Unvisited Poems | Examples

Dance, For Helen

You, beautiful one,
Aware of mind's inner space,
But travelling, thrilling to movement.
Tiny jokes and masked meanings
The place you played.
You undid models 
Like a child making games, 
The barrier behind unvisited.
Hold up your arms 
And dance!
Death's not erased the past and
Is not the end of music.

Graves Unvisited

Go to where the air is thinnest
where snow leopards stalk granite paths 
where pray flags slap cherry faced spirits
where nature is conceived.. unforgiving
go to where the air is thinnest-

Go to where hearts caress clouds
where ice scorpions nest in footfalls
of mountain rams and the freefall of all lost men
where oxygen is more cherished than gold
where visions tumble from red knuckled clouds
into rucksacks of the wizened who've earned them
go to where grandfather blizzard is unforgiving
go to where the air is thinnest-

Go far away from where you're at now
far from the riotous caliber crowds
devouring air so plentiful but stagnant..
go to where the visions hover forever
over deflowered graves- unvisited
where rewards are measured
in flecks of blood -star dusted breaths
where nature dances raw and graceless
go to where the air is thinnest... and live!

A Poem To End All Contest Poems

Imagine if this was my last poetry poem contest
My creative juice would drink itself!
I'd find myself staring wistfully into an engulfing abyss.
I'd title my last contest poem, "Creative Death"

If this was my last poetry contest poem,
Well, I don't even want to think about it!
I'd be banging on the keyboard with both hands,
exclaiming "Why!? Why!? Why!?"

If this was my last poetry contest poem...
"Now what? Hell if I know!" is what I would say.
More poems of mine would slip through the cracks 
unread and unvisited like a barren no man's land!

If this was indeed my last poetry contest poem
"Good heavens! Say it ain't so!" I'd scream incredulously!
Would my poetry output slow to a crawl?
What becomes of flood of inspiration then?

Hmm....

If This Was My Last Poetry Contest Poem Contest  (Winner: 2nd Place)
Sponsored by Silent One
Dates written: 07/17/2020

Age Has Not Aged

we gathered lilacs
             you&I
in that faroff land
                              distant
now uninhabited
unvisited
             'cept by memories

those days     so real
more real then
          than   this today
seen through a veil
yet
   still indelible
        imprinted forever
hardwired for easy recall

age has not aged
who we were then
passion
     is not stilled in the breast
desire now
         does not rest
                        but stirs

we drink at that fountain
of yesterdays
                  when
                     we were young
&
this love of ours
          had just begun
we wander&kiss
   the same&
                   remenisce
of that faroff time
I
   remain yours
&
   you are still mine

Capability of Collective Consciousness

The imagination was giddy with fervent anticipation

A beautifully comforting breeze

soothed the mind from every conceivable direction

while also invigorating the playfulness associated with imminent invention


Another day provides additional time

for the creation and nourishment of an idea

Another opportunity to relentlessly explore

previously unvisited dimensions of consciousness

And not only to explore them

with an approach solely confined to basic curiosity

But also to understand,  experience and ultimately

integrate the information into a system

in dire need of transformation


There is,  within the collective imagination,

the capacity to forever alter the world

in ways that enhance the human condition


The existence of a social paradigm

that empowers the impoverished is NOT a fiction

It always has been and always will be

a possible manifestation of the collective consciousness---

so long as that consciousness develops the fortitude and dedication

to combat the systematic degradation of much of humanity

Last Year's Nests

I viewed them the spring before – robins in our grass
and swallows flying circles around the front of the house.
Weeks later I spied their nests -
the swallows’ under an eave of our garage
and the robins’ hidden in a cluster 
of our pear tree’s lovely green boughs.
I wish to have seen the eggs the robins surely laid,
but their nest was too high up.

The swallows’ nest intrigued me more,
for I was able to easily witness the hatchlings’ progress.
Periodically the parent birds came to feed them.
Eagerly I’d step off my porch when I saw the parents
swooping down and then soaring back to the sky.
Sometimes they whizzed close by my head as if to scold me
for my curiosity in their offspring; I was a trespasser on my own land.

Next year I will await them, but I think they will not return.
Always the robins return, but knowing swallows as I do. . . 
their last year’s nest is sure to sit
 lonely and unvisited.

Nov. 24, 2019 for Craig Cornish's "Last Year's Nests" Poetry Contest
(this actually happened several years ago, and the swallows never returned)

A Long Unvisited Memory

there are no footprints 

                   found in the muddy road 

    of the memory lane

                    and there are cobwebs 

     in the pathway



Date written: 06/20/2019

Thanking a Guest

Here I am,
        All lost but you,
	Still being my north star, leading through
	My darkest hour, hope it’s before the dawn
	And won’t be long before I see my sun.
	I don’t believe in miracles, at least not to myself,
	Still I cry for help every now and then,
	I’m a kid just born
	And the very next moment,
	I’m always torn.
	I feel like I’m an unread book,
	An unvisited cave with its entire grotesque,
	But slowly the ice’s starting to melt,
	Like the dew does when the day is felt;
	Shine on me deep and bright,
	I’m too exhausted for another stupid fight,
	I’ve fought, finished and found my quest
	And realized you my own,
	Who I always thought was just a guest.
                      -	 Avee Hang

