"unasked" poems
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly ----
A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for
By a sky
Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.
O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.
28.5k
She doesn't own a mirror.
Confirmation of her beauty comes from those around her at all times.
Fawning fools adore,
jealous sisters abhor,
but all notice the shine of her hair, the tilt of her lips.
She does not dance.
Her steps lead, and dancers follow with no reasons nor rhymes. They cry:
"Lead me not into temptation",
but in her ministrations,
they ache and beg for her glance, their hearts in her grips.
She does not care for suitors.
Her heart was long ago dulled by the fencing blades of admirers. And yet I
if honest, must admit
that it is a careless abandon, devoid of wit
that begs me join her jousters in mock combat for the privilege of her kiss.
What a porcelain fool, she, to inspire such a heartfelt, bloodtaxed roust.
What sorrier the fool, me, to join in such a sure dealt, unasked joust.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
******* sawdust
Whiskey and rust
This is the life
This is cloud nine
This used to be a simple alibi
But now it's just a damaged lullaby
It's hard to kiss
Skin that crawls
But in the dark
The weakness falls
Unasked questions
They do rebound
Silent screaming
Rings all around
This used to be a simple alibi
But now it's just a damaged lullaby
Tattoos, perfume
Gasoline fumes
Nursing this poison
cringing, no end
Dysfunctional love
is what we make
just one more hit
It'll be the last I take
This is the life
This is cloud nine
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
this kids,
is how you do it
in the mid of the dark hours,
when two am is your new oldest friend
when sleep, your oldest old one,
left town on the midnight train,
taking your peace of mind
though she is far away
lost in dream-thoughts caught,
but only twelve inches close,
granting you an unasked permission,
you ok to stroke her hair,
undisturbing her, yet comforting yourself,
every voice in your temple'd altar praying,
one glorious chorus godly chant:
Oh Lord, what would I do without her?
and you stroke her hair and are saved.
2:51am
May 2014
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
Art is An Inspiration of Life,
Dreams are Passages through Strife,
Love is as You make it on High,
and Family is how a Person is Defined.
So What Defines You as a Whole?
Who are You in Your SOUL?
Do You Know who you are?
Maybe your Looking from afar?
Don't be afraid;
get up close and personal with Yourself,
Get to Know Your OWN Mind,Body,and Spirit.
Like some of the greatest of people say
"You are You worst Enemy"
I fell they forgot to complete that PHRASE,
so Let me inter vein on there Wisdom;
" As well you Can be your greatest ally"
so remember the Rhythm of the Night
as well the Rhythm of your Life
to the tune of You.
IF at the Time there is no Tune
don't be afraid to ask Cause
"The only Stupid Question is a Question Unasked"
so Don't Be afraid Of wisdom,
Don't be afraid of You;
If you already are Just remember
"You can be Your Greatest ally or Your own worst Enemy"
So stop Living a Lie and Find your truth.
Lay down your burden and get off/out of that prison you call "THE BOX". Get to Know YOU through and Through,
Love your self Cause IF no one will You always Have YOU.
DON'T BE AFRAID!!
Christopher Nathaniel Cartwright
Copyright © 1983-Present
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 3:09 PM UTC
With love and happiness we embrace Ramadan
With clear heart , hope and desire to increase our Iman (faith)
We are noted as the best Ummah(Generation)
That is because we encourage one another in doing good and stop one another from evil by reading the Qur'an(Koran)
Too many sins have been in my basket
Too many mischief committed unasked
How little I am and how big my ego masked
Wavering from my path, often in vice I basked
May the love of Ramada shower us with its blessing
May it comes to help us accomplish our aims
Through cleansing, wiping and forgiven our sins
So Allah with have mercy on our names
Indeed Allah is the most benevolent,most glorious and the most merciful
Once again guiding me to rectify my path and be repentful
May this month(Ramadan) make us all pious and fast faithful
So we can do good act, read Qur'an and pray to purify our soul and make our hearts truthful.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 8:59 AM UTC
Prologue
casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”
then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach
of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided
pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm
<•>
The Poem Breach
***once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting
a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?
I did not know
but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest
Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...***
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
thank you so insufficient
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
Write these words on empty stomach
unasked, I spilled my guts.
You said, "My life's a joke
and every choice a punchline."
You just wrote my prologue and the afterword
is dangling off my lips, now;
on the tips of tongues.
Steel night skies thrum and echo
when the bells are struck.
Goose Creek pays tribute to the wide Missouri.
I can't offer much--
clenched hands and mouth clamped shut.
Fling some words at empty wall space
from corners, room warms up
My reddened face obscured
behind two frost-fogged lenses
Guess I penned the punchline. Now my line-worn face
is crinkled up and frozen didn't get the joke
Tried to make a map out of the
words we spoke.
These streams pay tribute to a sea of memories
Now you don't say much
"Good luck," and "Stay in touch."
Clenched hands and mouth clamped shut.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:09 PM UTC
Why do you take beautiful things
and turn them into instruments
of sadness?
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
Kindness is not nice.
‘Nice’ is soft and inoffensive
‘Nice’ is careful and non-assertive
‘Nice’ is easy and effects no change
she’s cotton wool trying to soften the pain
but not stuffed tight, just resting on the surface
ready to be blown away or pressed
under a muddy boot of disinterest
‘Nice’ is a damp whisper
a mouse cowering in the corner
hoping you will blink and miss her
lest she attract your notice
lest she presume too much
and cause a whisker of offence
Kindness is not like that –
Kindness pushes in, quick and nimble
a hero with no mask, unasked
unexpected, dodging the turmoil
leaving nothing unsaid and little undone
in her pursuit of creating a counter-disruption
Kindness defies convention
Kindness carefully aims her weapons of choice
and advances relentless and regardless
of any and all obstacles in her way
Kindness perseveres all the love-long day
Kindness doesn’t delay
Kindness is gleeful for the chance of invasion
ready to disarm with expert compassion
with her regiments of patience
armed to the teeth with gracious
placing tanks of good faith on all fronts
Kindness confronts
Courage is her currency, boldness her language,
trust and hope are her passports to lands long unexplored
happily wearing all-weather clothing
for any and all unexpected storms
Kindness transforms
Kindness weakens all defenses
and challenges all camouflaged pretenses
Kindness pours itself out to fill unhealed wounds
and on shrapnel-seeded battlefields
she - blooms
Kindness is not 'nice'
Kindness isn’t in this for the likes
Kindness bites
She’s a take-on-all-comers, undefeated delight
Kindness never bails from the fight
never fails, never takes flight
Kindness is nothing casual,
nothing incidental
This Kindness is elemental
She is Avengers-Assemble,
End-Game-level
monumental
Kindness is not 'nice'.
Kindness is loving awe-ful.
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, your wounds were smaller and my heart bigger than it ever would be. I had learnt to love you despite the smell of wild daffodils on your breath, and the look of expensive pride in your eyes - things you were willing to give up when you first hugged me with the surprising confidence of an old world pilgrim hugging the shores of new America and bringing with it the hopes and bitterness of the transatlantic blues.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, the neighbours said that if I had arrived a bit earlier, I would have heard the sound of his sandy boots crashing against your rotten hardwood flooring, drowning your cries for constant help. His clenched fists might have broken your apartment window, But you begged me to give him the benefit of the doubt - maybe unlike me, he had never fallen for a wild daffodil before.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, I remember confessing how you weren't truly my first love - that honour instead belonged to a monsoon paperboat that hado shown up at my flooded doorstep when I hadnt yet crossed the ripe old age of five.
Looking back - you told me, those were probably my golden years of romantic maturity.
The last time I saw you sipping time on his rooftop, you failed to realize why men kept falling over their swords to win the curled up furball crying in my arms, wearing an unasked crown of broken hearts. I wish you had remembered what i had said.
