"unaccountably" poems
Uncanny Colleen (unaccountably green)
is munching on cabbage and squash,
While spinning around in her washing machine
no doubt she'll come out in the wash.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
But my Hiawatha's patience,
His politeness and his patience,
Unaccountably had vanished,
And he left that happy party.
Neither did he leave them slowly,
With the calm deliberation,
The intense deliberation
Of a photographic artist:
But he left them in a hurry,
Left them in a mighty hurry,
Stating that he would not stand it,
Stating in emphatic language
What he'd be before he'd stand it.
Hurriedly he packed his boxes:
Hurriedly the porter trundled
On a barrow all his boxes:
Hurriedly he took his ticket:
Hurriedly the train received him:
1.6k
What Goes Around, Comes
by Michael R. Burch
This is a poem about loss
so why do you toss your dark hair—
unaccountably glowing?
How can you be sure of my heart
when it’s beyond my own knowing?
Or is it love’s pheromones you trust,
my eyes magnetized by your bust
and the mysterious alchemies of lust?
Now I am truly lost!
Keywords/Tags: love, lust, pheromones, chemistry, alchemy, alchemies, bust, ******* hair, attraction, eyes, stare, ogle
Mar 29, 2020
Mar 29, 2020 at 4:11 AM UTC
Shoegazing. The first time I heard of it, I understood it immediately. Some may be hard-pressed to find the attraction in the stillness of the spotlight, but any modern romantic envisions with ease the dust on the tops of well-worn Converse, scraped from the warped wooden floors of the old warehouse/depot/theater/other artifact of urban decay turned venue. Such mighty inwardness may produce confidence in the "performer," but true faith, as such a focused person must know, comes from truly knowing thyself. From these fragmented origins spring the music, the serene meditation of one lifting higher the soul of the watchers. He does not know that he has watchers. All is as it should be.
Stargazing. It's been many a year since my earnest forays into the night, trying to capture the clean green-dusk scent that also unaccountably exists in the ugly, fragrant shelves of the public library. Who of those that take the time to look does not appreciate the night sky? It is an open mysticism, inviting, to some calling, with less of the hypnotic tricks like incense and smoky air but more compelling draughts of equal parts mystery and light. Light, for our nature; only the sort of dark mystery that alludes to more of the nature of ourselves, more essence. Future. But to open myself to the sky is to become sensitive, seemingly undesirable to the warm, smoky fragrance of an always inward and reflecting (stagnating) heart, which is why recollection caught me unprepared when she referred to the relation of my posture to the drably speckled slabs of ceiling as perfect stargazing. With the recollection of such charged memories, I was more surprised when she leaned awkwardly back against my knees and called it
Stargazing.
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
To presume to write to someone about courage
and not complaining, don't importune or make dying people cry.
I've always said Leave me alone with autumn.
Don't stand around my bed, I won't be in it.
Over 7 years after he died, I finally looked
through my father's papers. Couple of unclaimed insurance policies,
savings bonds, our genealogy and on graph paper in an engineer's
block lettering quotations from The Seat of the Soul.
Reincarnation and karma are the chicken soup of the soul,
the after life is the reward for our colossal imperfections.
Along with banking instructions, he'd underlined
this: Your soul is immortal. It exists
outside of time. It has no beginning and no end.
Every time you ask for guidance you receive it.
If we are not at home in the world, contributing purpose,
we lose our desire to stay here -- and we die.
The physical world is an unaccountable given in which we
unaccountably
find ourselves and which we strive to dominate to survive
or it is a learning environment created jointly by the souls that share it
and everything that occurs within it serves our learning.
Sin is activity directed toward self rather than toward service
to others. Sickness is sin. Almost any condition can be corrected.
You are part of God, therefore, think in a godly manner.
If you cannot accept this, forget it all. Do not even begin.
The first act of free will: How do I wish to learn?
If we participate in the cause, it is impossible not to participate in the
effect.
We shall come to honor all of life sooner or later.
Until you become aware of the effects of your anger, you will
continue to be an angry person.
Walking is the most commonly suggested exercise. Also, breathing.
"Thy will be done." Concentrate on that!
These expressions of certainty, conjectures and guesses
were inscribed by him in block letters on graph paper.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
My fathers aunt hated goodbyes.
She helped raise my father, who had lost both parents
At a young age; so in some ways
She was the only mother he ever knew.
The trip to see her was a long one,
So we only managed a visit to the farmhouse
Every couple of years, and I thought it so humorous
That when the time came to leave
She would always unaccountably disappear;
To be seen shortly afterwards, through the window
Or perhaps on the porch, looking moribund
As your car cleared the final sweep of the long driveway-
With perhaps a wave then, if you were lucky.
And then one day she died, and there were no goodbyes.
She died in her sleep, as all the wise of this world
Ought to be allowed to die; and with no goodbye,
No last wave, no tears. I began to understand then
That all those goodbyes, that she would never participate in
Were to be taken together, as a whole,
As a single, silent deference;
Or a quietly potent rebellion-
Against the final leave-taking,
That she knew would probably go unspoken,
And as it happened, so it did.
And now, I no longer say goodbye either-
I always leave the airport stone faced;
Afraid this might be the last goodbye
That I never knew about.
Jul 14, 2010
Jul 14, 2010 at 8:37 AM UTC
Write so that you can know
Know what you really feel....
Write so that your heart..
Doesn't turn into the one of steel...
Write so that you can express
Express what you desire...
Write so that you can fuel
That flaming soul on fire...
Now write till you are full
Full with zest and zeal...
Write unaccountably
Till your broken heart heals...❤
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
Everything about him,
suggests that he is lonely,
he is misunderstood and lost inside.
Yet even at distance
you know so much about him,
the way that he walks,
hands in his pockets and head hung low,
slinking around like a dog,
waiting for a home
Little Boy Lost.
Little Boy Lost.
When he talks he stammers,
then pauses uncertain.
of what should be said.
And when he listens,
he seems filled with endless energy
restless he stretches, looks around
leaning and pacing,
Like a small boy, impatient with elders voices
Little Boy Lost
Little Boy Lost
He has the awkwardness of adolescence
blurting out tremendous questions crudely.
On occasion he smiles, unaccountably
as if told a dark joke known only to himself
You can sense it, the badness inside
but you like him,...
Little Boy Lost
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
Burn, Ovid
by Michael R. Burch
“Burn Ovid”―Austin Clarke
Sunday School,
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imaging watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.
I found her unaccountably beautiful,
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, ************ ******
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.
What did those lustrous folds foretell
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her ******* rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?
“Come unto me,
(unto me),”
together, we sang,
cheek to breast,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,
my hands
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:
all night long,
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.
Keywords/Tags: Ovid, god, religion, church, Sunday school, *** lust, desire, passion, choir, hymn, hymns, devout, devotion, faith, purity, chastity
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 3:11 AM UTC