"uncomprehending" poems
You Sir, Are An Electrician!
**technocrat
— noun
a proponent, adherent, or supporter of technocracy.**
This city boy was expert at
Turning the lights on,
Unlocking the front door,
Putting new batteries in flashlights,
And calling the handyman to
"Please come upstairs"
When the degree of diving difficulty was a
Positive number.
Also,
Freezing the semi-permanently the DVR,
Triggering alarms,
Killing car batteries,
Making laptops question
Human sanity,
Tearing up when reading,
"Some Assembly Required!"
Raised in a city of experts,
He was unskilled in things electric,
Becoming apoplectic,
When a device had an
On/off switch that ignored him.
Somewhat famous he was,
For engaging the inanimate,
In a verbal dialectic,
Which included words highly phonetic,
But unsuitable for children's ears.
She was raised in rural pastures,
Corn fields used for hide n' go seek,
Riding goats after school
Just for fun,
Familiar with innards of
Deus ex machina, a/k/a
Minor engine repairs, and
Doing what he called,
Making reparations.
IOS7, heaven.
Cabling laptop to external devices,
Icing on the cake,
Dis and reassembling a German coffee maker,
Did not require calling an 800 number.
She never read an instruction sheet
Without pleasurable laughing at
Japanese English.
He was unashamed of his skilled
Unskilled characteristics,
For such is the way of the world
In the human kingdom,
Some of us two handed,
some of us, bi-standers.
But upon occasion,
He would bemoan his fate,
Decry his inability to survive
On a post-apocalyptic Earth,
Like the people on tv and movies.
Periodically he would grow morose,
Listless, at his inability to adapt to a
Point Oh world.
Uncomprehending
Icons and symbols whose meaning
Were wholly unintuitive,
He secretly ashamed of his need for
technological ******
She would sense his frustration,
Wipe away his inner condensation,
Climbing into his lap,
Whispering the following:
**You sir, are an electrician
of words, a verbal technocrat,**
Plumber of the depths where
Few fear to tread, explorer of the head,
Restorer of human paintings unmatched,
Without your ilk,
this world would be unbearable,
Your heart's warming silk
Comforts bodies and souls,
Speaking from experience personal.
Then, she flicked his
On/Off switch,
On.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:43 AM UTC
A secret society founded as a dark, heavy rainstorm
loomed menacingly one night in November of 1888
over Boston University; Sarah Ida Shaw,
Eleanor Dorcas Pond, Isabel Morgan Breed
& Florence Isabelle Stewart sneaking in their
nightgowns into the dusty attic where Florence
swore she had seen three black cats sitting
in the rocking chairs talking; to humor their friend,
the others followed her up into the dark attic:
meaning only to frighten Florence, Eleanor
pulled a kitchen knife; the uncomprehending
Isabel & Sarah forcing the terrified [so they thought]
Florence to her knees; while there, eating the *****
of the knife-wielding Eleanor, who raising her stiff
nightgown told the others to do likewise until they all
were satisfied, shouting - meow meow meow meow -
old lady Murphy hollering up the attic steps: 'who's up there?'
the three girl giggling their little heads off running
past her down the stairs; Florence nearly tripping,
coming down a few moments later, also grinning
but silently to herself.
'what are u girls doing up there?' -
'playing w/ the cats,' said Flo, slipping past her;
'Cats! Cats!' shouted the old witch, rushing up the
stairs raising her broom [from that evening Delta Delta Delta (ΔΔΔ)
has met to lick talking black cats in secret college sorority rituals]
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
Still falls the Rain---
Dark as the world of man, black as our loss---
Blind as the nineteen hundred and forty nails
Upon the Cross.
Still falls the Rain
With a sound like the pulse of the heart that is changed to the hammer-beat
In the Potter's Field, and the sound of the impious feet
On the Tomb:
Still falls the Rain
In the Field of Blood where the small hopes breed and the human brain
Nurtures its greed, that worm with the brow of Cain.
