Unexposed Poems | Examples

The Skin I’m In

I’m paper sack brown,
and I’m still put down.
The knowledge unexposed,
the faith in my soul.
The voice, strictly bold.
The vibes I send,
It’s all inside of the skin I’m in.

You look, you see-
But please believe,
there’s definitely, definitely more to me.

Reach in, visualize…
Even close your eyes.
Feel with the sound,
as you’re mesmerized.
Now you see me, now you don’t.
Open your other eyes, 
or I’m sure you won’t.

Seek to inquire the belly of mind.
The allurement you seek, 
so much more you’ll find.

The truth you see is deep within,
It’s all inside of the skin I’m in.

Forever's Loving Rose

T’would seem the edge of beauty unexposed
Relies upon the images it stirs
More so than that, forever’s loving rose
Though faded knows she was the one he chose

For memory, though dark, still holds its flame
Dim light to weave its way through grayish stones
Cold winds that whisper long forgotten names
As distant bells lament their silenced tones

Thus, does she speak in dandelion tongue
Her mocking beauty rivaling the sun
For love it seems remains forever young
Its whispers of forever - ever sung

For beauty is the guise of lust’s demise
Weeping beneath its shadowy grey skies

A Death In Pandemic

A DEATH IN PANDEMIC

I’m dead
I’m gone
Sometime ago,
I’m lifeless now, unbreathing
Like a waste
In a black plastic jacket

They tried hard
They did everything what they could
Gave me pills injected infusions
Hooked me in ventilation
But I couldn’t make through
They did to the furthest
But no, I failed to conquer
Now I became a number
Of a long digit figure.

I saw the infected around me
I saw the doctors and nurses up and down
The whiteness of the hospital I saw
The masked terror walked unbridled I saw
Now I became a number
Of a long digit figure.

I’ll be unexposed
I’ll be buried
I’ll be cremated either
I’ll be destroyed with my viral enemy
For the sake of others
Now I became a member
Of a long digit figure.

Coming Back Home

Curtis was never one to stay in one place for very long

Oh my God they said when they looked at his passport

Multiple entries border crossings migration and search of 

Inner Self and ironically a fix point in his travelling mind

No go zone was merely an encouragement to defy advice

Grand locations unexposed jewels magical treasure islands

Baking in the sun basking in downpour and floating on joy

Another journey one more rite of passage before settling

Coming home to hidden places he had never been before

Kaleidoscopes Katzenjammer Kettledrums Knowledge

Hitherto homeless he gallivanted to more distant shore-lines

On full steam of restlessness experiences and adventures 

Minded his voyage but remained a foreigner nevertheless

Eventually he ran out of escape routes and returned home


21st February 2021

Trinity

At the edge of the shrinking time 
in the gleam of pale twilight hour,
down the misty memory lane
I see me walk my children
on the changing contours of childhood,
hands held with paternal care,
with warmth of everlasting love
as they grow wings, fly away later.

An ancient mariner, self-disposed,
I navigate across many a rough sea,
with propitious winds of love and empathy,
on the frayed sail, I strive to raise,
you all take me to the shore called home.
In the obscure depth of introvert psyche,
the shrouded sense of gratitude subsists,
instinctively silent, undemonstrated.

Engulfed by seamless emptiness of solitude
I open my window on the flushing meadow,
the sunburst dawn sparkles on pearls of dew.
My blank mind morphs into a Monet canvas,
on strokes of bruised brush paints of joy flow,
forlorn life configures in spectrum of expression,
as the sensuous stimulus of the pristine nature
aspirates the dormant artist in me, unexposed.

Written : March 2, 2020
May 27, 2020
Contest : Brian's Choice X
Sponsor : Brian Strand

Eastleigh

I lose my fingers keeping count
the number of kids lost by murder count
in the eastern districts media houses dread
Patches of brown-black roofs on aerial view
Aunt hills of buildings single roomed
Shoot to kill, a governing tool
Stiff figures of teens bullet riddled
a common thing amongst those
shortlisted by fate to call home
Survival be the theme

U haven't heard of Vumilia
a small suburb rich in thugs
at least that's the word best used
by the papers you so dearly trust
To denote a group of youths
unexposed to a mastery of trades

The elderly in their twenties
those swift enough to dodge bullets
agile enough to survive the batsmen
and have caught the eyes of political dignitaries
war veterans with all due respect

Kim was almost nineteen
died graffited with bullet holes
Sarah was barely seventeen
wrong place at the wrong time 
shooter: a blue boy in his fortys

We hath from a vicinity
where weakness is a rare condition
and the site of a parked car 
sparks a dollar bill imagery
crowded class rooms, empty bellies
a deadbeat government
a thing called hope

Indian Summer Autumn

The holly berries reveal 
 a bronzing tint of orange
 on their journey to becoming 
      deep, dark, blood reds.
Soon the three bonded trees 
 will glow in vibrant color
 held bold and standing out 
       against the snow and waxy green.
This is the robins and the blue jays 
 favorite winter treat
 stolen and devoured 
       in one cold, harsh winter day.

Off in the distance,
  some trees are fully naked
  while others unexposed 
       wait to undress.
Some have color barely faded 
 held on the palette of distinction
 still full with greens, yellows, 
       crimson reds and orange.
Others stretch and open up 
 the blue ocean of the sky
 and but for one or two cloudy wisps,
       brilliant beneath the sun.

Now and then 
 there comes the rush and slurried breeze
 moving through defoliating leaves
       then holding still and quiet
playing a game of peek a boo 
 throughout the days of mixing
 warm, hot, cold, gentle, and rough 
       Indian Summer Autumn.

Lost and Found

LOST AND FOUND(A poet’s worth)
For years I was silent.
My eyes forever seeing
My mind constantly capturing
My soul continuously processing
My tongue really struggling
Until……I found my voice.

For years I was impotent.
My hands always passive
My fingers so inactive
My papers lying empty
My pen completely forgotten
Until….I found my voice.

For years I was lost.
My feelings so much muted
My emotions never jotted
My longings going unnoticed
My desires very unexposed
Until….I found my voice.

Evolution of An Elegy -Revised 4-1-15

If there were a tomb to hold my thoughts alone
where only those who seek it, meditate,
guffaws would echo on the heavenly green;
ideas will not live beyond their youth
unless they catch the glint of steel beneath
the torch of battle.  So

let now be the arena for my wars,
my intellect, my flooding heart to charge
at enemies who rise today
but cannot raise the dust of my posterity.
This very hour I choose to fight
amid the phalanx of the white-robed clan.

No! It is a field of bloodless strife
where victors search beside themselves--
for ripening flaws to extricate,
for keys to open doors
that never should have closed,
and for regrets that festered, unexposed.

Then as a spirit leaves its body to embrace
an unknown paradise,
down at the end of that long corridor
a dying candle flame blinks twice
and gives its rising smoke
to cense the larks above.
~

Within Every Picture Is a Story

Silent motion pictures for no one to hear,
Roaring 1922 was the magical year,
Chaplin's fancy mustache grew from ear to ear.
How can motion without sound express love or fear?

Still frames unexposed to the light,
fame within names
cheers within fright.

Til this day a movie screen provides laughter and sadness.
A comedic love story that has to end tragic.

The negative of any captured moment can have a positive feel.
The story may be fictional, but the moments are real. 


-Gerald Moise
-3/23/2015

Harpoon

In the unplumbed depths
of whales’ deep-held breaths
a singular shaft
fired with force from the aft
twists to it end.

Deep in the dark
where reality lies stark
a flittering thought
lies unexposed, distraught
awaiting the penetrating insight.

Another Day In the Way

I will never get my way with trouble that I borrow.
Looking for yesterday waiting for tomorrow.
Though I've heard it many times the answer still evades me
Live for today, they always say, yet I still can't seem to see.

Come Lord Jesus, take my hand.
Keep me from sinking in this sand.
Pull me up into the light
I need your guidance to help me fight.

Pretty pictures never taken in the gallery.
Unexposed and forsaken is his history.
The promise of hope, last knot on the rope.
A vision that he cannot see to help him cope.

Forever shines deep in the soul of those who sought.
Redemption and reason to explain what Jesus blood bought.
If you look, I think you'll see there's just no other way.
To remove the clouds that cover up the light in a new day.

A Twenty-First Century Elegy

If there were a tomb to hold my thoughts alone
where only those who seek it, meditate,
guffaws would echo on the heavenly green;
ideas will not live beyond their youth
unless they catch the glint of steel beneath
the torch of battle.  So

let now be the arena for my wars,
my intellect, my flooding heart to charge
at enemies who rise today
but cannot raise the dust of my posterity.
This very hour I choose to fight
amid the phalanx of the white-robed clan.

It is a field of bloodless strife
where victors search beside themselves
for ripening flaws to extricate,
for keys to open doors
that never should have closed,
and for regrets that festered, unexposed.

Then as a spirit leaves its body to embrace
an unknown paradise,
down at the end of that long corridor
a dying candle flame blinks twice
and gives its rising smoke
to cense the larks above.
            ~

For Cornel Sampson

Strange how friendship breaks like strings into new
Theories about the bonds of life. I have kept news
Of nothing on the missing pages of history: and few
The the frolic ever reclaimed, but I do not lose
The hours spent in books when you were in school
I was not. We read the same ideal of other men
And thought them our own, we who never broke a rule
by choice, unexposed those days, circle now the den
Where ambition roars, and taste the blood of fear
We cannot let the dreamers see in us. Is it not now
Then that we should turn again and face the glare
Like a frantic manchild racing to the end? O how
You inspired me then with feet pounding into earth
Your body singing with the pain that made the laurel
Of mirth.

Bound By Convention

I engineered an intricate design,
determined to be action,
not thoughtful stasis.
But, isolate and distant --
a preserver of decorum --
formal, unexposed, and safe --
with bounds determined
by tight, sane strictures,
I did not struggle,
could not escape nor abandon place --
became, instead, a creature
habit-ridden:  a cousin
to the circus seal
that honks a horn
for fish.

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