Unmoving Poems

Is this immoral to you or am I just too excited?

JULY 2023

Hazy, Rampant, Hammering
Foggy-headed, I must be lazy enough to put just the right effort in.
It drips down and stains the pore.
My disease is acidic, fatal,
And the way that your alkali sense draws me in ...
How I'd beg to neutralise once more.
But the ants won't push against my unmoving tyres.
And anywho, isn't this against your morals?

Vivid, Violent, restless still
I'm floating away, I'm just really not lazy enough to notice it.
I'm ruining your favourite dress,
Your uniform for every non-uniform event.
Please don't let me soak you.
Please disappoint me again. Or you could prove there's no shame,
Because either way, at the end of my every walk, I fear that I'll be the same as my love for you when it isn't to see your uncloudy eyes,
But I'm not being lazy enough.
And I'm trying so hard to not try hard,
But I don't think it was ever really enough.

an overcast Kansas Day

an overcast Kansas day
the kind that gives you a sunburn
without any sun
the clouds are dark grayish blue
thick sluggish unmoving
I stare into them seeking my Archangel Michael

The Noise Here is Too Quiet

The city speaks in static
not loud, not soft, just
indifferent.
It hums beneath the sky's neon bruise,
where overpasses arc like broken spines
above rivers of unmoving faces.

I wait for nothing at the pedestrian bend
a chipped corner where the dust
gathers like the memory of a voice
I haven't heard since home.
The gum-stained cement remembers me.
The railings dull with a thousand greasy hands
do not.

Trees here wear ash instead of green.
They do not rustle,
only sigh
when jeepneys groan past
with their lungs of diesel and plastic saints.

I sit in the cubicle I do not own,
trace the fake leaf of a plastic plant,
watch the blinds half shut,
half giving in
flutter like someone trying not to cry.

And no one sees me.
And that is the loudest thing of all

Promise of the cemetery

I’m walking beside a garden of stone stilled angels
Their eyes are unmoving 
But their soul is cowering

I’m cut between the heat of the earth,
The burning sun and the salty sky
I can’t choose the dirt in where I will lie
But I can choose the way that I will die

There's a towering night overhead
With its sword filled with promise to topple me
I’m poised ready for the journey ahead
My legs churning
Heart burning
Away at my flesh

I’m running with the staining salt air dying my sweat
There are rows of roses left out to forget
I’m watching the rocks crumble
The angels ascend
I’m standing alone at the cemeteries end

There is promise brewing in the sea salt sky
Telling the future not where I will die
But where I will lay
When the time comes to say
Goodbye

I’m breaking apart in pieces of stone
That topple and make up my brand-new home
It’s carved with a smile
It took me a while
To realize that this is where I belong.

A Man

A man's existence is a weighty mantle,
worn with a strength that belies the toll.
His heart: a labyrinth of calculations—
a maze of endless thought, where love is the goal.

His eyes, two lanterns burning bright with foam,
reflect the turmoil, as his soul resides
in a realm of selflessness, where sacrifice is the norm;
a 100 percent selfless heart, that beats to provide.

He is an Atlas, holding worlds aloft,
a rock, unmoving, yet crumbling beneath the fault.
His exhaustion—a silent scream, that echoes and implores—
a weight that presses, crushing, yet unspoken.

His success is celebrated, but his sacrifices ignored;
his efforts, a never-ending sea, that ebbs and flows, unseen.
He works to make sure everyone is okay,
but no one knows if he is okay.

His heart beats like a drum—a lonely refrain—
a reminder of the weight he carries, the burden he sustains.

Some Where - Apr 12

Toppled by a bottle, collapsed upon
her painful past, asleep—but well awake!—,
unmoving, but for her mind stirred aquake,
the girl is yawning before her black dawn.

Alone, couched by a burning blanket drawn
over a conscience guilty at the stake,
slipping into the sly hands of the snake,
she sees not clearly the sickening con

which lures her slowly to her deathly state.
Unknowingly, she’s dozing, edging deeper
into the dreamrealm, into the hazy
murk of the promised land. 
					Her name was Daisy—
until, unexpected, said the reaper,
“Poor thing… if only you could now change fate.”

Your only child

You lay your only son on a pyre.
Blood dipped in sweat he calls out to you and claws at your sleeves
The very cloth on you is unmoving and unshaking.

He screams unrelentless tones but you are not there to see it.
You are elsewhere, you are where your wish is.
I strike at the fire like it will free me, but it surpasses me in both strength and experience.
When I find I have lost you, I find thorns on my burns.
I have known you not long enough to leave scars on your life
but I am unrecognisably hurt in the flames of my prison.

