"unconcerned" poems
I see you!
You’re a chancer, an unusual impulsive, persuasive & promiscuous soul; unconcerned with remorse or guilt!
You’ve created a life & career through crazy schemes and dreams!
You have a certain glib, superficial charm and an impressive sense of self-worth and I liked that; but not the drama.
If only you’d had the gumption to formally introduce me to the genuine you, without fear of rejection; you ****** fool!
X
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
You seek a crown of gold
And yet the heart is fallow
A famine of the soul
Unbeknownst and unconcerned
The poor hunger for food and shelter
And you have an appetite that’s never satiated
The many feasts of endless delicacies and wealth
Has not spoiled your cravings
Yet they who are lacking in all that is tangible to you
Have something you lack and cannot acquire
They give to others that have less than them
And feel their anguish
And revel in their friendship
Their crown is empathy
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 7:54 AM UTC
The artist must become a whole
Completely obsessed with their art
Obsessed with who they are
Truly, who they are
Without hesitation
Infatuated about how they create
The art that makes them be,
What it makes them live for
From how they take their coffee
To every moment of a good ****
Reading in peace at dawn,
Picking fruit from a grocery store
The truest of artists are always lost
Lost in their own mind
Unconcerned with the lashing of
Society's moral tongue
Pushing themselves out to sea
Creating only to be alive from within
Where it all counts,
And it all has some value
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC
Sometimes it feels so natural to let a man's hands run over my body, feeling every dip and curve and bump and bruise that exists. It is almost as if his hands and his longing are physical manifestations of my new-found womanly confidence. I have reached a point where I am comfortable in my own skin and ready to celebrate. I want to celebrate like there is no tomorrow and do something a little crazy, a little stupid, live one more breath of this night and one more kiss of this dream. Right now everything just feels so real and raw. To feel a man's touch on a body still so young is nothing to be afraid of - it is something to cherish and hold dear, for it only happens a short while.
Sometimes it feels so natural to wear a short skirt and walk with a sway in my hips, each step with my heeled feet and long legs echo across the floor. There is something in the reverberance that acts as a fire in my soul, the flames within as courage on the outside. The sway of my hips work wonders as tickets to concerts, the pass to the front of the line, filling my empty hand with a full drink. It is a drug of sorts and something that I cannot get enough of. I take what is handed to me for the short while that it is available. Wearing my short skirt and tall shoes, I sway my hips to the beat of a different drummer while I can.
Sometimes it feels so natural to drink to my heart's content and my stomach's contempt. I drink to make the pain and the thoughts and the worries and the stress melt away as my body melts on the dance floor. I become one with the music and one with the night. Carefree and unconcerned I drink until it is dawn. It feels so wonderful to live like there is no tomorrow with no regrets. When I drink I drink to darken the past and brighten the future. The sultry sway of my hips become the sloshing of a boat about to be capsized. The running hands over my body turn into drunk fumbling and clumsy fingers. But I drink while I can and enjoy while I can.
Sometimes it feels so natural to be so bad - defiant and strong and a will to do whatever I choose.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 11:08 PM UTC
Dirt crumbled at my feet, as moths finish off my sleep. My whole skull is uncovered, unconcerned with greener leaves.
Will this comfort ever stay? I'm losing hope as it decays. Decorate my heart with iris, because its carcass has faded grey.
Lace my body for the crows; nest my ribs, and clean my bones. Residue of torture palpitates, from within its catacombs.
Who knows when winter will come, so freeze your lungs until they're numb. Because breathing isn't worth this turmoil, and I think the dark swallowed your Sun----
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
mystery unopened
red jewel ****
brilliant ruby shine
entrance telling tales
red light on
bustling bridge to wonderland
knocking knees unconcerned
she always has her way
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
#*Multitudes will be liberated by that recognition;
and although multitudes obtain liberation in that manner,
the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful,
obscurations dense, propensities o too long standing,
the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated*.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead
translation: Lāma Kazi Dawa-Samdup
Free Tibet your sticker tells me…
Yes, I think, perhaps I should –
and the noble thought compels me,
uninformed, half-understood.
Will their freedom help my Karma?
Upgrade my reincarnation?
(Soul who could not dare to harm a
fly… much less a Buddhist nation.)
Not to justify aggression
by the ever-brutal Commies,
let us grant no glib concession
to the Maoists – or their mommies.
Slogans echo in the void,
shining in bardos of the dead;
stopped by the light, I am annoyed
impatient for the change from red.
A bumper crop of human woe
beams forth a mandate to my brain
while red Dakinis circle slow
in Buddhist hells of karmic pain.
