"unchosen" poems
Oh the cringing demon of eternal youth,
******* away promise and hard won truth.
I see far more than *** lingering, in her eyes
I see, instead, the milk teeth of youthful lies,
of forever and today, hopes and screams
replacing tomorrows, frayed at the seams.
Oh, mere *** be gone, you sordid troll!
Crawl yourself back in your hole.
If ‘tis *** you brought to this trapped piece of light
then speak to your own soul and leave me a bite
of the apple she does not offer
and the delights you think her youth will proffer.
I have no time to dance to your twisted tune
of youth over too fast and maturity too soon!
What stinks more of your ***********
her stretched, prolonged, aging youth or back bared, partial nudity?
I giggle as I consider her Eve-like dreams
of bitten apples and grander things.
And God said, let there be light.
Is that truly all He said when he banished the night?
Maybe she is wet from being born.
From demon Youth’s desperate grasp she is torn
and into the world, for a moment, she is cashed;
back bared and ready to be lashed
by the ‘cruel’ reality we keep from youth…
…like bronzed, baby booties and baby’s lost tooth.
Maybe, coquettishly, she glances ahead,
away from the bonds of youth’s birthing bed;
not, as you apparently dream, toward some sordid affair
you see in bared skin and strands of dampened hair!
There is beauty in her eyes, it is true,
the beauty of youth’s first, full faced view
of tomorrow and tomorrows again…
Exactly how long do you think, she should remain a youth, then?
Oh the Apple that lingers past ripe upon a tree,
Snakeless, Eve-less, unchosen, unbitten for an eternity.
Shall we trap, virginal, in iron cages of our blind, stupid lust
the false innocence of youth only tears and death can rust?
Foolish, foolish Adam and blind, impregnable Eve; is *** all you can ever see?
I can peer past your layers and layers and layers of false, bitter modesty.
If you see *********** then know this, before you atone:
You bring that demon wherever you go and it is yours and yours alone.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
you say that loving the same *** is worth hating.
you say that these people
for their unchosen sin should be paying,
but deep down, you’re the same.
you wake up every morning
hating the same day.
you say that another skin color is what they should be wearing,
but really, you are also truly despairing.
you tell them to be this,
and be that.
you tell them that they’re too skinny,
or too fat.
you tell them how to be and who to be—i wish you could see through your hypocrisy.
because all colors of the rainbow are pretty.
because every size is alright.
because these people try with all their might.
because being different shouldn’t be met with fright.
let us all dance together
and fade into this beautiful night.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 10:55 PM UTC
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Giving and taking,
both day and night
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Some then mistaken,
some often right
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Last right of refusal,
the one holding tight
On my own terms,
I lived my life
The lows though not many,
the feelings they wrought bright
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Words ever radiant,
the music so fair
On my own terms,
I lived my life
The sweetness of children,
my soul they ensnared
On my own terms,
I lived my life
The darkest of moments,
their message to share
On my own terms,
I lived my life
A voice though unchosen,
inside me declares
On my own terms,
I lived my life
As the days grew short,
and the visitors came
On my own terms,
I lived my life
Their voices cry out,
now calling my name
On my own terms,
I lived my life
One verse was enough,
no time to explain
On my own terms,
I lived my life
My final breath,
a lasting refrain
On my own terms,
I lived my life
The money fleeting,
any fame now gone
On my own terms,
I lived my life
A 5-Star boardinghouse,
no curtains drawn
On my own terms,
I lived my life
With arms open wide,
and the peace to move on
On my own terms,
I ended my life
All that I’ve written,
—turned into song
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
Men of few words are the best men
Shakespeare's Henry V
(Act 3 Scene 2. Line 41)
yet men still
pleasure themselves oft,
the music of their voices
soothes their conscience,
even as it irritates
those unchosen few
who must deign
to listen to the
ration of their excuses.
I fare not well
in this endeavor,
for as poet and
recorder of all that be
known as human folly,
more is always best
or at least, better!
for no man knows
the limits of his import,
his web of self-deception
cast far and wide,
for it must perforce
hold him aloft,
on all the tissued lies
he hath convinced himself
to be the absolute truth,
and nothing but...
so let us ascribe
to those fools
who call themselves
mistakenly, men
a smokey, fleeting honour,
for many words
they do employ to
plead their case,
proving well in
a fashion most
contrary and contradictory
that their worth is
worst, when they speak
long and eloquent of their
vainglorious heroics and medals,
watch their words ascend,
and like smoke, forever disappear.
that is why, young reader,
heed the lesson of the
American cowboys
who say little,
but walk tall,
and sit straight
in the saddle,
and sing consoling songs of
lonesome love around the
dying fire.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC
~~~
*to whom do I address this?
to whom do I
forward fling, weep and sing,
this bequest~request,
prayer~cum~worship~cum~blessing~cum~
howling
to and upon?
where shall I commence?
for there is no beginning or end,
resurrection,
a continuum,
a progression permanent,
from inside out
to harmonize, coordinate,
what the outside has taken leave to
inject, insert,
to our selves query,
our life hood very,
impoverish our senses
and still, and yet,
to ever inspire and seed
relief
do you possess that requisite
belief?
that all
that is illogical,
beyond sensory comprehension,
that all
is a steady running creek
of fluid starting points,
none that can be deflected,
nor forever held
that all,
being demands unchosen but acquired,
that all,
demanding constant reflection,
and realization
that the acceptance mystery is but a
molten crucible
wherein wonderful and awful
must of necessity,
coexist
so you alone must construct,
what chance desires to destruct,
weld the joints of new iron works that
require the bonding of a special solder
of asking and acceptance,
to be the special soldier
of acceptance
overcoming that which we can never accept,
yet must
be purposed to build high the edifice,
to stand upon the crane,
to look down on what
has been lost as well as
not yet gained,
and that
requires saving
to see the far, observe the near,
merging both into a single point ring alloy,
manufactured in order
to never forget
to be forever certain,
it is within our assured power
to comprehend and apprehend
belief in blessed resurrection
where there is no birth nor death,
no start nor finish,
just the
munificent satisfaction
of lawful acceptance,
that all we build of any matter,
that which we create,
cannot be destroyed,
but will be recreated,
for that is the purposeful meaning
of resurrection now
and every day forward*
Atlanta, Georgia
Nov. 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
New Moon Melange
(for Harlan Rivers originally,
and now for Aparna,
who reminded me
how I used to write
in the golden era of
seven years of plenty, so long, so ago...)
<>
The softest cotton,
Wears ever softer with every use.
Contemplative introspection,
Like digging a castle & moat in the sandy beach,
You dread and joy, the knowing,
Incoming tide will arrive destructive inevitable,
Yet fill the moat, protect the kingdom,
Till is undone and returned to the blocks of minuscule,
Grains of sand.
Answers found, maybe lost, once more,
Necessitating questioning, non-stop processing,
And a rebuilding tomorrow... Pas de choix
But softer each time, easier with practice.
Even if convoluted, it is still a revolution.
Like twelve new moons, recycled.
(occasionally a lucky thirteenth appears)
Some of us are special chosen,
To essay, to assay, the condition human,
With a rock axe, tiny slivers chipped off,
And yet new moon stones uncovered,
needy of Cataloging,
introspection,
You can change the day,
The month,
The moon twelve, thirteen times,
Hell, You can change your **** hat,
But don't fool nobody,
You are one of the special,
You job to paint the verbal paintings,
And to ascertain the meaning interior.
For in doing so, you do all of us service.
For your eyes see it ever so differently,
For you, task, paint and reveal each
New Moon’s Melange,
your unchosen gift.
to you
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
So what of those who aren't sought
Or the ones afflicted with eternal solitude
Where do our hearts go or rather hide
We are the refugees of this so called euphoria
An enigma so potent known as love
We are those not wanted by it
The unchosen and not desired
It chases us away like we're rats
Forcing us to scurry for cover
When all we want is to be fed
We've been shut out of it's presence
Like we are unworthy vagabonds
Sleeping on an empty cold floor
Crying ourselves into slumber
Only to be orphaned again tomorrow
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 12:56 PM UTC
They said I should’ve chopped off my trust
They said I was too old to believe in fairytales
They said i was the dust queen in your castle
They said i was your unchosen card
They slammed the door of my broken faith
And left me sicker than ever
Her voice was louder than my prayer
Her face kept haunting my hopeless hour
Her lips were my bitter desire
And her name was my pen’s new lover
Hey you
I said show me the way to a merciful deceit
If i was destined to die frozen in your icy heart
I pled you to bury me in a cavern of lies
Hey you
Couldn’t you picture my agony
Poetry has become my dearest enemy
Done with my unchanging melancholy
Hey, do you remember
I married your demons
I ate your anger
I was willing to die for your life
I drew with you our thirteenth melody
I trusted your puzzling gaze
When you whispered hug me closer
I gave in but you weren’t all in
Hey you
I knew It was another cruel masquerade
As always I was the victim
of another maniac game
Your words ruined my illusion
You drowned it in the ocean of depression
I thought I’d be your salvation
But i was still an ugly slave
Who couldn’t speak your narration
You locked me in a silent cage
You burned my heart
You thought you could quench it
with your valley of apathy
But I was a loner in your world
Hey you
You told me that
I’m the dream of thousands of men
Thanks god I’m not yours
The flood of my eyes is completely dry
I almost forgot the savor of my slash
Winter is sunny and so do my heart
My patience is wearing thin
No more drama
Vengeance isn’t my language
But I’m having fun with karma
Who’s the next crow
who’s willing to break me down
I won’t say I’m not at the age of this ********
Rather I’m not on the level
of those ***** sheepish
Love isn’t on my to do list
Scorpio is my name
And before knocking on my door
Know that I’ve got no room
for narcissists in my empire
Jul 23, 2022
Jul 23, 2022 at 7:03 AM UTC
Delightfully force thyself to a cheap coat
Frayed winter shelter
Sworn fre-nemy of millennial style
Who kills itself in gale
While the master keeps cozy within your skin
Wonder if you’ll ever be so disloyal to dare ask for a bath
Then, in irony,
Loved and wanted by the living freezed
And the envy of the proletarian blanket
, shining in its absence-Your presence.
Under the carless hands of the master
Buttons drop and thread spills as solid blood
Doomed to fulfill the unchosen goal
Depletion will not be salvation
Just a mute shriek
living decomposition
Hope thy ist warm.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
Chains wrapped around my identity
Holding me down
Preventing me
From escaping the reputation
Unchosen as it is
Though I'm worthy
Of the words I've been called
Handcuffs holding me to this life
Everyday normalcy I've learned to despise
The same routine
Stereotypes by which I am seen
What happens when you want to be someone else?
If I leave, will I be seen
By the traits that are truly me
Or will the grey cloud that soils how I'm perceived follow?
The weight that holds me down
In unbearable ways
Will continue to strain against my personality
Without the whispers of my mind
The voices of past repeating
Telling me how to take heed
At any moment the comfortable ground on which I stand
Can be replaced with "buried" insecurities
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
It’s hard to know
What a life will mean
Mid sentence
Choices made
Driven by the times
Unchosen
It’s no game
But someone loses
Every time
And so we love
To show the other
We’re the same
In the end
You tried your best
So did I
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 7:19 AM UTC
left, sinistral, left sided, left out,
left behind,
gastropod sea shells,
coiling counterclockwise,
when viewed from the apex
when that all alone,
left-out feeling pervades,
to the party uninvited,
for the team, unchosen,
stand out for not standing in,
invisible moat surrounds and suppresses,
life's outward bound sounds,
vision best,
when only looking inward,
remember this too well..
this world, this work,
was created by an
ambidextrous soulbeing
his soul,
favoring neither right or left,
favoring doing right,
and no one
left behind
cognizant that both sides now
are necessaries
for human and seashell existence
proof be that
the creator,
his perfection, at the very least,
in his design motifs,
unquestioned,
made us all
sinistral shells
and sinistral poets
those apex corkscrewing left poets,
the leaven of human fermentation,
you and your sinistral tidbits
are the influencing spice
of an average world,
keeping the world tilting
on its proper axis
make us and
our daily bread rise,
sinistral yeast,
vive la difference,
you are
the best of us
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
You took it from my hand
Dragged it through the mud
All the while I was standing there
Vision blurred by tears
For a moment there I couldn't breathe
My small frail body hurting all over
Trust shattered
Despair
Pain
Yearning for your old self again
But you where nowhere to be found
Only a two faced liar stood there
She was there too
Playing mender
Smiling at you behind my back
You dropped it
You took out your
Put it on a silver platter
Walked right past my miserable numb body
And you gave it to her
You chose her...
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 2:15 PM UTC
When my anxiety is extreme I feel
That nothing around or inside me is real
I need to hide myself, to isolate
Feeling of dread and doom, can't seem to think straight
I curse myself for feeling this ****** up way
Live in unreality like a dream, or play
Fingers don't work, have a quiver of my lip
Nervous smile, not wanting this unchosen
script
Don't know what to do...sit, stand, pace or run
Don't want to be looked at, talked to by anyone
Sane, daily things take extra concentration
I try to do them with no coordination
Deprived of social skills, get tongue tied, can't speak
Building discomfort, terror panic will peak
Then it begins- palms sweat, heart rate rises
Worry about all, nothing, no surprises
No longer capable of eating, I'd choke
Get nauseous, the runs, to my body no joke In acute cases toes stiffen, my bones ache
Losing much control, damaged brain waves fake
Avoid going out to a bank or a store
Anywhere there's cameras, prying some more
Always makes me feel like I'm doing wrong
Paranoia, bottom line..I don't belong
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 6:59 AM UTC
It seems that all of the actions
from people,
echo and speak much louder
than words do,
but the only problem is -
It seems to be pretty quiet,
doesn’t it?
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC
I'm thankful for my birth
'cause there are people born into violence
Making it hard to navigate another route
They didn't choose it like I didn't choose mine
They were born into it and grew up in it
Grateful for my unchosen inception.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
How many complete pathways of choices are there?
OR
How many choices are left to achieve completion [!]
Either offers an accurate divisor into the number of possibilities "n" roughly at whatever is the above determined level which is a power called "m". n^m, roughly...divided by either the # of pathways or the choices that are left [!] to completion.
Either divisor will serve by ridding us of duplicate iterations of over-multiplied possibilities inside of roughly n^m.
Put another way, simple estimations of "n" at the indicated power level do not recognize that
1) more than one path arrives to a conclusion;
Nor do simple estimations at indicated power levels recognize that
2) apparent particulars from which to work toward completion are actually not different particulars--half of them are double counted at the level of being two choices from complete due to the dimensionality of the whole becoming complete.
So the impact of having a divisor is strongest either when:
1) working toward completion from levels that already include almost all dimensions of particulars or else
2) whenever operating at low levels of power which have only a few pathways.
Estimations of possibilities are easily too high if not considering the adjustments for cases 1) and 2).
These are for occasions of having more than one possibility.
However:
The number of complete outcomes that are reachable, divided by all choosable pathways = n/n = 1 .
Or else, any one outcome chosen from its penultimate particulars through to completeness = 1/1 = 1 .
Thus,
Singular possibility is by definition, complete, whole, created, ultimate, and embraced in all of its dimensions. It is both one easily won and/or one, fully, dimensionally itself.
(Whatever is not and is not divided,
or, is nothing left unchosen
= truly naught and something not found = 0.)
Sources: Closed dimensional choice paths (the geometry of the powers depicted) and Pascal's Triangle
Jun 25, 2012
Jun 25, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
Music is the expression of joy . . . Hsüntztu
I have written music
all day.
I started with five notes on a line
and ended with eight pages:
many notes, many lines;
I won’t count the casualties,
the unchosen ones
marched off the page
into oblivion.
I always think it will
be impossible;
forever the pessimist
my glass half-empty.
Imperceptibly,
there is a becoming;
the music forms itself
when I’m not looking . . .
The phone goes
I leave it –
though I check the number
in case, just in case it’s you,
and when I return to the page
the elves have been busy . . .
here a solution, there a mechanism,
now a way through
the maze of possibility.
It is such a mess, but it is so beautiful:
the doing brings me closer to you
with every scratch of the pen,
every mark on the page.
Nov 1, 2012
Nov 1, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
half ring
a present, a thank you compliment by way of a poem, for the zealous, tiny, poetess spark who writes exquisitely and calls herself Cynthia Henon
~~~
strange old night-stands, a stained tan blonde wood
that's going ancient grey, but still handsome in a fitting way,
the front drawer hand painted floral in what I choose
to believe are by Italian hands in Italian reds and greens,
not so fancy as I make it sound, but worn and durable and
not overly functional but two silent, uncomplaining eye witnesses to a ten year ancient, greying love affair
wood ages, human eyes squint, failing to counteract the minute, advancing daily dimming, not paying close attention to the
Richter magnitude of the accumulated changes
the morning coffee ritual as catholic as morning mass,
a straw woven coaster to protect the sun blanched top,
hardly necessary, just a good habit, one of the rituals that glue,
that couples use to keep the coupling intact
the cumulative subtle changes, the crackling sound unheard, the cracks in everything, even in the human tissue,
breaking, the papered over filler of purposeful ignorance,
cannot forever resist the erosion of the cancer of the
taking for granted
place the coffee cup half on, half off the coaster, un-noticing,
leaving half a ring that will now never disappear, never be
completed, causing her to fly into rage that rips the
complacent band-aids, worn dikes that were holding back the barricaded tears, but the sea~see
level was always rising and though visible, the revelation remained unchosen
later that day, I drive away forever with Yo-Yo Ma riding shotgun,
in charge of map reading and consolation music, thinking
half ring, half ring, half ring, half ring,
an embolism of symbolism, good for a play on words,
and a couple of poems about uncoupling
8:22am 7/1/17
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
A white porcelain
Porcupine
Sits atop
The stool
Beside a resting
Toilet and silent sink
Drains are clogged
Must be the fog
Airing up
Inside the room
Thick and heavy
Full of cream
Like a hot
French Pastry
Soap melts
Into a fine cappuccino
Skin is soft
Not smooth
Rugged
Tired of the water's touch
Lips separated
Leaking drool
An earlier soft drink
Makes its appearance
Sake makes my soul
Gold and sublime
A snowball I received
To the face
Magical cocktail
Island tragedy
In Paris
Couped up
Stuck in a bathroom
Head bobbing
Up
And Down
Swaying
Side to side
Direction unchosen
Ears sweetened
By a tranquil
Heavenly sound
A song
Heartfelt poem
Layne's voice
Shouting from the void
Guitar strings
Beats of a drum
Native quotas
Unremembered
Just peace
No hate
Possible gain
***** to be given
Snowflakes
Fall upon my brow
Hissing in the heat
Chilling a man-made sea
Fingers tingle
Fabricating a jingle
Eyes swell
Blochted art on the walls
Feet numb
Deciding to stick around
Like a sore gum
Withered with gin
My armor
Solid arms
Continue to fall
Down with my divinity
I am Lucifer
Shining meteor of false hope
Chest heaves
I begin to grieve
Hope for a dawn
Pray to hear a new song
But here he comes
I am bleeding
Shaken by the storm
Overcome
Laughter
And crying
This means
I am dying
But,
Is the time right?
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 11:35 PM UTC
I've only just begun to begin the beginnings of what's to come
They told me it couldn't be done and if it could it could never be undone
Reinforced the foregone conclusion that I sure wouldn't be the person to get it done
Maybe I'm a human counterfeit, a blasphemous false prophet, either way the unchosen one
A complete waste of profit, a wayward prodigal son on the run
With a set of wings designed for Icarus, the parable goes over my head as I race straight at the sun
Swung for the fence and got my bell rung, if there's no brain damage it's at least gonna swell some from the concussion
Son of a ***** would you look at that, they were right, it can't be undone
Realization hit as the last song was sung, forced through a cancerous lung
As the dung that fills me spills freely over my tongue on to everyone
A headache for some, fun for no one, ask anyone
©2023
Dec 18, 2023
Dec 18, 2023 at 4:22 PM UTC
A blue boat
in the Mediterranean,
seven hundred balance,
broken, silent,
an unchosen arc,
rocking hearts dulled
by a slender chance
at survival.
Bitter dread grips
those not in boats,
greeted by the unexpected,
fumbling the knot of wrongdoing.
Surprised faces
bob in peaks and troughs.
Somewhere
between the
abandonment of hope
and the next breath
lies arrival.
A remembrance of
a buoyancy,
a slender space
of kindness,
holds all refugee stories
breathing freely
wave after wave.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 9:02 AM UTC
Everything touches every other,
Nothing stays safe in itself;
The ghost moans his fate was unchosen,
The captain, his enemy's stealth.
Fate doesn't rewind in the darkness,
Day doesn't withold it's surprise,
Birth doesn't await our 'hello',
Death doesn't hold out for 'goodbye'.
In the mirror, behold your opposite:
The antagonist of all that you do.
His left your right, his day your night;
Whatever you think, he sees through.
On the ground, stretches out your shadow,
Who follows you through thick and thin:
They'll bury you one day, and he'll go away
And not count it as loss or win.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 5:55 PM UTC
Cry dear, cry
No one to wash off your tears.
Cry into yourself.
When beauty cried, I laughed.
Flowers and destinies do not lie together.
For years, paths unchosen
have waited.
When I chose flowers
they wilted.
So I choose my destiny,
and cry.
Cry dear, cry
No one to collect your pearls.
Those precious ones fall.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 2:34 PM UTC
Tangled up
in broken lines of
communication,
seeking out a
melody
that was never there.
Discordant sounds,
blocking them out like a
dam of
sticks and stones.
But your words, your
honest
unchosen
words
will never
break my bones.
For they are frail,
crumbling away when I
catch them in my
fingers
if even there at all.
Hanging for a moment
in the flushing heat
between us
before
dropping
like orbs of clouded glass
and shattering at my
feet.
Worthless now.
Fragments.
All the cuts on my
fingers
from trying to
pick up the pieces,
put them together,
nurse them
tenderly.
Seeking some meaning
hidden in
fractured light.
But you didn't
think of that:
do not realise
what I am
looking for.
But I am here.
I am here and I am
listening -
listening to endless
nothing.
For you make
pitiful words
priceless
because they are
yours.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC