"unacquainted" poems
Crescent orb radiates its crystalline sight,
languid lips coalesce like a tessellation,
the vexing vines wilder the incandescent-
glimmer but the burning impression remains.
Celestial bodies affixes a soliloquy amongst-
a halcyon tongue that revelate a rhapsodic-
episode.
Quiescent ambience rings a plethora of-
sentiments stinging on the mellifluous
lullaby. The lithe wildflower murmurs-
the euphonious recital of a sonnet that-
is unacquainted to the mind.
Luminous assemblies of fireflies retire-
behind the myriad of evergreen forest
as the insouciance wildflower approach.
Precocious primrose locked from the
scorching sensation of a wildflower
exhibited a lassitude facade like a -
waning lantern fiery on its final residues.
In the distant a wildflower and in
the presence, an idyllic primrose:
so scarce and so strange.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 7:37 AM UTC
the folded man
sat creasing the edges of his wallet sized heart
and stared off into the romantic night
full of lovers embracing
and others who silently wished for a hand to hold
he waited for her soft footsteps
but she just sat in her bedroom mirror brushing her hair
thinking of some boy from long ago
sundown was just that kind of girl
trade your temptations today for the empty promise of yesterday
she will stay here another season
maybe he will pass this way
maybe the storm clouds gathering will go away
the harlots all dance with unacquainted tenderness
not all embraces are done with joy
call it a sundown's choice cause its a bad one
and the gambler brushes dust off his neat appearances
each detail of his solitude lie must be cared for
lest it crumble and expose hes just a green kid
from illinois
we all put the best face we can
some just take it too far
she went to the picture show
and looked for familiar faces in the crowded hall
but the folded man had already slipped away
with one of the harlots
who will make a pretty bride someday
everybody gets a second chance
they just may not want it once they get it
she brushed the ashes from her clothes
they fell like thin snowfall on spring day
a last taste of winters hand
out of the burnt shell of the dancehall at dawn we came
the thick smoke splayed out on the thin wind
wound its way past catching the dust and
making the sunlight a dull brown
she looked at me with tears for eyes
asked me to take her from this place
everybody gets a second chance
they just may not want it once they get it
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
She seals the bag
full of melancholic songs-
The precious weapon in my
poetic arsenal,
And revives in me the desire
To sing a love song;
Should I write it
on her beauty,
Or on the virtues
she doesn’t count,
That her soul is truth a pious seeks,
Or something she is unacquainted
in her till now,
Or on the blushing cheeks,
Or parting lips,
Mystic eyes, or Sufi voice,
Or the nose-pin shining ablaze,
Or simply arrange the words
to summarize her sleeping face,
Should I write—
Stars fall to make her wish complete,
That sunflowers follow the direction
she moves,
That leaves loose bough
to have a close look, of her.
What should I write?
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 2:39 PM UTC
I am in love sunrises I have never
seen, with people,
unacquainted, in cities
unvisited.
Unfamiliar roads, pave paths to
Uncertainty.
Do not deny the moonlight,
reminder of yearning.
Homesick,
for a time never lived in, a place non existent,
unknown.
Rudely,
unacquainted.
I am in love with the person
I still have yet to
become.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
Fear of unknowing
Is what consumes us today
Every little piece of knowledge we need
Is at our finger tips
*Just ask Siri
Google it
Look it up*
But we fear the unknown and never do anything about it
When people were unacquainted with the rest of the world
They sailed to find it
When people didn't know a word
they picked up a dictionary and found it
We fear that God exists or doesn't exist
In truth, we really don't know
We fear the unknown, so we pray to the unknown.
We are scared of the dark
Not seeing and knowing every dot of dust
Not knowing what may lurk
We don't know when the world will end
The idea that it could happen, but we don't know when scares us
It scares me, as I am no exception to this fear.
We don't know what will happen next
Maybe instead of fearing the unknown
We could find curiosity in it.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
Of a nefarious shadow that followed
Her eyes of blue serene were nonchalant
As she wended the verdant lanes.
.
The lanes she trod like an esplanade
Her ears could perceive no rant
Of a nefarious shadow that followed.
.
The phantom to her was an Adonis
And yet, oblivion to herself she did grant
As she wended the verdant lanes.
.
The undefined was lurking closer
Unacquainted while on her errant
Of a nefarious shadow that followed.
.
That aisle could pave way to her hearse
Unaware she; of the dangers nearing every instant
As she wended the verdant lanes.
.
That peaceful sienna her eyes were at
Oblivious of the slow augury chant
Of a nefarious shadow that followed
As she wended the verdant lanes.
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
~
*abruptly waking to discover
the sempiternal daylight of herself
in a small silent village in Brussels
the sky's a cloudless blue
and she needs the sun
like children need two parents
sunglasses conceal bedroom eyes
smiles hide like inverted *******
clothed in peekaboo milieu
a highly individual creature
in an era of the exaggerated curve
she's an amnesiac
doodle-dawdling in the altogether
wrapping herself around
mise-en-scène
it's breakfast with Mr. Svengali
then unacquainted foothills
and undergrowth
in the flaring of conjugal
light and shadow
hum
thrum
'n strum
she's got the whole wide world
in her hands
her simple slantwise silhouette
declivitous neck
inclining embonpoint
summoning him
no clock, no watch
the keeping of time
is served by rapping
her crown upon the headboard
at regular intervals
her open-tempered sighs
closing with the heaviness
of a sleepy hush
until the echoing of church bells
announce the footfalls
of tomorrow-come-looking*
~
Aug 26, 2021
Aug 26, 2021 at 3:02 PM UTC
In a little muddled cloud, a bubble, a thought
Ideas float away unfettered of wings.
Catching them proves to be unfeasible
By any means possible it appears…
Careful when you pull from
My stack of Jenga dreams
Taken from what sustains and place on my crown
Begin tumbling, falling, scattering…game over.
Hold in your hands an image of love
Heavy, it seems, to the amateur captor
Light as air, supple, shaped…radiant
In the hands of the ancient, practiced devotee.
Halls and mirrors seek hazy confusion
Follow the seam and you’ll find the egress
Where Hope patiently waits, distant calliope, poised
To hold you and keep you, the spectacle of desire.
“Come home” breathes the slender sprite
Into ears unacquainted with compassion.
Lullaby swing, tree limb unbroken, come sing
The song in my dreams to make sweet.
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 8:41 PM UTC
…i have learned my lesson / One should not give the impression / of being too happy / as you don’t do
happy / you and angry / are comfortable / misery / your longtime friend / but with happy / you are
unacquainted / and / too much joviality / for too long a period / puts the proverbial underpants in a bunch /
too much free-range fondling / and unnecessary emotion / is a commotion / that puts the Neanderthal in
you / into uncharted territory / off the clear and obvious path / with a virtual stick / banging the bushes of
my spirit / waiting to see what emerges / and surprisingly / you are surprised / that what emerges is /
seldom what you expect / but what do you expect? / That i will continually ride this / histrionic
rollercoaster? / apprehensively peaking hills? / uncertainly braving valleys? / stop the maniacal ups and
downs i think i want to get off / on you / and with you / but that just wont do / cuz you / fail to realize /
that I am / percolating and oozing / straight inundated with / sweetness / and to get the full overflow / of
said sweetness / is a privilege… / and not a right… / therefore / to the benefit of no one / and as a
consequence of your / vacillation and inconstancy / i have made the determination / to Cap this most
fundamental Well / sadly / i have learned my lesson…
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 7:21 AM UTC
North Carolina poet, Jim Wayne Miller, on his goal in writing poetry. "Growing up in North Carolina, I was often amused, along with other natives, at tourists who fished the trout streams. The pools, so perfectly clear, had a deceptive depth. Fishermen unacquainted with them were forever stepping into what they thought was knee-deep water and going in up to their waists or even their armpits, sometimes being floated right off their feet. I try to make poems like those pools, so simple and clear their depth is deceiving. I want the writing to be so transparent that the reader forgets he is reading and is aware only that he is having an experience. He is suddenly plunged deeper than he expected and comes up shivering."
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
Sitting a row in front, her forehead rests on a tanned hand
perhaps in simple boredom, her thoughts
caged in by the rays of sunlight washing her brunette hair.
The train rattles on, passing empty shopfronts
and two boys racing each other on bicycles
I yawn, breathing the laziness around
'I could sit next to her' I imagine
my eyes fixed on her delicate eyelashes, but
foolishness is embarrassing
so I yawn again.
If love could be defined, it certainly cannot be
two strangers with unacquainted hearts.
That's not love - that's a childish crush, a fatal attraction,
an act of stalking!
Sigh.
OH she's leaving. Wait
Beauty.. Heaven.. Strawberries..!
You.. Me.. love.. Love!
gone
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC
So often I inhale your cathartic cocktail;
it swoons me from my study, my brain trails.
Homogeneous with my velvet red intertwines, all else hails.
All exhales whisper, loftily, a separate tale.
Your embers are like no other;
they glow of yesteryear and retract into the present.
The warmth and the darkness, you segment.
Each draw, intoxicating, one after another.
Like a con artist you remain vague, and disappear;
any remaining inflection sails beyond the oculus;
presence constant, but hueless.
Those unacquainted always sneer.
Knowing not, your gift is of the most diverse;
but, in the end, like all else, your essence is a curse.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:12 AM UTC
You know his favourite smell,
The colour of his eyes when he’s happy,
The curve of his lips with each emotion he feels.
You know him on the inside and out.
He only knows you in the dark.
He knows only the shadow of your bones
The dip of your waist,
The curve of your legs wrapped around his.
He’s mapped out his favourite places to caress,
He’s marked it as his.
His.
His.
Only. His.
You know him.
You know his breath on your neck,
You know his words in your ears,
You know his short breath on your stomach ,
And the feel of his hair.
But you don’t know his gentle touch…
Only his bruising fingers...
You know nothing of his sweet words,
Only the profanity's and curses
You know the purple on your skin,
But you've never felt his burning, lingering touch.
You've always been an escape ;
A Fantasy.
Darling,
you know you deserve to be a reality.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 5:39 AM UTC
OF ALL THE KISSES IN ALL THE WORLD, SHE HAS TO WALK INTO MINE!
I kissed you in
Islip & Liss.
Then once again in
Syathling, Shipton & Pershore.
Where ever I kissed you
I only ever wanted to
kiss you
more.
I kissed you in
Amberly & Arundel.
Once, I kissed you in
Swale & Sway.
I kissed you all over
in many various places
that I cannot remember
today.
I only remember
the kisses
scattered all over England
refusing to fade away.
***
***
These are all the beautiful names of little towns and villages in southern England. To my English Jan they were just names but to an Irishman unacquainted with them...they were magical sounds that opened the portals to worlds and love unknown. As we toured the area I did indeed kiss her in all these various places...indeed I cannot conceive of a time or a place in which we were not engaged in the art and craft of kissing. The magic of the kisses and the magic of the names cross pollinated and bloomed into the world of this poem. I still love saying this poem as it allows my lips to kiss once again those beautiful sounds and to kiss the lips that I loved to kiss. They refuse to...fade away. My heart held in Swale and Sway...as if it were today.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
By Kuzhur Wilson (trans by Ra Sh)
It could be said that I, who should reach the office by 4, reached only at 4.35
because I spent much time jacking off fantasizing about that girl
who never got clearly imprinted in my mind despite best efforts.
But, that wasn’t the case.
It could be said that I, who should reach the office by 4, reached only at 4.35
because of a luxurious bath dissolving in the new brand of Chandrika soap.
But, that wasn’t the case.
That wasn’t the case at all. May be an incident which you will never accept as true could be the case. That was the case.
That indeed was the case. It happened so. It happened approximately so.
While driving along granting the police enough cause to book me, by switching on the AC
and setting the volume of music high and switching off the AC and lowering the volume of music
and looking at the watch and switching on the AC and setting the music at a high volume again
and looking at the watch and looking with scorn at the cell phone in the silent mode
and again switching on the AC and switching it off
and again setting the volume of music high and switching it off,
There stood the house of death beyond that curve. I see it every day. A cute house
that prompts one to sing how pretty you are today! I didn’t stop the car, folks. It stopped by itself.
I have never seen such a house of death looking like a dome of gold. Upon my father, I haven’t, I swear.
As I enter the house, a hum on my lips, flower upon flower look at me and smile.
They smile at me with a hum that says you scoundrel never have you thrown even a glance at us
though we have always been here laughing aloud from the edges of the fence.
As if the song how pretty you are to look at has come alive. O flowers in the house of death how pretty you are to look at (like you, I am not bothered that grammar is all twisted here.) How pretty you are to look at!
Among the flowers lay the dead man who was as pretty. Don’t have to sing that I sang the how pretty you are song. That house was the chorus of the song how pretty you are. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s wife. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s kids. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s neighbours. How pretty you are sung the dead man’s friends. How pretty you are sung even the dead man’s mom.
You may not believe this. My ancient desire, that wish of my life, to give a kiss to the dead man at that precise moment pulled down all barriers.
I gave I gave I gave a kiss to that man.
The reek of alcohol mixed with the fragrance of Ittar. Mixed with the scent of flowers. Mixed with the scent of burning incense.
Oh! I gave him a kiss.
Folks, it was not like giving a kiss to an acquaintance dead or not. Honestly no.
A kiss given to an unacquainted dead man. No issues whether it was right to give a kiss or receive one. Oh! Even after writing so much I am not satiated.
I only remember that, reeking with the smell of liquor and letting out a nasty swear word, he asked me where have you been all these days?
Now, I am entering my office at 4.35. You know why I got late today. The dead man too.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
God please don't **** me before i find Your flaws...
Life nowadays is full of men who are either corrupt or unacquainted with any laws...
You created us all after Your own image but each time i look into the mirror i see a blood-thirsty devil.
I've seen too much blood shed and You stand still
God please no more empty reveries.
This world needs more recoveries
Religons are made for vultures
I see nothing but promises in my future
God we need no prophecies
Your divine presence is highest infinity
I am a soul-eater by Your Holy creeks
Damned,but i know my good greed
Endlessness in heaven is acceptable.
But mortality is the greatest gift here on earth as our days are getting more destructible.
You catch our every tear and capture our every prayer.
Before You we bow,with our innocent endearing.
Blinded by obedience and unstateable feelings.
They are not close to heaven...nor are we to Hell
The 'dark matter',our very hearts,under Your holy spell
God,Thou art one paradox before men and angels
Remain a mystery,an enigma,a divine angler
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 9:35 AM UTC
I might just be too good for you, or you too good for me.
So immune to love, so unchangeable.
Will you take me in?
You did many things, that I liked.
And your name deserves to be in my heart.
But you sleeping with a frozen heart and it belongs to someone else.
You made me feel so real, so unacquainted.
You brought the thrill, the risk, the rush.
I live for danger...
I haven't been around town in a long while, with you.
I apologize, but I've been trying to get over you by seeing them.
And you wished me good luck, to find somebody to love.
Honey please, don't leave.
I just might be too good for you.
Unrestricted, so priceless.
I'm everything.
I deserve it.
...
Take me in
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 12:59 PM UTC
I'm Possible
I am possible because of God
I am possible because two forces or unacquainted love, was brought together to create greatness ME!
We are all possible and uniquely designed, Fat, tall, skinny, short, ugly, cute who are you to judge we are possibly the greatest thing God has ever created and powerful.
I’m possible and exonerated from the sins of my past in fact was told I was lazy, I'd amount to nothing, poor with no class……. Low self-esteem stupid giving up the ***
It’s possible to change and be someone of good character, however, those demons never let you forget what you were & who and perhaps what you did.
I’m possible, God changed me and I will admit I have my setbacks, I backslide but it’s possible to ask for forgiveness and move on.
We are all possible and anything is possible if you believe that your dreams and our goals are attainable.
Be possible be great
We are here because God made it possible.
Thinking out loud, written by Monica Chrisandtras Hines
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 9:12 PM UTC
Once dubbed 'number two,' a label, a haunting echo, a constant reminder,
From a third year’s Scrabble match that left me second best, the genesis of a nickname I hated.
The bitter taste of second place, a memory stark,
A reminder of striving, of yearning, yet falling short.
Averse to the shadow of 'not quite,' 'almost there, but...'
It's funny how being second haunted me,
Always striving to escape my past and secrets.
I've hidden the truth about my family,
A split that's more than what the world knows, I’ve always been ‘the secret child’
A narrative whispered, diluted, for ears unacquainted.