The eastern concepts here diverge
and bow before brutality.
They make this driver long to merge
with incorporeality.
Then I glimpse a monkish fellow
swathed in saffron, calmly seated.
His, the cloud-borne sage’s pillow;
mine the traffic; stalled, defeated.
In his gaze of stern displeasure
I perceive the orient stars
calculating man’s mismeasure
trapped, exhausted, among the cars.
Flanked by Spirits wreathed in fire
he extends an accusing hand:
Western slave of base desire:
come and liberate my land !”
I meditate before the stop light:
am I ready for the task ?
Should I just refuse it outright
Can’t it be someone else ? I ask…
Must I free this mountain nation
from the Buddha, demons and Reds?
Shall your sticker’s declaration
shatter the yoke and raise their heads ?
Somebody ought to free Tibet,
and heed this Himalayan cry.
Maybe we should get upset…
The red light changes. Cars pass by,
predestined for benign events
and unconcerned for persecution;
oblivious to dissidents
awaiting execution.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Law, say the gardeners, is the sun,
Law is the one
All gardeners obey
To-morrow, yesterday, to-day.
Law is the wisdom of the old,
The impotent grandfathers feebly scold;
The grandchildren put out a treble tongue,
Law is the senses of the young.
Law, says the priest with a priestly look,
Expounding to an unpriestly people,
Law is the words in my priestly book,
Law is my pulpit and my steeple.
Law, says the judge as he looks down his nose,
Speaking clearly and most severely,
Law is as I've told you before,
Law is as you know I suppose,
Law is but let me explain it once more,
Law is The Law.
Yet law-abiding scholars write:
Law is neither wrong nor right,
Law is only crimes
Punished by places and by times,
Law is the clothes men wear
Anytime, anywhere,
Law is Good morning and Good night.
Others say, Law is our Fate;
Others say, Law is our State;
Others say, others say
Law is no more,
Law has gone away.
And always the loud angry crowd,
Very angry and very loud,
Law is We,
And always the soft idiot softly Me.
If we, dear, know we know no more
Than they about the Law,
If I no more than you
Know what we should and should not do
Except that all agree
Gladly or miserably
That the Law is
And that all know this
If therefore thinking it absurd
To identify Law with some other word,
Unlike so many men
I cannot say Law is again,
No more than they can we suppress
The universal wish to guess
Or slip out of our own position
Into an unconcerned condition.
Although I can at least confine
Your vanity and mine
To stating timidly
A timid similarity,
We shall boast anyway:
Like love I say.
Like love we don't know where or why,
Like love we can't compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.
4k
The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face
towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover
and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration—
a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.
So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating
data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.
And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road
past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.
3.5k
From way up high the world looked so small
From way up high he felt he was above it all
So there way up high he hung looking down all beneath
From up there he felt no one could touch him
Nothing could bring him down
So from up there he enjoyed his view of the world
Unconcerned about anything but himself
But one fateful day something changed
And as he playing in the wind he noticed a change
There on the tip of his leaf the colour began to change
Slowly but surely he began to turn red
At first he was terrified what did this mean
But the redder he got the more proud he got
He was the only red in a sea of green
So there he danced in the wind
Boasting to all that could hear of his new colour change
But then another change began to take place
Where once he felt secure and safe on his branch
He now began to feel like he was somehow slipping
He tried desperately to hold onto that which he knew
But fate had other plans
As the sun rose the next morning a playful gust of wind blew in
The wind blew through the tree that fateful morning
Rustling the leaves all around
The red leaf tried to hold on for dear life
But alas the wind was just too strong
Tugging and pulling at the leaf
Till off he blew with the wind
The leaf cried out in fear
But as he opened his eyes a new world he saw
Through the rollercoaster ride upon the wind
The leaf began to see the world he never knew
He saw a world he never took the time to know
Flying up and down, round and round
He began to see those he had always looked down upon
And as the wind began to die down
The leaf slowly descended back to the ground
From way down there he looked up and longed for his old home
He longed to be playing in the wind again
But there he lay on the ground
His once red colour now gone
He put down his head to rest
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
Their togetherness had become an island,
surrounded by strange waters .She contributes
to its noise unendingly.He often makes grand,
defiant gestures withering away like luckless roots.
Only a ruthless need survives.Years
have turned dreams into plain consolations.
Even hope is a necessary drudgery.Fears
grow like parasites on their passions.