Blood and sweat are torn away from me.
Burnt, gone
Then I am slowly taken by heat
Your gone

Your eyes, voice, life, a memory.
Slowly, softly, haunting it clings to me.
I barely heard the wish I died for,
It was for you to have a child.
I hear it from a distance
I heave my last cry

Only the fire hears me.

The Locust and the Tree

I wish I could tell you
And have you understand
That you are you,
And I am me.
We put so many years between us
And in all that time you’ve changed nothing
While I’ve had to change everything about me. 
Just please understand 
That I am a locust
And you are a tree.
I laid dormant for years 
By your side, if only by circumstance
I shed my skin again and again 
While you sat still 
Unrelenting in your ways
Unmoving through the seasons
Resistant to the surrounding decay
I pray you understand 
As I only have this to say
You and I were born in the same forest
And you expected me to stay?

Embodying the light

Line of inquiry: 

truth imbibed
awaits assimilation
we feel it in our bones
in time dissolved meditation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the forest’s trees, though asleep, at twilight
they silently seek the stars who softly weep
glorious oaks with their gentle leaves so bright
laugh and tell tales of the mountains so steep

in the forest I glimpse a fanciful tune
written by the moss, the pines and the stones
hesitant winds lift the birds as they croon
against lazy shadows the river condones

at the edge of the world, where the pines sigh
there is a wonder unheard – still that abides
flying through the night, across a black sky
glad to know the grace that only love provides

midst the wildflowers, dancing in the fields
grows a melody so clear it cheers the soul
autumn’s breath defies the shower who yields
gifting forest’s captive with certain parole

in the light of still, unmoving musings
soars the ancient belief of those lost in praise
when the night falls, hearts collect their losings
glowing on the night is love that never strays

blizzard anticipation

blizzard on the brink
everyone is stocking up
weather sequestered

anticipation
eight to ten inches of snow
unmoving traffic

Driving alone in the Monts de Blond

I drive alone down misty roads
where the morning’s frost still lingers
on the earth, grass, leaves unreached
by the feeble winter sun 
whose fingers slowly withdraw
into the white blankness
of unmoving air.

The road bends as it climbs between
the shadowed pines and 
leaping across the road
two roe deer, almost always two,  
run from the shrouded trees 
slowing my progress as I scan for more
to disappear again in depths of forest.
Higher the road climbs these mystic hills
higher still until the sky appears
that clear blue dry-air winter sky
full of all light but bereft of warmth.

I think of home, as I clear the misty hills,
mystic still but now illuminated 
by the light of memory, of love departed,
thoughts of you beside me 
almost always you beside me.
As I drive alone out of the higher ground
the frost still lingers but the feeble sun
has banished the obscuring mists
full of all light but now
bereft of warmth.

Camouflage is Her Game

Insects are terrific at camouflage
Many blend into bushes and trees
Leaf katydid doesn’t move or dodge
Lying still during autumn breeze

With her oranges yellows and bits of green
Leaf katydid is almost rarely seen
Lying on a leaf that matches her exactly
Being still, unmoving, most compactly

The Strangers

The Strangers stand as silent sentinels 
Just staring as the world turns and swells
Although there is injustice around
They don’t move or speak a sound

Their black hoods hide them from the world
With their faces unknown and identity not upheld
Why would they become involved
In the world of lives and cares unresolved 

How long will they stare with bowed hoods
And stand unmoving when they could 
Involve themselves instead of their stare
Not moving or at least wanting to care.

© Paul Warren Poetry

winter almost here

gold green some yellow
leaf tapestry of forest
cooling down of ears

verigated scene
knitted up by the master
theres a sudden chill

a red bush taunts me
her merry leaves unmoving
winter almost here

The wrong end

Take one more step and you will die

She hesitated her foot lingering in the air
Turning her gaze behind her

Trust me one more time Hop

The look of concern sprawling over his face
He was young a bit unkempt
His eyes seemed to undulate in varying shades

Just hop

She smiled as she surrendered to his whim
Thinking just a prank played

It was a bee she noticed
wings unbalanced
but unmoving

She reached a finger
prodding the insect in space

I can explain

She swivelled her head
No motion of any kind from anything
She could see the slivers of sunlight
Her legs for a moment
Shivered and dropped her to the ground

Sorry but your the first person who listened
He smiled as he offered her his hand

I am an Ender

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