"unaccounted" poems
The little thigs of life
Are to most of no great affair
Such as the warmth of the sunshines rays
Or the coolness of the evening air
The little things of life
Are so often unaccounted
But if we would stop and take notice
We would stand astounded
The little things of life
For such we have no time
The colorful leaves of fall
Or a ringing church bells chime
The little things of life
Come to us each passing hour
A thorny bush of roses
Or a welcomed springtime shower
The little things of life
Fill up life's empty spaces
Let's us know that God loves us
And reveal his many graces
The little things of life
Seem to be missed by our eyes
A trees limb bending in the wind
Or the beautiful azure sky
The little things of life
Quickly appear then they are gone
Such as a smile on a strangers face
Or a lonely sparrows song
The little things of life
Are given to us free
The sound of a gently flowing stream
Or the shade of an old oak tree
The little things of life
Like a word so kindly spoken
Can ease a wearied mind
Or help mend a heart that's broken
A thousand little things
Unnoticed by our eyes or ears
Is a thousand little blessings
Missed throughout our years.
RLB
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 9:58 AM UTC
eye did. As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...
not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.
the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there. Odd couples, were there. If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one. We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you. That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 4:30 AM UTC
An empty park picnic table
cooled by the light,
whispering breeze,
spotted by the burning
life-giving sun.
I see us there.
chatting,
laughing,
enjoying each others company
in this never-ending summer.
I see myself
dressing up as the wife,
laying out a picnic basket
and table cloth.
Pouring iced tea
into a chilled glass,
Watching the condensation
slide down your fingertips
as your throat
gulps in the refreshment.
I lay a blanket
on the grass,
inviting you to come sit.
We lay.
And that chuckling breeze
picks up
and lifts the whole of
my 1950s homemaker dress.
You smooth it back down,
lowering your hand on my hip.
The wind has stopped,
but you keep smoothing away…
down my thighs,
across my backside,
up my back,
until my head is
cupped in your hands
nearing closer to your face.
I would not call it a kiss,
because a “kiss” is too
short a word, too precise
and too emotionless
to fit this phenomenon.
You embrace me fully
leaving no passion unaccounted for,
no ounce of me left untouched.
I succumb to your embrace
and we start to make love when…
A car horn beeps.
I blink.
Look around, and remember
that I’m sitting in a
library parking lot
looking at an empty picnic table.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 7:47 AM UTC
True or false, when you stood behind me with your hands on my face and mouth to mine,
I was sitting on the floor, but my feet were no longer on solid ground.
I wonder if the distance between us is not from something as innocuous as miles or hours
but the more discrete variable- past open legs leading to closed hearts.
I'm not asking you to open your front door to me, unwittingly there is no need,
you've already found a spot in the sheets from me- conveniently forgetting you've already let me in.
And while you are speaking in operational terms to create what we are not,
you have quietly defined what we are.
Counting the statistics of it all, if we are the 95th percentile in our sample size of damaged goods,
5 percent is still unaccounted for- I place my hope of you among the population of those still yet to fall.
I can count those invisible scars when my lips are on your neck and you remind me it's too hard,
but when placed elsewhere the rule is no longer valid.
True or false, it is only too much when my breath can trail thoughts closer to your heart
where my intimacy is harder to un-feel.
True or false, some distances are so deep within our heads they become simply not real.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
The glass of wine spins on sins
Encircling the royal roulette
All rotating on a hamster wheel
Pinned on canvas and illusional walls
So tiny in errors and unbalanced books
Unaccounted annotated distributions
Twisting hands on colluded coils
Deeper projections from the heart
An eruption of the social notions
Extracted on the paradise of life
For no truth echoes authenticity
Eccentrically finding a lived reality
Plato symposiums and simulacrums
Pavlov trails of social conditioning
Sampled in tented objectifications
Functioning within the invisible rules
We sniffle as we expose the false actuality
Reactive explosions from robust heat
Unloaded rods dancing under the moon
In our tenderness rejecting the paradigm
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
The door slid silently into position
Utter panic wrote its epitaph before
The air resisted, collapsing your boxed
Voice, hiccupping to a captured halt
Scrawny syllables, whithering
Slogans designed to entangle, split
Personality in tow, pushing sickening
Sentences to the back of your throat
Gagging the saliva of terror burning
Apart effortlessly. Remorse did not attend
Strangulating the heaving mass.........