People loved you not because your face shone the brightest or you looked more beautiful than every damsel dancing in the ghostly courts of a dying town. Instead people kept coming back to you because you were Kolkata, you were literally this city.
The last time I saw you, we were sitting on the edges of a different city i had chosen to call my own. But I wish you had realized what I meant.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Mother, mother, what ill-bred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?
Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.
In the hurricane, when father's twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
'Thor is angry; boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don't care!'
But those ladies broke the panes.
When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.
Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each teacher found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.
I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.
Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born.
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this is the kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.
3.9k
There's more to suicide than what we think it is.
It's not just unanswered questions,
sometimes, it's unasked ones.
Jun 20, 2018
Jun 20, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
They say a wild women burnt my soul.
coughed up ashes.
raised by a whiskey bottle and a pair
of loaded dice to roll.
She showed me the blues at thirteen.
Took me by the hand.
Said boy this lifes a party and this one
beats anything your young eyes have ever seen.
And so the taste was made and a cure i
havent found yet.
The best of the worst my sweetest regret.
Life as a party is a vision of night.
We find more answers unasked.
Then in the moment of a fight.
Back alleys and the quick fix.
The redlight reason.
And the devils bag of tricks.
Snake eyes and your last dime.
A slow trains exit.
A suitcase of soul with a empty wallet full of time.
Half a pint of happiness a empty bottle of blues.
The road is a quest.
The path yours to choose.
Texas heat to a New York chill.
Neon cast memories a loner's existance.
And a thirst I can never fulfill.
Chords echo softley a vast reflection in rhyme.
Ive gotta empty bottle for a heart.
And a wallet full of time.
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 2:57 PM UTC
I had some bad news to deliver,
So I took her to my spot
The bench under the tree,
With all its gnarled knots
The bench right by the creek,
Right where the turtles like to play
A sacred spot of rest,
And shade on sunny days
I sat her down beside me,
And prepared her for the worst
Something so horrible,
It had taken eight weeks to rehearse
I really wish he'd told her,
Like he said he would
Should have known an aggressor's word
Is rarely ever good
I told her all there was to tell,
I answered every question
And then I found myself alone,
Silence in all directions
She walked so far away,
That I couldn't hear her voice
My story then repeated,
To the person of her choice
I waited on the bench,
And then waited some more
I made a small bouquet,
From flowers on the shore
I tied it up with grass,
And set it to the side
Such a mindless act of beauty,
I'm shocked I didn't cry
Not a sound escaped my lips,
Even after she returned
From the feeling in the air I knew,
The meeting was adjourned
Less than one day later,
She sat me down backstage
Though her conclusions were ill-founded,
Her words stung all the same
Eight weeks of work and "it's not your fault"
She did her best to make undone
Not only did I encourage him,
But I broke the essence of our bond
My dishonesty, my silence,
Can never be forgiven
My every flaw as a friend,
Unasked for, yet still given
Her final words were pure spite
If I'd only told her that same night
But how could I have told her,
What I didn't understand?
In an effort to escape the room,
I may have kissed her man
Four months to process,
Four hours locked away
But I never knew peace,
until I made that bouquet.
Feb 16, 2023
Feb 16, 2023 at 8:57 AM UTC
Most likely you’re not invisible,
To me,
I see you,
But you stand ugly,
And a demon inside winks at me,
True,
I cannot see your real struggles,
But I confess to knowing,
The possible hells,
And not moving,
To touch you.
I blind my own eyes,
To your humanity,
Choosing to see you,
As gray upon gray,
And run towards brighter colors,
Forgetting that love,
Will always rainbow.
I can’t love everyone,
I don’t have the strength to carry you,
And I’m afraid you won’t give back,
To me,
But make me gray upon gray,
Robbing me of joy.
Honestly,
I would never turn you away,
If you walked toward me.
It doesn’t take courage,
For me to return a smile,
But to stand up,
Confident that my hues won’t bleed away,
If I come to sit with you,
And come,
Unasked for,
With my soul in hand,
Is courage.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
The Nakedness of Execution
~for Balanchine~
the empty page possesses the perfect clarity of nothingness,
making it perfectly clear nothingness has no business here
come, execute,
clothe thy nakedness,
be a carpenter and build
a shelter for your cover
be a carpenter
construct the art that dresses thy body
yet, undresses the glowing glory spirited nakedness
we desire,
let us see the visibility of your naked invisibility
execute
unmasked unadulterated unasked unmodulated
pick the wood, select the tools, carve the words
on your forehead, Carpenter Cain
that we may copy them onto our eyes
ask then what can I make of my perfect clarity
and execute
disclose yourself, clothe ourselves
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 1:51 PM UTC
The rising moon has hid the stars;
Her level rays, like golden bars,
Lie on the landscape green,
With shadows brown between.
And silver white the river gleams,
As if Diana, in her dreams
Had dropt her silver bow
Upon the meadows low.
On such a tranquil night as this,
She woke Endymion with a kiss,
When, sleeping in the grove,
He dreamed not of her love.
Like dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought,
Love gives itself, but is not bought;
Nor voice, nor sound betrays
Its deep, impassioned gaze.
It comes,—the beautiful, the free,
The crown of all humanity,—
In silence and alone
To seek the elected one.
It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep
Are Life’s oblivion, the soul’s sleep,
And kisses the closed eyes
Of him who slumbering lies.
O weary hearts! O slumbering eyes!
O drooping souls, whose destinies
Are fraught with fear and pain,
Ye shall be loved again!
No one is so accursed by fate,
No one so utterly desolate,
But some heart, though unknmown,
Responds unto his own.
Responds,—as if with unseen wings,
An angel touched its quivering strings;
And whispers in its song,
“Where hast thou stayed so long?”
2.5k
*for T.M.R.
our "fellow" southern friend*
the southern way,
she-poet
teaches me
via long distance
breaking of the
braking neural inhibitions of
the loudest silences
that only humans can
mistress
photos, stories,
Facebook posts
how the earth rebirths
taking unasked
unwitting but wisely
both of us
to be refreshed,
so verily
the southern way
sharing worldly
southern words
betraying a
more than
passing
(how I hate that word)
expertise
in spring colors
glorious to every sense,
best described
as nature's way to humanize what we wordily call
hopeful,
self-betraying herself by the
she -poets
innate
southern ways
calls me
northern boy
in a
true voice,
raconteuring,
quick retorting
always in the midst of
d r a wling stories,
about all crazy frogs
of Columbia County,
jumping multiple courses
all about
she-poets navigating
life erratic,
half ecstatic
yet singularity colored,
characteristic of a
ninety percent southern
Tennessee whiskey blues
hear clear
she-poets
welcoming swirling
undertow undertones
lying just above the calmest
morning water surface glistening
words betraying nothing,
yet saying
all in
between, in
pauses of
speckling sun drops spectacular
she-poet
has her places
in woods, knolls and
rarely visited mountains
where cold brooks and cold beers
southern sooth
in ways
I will likely,
wanting but unable,
never learn
to hear clear
the southern way
is never flex,
nerve never
never bend, smile,
still fighting
the prior lost cause
ignore the
cracks coverup
until and when
the afternoon sun
ceases to warm
the orchard porch
daylighting no longer
when no one is around
she-poet
weeps out loud alone
in the
southern way
and I,
northern boy,
student witness,
having obtained
a learner's permit
for her teachings
re
the southern wayfaring ways
of living life
weep along side
in my unsatisfactory
northern way,
learning that,
who knew,
tears are also
glue
anywhere
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 8:08 AM UTC
winter's after-the-noon shadow lights,
fused-tinged with early-onset grays,
harbinger of one for whom death
detaches the answer from that question
too soon asked, so long unanswered,
why me?
those gray lights, a violin accompaniment,
mourning pitched wailings unasked for,
yet always in attendance, court courtiers,
feelings of insufficiency, angry angst insects
envy days when simplistic unknown fears
were the worst enemy, never lingering,
for unknowns have no answers and
cannot obtain permanent resident visas
but reality, another matter, mad hatter,
asking repeating what is this, why is this,
even comprehension partial gives
no comforting answer satisfactory logical
envy innocence past, for newer questions now *****
comfort by the lies in the essaying, trialling,
if, but, for, the distractions most affordable,
so grasp the pen that is the envy of thy companions
let the ink wail louder than you,
make paper shed what you have used up,
let envy of lost and found, found, yet still lost,
salve, but not solve, soothe, but not save
in the winter afternoons, those shortest days
of indeterminable longevity, words received,
offer little, but words self-conscripted,
a mortal transcript of pain immortalized by pen, relief will yet be,
for the pen is the envy of all
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
*since I wept poems freely,
from rise to set,
every breeze, every minute, each bladed grass,
a creation-emotion overtaking
the residue is
every pen dry,
every pencil nubbed,
every free and white
piece of paper,
even all the napkins,
Picasso scribbled
but this one compelled to
rise and set,
before you placed
with a gratitude that
needs no explaining,
a poem,
first and knighted as*
Camaraderie
a tired, benighted idea,
oft expressed,
that cannot be contained,
swelling up, chest burn bursting
and it's not yet 600am
but the sun demands
payment for admission to this
morning's performance,
which will never be rebroadcast
so in humility, I
offer up this scrap,
in hopes it earns me
one more show tomorrow
pleasing him,
by pleasing you
we write with many motives,
but this ticket is
for my friends here,
genuine camaraderie that is holy,
sourced from holy water,
"straight from the water"
within our physical selfs
your arm unasked slung
over my shoulder,
your words my inspiration,
your demands, none,
other than give a listen
which is no demand,
but sweet sugar daily,
crazy stupid flooded
teary-eyed
through words care crafted,
I have found so many
gentle kind
that without hesitation,
I find myself blessing us all
by repeatedly uttering
Hallelujah!
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 6:13 AM UTC
When my soul is free, set my body on a pyre alight,
free from mortality and from pain.
Send my form to join my soul in fire and flight,
and watch the blaze eat what's left away.
If tears fall as I hope they might,
down faces creased with love and age,
let them be freed as well, and blur their sight
with tears of acceptance; joyous and gay.
When my soul is free, let their souls be bright,
not tortured as I let them see me now.
Though my soul was broken through my life,
let my body burn bright; let the fire roar loud.
Let me turn my eyes skyward, head unbowed;
My form; My soul; My whole bathed in light,
not dark and cold as I feel it now.
Let the fire roar loud and banish night.
And when ashes fall from that heated height.
They will freeze the fingers that vainly grasp,
and my soul will glow in blue and white,
and whisper consolation to earthly Hells unasked,
and though cold like death and hot like pain,
though the pyre devours what yet remains,
let the fire burn fast and the night die low,
as my soul finds repose in a fire with ash like snow.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 6:59 PM UTC
Such brief pleasure
Your presence
The smell of your hair, your neck
I hold on for dear life
So many things left unsaid, undone
Pages unturned
Questions unasked
The curves of your body unexplored
The sensation of you, molded into me
In the late morning hours
In a strange place, an unknown bed
Left to remain in the imagination
The fear of feeling something
Got the better of me
The fear of feeling THAT feeling
Paralyzed me
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC
In the gray hours of pending dawn,
time seems endless
Dreams meld into reality, as true desires
breathe their first breath of life
In that space, with no consequences, lies the answer
The answer to every unasked question
The answer to every possibility
Fear has yet to be awakened before the day is touched by the creeping morning sun,
whose light bears the weight of the death of dreams
The sun that brings with it the doubt that plagues humanity
For in the predawn silence, true happiness resides
Nay, thrives in the hearts and minds of all
With childlike exuberance, belief in the improbable is clutched to the breast,
as the last vestiges of slumber melt it from the tightest grasp
Yet, with this glowing hellstar, begins a brand new day
And with each new day comes a chance to snag the tiniest piece of perfection along for the ride
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC