Unplayed Poems | Examples

In the depths of his soul, the gentleman keeps chords of silent harmony

In the depths of his soul, the gentleman keeps chords of silent harmony,
each key a secret, a universe of sounds that will not be uttered.
He carries in his heart an orchestra of dreams that need no stage,
for true art lies in the silence between the notes, in their unplayed state.
Like a magician of silence, he weaves untold stories in his gaze,
unheard chords that dance in the air like butterflies at dawn.
Each of his gestures is a silent symphony, an invisible poem,
unfolding in the depths of his being, without the need for applause.
In his silence, he hides the sea of sounds that could resonate,
but his elegance lies in the art of keeping the music just for himself.
Just as the moonlight caresses the earth without setting it ablaze,
he leads his existence, a gentleman of silence, of perfect calm.
In a world full of noise, he chooses to be the silence that speaks,
a poet of unheard sounds, an artist of the absence of noise.
And thus, his beauty is not in what he plays, but in what he withholds,
a master of the inner chord, of music that is never revealed.

Elegy for a Maestro: Rajeev Taranath

Silent strings, once vibrant song, 
Melodies hushed, where echoes belong. 
A master's touch, forever stilled, 
Rajeev Taranath's legacy is forever chilled. 

Dancing fingers, now lie at rest, 
Ragas unplayed, a silent test. 
The wisdom passed, a lineage strong, 
Yet music's heart now grieves the song. 

Traditions held, a fading light, 
The past is preserved, yet shrouded in night. 
Improvisation's flame, a flickering spark, 
Leaving a void, a lonely mark. 

No more the sound, painting stories untold, 
Emotions were silenced, and a heart turned cold.  
The human canvas, draped in gray, 
 Taranath's artistry is forever at bay. 

Challenges faced, a victor's crown, 
His passion's fire, forever unbound. 
Souls untransformed, a melody unheard,
The sarod's silence, a weighty word. 

No loving caress on the waiting string, 
A maestro's life, a broken wing. 
The past honoured, a future unclear, 
Taranath's memory was a precious tear. 

Though death may claim the maestro's hand, 
His music lives on, in every land. 
A final note, a whispered sigh, 
Rajeev Taranath, forever nigh.

Glum Yet Grateful

Here comes the dawn
of a thoughtful Mourn. 
Month of the desecrated demise
of a Monumental personage.

Unpleasant feels beclouds the air
I consume,
My structure reconciles itself
to the dreadful wake of the dawn.

Hushed his grief within,
As though He counts it less.
Burdened the hearts become.
For the weight tears apart within.

Boundary with her,
Was the sweetness of existence.
In a tick of misery
Hard to lug

Uneasy to let slip
Oh Death where’s thy sting
So fresh is the love of the parted soul
Mourning till an afterlife

In her two gems he rejoices.
As life gives succor. 
Though Growth he beckons
For an extended home, before night falls.

Life’s unplayed cards
Relinquishes-daunts my being
Fathoming its depth
Again and again

Glum yet Grateful
For the Supreme One
Alone knows all and the why
We seem still within ourselves.

Three Decades plus Six
Yet I breathe 
To make proud
This Monumental Personage.

Unplayed Strings

What good is the wave, if sails,
It awaits no means, destination.
What good is the tide,
If it rises and falls over sights of unpleasant expectations.
What good are words,
If it's origin comes from unproposed intentions.
For even, has man never danced from unplayed strings
Nor played from strings that cannot be danced of.

What is beauty,
If the beholder views from strays?
What is love,
If well known to man, remains unknown to him?
What will it be,
If time ticks randomly to unachieved desires?
For even a time enjoyed wasted is never wasted.

How do you make bridges?
Is it not by breathing while you have the woods behind?
Does not one path open a way for another?
So why does one need his ribs to make strings 
When the twines are beneath his covering?
When life hovers over to inquire of you
Be sure to give it your best
For you cannot know
If your best can be best enough.

Mute Soundings

Trapped in between the lyric
and music
Wandering in a rhythm 
of lost expectation
Blaming each note still unplayed
and unwritten
The echoes distend
in a moment’s undoing 

Hearing a chorus
when no choir is present
Voices imagined
to sing my sequester 
Wandering aimless
through scores of abandon
Harmony denied me
—nightmarish and deafening

(Dreamsleep: May, 2023)

Vivacissimo

Vivacissimo


guitar
sitting unplayed, unlearned
beside its counterparts:
piano, saxophone, koto,
soon to be joined by a banjo

a silent quintet
untouched, unheard

why do I not put my hand to them
why do they sit in this orchestral mausoleum

is it because there is no music
within me,
no euphony bursting from inside
that must find expression
in the movements of my fingers

is it that I fear
untamed chords and notes
will come of the tumult
of my mind,
cacophonous sharps and flats
that refuse lyrical composition

and what if
the clefs line up and Aeodean
beauty and grace emerge instead,
flying from me in a frenzied vivacissimo

how much more frightening
is beauty than silence

Melancholy and I

Until the last light, I believe I shall remain,
A tune unplayed, in this dreary song.

During daylight and throughout the night,
A moment does not part from melancholy and I.

Should I leave or should I try,
I know what follows could not be felt as life.

Is there another song, one to play my tune?
I'm driven to sing, but this song is home.

If I go, I may return.
But it would know, and I would know,

That for however long or short, 
I could not remain forever dumb.

Forever unknown, forever dead, forever her's.

Wise Monkey

"Wise Monkey"



I am tired
I am so so tired
Just sit for a while

See no evil
Hear no evil
Speak no evil

Shut my eyes
Listen to emptiness
Don't speak

Shhhhhhhhhhh

I am tired
I am so so tired
Just sit for a while

Watch my world
go bye

(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)





"Stone in Focus" / Aphex Twin
https://youtu.be/q86g1aop6a8


"Just Fall Asleep" / Aphex Twin
https://youtu.be/2gNtuY4VAOA














bye. 
Definitition.

Bye1
- the transfer of a competitor directly to the next round of a competition in the absence of an assigned opponent.
       
- a run scored from a ball that passes the batsman without being hit (recorded as an extra, not credited to the individual batsman).

- one or more holes remaining unplayed after a match has been decided.


Bye 2
mid 16th century (denoting a side issue or incidental matter): from by.


Bye 3
Exclamation:
short for goodbye.
   
    
Bye 4
prefix
bye- 1. subordinate; incidental; secondary.
       "by-election"

Whimpers Shall Not Well Nor Weep

chakra shot, aura ignored
inner peace left unexplored
feelings sans a sounding board
blest I’ve left the mindless horde

friends, none that lie to me
or neighbors that like to see
a banshee wailing jamboree 
self-reproach is absentee

no dogs, cats, or swimming fish
little is left demanding wish
lunch mirrors a petri dish
the future passed with reminisce

up every day at the crack of noon
to nosh on candies and macaroon
suck helium from a red balloon
entertained at the Shambles Saloon

the postman left mail today
junk and clutter some might say
bills and debts remain unpaid
life is better left unplayed

beds splayed displayed
clothes unwashed too deep to wade
dust layered is carefully laid
happiness is now homemade

the sun set that never rose
reflections must I suppose
account, compound, and then depose
neatly rowed in juxtapose

lying down at last to sleep
importuning God will keep
me whole, sweet, and replete
whimper shall not well or weep

And Then the Music Stopped

Just like this familiar song
That was never sung in tune, 
Tell me, “Where do I belong?“ 

Scrolling this random playlist
Unplayed in my memory, 
Bringing weight on my crumped chest.

As boring as this classic melody, 
Everything became stodgy--
Music stopped in tragedy.

Relinquished Dreams

Unremitting responsibilities 
Aspirations tampered by reality
Relentless quest for more
Beautiful wife, children, home
Cars, boat, vacations, clothes
All requisite trappings
Abundance of wealth and success
Colleges, tuitions, mortgages
Debt free, substantial savings
Old age, sickness, infirmity
Dusty, unplayed
Fender Stratocaster guitar

For Those Going Nowhere

For those searching the world looking for "what"
As if their lives are some unplayed plot
For those traveling so far to find
All efforts spent, they are left behind
For those friends who flit about
When at home, they're usually out
For those thinking it's always "somewhere"
Discovering no peace being simply aware
For those who set a speedy pace
Never seeing that life's no race
For those wanting a comforting "space"
While others already have found their place
For those souls who truly seek the light
Do not go gentle into that good night

Stories Heard and Told

Why does stepping into another's well-told story
fade away my own?
Until I glance away from screen
or page
or exterior speaking voice?

What if my unmediated life,
unwritten and unplayed
with untold anonymity,
were the entirety of my actual spiritual journey?
While all I have read
and watched on screen
of others' creation and destruction stories
are sacred scripture,
divinely inspired
as humanely perspired,
alternative paths and ways
of speaking to and for my own shared resonant voices,
light and more darkly fearsome.

What if biography
were ecological history
of natural,
yet also spiritual,
sacred development?
Written scripturally small,
speaking in still small eisegetical voices
of inspired natural resonance,
fire with water,
ExegetingEarth with revolving,
absorbing,
creolizing enlightenment.

Why does stepping into another species' creation and destruction story
fade away our sacred ownership?

Prison of Memories

The past always returns to haunt us
Old debts demand to be paid
The very best hand
Of many a man
Stays un known 
And remains unplayed
Some men wish to be
In alliance with Angels
But alas, e’en more opt
To owe a debt of allegiance
To the dark…
And deep within those sad souls
Lie haunted black holes
Absent of light
Not e’en a scintilla nor spark
They yearn to return
To a world once spurned…
But once the die is cast
The past holds fast
And Fate and Karma decrees…
For lack of their wisdom
They be trapped in a prison
A prison made of 
…memories…

To England - a Poem By: Richard Brautigan

There are no postage stamps that send letters
back to England three centuries ago,
no postage stamps that make letters
travel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet,
and John Donne stands looking out the window,
it is just beginning to rain this April morning,
and the birds are falling into the trees
like chess pieces into an unplayed game,
and John Donne sees the postman coming up the street,
the postman walks very carefully because his cane
is made of glass.

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