I miss my girl; I miss my wife
on this, the best day of her life,
with no more pain and no more strife
dancing at the feet of her Lord.
I am told “Take time to grieve”.
I know it’s there; I’m not naive.
But when you believe what I believe,
that just seems untoward.
Shall I play a dirge and mope?
Am I in denial? Nope!
Just dance with her in joy and hope;
receive the gift you can’t afford.
Our fridge is quite the crazy scene
in hopes my girl will eat.
Miss Judy brings juiced tangerines;
a glass is such a treat!
My girl is not a fan, it seems,
of watermelon-lime,
but as for me, I’ve high esteem:
so nuanced and sublime!
Our freezer’s stocked with sorbets now,
hope it’s not untoward,
but secretly, there’s one or two
I hope my girl abhors.
I don't mean to be untoward.
This news, I grant, is a bit awkward,
but there are some things that must be said.
As of last Thursday, noon, you are quite dead.
Written: August 07, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Mark Toney
***********
Corset of steel tightens—ratified pain,
Vestigial breath trapped in ischemia thrall.
The ductile hope failed to placate
This Pyrrhic ache, this woebegone gall.
A sojourn in the squalor of soul,
Where sylphlike dreams maunder, downcast.
Ogle the embers of the miraculous nexus—
A seraphic visage lost, quickly.
Vivacious once, now virile with woe,
Panacea tastes of pabulum, slipshod, and cold.
Tinkling memories coruscate as zeugma—
Bright, yet untoward, they never hold.
Quixotic penchant for connection,
Grasping too late the nebula beneath.
What puissance is this—this throe, this tumult—
When tulle-wrapped love meets a gyre of grief?
Ululation beneath pavonine skies,
Adumbrate every glance, every sigh.
Crimson weave keeps a skirt in place,
Valuable, stained, adorned, and slain.
At the risk of coming off turgid
I offer this tale esoteric
Hoping it’s not found insipid
Nor causes one to be apoplectic
But rather received with alacrity
Without the need for paroxysm
My word there’ll be no chicanery
And avoidance of anachronism
Far from being sesquipedalian
Nor need for any razzmatazz
The tale of the slubberdegullion
Who thought himself full with pizzazz
Though being so supercilious
His affect stirred only dudgeon
Any good was so very fugacious
From this untoward tatterdemalion
Yet still he persisted a mumpsimus
If you will, and worse a panjandrum
So aggravating and rumbustious
Redeeming qualities not a modicum
An unquestioned snollygoster
Given to being quite vagary
An ill-reputed hugger-mugger
And a voice of such cacophony
But I see that you are insouciant
And consider my warning malarkey
Since you wish to be recalcitrant
My apologies for being persnickety
I end my tale of the rapscallion
Without further ado or rigmarole
Avoiding becoming ultracrepidarian
I have met my supererogatory parole
Waking, dreaming and deep sleep,
offer a consciousness leap,
if we be therein awake,
focus firm, calm like a lake.
In staid stillness choose to meld,
with space between objects held,
that thus our eye then single,
in-form pheromones mingle.
Bliss mists deeply penetrate,
each offered consciousness state,
that though awareness may dip,
presence gives ego the slip.
Immanent yet transcendent,
breath by breath, bliss resplendent,
chakras whir, boundaries blur;
with love and light, we concur.
Whether outward or inward,
ego lust is untoward,
so if all that is be Om,
in all states, Self is our home.
Turiya or the fourth state,
staid peace that does not abate,
witnesses the play of light,
centred in drunken delight.
The Self in heart does anoint,
itself at a stillness point,
wherefrom all states then arise,
beheld by us in surprise.
When our soul’s eye is single,
all three states then commingle
but until then we’re trapped,
light of Self by ego capped.
As awareness self-aware,
if dark desires we outstare,
in Turiya, the fourth state,
we fulfill our ordained fate.
Although we now know we are living light,
whilst caged in form we yet feel limited,
so embracing love, doing what is right,
of past sins we wish to be acquitted.
When ego dies and no desire remains,
we are then still, as a flicker-free flame,
the fire of bliss cleansing all our soul’s stains,
whence there are no demons we need to tame.
Free as a bird, no actions untoward,
there is no cause for us to be reborn,
for we follow God’s laws, obey His word
and our lustrous aura does form adorn.
God and our soul then speak in the same voice ~
Rebirth for us is solely by our choice
How much my heart breaks for you
A victim straight out of the womb
Life dealt you a horrendous hand
One of abuse and doom
A little boy abused from two years old
Rejected …. given to another
Brutalised , lied to, blamed
A life of abuse you continued to suffer
Now an older man
Soft hearted and kind
Suffering badly from PTSD
A fragile, troubled mind
Alone with your beloved dog
Surrounded by your hoard
Doing the best you can
Damaged at the hands of the untoward
I am glad you call me your friend
We laugh and chat for hours
Though l am shocked and saddened by your life story
At the hands of despicable evil cowards
untoward circumstance
sorry victim of killer
wrong alley wrong night
serial killer
frankly anyone will do
right alley right night
Things are changing..' Always have done..Mainly material
Mechanical; methods, one by one.' Yet not so humans' who
Seem the same.? Gullible or humble; greedy wether in need? or
Vicious liars dealing in pain ' or just in gain.' Executive
Orders are being signed now! amid strong high spirits i allow
Is all helpfull? Could untoward things hide.? Controlling expression
On internet screens' would that be censoring.? What will all
This ultimately mean.? Is it all just theatre? Just whats the
Chance.? Do all prime movers meet after? For dinner and
Dance..Is the talk all commoditys? With the rarest staying
un-named that is ( pure truth' ) if you're uncertain? Often
Purchased through pain.' It might be brushed off real regular
Yet it always we get back to it. Or lack of again.'
When I was beautiful
A rose in bloom
a field mouse
Climbed my stem
fell asleep in the center
To inhale and sleep
in my fragrance.
The rave
had no sense of beauty
I was a lure
The struggle was short.
Self-indulgent
I kissed the sun
Nothing untoward
had happened
Summers are so short
To be a revolutionary.
The Rose Revolution
in Portugal ended
now we have
social-democracy
In bright red paint, beneath my feet,
Was a declaration, short and sweet:
Nina Loves Lefty! but with a heart
Instead of “Loves,” so, urban art.
That’s how graffiti used to be,
Touting one’s identity
Or that of someone much adored
Without a message untoward.
Rose revolution
I was born a beautiful rose
up my stem, a mouse climbed
to inhale my scent and sleep
in the center of my bud
ALAS
The raven came, knows no
sense of beauty
I was an innocent ruse
stealing the beauty
of sleep
my feeling of freshness
self -indulgent kiss words
I saw nothing untoward
I should have seen
Roses are too wonderful
for revolution
A rose uproar in Portugal
quickly strangled
by social democracy
That ulcer
in his
consciousness
bleeding
to be heard
A canker
of a
muted past
abscessing
every word
Cold sores
of detention
that fade
but never
cure
A virus
of his
hopes and dreams
recurring
— untoward
(Septa R5 Train: May, 2024)
Jimi’s grand apology
hidden in the words
In lyrics of his soul’s lament
Mary’s name is heard
The Jacks are in their boxes
as midnight plays its chord
Music sighing whispers red
— Queen still untoward
(The New Room: April, 2024)
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