Yet a reluctance persists-- reluctance to expand,
the turbulence or claim of waters does not surprise,
some playful waves struggle to the sand,
watching them, they become unconcerned, as the skies
Should they be called happy? The question
sounds hollow.They have raised walls
around their beings, a happy captivity of the sun,
while their lives dance as dolls immaculate
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
(As seen from Sorrento)
The blue of the sky dips sharply
to meet the ocean, a panoramic view
broken only by Vesuvius puncturing
the horizon. It rises a thousand feet
deadly in it's beauty;
it stands for all to wonder.
Proud and powerful, yet unconcerned
it sleeps; daring to be woken
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
From where I sit in this bicycle rickshaw
everything is in motion.
Balloons, massed into colourful clouds,
ride in the rickshaw just ahead.
Brahmin cows walk by, unconcerned
by the tiny cars speeding and honking.
People of every age and description
walk towards the stalls and shops.
From where I sit in this bicycle rickshaw
pale pink sari fluttering around me,
all is completely still and silent,
even as everything is in motion.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
Today someone laryngospasmed and dropped to 65%
Before I opened their airway
Last week, same thing, except 55%
I’m finding myself increasingly dispassionate and unconcerned during these episodes
Externally it would appear
I’m skating by
Skin of my teeth
Brushing off increased agitation by the OR staff
Watching the patient’s life bouncing on the roulette wheel as I tilt the table
........Come on red ................
But it’s not like that. I have a plan. Always a backup. Tertiary options.
A, B,C, and [God forbid] D.
So far, C and beyond is unknown territory.
I’m concerned with my confidence. Too much?
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers.
But they are troops who fade, not flowers,
For poets' tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance's strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies' decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones.
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever mourns in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears
2.8k
That last time in Brighton
Back in 1980 was a dead
Lost. The old haunts seemed
Changed, the restaurants
Closed or changed hands,
The seafront less friendly,
Less romantic, the glamour
Gone, all high dreams spent.
Pity really we ever went.
But we did, you at least,
Trying to bring it back to life
That old love, that closeness,
That cold-night rush-to-coast
By train romance, that last
Time just memory, being put
To rest, I guess. Even that crap
Hotel had closed down where
We made love on those *****
Weekends, where one midday,
We unconcerned about that
Office block across the way,
With office workers, maybe
Spying, as we had *** that day.
Yes, the last time in Brighton
Was a lost cause; even the sad
Photographs we had taken there
Showed the dead love in faces
And eyes. The clicking camera,
Someone once said, never lies.
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 2:48 PM UTC
My world is depriving me of oxygen;
as you parade around with your new girl,
and I receive pity stares from friends.
I play unconcerned ‘til I get home,
then I showcase all of my sadness
with my pen, paper and nonstop tears.
I’m going to use you as my muse
to tell you to go ***** yourself, poetically.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC
I need smoke to clear my head,
to fog the brain that needs unclogged,
a draino of the mind,
snaking its way into my conscious
imagination
Past the gates of the unconcerned,
entering the territory of the learned
and scholarly,
stepping onto the path of resurrection,
reliving the life that was meant to pay
Sipping the juice of incarnation,
revitalizing the soul,
drawing a blank is not an option
as the red hot coal burns
through my ill-intentions
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 5:12 PM UTC
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my father learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in the saffron mist and seem to die
And I myself upon a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie,
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face! -
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea...
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me...
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember god?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the star.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail track shines on the stones.
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a cloud of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves around with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with the rains...
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor...
... it is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know...
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
2.4k
Lizbeth stood in front
of the tall mirror
inside her mother's wardrobe
she was wearing
a short black dress
her hair was tied
in a bun at the back
I stood watching her
uncertain why
we were in her parents' bedroom
and why she was *********
her mother’s clothes
hanging on hangers inside
I looked around the room
a big bed made tidily
a chest of drawers
a built in cupboard
a picture on the wall
opposite the bed
of some country scene
and above the bed
a huge crucifix
made from wood
with a plaster Christ
look at this one
Lizbeth said
I looked at her hand
taking out a long red dress
she held it up
then put in front of herself
and turned to face me
what do you think?
it's a bit gaudy
I said
shall I try it on?
no I can see
what it would
look like on you
I said
she sniffed it
she must bathe
in **** scent
Lizbeth said
she did a spin
holding the dress
against her
how do I look in it?
she's taller than you
it'll fit her better
I said
not so sure
Lizbeth said
hold this
I held the dress in my hand
she unzipped her black dress
at the back
and pulled the black dress
over her head
and stood there
in a white bra and *******
give it here
she said
and taking the dress
she put it on
her own black dress
was on the floor
here zip me up
at the back
she said
I zipped her up
at the back
watching the straps
of the white bra disappear
as I zipped her up
she turned on the spot
and looked at herself
in the tall mirror
well? how do I look now?
well at least
it's longer
than your own black dress
I said
it came to her ankles
she looked down at it
yes too ****** long
she said
unzip me Benny
she said
I unzipped her
seeing the strap
of the white bra
come back into view
she pulled the dress
over her head
and put it back
on the hanger
she stood there
in bra and *******
how do I look now?
undressed
I said
do you like me
like this?
