Unleashes Poems | Examples

Reflection in the Dark

Mirrors stand sentinel in homes,
African homes, where they're often still,
unused, like dining tables turned decoration,
gathering dust, devoid of purpose.

At night, when men slumber, the shadows stir,
underworld spirits manifest, their forms shifting,
observant, operative, unseen by mortal eyes,
yet their presence felt, a whispered rumor.

Ghommid spirits lurk, invisible, yet real,
their existence a mystery, a hidden truth.
Some abhor mirrors, standing tall,
reflecting their horrors, infuriating them.

Their rage unleashes chaos, destruction's path,
frustration and setbacks, a trail of broken glass.
The mirror's gaze, a provocative act,
unleashing fury, a maelstrom of malevolent force.

To avoid conflict with powers beyond our sight,
cover the mirror, shroud it in darkness,
silence its reflective surface, still its gaze,
lest the metaphysical realm exact its toll.

The house with no lights

One,
Two,
Three,
Four...
Shadows crawl in hope of escape.
Five,
Six—
Interrupting thoughts and fear demand attention.
“Hello, I'm here.”
The mind cowardly answers the call.

Life unhinges — unlocking the greed of depression.
The door opens, welcoming the darkness into the house with no lights.
Allowing the destruction to flood centre stage.
No spotlight needed.

He's strong, surrounded by the blackness.
He's seen. He's heard. He's felt—
He's home.

His cravings satisfied as he feeds on the vulnerability,
The instability that’s nested in these walls for so long.

Laughing at the echoes of loneliness,
He unleashes the pain that was suffocating behind a smile-shaped mask.
The pain that was locked away for a reason.
The pain he knew would not say no.

His easy target.
His prey.

Hugging one another, depression smirks and leads the way,
Knowing he’s conquered the land of the house with no lights.

He settles in. It’s his house now.

There is no more counting.
There are no more shadows.

It’s quiet,
Dark,
Finally home.

Howling Wilderness

The howling wilderness reminds me of belated voices
ready to be heard, brewing in those once trapped in silence
A long lived message that is waiting to be told
for those who are ready to listen, ready to learn
A call as rare as a shooting star in the middle of the night
Important as the Northern Lights, colorful, meaningful
bringing life changing highlights to the path of life
The howling wilderness coming from natural instincts
Knowing just when the message will break the darkness of night
A release of imminent tension that unleashes the light
                                   - good  morning -

6/15/25

The Prismatic Self

The sparring mind requires a venue fit
for wide ambition’s pointed blade—the craze
of poignant poetry’s unbridled wit.—
Masked)by the wily writer’s wire-meshed gaze,

the soul unleashes on the stage of writ 
a flurry of pen strokes, a wanton blaze
of mangled meanings, aiming now to split—
—to split the atmosphere in half…for praise! 

Ah—perhaps, in this contest of our wills,
I do not joust against “you”,—just with “I“;
so the looming question mark lurks near: “Why?”
Simply for the thrills! merely for the frills?
Thus, muses Nietzsche, the great unveiler,
“Bist du echt? oder nur ein Schauspieler?…”

Whisper of the Mirror

In the breadth of madness,
A silhouette twisted by illusion,
Flows the molten stream of evil,
Into the chasms of his gray dreams.

The rebellions of flesh, heavy with indolence,
And the barrenness of bleak thoughts,
Scratch at the dignity that follows sin.
The insanity of a mirage,
Rising from the depths of the soul's cellar,
Unleashes its poisonous whip,
And whispers, again and again—
You are sinking;
You are sinking.

And the threads of survival,
Somewhere beneath the roots of belief,
Are shrouded in moss.

Ah,
You are sinking,
And the reflection inside the mirror
Bears witness to a cold, bleak corpse,
With hands long past their trial.

I wander slowly,
Let the mirror whisper my name,
yet the reflection, it seems,
Has been possessed by another voice for years—
A voice that abandoned me
In a place amongst decaying thoughts,
Fighting for a belief
That was never truly mine.

And now, I hear it,
Behind leaden coughs,
And smell it,
Amid the fragrance of dried flowers.
And I see it
In a spring
That has long since spat
On the balance of the seasons.

Earth

Earth
Trembles
A little
More each time with
Each barbaric act
We open up the sore
A glacier shrinks silently
Temperatures rise, its tears fall
Land erodes as each wave battles cliff
As we all edge further to the abyss
Notice given but rejected as folly
Earth unleashes its deadly armour
Brutal, unforgiving force moves
Relentless, without mercy
Drives humanity back
Self healing begins
Nature rises
Like Phoenix 
From ash
Fly

Trinity

To be a god that holds the devil’s lease
has placed the weight of Earth upon my soul.
‘Tis but a curse that undermines the peace
as self-destruction seeks its fatal goal. 
Our path from Eden changed within a breath
when destiny was taken from God’s hand…
and, in an instant, “now I am become death, 
the destroyer of worlds” was owned by man.

But treachery left nothing to conceal
when twisted threads of silence came undone.
Now trumpets sound to breach the seventh seal,
for mankind holds the secrets of the Sun.
The apathy of God unleashes fire
as devastation cedes to man’s desire.

