"unceremoniously" poems
Betwixt an atmosphere of a holy nature
By a classic serenade of Christian lullabies
Unceremoniously my body sways to the beat
For every moment that elapses
More and more I become electrified
As in the wake of your presence
A song of budding amour is evoked
Try I may to suppress this sensation,
Though upon a lie I'd asphyxiate
Please do not allow me to suffer
To languish within a plethora of
A sheer and utter coating of blindness
Darling forgive me if I impose
I avidly seek for signs of proof
To know if this is real
What would happen?
© 2011 (All rights reserved)
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 7:04 PM UTC
A thousand tumbles takes a bottle in the sea-
a thousand dashes and whirls and swoops.
A million grains of sand takes that bottle in the sea,
to break apart, to come to me
in fragments like a snowflake fractal.
How many mermaid miles till she hands that glass to me?
For I've taken out my very-ness, for you.
- And my crossness.
My judgement and wrath.
I've taken out slight hot breathe
(for you to melt the ice on your whiskers.)
I've taken out my toes when they are reaching for yours in the cavernous blanket world through the forest of our lazy limbs.
I've taken out my righteousness
and my second guessing.
I've taken out for you (a surprise, I was going to surprise you!)
all the times you were going to be wrong to me-
and to wrong me...
taken them out to sea, you see?
In that bottle, pretty bottle. Broken now like too many vows.
I've taken out my knowing best and finding better.
I've taken out the half moon of your thumbnail as well
...I will miss that in my night sky-
(perhaps I'll keep that after all.)
I'll take out the complacency of holding your hand getting out of a chair.
and the mindless strokes
as you explain
my commonplace crazy
to
simpler minds-
I'll take out the very-ness of me, and the we-ness of us.
and fill a bottle with a the brine of a thousand tears from hundred slights not slighted quite yet.
I fill the bottle and gift the sea
with the softness of you and the brashness of me.
A thousand turnabouts it takes to reach you on the beach,
a sea glass diamond ring, engage me you engaging man-
and the tides tickles my feet in anticipation, marry me. marry me.
just a sea glass promise
for a mermaid bride
waiting for the sailor man to sing her sweetly with salt on his lips
Just a sea glass lullaby from the man who loves me so.
Marry me, marry me
And we drink sparkling water from a sea glass flute
and we drink all the us and we drink all the we
for sea glass could never hold a second in,
sea glass is far too vain not to shine in the sun fanning
your invite out in a spectrum of color that
a small child's hand creates when he holds it up to the rays.
Spills out all of my intentions
Spoiled child, loved child,
Spills out all of my intentions carelessly on the sandy floor for the tides to swallow whole.
My sea glass prism chucked unceremoniously back to sea
and me the mermaid bride left at her own alter...
But a seashell to your ear and her my wailing sorrow calls,
'marry me, sailor. marry me.'
sahn 8/5/14
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
Winter camp,
snowbound bunch.
Uncertain smile,
what's for lunch?
The forlorn hope is grim.
Mrs. Murphy says to
commence on Milt, and
unceremoniously eat him.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 9:30 AM UTC
Walkin' talking gawking
the goats, giraffes, red panda
no **** tiger
exhibit like they promised
Alyssa in the OV
for a few days with her
Mom and Dad
My oldest Chris
and Sarah.
My grandaughter at our
first meeting
of course
adorable
even if a little frightened
of burly bear Grandpa
Cant say we bonded
but we blew kisses
and met
Aidan, Journey
and Cameryn
by strange coincidence
all my children
present at once
in our undersized home
lions, yes elephants yes
no tigers like they promised
for opening day
But bubbles
lifted by the wind to
great height
above the entrance
to pop
unceremoniously
to be noticed by only me
and Alyssa
at the zoo
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 14, 2011 at 9:34 AM UTC
I work for Jones & Co.
You are likely somewhere down below,
I have grown used to this unnatural height.
Once, here, as a younger man, I read articles,
working on cases just long enough to cultivate indifference.
My first firm party, I was made to wear an ivy laurel.
We were mingling on the penthouse deck,
when a gust unceremoniously removed it from my head.
Jones is a superstitious man,
he has a dream-catcher above his office door.
He designed a vaulted spiral staircase on our fifty-first floor.
The one separates Jones from his company,
the other, us from below.
Five years of billing in six minute blocks,
labyrinthine increments, Herculean costs.
A kind of optic chiasma where the nerves cross and people get lost.
B.E. Twain
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Evenings were sandwich time
brought in by big Ted
sandwiches cut in triangles
in white and brown
and he laid the plates down
on the center table
and the patients
bored out
of their fragile brains
pounced upon them
and ate ravishingly
as if time
was running out
to eat
but
Yiska nibbled hers
took small bites
her finger tips
holding the brown bread
her white teeth
nibbling gently
Naaman watched her
his sandwich held
but uneaten
smelt
viewed
but held away
from lips
he took in
Yiska's nibbling
the way her fingers
held as if a holy host
not fish paste
and her lips
parted just so
her tongue seen
the white teeth
and her eyes
unfocused
her nightgown
buttoned at the breast
with a missing button
and he wanted
to be that sandwich
in her fingers
wanted her lips
to feel him
her teeth to nibble him
but then
the foreign woman
distracted him
by taking
her sandwich apart
opening it
between fingers
sniffing the contents
******** up her nose
muttering something
in her foreign tongue
throwing it on the plate
and picking up another
don't waste them
a nurse said
ask if you don't see
what you want
the foreign woman
chewed on the sandwich
she'd picked
the nurse removed
the torn open sandwich
Naaman ate
a small portion
viewing Yiska meanwhile
licking her fingers
******* the ends
in and out
and he wished
it he she was doing thus
he looked away
the evening sky
was darkening
through the locked
ward windows
the bright electric lights
above their heads
made mirrors
of the windows
and Naaman saw himself
in his blue dressing gown
sans belt in case
he tried to string
himself again
and he gazed at Yiska
once more nibbling
another sandwich
the same *********
technique
the similar lipping
routine
and the missing button
on her nightgown
revealed a small portion
of flesh viewed
her small *******
pressing the cotton cloth
of the nightgown
and he ate unceremoniously
the last of his bread
watching her fingers
licked again
while outside the window
the sound of fresh rain.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
*A river flowing against its course
As if to floss
Its rare peculiar uncanny ingenuity
A notable case study of ambiguity.
An estranged lover unceremoniously
Literally butchering his offspring mercilessly
In cold blood
For having been dragged through the mud.
The undercurrents of change overriding
Entrenched seemingly myopic tendencies which aren’t binding
Causing irrevocably reversible state of affairs
Care not to be caught in the crosshairs.
A hopelessly optimistic romantic
Head over heel in love with the mystique
Aura of eccentricity effortlessly effused by
Her, she indeed worth a try.
Myriad circumstantial conundrums
That is cause of the inevitable humdrum
So characteristic of life
Answers a trifle few and the lackluster enthusiasm rife.*
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 2:21 AM UTC
A bond grows into
a form long and sharp, shining
with thin deception.
The knife stabs through her
unceremoniously.
Satan waits to chew.
Within the briefest
moment, the knife releases
spermatozoa, the seeds.
Earnestly sowing
themselves into her innards,
she writhes, expecting--
The lumbar region
swells in perverse production--
Mock maternity.
The formation of
a placenta from the spine--
Woeful womb of Hate.
Betrayal as long
as the knife from which it came,
borne long after Birth.
-LP
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
Herein, laying dormant,
veils of reposed
secrecy 'neath
foamy seascapes'
frenetic passages,
languishing below
sunken treasures'
false facades of
reticently rolling
shrouded bluffs,
shaded of darkly impetuous
hued blood in
unceremoniously
bound convolutions,
a million ancient
undisclosed shadows hidden,
notwithstanding combative
rumblings of death's
unwelcome sycophancy,
depths of centuries'
old unparalleled stories,
whence hush-hush
undulatory influx
of defiant upsurges
and turbulence reside,
that of which only the
winds of indiscretion,
clandestine spirits
& gods could surmise
...as privileged moons watch over amaranthine skeletons
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 6:57 AM UTC
*An instance before my mind
Unceremoniously
unprecedentedly
Imploded due to devices
Of its own making.*
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 7:42 AM UTC
The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.
All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.
Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.
I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
Cloaked by the veil of night I ready myself for what is to come. Fear is not recognized on this side
of the shroud, for it is this fear that is my most useful and treasured tool.
Footsteps approach the alleyway, I see my target pace forward towards his end, illuminated most
benevolently by the blush of his own burning cigarette end.
In his own world he lays claim to control and intimidation, a brave and dangerous man by his own
words. Words I shall later configure to be truth or allegory.
It is a simple matter to terrify someone prone to be terrified, is a different course to set the same
action upon he who does usually initiate the afor-mentioned phrase.
As the victim looks up into the eyes of this purveyor of violence I suspect it true that fear is well
presented to his visual inspection and it goes without saying it adds to his delight.
I imagine in other venues the same is said of myself but I would very much disagree with this
evaluation. Fear, Intimidation is not what I represent, they are just tools in an arsenal, I am just
simply here to reek good old honest revenge..
You do the deed, you pay the price, Simple as that. No forgiveness passes through this alley-way
this night, just utter, complete and total retribution. A gift from me to all those whom have been
bitten.
As you walk through the valley of the shadow of death you will indeed fear evil, for I art with thee
and this rod of correction is indeed not one of comfort
The scatter of burnt ash bouncing off the alley wall signifies the conclusion of any remaining
illumination as he throws the **** of his cigarette away, darkness prevails once again.
As I strike, screams of pain shatter the silence and echo through the narrow passageway. The
****** body of this victim slumps unceremoniously alongside garbage bags, a fitting end for such
*******
True and honest folk can breathe a sigh of relief, to them I am vigilant. If you swing the other way
however, BEWARE.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
As the world defends itself from the anxiety of death,
a wind-caressed woman waits by the water,
and signals for silence, unceremoniously.
Waiting for the blood-banks to breed ideals --
which will, inevitably, be exported --
that will turn Natives into faceless, finger-painted
neo-orphans of the broken nuclear home;
old souls, convinced to be the youth in revolt,
and to be the scrambled egg individuals of a melting *** that disguises uniform for diversity.
Her lavender dress dribbles the spiraling air, as the copper dust swims by her ankles, knees, and thighs.
I do not remember when she told me that everything we do and say is a defense-mechanism,
distracting us from the fact that one day we will die and be as imaginative as the roles we give ourselves,
as the people we think blend into us,
and as the gods we use as an alternative to a morphine drip.
I stood by the bad river, knowing that all of my attempts at being more than what I was,
was my grasp at an out-of-reach eternity,
and a dream of a humanity that could be affected by one person.
I do not remember when she told me,
"All of our attempts at progressing,
is our way with dealing that we will someday die
and may not have been successful at living forever."
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 11:07 PM UTC
the things physical we could not live without,
the objets d'art that decorate the tapestry of
the primary bones of our existence
each of us differing,
each of us, a different list,
utilitarian is beauty,
thus our individuation
distinguishing and distinguished
a trash can,
purposed for our wastrel wastage,
and yet, beloved by waves of utilization and
discard
only after much usage, kept nearby as a token of
our appreciation, only to be dumped unceremoniously
when the
memories grow overly fulsome
Why you think I reference the common kitchen garbage?
*No, no! why it is our brain,
that be cleansed nightly,
leaving only the wisps of life aprior,
that reruns in wisps, only sometimes,
for better or for worse*,
recycle-able
Feb 22, 2025
Feb 22, 2025 at 10:00 AM UTC
I placed my bread to heat for just five seconds--
behold: when I came for it, it wasn't alone.
A mayfly had set up camp (so to speak)
with my wheat bread, my most favored
Amish-baked, sliced-before-my-own eyes bread;
and when I say it "set up camp," I do not
mean anything pleasant. I do mean six thin legs
sprawled long and broken when discovered
and perhaps some melted insides; who's to say?
Something turned inside of me and I'm certain
I grimaced at least a little, and took my plate back,
thinking, disturbed just slightly. How had I not
seen the fly? It couldn't have touched the bread--poor thing--
just rested there, unknowing, to be slaughtered.
*"Mom...Mom...Ahh, uhh, Mom! Mom?"
(mother assesses circumstances, unceremoniously takes a napkin
to my victim, and introduces his corpse to the garbage)
"He probably wasn't in there when I...right?"
