"unclosed" poems
Born into a world,
lavish with wonder,
brimming with dread.
Innocent eyes unclosed,
for the first time,
lights and color,
consume their mind.
When do those eyes,
lose their innocence,
become eyes of anger,
eyes of hate,
eyes that see too much?
They soon lose interest,
everything eventually goes
unseen.
Eyes of sorrow,
unfolding the past,
displaying the hurt.
Show me those innocent eyes,
that now seeming so distant,
I have only memory,
of those innocent eyes.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
of this wilting wall the colour drub
souring sunbeams,of a foetal fragrance
to rickety unclosed blinds inslants
peregrinate,a cigar-stub
disintegrates,above,underdrawers club
the faintly sweating air with pinkness,
one pale dog behind a slopcaked shrub
painstakingly utters a slippery mess,
a star sleepily,feebly,scratches the sore
of morning. But i am interested more
intricately in the delicate scorn
with which in a putrid window every day
almost leans a lady whose still-born
smile involves the comedy of decay,
6.3k
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only,
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have reached these lands but newly
From an ultimate dim Thule—
From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
Out of SPACE—out of TIME.
Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,
With forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Seas that restlessly aspire,
Surging, unto skies of fire;
Lakes that endlessly outspread
Their lone waters—lone and dead,
Their still waters—still and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily.
By the lakes that thus outspread
Their lone waters, lone and dead,—
Their sad waters, sad and chilly
With the snows of the lolling lily,—
By the mountains—near the river
Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—
By the gray woods,—by the swamp
Where the toad and the newt encamp,—
By the dismal tarns and pools
Where dwell the Ghouls,—
By each spot the most unholy—
In each nook most melancholy,—
There the traveller meets aghast
Sheeted Memories of the past—
Shrouded forms that start and sigh
As they pass the wanderer by—
White-robed forms of friends long given,
In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
’Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
For the spirit that walks in shadow
’Tis—oh, ’tis an Eldorado!
But the traveller, travelling through it,
May not—dare not openly view it;
Never its mysteries are exposed
To the weak human eye unclosed;
So wills its King, who hath forbid
The uplifting of the fringed lid;
And thus the sad Soul that here passes
Beholds it but through darkened glasses.
By a route obscure and lonely,
Haunted by ill angels only.
Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
On a black throne reigns upright,
I have wandered home but newly
From this ultimate dim Thule.
4.9k
I tried not to look at it,
But I couldn't help myself,
The blue sky burying me completely,
The sun shedding visibility
On the edible chanterelles--
Little fungi, little mold spores
Treated as food, soft and porous
Sponges, fragile like egg shells.
We hunt for the orange gleam
Showing through the duff
As if we are savages,
Lost in our search,
Forgetting our state.
I'd forgotten what a sight they were:
Unfunny clowns always having
Arguments over who gets what space--
Quality family time.
Every home is a miniature dictatorship.
Now, savages rule our thoughts
And actions; they fight
For control; they
Pump Estrogen into our
System so that we
Will not fight back.
The dream is not a dream.
The Police are a privilege
For those who can buy it.
All this was a week after
The dust settled. There was no music.
Even the chants of Buddhists
Were silenced, the replacing hum
One of screams
And gunshots.
The sound of
Your enemies being sautéed
Is what loss truly is:
Accounts holding our Humanity
Have been depleted.
The only unclosed door
Leads to Egypt.
When I think of it now,
What I remember is
Debt. Once, I saw
A college student
Buying cheap ramen
With a grin.
And, in a dream once,
There was no sound,
No color. Everything
Was the same—taste,
Touch, smell. Red lipstick marks
On a shirt would not
Remain. And hippies,
With their tie-dye clothes
Were just working stiffs,
Looking out a window
To see
Brick and mortar.
They say,
“This is your police state.
This is your Haunted House,
Your personal Winchester House
With no exits. This is
Your nightmare,
Your stench.
These are your maggots in your eyes.
This is what you want.”
We listen.
I do not want to be
The kind of person
Who makes it okay
To want to die.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 6:48 PM UTC
Alone in a blank meadow
even that night hadn't grown any shadow
Certainly I had seen
the mystic moonlight was falling on the purples of the valleys, dancing with the sweet summer breeze
Certainly I had seen,
Her smile on the dark side of the moon,
how did she unclosed herself in an unclogged sky!
how did her glimmer attract the arbitary!
did you see her streaming beauty anytime?
I am not a poet at all,
So I could not write an ode about her beauty,
Yeah, finally dreams were coming slowly from the wide open sky_
Slowly and Slowly,
I was mingling with her shimmering
even I could not bear her long
wild and mad looks,
such a heavy unfolded glee,
Oh! very smashing shines spreading beyond the valley,
That only be vented by the poetess Shelley....
@Musfiq us shaleheen*
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
**** you stupid boy
For making me queasy and shy
I've got butterflies in my tummy
And stars in my eyes
**** you stupid boy
I've got this stupid grin
I cant wipe off my stupid face
And now I've got goosebumps on my skin
My head is up in the clouds
And my heart has bounded to space
Today I put on my t-shirt in reverse
And set my pancakes ablaze
Today I walked into a wall
From giggling at my phone
I got hit by a bus
Instead of walking straight home
When the bus hit me
I was still smiling and did not move my feet
Now I have to explain to my terrified parents
How I broke all my teeth
The puzzled doctor was astonished
He said I’m sorry there’s no prescription I can give
That can cure your chronic state of love-sickness
And hopefully let you live
**** you stupid boy
You’ve got me on a thrill
My hearts on a roller coaster ride
And quickly going downhill
**** you stupid boy
you make my face go red
when I read your stupid messages
when im supposed to be in bed
**** you stupid boy
You've got me in complete reverse
I mopped the dog and walked the mop
Please break this silly curse
The other day I was walking
and suddenly the lights went low
then I realized I had walked into an open sewer
that was left unclosed on the floor
I’m wrapped around your finger
And there's not a single trace
Of a sense of focus
On my absent minded lovesick face
**** you stupid boy
You’ll be the death of me
Next time the bus won’t break my teeth
I’ll just be history.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC
there is this certain house
call it the beach house
once a well-worn respite,
it's quaint disrepair no longer charms
sands that once barely dared
brush against the steps
victory dance over the porch
and through the warped, unclosed door
as it hangs nearly unhinged
passersby notice
much as hazy eyed prostitutes
stare thru effete johns
from that absent mind place
where it wouldn't occur
to look inside
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 3:20 PM UTC
A summer of twigs
And disposable cameras
But the skin was shy
And others were watching
So we shifted these walls
And dimmed the lights
To a thousand unclosed eyes
And passed through in eclipse
Of future rhapsody
Jul 31, 2023
Jul 31, 2023 at 2:46 PM UTC
Facing
catching breath
with sudden skin
hands pull in
never close enough
with lips unclosed
not unclothed
we shouldn't
but we could
oh how we would
and why?
for who we were
there
see that foggy window
long gone now
where behind
our shut eyes
we warm belied
the leather cold
Jan 27, 2018
Jan 27, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC
amid love's needy hour
on tiring eyes unclosed
fills as sight of flowers
this night silent and lone
this one beast of moon
which peeks into her being
with its swerve-less tune
through sky twirling be seen
blossoms her soul of life
do sing her lips such song
be melt into twilight
and be forever gone
yet know in heart does she
hears drama of a sky
in arms of cypress trees
her love will never die
this tranquil town hillside
on bluish giddy slopes
on this cold starry night
she wraps herself with hope
Oct 22, 2013
Oct 22, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
i.
one ground to another runs itself rock and rock in the unclosed pebbles of dirt open to aching at the wire your father fixes for free in the canceled warning of crow made gauze for blacktops poured not wholly over a woman-
she a belt buckle drunk pocked full the called back joy of a pop gun.
ii.
over glass I go with my milk bottle feet to church after church past mirrors sick and doctored.
iii.
needs hisself a dog he does the speechless boy drawn mother to his own mute breast -
so he clicks the roach of his tongue
makes a hole with the hole in his sock
makes tunnel sounds.
iv.
my aunt’s ear like a deformed thumb.
my aunt dreaming she says for two.
my aunt changing her mind, her mind
a mid-bread knife.
v.
soldiers able to turn in the throat a chicken bone straight.
vi.
for muscles: jaw down nightly the door of a stove,
jaw it up,
and salute.
vii.
tiny cups cured with sugar cubes and stilled with steam taken
from a skinned
train-born
pig, a train
of blackest
fur.
viii.
about ladders and war, about the devil-
a man stands on his hands in three feet of water. about god-
marco. marco.
ix.
the blue dolls and the gray dolls and the care with which the chosen choose cloth and after
all of it
some meat colored cloth.
x.
water knows your lips, and mine; takes our mouths
on faith.
xi.
*top teeth on the skin of an apple. top teeth mine. a test of joy, joy’s age. mama stepping on a scale holding my brother. mama putting him down, cocking her head, picking him up. asking for a towel. asking nicely be a good brother. the towel, hot from bread, sick with ants. heavy my mouth with sorry sorry. my slapped mouth, my loved love. mama’s hands back from hell. dish soap mama hands
uncut by the hair long had by my head.*
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
summer is life's perhaps
it has a colour like the
taste between girl's thighs:
dark with thin salt and thick is sweet bright
unclosed roughlysupple
it feels soft around my cheeks
(and the slight down that enamors
it like velvet is)
and like between girl's thighs
my lips muscles and shoulders
want to
because
summer is life's perhaps
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 4:06 PM UTC
the lights on the dingy carnival rides glistened with a new kind of hope I still can't explain. the last thief's kiss still lingered on my lips and I felt well off. content with where I was standing in line and in life, you stepped in right then and intervened.
taken back by the small talk at first, I took quickly to what you had to say. felt a spark, but I was too afraid of having my fiery feelings extinguished. Accustomed to being burned I was hesitant to let you in. There were so many unclosed doors I still can't help but to think about. Falling for you, falling for you of course it didn't take long. This time though was different- you caught me. Perhaps this is why when "Hey howdy hey" from an ex-flame came up across my phone screen, I felt super perplexed. Funny how just when you're happy and comfortable and ready to move on, a text from someone you were so sure lived in your past can trigger a thousand different emotions. Those icy blues I wondered so much about these past 8 months just had to peek in to throw me off. Sometimes though it's way too late for sorry. Trying so hard not to think about the past, I remember the way that the lights reflected in your eyes that breezy August carnival night and kiss you harder. I want you to stick around.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
I,ve unclosed
(and
i
will speak
slowly
trees
steeply uncrooked breathing 'gainst
the racing moon over the valley bending
swiftly thoughts of ungiant sprigs puckish
in the frailing summers wings
a wig of tender incandescent drops cavort
in silent wetness on petals the)
a cadence of caving murdered light
seamless fluid winsome dusting upon
the unserious lips of night flexing effortlessly
by their touch, and flaccid, upon mine
i am drugged
of lilywhite tubes; crumbs of hushed love
a draught of limpid steam. i
laced and foamy the jaw distends
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 11:23 AM UTC
Exposed. Unclosed
Unused and disposed.
In an attempt to be attached,
I was detached and let go.
In search for affection
It became an infection.
Made the choice to walk my own path
With no sense of direction.
A woman of progression.
A girl of aggression.
Constant presence of a hole, never quit whole.
House was never home.
Never felt "with company"
But never left alone.
Refutation of becoming a clone.
Reputation of being a *****
But what's the perfect woman?
Without an imperfect glitch?
Torn, never stitched.
Never fixed.
But never cry.
Not too many hellos.
Way too many goodbyes.
Once I filled myself with pride. .
Never felt more alive.
To begin the life I wanted to live,
I first had to die.
Try to understand, interpret just who I am.
All the places which I have fallen
Have led me to where I stand.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 1:20 PM UTC
There he is!
Again today
Playing the banjo
In every way
A skip to his feat
A song to his beat
People will follow him till the end of the street
His lips didn't move
But, boy, did his hands!
Even the busymen danced at their shops and their stands
But the boy was not seen at the end of the day
No one would dream to follow his way
They said he was gods gift to the people of maine
They said he was a boy who just wanted the fame
But he never spoke a word, didnt even look like he breathed
And everyday, without a word, he took his leave
But there was a reason none followed the boy
You think that they would with all of their joy
But no one came back from the forest I fear
They all end up gone, they all disappear
They say they leave to heaven with the little musician
I say thats all a superstition
I say its his banjo that traps its prey
Luers them into an unclosed space
Where they are forgetten by their father and mother
Their friends, their family, their sister and brother
They say that those strings on the banjo he plays
Are strings from the heavens that lightens our day
But the strings are black metal cords
That cuts the fingers and makes blood pour
Banjo uses the boys blood to play another toon
The boy is enclosed and trapped like the few
That followed its toon and was taken away
By the banjo, the banjo's tune will luer its prey
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
And it is midnight again.
We will write the date different.
Breakfast will be slightly changed,
hair will be terribly ruffled on one day,
then fine on the next.
Our souls may sometimes be coloured blue,
for now,
it's mellow sunshine melded with silent notes of wistfulness.
The handful of stars dotting across the grey-navy blue sky will sometimes become an infinite sprinkle.
Rain.
Sun.
Raindrops & damp hair.
Sunshine dancing across our collarbones.
Closed eyelids, but unclosed heart.
Tired soul but it keeps say a quiet 'No' to
sleep.
Lovely days flit in between the not-so-good ones.
And it is twelve at night again.
My white heart painted the loveliest red has been
trying & trying
to say
'Hello' or was it.. goodbye
to
yours
again.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
Empty dreams
Empty hopes
a piece of courtship
unclosed
yes, I love you
said the lady
Yes, I still
Said he
he was married
she knew it
she was about to
he knew it
will it last?(our love he meant)
Forever
She replied
" But you leave me"
"Forever "
you loved my letters
said he
I still do
Said she
"You are shivering"
"No touches"
"But you clinch"
"Not forever"
"Coldness will come"
" I'm not a home –breaker"
"Will you love him?"
"I will try"
"Does he call your name like I do?"
"No one does"
"Dose he call you my Tinkerbell?"
"No one dose"
"I should leave now"
"Let me get dressed"
"Will it last?"
"I guess so"
"I changed my mind let's spend a night"
"No touches"
"I promise"
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
As the waves come crashing in,
My skin hits the rough sandy shores,
And I could not stop thinking
Of all the many doors
I have left unclosed,
The keys of which I locked up
Deep in the walls of my soul.
Although my heart longs for
Nothing but the home I left behind,
I stand amidst the cold, hard wind
Without a flinch or doubt in mind.
And without knowing, my feet carry
On into the heart of the valley.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 5:29 PM UTC
asleep, he was loved. loved, also, in the margins of waking. a hand on the head, or breakfast after payday. he would try to keep quiet the unclosed wound of his voice; a darkened bandage, like bacon, held to his mouth. but the morning, each morning, would leave, more so clothed than it had come. if ever you’ve looked, at noon, for your mother, she would’ve been with his. two sets of thumbprints, two glasses. he would put his thumb to one, then the other. days your mother stayed with you, his own would give him crayons. once, that he can remember, he put the white in her cigarette box and heard about it. it’s the kind of kid he was fully awake: bad. his cheeks often burned. their redness would unhinge his mother so that she would slap at the pale inquiry of his neck. seven years old, and still drawing stick figures. he could not keep himself from it. three legged figures, one armed. torsos were a problem for him, and crotches. but there they would be, middle on middle, three lines to indicate ****** or wind. his mother wouldn’t get sick but would say that she was. before dinner, she would give him ice cream. he would fall asleep without dinner and his father would come home, shower, and leave. it made him stronger, not seeing his father eat.
the stick figures, when he met them, were not like his drawings, but they wanted to be. they would contort and untangle from each other and giggle. his mother once came upon them and they broke into many sticks at his feet. she did not know what he was laughing at and tried to lift him but he was fat for his age and she pulled a muscle in her stomach. he put her on his back. she would not unstiffen. at home, in front of the fire, she was angry. her arm was crooked, aimed at him, and one of her eyes was trying to watch him. he shut the door to his room and practiced becoming many. his parts would not let. he gave up; the fire lowered. the noise his mother made sounded set aside; some special box opened in the house of a demon. he had to cut her clothes from her so she could breathe. she rose, simply; not like the dead. something, in the second box, skittered from it. the boy crumpled. his head did not roll like he thought it would, but he smiled anyway. if his mother was screaming, only his ears could hear it.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
dancing with the devil , baby , tip toe across the spiral staircase floor
iron wrought with passionflowers flowing up the sides
door -
the only one
right at the top - by the clouds
duck egg blue
number 7, the key is under the mat.
don't hesitate
merge with the simplistic
desires
no shame in your shame
no shame is all ours
take , the coats on the wall wash your feet and face if you are weary and clean
and then -
the atrium
with soft lighting
- window left hand side -
view changes - daily
doors
7 more ,
each intricate to lead - the traveler away onwards
to lovers arms.
Sep 13, 2013
Sep 13, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
1 word coiled warmly
your nape about swarms
it exactly spoken from
mouths strangely perfect
ly unclosed and jointed
(your body
sort of is a
crumbling feverish
hot sound
(
ocean your body sort of is an
depthless puddling skin right
down into i swim courageously
fleshy pinkness strutting gorgeously
your thighs do thatness charmingly
scrambling against my cheeks
(and your nails are sharpness
beautifully grinding lovely
in my scalp trenches) O' you are pain
deliciously,
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 4:32 PM UTC
*Seasons have weathered
left footprints passing age
yet something is spared
to draw her in my gaze!
It's not as pink as first crush
nor red as primal yore
but white residue of dried brush
that makes me want not more!
I wonder if she knows it
when hold her in my gaze
not slowed a bit this heartbeat
my eyes don't see her age!
She wonders if I know it
when steals on me her look
the pages left are still sweet
love stays an unclosed book!*
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
i remember
(a pluchritudinal memory)
when almost so effortlessly
our lives lied to us most indefinitely
in the hours that return with
lashes and chains—
as in clothes heavy soldered
to washlines, the waft in the air is as familiar as the rain cooling
the blades of grass you speak of,
something the dark only conjures
waiting at the brink of my unclosed retina.
i know all of these well-placed memories
like furniture you have arranged
under the hollow hands of the home.
yet barely even so, a fond memory of—
the daedalus outside or the cut
gladiolus, plucked out of the moseying hour's vicious wingtip.
we do not always die like this.
when all our dying whispers are thrusted
underneath mouths of stone,
when all of our wishes hold a flame
paler than a vague rekindling of the dead.
sometimes promised something an ellipsis would half-ponder and postpone
in word's mid-birth.
the raging moon had waned.
all the windows shunned — hermetic,
air outside potent, leaving all books
half-read yet fully opened.
the children hide behind thin shades
of roses,
i can hear the steely grit of the flesh
pared from the bone as my mother
guillotines with kitchenware
we do not always die instantaneously.
most of our ways to go leave
demarcations on soul — something so easily displaced, doubled array of its arrival into half-wakefulness.
something only a last prayer thumbed
down to the last bead
and we cannot cry anymore.
night's flumine seeks to rebuild the wound undone delicately
leaving my breath and betraying my body.
we somehow always die like this.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC