"undiscerning" poems - Hello Poetry

It gets easier to laugh at yourself when you know you’ve been frivolous. You’ve wasted a great deal of your time indulging in fatuous, totally conditional constraints. You’ve been misguided by the red and pink colors of happy shapes and bewitching designs. You’ve forgotten the most important of things, and even the small things such as matching your socks or earrings. You’ve been too content with enticing words and completely undiscerning of actions. It gets easier to laugh at yourself because even though it hurts like hell, you now know it was only premature amity.

0

Feb 7, 2014

Feb 7, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC

httphellopoetrycognizance

Sappy-Head

It gets easier to laugh at yourself when you know you’ve been frivolous. You’ve wasted a great deal of your time indulging in fatuous, totally conditional constraints. You’ve been misguided by the red and pink colors of happy shapes and bewitching designs. You’ve forgotten the most important of things, and even the small things such as matching your socks or earrings. You’ve been too content with enticing words and completely undiscerning of actions. It gets easier to laugh at yourself because even though it hurts like hell, you now know it was only premature amity.

6

A man is only half of what he is; always leaning towards the dim Lacking a flouted need which whorls in the mute within him A man bigots an ideal and will lark it away at the hold of his routed pith A smile is not worthwhile if the smile does not have anything to receive or to give A man is skyless; bound to his back with his dreams fixed on a rapture He gorges upon tasteless feasts gasping for that sup he hungers to recapture He does not know nor recall the times that did once befall Of the lossless suffers and how they ever meant anything at all He will become the most that he can ever endeavour Be the creature he needs to be and whichever Way it may engross him and how it moulds or claims him It will be still him but leaning not so far in the dim He would be a whole man who would give himself wholly Who would be more and only more to her and her solely His full heart would be tendered for it would not be his own If it was still partial of the heart that had since budded and grown A man would be raised and the sky would be without border A bliss amid clouds where the undiscerning muddle finds order There would be a sense to the road an approach to the wander A reason for all a kiss a need to ponder no longer There would be such rise in his depth and a contest behind bit teeth To fight for the purposed kiss to hold her and keep her from grief To offer her all embrace not too tense and not too slack For her to breathe is to breathe; now half new he would never give it back To be back upon his back with eyes busy to the sky His bones broken as her feet glide indifferently by Over his stare among cloud where she impelled his descent He’d lay fallen and broken beaten and bent If Half a man became whole does a whole man not become naught? If he fights for a dearest never afore dreamt dream then what is left to be fought? Was it his minds misgivings that would lead to such a trite giving reliving to doubt? That surfaced more than he knew; the intended whisper instead a floundering shout? Would it have been his heart that threw him from his felicity? Could his relish overwhelm and mutate into potent toxicity? Could it be fact that without thought nor without tact he impelled her? Either overthought or over loved he would have fallen the hardest and he would not rise No he would not rise anymore If there ever was such a man and ever such a she He would have her for as long as that may be Her greatest gift is after saying all this to you Is that after knowing all that you could you would feel the same way too.

0

Nov 7, 2012

Nov 7, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC

aaron-wallis

A useless Man

A man is only half of what he is; always leaning towards the dim Lacking a flouted need which whorls in the mute within him A man bigots an ideal and will lark it away at the hold of his routed pith A smile is not worthwhile if the smile does not have anything to receive or to give A man is skyless; bound to his back with his dreams fixed on a rapture He gorges upon tasteless feasts gasping for that sup he hungers to recapture He does not know nor recall the times that did once befall Of the lossless suffers and how they ever meant anything at all He will become the most that he can ever endeavour Be the creature he needs to be and whichever Way it may engross him and how it moulds or claims him It will be still him but leaning not so far in the dim He would be a whole man who would give himself wholly Who would be more and only more to her and her solely His full heart would be tendered for it would not be his own If it was still partial of the heart that had since budded and grown A man would be raised and the sky would be without border A bliss amid clouds where the undiscerning muddle finds order There would be a sense to the road an approach to the wander A reason for all a kiss a need to ponder no longer There would be such rise in his depth and a contest behind bit teeth To fight for the purposed kiss to hold her and keep her from grief To offer her all embrace not too tense and not too slack For her to breathe is to breathe; now half new he would never give it back To be back upon his back with eyes busy to the sky His bones broken as her feet glide indifferently by Over his stare among cloud where she impelled his descent He’d lay fallen and broken beaten and bent If Half a man became whole does a whole man not become naught? If he fights for a dearest never afore dreamt dream then what is left to be fought? Was it his minds misgivings that would lead to such a trite giving reliving to doubt? That surfaced more than he knew; the intended whisper instead a floundering shout? Would it have been his heart that threw him from his felicity? Could his relish overwhelm and mutate into potent toxicity? Could it be fact that without thought nor without tact he impelled her? Either overthought or over loved he would have fallen the hardest and he would not rise No he would not rise anymore If there ever was such a man and ever such a she He would have her for as long as that may be Her greatest gift is after saying all this to you Is that after knowing all that you could you would feel the same way too.

41

I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store invariably I'd shoot my mouth off about someone's daughter dressing like a ***** or making comments about the dreadful things consumed which would include a good 99% of the people in the room I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud" ewwwww, you really eat that stuff? this store should be sued for selling such bluff children with diabetes, a third of adults obese the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease line after line of vapid consumers mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors what's an adulterant, what's a filler? propylene glycol alginate, yum yum sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun! I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare Go ahead and poison yourself the quirky clerk exclaimed its ever so clear you're stupid and lame stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance you're exactly what they want another brain dead consumer a regular culinary savant stuff your face with no remorse nor heed no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder then promptly get beaten, black and blue

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Sep 30, 2013

Sep 30, 2013 at 8:09 PM UTC

sobroquet

The Discourteous Courtesy (Quirk) Clerk

I'd last about an hour as a clerk inside a store invariably I'd shoot my mouth off about someone's daughter dressing like a ***** or making comments about the dreadful things consumed which would include a good 99% of the people in the room I'd eventually end up getting my lights punched out after ********* someone as a fat *** undiscerning lout or cracking some aside regarding what comprises that crud and making faces of revulsion "you'd be better off eating mud" ewwwww, you really eat that stuff? this store should be sued for selling such bluff children with diabetes, a third of adults obese the courtesy clerk dies a little for lack of surcease line after line of vapid consumers mindless knee-jerk impetuosity belay the rumors what's an adulterant, what's a filler? propylene glycol alginate, yum yum sorbitan mono sterate, shut up and eat it, its fun! I can't even pronounce it, much less do I care need I be a scientist to enjoyably savor fare Go ahead and poison yourself the quirky clerk exclaimed its ever so clear you're stupid and lame stay mired in your pig-headed muck of ignorance you're exactly what they want another brain dead consumer a regular culinary savant stuff your face with no remorse nor heed no worries, the clerk of little courtesy knows your need he'll limply wheel out your cart of miserable choices for you and wise-crack some snarky rejoinder then promptly get beaten, black and blue

32

Not all that glitters are really Diamond's or Rubies or Gold Well that truth can be told by an undiscerning miner who quickly had to learn the difference between what was real and false and thought he struck it rich only to discover he could not bank on his claim He wanted to make a name for himself instead he was a victim to the glittery deception of Fool's Gold Way too often people fall for something that they mistook to be real Infatuation gets confused for love True love takes time to blossom and grow carefully watered with selfless understanding respect and caring, patience and acceptance of each others faults It can bloom with encouragement and appreciation and survive time apart free from jealousy which try's to corrupt the heart If you have a true love hold them close to your heart Daily tell them what a treasure they are If you don't, wait patiently and take your time remember what the miner learned that not all that glitters is really gold You don't want to fall too fast without clearly thinking and discover that what you really had was Fools Gold

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Aug 2, 2015

Aug 2, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC

ButterflyAnn

Fool's Gold

Not all that glitters are really Diamond's or Rubies or Gold Well that truth can be told by an undiscerning miner who quickly had to learn the difference between what was real and false and thought he struck it rich only to discover he could not bank on his claim He wanted to make a name for himself instead he was a victim to the glittery deception of Fool's Gold Way too often people fall for something that they mistook to be real Infatuation gets confused for love True love takes time to blossom and grow carefully watered with selfless understanding respect and caring, patience and acceptance of each others faults It can bloom with encouragement and appreciation and survive time apart free from jealousy which try's to corrupt the heart If you have a true love hold them close to your heart Daily tell them what a treasure they are If you don't, wait patiently and take your time remember what the miner learned that not all that glitters is really gold You don't want to fall too fast without clearly thinking and discover that what you really had was Fools Gold

