"unconvincingly" poems
Taste the time
Between each
Tick
To waste
Away
The waiting
Hours
Before birds
Begin
To strip
Night's darkness
Down
To imminent
Dawn
Touch
The space
Between skin
And bone
With tenderness
We are
Broken still
Not yet
Revealed by
The unkind
Rising sun
In silhouettes
Of shattered
Souls
Shiver
For the
Salty sins
Of lovers
Lending sugar
To the sour
Lives of
One another
Under covers
Woven out of
Cosmic whispers
That murmur
The word
Of morning
Kiss the thoughts
That chase
That smile
To the corners
Of your
Senseless lips
Numbed by bitter
Narcissism
Bit back
Before the harsh
Light of
The sun showed
The lies told
And heard
Wander through
The passing
Winds
Weaving words
Of silent
Sounds
A sussurus
Of unlit streets
Telling tales
Of your small
Bare feet
Leaving little
Footprints on the
First light's breeze
Smell the desire
Caught in
Dewdrop sentiments
The madness
In the dampened
Minds of men
****** to be
Unsatisfied with
The cold moon's
Movements across
Unforgiving skies
Towards an
Unconvincingly
Carved horizon
Crawl at last
Into the light
And rest
The remainder
Of your
Sweet sanity
That has tasted time
Untouched by shivers
Or kisses that wander
The breezes that
Smell like
Insomnia or a
Fear of the
Unknown
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
Sir Michael sat on the riverbank, quietly,
sure beyond question that he wasn’t there.
Feverishly he searched the running water;
There it was, his jumbled reflection, blurred,
he couldn’t trust his eyes anyway.
Michael perfumed his hands with the soft wet mud,
deeply inhaling the earth’s pungency, and there were his fingers, his palms—
faintly, unconvincingly, incarnate.
The odor pulsed with Michael’s breathing,
hands fading with each expulsion of air,
reappearing with the intensity of their scent.
Sound.
Pursing his mouth, Michael whistled loudly, and
basked in the physicality of his atonal cry.
Ah, he inhaled again, there were his hands;
exhaled through tightly sealed lips, there were his ears,
outlines in a coloring book, filled lightly for a moment with
a vibrancy, a shrill whistle.
Sliding closer to the edge now, peering into the quivering
canvas of hazy mirrors—this was not enough;
he held his breath, and let go.
Touch.
The icy water ravaged every crevice of skin,
each pore suddenly illuminated, existing.
Air! But there was none; Michael’s lungs
filled with his own reflection.
Air! But there was nowhere for it to go, Michael’s body
began in the water, and would end if he surfaced.
Sir Michael fell to the bottom of the riverbank, quiet as death,
sure beyond question that he was there.
Here I am, he thought.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:40 PM UTC
In an oasis
where gentle families go
a cafe where modern life is overhead,
an American Father unconvincingly tells
his youngsters this is a gender neutral country
his missus is silent.
A lady is on her laptop
whilst deftly handling a mobile.
This talks of marketing
making a niche.
Her fortune assured, sitting amongst
the yummy mothers
a mini boom of sorts
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 8:33 AM UTC
Mornings born on a
bowl of confidence,
or grain-flavored pellets
that stick to the back of my conscience.
The day will end with a decision,
a jury and court weighing the outcome.
Easily influenced by the surroundings,
silk and cotton drapes,
one for the table and the other for
obstructing neighbor’s view.
“Why is he not married? Is he even religious?”
It’s funny how their opinion wavers
on a wafer in a building
made of the same materials as this
kitchen. Did I leave the stove on
on accident or intentionally to burn in Hell?
I never thought it was true
that we poke fun at the
things we fear most. I haven’t poked
or prodded in my lifetime,
but my neighbors sure do.
“No, Mrs. Smith, I embrace this loneliness.”
It’s almost as if they think I run
a ***** house, or
have the most questionable of sexualities.
I am as plain and inconclusive
as the toast I burnt – dry and unbuttered;
it goes down unconvincingly.
I will sit in this chair, hiding from the houses,
eating my dry meals
in the morning, under the beaming lights,
possibly reviewing this day
in tomorrow’s morning.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
It'll be another one of those conversations
where neither of you really say anything
in all the words that spill from your lips.
Half of you wants to cut them off
Press the knife of your lips to their sentence
and tell warm stories until you cease being a storyteller
without even a word
But half of you wants to just scream to them
that all you're screaming
is poisonous nonsense to validate them
To validate yourself
To insist feebly and unconvincingly
That the time you burned together
wasn't a waste
of the only thing more precious than time:
Them.
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 1:01 AM UTC
his whiskey arms
unconvincingly, your lungs are not composed of broken glass and tissue paper
there are no "i love you's" in whiskey and coke flavored lips,
strong hands,
the back of his truck
and there never was
someday, somebody will love your feeble insides
it's all in a matters time.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
It's a Groundhog Day
and it's bound to be
as it's bound to me
trussed up and cussed at
accused of this
innocent and that
is my stance.
today's an expanse if expanse is the word
stretched out before me
like an old man on the rack,
going back takes me back
to the same place
there is no moving on
this is groundhog for
the underdog,
an uppercut
there but for the pleasure of her majesty and the grace of Sinbad or some God
go you
but I do this to pass go and sometimes I pass time as time passes sometimes by me
slow and unconvincingly reminding me of virginal smiles up on 42nd street.
It all replays
groundhog days are
yesterday's
with fancy names,
just
designer games.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
Storms coming
Wouldn't know it if you looked outside
The day was was warm and clear
Men out washing cars and kids running
The old man steps onto his porch
That was the signal
Close up shop and take shelter
Hold your loved ones tightly until its over
He never said how or much at all really
But he always knew
A gentle breeze kicks in with a light drizzle
The streets clear as the day once was
Most people hide safely in thier basements
The old man slowly lights a cigar
Calmly waiting and watching
Mothers hold their children with flashlights
Sirens fearsomly wail in the distance
Reporters unconvincingly warn not to panic
Its too late to run so prepare for the worst
An act of gods will has come
The sky rips open with cracks and flashes
Rain freezes over and slams the rooftops
Unfettered by threats he blows smoke in the air
Staring the storm in its eye
Challenging.. begging it to bring its best
Sharp winds tug at his clothing
Sign posts electrify as bolts scatter
Ever vigilant he gives not an inch
Trees fall and crash into houses
This man is devoid of all sense
The storm passes after hours of terror
People pour out to tally the damage
The old man sits in his chair
I ask him "do you ever get afraid?"
He put out his cigar and looked at me
Of course son, that's the only way to be brave
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC