I find myself with just myself
reflecting on undelivered letters
of winter past--
the most bitter front
glazing evenings where a fireplace
becomes a chilled shelter
of sharp, dazed musings :
I travel within time's slow compass
when a season ago...
you left unnoticed , without closure
And my soul burned in the
ragged kiln of night chapters...
not a lint of words crawled
between us,
leaving me searching for
blank pages of despicaple darkness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
she remembers the hum~
a gold-threaded hymn
stitching the clover,
the way her sisters
wore sunlight like dresses,
their bodies tiny looms
woven with purpose.
Now, her wings whisper
against the silence,
a dialect of dust.
No queen to serve,
no hive to heat
with the labor of her legs.
Only the ghost
of a thousand blooms
tightening in her throat~
sweetness undelivered,
a contract broken
by the vanishing.
she circles the empty field
like a comma
searching for its sentence,
her shadow the last
word left.
I called to the hills, but my echo was still.
Swallowed up in the hush of a silent chill.
Why has my echo failed to return?
Why do the hills spurn my yearn?
Where has it gone, for someone else to hear?
The sound of my echo in a stranger's ear.
How will they know to whom it's from?
Be overcome, or be dispelled as a humdrum crumb?
Oh I wish my echoes would be marked
'unclaimed', 'undelivered' and earmarked
'returned to sender', 'no such phone',
'no such number', 'no such home'.
For echoes are meant to be returned,
Not lost, churned and left forever spurned.
I send you roses today, my dear
For the sun is clear
And my heart is fair.
My love letter to you, I feared
Is long gone undelivered
It's outdated, here in my heart is reserved.
How time flies, years gone our marriage
Thickened by hardship and with some baggage
We carried on together our lives we still manage
Now, have we outgrown, of Peter fans and winds, how lively
Of white hairs, of saggy skins has shown, how shiny
Having pass all therein the test of time, we breath so lovely.
In his closet Mort had a skeleton
Draped o'er an undelivered Peleton
A bag of bones himself
Mort was a Christmas elf
Dined on doughnut holes atop gelatin
The semen of tomorrow’s rage
burning undelivered
waiting for perdition's womb
vengeance baptized—christened tears
The seed that carries darkness on
planted in the shadows
hiding what we most despise
hatred pregnant—birthing fear
(Dreamsleep: June, 2023)
WHISTLE!
In this very fraction of second
you showed me how you would end.
huh....! Am short of words
to tell what has happened!
With unpacked endowments
with unlived moments
With unpaid emolument
With undelivered love
Would you really leave
and Shut
just like that...?
Hope no, as you did my beloved Life
you know, We have to settle our strife,
and, with uncleared belief
how can I imagine such a grief!?
Ma Dear! I will await your whistle
before death's-eye twinkle
you know the nature of this jungle
the things that I need to handle,
Thus,
be it with bell or even a yell, just tell
beforehandly please whistle whistle.
Bereket Gebrehaimanot (Z-ARDENT)
21/03/2022// 9:28
RGHTAFTRCRACDNT
ASM.
I need someone to give me
LOVE, wrapped and all
with the correct address and not like the last one
undelivered.
Love that would warm my home now that
the fireplace is out, that promises to lower
my heat bill in cold wintery season
of my soul.
There is an undelivered letter
Called democracy
Because freedom is limited
Law is passed
To keep man knowing how to behave
To prevent man from running wild and loose
And to prevent man from fleeing to the boundary of wilderness
This crisp dancing, figaro prancing,
Sailors cursed, and sideways glancing day,
Nearly, neatly, drowns us with its slow descent.
An unwrapped undelivered present
To behold.
Some catch a star, Some catch a cold.
Are you still listening
To what you have been told?
Well tell a lie if you must
But roll the butter and cinnamon dust
Of some sweet morsel of your own,
Created and sold before you could disown.
Give me your best shot for the love of life, man.
Sometimes the needle skips a stitch
The music skips a beat
And we let moments slip between the cracks
While we await an erstwhile cause to celebrate.
What could be more noble than the tuning of a life?
Where is your walden waiting?
When will “it” arrive?
The moment of truth that daily impacts your brow.
To what do we allow?
`
Even in darkness,
when a moonless sky
preaches fear from a pulpit of shadows
pointing elongated fingers…
when walls crumble
into a rubble strewn alleyway
and graffiti issues spray paint threats
on frantic facades dripping sabotage…
and kindness remains
hidden away in sealed envelopes,
unaddressed and undelivered,
discarded in bundles of false accusations
Her beauty shines unending
in effervescent streams,
illuminating in a photograph, poetry
and a kind word from quivering lips
caressing my heart
in watercolor enchantments
and pastel pleasures…
showing me it is not what, but who
for this darkness is hers,
weighted thoughts on soft shoulders
binding wrists in tethered worries
and still she smiles . . . for me
You hoped there’d be another
but it’s another night alone
the empty vines of memories
is a wine you call your own
It’s the ritual in a cigarette
unshaved, unwashed
and couldn’t care less
a single seat
a solo time
the prediction of it’s ending
a kaleidescope of nothing
to keep it off your mind
With no request for it’s suddenness
the picture of a smile
those eyes
her laugh
the body which drove you wild
and in your heart
repeat resist
repeat resist
as she floats there in her phantom
with all the mist of undelivered passion
and ……………………………………….
Ignore the ghost
forget the wine
on cold lips the empty glass settles
ponder conspiracies
think of philosophies
drive the madness
and all it’s sadness
back into their blank memories
leave them there
please
to rest in the dark
You pray the magician and his trap door
find no cause to open it once more
still the wretched spring is tightening
a tweak of agony on your heart strings
no lock
no bolt
no long years eulogy
but you had hoped there really would be
sitting and pondering
drifting into a
silent reverie
but sometimes
solitude is a fragile shield
against ignorant perceptions
leading to somber conclusions
demonic voices act
like harbingers
predicting doom
innocent eyes
plagued into a trance
become emotionally numb
watching the world go by
invisible tears
suppress pain
with time
struggling to eliminate
predictable outcomes
suffering signs of sorrow
go unnoticed like
undelivered messages
spirit screams
STOP TORTURING THE SOUL
but sanity crumbles
like Autumn leaves
and
subtle yet
insincere gusts
blow each one
towards distant
shores
Silent One
Simple Musings
3 October 2017
undelivered
I dont know where it begins but I do know that love weaves in
It is sometimes secret
Often like a cheeky mouse
Often an unwanted louse
It is secret
Secrets are great so long as you hold to the truth #
And sacrilege is drawn on our fields
And our hills
And our fountains that speak the global riot of nigh
is the strength of the beacon that rises within
within
within
and numb to the fragrance of the rose then?
Idolising an indifference
Interference
Woe
#Do not succumb to a beat box bud
Instead be a vibrance in a time of tune
An time of tune is needed and necessary in a tome of self
but a tome of self is often
solitary
solitary
like the spider spinning his web
At Ieper in Belgium there is Bloomfield's Cathedral Arch
Through the town's cobbled streets we did proudly march
For all British Nations troops who were garrisoned here
In the Great War we stood our bravery so sincere
We 55,000 who died our face to a foe bravely met
There were no graves for us so please don't forget
We are not missing we are all here with no rank division
You will see us all at midnight in Longstaff's ghostly vision
Visit at each dusk while the bugle weeps for us
Know who we were and what we did those days a must
Remember all and let our sacrifice be well considered
For to end the war to end all wars was our hope undelivered.
© Paul Warren Poetry
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