Unobserved Poems

The Goggle-Goop of Neglect

Forgotten quanta
the neglecton an anyon
zero in the math—
particles once discarded
unlock quantum computers

Rising unobserved
they shimmer in golden glass
zig-zagging unseen—
how was brilliance unnoticed
in gobble-goop of a yawn

I too drift unheard
neglected in crowded rooms
my pulse fading slow—
a particle in shadow
longing to be recognized

restless hands

I look at my old hand
Blotches of liver spots, slow-running blood vessels
Delivering old blood so I can fold my hands
Once they caressed a woman`s body, who moaned
And my hands were firm
Women used to see me and smile, but now I walk
The earth unobserved and words become a long silence.
If I tell you how much I miss making love
to sit in the park with a girl and see the moon while
smoking cigarettes, inhaling its promise of love to come
The aroma of her hair, the smoothness of her thighs
to kiss her libido and drink her sweet water, her legs
Apart, she has given herself to me.
Asleep, enfolded we are, tomorrow is far away.
My old hands remember so much, I bow my head and try
to inhale from my hands what once was
It is all so hopeless, and soon enough I will be dead.

Markie's Advice

His future was assured. I’ll tell you why.
His father owned “Repairs and Parts Supply”.
Though only twelve, already Markie could
your median income at a glance descry
and whistle as he raised your engine’s hood.

With me, he mastered nothing. Didn’t try.
What need had he for Treaties of Versailles?
Before he came to school he’d greet the crew
he knew he would inherit, by and by,
and sell a solenoid – or maybe two.

My classroom, in those days, happened to lie
across the schoolyard. Out of habit, I
arrived before the others. There I’d sit
completely unobserved by prying eye,
and grade some papers, daydream how to quit.

Young Markie would approach me on the sly,
just me and him, alone at Fleetwood High: 
his head appeared around my door to shout
(it never varied – what a funny guy)
“Just sort your life out, sir!” and then run out.

Some jokes are full-on funny, some are wry:
and humour sometimes makes us want to cry:
our choices, often hard to justify.
My friends all wish, and say so with a sigh,		
I’d followed Markie’s counsel. So do I.

My Sweet Lord!

How does the hymner sing of God's measureless love through quadruplets-
Fine craftsman of fields, flowers, fountains of water, mountains, and sun-
Who practiced self-denial, till blood sweat, for the honor of thieves
apportioning second chances like sweet nectar while He came undone?

Why does the scribe pen his worship to the Universal Maker,
Compiling pages of effusive love notes for an unseen King?
Unobserved by open eyes but recognized by insightful hearts 
Heeding courtship calls from Christ, Saviour sweet, at the threshold tapping.

Where does the artist conceive sweet lines, hues that tell wondrous tales-
delicate replicas of the Creator, thoughts color their veins- 
as prismatic as rainbows post turbulence and wuthering days,
so silver linings laid on canvas sprinkle joy for hearts to sail?

When do dancers slip from guarded grace to ungirded ecstasy?
In the sweet echoes of a recent heartbeat or laughing babies,
bustling birdy melodies auguring spring's blessed revival?
I shall sharpen my grand jetés for Jesus' triumphant arrival.

UNOBSERVED OBSERVATIONS

The baby in the check-out line was the only one smiling.

The cage free eggs and the free-range eggs met at a boundaries workshop.

The lone golf course Goose struggled to get out of the sand trap.

In a distant frozen corn field the crows snuggled with the scarecrow.

The sideline Squirrels puffed their tails and chanted:  “GO NUTS!  GO NUTS!”.

The “Elves on the Shelfs” union filed a class action suit.

On Share a Gift Day Timmy brought diapers for the Baby Jesus.

Joe Biden has Mistletoe in his back pocket…you figure it out.

The Global Warming Coalition canceled its demonstration…it was too cold out.

Turtles that washed ashore on Martha’s Vineyard got the same treatment as the illegal aliens.

A large group of Christmas carolers was arrested for disturbing the peace.

Yesterday

An oppressive still
has settled the morning.
The gray water of the bay
is as motionless as concrete.
I would like to float from here
but cannot find lift
even on the breath 
of these words, 
they remain stuck on a page
weighted with consequence.

Yesterday, there were places 
where I could go,
the wild and overgrown
far corners of a backyard
or high up in the branches 
of a tall tree in the unfenced 
freedom of a park at the end 
of the street. 

There I was unobserved
beneath a sky that was endless 
and not bent into the lens
of a microscope. Birds
and newly minted dragonflies 
flew through the sunlit air
lifted by psalms rising
ballooned with meaning
towards a “somewhere”
not circumscribed 
by a name.

ANDANTE

ANDANTE

I want to be reincarnated as a clock

I want to return next time as a clock
with a regular tick tock, and possibly a chime
I want to be mounted on the wall of an entertaining family
to view them unobserved, a voyeur collecting information
which I can put into poems and stories in my next life
as a poet

If It Wasn't For Poetry

Things that I alone see would remain unseen by others.
Things that move or touch me alone, none other would bother.
Clouds with color and form, are not just a repository of water,
but demand more than a stare and invite an inquiry further.
Who would SEE our Master's painting if it wasn't for poetry?

A vast domain in an opened canopy filled with awesome beauty
and so often unobserved would go undetected of wondrous mystery.
Who would otherwise reveal the workings of God's magnificent symphony?

As I sat at the bedside of one who was ill terminally,
a poem of comfort was born and given to the family.
Who else would listen to the beats and tones long enough to hear the
faraway sounds of the heavens or the whispers of the wind so near?
Things, that I alone hear, would go unheard by unkeen and nonpoetic ears;
Who would LISTEN and record orchestras of the universe if it wasn't for poetry?

Some places, times, and seasons from long ago years;
Things deep in the heart's core, that I alone feel, birthing tears;
Emotional and hurtful memories; mental abuses locked in cells of fears.
Who would FEEL the myriads of life's meaning if it wasn't for poetry? 

120323PS

Adaption

A Doe and deer come to my backyard.
its quite a common sight
              in leafy suburbia.

The hunters search out the 
deep woods to shoot at them.

They are in no danger here
except for the growling menace 
                      of minor roads.

They are unphased,
   by me at my door,
both stare at me for a long minute.

Then the fawn strays 
too far from its mother.

Mother and Bambi
         disappear into 
a light industrial unit
just a stone’s throw away.

That’s just how it is round here,
the tall hedgerows
                  hide both the deer 
and the humming machinery,
                      that unobserved
 make the hunters guns.

Passing Ships

He couldn’t recall an event
Or a time or even a place
Somehow he knew he knew
That approaching smiling face.
A night of flowing drinks
A night of many toasts 
A night of copious alcohol 
Supplied by generous hosts

A night of drunken wandering 
Strange street intersections
Of turning left instead of right
A night off wrong directions.
Welcoming arms
To his surprise
To be replaced
By moans and sighs.

Coming  suddenly awake in
A strange love wrecked bed
A fast emerging hangover 
Pounding through his head.
Not his house
Not his room
An awful sense of
Impending doom.

The act of quietly dressing
To creep down a strange stair
Unobserved she watched him
Emerge into crisp morning air.
A night of unbridled passion
Of giving  and taking
A night of unexpected and
Passionate love making

Silently she’d watched the stranger
As he disappeared from her sight
Contentedly musing on those
Ships that pass in the night.
Now he’d returned her smile
Though not knowing why
And the moment was gone
As they passed each other by.

Carnivore

Alligator scouts still pond,
unobserved his stealth movements
until thrashing body leaps,
sharp teeth tearing unexpecting prey

March 2, 2022

Tabula Rasa

It’s the awkward pause when I draw a blank.
All the dreams I can’t recall.
And those whispered tender mercies 
That don’t echo down the hall.

It’s the lack of depth to the story’s plot;
Not much drama after all these years.
It’s the empty stare when I hear a song
That used to always bring me tears.

It’s forsaken anniversaries
And birthdays unobserved.
Every summertime vacation
Family portrait that’s been blurred.

All these careless reminiscences 
That never cross my mind
Are the way I put my thoughts on hold,
And keep my feelings undefined.

In the dull routine of simple tasks,
The rituals that satisfy my needs,
I elevate my posture,
Positioning my head above the weeds.

From my early morning walk about,
Till quarter past my last cold brew,
I spend my day deliberately forgetting
All those many times I’d been a fool for you.

God Sees All

God Sees All
Written: by Miracle Man
December 11, 2021

I’ve gone through some days,
feeling unobserved.
Yet still I’m blessed,
though they’re undeserved.
I know nothing's hidden,
for God sees all.
Keeping me secure,
lest from grace I'd fall.
From God's sight,
there is nothing that's hidden.
So I refrain from things,
 known forbidden.
While it's in his love,
I choose to abide.
“Cause” there's no place to run,
no place to hide.

Surya Namaskar - Patanjali's Lost Sutras

First motion is practiced at sunrise
With devout courage and humble strength,
Unobserved, unguided, and alone.

First motion glides over the accent.
Some say swan dive, some jack-knifed tractor trailer,
Balanced graceful as a feather on the sharp edge of a sword.

First motion goes down with a karma chaser.
Repeat until you leave with empty pockets.
First motion isn’t drunk, just happy-go-lucky.

First motion is taken as given, 
Today, and the day after today, and tomorrow.
Having so prepared, one is ever poised to face battle.
As Prince Arjuna knows, this world is no place for pussies.

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