"inconspicuous" poems
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter
invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near
the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence
from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart
now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed
an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within, lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes
a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul
there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,
squandered time
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years
invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet
for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...
befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...
a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...
© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
Tall
breeze bending tops
rooted deep
faceted to growth
tips seeking light
scented sounds in needles
beautiful feminine formed spiral cones masculine inconspicuous pollinating
pistils
overlapping in season never ceasing a
productive moment
never fallen, always green
Reminds me of eternal life
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 9:12 PM UTC
Pinholes
punched through
my
canvas of night
An
array of stars
strewn across
Darwin's
blanket of black
Quiet
and
reassuring
are my
Northern Territory
lights
Like salve
to my
mind,
soul
and
inconspicuous cracks
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
Tonight I flicker dimmer than most
I'm alone with everyone here
Stabbing their plates and proposing their toasts
Tonight I feel my wings but they're in cuffs
I'm alone with everyone here
Speaking their words, laughing their laughs
Tonight I bear the arrows of discreet little leers
I'm alone with everyone here
Silently goading me with their mocks and jeers
Tonight I hear whispers muttered inaudible
I'm alone with everyone here
Inconspicuous fingers pointed under tables
Tonight I write but my ink weighs heavy
I'm alone with everyone here
They pile on my thoughts, usurping the calm...
Inciting a mind full of anarchy
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
Like a grain trapped under the eyelid
Impairing the vision, in heart and mind
Flush it out with rivers, woeful and turbid
This grain still there; rendering us blind
Tiny and inconspicuous; No one sees the grains
Everyone's 'gifted' with their own to nurse
Doubling over we see each others' pains
Hidden and embedded within the poetry laden verse
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC
*Of the racing heart,
quickening breath,
the gentle brush of lips.
Of sweet whispers,
blushing cheeks,
musical laughter.
Of cool breeze
flirting with one's hair,
soft music
ringing in one's ears.
Of quiet exchanges
of shy looks, stealthy glances,
soft embraces.
Of searching eyes,
hands that wipe away tears.
Of the beautiful paleness
of Life, like love,
subtle, yet so strong,
inconspicuous,
despite its lingering presence.
Of the Red hue
of sacrifice, of blood
and vermilion.
Of transcending boundaries.
Of dewy mornings,
glowing sunsets,
moonlit nights.
Of Love,
that walks you hand in hand
into the infinity of the Horizon
and the eternity of Time.*
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
people always say to have faith
how is one supposed to have faith
when they are inconspicuous to themselves?
people always say that time heals everything
how is one supposed to believe
that a plastic circular object is supposed to fill the holes in their heart?
people always say to stay calm
how is one supposed to stay calm
with thoughts scraping their internal skin surrounding their skull?
This world is all about believe what you want to believe.
Follow what you want to follow, even if it doesn't correspond with all beliefs, go for what might give you some satisfaction that you are an 'okay' human being.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Alone:
It began when she moved to a small town. She was not the town's normal girl. She was different. Her skin tone, her voice, her eyes. She played suddenly, walked differently. She could and would never fit in.
She went to the school where she was made fun of. It was tolerable at first when she was younger. Buy as she got older it got worse. The one person who would stand up for her left. He left her to the torments and the teasing.
Soon all they did was relentlessly make fun of her. Push her buttons. They could not see what they were doing to her. They were destroying her. Her love for school turned dread. She would have to face their voices as they called out hatred, mock and scorn. She would dread seeing or talking to them.
The little things grew as she kept them to herself. They started small, inconspicuous. Then the grew. They grew bigger and bigger. Deeper and deeper till they became the center of her universe.
She would put on a fake smile everyday the real on had been gone for some time. Her love of school had faded some time ago, but now her love of life was like the faint flickering of a dying candle. She would talk to no one unless talked to. She ignored their looks and comments, but their whispers were heard like shouts to her.
Finally one day they pushed her over the edge. Three simple words. Three words that don't mean much to anyone else but to her, those where the words that finally broke her.
