Untended Poems | Examples

Games People Play

she plays scenarios in her head
till she can’t distinguish
shades from fact or fiction

it started out all innocent
at first she didn’t sense the danger
she let her thoughts play drift
and skip ahead of herself
like an untended garden
the weeds soon taking over

she spirals down a private rabbit hole and
plays such games not meant for children
the type with hidden consequences
like mental variations of russian roulette

she’s gone offtrack
caught in a cycle
she’s really lost her way
it’s gone too far
i see her deteriorating
and i can’t save her

it breaks my heart to see her fear and mental anguish
that's sadly now her cross to bear



AP: 3rd place 2025, Honorable Mention 2025

I was born with dreams, not my own, but woven like a spider's web into my blood

I was born with dreams, not my own, but woven like a spider's web into my blood,
by ancestors who left this world without fulfilling their desires,
they pass down ambition like an heirloom of old silverware, polished with memories,
caressed by the dust of decades, yet too precious to be left to fade away.
Each night, I feel them breathing at the nape of my neck, whispering like an ancient wind:
"Do not waste what we could not become, do not let the dreams fade into oblivion".
But I wonder, what happens if I want nothing of this at all?
What happens if true freedom means letting dreams lie untended,
renouncing the burden of inherited ambitions, carving my own path through the labyrinth,
where the shadows of the past cannot touch my light, living a life unchained,
becoming a shooting star in the sky of my own freedom, a constellation of choices?
Perhaps, in the silence of the nights, I will find the answer in the echo of my unheard desires,
in the quiet between heartbeats that dream of something else, of a universe of possibilities,
where the courage to be nothing but myself becomes the true magic of existence.

Tamas

The untended plant
withers away, leaf by leaf ~
a time of indifference.

Why do we falter,
poised at the divine altar,
blaming it on gravity?

Voyage to Asphodel

Listen to this grief I tell,
How love away from me didst wind.
And though in time, I think she’ll find
I loved her better – never mind –
The whole of life, its parts combined,
Are only sorrows intertwined. 
But on the Plains, the Plains of Asphodel,
Shall it all at last be well!

The whole of life, ‘tis nothing deep,
‘Tis fodder for the compost heap.
Life laughs at us, I laugh at it,
We last through lethargy and wit.
Yet this my rule, ignore the rest:
‘Tis he who dies the first, dies best.

Untended lie the acres of my heart,
Where once a field of roses bowed and swayed.
And gladly from all sorrows shall I part!
Nor by a dismal voyage, be dismayed.

Regret!

Regret!

What do I learn?
When the world shifts
And someone's gone,
Leaving a void

Their absence lingers,
A ghost in the air,
Unnoticed, unheard,
Until it dawns...

The wave crashes down,
Remorse takes hold,
and Sadness seeps in
Like a cold wind blows.

Barren land,
Dug up, untended,
Seeds of regret,
Sprout and then wilt.

Thoughts, a storm,
Washing me over,
Promises unspoken,
Neglect unaddressed.

Death, they say,
Makes us wake up,
But the dreams fade,
And I'm lost again.

But can't I learn?
Can't I break free?
Live differently,
Embrace the change

Life, I implore you,
Let the lesson last,
Not just fleeting promises,
But genuine change.

The cycle repeats,
But hope remains.
To live better,
And remember…

when a whore house was fun

When a whore house was fun

I sat down to write about flowers, those often
called weeds and grows on untended pavements
but another thought got in the way as I recalled
that flowers in a whore house are usually plastic
except for a chrysanthemum on
a painting on a wall of an artistic whore
I have had much fun in houses of ill-repute
it is not only sex but also laughter  and dance
The girls liked young  sailors and the possibility
of a steady relationship.
It did happen to a sailor coming home from Brazil
with a blushing bride, no need to tell how 
they had met
Time has changed, women are victims of men's
sexual demands and places where many victims
operate from have been closed down 
Just as well, women in this trade are sex workers
and if not treated rightly, can take a customer
to court, or try a little blackmail
Whoring was more moral before you paid and
had a laughter, not hard-headed business 
as the line of work has become

The Finest Arts

    Makeshift art 
      patches of cloth
    second-hand music
      on textbook drums

    Cuisine foraged
      from lawns untended
    literature culled 
      torn pages blended

    Creative genius
      knows no bounds
    objects of derision 
      make beautiful sounds

Cascading Consciousness

Oh painful pain lingering
throbbing unjoyously
flaunt that false grin again
bring me terror of the unstable mind
where rabid horses trample garden gates
where pampered vines bleed broth and sap
no food no flavors just herbal failures 
not yet extracted 
the untended tend to decay
“thank you no” do I ever say
I talk I think I never pray
gracious gratitude fails twice
to patronize with sincerity
I then bend as if to bow
in garbled words of paradise lost
I mumble hollow truths 
to appease omniscient listeners
who know nothing but ideal fears
admire and adore their perfect faults
escape/avoid/evade the drought 
desiccated hope like dust is blown
out of your mouth and into my mind
dreams become fossils
molehills colossal

A Seasonal Love

I loved him in a Summer's breeze,
though Summer ripened into Fall.
His Winter arms, a cooler squeeze,
a chill became an April squall.

A season's moment left ungrasped.
I thought of love, but love is blind.
Its daydreams easily unclasped.
Untended, quickly they unwind.

He left in Summer, with no glance;
his mythful "white horse" ran away.
My heart, he nicked with paper lance.
I can't recall his face today.

Promises penned in Summer's air
are lost as they waft everywhere.

March 20, 2023
for "A Simple Poetry Contest" poetry contest
by John Lawless

Tears On a Page

Only ten is she.
Assailable as a child can be.
Her mind drifts, worry at best, fear at worst.

Her ally is her art that expresses it so vividly.
The face that she wears on the page,
a tear drop just below each eye.
This is her identity. Her surroundings exposed.

Can you see her pain,
hidden behind those beautiful eyes?
She wants to be loved like little girls do,
The doll she embraces wants love too.

Through art,  her heart is uncovered.
The tears so vivid on the face of a shadowed image.
She is that face.

Rejected by a mothers sin 
who can relieve her from this life she navigates, but one friend she holds dear to her heart.
Untended, wasted and forsaken  but by God.
If she can find Him.

Untended

Letter
Lost art

Sonnet
For You

Fireworks
Within

Sunshine
Rainbow

Halo
Vivid

Docile
Dazzling 

Island
Serene

The door
Opened

Entwined
Knitted

Endless
Hopeful

A wall
Stealthy

A gulf
Anguish

Estranged
Dismay

Poem
An ode




0ctober 8, 2022.
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 16 Poetry Contest,
Mark Toney.

An Open Window

An open window invites a curious look
What enticing stories are lurking inside
Fluttering pages of a neglected book,
What has become of those who occupied
This once grand abode of the leisure class,
Living in the most favored neighborhood
With manicured shrubs and fresh-cut grass,
What turned the tide from times so good?
When tight shingles framed a painted sill
Flowered walks welcomed all who'd heed,
Admiringly, and most likely they would still
But untended the place has gone to seed.
All that beckons is an open window calling
Attention to the contents long abandoned,
I stand in awe wondering why I'm stalling
The old place my attention commanding.

Written September 1, 2022

Neighborhood Watch

The sidewalk is littered with pavement crack weeds.
The road’s full of hot tar mirages.
It leads past the neighborhood’s untended needs,
Trash cans and one-car garages.

The curbstones have ceded their sovereign role
Of guiding the rainwater’s current.
As dammed as they are by their dandelion shoal,
They act as a drainage deterrent.

I noticed a penny pressed into the road.
Its owner had long since departed.
I pried up the copper and made it my own,
And felt one cent less broken hearted.

The Old Rusty Gate

The Old Rusty Gate

Bright sunbeams puddle on a summer road,
Lazy bumblebees rise up with the heat,
Leads to a rusty gate, mysteries bode,
Barrier opens wide, invites come retreat.

A garden gate where pale lilac plumes lounge,
Secluded secrecy of hollyhocks,
Where snarled blackberry vines freely abound
With tangled climbing roses and white phlox.

Abandoned garden grows in wild array
Behind the gate that each day spawns more rust
Untended briars – forlorn nights - sad days –
Footpaths clog with the spells of ragged dusts.

Season’s pass, erase footprint signatures
‘Til life blooms from rusty gate overtures.

6-23-22
Contest: One in Five
Sponsor: Joseph May
Title Chosen: The Old Rusty Gate

Satchel of Ordinaries

I sat quietly staring out the porthole window
As we were passing over a village in the low hills
A cumulus cloud casting over its ominous shadow
Far below in the silence of the engine’s shrills,  
I wondered where those tiny people were going 
Beneath the wing nary a songbird nor butterfly
Alone streaking through the frigid air, the Boeing,
Not a face lifted from village below to the sky
Then it was gone, as quickly as I had imagined,
I rummaged through my satchel of ordinaries
Forgetting a whole community of unexamined
Miniatures, no concern for untended cemeteries,
I had long forgotten when the plane descended
My sweet reveries in solitude, my journey ended. 

Written June 10, 2022
Submitted to "2022 Marathon Mile 1" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney

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