30

at two years old, your curious hands happened upon a bottle of flea medicine that lay waiting on the counter. your mother was absent as usual, off on an errand, or walking the dog. unwatched, your enterprising fingers eased the lid from the container, and you poured the sweet-smelling liquid down your throat. the world was still so new to you, and it seemed to be made for tasting. who could blame a child with a thirst for more than mushy peas and applesauce? two days later they released you from the hospital, your stomach pumped dry. when you were six, idly exploring the woods of your mother’s sprawling estate, you paused a moment from imagining faerie queens flitting about in the greenery to take rest on a log, your undiscerning eye not betraying its secret: within it was a nest of wasps, and thinking they were faeries you dared not move as they rose in a cloud above your head and overtook you, leaving your body peppered with painful angry sores. you fell to the ground. a hired man, strong and tall as the oak trees, saw your quick descent and ventured after you, made a hammock of his arms to bear you like a fallen soldier back to your mother’s house, his tough sun-leathered skin immune to the assaults of the faerie battalion. at eight, playing in the small child-sized house in your aunt’s garden, you sought to make stained glass from the broken shards of the playhouse window. having no tool at hand, what better way to shatter the clear, flat plane than with your fist? before reason could take hold of you, you drove your hand through the glass, and the raw edges cut deep into your veins. blood flowed in rivers from your wrist. your aunt, ever watchful, rushed from the house to stop your body’s catharsis with a dishcloth. the jagged unpainted shards lay forgotten on the ground.

0

Feb 16, 2011

Feb 16, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC

laura-blum

The Many Near-Death Experiences of My Mother

at two years old, your curious hands happened upon a bottle of flea medicine that lay waiting on the counter. your mother was absent as usual, off on an errand, or walking the dog. unwatched, your enterprising fingers eased the lid from the container, and you poured the sweet-smelling liquid down your throat. the world was still so new to you, and it seemed to be made for tasting. who could blame a child with a thirst for more than mushy peas and applesauce? two days later they released you from the hospital, your stomach pumped dry. when you were six, idly exploring the woods of your mother’s sprawling estate, you paused a moment from imagining faerie queens flitting about in the greenery to take rest on a log, your undiscerning eye not betraying its secret: within it was a nest of wasps, and thinking they were faeries you dared not move as they rose in a cloud above your head and overtook you, leaving your body peppered with painful angry sores. you fell to the ground. a hired man, strong and tall as the oak trees, saw your quick descent and ventured after you, made a hammock of his arms to bear you like a fallen soldier back to your mother’s house, his tough sun-leathered skin immune to the assaults of the faerie battalion. at eight, playing in the small child-sized house in your aunt’s garden, you sought to make stained glass from the broken shards of the playhouse window. having no tool at hand, what better way to shatter the clear, flat plane than with your fist? before reason could take hold of you, you drove your hand through the glass, and the raw edges cut deep into your veins. blood flowed in rivers from your wrist. your aunt, ever watchful, rushed from the house to stop your body’s catharsis with a dishcloth. the jagged unpainted shards lay forgotten on the ground.

68

. There’s an ancient duct tape patched roller suitcase still up in the attic, scarred by sky miles and undiscerning indifference; it came to rest like a final breath exhaled at the end of the long road ― In the dusty rafters of silent repose the death of an alter-ego comes to life and jars and jogs the sleeping dogs that lay benign as a pothole riddled road Holding onto memories buried alive, hidden away remembered ― sans wings to fly away laid bare unweighed with the weight of everything else garnered and saved subsisting in a shallow grave; hoarded and hidden away breathing locked up with the other baggage borne behind tired eyes Feeling the ache of blood stained knees falling down sullied at the side of the road Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories linger; stuck to the grey bandage scars, second guessing should have thrown out with the permanently temporary fading plasticized luggage name-tags back when I was still close enough to care; too many miles to reconsider ago Some say: "it's the journey not the destination" . Some day when its too late we'll know Some day it will be too late to make amends for everything i could not be ... harlon rivers ... 07 06 2018

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Jun 9, 2018

Jun 9, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC

harlon-rivers

Travelogue ― duct tape patched suitcase

. There’s an ancient duct tape patched roller suitcase still up in the attic, scarred by sky miles and undiscerning indifference; it came to rest like a final breath exhaled at the end of the long road ― In the dusty rafters of silent repose the death of an alter-ego comes to life and jars and jogs the sleeping dogs that lay benign as a pothole riddled road Holding onto memories buried alive, hidden away remembered ― sans wings to fly away laid bare unweighed with the weight of everything else garnered and saved subsisting in a shallow grave; hoarded and hidden away breathing locked up with the other baggage borne behind tired eyes Feeling the ache of blood stained knees falling down sullied at the side of the road Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories linger; stuck to the grey bandage scars, second guessing should have thrown out with the permanently temporary fading plasticized luggage name-tags back when I was still close enough to care; too many miles to reconsider ago Some say: "it's the journey not the destination" . Some day when its too late we'll know Some day it will be too late to make amends for everything i could not be ... harlon rivers ... 07 06 2018

33

I have never seen such a blue sky on the rooftop after a long shower outside Drinking hot chamomile tea I am happy In a new top the color of the trees that surround the cottage I pity any being who isn't me at this very moment Though hold on... My chamomile tea has been polluted with vinegar I try to accept the new taste find pleasure in it but the vinegar comes back to snap the back of my tongue This moment has been altered and the neighbors don't know how to use their quiet voices my phone is dying and I spent the majority of my time up here trying to get the perfect picture for Instagram

0

Aug 7, 2016

Aug 7, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC

lindsey-grace-bost

Undiscerning

I have never seen such a blue sky on the rooftop after a long shower outside Drinking hot chamomile tea I am happy In a new top the color of the trees that surround the cottage I pity any being who isn't me at this very moment Though hold on... My chamomile tea has been polluted with vinegar I try to accept the new taste find pleasure in it but the vinegar comes back to snap the back of my tongue This moment has been altered and the neighbors don't know how to use their quiet voices my phone is dying and I spent the majority of my time up here trying to get the perfect picture for Instagram

17

your tenebrous image enraptures me future’s heat brands me with you your silhouette fills my vision but all your features are hidden calling to me in a voice I know but have not yet heard a shout made a whisper you are so many years away always I have known you sensed you by your absence I chafe and fret, anxious and expectant of your arrival believing it imminent eagerly I shut my eyes to what little I know of you trusting as only callow youth allows that no more is needed than my open arms I see you everywhere impetuously I give my heart only to find no synchrony even the lineation was wrong each time it is not you you are still far from me yet I am wrenched forward I lurch undiscerning, heedless pressed forever into rashness by all consuming urgency for you endless, fruitless searching confusion and despair my constant companions lost in a torrent of nothing like one freezing in lingering polar night to stop is to die, helpless I stumble towards providence

0

Feb 27, 2019

Feb 27, 2019 at 11:29 PM UTC

crow

With Bated Life

your tenebrous image enraptures me future’s heat brands me with you your silhouette fills my vision but all your features are hidden calling to me in a voice I know but have not yet heard a shout made a whisper you are so many years away always I have known you sensed you by your absence I chafe and fret, anxious and expectant of your arrival believing it imminent eagerly I shut my eyes to what little I know of you trusting as only callow youth allows that no more is needed than my open arms I see you everywhere impetuously I give my heart only to find no synchrony even the lineation was wrong each time it is not you you are still far from me yet I am wrenched forward I lurch undiscerning, heedless pressed forever into rashness by all consuming urgency for you endless, fruitless searching confusion and despair my constant companions lost in a torrent of nothing like one freezing in lingering polar night to stop is to die, helpless I stumble towards providence

38

I am formed to be yours at the threshold of inception we were molded together bisected, to find rejoining your every curve locks to me as water flows to find its depth my eyes are shaped to see your face my gaze is drawn to you as the moon draws the tide my lips are patterned for your inimitable kiss I can taste only you my heart opens for your love alone I am a bell tuned to a singular tone reverberating with your voice I resonate with the sound of your name the key of your words unlocks my undiscerning ears that I may hear you whisper to me of love your scent perfumes my life echoes of you in each fragrance my fabric and yours interlaced without seam or stitch we fully encompass each the other encircling

0

Jan 3, 2019

Jan 3, 2019 at 12:14 PM UTC

crow

By Design

I am formed to be yours at the threshold of inception we were molded together bisected, to find rejoining your every curve locks to me as water flows to find its depth my eyes are shaped to see your face my gaze is drawn to you as the moon draws the tide my lips are patterned for your inimitable kiss I can taste only you my heart opens for your love alone I am a bell tuned to a singular tone reverberating with your voice I resonate with the sound of your name the key of your words unlocks my undiscerning ears that I may hear you whisper to me of love your scent perfumes my life echoes of you in each fragrance my fabric and yours interlaced without seam or stitch we fully encompass each the other encircling

27

I think poetry is for the dependent Those who can't strive a day without Constant writing, perpetual recording, meticulous brushstrokes On the painting of a vibrant story Told through heavy language or light yet elegant babble Or perhaps it's truly for the lost Those lacerated and devastated By life's inevitable nature, The deviously maleficent, Or even their own bewildered selves. Still, I look back At the days of unbecoming Horrible ignorance and unprecedented knowledge Proverbial wisdom and undiscerning youthfulness... When life was a default wonder. Poetry had not been my guide Without a pillar I trudged on. Yet! What a horrific period of life! Oh, if only then I had the mystical treasure Of which I certainly possess now I think poetry is for all who appreciate it-- If not, then those who take from it, The insecure, shameful, resentful, narcissistic, far off, logical, illogical, confounded, missing, gothic, dying, feral, lonely, creative, incapable, hopeful, and dead It's our universal language In times of hope or death

0

Jun 10, 2014

Jun 10, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC

a-new-optimism

I Think Poetry is for

I think poetry is for the dependent Those who can't strive a day without Constant writing, perpetual recording, meticulous brushstrokes On the painting of a vibrant story Told through heavy language or light yet elegant babble Or perhaps it's truly for the lost Those lacerated and devastated By life's inevitable nature, The deviously maleficent, Or even their own bewildered selves. Still, I look back At the days of unbecoming Horrible ignorance and unprecedented knowledge Proverbial wisdom and undiscerning youthfulness... When life was a default wonder. Poetry had not been my guide Without a pillar I trudged on. Yet! What a horrific period of life! Oh, if only then I had the mystical treasure Of which I certainly possess now I think poetry is for all who appreciate it-- If not, then those who take from it, The insecure, shameful, resentful, narcissistic, far off, logical, illogical, confounded, missing, gothic, dying, feral, lonely, creative, incapable, hopeful, and dead It's our universal language In times of hope or death

25

Bubble by Michael R. Burch Love— fragile, elusive— if held too closely cannot withstand the inter ruption of its bright, unmalleable tension and breaks, disintegrates, at the touch of an undiscerning hand. Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea. I believe this is my only "shape" or "shaped" poem. Keywords/Tags: Love, fragile, delicate, bubble, tension, held, breaks, pops, disintegrates, explodes, implodes, hand, touch, harsh, ungentle

0

Apr 2, 2020

Apr 2, 2020 at 3:44 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Bubble

Bubble by Michael R. Burch Love— fragile, elusive— if held too closely cannot withstand the inter ruption of its bright, unmalleable tension and breaks, disintegrates, at the touch of an undiscerning hand. Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea. I believe this is my only "shape" or "shaped" poem. Keywords/Tags: Love, fragile, delicate, bubble, tension, held, breaks, pops, disintegrates, explodes, implodes, hand, touch, harsh, ungentle

14

Hail, King Arbor, vice-regent of the paradisal garden! Springing, a wooden fountain clawing up and seizing handfuls of sky, Towering, dancing in winds that cannot bow him, With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout. Padded with armor layered in sheaves and shingles, Constant cloak accented of moss and vine and bubbles of fungus, Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires, Fitted snug o’er the ageless trunk, ever-young beneath time’s rings. Steward of life, he cradles birdlings in nested branches, In chewed divots and caves hiding the squirrel and his kin, His skin alive with deep burrowing beetles and grubs and thousands of worms, Beneath his leafy mantle are sheltered the fox and the deer. While branches sway and leaves fly in stormy havoc, And beasts and creeping things are shaken and tossed, His stoic roots, unimpressed, anchor the forest to the world, Laboring buried and ever unmoved, in dark earthen dignity. Here he stands, shoulder to shoulder with his brethren, A sylvan army assembled to keep watch as the centuries drift by, Council of elders evergreen presiding over the passage of epochs, Terra’s first tribe bonded inseparable under countless dusks and dawns. And there he stands, all solitary, vertical spire against a flat horizon, No less regal for the absence of peers, but still defiant and noble, Standing in judgement uncontested over an undiscerning globe, Convicting all, dismissing them as airy flights ephemeral.

0

Nov 10, 2017

Nov 10, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC

simoncmonahan

Lauds Arboreal

Hail, King Arbor, vice-regent of the paradisal garden! Springing, a wooden fountain clawing up and seizing handfuls of sky, Towering, dancing in winds that cannot bow him, With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout. Padded with armor layered in sheaves and shingles, Constant cloak accented of moss and vine and bubbles of fungus, Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires, Fitted snug o’er the ageless trunk, ever-young beneath time’s rings. Steward of life, he cradles birdlings in nested branches, In chewed divots and caves hiding the squirrel and his kin, His skin alive with deep burrowing beetles and grubs and thousands of worms, Beneath his leafy mantle are sheltered the fox and the deer. While branches sway and leaves fly in stormy havoc, And beasts and creeping things are shaken and tossed, His stoic roots, unimpressed, anchor the forest to the world, Laboring buried and ever unmoved, in dark earthen dignity. Here he stands, shoulder to shoulder with his brethren, A sylvan army assembled to keep watch as the centuries drift by, Council of elders evergreen presiding over the passage of epochs, Terra’s first tribe bonded inseparable under countless dusks and dawns. And there he stands, all solitary, vertical spire against a flat horizon, No less regal for the absence of peers, but still defiant and noble, Standing in judgement uncontested over an undiscerning globe, Convicting all, dismissing them as airy flights ephemeral.

24