"underwhelm" poems
FLASHLIGHT
If you stumbled onto it
It would underwhelm you
In its common stature.
Four and a half inches.
No more than
A fistful of
Black aluminum.
I found it on his shelf
As I was cleaning out
The apartment.
I'm still taken by the things
That were of value to him
And the care he gave
In the preservation.
It was his grateful heart
Taking nothing for granted
Protecting tools with consideration
Not unlike the way
He would care for his friends.
It immediately meant something to me.
Like the orange pocket knife.
(Orange
His favorite color,
Knives
His collection.)
This small utility
Reminded me of him.
Understated, yet powerful
Easy to handle but efficient
Erasing darkness
Wherever he went.
I rolled it in my fingers
And the tiny beacon
Called to me...
I possessed it
as he possessed me.
The diminuitive tool
Lays among the other
Integral neccesities
Of my blue collar
Bread winning
World.
Intentional or not
I find myself
In more dark places than
Before
Just so
I have excuses to use it
And say his name
Every occasion that I pick it up.
Inside the dark recesses of a water heater -
Devon.
Underneath the leaking tub -
Devon.
In the closet of burned out motors
Impossible to reach bolts
And rusted designs -
Devon.
Then sometimes
Standing at the door of my van
A daydream breaks
While a light blinks in my eyes,
My fingers sending Morse code
Involuntarily
From my soul -
Devon, Devon, Devon, Devon.
Regardless the darkness
It has no power
Over the light
So I reach for him
And roll him around
In my memories
And the blackness
Is beaten back
By his goodness.
Every closet of the spirit
Brightened in that indelible smile
Where sadness slumps away
Ashamed that it even tried.
Selah.
(You are the brightest one, my son.)
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC
Understand me: it's okay to be scared.
I need to buy baking soda and soap.
I have hope. It's good to be prepared.
I want my home to be clean, I want to
be trim and trimmed like a landscaped.
I want to be beautiful to you.
Hold me like you hold your breath,
behind your teeth and in your chest.
Exhale me, I'm nothing more than carbon
dioxide.
Underwhelm me: don't hold weave into my
fingers, don't basket me to bread.
Or please sweep me off worker's boots.
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 10:59 AM UTC
i exhaled what was left of me into what was left of you
spilling into streets, into changing hands
my mind stays on this, the stinging of distance and the fit of your voice in my ears
the thought is without heat, without body, yet i know i am alive to it
alive to the dripping of the rain running between tired gutters and to the thaw of orbiting debris in both night and day
but i am most alive to the way you dissolve me, the simple fact that my astronomy is yours
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
Going backwards to forward
singing heard from silent music bland
a symphony written by frustrated orchestras
song sheets for the blind with notes set in invisible fonts
by the voice from the cave for civilized beggars in alms houses
to soothe broken minds and malignant bodies
elixir to impaired ghosts afraid of ghosts
bed-time fables of sans heroic cowards
designer putty ***** lots seasoned
the osmosis of feral ignorance
juvenile anti Neoliberalism
on Jarrow marches we are
the old money killers
punch drunk, saps
agitators, thugs
today's jokers
cannot see
the joke
is You
you
you
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 6:28 AM UTC
if it ever crosses your mind
how i never wrote you letters
how i haven’t written you into a poem
please understand
that there are things words cannot paint
no combination of any phrasal collection
will ever be enough
to show the rest of the world
what a masterpiece you truly are
to prove my affection, such a connection
is never enough
words merely underwhelm the feeling, you
understates your existence
so i choose not to write
until i realized
until i learned
that love is no art, no masterpiece
it is not the way your ears turn red (when angry)
not the accusations you throw at me for lying
definitely not the kisses you give some other girl
no, it is not
and so for the first time, and not the last
you are written
you are in words
you give me reason to write this
my heart is not your canvas
i am not your muse
if it ever crosses your mind
how this poem is not in your mail
how you never read this
please understand
that there is no reason for me
to be wasting
exactly two hundred words
for a boy who’s forgot how to love
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC
AJean-Paul Sartre:
“If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company”
<>
stumbled upon while reading a movie review,
this almost a proverbial phrase provoking,
even stoking,
as we hold it up to the light,
twisting, turning the words,
as if it was a
kaleidoscope of diamonds,
looking at the fractured reflections,
for a better comprehension
we,
of two minds:
be-love and be-rued
this s l o w e d turning of our solitary solution
under the microscope ,
for critiquing
the two headed hydra
that has served us well and poorly
you, dear reader, understand perfectly,
the utility and the inutility of aloneness,
the surge creativity that comes
from no distractions,
other than our internal attractions
which when
one interrupted by the company of,
insertion of a different catalogue
a holder of human foibles,
differentiating, threatening, upsetting,
and sometimes soothing,
always enervating,
unlike the soothe of solitude
either can overwhelm,
either can worse,
underwhelm
but
the crossover. when the contrast is
pointy and sharp,
raises an irritating questioning
like the cracking, dry skin, of
places where we do not put
moisturizing cream
for fear of feeling failure
each to their own,
the enjoy/unjoy of voices
claiming a permanent correctness
of their viewpoint
wringing in with
a legal pad of
pluses and minuses
listing side to dide,
but never adding up
to 💯
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 8:16 AM UTC