Less than eighty, now ... they're, unaccounted.
'Tis sad ... NEXT: the hawk hovered that founded
fresh sedges, grasslands, and deserts idyll,
God in the detail, Red-Tailed Hawk sidle,
Blitzkrieg mob by crows, females sized greater,
social-less wingers, life mono-mater,
dives one hundred twenty miles per hour,
kills owl young BOTH nesting competitor,
Prey spotted one hundred feet in the air,
Their eyesight to man, seven times finer,
Two feet, two pounds, twenty-one years lifespan,
Roadkill, hunting, and human expansion,
Diet: various birds, and small rodents,
Scrub deserts, farm fields, rainforests, woodlands.
It's back to the wilds, for the unexplored
Panama's island, Pygmy Three-Toed Sloths.
Tree huggers, twenty hours daily, course, lots
of trees. Four of a kind, their fifth, record
as the smallest. Clocked slow, a leaf lasts one
month in its tummies till its slow slop drops.
They're six pounds and twenty inches, a pop.
Furs algae-fied hide them. Swim can be done.
Again, it resurfaces, a world-wide
dilemma, in pictures and portrait drapes
over a posh hotel table of crepes.
Concerned and unconcerned, great the divide.
In twenty-twelve, I.U.C.N., counted ...
less than eighty, now ... they're, unaccounted.
my sympathies aren’t born of grace
like in the way of the benevolent heiress who,
ever-so-delicately, extends cupped hands
to feed the twittering songbirds
perched on her windowsill
it comes from a far more wretched place,
emerging so unsightly, it almost contradicts
the inherent virtue of the word
because it isn’t fueled by love or fortune,
but by every instance unaccounted for
in which i should’ve felt the same pity
for myself
my sympathy is abundant and involuntary
as though in response to constant overflow
and extends much further than hungry birds
or grieving friends
it reaches all the way out to lone, discarded cans
that didn’t quite make it to the trash bin,
and to the virtual strangers that walk past,
their defeats and quandaries overheard,
and to every unfortunate soul between,
under the sole condition that
they don’t share a brain with me
I let it slip away like a fistful of sand
I let my life slip away!
I sit at a crossroads
counting cars whizzing by,
I lie underneath a tree
counting bees buzzing
in and out of a beehive,
I sit by a flowing stream
counting fish swim upstream,
I hover over a molehill
counting moles making burrows,
I sit in a confession booth
counting people’s sins,
I look at the clock
counting the ticking of time,
Often at night
I lie on the rooftop
counting the stars;
Now old and senile,
I look back at my life, and I wonder...
Oh, how the heck did I let all those years
go by unaccounted for?
~04/30/23
~Contest: I Let it Slip Away...
~Sponsor: John lawless
A man with horn-rimmed glasses
knelt in the sand
thinking: "my office just got a whole lot bigger."
He had just flown from sea to shining sea
to survey the sea lions.
He walked barefoot to a rocky outcrop
to count the creatures (for he was an accountant),
the counting took many days -
he was engaged upon a sea lion census.
The sea lions would dive into the tossing waves
and so deplete the sea lion company or rookery,
other's would arrive with unaccounted-fore friends,
The rest yelled all day long or grunted huffily.
it was a rowdy crowd.
The accountant took off his glasses and wiped his brow.
The sea lions continued to bark at him
while scratching their ears with distaining flippers.
Reluctantly he turned to fly back to New York,
where sea lions are parked carefully
in a funky concrete compound.
Each one of those aquatic New Yorkers
could be counted upon
and they were
as they swam moodily in the small oily pool
generously provided for them.
As I sit in my car
Reclined in my seat
Doors locked, lights dimmed
My four wheel retreat
Nestled in darkness
Just breathing for sound
I duck from their headlights
I don't want to be found
This is my think-tank
My safe room, my cave
Where I go to escape you
Where I come to be saved
I think about things
I think about you
All my sins and my secrets
Am I brave or a fool
And when unaccounted
Someone's looking for me
I'll put my seat upright
Push the start key
I'll drive to my burdens
Park a little too far
And inhale that last moment
As I sit in my car
My demons: are awakened;
They're lurking around inside my mind
I've become so bitter, shaken
These demons somehow keep me blind.
These demons are trying to get at me;
Throwing obstacles in my way
My writing these words, be mistaken
But it's just my demons wanting to play.
I find myself in grips by my demons;
As if they had chains on me
Thunderous yelling at myself
In the mirror that sat on the shelf.