Still falls the Rain
At the feet of the Starved Man hung upon the Cross.
Christ that each day, each night, nails there, have mercy on us---
On Dives and on Lazarus:
Under the Rain the sore and the gold are as one.
Still falls the Rain---
Still falls the Blood from the Starved Man's wounded Side:
He bears in His Heart all wounds,---those of the light that died,
The last faint spark
In the self-murdered heart, the wounds of the sad uncomprehending dark,
The wounds of the baited bear---
The blind and weeping bear whom the keepers beat
On his helpless flesh... the tears of the hunted hare.
Still falls the Rain---
Then--- O Ile leape up to my God: who pulles me doune---
See, see where Christ's blood streames in the firmament:
It flows from the Brow we nailed upon the tree
Deep to the dying, to the thirsting heart
That holds the fires of the world,---dark-smirched with pain
As Caesar's laurel crown.
Then sounds the voice of One who like the heart of man
Was once a child who among beasts has lain---
"Still do I love, still shed my innocent light, my Blood, for thee."
3.3k
An entrenchment of truths
That hold forth a funeral table
For gracious hospitality
Of gentle nostalgia
In indulgence of murderous affection
Which manifest adequate
Yet uncomprehending grieving
Ambiguities of advocacy
In their extreams of moralizing warnings
In fleeting appearances who tell bold lies
In the mosaics of enclosed palaces
Presenting bouquet upon bouquet
Of black flowers on this weighted table
Truths that have been deprived of their vein stone
Truths owned to identity of embodiment
Surreal and interchangeable
That resonate in timely dissorder
Like the noise of migrating birds
Flying to the edge of the world
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 6:31 PM UTC
comprehending it for the first time, struck
numb and wretched. uncomprehending
shivers rib joy with age--
agendas churn
even as a salty dryness barely clears--
eyes contort in livid forms of love
vacant carols fail to mute calamity,
though once a bluebird sang at snow
abstracted from the core-- fly away
from a season's playlist monoculture,
reinvent this home, audacious now
to be a courage happiness
for youthful eyes no longer simply young
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
How innocently and wholly she fell for me-
It's a shame we won't have that again.
What good are the taverns and church bells
When love is the doula of rain?
I'd rather be drowned in red water
Than have these bad dreams chisel stone in my mind
I felt the deep call of my meat to the slaughter-
The marvelous, numbing, sweet nothing, sublime.
My finest carbuncle I offered, she smiled,
Uncomprehending intangible worth;
It's red like the robin's fine coat in the morning
On the unfortunate day of my birth.
How innocently and wholly she fell for me-
It's a shame she won't have that again.
What use for the taverns and church yards
When love is the doula of rain?
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 12:32 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
Where is the child
Who has moved through thirty winters
Since he watched his father
Try to bowl a cricket ball
And who, by careful coaching elsewhere
Understood, that the action of his arm was wrong,
Scribing through the child’s unblemished run
Of seven faultless summers, a clumsy arc,
Which sent the ball too wide,
And called from restless slumber
A spectre of uncertain shape and size.
Where is the child
Who saw his father’s failure
Force derision from each watcher’s eye
And shared their scorn, yet was ashamed.
Where is the child
Who learned too fast
The legacy of adoration,
And impotently sent imaginings
From fevered nights to boil
Each mocking eye in blood.
Where is the child
Who felt confusion; anger,
Then, the dormant seed of virulent contempt
Germinate, strike root, grow, bud and bloom,
Finding instantly, a fallow vein
In which to flower for his father’s sake.
Where is the child?
Where is the child now?
His desolation lives between these lines.
His uncomprehending eyes plead from every word,
At each full stop he mutely tries to speak.
Just once, his hand stretched from this page
To touch my own.
©James Rainsford 2010
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 11:08 AM UTC
Bathed in silver moonlight,
Falsely reassured by unwavering stillness,
My eyes open to a place left behind,
Where I lie gurgling; uncomprehending.
Where my infancy fell and I learned to walk.
And I watch now, curiously; uncomprehending
The scene that forms in my eyes.
Adolescence is seen stealing the previous throne
With bribes of new emotion and mischief
And flows into my entire childhood
A river come under rule of the sea.
And I watch uncomprehending; distant from
The boy that once climbed trees.
Trees wither as Autumn comes; shed leaves
And I drift through space and time
Not watching the clock; free.
The young adult is in a palace of smoke
Wandering through echoing halls
Trying to reach the throne.
The sea.
And when the doors open, debility
Comes creeping; hair white as the snow, beneath my feet.
I see shattered limbs running away
From demons underneath.
The present tugs at me; my worried spouse.
And away I go, from the newborn; ignorant,
Watching day and night embrace; two halves of one
Locked in a dying embrace, afraid to let go
And even now, mortality
An essential nightmare still grips me; a devious fiend
Hiding behind the impassive, unyielding
Father time.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
“I go to seek a Great Perhaps.” ― François Rabelais
You didn't notice when it happened,
but with age death has found you out
and stalks you like a mad cassowary.
Wherever you look it looks back.
You think of your mother,
slobbering, shrunken, demented,
dead long before she knew it;
the father you haven't spoken
to in years, alone in a nursing home,
rotting and uncomprehending.
You recall the perfect ******* of
the wonderous first girl you loved,
become an old woman, then immolated
by cancer, chemo, radiation,
reduced to a heap of ashes in an urn.
You hear of a friend's son's untimely
passing and though you haven't
seen your friend in 25 years your
spine tingles with sorrow for a full week.
The smashed white cat on the blacktop
you would not have noticed 20 years ago
brings your heart to a full shivering stop;
the wet half fallen leaves sway like
fragile tombstones in the darkened
autumn trees, whispering your name.
Doom sits upon you shoulder
like a pirate's parrot and sees all
through your eyes.
You lost your fear of
dying 45 years ago in a forgotten war,
believed it meant nothing, it didn't,
but now the reaper has returned to cast
his chill on everyone and everything
before you.
He scatters his reminders everywhere.
And you know that once again
you find yourself trapped deep within
the valley of the shadow of death,
alone, but you are no longer the meanest
************ in the valley.
It's enough
to make you want to believe in a god of mercy,
but it's far too late for divine intervention,
god is dead and mercy is granted to no one.
Soon enough you will stumble into that
final ambush and the bullet with your name
on it that has followed you since birth
will find you and come to rest and the
contract made with your first breath
will be fulfilled.
In the end,
we all look
into the Tiger's eyes.
~mce
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Does it matter how the flames began
to creep about and up the stairs?
A mansion on the Waterfront
with seven people sleeping there.
A scaffold on the Second floor
signified that restoration had begun.
An Ember carelessly discarded
burst forth to threaten both old and young.
When firefighters approached the scene
They saw the mother attempt to save
her children on the second floor.
but tongues of fire drove her away.
Her contractor had likewise tried
to save the girls who slept upstairs.
He had two nearly in his grasp
when they both panicked and ran away.
The girls’ grandfather came the closest
to saving one granddaughter dear
He brought her to a window seat
and tried to get her in the clear
but choking smoke and his weakened heart
brought his attempt to end in tears.
A mother weeps, uncomprehending,
as water hoses douse the flames.
Both her parents and her children dead,
and her home a smoking, ruined frame..
Sophocles, the attic poet
called man a thing of “breath and shadow “.
Too long a life can be a curse
A life too short, a cause for sorrow
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
“**People say they don’t understand [my songs], but I never believe that.
It’s like understanding an embrace…**”Leonard Cohen
<>for cj<>
perhaps, there is someone in this world, who does not
understand an embrace; something physical no doubt.
perhaps, you thought that first kiss was the portal to
shedding the inhibitors, lobes stings, first arousal aroma.
but you’ve been practicing embracing from toddler age,
but someday, it traverses from hugs to all-encompassing,
the sensory adaptors, go wild from shock; and you think
to yourself, dear god, you’ve been holding back on me!
