"unawake" poems
The darkness,
Realities boundless, harrowing void,
What exists beyond unawake dreary eyes,
What resides upon burdened hollow souls,
An unrighteous detriment of prophecy,
That sublime goddess of allure,
Withered into such a lifeless thing,
Its you that embodies that void,
Veiled in that desolate space,
Its relentless pain inscribed across your face,
Obscured to this subjective dark,
This world forbids my light to touch your heart.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 9:54 PM UTC
Sunrise explosion!
Sneaking up on no one
But the unawake
At life, at the day
But to the awake...BANG!
And the planet we are on in all
its Enormity
and prism power - atmosphere
Separates the radioactive
explosion
That is traveling
299,792,458 miles per second
From 93 million miles away
(a whole 8 minute journey)
From a hot body
With a 432,288 mile radius
of glowing
exploding gas
That, upon reaching us
Is recklessly
Smashed
Into all potential tertiary shades
Of cerulean and sapphire
Of marigold and sandstone
Of shades beyond identifiers
(we all experience them
differently anyhow)
And for these opening moments
of the day
All masterpiece paintings
appear as preschool throwaways
And as quickly as the calm chaos enters
It stage exits
On account
Of the 432k mile monstrosity
That will blind
Any
Who dared look at it
Good morning.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
As I have aged, my body’s become a full moon –
a thing to howl at
unable to hide in the dark (a dark so dark
it swims from beneath me, and I glow like light).
The years have had a refractive nature
and I cracked the eggshell, the first crescent and
the second
supposedly a silhouette holding hands. I am told
beauty is symmetry
so I must have two of everything to make a
whole –
but by dawn, I seem dull
unawake (the thought that no one needs me
on my back anymore, there are
rounder things than me). Without needing to be
reminded, my peel wades to the next
month of sprouting
pallid craters who match those before them.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Some days no words worthwhile wasteland
of a page before me barely
will to carry on weather
report mental fog emotions
on the ebb the moving
finger writes not so much
wit unawake more
pathos less
piety bereft
of self empty
vessel
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC
The Night Is Almost Over
The night is almost over,
During which I’ve been awake
Unquantifiable wee hours.
It’s been a challenge to placate
Unrest in *** and soul,
Think things to do without a wrestle with my all,
Discover parts to focus on,
Breathe out and in,
Shepherding bad thought away from sin.
A challenge to make time rewarding,
Night un-worrying with means
Intuitively gleaned.
By three or four,
Night nearly over,
One is sure
There have been dreams -
A second’s worth of night-worked themes.
(Perhaps two minutes, maybe three.
I’ve patently no memory
Unawake, unaware,
All simple cognizance not there)
I’ll be ok when morning comes,
Stomach craving nutriments.
There will be toast, cheese, milky coffee
Brought in by hubby
With me glad the light took over.
The Night Is Almost Over 9.2.2017
Pure Nakedness;
Arlene Corwin
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 4:03 AM UTC
Stand on letdown point
And check out the view
Can you see beyond it?
Those that can seem few
I hoped you would be one
Seeing impermanent shores
Able to speak of the possible
But you've left me here once more
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 8:07 PM UTC
I knew a girl once
Pure to the pinch of a petal
But lust filled fiends found her
Unfazed to the thought of intimacy
and so distorted intimacy to twisted turns
claiming her sweet nectar as she lay unawake.
I knew a girl once
Pure to the pinch of a petal... no more.
...
Pure to the pinch of a petal;
the twisted turns did burn
and the ashes and embers cast away
into the winds as though no fault to find,
I knew a girl once
who knew of the world;
I knew a girl once
who knew of the future;
I knew a girl once
who smiled a slanted smile;
I knew a girl once
...But not anymore, do I know her.
May god find her the peace she never found.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
No musings, complaints or sorrows
can carry their weight and depth so well
as those turned to poetic rhyme or pose.
For much else fails to swell
the heart of the listener in sympathetic plight;
words scraped in the meat
of meaning rather than the surface sight
of understanding. The hands and feet
don't tremble or still; the heart doesn't quaver;
until you learn to bear another's ache,
or from your views uncertainly waver.
I fear many of my generation lie unawake
to the joys, and what could be
if they could settle back to read
their hearts into another's chest;
and by sharing again, find inner rest.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
At the base of a hill, a grass bank
unripe daffodils poking through
beckoning spring, while curious crows
hop around unkempt, a corridor
with a kind face, lights overhead
taxiing towards departure?
the raindrop running down
window overhead, like a tear
images you can’t place,
flit through your mind
skip, pause at random, while
the clock, relentless, counts down
hours, minutes, to an unknown time...
The waiting room, unawake
rows on rows of beds, sheets
unsettled disarray
save the few, clean, pristine
and in the shadows, collared,
for more without a clue
The end? a new beginning?
, some kind of vague middle? thoughts
muddle through the semi-conscious
chains of command to a general,
lounging back, cigar in mouth,
whiskey in hand, triple distilled,
“You’ll be fine, just count to ten,
nine...”
a soft laugh, echoes
and, as I close the door
peace at last.
Apr 24, 2020
Apr 24, 2020 at 2:46 AM UTC