"unclipped" poems
When did you become a stormy sea of obsession?
Confining in all of your ways
Renouncing all moves in any direction
When one does not yield to the calls, you play
Attempts to govern unclipped wings can be exhausting
The very thought is so gravely insane
Yet you still despondently try to cage in free spirits
With those borders you set and maintain
You reveal uncertainty in your own validation
In the faith you hold in your own
When you desperately try to close off the sky
From free spirits thirsting to roam
Did you know that your borders are guarded by insecurity?
They are useless and protected in vain
Take a look inside the cages you obsessively provide
Not a single free spirit remains
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 6:31 PM UTC
I am reading this poem,
late, in the snug familiarity of my bed,
with gentle night-light and sable night-sky,
stars swimming beyond the glass,
warm breaths fogging up the panes.
I am reading this poem,
curled on a beanbag in a library with her my by side,
breaths stirring against my skin,
like the winds of time, of change, taking me away from here.
I am reading this poem,
in a room that is abound with remembrance and days gone by,
where the bedclothes are heaped, fresh and steaming with warmth,
with the same freedom that the open valise speaks of,
a journey ending in success, a triumphant flight.
I am reading this poem,
as the underground train screeches to a halt,
and before heading up the stairs,
towards the love that life has bestowed on me.
I am reading this poem,
by the glow of the laptop screen,
where the headlines flash and flicker,
for once, joy is splashed across the monitor.
I am reading this poem in a waiting room,
of meeting eyes and crinkling smiles, more friends than strangers,
without fear.
I am reading this poem by firelight,
in the simple joy and jubilation of the young who know they matter,
and live with hope and inner liberation, from the earliest of ages.
I am reading this poem,
freed of the curved lenses, the cloudy cataracts,
and I can see the letters for what they are and I read on,
because this freedom is precious.
I am reading this poem as I sit by the radiator,
the milk is already warm (electricity isn’t cut these days)
child in my arms, book in my hand,
because life is waiting for me to live it,
knowing it is never too short or too long but just right.
I am reading this poem not in my language,
while she sits at my side and helps me translate,
because tongues are free to roam now.
I am reading this poem listening for something,
stopping to savour the taste of freedom,
to be able to refuse the task I cannot turn to.
I am reading this poem because I can,
and there is so much left to read
I have now and forever,
to soar untamed with wings unclipped, clothed as I am.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
Like stray dogs in suburbia we wander.
We once knew a path in our distant dog-year past
one our owners walked us down,
dragging us nowhere fast.
It was catholic school teachers,
conformist preachers
and all the other tame creatures who took us on our way.
We walked on their time,
to the beat of a drum our paws weren't made to pound.
And we were dragged by a noose (otherwise known as a leash)
but their language is not our language
so while I called it what it is
they called it keeping me safe.
What the masters don't know
is that sometimes they leave the wrong door open
and a fence in the yard or a parental guilt trip
feels about as big as a crack in the sidewalk to jump over
when the street looks like a filthy paradise
where things like loud are louder,
fast is faster,
scary, scarier,
and reality, realer.
Now we're never in any rush
because anywhere and everywhere is home
so simply staying in doesn't feel so bad.
Routine is no longer in our vocabulary.
Vocabulary is no longer in our collection of words
and our collection of words is no longer so clean.
We wander because ideas described to us as garbage
taste better than the textbook kibbles-n-bits
and even though it's not served hot
or in a bowl with our names on it
the fact that we found it ourselves
feels better than having our tummies rubbed
or making the grade.
None of this is to say that the old house
will never be home again.
Doggy doors are always open
and winters are always cold.
So once I've had enough of life's streets
teaching me more important things
than rolling over or playing dead,
things like knowing tricks don't always come with treats,
we might just go back inside.
And returning won't be our loss
because we'll be walking back in with unclipped claws for the first time
and with all our baby teeth and naive fears gone,
we just might bite.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC
My angel
My angel
Please fly down from your heaven
And bless me with your beautiful glow
With your wings unclipped
Your hair in a fit
And your dress complete with a bow
May you bless me with your presence
And fill me with delight
Let me breathe in your essence
And wrap my arms around you, tight
Pulling you close into me
Between us, no longer space
Savoring this sweet embrace
Face to face we will finally be
My arms wrapped around you
Yours wrap around me
And together, though close
We are finally free
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 10:44 PM UTC
Mist-minded, clouded thoughts
Can't seem to focus, or keep rapport
Importance is relevant, irrelevant I dwell
In this cartography, well-drawn Hell
Zipped up lips, verbiage tripped
The spoken, delivery, edge unclipped
Harsh and cold, worn limestone
Regardless of polish, I'm overgrown
What feels real is this heart of steel
All else surrounds, of fabric, of gown
Dressed up nice to masquerade
False-tipped smiles, dead parade.
The forge burns true, just underneath
My love, my Sun, I shall bequeath
Hardened and cold, aftermath of the craft
Add a little heat and reveal my heart.
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 9:05 PM UTC
You ignite the papaya scent
of Zanzibar romances
spiced woods behind ears
seducing the body's non-senses
like kisses enticed from hints
formed in a humid land
kneading your cat pad toes
into my kicked off sandals
soft sinking
warm as sand spreading
on golden embers
smoking like a slow glowing dhow
sailing wine tumblers
spilling Matemwe beach rays
of crystal rain in sunshine
tinkling against my skin
like the random meditation
in wind chimes
tuned by the slight twitch
of Mnemba Atoll frangipani
to unwind my fire
into an isle of leaves
singing sunny
somewhere mysterious
through winding alleyways
we kissed on shady curves
sprung open
on to Stone Town seas
your weather
beaten hair
waving in Forodhani Gardens
showered into labyrinthine storms
travelled blue-black horizons
infused with times
of thunder roaming
lost in alluring plans
mindful I look back to check
your coral stone directions
we swept into an unclipped tent
of Salamah **** Saïd's
eating hot shwarma
like I was the Sultan and you princess
your attractions slipping a cargo off
of precious unguent wet essentials
drying to flow a silken scarf
around Darajani Market thrills
floating in a dark continent
on each kiss to my needy neck
leaning in the white wake
of Zani-bar dreams
which seek
to push the boat out
on your shoulder
once you're moored
on to my arms
longing for you
swaying now
under sweating hot
Gizenga road palms
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
Stress cushioned grips, Check.
Speed Racer threads of mental strains, Check.
Lazy legs with baggy exhaustion, Check.
Unshaved follicles and overlapped cuticles, Check.
Unclipped toes with rotten flakes of age, Check.
Un-fished priorities topped off with an absent cherry, Check.
Uneasy knees and crack able joints, Check.
Absent-minded realizations of accomplishment, Check.
Did I miss something crucial? Check.
Motivation…Check.
Productivity in moderation…Check.
A list of values to jump over silently…
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
Milka followed Baruch
along the road
to his parent's house
and up the stairs
to his bedroom
she looking about her
as she climbed
won't your parent’s
be home?
she asked
no they're at work
he said
my mother until
half two
Milka nodded
and thought
of the bewilderment
if they came home
too soon
and what if they did?
they came to the landing
and he showed her
the single bed
by the wall
next to another
by the window
whose bed is that?
she asked
my brother's
Baruch said
he's away
oh
she said looking
at the single bed
by the wall
with the blue bed cover
well?
he said
what do you think?
she looked at the bed
and then at Baruch
it's a bit narrow
she said
it'll be ok
he said
unless you don't want to
he said
she bit her lip
are you sure
no one
will be back early?
sure as sure
he said
he took in
her bright eyes
the hair
shoulder length
and well groomed
the yellow
tight fitting top
and blue jeans
she looked by him
at the window
can anyone see us?
