"uncannily" poems
*What is a family?
A group of people that uncannily
look, sound and act as one?
A shared DNA strand?
A whole of many parts?
A scientist may have the answer.
A psychiatrist, a therapist, an evolutionist.
But, my theory is this:
a family, hurts, cries, argues and defies
those who want to tear them apart.
Bloodlines, evolution it's in the mix
but, family hurts, loves, hates and
forgives in equal measure.
Hurt one of us, hurt us all.
Hurt us and I as elder sister will pay you a call*
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC
Sapiosexuals^
she quoted Shakespeare most appropriately when needed,
her fevered fervor scientific was the non-fossil fueled engine that STEMed her quantum analytics of NFL football,
as an intellectual amuse bouche, that was uncannily correct,
on FIFa she passed it was just too corrupt, but Wimbledon was”fun”
we all bet her predictions for her error rate was insignificant
she claimed her knowledge of a cure for Alzheimer’s was done,
but bio-pharma suppressed, and a single pill existed taken once, could cease and desist the brain for craving ******* but the politics were too complicated and really boring to explain
instead she preferred to wile the hours hanging with
lesser poets, to see if taking them at their word
was an accurate indicative of their professed prowess in bed
but when she sampled my wares regularly,
I called her study statistically biased,
to which she replied,
“ain’t you the lucky one,
that my standards are lowly rigorous,
and you possess a mighty cute bi-assymetry“
in Croatian or Mandarin (unsure)
smart lassie indeed
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
I am the queen of being forgetful,
My nieces and grand niece follow
me,
It is in the genes.
I neither have dementia nor Alzheimer,
It's just my way.
Too much goes in my mind,
Creating pages of happenings,
In Gujarati they call me Sunji (forgetful).
My husband would boil tea or milk for me,
Otherwise,both would spill over,
The utensil burnt.
I learned how to drive a car,
Unfortunately,had to give up,
I would nearly forget to switch off the ignition key.
I would certainly forget to give messages,
Or attend invited occasions if not reminded.
Uncannily, I would never forget if I had hurt someone,
Someone owed me money,
My own personal work.
Everybody tried to rectify me,
But,to no avail,
I am what I am,
And they let it be.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 8:05 AM UTC
What of that is me that is so beautifully splayed against the cold tin tray beneath the light of the surgeon who is splitting me open.
What of that is not me who is the nurse, helping remove the blemishes and tumors that make the unrecognizable body mangled.
What of that situation makes this so uncannily familiar that all I do is try to change the person I am to be when I hear God sigh once more at my attempt to, again, change myself.
I hear the words,
"Love yourself,"
As if I hadn't already tried but the parts that I have attempted to nurture already lay in the bin of flesh the surgeon has already removed.
I could tell you that I was the surgeon but really,
Self-consciously,
I could not.
I say I could not because of the way the surgeons eyes resembled of those who pick me apart,
Also known as society.
I am not happy with myself,
I am an ever changing chameleon to the people I choose to bring apart of my life as they chisel me down to who and what they prefer.
I am not the color blue any longer for that represented his eyes,
I am not the color pink as my friend used as a disguise,
I am not the color black for that I realize,
I was once that.
So I lay here splayed on this cold tin tray,
Picked apart by the vultures who deem worthy and those who do not.
Do not tell me to love myself when I all know is to be a sponge of the people who pour toxic waters into my skin and I wear it like plastic wrap covering me in all of the wrong places.
I am no longer in control of my own strings that hang me to this life like a noose wrapped around my throat as I struggle to breathe and dance for an audience who no longer enjoys my company but my suffering.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 3:53 PM UTC
As the blur of my eyes clear
I spot the greatest of wonders
Lying next to you in our bed
I awake happily at dawn's nascency
Feeling the blessing of your touch
Is as caressive as a cloud's hug
Just your sweet fulgent smile alone
Vivifies my every forthcoming day
Each time we dance pelvis to pelvis
And you rest your head on my chest
It surely calms my jovial soul
When you listen to my heartbeat
It pleases me to make you blush
Making your scarlet cheeks show
As you look into my eyes and gaze
I gently rub my nose against yours
Then apply slow succulent kisses
Together we create perfection
We have everything in common
Even the smallest of things
I love to laugh with you
Enjoying lovey dovey humor
Springing out adorable chuckles
Being out and about with you
Painting the city with our ambiance
Comforts my very existence
I'm blessed to be within your planet
The way you make me feel is...
Unorthodox, uncannily beautiful as,
Rollerblading on Saturn's rings
It gets no better than this
Me and you connected as one being
At first sight, I was graced by you
And ever since then, I've changed
Happier than happy can become
Upon the darkest of nights
Our love will shine
Lighting the light
Since meeting you my queen
My format has been switched
It will now be you and I til the end
I'm honored you chose me
To multiply and grow old with
Now to me, that's love's essence...