She went home that night knowing it would be her last. She was done with life. She had played their game and she was tired now. She was tired and she wanted out. She left no expiation. Just a short note saying that she was sorry.
A single gun shot rang out into the quiet night. Her patents came home later that night calling to her. She gave no answer because she was gone. Rushing upstairs her parents found her body.
Her mother collapsed. Her father broke. Her family that loved her mourned for her. Those who taunted her and teased her finally realized their wrong but it was to late. The damage was done. She was gone.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 2:26 AM UTC
The ancient banyan tree is huge, its parallel trunks,
Go across , spiral out, spread branches,
Sheltering birds; doves or eagles, it doesn't bother.
Above that a kite lost mid way on its pleasure flight aimlessly circles.
A grey half moon tries to remain inconspicuous in the day light.
A single engine Cessna sky hawk from Bangalore flying club,
Laboriously crawl across the sky like an overeaten caterpillar.
He remains,
Oblivious of the world around, and its many preoccupations.
Within a craggy nook created by the irregular stem of the banyan,
The old man sits like an idol, totally alien to the world, that is in its Nataraja's dance*
A long, grey, shaggy beard; serene radiant face,
Stunning any one, looking at him with the contentment blooms there, a radiant flower.
His rags for long time has not seen water, its obvious,
A soiled turban around his head is tightly tied, yet he looks regal.
He is silence personified, has no needs, it seems.
He breathes freedom day and night, no dependency on others,
Sounds, discordant and confusing, from the nearby road, fails even to touch him,
The dust wind that circles around, only creates a halo for him.
A plastic bag full of stuff, his worthless belongings, lie by his side, like a severed head.
An old news paper he holds, to shield him from the setting sun's attention.
On the third day I found out, he has friends.
Though there seems no need to speak, words are too precious to waste, isn't it what he implies?
A dark, frail woman driving back her buffalo and its calf after grazing in the fields,
Stops in front of him smiling, he smiles back; for the first time I saw a smile speaking to another.
A silent exchange of feelings, I could experience, even in nature, since then. An awakening he brought.
Every time I watch him, with an open mind, the contentment I see, recites wordless poems
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
The time is nearing
and I keep hearing your name
flashing bold and white in my head
Oh, I never want to get out of bed
unless your smoke's in my fire
The time is coming soon
I'm still stuck in my room
scribbling down words I can't say to you
Oh, I'm not right in the head
I cant leave my bed because
your smoke's in my fire
Clock is tick, tick, ticking
I'm terrible at picking up
on inconspicuous cues
The wick is slowly burning and I'm
quickly learning your smoke's in my fire
The time is now
I'm flickering toward you but the
draft from your presence puts me out
I'm smoldering, embers circling
the smoke coming from my fire
You're the smoke of my fire
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
Her name was petunia
She had hair the color of twilight settling after a hurricane and irises darker than the moon
Her smile was the crescent that the stars sung for
her fingers as dainty as China ware on the finest plates
Shy as werewolves howling for comfort
and brave as the wind dusting the horizon
She never did understand why her mother named her after something as petite as a flower
She couldn't understand her own beauty
Daisy; nose as freckled as the beach is sandy
Wrists as worn as the pages of a librarians favorite book
Sundays sunny as the sunflowers she wore on her church dress
inconspicuous was the boy she held hands with under the pews
Hated her parents for her wretched name
she murmured between kisses with the preachers son
the devil himself wasn't a flower, but a ****
Took her life the day he was baptized
A flowers life is not the life for me, said daisy
Rose
The beautiful of the most
with red lies that'd set your heart to flames
She'd burn down every field
and ***** every finger of those who kissed her lips
Ivory skin of leaves so green
envious of those who weren't picked, and pitied, and deprived of their innocence and privacy
Just because fate handed her the life of lust and friends of petunias and Daisy's who never made the cut
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
The colour black is known to be a sad, depressing colour
Why?