J. Robert Oppenheimer


“now I am become death, 
the destroyer of worlds”
was Oppenheimer's statement in response to 
the detonation of the first atomic bomb

Wind and Snow, Fire and Ice

The gods are angry
and growing angrier.
Poseidon views his beautiful ocean
despoiled with garbage,
poisoned and polluted
by heedless humans.
He rages to Hephaestus
and Vulcan, gods
of creation, but, when angered, 
purveyors of 
fire and destruction. 
He exhorts Jupiter, highest
of the gods, for retribution.

And now
the world is ablaze or
buried in snow and ice.
Boreas, god of the North Wind,
unleashes catastrophic winds 
that fan the flames 
in one region,
turn snow-laden, below-zero blasts
onto another.
Cities are flooded
or turned to dust in droughts.
Crops fail.
Disbelieve in us, they say, 
at your own peril.

Earth

Earth
Trembles
A little
More each time with
Each barbaric act
We open up the sore
A glacier shrinks silently
Temperatures rise, its tears fall
Land erodes as each wave battles cliff
As we all edge further to the abyss
Notice given but rejected as folly
Earth unleashes its deadly armour
Brutal, unforgiving force moves
Relentless, without mercy
Drives humanity back
Self healing begins
Nature rises
Like Phoenix 
From ash
Fly

T Woodys Flower

the azure flower, a lone sentinel, 
stands tall amidst the scorched earth. 

the tornado's wild caress, 
a whirling dervish of destruction, 
unleashes its fury upon the field, 
devouring the vibrant blooms 
with reckless abandon. 

as the last petals are swept away, 
the azure flower remains, 
a frosty jewel, 
polished by the tempest's violent hand. 

it now dances, isolated, 
amidst the barren vastness, 
a wistful beauty sullied by the ravages of chaos. 

in this tragic solace, 
the azure flower finds a strange, 
elegiac beauty, 
a trophy to the brutal capriciousness 
of the universe's whims.

the canvas drained of hue,
except a drop of beau hue blue,
a little color in a bleak landscape.

question is will the bee tricks ever get to thrive,
or will this field be bereft of her flora forever?

The Knight, My Stardust Cowboy

Up there rides my star-spangled, blue-eyed knight
As he unleashes the Golden-Heart Star
Bright green orbs merely want to ask him why
His Milky Way Horse Trail flows and departs.

Earthlings fantasize about the Cosmos
Hoping their spirits will joyfully glide
Into the Galaxy of the utmost
Splendor where Golden Stardust births Sunrise.

Seek not the Cowboy riding in shadows
Since the Universe possesses its guise.
Likely, we'll meet in mystical meadows
Underneath deep dark, golden-adorned skies.

Blazing sunbeams kiss the sandstone that glows.
My Stardust Cowboy whirls with pearly snow!

I Couldn't Talk About It, So I Wrote a Poem

-------------------

Raging murmurs of night's incensed flame
Release my soul from time's lonely contempt;
I pour groans, greased bills for this secret craving 
That my mouth, in disguise,  words play 
About sweet babbles, once again 
To incite passion quite crude of fleeting trysts.
Pump upon pump of sighs quench 
the emptiness 
Just for now...my hunt for company
Loitering on a district 's sleazy street;
Untamed as the red of moon
That my thirst to relieve another gulp of angst
Unleashes what is cold and burnt within...
Until curving feline gaits slither along
Waiting for a  prey; a gratifying reward 
From a stained  drained love dejected,
Not by grace's command this heart endures,

But through a lusty thought: life is simply a game.

Coming Of Age, The Rite

a tender voice recites, muse’s lyrics flow                                                                                                
non-believers have poisoned Earth Mother's waterways    
She unleashes winds blown hotter and dryer                     
perennial white blossoms swoon midst zephyrs 
dangle from sterling chaste trees
twisted maple bark echo braids sacred hair unscathed    
gold filters branches
thousand-year rooted Algonquin memories 
elders and granddaughters amble amongst crackling twigs 
streams pristine align to augur a promising path
within a bison pelt tepee awaits the knowledge keepers embrace
fire and smoke dense and opaque
evoking a bittersweet melancholy
broadleaves tremble breathe and sway
hymn chants of traditional wisdom expel 
severed is the braid as is the child from the woman
her nascent efflorescence 
transition is significant as we are wedded 
and bound to nature’s perennial sentient
let the path before us grow wider and brighter for future generations

An Insomniac's Lullaby

It is 2 AM by the room clock,
Body, helpless, detached; done
Brain, still active. Heart wanting
the sweet melody of music. Alas,
the speaker needs the electric
embrace of replenishment. 

It is 2 AM by the room clock, 
Body, makes a sound that the
brain rejects. The heart craving 
for notes, noise; chaos. Dejected 
it lays on the bed, hopeless like this
damn night. 

It is 2 AM by the room clock, 
The body is content, the brain not 
so much. Trying to make sense of 
the Sonance. The heart, relieved, 
entrained with the vibrations. Alas, 
It is the spring, poking from within 
the bed.
 
In this sanctuary, where dreams
take flight, where silence unleashes
its fury. This bed spring sings without 
fear, and draws sleep a bit nearer. With 
each creak and a crack, it creates a 
melody for the heart to unwind. 
Verily, it happens at 2 AM every night. 


Prompt: Spring (Bed)

Empty Nesters

Children leaving home
Starting a life without us
time to turn the page

A fresh coat of paint
brings fresh opportunities
making things brighter

Each stroke of the brush
Unleashes a memory
Tears begin to fall

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