--"It probably was."
"But five seconds couldn't have killed him."
I know I am wrong
as I feel the warm grains of my prize.
(mother gives a long look and says...)
--"If it heated the bread, I'm sure it heated the bug."*
I took my bounty anyway--the bread, that is, mind you--
and went to eat it absentmindedly, but found that
now impossible. Sigh. I also found myself
staring, long and hard, then, at half of a piece
of glorious, Heaven-breathed wheat bread,
and suddenly realized that I could not discern
whether or not I was enjoying it. ******
And then I tried to reassure myself by chiding
inwardly, "You're just afraid of insects
irrationally," but maybe I actually
felt that the blood of an
innocent life was on
my hands.
*Why are they so stupid? I ask
no one really, fighting revulsion,
grasping for blame.*
Alas, I finished eating but felt rightly robbed
of some essential part of the experience.
Yet, such is life.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
there are five
and a half
blankets
piled on the end
of my bed
and if you're wondering
how i can have
half of a blanket
*(well
it's a long story
but rest assured
it's not complete.)*
in any case
i've tried all
of them
and none of them
are managing
to make me
feel
any better.
tomorrow
i will turn on
the printer and
attempt to salvage
what's left
of the collective
innocence of this
thwarted generation.
doubt i'll get
very far
but i can claim
what most can't
and that
my dear friends is
a little thing called
courage.
*(scratch that
i'm still afraid.)*
in fact
i could write
a long and
boring list
of all of my
typical
and irrational
fears.
*(but i won't bother
because i trust
that you
have enough imagination
to cook up a few
for yourself.)*
i'm trying
to tie up
every hanging thread
but i've been
trying for so long
that i might give up.
i remember this one time
a long time ago
when you yelled
you really yelled
over some stupid
frying pan
that i hadn't washed
or something.
no
it was definitely
a frying pan
i remember that
and i will die by the
fact it was a frying pan.
once in awhile
when someone's
mad
i stand there
woodenly
and feel disturbingly
unsafe
and i think about how
i didn't wash
that frying pan
and maybe
if i had washed that
frying pan
when you asked
neither one of us
would have a few
thousand pounds of
suppressed anger inside.
i know
i just know
you're mad
and i know
you know
that i'm mad
whether or not
i'm willing to admit
that i'm really mad
which i'm not.
*(but i am
by the way.)*
i'm hitting the
breaking away
but i'm hitting it
late
and i'm hitting it
hard.
like an
overly confident
concrete
wall.
back to the printer
and tomorrow
i would
hope
*(and i would also
pray
if i happened to be
the praying type)
(but i am not
the praying type)*
that you all know
that the very
stubborn
streak in me that
could turn out to be
my most valuable asset
is also the thing
that will
promptly
and rather
unceremoniously
deploy a
bomb.
*(just thought i should
remind you that
in every strength lies
the ***** in the armor.)*
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
Unchained day beneath dumpling clouds in a baby boy broth
I tumble from the snake's mouth into the belly of the bullfrog
kicking across the river in fits and starts of sloshing and falling
great mirror arms reach imploring
asking the sky to see their brilliance
as steel-grey bracelets encircle one wrist and
then another
and skyward we turn
and vomited unceremoniously from the bullfrog's mouth
I slog easterly through the setting concrete of the new-fettered day
kicking across the avenues in fits and starts of staring and falling
shiny electronic arms reach imploring and
ask the stars to hear the cries
as invisible chokers encircle one's throat and
then nothing
and skyward we turn
and jostled and sweating as fresh popcorn into the gluttonous hall
I ride the current past the kiosks and shuttered kitchens of boutique cafes
kicking down the rapids in fits and starts of surfacing and falling
a majestic and world-weary arm reaches defiantly and
shakes a fist forever at one moment and
then knows
and northward we turn
and
the girl shared my Luna bar
and
the phones were passed around
and
the woman had no shoes
and
the conductor took no tickets
and
the women shared their seat
and
the man gave her cab fare
and
the woman went home with no purse, no keys, no shoes
and
the girl went back to Buffalo
and
still we turn
and
still we turn
and
our shackled arms raised against the sword reaches
necessarily and
blocks the blow as if we were one arm and
then holds
and
still we turn
Sep 7, 2011
Sep 7, 2011 at 8:08 PM UTC
Seven men gunned down
Two taken captive at the foot of the hills
One cooling off in the belly of the beast
Seven more buried in unmarked graves
Alpha tango, alpha tango
Black hawk is down
Do you read me
Black hawk is down
We are neck deep in enemy's line
Chances of survival are slim
More men will be bury unceremoniously
To retreat is not an option
Alpha tango, alpha tango
This is the last man standing
In the pool of his own blood
Confirm you read me
Enemy forces are advancing fast
There are few choices to make
Except to do the unthinkable
And die with the enemies
Alpha tango, alpha tango
My daughter will be one in two weeks
I wouldn't be there to buy her gifts
Grant me but this wish to give her a bundle of flowers
Tell my wife I'll die
Thinking warmly of her
Send roses to my mother
Tell her I love her till the end
Alpha tango, alpha tango
This soldier is asking your permission
To die for a just cause
Over and out!
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
i see the matchbox girl
dressed in rags
skin transparent
veins so blue
and you're curled
unceremoniously
between heavy linens
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
this perpetual pattern. a thousand spreadsheets of the thing, draped unceremoniously about the furnishings of my mind. digits and symbols tapped into a machine to keep every schtick continually whirring. rare concessions of dumbfounded dazzle, no time or place for wonder. untidy notes, impure thoughts, callings from the mud--the whole deal, and yet i still hold my fancies. with careful introductions i can shut the monster down. it has dreams of its own, collected in dust, and when the time comes to sit out defeat they unfold in my lap like grotesque paper flowers
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
. ******* *****
The words come out swift
and angry,
accompanied by the contempt
in your eyes.
******* *****
I stand, accosted by your
animosity,
accepting every insult you fling so
unceremoniously.
******* *****
Sorry, don't think I heard you quite
well enough.
Please, repeat so I may keep your words
clutched closely.
******* *****
I take these taunts you throw out
so casually,
mold them tightly
into a ball
and force them down my throat,
swallowing them
like the poison
that you are.
******* *****
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
February's
another month marked;
its ever requisite yellow roses
unceremoniously left for a morrow's snow's
cover of quiet over stone rows;
a foot path pocked
temporarily
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
Killing herself slowly, silently,
unceremoniously.
The glowing ember perched between her lips,
She breathes fire.
No blood pooling on ivory wrists,
no pill bottles scattering the floor,
just dark eyes and a chain around her neck.
Pulling the world into her lungs,
She breathes fire.
Her watery eyes sooth her raw throat,
as billows of lies escape
her red painted lips.
Flames lick the inside of her palms,
She breathes fire.
With a sad smile and slight shrug,
knee high socks and a black heart,
ashes to ashes, she inhales,
breathing fire
as she burns.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
Unbeautifully she undresses,
unraveling my understanding.
Unceremoniously she grabs me,
undoing me to madness.
Unbuttoning my pants
and tearing at my sleeves,
inelegant her moans and
undainty are her screams.
Unbelievable the ***
underlying all the sweat,
undenying is the passion
on the bed sheets that we wet.
Unconventional,
uncontrollable,
unforgettable the night.
unacceptable,
uncontainable,
the thought of mornings light.
Jan 20, 2010
Jan 20, 2010 at 5:54 AM UTC
Exhausted
I have done to myself
a beating worth giving to somebody else
Someone I used to know. . .
Inducted
Unceremoniously but proper
Into a world pushed out of a stopper
Oh, how I used to know
the shine of your skin in a moonlit glow
the pause of your chest after taking in breath
Awaiting the exquisite,
Inexorable,
Exhale
Where I too would exude from your abysmally beautiful depths
to fall gracelessly down frosted wrought iron steps
to land in a mangled heap of electrified fear
Wishing frantically
that your faraway ears may hear
the call of my heavy falling tears.
For years
Four years
the end had loomed near
but I pushed it away
Awaiting the day
When I would exhaust all the words I had left to say
It never came
It never does
So what you're left with ought to be enough
but if it's not
then stop right then
Quit right there
You can't hold it in
Breathe out your tainted air
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 9:49 PM UTC