Black is comfort
Black is bold
Black is beautiful
Then again,
Black is the absence of colours
Black is the vacant space that is unresponsive
Perhaps, that is why most poets like the colour black
It reminds them of their inconspicuous selves
The type of absence they feel consistently in their selfless, vulnerable hearts
It reminds them of themselves because they always
Give
Give
Give
And never get the chance to receive
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
To dream a dream
That is hard to forget
In the mist of clouds
It disappears like a sunset
Ebbing away with clarity
Reverting in my desperate mind
Like it's a mere charity.
Oh the beautiful dreams aren't true
Knowing them is better than having no clue
The subconscience is an inconspicuous beauty
Like the roots of the tree
Entangled and buried beneath
Its beauty is hidden
Its thoughts forgotten.
To dream a dream
Is finding your love
Then losing it soon
It's the inward eye's beauty
So beautiful, so resplendent,
When you wake up, you soon swoon.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 6:12 AM UTC
Writing of a poem
Oh! How it can be likened
To having a baby!
With the copulation of fancy and thought,
Comes the moment of conception
It can happen any day
Unanticipated or planned erstwhile
On a star studded night
Or a rain drenched morn
It swims into you as a seed
So tiny… so inconspicuous
Once the pregnancy confirmed
Comes irritation, nausea
Lethargy and loss of appetite
Your stomach rarely growls for food
Clouds of words hang heavy and low,
Refusing to break into showers
They don’t gush or rush.
Ideas dry up leaving the nib parched
Lines crack n’ break
Depression follows
Discouraged, you feel fatigued
But all the while you begin to realize
That a new life
Independent of you
Has begun growing inside you
Then all the care taken
To foster the young life
You read…
You refer the lexicon
You withdraw from other works
Take rest, relax in solitude
Slowly the foetus moves
The first stirring of life!
With fond fingers, as you pat your belly
Your pen pats the paper
The first line…..
The first faint beating of the heart!
Then words….
Like little harness bells tingling
Fall in line, line after line!
Drawing nourishment from you,
The embryo grows limb by limb
The miniscule of insight
Grown after months of waiting
Into a mature body of illumination!
A stretch of your dreams!
A suffusion of light!
After the labor pains
Of scribbling and scrawling,
Writing and rewriting,
Deleting, adding and editing,
With time stretching and contracting,
A baby, no, a poem is born.
Whether cute or ugly
No mother can dislike it
She marvels at its birth
Wraps it in her warmth
She must have had in mind a name
Or seeks to find a name;
An apt name
Thus a poem with a title is born!
She wonders if her baby would lit a smile,
On others lips too
Or from them would flow,
Words of endearment as from a trickle!
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:39 AM UTC
A convolution of illusions
a mirror of houses
you can touch
But you can't look
home is where the heart felt
the window of opportunity
is not as it appears
theres no door for
opportunity to knock here
Examine the picture
the landscape rocks bare
backyard is cinder blocks
jungle of concrete
gated community
black metal fences
grass ain't greener
on the other side
it's just pretending
Artificial turf
intellectual property
constructed
on top of dirt
priceless
nothings worth
Building
a million stories
No won's heard
Wild cattle famished
Tragic loses perturbed
I gather
well rather disturbed
Collective incidents
Between the cracks
Inconspicuous
You had to observe
For the eminent
Collapse may seem
Absurd
A Foundation built
Upon a house of words
Could stand and withstand
As far as we've known
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
-‘Pit-a-patter’-
Raindrops fall on the window pane before it slowly plummets,
Falling into a large, brittle, glass-made bucket
The water level in the bucket rises slowly but inconsistently,
The bucket never overflows— instead it waits for the raindrops fervently
Your texts are inconsistent and you are slow to reply,
Each word is collected inside my heart to see what you imply
Our conversations and memories slowly build up inside my heart,
My heart is never full— it longs for more of you to impart
-‘Whoosh’-
A strong gust of wind blows by and the rain stops,
Objects picked up by the wind hits against the bucket nonstop
Each hit leaves a mark on the bucket like a merciless, sharp dagger,
The pressure builds up—the brittle glass bucket eventually shatters
Uncertainties and problems start coming our way nonstop,
Carrying along our insecurities and worries- we no longer talk
You start to waver, telling me your feelings for me are dying,
Each word pierces through my fragile heart which falls apart— I start crying
The broken pieces of the glass bucket are scattered all over the street,
Even within each piece, scratches are all over it- although many but discreet
The damaged bucket is replete and can no longer collect the falling rain,
The water it collected previously is released and spills all over the floor like paint
My heart shatters into a million tiny pieces with each piece lost and forlorn,
Even within each piece, scars are all over it— inconspicuous but not gone
All our shared memories that I collected earnestly is tainted in a second,
“Just forget everything, leave it all behind” is what you beckoned
The broken pieces of my heart are impossible to mend,
Your smile, your words, your presence causes my heart to rend
No matter how much I try, the pieces do not fit together like it did before,
Are you the glue? Should I walk towards or away from you? I don’t what to do anymore
----
12am
1/12/21
——————
METAPHORS USED:
1. Raindrops —> Texts, Conversations
2. Water in the bucket —> Memories, shared experiences, dreams and hopes
3. Bucket —> Heart
4. Wind —> Uncertainties, problems, temptations
5. Objects carried along by the wind —> Insecurities, worries
6. Scratches —> Scars
Nov 30, 2021
Nov 30, 2021 at 11:00 AM UTC
Rather the clouds were a motorcycle,
Jesus rides up, lowers his sunglasses.
You ride off with him into the sun
not setting, but crashing violently
into the ocean. Rather, you receive
an inconspicuous e-mail, that you write
off as spam. “Save Your Soul Pls Read”
in the subject header was easy to ignore,
easy to delete. Jesus on the other end
of the illuminated screen was trying to reach
you. Even now his hand comes out of the
screen like a cartoon odor, beckoning.
Rather, you hear three thuds on your door
and Jesus bursts through, shattering
the components of your door-knob. He is dressed
in fine clothing, soft, his *** looks great.
“Come on. We are getting you the **** out
of here.” He still has his sunglasses on.
Rather, a firefighter runs down the stairs, turns
the iron on, starts the dryers, and hits the circuit
breaker with his axe. You are on your belly, gripping
smoke in between knuckles, fingers. Emerging
into daylight, Jesus rides your pet Rottweiler,
like a horse, out your front door.
Rather, a 1995 Honda Civic sputters
towards you. A boy in plaid stumbles
out with a briefcase that stumbles
open. Cassette tapes stumble
out. “Would you want to go
for a ride?” There is a moment
where the road disappears over an arc.
You two are falling together.
Rather, it is raining walls of white
foam. Jesus is in a bright yellow poncho
laughing heartily. He throws your body into salt
waves. At first, the shock of cold muted
the harpoon in your gut. Jesus is dragging you
as you spin the harpoon inside you
first horizontal then vertical.
Mar 17, 2011
Mar 17, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
My plastic smile and rigid joints
Exist for your manipulation.
My trembling skin and the flesh beneath
Are simply here for your pleasure.
My painted eyes and callused hands
Live to seek your amusement.
My unsteady mind and elastic heart
Die to be under your power.
But don’t forget to return me to
My quiet, reticent place,
Return me to the toy box
Before I’m pawned to the inconspicuous.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
I was riding in an old blue suburban
packed full of my siblings. All bony knees and elbows
and loud familiar voices.
I gazed through the glass
and forgot myself. I looked like any other
dumb kid day dreaming
about nonsensical things to all the cars that passed.
But my eyes darted to and fro.
I distinctly remember
the irrational panic that sank like
a stone in my stomach
as we flew down the highway.
Always grappling with our irrevocable
tardiness.
My eyes were searching out the
landscape that swept by,
Trying to spot single blades of grass.
Finding inconspicuous shrubs,
concealed branches, and
subtle cracks and crevices.
It had occurred to me that things
do
go unnoticed.
And my five year old brain became bothered.
Grazing the edges of obsessive.
At the time I felt
anguish
for those forgotten.
I wanted to be the careful one.
Observant and
appreciative of those subtle splendors.
Was it simple selfishness?
