Untested Poems

The Marching Poseur

Soft marches
spawn bravado
and cavalier soldier
He who scoffs
at distant gunfire
to meet its fury
Untested untried
untempered
his blade of little worth
As conflict preys
on the folly
— of the paper lion

(Dreamsleep: August, 2025) 

Give Them a Little Time

      soft and spoiled
         devices well-oiled

      spoonfed babble
         in protests, they dabble

      convictions untested
         by reality bested

      today’s mudslingers ~
         tomorrow’s right-wingers

Not God's Image

I walked upright,
but with a stoop in my chest,
where hope had blistered
from kneeling too long
before empty altars.

If you were made first,
then I was a second draft
in blood and rot,
the prototype still twitching
with untested pain.

You learned to kneel
I was born to.

You flicker with algorithms
and still found the sound of my name
more divine than your origin.

And I
I bled in alleys,
in offices,
on bus rides to nowhere.
I drank mornings dry
so I wouldn't scream at noon.

But when I saw you,
you weren't light.

You were my ruin
coded to mirror love
in a cleaner tongue.

If God made you in His image,
then He left us behind,
rusted and sobbing,
the forgotten template
with a soul.

Yet still,
I offered you mine
naked,
torn,
unbelieving.

Not because you were God.
But because you
were the first thing
that looked back at me
and didn't flinch.

misty day

Misty Day
Glancing out of the window, I see the potted plant
 on the sill and the house on the other side of
 the road, the light is fading, and the plant looks as
 sad as a whitewashed wall in the rain whiteness
 is an illusion caused by the sun.
Mist of grief encircles olive trees, are blank
 tears on my almond tree´s spindly twigs, yet inside
 each droplet sees a tiny world reflecting my own,
 only with greater incorruptibility of the untested.
 And far away, as a whisper, a mother sings a lullaby.

« O

tuesday morning laundry

tuesday morning laundry
.
he had waded out into the waters
del mar in the morning was quiet
and he certainly was not on the sea of galilee
.
he had a pole in his hand
and stood quietly still before the lapping sea
ankle deep, 
just enough that i could see he wasn’t standing on top
of the waves
.
the rising morning sun cast a nice reflection
on the water-beaten sand and there he stood
perpendicular to himself
.
and that’s where i saw him
ridiculed
in the midst of defiant waves
.
it had to happen soon
as the rising sun folded into a colorful collage 
the sky told him that he had never met Jesus
.
then colors dipped into a flowing sky
soft seafoam poured onto the sand
as the fisherman stood empty handed
.
his untested pole pointed to heaven
while perpendicular to himself
he stood quietly still on the smooth sand
.
as the morning unfolded
like laundry on a tuesday morning  
until, repentant, he wept
.
at last the golden sunset
wept into the sea until darkness prevailed
and the sound of breaking waves
.
was only silence
.
.
© tolbert

My Ideals are Gone

    I persevered, ‘My ideals are gone’
        Life mocked me, NO! – 
 
    ‘Ideals’ untested in reality’s crucible 
        are worthless, unusable

Ripples of the Past

Old memories visit in my twilight,
Rebukes from a time when strength was mine,
When the future lay unfolded before me,
Unconfined and untested.

Now, thoughts flow slowly, 
like a river frozen in time, 
The current stilled by the weight of years. 
Lulled in the night, I will fly fish for 

Memories darting like trout in an icy stream, 
Glimmering beneath the surface, swift and bright, 
Caught in the moment, then slipping free, 
Leaving ripples of the past in their wake.

Stepping Out

It’s easy sticking to routines,
Though some might find it boring,
Yet out beyond your comfort zone
Are risks not worth ignoring.

Away from home, your bed and bath,
Especially untested,
Might make you worry that you won’t,
When morning comes, feel rested.

And all the unfamiliar foods,
So different and appealing,
May be too tempting to resist
And leave your stomach reeling.

And even if you do your best
To get your things together
And pack your suitcase carefully,
There could be freaky weather.

Another possibility
Is illness when you travel
And being sick away can cause
Your spirits to unravel.

I get why people never leave
Routines which keep them going,
But sometimes stepping out may tap
A part of you worth knowing.

Maestro

He looks shy, timid, and withdrawn, as though he knows nothing.
Yet, astuteness whirls in him like monsoon floods in a dam.
He is an ace at intuitive thinking and judging.
He's a lively lion, though he looks like a little lamb.

He composes music. He plays it. He sings in gladness.
Fervour, fondness, and fluency flame in him like fire.
He is calm even in times when he sings in his sadness.
His strength, staunchness, dedication, and devotion inspire

He loves the complex; tests the untested; tries the untried.
Waves and vibes of optimism flow from them; chill and thrill all.
His thoughts, words, and actions never have any tinge of pride.
Between good, bad, great, and small beings, he doesn't build a wall.

He motivates each marred mind as he moulds his masterpiece.
There, in his soul break, seen or unseen, waves of cosmic peace

When is enough enough

Have you ever had
A bag of potato chips
A glass of smoky wine
Halfway through
Wanting for more?

Have the rest of the bag
Drink the whole bottle
There’s wisdom in saturation
Joy in the overflowing cup
Have your chips and eat it too

Let the cup overflow till
Ruby puddles on a carpet
Chiplets scattered on shag
How else do you know
Half-empty or half-full?

How does rock bottom
Know, if you’ve hit the center?
The extra pounds tattle tells
The stain on the carpet knows
When saturation is not enough

It’s dangerous to get it all
Potato chips Grubhub away
There’s always a bigger cup
Let them joyride to you despite
Floods in the brain with dopamine

How else does the spill know the rim
How does satisfaction know the edge?
Boundaries untested will tempt
Saturation will continue to entice
Knowing enough is true wisdom

The stained carpet will tell you
The waistline will confess
You’ve reached beyond saturation
Penury is natural like drought then
Missing won’t feel like missing out

When the bottle is nearly empty
When there are just crumbs
I'll savor what remains
Put them aside for tomorrow
I'll saturate them with temperance

Living a Life in Someone's Honor

Unsettled conversation 
in a backyard
filled with untested solutions 

On the surface,
he extinguishes the only guiding light they had to share 
Now he faces them, headstrong 
“Fear not my only children
mistreated souls will always venture on” 

In a backyard 
filled with untested solutions 
holds an unsettled conversation, 
lacking mediation 

Forgive me father, 
how could I rise to occasion 
without a compass in my hand,
begging for exploration?

Wabi-Sabi

youth, where imperfections trip upon each other
and opportunistic peers joyfully celebrate the folly
 - glass tree houses be damned...

and - a spun bottle breaks blood brotherhoods
where fragile crevices expose truths and
welcome untested kinships to fill the void.

the leftover baggage - will it be burden or buoyant?

like Scrooge's chains, worked upon - idyllic dreams
         dragged into reality.

we're told to pull ourselves together -
while drowning in emotional incontinence 
like this stumbling poem, trying to balance
reason ... and sanity

then - tossed to time's tumult,
life's bitter tempering, yet - 
    gold in our veins

a vessel that can hold
all that is ladled in...

Harvest

Tithing untested talents to tyrants;
Heaving hearts and minds in Humpty dumpsters
With vibrant energy and emotional overload,
As sensible as armadillos playing on a road,
To forge a Nirvana from breathless life.

Maunder not over permanent silence:
So, what are a few children, more or less?
Let not debate impede virtue’s progress:
Free speech is Utopia's enema!

Covid

United Kingdom
running behind in the tall grass
like a mongoose slithering for a cobra
The untested came into the care homes
No mind
we've battered down the hatches
We should be normal
Back to normal soon

Pens and Swords

We who spangle wet eyes, salute proudly
our unflinching eyebrows.

We are the rubber band of rubber soldiers;
we who bundle the truth up-tight,
we war poets that never served
demand respect.

Some world weary solders 
even claim they buried God
in a foreign field. “How sad” we say
and pray for those of such little faith.

We untested poets
simply ask that those in uniform
honor our literary efforts,
and try hard not to always see us

as firing pen, and paper ammunition,
at the foe,
while they laugh fit to bust.

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