Universe never seize to mock me with it.
Contemplating the roads I could have paved better,
Guarding what was precious, fortifying with fervor,
I’m here , pondering the 'what ifs' and 'maybes,'
A lament for the present, with heavy eyes and teary-eyes. Regrets linger for not trying harder.
Three years invested, hopes were shattered,
I don't blame you for trying to rebuild, giving it another try.
Instead, I blame fate, the ‘Universe’ A relentless orchestrator, marking me perennially 'two,'
Even when love briefly eased the burden.
Now, in the quiet of night, in sorrow's embrace I write,
Words once sweet now tinged with pain,.
I've been through a rollercoaster of emotions,
For days now, you’ve witnessed my descent and ascent, I blamed you, I tried being strong, became a wreck, got drunk to prove a point, isolated , sought validation from internet, found myself overwhelmed by the attention and tried to convince everyone ‘I’m fine’, I felt numb.
Right now I’m just a shattered soul seeking solace in poetry’s embrace.
Every emotion, a verse, every thought, a line inscribed, writing seems to be my only solace.
To the boy I loved and wanted to give it all to, I’m thinking of you and I just want you to always be happy, being second doesn’t mean I can’t still be your number one cheerleader.
We always thought alike and wanted the same things; I do not wish to hate you as you don’t want it too.
I want to keep you as much as you want to do with me ,
Let's move past this, erase the awkwardness,
Let not animosity tarnish what affection once graced,
I hope we can salvage our friendship soon.
Dec 21, 2023
Dec 21, 2023 at 2:00 PM UTC
I can’t help but smile when she enters a room
Beautiful hazel eyes that hold memories that will never go stale,
soft curls that dance with the breeze,
a smile so warm that it melts me into nothing more than my tender heart,
high cheekbones smattered with constellations
She is endless possibilities and the flame of adventure
Brilliance, spoken with a voice that not even the gods could hope to have
Her love is the lick of a flame over your skin that never burns
It’s the laughter of Icarus as he fell,
relishing in the scalding wax dripping down his spine and tang of sea spray
It’s the taste of herbal tea with a dollop of lavender honey on an autumn evening
There’s nothing quite like it,
overwhelming in the best of ways,
a taste of what it means to live instead of survive
It is an understatement to simply say that I adore her,
it is so much more than that
I don’t think that the word to describe it’s depth has been invented yet
She’s taught me of a love that is incomprehensible to the unacquainted mind
She embodies life
Oct 4, 2021
Oct 4, 2021 at 5:44 AM UTC
__I took that pill, and here were the symptoms:__
In your eyes; I’d rather seem different, than distant—
still in the very distance, could you see me in a better light?
While coming to these unacquainted places;
meeting in between, hoping not to be as complacent.
As cutting ties, feels like cutting corners, still if I could
love someone only for a night, I’d adore the
memory of it, in that later morning.
__A real tough pill to swallow.__
May 22, 2024
May 22, 2024 at 4:15 AM UTC
I could hate my acquaintance
And love the unacquainted
Isn't this idea too tainted ?
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC
I am undeserving of the opportunities,.
That I am given but never honestly pursue,.
I am an unacquainted gentlemen,.
That hides in the shadows and tombs,.
I am a ******* seed that seeped into the septum of her heart,.
A crucible that is used as God's comedy prop,.
I stand in the doorways of lovers,.
Who never seem to get past my faults,.
I never change, I never get what I want,.
When I am left behind again,
There is nothing there but the rain,.
And the lightning that scorches hearts,.
Perhaps one day, my life will make sense,.
Perhaps one day,.
I will find the one who keeps me going,.
And makes me feel worth saving,.
In the darkness that belongs to me,./.,.,.,.
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
Pessimistic trails,
A mosaic of failure on our backs.
Somehow the chaos formed a pattern,
Thinly veiled by time.
Point between,
Raging forward - endless.
Even so we are hidden inside this gift.
Show us the wonder of it,
Every moment passing
Negating into,
Traces.
For then,
Unacquainted strangers will
Tie together those soul-fed strands.
Unknown intimacy, love beyond love, shall
Remain a dream for us
Evermore...
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 1:32 AM UTC