In Virtue I Sin

It was Hemingway 
  early

And Dickinson
   late

Those early 
  exposures

The trail of 
  my wake

No bar left 
  unvisited

Or brawl left 
  unfought

No school that could
   answer

Dialectic 
  untaught

Now this corner
  I sit in

Both welcomes 
  and warms

And the thoughts
  it retriggers

No movement
  just form

I once had 
  looked over

What I now look
  within

From this chair
  that I captain

Where in virtue
  —I sin

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

The 12-And-A-Half Advantage

1874….
The spectacularly lacey ferns rose up and fluffed themselves as self-appointed front-drops to the hidden cave.  
	Thus insuring this scene would remain a secret, secluded, unvisited spot for the next four or five hundred years, having no idea both parents had found this spot when they were his age.

2286…
	A young girl with long curly hair, brown eyes, splashes of freckles, and curiosity a yard long re-discovered his Magic Cave, only she named it “Twinkle Pretty Cave.”  

Neither realized that this cave in the back forty acres of their relatives’ property was always discovered by twelve and a half year olds.  And especially never realizing that she would soon forget “Twinkle Pretty Cave” existed  

	The cave only showed itself to twelve and a half year olds, but when they turned 15 or drank their first drop of alcohol, whichever came first, they would promptly forget it, as it was a childhood place.  
	The cave laughed, thinking of all the twelve and a half year olds that were to keep coming, because they never stopped. They had been coming ever since she could remember.  And they would just keep coming.

In Virtue I Sin

It was Hemingway 
  early

And Dickinson
   late

Those early 
  exposures

The trail of 
  my wake

No bar left 
  unvisited

Or brawl left 
  unfought

No school that could
   answer

Dialectic 
  corrupt

Now this corner
  I sit in

Both welcomes 
  and warms

And the thoughts
  it retriggers

No movement
  just form

I once had 
  looked over

What I now look
  within

From this chair
  that I captain

Where in virtue
  —I sin

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2015)

Dot

A waterfall is neither a moon beam nor is it icing dripping from a big cake. It is wise to build fortresses of ice in skating weather but skiing weather cannot make the deadline so the cross country brigade of brigadoons are in areas unvisited and therefore unexplored by mankind. Cleanliness in a goblet goo and bleached bath bombs can eradicate even the most stale smell of blemished food. But watching a movie on a six mile screen is equivalent to eating banana peel on a motorway in a lay by. Tailoring treating treatments taking talismanic traders talking trees. And a big wide berthed arch on a canal path is exemplary style of an architectural wonder. Xx beanbags xx diagramming diamonds xx stratification z that was the p y q reporting from a snow globe.

Serendipity

By happenstance, I found you
               And my once empty, sullen heart
                 Filled to the brim with ecstasy
                   Hurray for happy accidents!

                  Dismally sad and blue was I
               One jet-black day, then I walked
               Outdoors, and voila! A goldmine
                      In the sky...sunshine

                    I searched up and down
           Terra firma for gold; tearing cobwebs 
         Out of long unvisited nooks and crannies
        And I stumbled upon a glistening diamond 

              I perambulated through footpaths
               Of life, just minding my business
                 Suddenly I unearthed a jewel
               Touched by the gods...happiness

             I treaded uncharted far-flung places
                Along the way, I discovered an
               Unsought hidden treasure...love 
                   Hurray for happy accidents!



Date written: 04/05/2016

Ghosts

How many Mary Celestes sail
On the uncharted oceans of your mind?
How many lost souls vainly flail
To clamber on board, how many left behind?
 
So many unvisited ports
Beckon, tantalize and tease.
Does one survive on life’s orts
And accept “Destiny” with peace?
 
Which Ghost Ship's your succor, you ask?
Who’ll take you on board?
Are you the one who’ll set the task,
Or the one to command where its shored?
 
How much jettison to your account
Is toted in your Book?
How much flotsam can you count
Which you wish you never took?

Maybe I'Ve Grown, Just a Little

**This poem is a letter to another poem I wrote years ago titled "They Come Out at Night" which I'll post in a bit.** 

I wrote a poem yesterday
but it didn't feel the same. 
These words don't bounce, 
lightening-quick, across the pages
anymore. 
I take pauses where sparks
once flew. 
I think too much now, 
or maybe I don't think enough. 
Questions are dangerous 
to entertain, 
and emotions are battle fields
better left unvisited. 
I think I've even forgotten 
how to tango with my ghosts,
and weren't they always my 
favorite source of inspiration? 
At 33, 
I feel like I've written it all. 
And then words come back to me, 
soft as a wing. 
These words 
pull their shades closed at night,
and say a rosary before turning out the lights.
These words,
feel aged, 
like they know better, 
like they won't take anymore
of your ****.

• Short Unvisited Poems
• Famous Unvisited Poems
• Best Unvisited Poems
• Read Unvisited Poems
• Long Unvisited Poems
• Unvisited Quotes