The handle remained unturned, imagined
Fear felled you, trapped consciousness
Performing blackouts, dragging into a
Well of invisible discipline, conjuring
Paranoid stifling circles to spy with menace
Fading fast, blinking on hold, staring out
Slow motion heart rhythm journeyed
To cold climates leaving warmth unaccounted
For and you left on the cold cold slab
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
The world isn’t as it seems,
on paper and in theory life is but a dream.
Ink fades, ideas drift away, and forgot is the lost paper.
Unaccounted factors effect the words as does the current of a stream.
It never stops, it drifts it’s own course unintentionally,
This water feeds the roots, so sprouts the gnarled branches of the crooked tree.
It is an endless cycle, one falls, but sewn is it’s seed.
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
So we soldiered on
Because the lives we led were held on battlefields.
We trudged onward
But it felt like we were stuck there forever
Amidst the crossfire.
Dodging make believe bullets
That whistled sweet melodies to our ears.
We were camouflage.
Trekking undetected
Through the world.
But the war is over.
A few casualties still unaccounted for
On the bloodied floors.
Whatever happened to no man left behind?
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
scorning sun bursts into the aisles of graying curly waves,
punching yellow teeth and candied sweets with the
green of loving laughter that i've not heard in years.
you taught our fingers to bleed of bramble dew.
so sticky in our attempts to keep Genevieve's crystal filled but,
clear of improper pounds. collected ounces that rudely
overflow, are picked with mudded, forested feet.
consumed so clean and sweet, from thorns
between the brush, the aisles buzzed of summers paths
that only lead us where we knew.
through the scales and passed the cords
where drying life would heat our warmth,
nights would drop with echoing sounds like trains
slowly passing through our country's vacant crossing.
you voluminous sap of unaccounted ooze.
you sweet maple so never barren or dull.
you flame of northern light.
take me back to the path we passed
where cords are dried to burn
where frogs croak in Côté's creek
where my memories live and yearn
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
with no maths for happy
i divided my ' why? '
by Zero
and fell in Love again
like a sceptic
with a wild falsehood
masquerading as
a plausible
X = " WHY ? "
but we know not.
better i should makes waves
in the cavernous
and strike wood
with earnest flint, and cheapskates
on golden ponds of ice
unfathomed, mostly
dark good
with sternest glimpse, for pete's sake
and i could go on, twice
as unaccounted, ghostly
numb soot
in the worm's mint sutures; an armour plate
of Unreal numbers.... kites
in the unfounded, frozen
in the floating point
of a Reason.
or I could call You.... hmmmmm..... ?
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 6:22 AM UTC
Death is inevitable
Choosing when is not
Launching from the shore
Place the oar deep into our regrets
Haul away from lifes spinning current
Death is something to earn
Justify your parents joy each day
Explore those eddies in your travelling feet
Take the hand of your rudder
Placing certainty in the direction of travel
Death is not an end but a staging post of a earthly pontoon
Experience lifes engulfing tributaries first
Find your anchorage for each night and day
Caulk the small cracks that appear daily before you explore a watery bed
Leave no small seepage pass unaccounted
No day deserves to exist without your helping hand
Bravery is making this world what it is with your presence
Apr 23, 2023
Apr 23, 2023 at 8:22 AM UTC
If all good love poems
rest on metaphors
Then I'll write with one
that you could've searched
the world three times over for
and never found before
like the last puppy
lying on its on back
in front of a convenience store
the one that was unaccounted for
that little crease on the windshield
the one your wipers could never reach
or that annoying kid with ADD
the one your teacher could never teach
(me)
time is at once infinite and definite
life is short, yet is the longest thing we'll ever do
why must we lust for forever
when we know a dinner for two at 2 would do
Prince and Princess charming aren't walking through that door
which makes me question what we believe in happily ever after for
and I won't become a cynic
and if only a writer that could never write is deemed a critic
then i'll drop my pen
and drink all the ink in it
love is a four letter bubble
what looks to be
a meandering ascent into nothingness to those outside
but is a self sustaining world to those who inhabit it
what good is an art
if one can not master it
face it
a critic's a poet and a writer
that could never quit
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 10:05 AM UTC
If all good love poems
rest on metaphors
Then I'll write with one
that you could've searched
the world three times over for
and never found before
like the last puppy
lying on its on back
in front of a convenience store
the one that was unaccounted for
that little crease on the windshield
the one your wipers could never reach
or that annoying kid with ADD
the one your teacher could never teach
(me)
time is at once infinite and definite
life is short, yet is the longest thing we'll ever do
why must we lust for forever
when we know a dinner for two at 2 would do
Prince and Princess charming aren't walking through that door
which makes me question what we believe in happily ever after for
and I won't become a cynic
and if only a writer that could never write is deemed a critic
then i'll drop my pen
and drink all the ink in it
love is a four letter bubble
what looks to be
a meandering ascent into nothingness to those outside
but is a self sustaining world to those who inhabit it
what good is an art
if one can not master it
face it
a critic's a poet and a writer
that could never quit
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 2:14 AM UTC
Trained by a centaur the grandson of Zeus,
said to wield power in his colossal frame
1(lilium) an' a seven cowhides to shield
(The Bullwark of Thachaens.....or G(ee))
his on screen name,
Responsible for the deaths of (twenty-eight at Troy)
and so many unaccounted Trojan Lords....