<>
two hands,
*smooth the shoulders, slide down, elbows grasp,
you’ve been taken unawares, while fully aware you’ve been,
taken, taken, and need to take, more and back, take again,
and you can’t decide between reciprocation or incantation
breaking separation, if only to start over from the last lingering...
touching vibration and every sense erupting, and you think
I’ve never been fully embraced, and now I understand the
music and muscle of your poetry, and will add my verses,
lay on my stanzas,
ocean crossings, seafaring voyages, exploring hands on hips,
then encapsulating another’s face, stroke, not squeezing
arms come to rest on a pacific neck, the hairs tensile teasing,
and you can’t believe this newly formed addiction and why
everyone simply doesn’t go about constant craving embracing,
racingoverloading uncomprehending, it’s fulsome fulfilling, quenching
a new thirst, a new taste, extending your ********* reach everywhere
you clear the catch, the cache, and your voice now begs, announces,
commands, whispers, screams, so many things that all emerge as
simply a guttural exclamation raw and needy, again, again, again,
you say it as if that was your vocabulary entire, a one word language
because it is, it is, the language of insatiable, the speech of
only love poetry
embracing.
Aug 22, 2020
Aug 22, 2020 at 1:27 PM UTC
I have been ill the way the sun is ill
In the black empty of nowhere
With a thousand fragments floating,
(Adoring in rings and ovals)
And no light but its own
Lonesick stare reflected from a thousand
Dull copying fragments; and it presumes
It is the loneliest of the universe's
Togetherlonely children.
I have been ill the way chalk is ill
On the blackboard staring out at
Uncomprehending faces, and then
In one let'smoveon wipe
Cleared from existence;
And some did not finish their notes.
I am ill with the grandiose
Ill-used illness, swirling my tongue
Against my own abscesses
And crying oh God it hurts
When they might have healed
But for my own foolish
Probing painful wanting.
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 4:21 AM UTC
Soon the sun will set in this valley
Where I've roamed for many a year,
So many questions left unanswered!
So many answers remain unclear!
And others will ask what has been asked before,
But this much I know: I'll ask no more
I cannot say that I'll miss this Earth
That censured me at every turn;
Too often were tearful lessons laid
On a heart that was too slow to learn,
And many more tears will flood misery's shore,
But this much I know: I'll cry no more
And as for love that hid from my view -
Come, emerge from your hiding place!
I'll no longer seek your charity,
Supplication was my heart's disgrace;
Surely, more lonely hearts will plead at your door,
But this much I know: I'll beg no more
This frame will dissolve into the soil
To nourish the worms and green things,
And flowers and birds will take delight,
Uncomprehending the gifts death brings;
And life will continue the same as before,
But this much I know: I'll be no more
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
In that dark time
coldest before dawn
did you come to me;
Night’s Whisper.
You are as frail as falling leaves
or the whisper of a summer breeze.
Your alabaster skin,
eyes like a starless night,
lips blood red.
And your breath so sweet.
You folded those diaphanous wings
to your perfect frame.
You reached out to me
and I knew it was right
and enfolded you in my embrace.
I felt your heart race, or was it mine
as our lips touched in the lightest of caresses?
I was the artist painting that final gentle stroke.
Ours was a passion that could never be contained
and my dread at the thought of losing you forced my hand;
please forgive me for my terrible deed.
You were too delicate, too perfect to wear those harsh cold shackles
so I bound you with these spider’s silks.
I will never forget the terror I saw in your eyes
at once pleading, questioning, uncomprehending,
now dull and resigned, downcast and melancholy.
I have created this prison for you my love
and share it with you every moment of the day
and the long dark nights.
And so have you been these long years;
my prize that I can no longer take joy in,
my perfect love I can no longer bring myself to hold.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
Poetry is a healthier alternative
To picking fistfights with strangers
(*OI. THE **** YOU STARIN' AT?*)
Or stalking your gigs
While groping the knife
Tucked into my waistband
Because convalescing in silence
Is still better
Than having quack doctors and faith healers
Crowd over your body
Touch, rub, probe, poke
With their grubby fingers
Write you illegible prescriptions
Charging you a king's ransom
For 'professional advice'.
*You just need to get out more.
Fresh ***** is the answer!
Pray. Have faith.
Geez, you're not over it yet?*
It would've been better
If I just kept my **** mouth shut
And kept up the facade
A walking picture of health.
I don't need your ******* platitudes
Your uncomprehending stares
The drivel you proudly spew
Like how you so lovingly ladle out swill to the homeless
Assured of another mansion in heaven.
**** you.
This is not a soup kitchen
And I don't need your pity.
(And condescension does not save you.)
Convalescing in silence
Is still more logical
Than rallying people
To eradicate sickness from earth
By arresting viruses
Putting them on trial.
A virus does what it does.
It is in its nature,
Like how stray dogs bite
And how ****** ****
Poetry is the best choice.
It's active non-action.
Reflecting
While the seasons change,
The fullness of time comes,
And news of your impending demise arrives
Of when your moral destitution
Finally catches up to you.
And by the time it comes around,
My youthful ignorance will have bled out a bit,
And I will receive the news
With a smile, a cigarette, and a new poem.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
Eyes as grey as a nostalgic sky,
Lips as red as the burning dawn,
Hair as dark as the midst of night,
And a smile that puts flowers to shame.
The stars have left the sky and moved in your eyes,
The roses shy away from the beauty of your red lips,
And ravens wish their wings as black as your hair made of night.
A smile fit for a queen, though you wear no crown.
But a crown makes no difference, for the queen hides within.
A look in your eyes, that leaves them all staring,
Mouths agape, uncomprehending of your beauty.
Your smile, so sweet, so tempting, yet so dangerous,
Could sink a hundred ships and drown a thousand sailors,
And they would gladly embrace death, having seen you before they die.
An angel, perhaps, escaped from heaven,
To bring us your heavenly light.
To bring us your love, and give us safe haven,
And open our eyes to see the world bright.
Far and wide, they’ll go to look for you,
Seeking something that pure and true.
With eyes of sky and stars,
With lips of burning sun,
With hair of night’s silk,
And a soul woven of starlight.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
She keeps my black wings clean
as I sleep in poetic uncomprehending dreams
my dark is her light
she sings to midnight to my sweet delight
I am her loyal one
that angel that got away
misunderstood and much abused
but those that do this, in the mirror are used
I was there at the start
I came through the ranks
I died many a time
oh yes for my art
I am the murderer of humanity
the king of verify filth
I can **** my thinking
in all the scummy lairs on Earth
Sin city is not pretty
not in here you do dwell
come my friends and enemies
I want to show you a true living hell
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
He walked along my path.
He wasn't expected.
A variable I had never calculated.
His heavy, confident footsteps shifted the sands of my mind
And I find that not everything makes sense anymore.
I'm always covered in blood.
Sometimes it's mine. Sometimes it's not.
But he makes me feel alright about it.
All the time.
He stood in my way.
I had seen him around before.
I had never thought to speak to him, until then.
His precise, light footsteps left a mark in the mud of my mind
And I'm left surprised, shocked, uncomprehending.
He's always covered in blood.
He concerns me, scares me,
But he has a twinkle about him that leaves me wanting more.
And so I took it.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
In a dream where what may be real is not seen and unreal is a feeling I have of being there,
uncomprehending in a never ending unconsciousness where fear is the fashion, where my chips are finally cashed in.
It dies and does not remain and supposing the pain was a part of it
I part with it.
The day leaks on into the night follows me back ( the unwitting think that I smoke ' crack ' ******* which supposing it was a part of the pain
I parted from.
My name has gone,
torn from the lips,
if lovers were history my name would be
John.
In a dream going on to the next dream in line, time ebbs away like the tide going out from my day,
supposing that I am a part of it.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
The happiest I've ever been was when my hair was blowing in the warm summer breeze, listening to your calming words while looking up at the night sky, counting the stars. Almost as many as the number of chances I've given you to prove yourself to me, prove that you truly do love me the way you wrote in your little black book of secrets.
Now all I have left is the burning cigarette in my hand, tears in my eyes, and the condescending misunderstanding uncomprehending people around me that mistake my poetry for an escape rather than the way my life is right now.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
)(..... + ....)(
.... if someone was to say that
all the seeming " love poems " here
( from what appears to be from
Semi-retarded ***** babes )
were actually being written
By C . I . A . Operatives
In order to completely distort the meaning
And the purpose of love
;
So that the potential social
And political power that love is
Was neutralized
and turned into
An actual weapon
That
Instead of unifying people
And creating a vital force of
Freedom
that would simply not allow
Tyranny or social injustice or
Class divisions
To develop
Was to become the means
By which people were divided
And conquered
And turned into
Uncomprehending
Dazed and befuddled
Servants of the state ......
I would have to agree with them
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
Poets are an interesting bunch,
All half mad at least.
I say I love poetry
When the words tear me up inside,
Stealing every breath.
I say it soothes me
Even as it burns me,
Begging to be released.
"We all know we're crazy," I say.
"But we choose this life
Because we can't live without the fever dreams
Or syllables controlling our every move."
The non-poet stares at me,
Uncomprehending.
Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 9:03 PM UTC
My dearest friend I retrieved my old
fountain pen today to pour, on canvas
note papers my doubts, feelings
of dire necessity for I, need of you a favour.
I confess I find myself confused, in the mist
of nothingness unable to decipher my scope
at a crossroad blocked, in front of a sign
which says ‘Stop!’ .
Buxom lands enticing with chimeras
on my right, nature’s might sparkling splendours,
colourful vibrations I perceive, notes of purifying
silence echoing the songs of inhabitants untouched,
by mind queries existential enquiries it feels,
beautiful and lonely over there. Then again,
I see buildings reaching for the skies
on my left, lights bright, people frantically in motion,
they seem to have a purpose and a mission,
places to go, things to do, dreams to make come true.
Some of them create oeuvres revealing grandeur it feels,
challenging and crowded over there. Yet ahead,
of me are unfolding sceneries of possibilities awaiting
as I loiter and expect, your card a few words
I beg of you of inspiration but, please hurry my friend
as a line is about to turn into a jam, behind me.
My precious me I received your letter
with affection comprehending qualms.
Do not dwell any longer for your confusion
is unfunded. The nothingness you feel
does not exists all is, perpetually becoming
including us human beings, fragile creatures
uncomprehending the essence of our journey
yet eager to select, a direction giving sense,
of control not of purpose. Though you are
at a crossroad know you are not compelled
to choose, you can have it all by giving up
control, let your spirit lead you where it wills
and bare in mind, to be happy and just all the time.
Treat your likes with kindness and keep smiling,
look forward for what you call “ahead” is only
a matter of perspective. Yours sincerely, me.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 4:43 AM UTC
The moonlight disappeared suddenly,
Took the darkness with her-
Who placed passion-flower in her ears,
With a uncomprehending smile,
With a cowardly step who came and stood in the corner of the square.
Silver moon,
That is painted only on the painter's canvas.
Under the bare wood apple tree, or on the edge of the cinnamon forest,
Is anyone waiting for someone?
With a weak argument,
What a tense memory to hold!
On the other hand, in earthen plate, the rice is poured with water
But the tailed dog plundered all,
And I stood under the darkness,
Recite Shakespeare's lyric.
Yet I don’t know why, but hear
The fasting street child continues to say,
"Give me a handful of food!"
I can't write poetry anymore.
May 25, 2022
May 25, 2022 at 11:49 PM UTC