"unacknowledged" poems
1737
Rearrange a “Wife’s” affection!
When they dislocate my Brain!
Amputate my freckled *****
Make me bearded like a man!
Blush, my spirit, in thy Fastness—
Blush, my unacknowledged clay—
Seven years of troth have taught thee
More than Wifehood every may!
Love that never leaped its socket—
Trust entrenched in narrow pain—
Constancy thro’ fire—awarded—
Anguish—bare of anodyne!
Burden—borne so far triumphant—
None suspect me of the crown,
For I wear the “Thorns” till Sunset—
Then—my Diadem put on.
Big my Secret but it’s bandaged—
It will never get away
Till the Day its Weary Keeper
Leads it through the Grave to thee.
8.2k
In a time,
when men were the superheroes,
born in an unconventional location,
a young girl, unknown to the future
she was destined to,
was born with a uniqueness
unfound in all people, a superpower
of empathy
and as she grew,
the world knew
she was imbued
as a living embodiment of legends:
Athena's wisdom,
beauty that surpassed the goddess Aphrodite,
conversational skills that made Hermes envious,
and strength that Hercules
could never attain.
As she approached an age, when her parents would
trust her to be guardian,
her powers manifested.
This incredible child was now a woman.
With the ability to heal those in need: she could expunge
poison that had afflicted a person,
even their hearts,
a God-given gift for those most sacred;
her correspondences exponentially developed,
able to connect in all languages, fueled by her empathetic nature,
this allowed all who interacted with her to trust her for she radiates sincerity.
Now, fully grown, this super-no-
This Wonder Woman had retired her duties
to save the world, not forsake it, but,
to train Wonder Girl, her daughter,
to unlock the latent abilities her mother had passed on to her.
She still looks up at the Higher Power
and realizes her duty to provide
the world justice is not over
but only beginning.
Her holy spirit was not unacknowledged
and was gifted
a bulletproof bracelet,
forged by the most skilled craftsman by direction
of all that is wise and healing.
Given to her to wear
so that nothing could halt her
as she continues
her fate to provide the world a humanity
that could only come from
an intrinsically true
dear heart.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 12:17 AM UTC
New Zealand culture,
a fragility,
tainted by violence.
Colonisation.
Writers have examined,
the loss of Maori land.
Less common however,
is writing concerned with
the benefits,
accruing to white people
as a result of the acquisition
of this land.
Colonisation has provided,
Economic and social advantages,
to white people,
in contemporary New Zealand.
A hierarchy,
white Western culture,
sitting uncontested,
at its pinnacle.
The cultural capital that whiteness provides.
Unearned advantages at our disposal.
Live our lives with greater ease:
Homeownership.
Health.
Education.
The ‘Justice’ System.
Institutional privilege.
A political separation.
The white New Zealand system,
designed for whites.
To get through school,
have good health,
get jobs,
get a little justice.
If the system was designed,
for Maori people
it would not be the way it is now.
Overrepresentation of Maori,
in every
negative
New Zealand
social statistic.
The persistence of white power.
Society provides greater opportunities,
to white people,
by disadvantaging those who are not.
Unacknowledged,
debilitating, racism.
Being oblivious,
sustains a belief,
in white superiority.
While factors:
socioeconomic status, gender,
sexuality, disability,
may impact the degree to which,
individual white people,
can access privilege.
On some level,
every white person,
in New Zealand
benefits from their skin.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
Time has come and the time has gone,
Another sun will rise with another dawn,
All I have now are the traces of the missing star,
An unknowingly discontented heart or an unacknowledged scar,
Oh! If I could just know the reason why or just the meaning of I,
As if listening, “Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.
So, maybe I am laughing I cannot really see,
Or maybe it’s alright, I cannot really feel,
Anyhow I look forward to another misplaced sun,
Another beautiful day and another misleading run,
Maybe the night shall make me tough, and hope will keep me high,
And then, as if listening, “Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.
So now I finally listen, I melt into the beautiful hues,
Lost or Found? I don’t really have many clues,
Few tears escape my eyes as if they have committed treason,
Is it the dying day or the dream? I don’t really know the reason.
Few more fall as the colors fade and as the last traces of light die,
And then, as if listening, "Why bother?” whispers the lovely orange sky.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
Oh misty green beauties,
your branches sway
in hazy softness, sadly,
against your black bark .
What do they understand
Of your deep mysteries?
They don’t even notice
Your simple serenity,
or feel the injustice
of your pain!