he looked out
the window
I’ll close the curtains
he said
she looked at him there
eyes wide open
and alert
his black jeans
and white shirt
you don't have to
he said
just thought
that after last time
in the barn
it would be better here
she nodded
that was a bit
uncomfortable
she said smiling
hay and straw
in my *******
when I got home
he smiled
yes and that mouse
that ran over
my backside
she laughed
and relaxed
and I screamed
she said
he nodded
and looked at her
standing there
by the bed
we don't have to
if you'd rather not
he said
she looked at him
and said
I want to
it's just the anxiety
that your parents
will come home
and catch us
he stroked her hair
they won't
he said
I'd not risk it
if I thought
they'd be home early
she sat on the bed
and he sat next to her
she kicked off her shoes
and he did so too
she looked at him again
then stood up
and unzipped her jeans
and took them off
and laid them
on the other bed
he did like wise
she took off the top
over her head
and placed it on top
of her jeans
he took off his shirt
and put it on top
of his jeans
then she unclipped
her bra
and threw it
to the other bed
he stood there
gazing at her
small mounds
the brownish dugs
she removed
her pink *******
and flicked them
to the bed
by the window
where they rested
by the windowsill
he took off his briefs
and threw them over
by his jeans
she breathed out
deeply and slowly
he put a hand
on right breast
felt the softness
ran his fingers
over the dug
she smiled
and touched his pecker
then she lay down
on the bed
and he lay beside her
his hand touching
her thigh
and she saw
the sunlight
through
the uncurtained window
in the bright
midday sky.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 2:33 AM UTC
Time to fade from view
My words cut to shreds
You stand there over me
Unblinking eyes
Judging mouth
Uncomprehending mind
Back into a shell of pain
No comfort in the dark
Echoes haunt my world
Unrealized potential
Wasted life
Hopeless addict
Back up against the void
Plunging through the depths
Carefree and infinitely alive
Thoughtless nirvana
Unclipped wings
Golden radiance
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
The Slobber Mouth lives deep down south,
hunting the Ner' do wells.
with candy canes and wooden trains,
with buzzers and with bells.
With fur of green, that's never clean,
and eyes so big and red.
Four filthy paws with unclipped claws,
he fills the woods with dread.
Spiked tail and horns and teeth like thorns,
fixed in a scarey smile.
A big black nose and ragged clothes,
make up his unique style.
Baiting his traps with midday naps,
false promises and lies.
with wasted hours and April showers,
and soft spoke lullabyes.
Dust bunnies hop but never stop,
and never are they caught.
For they are wise to slobbers lies,
and all the gifts he's brought.
The Mites and Motes in winter coats,
so quickly scurry by.
for they too know never to go,
where Slobbers presents lie.
The feather bed floats over head,
the carpet thick with fluff.
He stamps his feet knowing he's beat
and screams enoughs enough.
He packs his sock and checks the clock,
so soon the house will rise.
Stomping away to sleep all day,
and hide from prying eyes.
Beneath your bed this sleepy head,
sits down to scheme and plan.
Tomorrow night if all goes right,
I'll catch the Bogeyman.
On tippy toes in bedtime clothes,
his teddy in his hand.
He waves goodnight to all in sight,
and leaves for faery lands.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 7:11 AM UTC
Sitting on hands
Feet turning inwards
Trying to hide the inside
From the outside world
Goosebumps on pale skin
Patiently waiting
For the hand that feeds
crumbs
Listen carefully
can hear a tiny voice?
Perched precariously
Head lifts
Heart beat quickens
Fingers unhinge the cage
The door creaks
With wings unclipped
Freedom beckons
Yawn awake
Hear the delicate song
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC
Sometimes I mine for echoes
Ghosts of sounds within me still
Cicadas and the clash of boules
Soft voices from the hill
Two young boys tongue-tied in the sun
Barefoot on summer's shore
Soft feet licked clean by freedom's whim
With oceans to explore
My mother nurtured flowers
Drowning shadows out with paint
The brightness of geraniums
The patience of a saint
My father cut the grass too much
And ran to clear his mind
Until the echoes of the Angelus
Beseeched him to unwind
My brother lined his time with books
He tore through Willard Price
And towed me just behind him
Through the fronds of paradise
Marauding hornets launched their raids
From castles in the attic
While Stanley mined for longwave gold
From seams deep in the static
And all the while
My granny kept her patience in the shade
Her deck of cards adorned with birds
Their feathers slightly frayed
The swallows scythed through open skies
Back home where they belonged
And like Narcissus, swooped from height
To kiss the surface of the pond
The wasps built paper palaces
The geckos froze on sight
And midwife toads woke from their doze
To tune up for the night
As daytime took its leave
We sought out satellites and stars
Then lay in quiet contemplation
Watching Venus waltz with Mars
I remember cowboys’ breakfasts
With my father by the lake
Freewheeling with the moon roof open
For freewheeling's sake
We wore our bike tyres paper thin
Climbed castle walls unseen
Dived into lakes to race for ducks
And ruled the world at just thirteen
We fashioned bows and arrows
From the saplings in the wood
Sprung ambushes from chestnut shade
And fell dead where we stood
We roamed the dust-filled houses
On the back streets off the square
An ageless band of soldiers
Feigning death without a care
We raced around the wood yard
Sometimes scuffled in the dust
We traded glances with the neighbours' girls
And felt the nascent tug of lust
We sought out mischief in the hills
Stole naughtily from shelves
Smoked roll-ups in a Dutch girl's car
Unclipped our wings and helped ourselves
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 5:42 PM UTC
Your lifeless body with your unclipped toe nails and your tiny feet
Your old, grey face with a look of defeat
Sadness came straight through my door
When I saw you had collapsed on the living room floor
I just wanted to hold you one last time
To try and shake these sad feelings of mine
I gave you a kiss and I knew I wouldn't get one back
I for sure knew, it would be my last
Thank you for always being a great listener when I needed you most
Unfortunately in 14 hours I leave for the west coast
I'll take the lessons you taught and the love that you gave
And spread it far and wide until I reach my own grave
When I reach that grave you'll know that your spirit did not die
But there's a hint of it in everyone I've met worldwide
And when they meet others you will too know
That your very spirit has helped them grow
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:33 PM UTC
In the garden
before it was lost,
(come back soon
lost garden),
pepper vines grew around
the sweet fruit trees.
durian fell
sarongs rose,
all was fecund in the globe
of sour tamarind
and bitter herb;
a balance, a unity
of love given and
lust taken.
chilli red yellow green
shone in morning mist,
evening gloam among
myriad leaves clogging the undug pool,
hurting the fish breath
in the old frog pond.
unpicked, the fruit.
unclipped, the hedge.
all my life
too lazy to get ahead,
leaving all my fruit to seed.
let it rot and feed the sand
soil, grow turf beneath the trees.
in this moment only hell and heaven.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
The amount of eraser shavings I have tucked away in my night stand could fill up twelve pencil boxes.
Words have been erasing from my paper like hunters beating down trails for homeless, bony foxes.
And I'm afraid of all the words that I'm going to forget as I'm running blind, straight ahead.
My unclipped claws are scratching the dirt in a race that won't settle anything- that won't lay the hunters to bed.
The night couldn't get anymore viscous as it calls in the boisterous wind to erase everything that I have to say like a merciless king.
The hunters don't know there is no pack leader, that I'm alone, and the tracks I leave behind are the words that sting.
I've lost sight of my pages in this cold, lightless wood; rendered breathless and afraid.
I'm trying to speak, but all that's coming out of my mouth are eraser shavings and the hunters have already took their first bullet to invade.
So, the drawer beside my cold bed is composed of red, crumbled pieces of rubber full of words I'll never know.
As I lay beneath the menacing branches, waiting for the hunters to pass, I watch with crackling, shaking bones everything
that was once a friend to me, dissolve like white snow.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 10:42 PM UTC
in adroit flight are these words.
drunk with the proper tremendousness of rampant trifles.
they will soar like rigid flame
as the tacit air agonizes in its
grave failure -
i am saluted by moths
weighted by the dusts of sleep,
peregrinating around
my mortal fire - wings unclipped,
they pine away from the heat
of this wonder they try
to unwind like tough scabs
to erstwhile wounds.
prescient science
nor foolish aeons cannot
shave this wreathed land baring
the enigma of its history -
the thrall of poetry's pulchritude!
the way it makes its way
like a conference of beasts
roaring innocuously,
or simply a lamppost
brought to life in the night,
imploding in itself,
a burst of primal colours!
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
A cottage in the country a woven roof of thatch
In the kitchen a fat lady her knickers on the latch
Pulled down past her chubby thighs exposing her hot hatch
Within those apple gatherers a juicy damp wet patch
Wearing an undone apron with her bra unclipped to match
A wooden spoon is waiting she's cooking up a batch
Arthritic hands maybe a snag but not much of a catch
Spoon up her hole to stir the bowl using her wide ******
Two 44dd mixing bowls a mixture of flour and ginger
Sugar hurled and butter twirled with her vigorous ***** ninja
Spoon dripping salted essences oozing down that wooded stirrup
Ground cinnamon is added with her special golden syrup
A touch of soda bicarb an egg mixed in with her *****
Spoon inserted actions ***** squeezing wince and cringe
Shaped and cut a ginger nut ***** mixing makes you ache
Ovens hot sheet trays are got greased slid inside to bake
A warming up made from her cup is this a big mistake
Gingers fine if dough is prime so now who's on the make
Your on the rise what a surprise now you are awake
Placed on the side with tarts beside I wonder what's at stake
Rampant ginger smells so good some pieces fall and flake
In bed with tarts a fancy start when Fred has had his cake
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 12:47 AM UTC
Not to want to fly,
supposing wings
can bring defeat;
this, not unclipped,
a gentle bloom of plume,
lifting the see, to saw and see.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
the scent of
“it’s 3AM.
My fingernails are long
***** clockwork
-unclipped-
oiled-jagged hands - I am,
like time,
spent
in a coffee shop, with a drink
you don’t like much
and, still, hours to ****
No One Loves It
Who Isn’t
Anymore
calling
a ***** for
a life before “YOUR”
nervous nerves, us,
stomach ache
heart ache
more of the same old breaks
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 3:06 AM UTC
There once lived a bundle in her head
Stuck behind her ears
Wiry, grey, and mad
It buzzed around
Sometimes just existing
Other times,
Demanding attention
She talked to lots of her friends
About what it could be
Eventually
She discovered the answer on her own
It was her control
And once she learned its name
She found its leash,
Unclipped it,
And let it free
Apr 30, 2023
Apr 30, 2023 at 8:11 PM UTC
face drawn, pale and pallid,
eyes sunken as spirit tarried,
rattled cage o' tired invalid
fifty suns soul had carried
the flame waned and flickered
in frame worn and withered,
battle scarcely begun
before adversary won
and now the wings unclipped 'n ready
waited for abeyance of inner eddy
waited to be free at last
of physical prison, physical cast
the spirit feels can linger no more
it rattles and shakes and knocks on door
with one last guttural click and snore
breaks free the darkness, begins to soar.
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 7:28 AM UTC
Feeling of euphoria dominating that room
That exasperating space of leftover domestics, lust verging on predatory
Unwashed, unclipped, orange tinged fingertips scooping up the dregs of Asda's smart price nuts
I was in my element, masking my child in me
My hormonal fireworks had gone into this moment.
I had made it.
I was 14 and a pub singer.
My family beamed, my Dad unrecognisable
The room roared, happy feet stomped and energetic hands clapped; erupting into our very own earthquake
I took a sneaky mouthful of my concealed pint, covering my modesty in my must look 18 dress
The rockers rocked
The lovers kissed
Eighties fans shook their hips
My father missed... it
The smoke was as thick as **** the *****
It danced in a flurried daze with our quickened breath, singing 'Tubthumping'
If I could have bottled that, I would take a sniff of that smelling salt to bring me round any day
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 1:24 PM UTC