Fights (to a draw) Hector as Homer cites
associated with death as his Lily attests
but eventually falls on (own) sword.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
the walls are the same.
not much has altered
since the clock struck
twelve.
alone in bed,
watching a display
of fireworks
serve as the baton
to usher in
another year
in a new garb,
custom made
for the most part.
long-forgotten
adrenaline reminds
me
of all those things
taken for granted
the previous year.
lists
and
resolutions
eat away at the corners
of my mind;
a tab
that stands
unaccounted for.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:30 AM UTC
A slow chilly breeze
that haunts the night,
unaccounted for,
unclaimed space taken over.
You know I’ve never
done well with
vague directions
and misconstrued sayings-
words that will pull
your devils arms each direction.
I don’t want to sit on my porch,
stare at my screen,
wait for you decide
if the coffee I’ve brewed
this morning is too strong,
not the best it’s ever been.
And how many times will I let
my hands shake and eyes divert
toward exit signs until I realize,
we never closed the door.
Let in all the voices
and found a way to make
exclusive,
something we would have
to fight for.
Break the lines
we never crossed
and call the whole situation
elusive.
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.*
i found the investments of psychology
all too unfathomably capricious,
where the ratio of theory
to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution:
in that when one theory fails
another two emerge, and so on and so forth,
in that great existential ******
of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel
of freud glees with anticipation
to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic
life to enter the great **** eye that
cannot peer into itself and consider
both being and nothingness, as the great
ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus
nimble footed and thumbs on the ready
in the grand coliseum of life - just a great
fishing net where once the mighty fisherman
st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud
catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water
of these paradoxical amphibian representations;
psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction
of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted
for, the way in which thinking becomes
what thinking always was: a malignant capricious
medium pulverised by five vectors, and
the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the
selfish... dragged down to the molecular
degeneracy of explanation using genes,
but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's
reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos.
indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing
and not the study of thinking: imagine
what a hot snarling and wet breath raising
a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting
in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines
and african voodoo masks... sends him running...
the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words,
the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking,
pure vocalisation of emotion...
no, i think less and less of psychology...
i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια:
the study of caprices, the study of whims -
e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders
a big mac in the following way:
- yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no
onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
Take my hand and let me take you back to a time when
Time did not matter, when one second was replaceable with the next-
Easter Sunday, making mud pies in our little Purple dresses,
back to making junk into something fictional
And believing in everything make believe.
We climbed castles, discovered bigfoot, found our prince
All in a matter of seconds- and we never ran out of time.
Time- a matter of perception
Quick sand, sleep, death.
There are many things to slow down this barrier to living,
But nothing to make it go, to make it tangible.
If we were to place time on a scale it would measure into
A timeline of dinosaurs and hieroglyphics, of disasters and
The great discoveries of the ocean's depths- however, I am
Speaking of time as an emotional blip.
To measure time as we do our emotions takes away from
Our perception of that blip- of irretrievable time unaccounted for.
We must make time our foundation to understand it will always be there.
It is what you make of that time, how you allow that
Blip to affect you, that makes moments into concrete memories
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 7:19 PM UTC
You of youth or what you have left of it
speak out for who can hold the unaccounted accountable and take action upon your dreams and aspirations for it is only you who holds the torch that can light the path before you for the possibility of not only reaching your dream but putting your light of a dream on display for all to see who's to say dreams can't come true when somehow you dream like you do
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 12:55 PM UTC
My life is poetry and yours is prose
I can mean things nobody knows
All hidden away in my sweet sharp mind
A thousand guesses are guessed just fine
But they read you better all straight and clear
There's no scheming with rhyme all messy and queer
Though I'm simple enough to decipher and see
For minds majorly lazy nor dullards ain't free
Away, I sit where old red roses bloom
Alone, burning minutes this afternoon
My tears are stuck behind my eyes
This bitter beauty beneath grime disguised
Fumbling around while fair skin bakes
The city is quiet now, make no mistake
I think awhile and then go to wander on
These roses belong to all and so to none
One cool jet of water tries to pass for a fountain
A man in short shorts strides by unaccounted
Laughing at how I’m besotted with my own malaise
I must remind myself that a poet’s task is to praise
But it’s terribly hard to make shields without sarcasm
And loopy concerns will throw wise men toward spasms
It’s almost better to float through hydrocodone dreams wide awake
Than to sing futilely of sand and flights and smiles felt not faked
For this insult to suffering can’t end quickly enough
And the Suessical rhythm leaves much to rebuff
Despite luxurious lucidity the inconsequence falls on
Until next year’s parade and hope of less scorching suns
Because I’m not like the roses I’m not like the water
I’m not like the dude whose shorts won’t go farther
Maybe you’ll realize finally after thrice the **** crows
That my life is poetry but yours is, darling, still prose.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
196 lb
average male weight
ego not included
156 lb
average female weight
although one spoken sentence hits like a ton of bricks
20 lb
unsaid words,
searing, left in your throat
10 lb
“It won’t happen again”
guns for vocal chords
40 lb
a dead car battery
25 lb
for every bullet he left inside her spirit
a scale says 167 pounds
body mass measured
heavy heart unaccounted
19.30 g
roughly the weight of a wedding ring
she’s seen three removed from three different fingers
1.5 g
enough for six rotations
enough to feel zero
1.5 oz
enough for a shot
take six to feel a hundred
10 million tons
the weight of a star
10 million tons
the thought of her
we are loaded
dense
filled
made-to-break
paper-made
carbon-bounded
heart-strung
fire-resistant
the weight we carry is not the
numbers on the scale
we are much more than the pounds we gain
the aches that we hold
the tears that did not fall
living with a hallowed heart does not make it any less heavier
these light words were not meant for these paper limbs
gravity could care less
we are pressured
felt
squeezed
until broken
forevermore
built strong
lasts shortly
bulldozed by just one fallowed swoop
we are demolished
you could build your vessel as ravenous and as merciless as you can
only to be held down by the world
we are defied
measured
counted
hated
loved
we are
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 11:31 PM UTC
Days never pause and seconds are never saved and the clock
continues to tick with nothing tangible beyond its face but,
if I were to pause time, for just a moment:
vain blue violets, would blossom in the dark of my eyes.
While lawyers, counted grains of sand, during recess.
Every tick, unaccounted for, would be an eternity.
As the measured minutes would thaw immediately
until it was time, for time, to freeze again.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 8:56 PM UTC
Nothing burning,
Just a smoke and a
Small, slowing stream of
Used water from its source,
Done its work.
The could-have-been culprit is satisfied -
Then I had been too sentimental and
Wide-eyed,
Hoping things would finally appear to you,
That they would become obvious from afar
Once the distance between was made,
Once you had walked far enough away,
Seen the blue-grey spirited water bank,
Glittering and tapering against the baffled glade that once
Spoke your name.
I holdfast to these things of repose that have found me since,
And I am gentle in looking back at the place
Where you and I were left,
Unaccounted for and sour,
In the scope of our sorry abscess.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
It’s been about seven days since I wrote last
And every time I try and write this,
It ends up much like the last time
Unfinished
Unspoken
Unaccounted for
These words in a space
not physical but non-ethereal
Spiritual?
Unsure
Unknown
Uneventful
Every day is tricky,
This dichotomy of emotion,
And rock solid demeanor
I just wanted to write,
Say, “I’m here”
And walk away again
Here in word,
But with unspoken distance
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC