Fort Crown Point sits on the big lake
that’s long been called Champlain,
its broad earthen walls left open,
thrown up, but built in vain.
Its roofless barracks give no warmth,
just gutsy shells of stone,
unlike its more famous neighbors
no story here was known.
Ticonderoga, near the south,
battered by history...
and Saint Frederic, just steps away
still got a chance to be…
But Crown Point never was a fort,
never besieged or wrecked
before that old war passed them by,
and redcoats took Quebec.
It makes it strange to see it now,
unfinished, yet preserved,
a monument to a place where
no great glory was earned,
no battle raged, no people died,
no purpose did it get,
like a life with great potential
cut short by early death…
Can that apply to a building
if in serves not its task?
But then, it was designed for war…
maybe there’s good in that.
Yet still I get a forlorn sense
on seeing it because
I’d hate to be remembered for
something I never was…
the church is a hospital for sinners
not a hospice for saints
as we're all unfinished portraits
that God must continuously paint
unfinished portraits
perched on the easels of life
waiting to be stained
with the sacred blood of Christ
none of us are perfect
we're all works in progress
Trying and striving
to do our very best
unfinished portraits
perched on the easels of life
waiting to be stain
with the sacred blood of Christ
let our hearts, minds and spirits
be lifted up by His mighty hands
let our canvases be anchored
on godly anointed stands
lengthen us oh Lord
color in our blank space
strengthen us oh Lord
as we relish in Your grace
unfinished portraits
perched on the easels of life
waiting to be stained
with the sacred blood of Christ
we now stand in awe of He
the one who dwells above
just let us never forget His infinite mercy
and unwavering love
unfinished portraits
perched on the easel of life
waiting to be stained
with the sacred blood
of our Lord Christ
Even as summer passes through its cycle,
I'm not sure when my heart is going to be stable.
I no longer return to our favorite coffee table,
No time to sit and read aloud my fable.
Wandering in loneliness, longing to be a couple,
Ended by a string snapped from one small quarrel.
I search within myself for something lyrical,
Questioning if love between two souls is physical—
Or something shown through the softest gestural,
When loving someone goes beyond the physical.
I am not a mountain.
Mountains know exactly
where they belong.
I am more like a road
still being built,
a map with destinations yet to hold
a story with ink still drying
People ask, "What are you becoming?"
As if becoming
is a single line
As if a river says sorry
for every bend
I have changed my dreams
Changed my plans
Changed my name
inside my own mind
a thousand times
Yet somehow
the clouds dont come crashing down
Perhaps the goal
was never to arrive
Perhaps the point
was simply
to keep running
toward the rainbows ege
Knowing ill never reach the end
for Mom
Finishing the game
you left unfinished today
when you left life hurriedly,
though you have left me
your gentle spirit lingers
like velvet catching my tears.
Everybody has a story
What about mine
Everyone has their own tales to tell
I am still waiting for my turn to shine
Motivated one day
Wanting to die the next
Hoping for the miracle
Unwilling to take the step
Just not it
That's the way to describe me
Just one step late
Self trapped in a prison , afraid of being free
Lost in the loopholes
Searching for an end
Yet running from the outcome
Which I can't comprehend
What can I do now
Life's going away
Faster than I want it to
I am aware of the pace
I am obligated to surrender to
Maybe this was my destiny
My life was meant to be a cautionary tale
Just so others were free to sail
I am unfinished undefined my edges are rough and I'm not perfect
Ink blots
bits and pieces
formed on paper
on to the next paper
longing to be finished
My life is unfinished incomplete until my final day
poem written for an online poetry class in response to the above image
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At dawn, the river whispers cold,
its tongue of silver licking stones~
those ancient teeth that never spoke,
though centuries have knelt and prayed.
The water writes, then takes it back,
a scribe with no allegiance.
The stones remain—unread, unturned—
like letters never sent.
And I, who came to hear their song,
stand knee-deep in their silence.
The current murmurs what they won't say:
Some things are best left unfinished.
I am not late
just a flower
learning the language of rain.
Some days I wilt
under quiet expectations,
other days
I surprise myself
with color I didn’t know I carried.
Growth is rarely loud.
It whispers in patience,
in the courage to begin again,
in the choice to hope
even when the soil feels heavy.
So if you find me still becoming,
still stretching toward light,
know this
I am not unfinished.
I am simply
blooming on purpose.
I believe I continue to write
Because my life is an unfinished poem
A fumbling attempt to measure
Meter and cadence against time
Fit iambs into moments of rhyme
Fighting the barbed wire sting of form
Shivering in the shadow of the “bard”
Marching out of step to rhythms thud
As words cascade o’er broken lines
Defying all the yield and red stop signs
Thus, do I write of crumpled papers blown
Of seeds I never planted taking bloom
Of darker regions of a human soul
That runs alone refusing to pay toll
Weeping upon the pages as they fold
Concealed my words in sad lament
Rejoice, celebrate the time we’ve spent
In pondering the art of life and pen
Channeling forever’s point of self
Refusing to be left upon life’s shelf
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I found your silence first—not the hush
of snowfall or stopped clocks, but the raw
unraveling of a symphony mid-note,
the bow still hovering above the strings.
What composes you? Not the obvious:
not the freckles like tossed pennies,
not the laugh that cracks like thin ice.
Deeper—the way your shadow hesitates
at doorways, as if it remembers
a threshold it once couldn’t cross.
Your hands are not just hands:
they are the aftermath of holding on,
the creases where light lingers
like a rumor in an empty room.
I trace them, learning the braille
of all you’ve clenched and released.
Sometimes, I catch you staring
at the spaces between things~
the pause before a downpour,
the breath a mirror steals
when it forgets your face.
You are the almost, the not quite,
the symphony that never resolves.
And yet~
when you turn to me, unfinished,
I swear I hear the music
begin again, and I fall
in love with you
all over again.
I found your silence first—not the hush
of snowfall or stopped clocks, but the raw
unraveling of a symphony mid-note,
the bow still hovering above the strings.
What composes you? Not the obvious:
not the freckles like tossed pennies,
not the laugh that cracks like thin ice.
Deeper—the way your shadow hesitates
at doorways, as if it remembers
a threshold it once couldn’t cross.
Your hands are not just hands:
they are the aftermath of holding on,
the creases where light lingers
like a rumor in an empty room.
I trace them, learning the braille
of all you’ve clenched and released.
Sometimes, I catch you staring
at the spaces between things~
the pause before a downpour,
the breath a mirror steals
when it forgets your face.
You are the almost, the not quite,
the symphony that never resolves.
And yet~
when you turn to me, unfinished,
I swear I hear the music
begin again, and I fall
in love with you
all over again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sky drums, a million tiny echoes arguing with silence.
Raindrops hyphenate the sky's gray poem.
Drops land heavy, cold braille upon my bare skin.
Sidewalk exhales petrichor, wet earth and hot concrete mingling.
Pavement sweats oil rainbows, slick under my soles.
Gutters swallow the sky in greedy, gurgling gulps.
The weight of the storm slowly dissolves.
In its wake, the air remains thick with the scent of unfinished promises.
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