Gaps in time unaccounted for;
Missing what had just taken place
I know I have some memory problems, face it
But, this is more like it's Alzheimer's disease.
There are these days I forget my name;
And there isn't anything to blame
Sometimes forgetting where I am
Or are these my demons trying to shame me again.
Writing of this makes me uneasy;
I keep telling myself or is this reasons
I ought to choke you to make them stop;
Sometimes, I think my head is going to pop.
OSPREY
On skies, you glared predator-proud talons and beak curved so
sharp as narrow-vision> focusing on doubling plenty to millions...
Prey abounded, you soared, till rivers faded to an unseen creep
richly sipping of bounties seeping DDT, while in your high tower
eagles hawked tainted by death unaccounted, until eggs fragile
yielded cracks in their oval, speed-plummeting to cries of: why…?
(10/13/2020: '89 Hacker-Craft; Truckee)
I Survived
The
“Widow Maker” Then S.C.A.
Written: by Miracle Man
2-15-2020
S. C. A. once took me, beyond my last breath,
and sixteen bags hanging from a chrome drip frame.
Circumstances took me past the point of death,
told later, you'd be dead, but it wasn't God's aim.
First came the Widow Maker then S.C.A.,
I survived each one and clinical demise.
Five day’s, I unknowingly, in deep sleep lay,
but God wasn't ready for life to finalize.
Now unaccounted for are the five days lost,
faithful prayer warriors kept on praying.
Life's final hurdle still remains to be crossed,
my only recall is of music playing.
MECHANICAL
The lion of Africa is mechanical
A knock down engine
Left to rust
Producing garbages
Break down to the apex
From one mechanic to another
They always promise to fix it
Get paid and extort us in return
Inflicts more damages
Heaps the faults on previous mechanics
The lion of Africa is mechanical
With quack mechanics
Stealing our tools and equipments
Always seeing a complex fault
At the end of each day
Pleading to fix it if given a second chance
But repeats the same error
When their repair tenure is over
They bring in their kinsmen
To make promises too
Tools and equipments unaccounted for
Where's the employment carburetor?
The infrastructural radiator
The nut of unity
The scale of Justice
The gear for separation of powers
All you political mechanics.
©Kporho Vwede Daniel
07067333949
(IG: General Ali Official)
All rights reserved
\
and my hair flew ! it is no longer
that part of me. AND my heart!
ROSE until caught by the celestial
STARS of the lit firmanent!
WHERE all DREAMS find their LEGS
and some creature sang: lower
than angel but higher than
Cherub ~~ closest to God.
It is the voice of Divine
Creation.
I am so tired.
But so strong.
unaccounted but appreciated.
(the difficulty between praise
and doubt is within my mind)
And tomorrows are wishes
and yester-mornings shadows
of weaker moments.
TODAY.
AND NOW~ is all we
have.
keep seconds ticking
keep heart tocking
and the Soul always
in synch!/
:: 01-19-2017 ::
The scars on my skin are the scratches and bruises
from the boulders that cut me,
but the scars on my heart and soul are unaccounted for.
Fingers clutch to punch a wall,
the heart was oozing poetry in anger helplessly desperate
to save the soul from its last breath....
What I loved in my youth, has
been soured by time.
I looked back when I was fare,
and my honey was a dime.
Ice blue eyes cut me deep, and
bled my anger dry.
Twisted knots left behind were
golden locks did die.
Never a dull word, nor
moments unaccounted.
And all the precious memories
are hard to be recounted
However now I ask in prayer a
way to bring her near.
From the depth of hell that
seemed, to burn my darling
dear.
experiences defining age;
life is just but a stage,
age that ages like wine,
the older it gets,
the better it tastes.
signs of you not getting younger:
remnants of failures,
closer than you think!
coming to terms with your past,
satisfaction that never lasts.
never completing enough,
never accepting redundant normancy.
not having enough energy;
being forgetful,
but not enough to forget your stubborn pride.
wanting to succeed,
enough to take the chances when you get it.
lost in teh sudden change of pace,
reality of pressures unaccounted for!
With one last sigh
My soul is expelled
Twenty-one grams
Floating upward, high
I'm light
Effervescent
Free
Twenty-one grams
That’s all I am
That’s all that’s left of me
I left behind
My body
Still and unmoving
On the scale
calcuator, pen
The doctor total tell
Unaccounted Weight:
21 grams
**For further understanding refer to the work of Dr. Duncan MacDougall
http://historicmysteries.com/the-21-gram-soul-theory
Related Poems