The enticement of being the only one
to see what I was seeing.
Some early subconscious struggle
with originality. Prematurely grasping for
anything to set me apart.
Maybe a concoction of both.
I just know that I am
here gasping in the cold. Watching clouds of
frost pour from my mouth
And my eyes remain
darting.
From one snowflake
to the next.
Desperate to catch them before
they dissolve into the
nothingness.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
Be careful little one
You have the frozen globe of existence at your Fingertips
Marking Tracing Melting oh so slowly much too fast
Diligently your dead eyes glance gracefully into infinite bright spotlights
Your fragile razor-edged smile’s tearing the corners of your lips
Insecurely holding yourself excruciatingly precise
Marking repugnant lines down your too young face
Spine’s held ram-rod straight pretending to keep your world afloat on a
Butterflies listless fluttering wings
The tiniest misstep reverberating inside your hollowed breastbone
In.. In… In…. Inconspicuous
Comparable in the manner of a lamp bumping the floor two houses up
Breath hitched tattooed pulse brings life to your porcelain pores
Tip-toeing on egg-shells of yearning aspiration
Flinching at the cold intangible fear that’s grabbed your hand
Makes you come to life a stones throw too freedom
Diamonds ruthlessly rip into soles and ****** toes imprisoned in silk
Wine stained lips sneer at rows of red velvet
They grasp everything you've strove for, they are the power
Passion, adrenaline, up most urgency sweeping you away
The most elegant anguish rushes out forming awestruck wild abandon
Waiting your whole life for this moment boiling down to now
Day after day year after year
Pupils blown wide it’s do or die spread your arms and take your bow
Self-loathing narcissist
You only dance as if the the sky is falling when you feel all is beyond repair
Never have you been more beautiful
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
<<<>>>
It was a few inches from my rubber shoes,
i almost stepped on it!
if i had, i would forever feel guilty...
i was in shock, and....puzzled
a small yellow creature.....moving forward
when it should have moved upwards...
in its silence, its voice rang in my mind
friends had already left the area, but,
i waited....for clearance...
........hoping, to see it rise again, and.....
......redeem itself...
but,
my expectations seemed doomed
..............so, they failed
..........i finally turned to leave
......and...left its fate....
...to its empowered movers.....
It resembled a new yacht...being wheeled
by a bigger cart, towards the ocean,
for its initial dip..........
:::::::::the wings of this yellow creature
were widely spread....seemed ready to soar high
yet, it didn't move a bit...
it could no longer fly...
:::::
for the last time, i looked,
:::::::::::: and saw,
four tiny black ants, persevering,
painstakingly carrying
this dead yellow butterfly...
the trail went on and on, toward
their inconspicuous hill on the ground...
my feelings were indefinable that moment,
it was hard to speak...or decide
......ants?...... or .........butterflies?
::::: not their fault...they both matter! :::::
Sally
Copyright March 16, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 7:19 AM UTC
An inconspicuous wedge
Lodged between you and I
for quite some time.
A barrier so thick, I
misconstrued it as a child.
Prancing thoughts of inadequacy
twirled in my mind,
Full of naivety.
Now? I see you.
The damaged woman you are,
I see you in whole, your
Metaphoric ******
I was never your enemy.
You only reflected as such
because my being seeped tenuous
bits of you through the
Weaker portions of my juvenescence.
I am sorry you are broken.
I love you,
and I aspire one day you will
Love yourself, too.
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
My keyboard is my piano,
You are the tempo.
Each letter an omnipotent gesture,
You are the rhythm.
My fingers fluttering, words cascading,
Music flowing, space imploding.
Tiny strokes, heart pulsating,
Quickly now, dont fall behind,
My wandering mind, simplified,
Superstitious and inconspicuous,
Tantalizing new beginnings,
Each endeavour so endearing.
Nothing more than tiny strokes.
I play for you.
Every rendition,
Every distinctive differentiation of anything beautiful
is for you.
The fincal act, don't stray too far.
Tomorrow is a new beginning,
and you are my star.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 12:36 AM UTC