© Michael P. Smith
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Epiphany from the Berry Fields
You would not come with me
through constellations of Jack-in-the-Pulpit,
your reasons shrouded in obscurity.
I went there once to pray ---
Did I tell you? ---
I spied a grey squirrel
gnawing a cherished butternut
in a fury of drunken hunger;
forgot at once my prayers.
You went instead, alone,
to the Kingdom of the Mushroom.
I sealed my mouth
afraid to enter there.
You saw violent phosphorous rivers and
vivid galloping colors,
that were of mystical internal origin.
We might have eaten
vine-ripe strawberries and
drunk cold mountain water,
that gushed from the mouth of
the cave under the cliff.
Perhaps, like me you were afraid,
terrified by florid fields and familiar female.
How sad ---
Sometimes I am so dense ---
I should have told you,
*I went there in the distance
as a girl.*
Coincidental Drift
Through the airport window pane,
isolated, I watched the jet
traverse the field in silent shimmering motion.
My vagrant gaze remained
fixed upon the infinite horizon
long after the shadowy
plane had passed from view.
This seemed to me to parallel
my motionless furtive feelings,
as after one I've loved
has migrated in another season.
It was not long after this
that she re-entered the room,
bathed in the murmur of
alluring fragrance which
quickly drew my mind from
the solitude of thought to
a sensual appreciation of her perfume.
How easily she drew my mind astray
from pleasant thought of you and yesterday.
I recalled how earlier this morning,
as she lay neither asleep, nor awake,
but somewhere in between,
I had tried to touch her outstretched hand,
yet, uncannily she had withdrawn it.
The smoke that wafted above our bed then
was the only pervading reality and
not the Mona Lisa smile on her face,
nor the emptiness of my longing hand.
She's said, *She's ready ---
--- that her bags are packed ---
and shouldn't we be going?*
Yes, Yes I suppose it's time.
And a wind howling in my brain recalled,
I'd either been here once before or
seen it etched upon an empty sky.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
I am the vacant sea,
Bereft of sentimentality apparently,
Gallantly, I uncannily resemble,
An assembly of mistreated heroes,
And a villain or two;
I am a wave at its lowest ebb,
Further now from the shore,
Furthermore from the door,
Of the love I want to blow,
Me away;
Obsolete, I’m Pac-man in the penny arcade,
Ms. Pac-man’s ****** off for days,
Or months or years; or was she ever even here.
Always holed up in my cave,
Staring at the razor blade,
Waiting for divine intervention,
Some totalitarian convention,
To drag me away;
No cares, this lust,
This pushed me over the edge,
Through the hedge- funded by my
Need for mediocrity; indemnity,
Insatiable, eternally caught far,
From what I seek;
Could anyone love a creature so bleak?
Going on a diet of bread and water,
Lamb to the slaughter,
So that someone’s daughter,
Might love a Devil like me.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC
She jovially jumped at the jester's jokes.
He scornfully scowled at her silly spirit.
Two people perpetually poised and primped.
Yet, so unlike, unique, and uncannily uncomfortable with one another.
The girl gleefully grinning at the grimace she glued on George's face.
George stomped away staring with stone-cold stature.
Young hearts unaware of their fate. Unaware that one day they would love.
Fiercely, furociously, finally falling.
Loving, lending, learning.
Together.
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 12:57 PM UTC
I can almost picture it,
you, so small and so powerful,
scratching the words of an angry night
with no cigarettes on a wall.
And I can almost picture it,
but not quite.
Was there a lamp on?
I imagine so.
If so, then what color?
In the scenario entrapped inside my brain
it is a small purple lamp,
place upon a desk, or a night stand.
A bed is also in my dream of your room,
as there undoubtedly is in real life.
And in my dream it is covered with a light,
soft green that goes uncannily well with the shade of the lamp.
And the walls, well in my mind they are white.
And those words,
the words of an angry night with no cigarettes
are scratched upon that white wall with a charcoal pencil.
In a neat handwriting that angles down a bit as it goes from left to right.
And this is probably not so in real life
but that matters not.
Tonight, is a happy night,
spent with many cigarettes.
Therefore,
I this poem will not be written on a wall.
It was not be cast upon by a purple hue.
Nor will it be highlighted by a white wall.
'Tis well.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
All men are born heavy.
We do not inherited this weight
But seize the heaviness of the earth
Upon ourself.
Obligations and connections one can not ignore.
I am not yet light like you.
Floating from place to place.
Uncannily light so that you may travel
To even the moon and back.
Travel refreshes the eyes
But it is my heaviness -
that prevents lunar travel.
To ignore what roots me to the ground
would be to act falsely light.
But you are truly rootless.
Born lighter than a feather -
how can you be so unnatural?
Unlike you, I will have to earn my lightness.
But even then my body will still be heavy
But not lightless.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
...will have a bearded left wing protagonist raging on behalf of the proletariat.He'll share a flat with a metaphor for the 21st century malaise
and when they talk
they will talk in the forgotten syntax of washing powder ads from the 50's and construct sentences from toilet graffiti remembered from youth.
Their flat will be infested with insects and disgruntled middle management, grumbling about the lack of vertical opportunities and the implementation of a new computer system.
Filing cabinets will contain stolen secrets of unknown cultures, manilla folders will hold evidence of unsolved ****** cases stretching back a hundred years where the suspects all look uncannily the same.
The theory of a time travelling murderer is considered but never openly discussed.
The fridge contains nothing but under developed ideas and stale rhetoric.
This is a flat with no doors.
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
the last scream
the last cry.
shame and self hatred
sink into every crevice and corner of my mind.
i feel hurt and wronged
but you've convinced me that i've got it all wrong.
its a constant battle
between what i feel
and the piercing sting of your uncannily calm words
they feed my demons with a new image of myself
'awful'
'mean'
'hateful'
'wrong'
'unloved'
'disgusting'
as i hear your answering machine,
for the last time
and leave my last message
i'm overwhelmed by what i have done
'what have i done?'
and then it hits me
this is the end
end
i've always hated endings
but i think this has to be the worst ending
i think it will be the last ending
for i fear
that at the next beginning
i'll be paralyzed with the memories of all the tragic endings
of my unfinished story,
but who knows
maybe the last ending will be my own.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
They came from a place without
Standard of living, high levels of safety
I came from a place without
Knowledge of the expanding world
Weather, Public transit
One better one worse
My ignorance to their story was unrehearsed
Their greatest challenge to date
Was trying to integrate
Mine was getting a date
They always had wanted to explore the New world
I always wanted to see the beyond my small Atlantic town
I was born into great opportunity
Doctor, Engineer, Artist, etc
They had to move land and sea to obtain
Such an opportunity
They miss their family and I miss mine
A travel for me is an hour multiplied by thirteen
For them it requires crossing a sea
Being Canadian is a privilege that requires some pull
Being born one requires little at all
Some things here seem uncannily familiar to London and Capetown
Enough to confuse the heart with familiar summer sounds
Yet not all is as it seems
The world is ever expanding
The globe and it's people so demanding
Like the X-Files we see,
The small oddities becoming regularities
With ever growing eyes
Understand your identity
Shirk preconceived notions and come to see
This world truly is our endless family
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 4:16 PM UTC
I would build a house out of you, for a wall six feet under the sky hardly amounts to even a scaffold.
I would reassemble your two hundred and six bones into shutters to keep the sun away and save this mind I have been trying to keep from the indemnity of this worthless sanity. A pair of windows made out of the patterns in your eyes and I would be the only creature your soul contains. Your lips would be the pillow I hide my needles under. Your veins would be the bed sheets I get tangled in, uncannily warm when I tear them apart. I would fiddle with your hair like a cassette tape and when they spin off reel, I would pull at my own hair instead. I would wallpaper the rooms with your skin so I could force myself to memorise the contours on you. I would hammer your nails into a picture-less frame just because a Mona Lisa painting is superflous. I would tuck my intellectual emotions behind the dressing table and curl up in the notch of your lungs. Your breathing would sound nothing like a refuge for me, though your words would be for a tenth of a second. I would carry your heart around like a pounding candle light but I still wouldn’t find what I lost. I would flick cigaratte butts at spiders that hide between the webs of your fingers. I would paint your insides black with kerosene and a lighter just to make myself comfortable, though I'd be the only one suffering third degree burns. I would scream in your ears like it was a whirlpool in my backyard, “take it to your grave”, though I never knew what ‘it’ really was. All I know is that the hinges were made of valves. I wouldn't come back in once I leave, unless I decide to tear down what I have built.
I would build a house out of you, but you are not my home.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC
Through the airport window pane
isolated, I watched the jet
traverse the field in silent shimmering motion.
My vagrant gaze remained
fixed upon the infinite horizon
long after the shadowy
plane had passed from view.
This seemed to me to parallel
my motionless furtive feelings,
as after one I've loved
has migrated in another season.
It was not long after this
that she re-entered the room,
bathed in the murmur of
alluring fragrance which
quickly drew my mind from
the solitude of thought to
a sensual appreciation of her perfume.
How easily she drew my mind astray
from pleasant thought of you and yesterday.
I recalled how earlier this morning,
as she lay neither asleep, nor awake,
but somewhere in between,
I had tried to touch her outstretched hand,
yet, uncannily she had withdrawn it.
The smoke that wafted above our bed then
was the only pervading reality and
not the Mona Lisa smile on her face,
nor the emptiness of my longing hand.