When you fall to the earth
in silent submission
your heart is seared,
your agony spilt to the sand,
in an unacknowledged sacrifice.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 12:52 PM UTC
there are a lot of words that begin with un
and
most of them ****
unlucky unloved uninvited unaccepted unachieved unacknowledged uncomfortable unadmired unheard
but there is one word that starts with those two letters
that can make things all better
understood
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.
Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
Unanswered uncertainties limber up
Unwanted confrontations cumulate
Passion deliquescing over unexplored reason
Unacknowledged, ignored, overwritten and dismissed
Without consideration for his fragile heart
The answers flow broiling him, wearing him down
Scorn rejection,
When trust is misplaced,
And she exfoliates to true skin
Hatred smothers over her love act
Bogs him down by the shoulders
All seems empty, all is empty
Toyed with, lied to and used up
He is a clock rigged for self destruction
With no actions that lead to consequences
The reason seems bleak and obvious
His respect for her dies, His respect for her other doesn't exist
She is not the one he loved, she is not the one that he knew
A younger him he sees in her other
Making the same mistake he did, mislaid trust
The multifaceted chameleon that she is
The other doesn't see
Pouring his heart out and defending her wrongs
The other starts to undermine and ignore him
Move on they say,
Only his heart is too heavy
Forget her they say,
Only she was a perennial settlement in my memory, he thought
Hate her they say,
Only he hates himself more for trying
No one understands him
Everyone tries, but no one understands
He loved, he was back stabbed
He suffered and suffocated under the blanket of secrets
Lighten your heart brother, the mascot of a good soul
You will be alright.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:17 AM UTC
some people have with dominance
possession power and control
looks like a rather desperate reaction
to the widely known
but mostly unacknowledged fact
that we are unable to control our lives
and live them as we have imagined
Mar 18, 2023
Mar 18, 2023 at 5:53 AM UTC
hand in hand and two bright lights
moving through the calm night
leaves lit by the moon
hoping to find water soon
an eerie calm
loosely clasped palms
a sudden hesitation
and running imaginations
whispering with you
over a noise or two
a light disappeared
slight unacknowledged fear
****** rising
emotions heightening
a disturbance in the leaves
a tighter hold, a startled scream
you called my name
two large ears hopped away
laughter ensued
steps continued
the destination seen piece by piece
place to rest and regain peace
a rushing water found
feet slowly moving with arms around
to an unheard beat
water and rock beneath our feet
under the flecks of stars through trees
perfect night with you next to me
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
Historical-ly,
Black Colleges
Have been chronically
underfunded,
unacknowledged,
Hell -
Unappreciated.
Black culture curates
Common culture.
Black coins buy
Booming business -
Black universities
Breed
Brilliance, Undeniably.
Understand
Black children
Contain unrelenting
Capacity,
Cause upheaval -
Controlled, creative
Chaos;
Coerce
Change.
History
Continues.
Heads held high -
Commemorating heroes.
Celebrating
Hope-
Bravery-
Coexistence-
Unity-
Hope-
Bravery-
Coexistence-
Unity-
Healing-Balanced-Charismatic-Unequivocal-ly
Colorful
Blackness.
Dec 23, 2022
Dec 23, 2022 at 9:01 AM UTC
the gentle Equinox was ours
though our time together was not always so
you tasted like magic to me
and we came together with all the fiery sweetness I imagined love to be
two halves of the same coin
it was I who dried your tears
and you who held me close
and yet I am unacknowledged
you,
my mate-no-longer,
who walks the long road with another
you have already begun to forget the heart laid at your feet
yet,
when I gathered the blossoms
when I consigned my heart’s desire to the flames,
when I laid the Solstice wreath beneath my pillow
It was you I dreamt of.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
I am a compilation
Of dead factions
Mangled selves
Who did not choose the right turn to
Save themselves.
I am a compilation
Of eyes set ablaze
Upon realization
of their unacknowledged
future
We are not alive if we live off lies.
This is the truth
The reason everyone dies.
Greet me
Speak every syllable of my name
In honor of those still inside
Their corpses.
Remember me.
The could have beens,
Which should have been.
What might have been better if they were?
I am filled with death
And with every word,
My every turn,
I only manage to **** more
Sing to the ones inside
The ones left beind
With no chance of being revived,
For none of you ever did exist.
Only to me.
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 1:26 AM UTC
Baseless words
fueled by hate,
racism, jealousy, fear.
Words that the adults
choose to turn
a deaf ear.
Pretending,
if they go unacknowledged
they'll just disappear.
They won't.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 8:50 PM UTC
Early hours with smoke and rising skies
Sleep that drug we denied
We knew
Even then , this was -
Ephermal as ephermal could be.
Unacknowledged,
In deafening silence, our
Entwined fingers knew
Through beating hearts and a myriad little hurts ;
We weren't a forever
Barely a today,
You and I -
- Broken, breaking,
fallen, falling -
Albeit a plot hole
In each other's stories.
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 5:07 AM UTC
Hidden in the grey morass out there amidst your workforce
Are Pearls in a lattice work of intricate disguise.
Gems of enlightenment and soldiers of conscience
Who battle with adversities’ regressive, shut eyes.
Clad in the rigging of everyday costume
Hidden to all but the discerning few,
Seeing the gold of the extra steps taken,
And observing initiatives made there for you.
Gold in the form of an everyday worker
One who excels far above average way,
Unrewarded and unacknowledged
Responsibly shouldering this all in his day.
Towering over the mass mediocrity
Holding the strands of a mess of loose ends,
Always dependable, doggedly purposeful
Easily marked as definitive friend.
Driven by his own hard volition
In striving for that extra won mile,
True champion of mans’ Endeavour
Unheralded in his own low profile.
The movers and the shakers all
Fly their flags of self acclaim
But the Pearls of the Unobvious
Shall be this nations’ future fame.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
24 November 2010
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC
Anesthesia seeps into me and settles
like plaque into my arteries
where it converses with my blood.
I let its ugly yellow fingers swagger through,
waving their malicious banners
proclaiming my surrender.
My lungs breathe chafing dust
that conspires
and leaves me suffocating
under the silent sands of guilt
that build up into graceful dunes.
My mind loves the desert in my lungs
despite the lifeless contours;
it is far away, removed and sees
a sweeping landscape, patterned
by the winds, my rattling breath.
But my heart lives next door
to that forsaken terrain.
It feels the pain of the parched *****
gone unacknowledged by my mind.
It feels the lecherous caress
of the ugly yellow fingers
that violate my blood,
stroking, disgustingly, inside my veins.
Still my mind remains
Doorless
Windowless
Refusing to see.
Serenely smooth, impenetrable Reason.
My heart has no hands
to hold a hammer or a sword.
Yet Your tongue is a sword,
Your words a hammer of consciousness,
Your expression the oil to reignite
shimmering embers buried under ashes.
My mind’s shield becomes an eggshell—
it shatters, flinging shards away,
letting the newly lit inferno roar
through every capillary, burning away
the ugly yellow fingers.
Winds from within gust through my lungs,
force the desert from my chest.
The sand rends my throat and lips
in its storm of escape,
and the blissful tears that rain from my eyes
quench my arid lungs.
The fire recedes into my heart, where it burns
white-hot and pure—
My eternal sun that gleams within,
to You, I surrender.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 12:19 AM UTC
The fence posts stand, bleached and brittle,
a tidy graveyard for dreams not their own.
Each board a promise of security,
painted white by hands that never bled,
guarding a silence that screams privilege.
A lawn mowed to uniformity,
as if clipping blades could trim truth.
Beneath, the roots tangle in soil tilled
by those unseen in the storybooks,
their spines curved by centuries of labor
to raise a house that barely held them.
Inside, the air is stale with whispers
of manifest destinies and invisible hands.
Windows frame a world distorted,
a lens of 'normal' that filters out color,
washing the streets in sepia nostalgia.
The picket fence becomes a cage
for those who see the bars.
But who built this town?
Not the architects of ignorance
who claimed the blueprint as birthright.
No, it was those in shadow,
their brilliance stolen to light the chandeliers
of men who never thanked them.
It was the voices erased
to make way for the monotonous hum
of a narrative too pale to reflect reality.
Progress wears brown hands,
scarred from the heat of engines
that drove the country forward.
It sings in languages
that don’t fit neatly into syllabaries,
its rhythm syncopated, refusing the march
of conformity.
Progress carves its name
into the very foundations of a nation
too proud to look down.
And now, the town crumbles,
its picket fences splintered
by the weight of unacknowledged history.
The 'white normality' that painted
its walls in monochrome
is revealed as smoke—
a ghost-town haunted by the very people
who gave it life,
only to be exorcised.
Yet those ghosts do not wail.
They speak, steady and firm,
their presence undeniable.
They are the architects now,
designing futures that will not crumble,
drawing plans that see the beauty
in every hue.
And the white-picket fences
are repurposed for something new,
their shards forged into tools
to till a soil fertile with truth,
where a garden of multitudes can finally bloom.
Nov 24, 2024
Nov 24, 2024 at 4:57 AM UTC
A young child hands his struggling teacher the pen she was reaching for.
A sister gives her stressed brother quiet time when he is reviewing for a big exam.
A little girl whose parents are getting a divorce offers the bed she’s slept in since she became a “big girl” to her exhausted father.
All of these are acts of kindness,
of generosity,
whether small or major,
more likely than not to go unacknowledged.
They represent the good in people,
while they are still young and innocent in heart,
years before they may be corrupted by this ever-changing world.
In the eyes of a child they are nothing,
simply the right thing to do,
and to the eyes of many they are every-day occurrences,
but to me they are miracles.
Small miracles, perhaps, but miracles nonetheless.
In a world full of hate and darkness,
full of pain and sadness,
I believe any small action or thought of joy and selflessness
even without knowing it,
is to be rejoiced.
And sometimes it is,
not with great celebration or fanfare of course,
but will a small, knowing smile teasing at the corner of a mouth,
threatening to get loose.
But more often than not,
these small acts of kindness go unnoticed,
doomed to forever haunt the backs of minds and memories,
always lurking beneath the surface of your conscience.
But time goes on.
And the world will go on forgetting these little acts of generosity,
as children grow up,
and leave forever behind the world of Never Never Land.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 2:28 PM UTC
I write poems about love.
its the truth
look at my profile
usually its sad
angry
that he wont give me the time of day
that he wants our relationship to always stay
as friends
but the other day
a man confessed
and told me he loved me
and I shied away
unacknowledged
I was upset he put me
in
such an awkward position
but thinking back on the forward
confession
I must admit
my misconception
that I did the same thing
to get
over another
so maybe this boy
is just trying to get over me
but I cant forget it
I see it now
in every intonation
every stare
every touch
and it makes me uncomfortable
to be loved that much
because
I
cant
feel
the
same
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
It's raining,
Ambulance sirens drown the,
Silent slumber,
No one is on the road,
A mobile maddance,
Mad chanced,
Or mild happenstance,
No change,
But the toll keeper keeps,
Jingling coins,
What have you got to pay?
The windowless hospital waits,
With a unacknowledged anxiety,
No one is on the road,
Will this be the last time or,
Are you trying to make,
Every one stare longer,
The rain wont stop,
Shot, shot, shot,
Drip, drip, drip,
It'll be a few days,
Till the rain,
Decides to quit,
The toll keeper has better things to do.
And the ambulance rolls on.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
That sparkle,
that immeasurably forgiving joy and affection is gone,
but the sound of your voice is just familiar enough to make me remember it.
What we're doing here is necrophilia.
It's gross, but we're ******* something that's dead and we both know it.
I think we thought we could bring it back to life with our selfish demands,
but this coffin isn't as comforting as we'd hoped it would be.
We've never talked about the time between,
that period of time when we never talked.
We should have talked.
Without words, you had nowhere to be angry so you swallowed your truths and they turned into blame.
I can feel it when you look at me,
I don't sparkle anymore.
Well, neither do you.
When we talk we say the least, yet every word has a barb.
Too jaded for affection we bob and weave through a minefield of unacknowledged truths.
Our words rot in our bellies while we sew each others mouths shut.
We never wanted this sort of intimacy.
We let the poison out with play, the kind that's done with knives.
So here we are, playing with knives in a minefield,
the only sound is our own hollow laughter.
Behind every "never mind" and "just kidding",
behind the scoreboard of our interactions and every slap of my *** are two shadows;
one covered in armor from breast to backbone,
and one purging a river of poison.
We're chasing a past we know we can't have back,
and the echoes of our old feelings make the silence so much louder than it was
when we didn't talk.
We were beautiful this summer, helplessly alive.
We had such good intentions but the silence and the miles and the fear have made this thing pale,
dead looking.
We try hard to be sorry.
Every kindness hurts because it tastes like the past,
so now instead we barter in bed.
Turns out *** without affection falls under Services Rendered,
but the shape of you so near to me makes me miss you more than I can bare and if you call me tonight, I'll probably answer.
I guess sometimes the only way to make sure something's not still alive is to poke it with a stick a few times.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
A few hours after the first time someone
looks at you sardonically and says
"Grow up," you feel altogether alone.
Suddenly it becomes one of those days
when the adolescent heart's wilderness
begins eroding. Soon, nobody pays
attention -- not even you -- to distress
in the loosened soil: the dissuaded dreams
you've discarded. Your talent grows listless
and struggles, unacknowledged, till it seems
like the person you used to be and not
you presently, or as another deems.
August 15, 2013
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:34 PM UTC