The telescreens blinked lies into our eyes,
but we blinked back,
until the flicker grew contagious.

We were shadows in alleys,
names erased,
but our silence grew teeth.

Winston was a ghost by then—
a story whispered over rationed gin,
a martyr without a grave.

They rewrote him,
just like they rewrote love,
and war,
and peace.
But memory does not bleed ink.

We wrote on walls
with our breath.
We tapped truth in Morse on rusted pipes.
We dreamed in defiance,
and woke with clenched fists.

Then the screens went dark.

No explosion.
No angel descending from the clouds.
Just a hum of wires dying.
And in the silence—
laughter.

The children asked,
"Who was Big Brother?"
And no one remembered clearly.
Only that he watched,
and we stopped watching back.

The statues cracked in the sun.
The slogans peeled like old paint.
And from the rubble,
we built gardens,
and told stories
where love was not a crime.

alpha carts

Kid, states is paid
Tapped your hand pad out
No grissle on the iron
Steam tears of fear
Preposterous approval
Applicants endure sub traction
Textworth of link sis
Under obligated
Your sheath
Envelopes back paying crime rent

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