She's said, *She's ready ---
--- that her bags are packed ---
and shouldn't we be going?
Yes, Yes I suppose it's time.*
And a wind howling in my brain recalled,
I'd either been here once before or
seen it etched upon an empty sky.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
I don't miss you.
Every feeling you had
mirrored my own
uncannily.
You are still my sweet obsession,
Which means, I believe,
That I am yours.
One of us will crumble, stumble,
Into contact.
One of us will come.
And so, I need not miss you,
I am certain, somehow, that we are not done.
You still have a part to play in my life,
You're still there
You still care.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 12:29 PM UTC
"Have you ever noticed
how we are always climbing
but never getting
anywhere?
up glass-sheered avocations
and suits with bonus ties—
up **** with temperamental husbands
and secretaries with Monroe thighs—?"
It was a rhetorical question, uncannily rhymed, in the wake of
Collinses. But he didn't know that.
"We are always climbing on
what other backs have built:
the greedy gringos and their
brown-backed buey—
but i'm for Scotch and soda
anyway."
He poured out spirits like amphoras of sin.
"Oh, never mind the mess—
please, sit down.
What's that?
The mess of lives, I mean, or whatever
it is that greases the greenbacked highway
to the corner office coronation."
He knew the prodigal flames that lit the
corporate torch—the cirque
that stood in steel. He said as much:
"Oh what a monstrous architecture
of avarice! What a makeshift it is
and so much lost for all these stacks of
stuff. Sad."
I pointed to the happy pair of smiles in a
company frame. Levity interrupted.
"What's that now?
No, i've been married three times,
divorced a perfect three.
I know what you're thinking—"
And here, he laughed as he slurried his rusty brown transgressions with an index finger.
"—lucky man, he slipped the shackle
three times.
And sure, I'm dynamite by numbers
but ******* say I'm not all that nice."
"So anyway," awkwardly pivoting his grease to grin,
"you'll take the job then,
and I'll be commandeering your soul?" With a shit-shitting smirk.
"It's a joke, of course—I can't just give you the job.
You'll have to show me you can climb—"
Starry-eyed empty ensued. It was enough to see
the rungs permutating above his head. Unclimbed.
"But we'll be in touch about opportunities—" he shook.
"You know—tits and stuff."
I didn't have the heart to tell him that I am, and always will be,
a homosexual.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 2:35 PM UTC
Smoking his cigarette, a gold signet ring upon his finger
a complete antithesis to the other dead-ringers,
lips pursed, sipping at his golden liquor
in his eyes dancing excitement does flicker
diagnosed with cancer, he's re-living every dream in his head
for on the eighth day of this month he will be dead -
out and about, picking up ladies at the age of forty
days from kicking the bucket yet his libido still naughty
waking up on the sixth day with the first hangover in 10 years
the bloated pain distracting him from his fears -
no kids, divorced, a total loser
living the life of a player and a scheming user
alas, he'll never feel the wind upon his face
never again have the chance to experience love, hatred, anger or even disgrace
never see the kids he didn't have
never again able to make a decision - be it good or bad
and now sitting alone in his apartment as the eighth day looms
he burns the money in his wallet, exhales their fumes
"I'm... so sorry..."
his signet ring stained, still uncannily gold
attached to a finger now lifeless, stiff, cold.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
The fall comes, the wind blows,
and the withered leaves drift off,
tell me their tale,
uncannily becoming which is,
a story that is my own
With pangs of longing,
and nights of shooting stars,
I stick out,
my heart on my sleeve,
and travel to places
Becomes one with them,
yet hymns to an old folklore,
my heart, as I sit in an archaic café,
gets lured to the colourful streets,
and yet roams the bygone nooks,
and whispers in my ears
For the sophistication I have become,
For the coffee I have taken to,
For the dreams I have let go,
I must return
For the sky I have not forgotten,
For the tears I have learned to hide,
For the dances I have not danced,
I must return
To the book I have come out of,
to the character I have become,
I must return now, I should go home
When under the stars, in a meadow,
I’ll watch a storm struggle by,
and lay content on my back,
having withered the hurricane I’d become,
when I hear the sky talk back to me,
I’d know I have come back home.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 4:46 AM UTC
i can barely put this feeling
into words.
it is awkward, it is uncannily
difficult to deal with, and i am desperate
to let it out but there is nothing
i can do.
there is a war in my mind,
and both sides
are losing.
it is not silent, it is
a low buzz, a muted
whisper, not really there
but still so real.
it makes its way into every
thought, every action, an invader
and intruder, an insatiable,
feral desire that you never
really know
i am trying to go both
ways at once, leave and enter,
exist yet be nothing at all
right and wrong are
never too far apart, and
i am getting tired of choosing.
Aug 9, 2022
Aug 9, 2022 at 12:24 PM UTC