I feel kind of
uncomfortable
you standing like that
I said
why do you feel
uncomfortable?
what if your parents
come home now
and see you like this
and me here with you
and you in your underclothes?
she smiled
guess they'll feel
uncomfortable then
she said
I picked up her black dress
best out it on
I said
now?
yes now
my parent's bed is over there
all made up and fresh
and waiting for us
she said sexily
I stood holding
the black dress in my hand
where are your parents?
out some place
when will they be back?
don't know
best get your dress on
and out of their room
I said
what about my room?
the bed's smaller
and unmade
and the room's untidy
but we can still
do it there?
I heard voices from downstairs
is that them back?
I said in a low voice
Lizbeth pulled a face
**** me yes
let's get to my room
and so she put
the red dress back
in the wardrobe
and shut it up
and we rushed across
the landing to her room
and shut the door
behind us
I looked around her room
it was as she said
untidy
the bed unmade
books
LPs
soiled washing
over the floor
and the curtains unopened
that was kind of close
she said
yes
I said
downstairs the voices
were loud
and a row seemed
to be going on
but Lizbeth seemed unconcerned
standing there
in her white *******
and bra
holding the black dress
gazing towards
the unmade bed
but I had other problems
swimming around
inside my teenage head.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 4:13 AM UTC
i can still feel your touch,
your soft hands grabbed my face and i was quickly intoxicated with your scent.
i can still taste your lips,
the fresh mint that feverishly entered my mouth without hesitation.
i can still hear your laugh,
it roared as you threw your head back in blithe.
i still feel the distance,
the way you shut me out, unconcerned of how it would affect me.
i long to feel your touch
to taste your lips
to hear your laugh
just once more
but now,
you’re just a memory.
n.p.
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 2:43 AM UTC
I figured,
just an overnight amusement,
but I didn’t know it’d come to this.
An overview of your disarray and unconcerned nature,
I felt your heart slow its pace when you forgot.
I never forget.
I can’t say the same for you.
Tuck in the sheets before you go,
since I wish to clear the area.
If only it was that simple,
to wash this room clean with liquid
solitude.
Why did you come here anyway?
My personal accounts don’t count for much.
I guess I’m learning how to forget my respect on the front door.
I’m leaving it for someone new.
I just need to forget you.
Corrections spit at me in numerous directions,
hydrating my bone dry systems.
I’m not yours to choose.
I should have not been the one to hand this off.
But I was.
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 4:59 PM UTC
Everything before you is the result of your peers.
You refused to speak up about your valid fears.
So now, as the end of your existence nears.
Your cries for help fall upon unconcerned ears.
Structure, format, foundation, everything breaks down.
It affects the way you think, feel, act, and believe.
You become what you hate, you embrace the vile sickness that overcomes you.
Nothing is spared, your psyche becomes a shattered mass of lost promise and broken dreams.
What is left is what they think is right.
Up is down, front is back, and day is night.
Blinded by the world, afraid of the light.
Your hopes and dreams are no longer in sight.
Panic, dementia, insanity, corruption.
These ideas are now what you embrace.
Corroded are the traits you once pride yourself on.
Go be one of them now, you have sealed your fate.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
I locked my beating heart in a dead man's chest
Finding safety underneath the sands
Fourteen years it remained buried far below
Yet somehow found it's way to your hands
With unconcerned plunges of your careless knife
Don't bother to watch my heart bleed
Soaking the base of the box; red and hot
Yet you merely day dream, walking sleep
I removed my heart from love's reckless hands
But pain; dull, fresh, endless is still felt
It should end now yet the sea i still roam
Trusting now in blackholes i never before dwelt
My unbalanced chest suffers an unliftable burden
As my heart's held 'ransom' by you
Love's cruel trick; i remain Davy Jones
With not even my broken heart, only a ship and crew
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
Insouciance
If I could get into your insouciance,
I'd be aplomb,
Without a care,
Unconcerned.
I'd be a veritable dancer
Of nonchalance,
Cool,
Collected,
Harmoniously tempered,
A picture of self control.
Perhaps calm contentment
Would measure my equanimity,
If I could keep my equilibrium
After getting into your insouciance.
I propose to repose like a rose.
Aug 26, 2010
Aug 26, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC