"undistinguished" poems
68
Ambition cannot find him.
Affection doesn’t know
How many leagues of nowhere
Lie between them now.
Yesterday, undistinguished!
Eminent Today
For our mutual hone, Immortality!
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On the face of it, there isn't much about this bird
To stop me in my tracks.
Brown, oblivious, busy with the ground
It totters along on stilted legs
Probing among the frozen fields.
It's the name that's the trouble.
Childhood hours spent copying pictures
From the Readers' Digest Book of Birds
Call to mind the name, 'Curlew'.
In my house, though, birds had Scots names
and my dad, a linguistic David Bellamy
Urged us to conserve these rare words
or lose them forever.
Goldfinch? Gowdspink!
Starling? Stuckie!
Blue *** Umm...
But the undistinguished gentleman before me
was definitely a whaup.
Curlew or whaup?
Which is it to me?
The English of books
or the fading Scots, maybe closer
to the bird's wild home?
Textbook reality
or romantic poetry?
Or both - can the creature sit
in two states at once?
"Schrodinger's Curlew", I think with a smile.
("Schrodinger's Whaup!" bellows the bit of my dad
that lodges in my head.)
Here, under a cloud of my own breath
In the low winter light,
Neither seems quite adequate.
And then, untouched by my musings
The bird spreads its wings and lifts,
Naming itself, with a long, pure note
And my heart, in two states,
Leaps
and breaks.
Nov 26, 2010
Nov 26, 2010 at 12:03 AM UTC
Someone once told me that love was blind.
Youth is wasted on the young,
We are all going to die.
After un-clutching scraps of what I'll never find,
This is all that I've brought.
I am all that is mine.
Don't ever, ever, little girl,
Listen to the old.
The world of those who
Raised them were as dark as
Devils compared to the
Funlit days we live.
To them, infatuation came
In work's way.
To them, romance was
Mind's comfort; the
Substance of fantasy.
In our world, your heart's
Every beat for another
Rings as true
To Love's ears as
Her own
To herself.
Yet the cloak hangs so heavily
Around all of these scenes.
Each notion a portrait,
Undistinguished and vague yet
Littered with details strewn in
Alarming
Array.
I take with rock salt
All that they've had to say.
For how does dim
Memory
To a feeling
Compare?
Let us forget to look back
And listen for
Wisdom.
Let us forget to ask
For opinions; vantage points.
All fingerprints blur
In time and fade forgotten
Into their surfaces; the
Grip they once formed
Long, long released.
Love, if only for a second.
Love, even if you know
That it's wrong.
No love ever was.
Love.
You'll have bigger
Regrets in time.
Only we know
What it means to be
Exactly this
Young
Today.
Only I
See through these keyholes
Carved upon my Face.
I am free from pre-conceived restraints.
I am a beacon
Of naïve wisdom,
A sponge for all feelings
Un-hardened by fate.
Suggestions
Directions
Instructions abound.
I am free from these shackles,
Boundless heartwaves
Resound
I see not your keyholes for the
Key in my eye. You are
Divine Feminine expressing Herself
Through yourself; as yourself.
Quill dipped in own wisdom.
Heart's blood and history.
Afloat in eternities of
Utter female
Warmth.
Someone once told you that love was blind.
That youth was wasted on the young.
I don't want to hear you
Sounding that old
Ever again. Notions.
Heartwaves. Manifestations.
Art saved. Inspirations.
Emotions.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:25 AM UTC
CLOWNS DYINGFIVE circus clowns dying this year, morning newspapers told their lives, how each one horizontal in a last gesture of hands arranged by an undertaker, shook thousands into convulsions of laughter from behind rouge-red lips and powder-white face.
STEAMBOAT BILLWhen the boilers of the Robert E. Lee exploded, a steamboat winner of many races on the Mississippi went to the bottom of the river and never again saw the wharves of Natchez and New Orleans.
And a legend lives on that two gamblers were blown toward the sky and during their journey laid bets on which of the two would go higher and which would be first to set foot on the turf of the earth again.
FOOT AND MOUTH PLAGUEWhen the mysterious foot and mouth epidemic ravaged the cattle of Illinois, Mrs. Hector Smith wept bitterly over the government killing forty of her soft-eyed Jersey cows; through the newspapers she wept over her loss for millions of readers in the Great Northwest.
SEVENSThe lady who has had seven lawful husbands has written seven years for a famous newspaper telling how to find love and keep it: seven thousand hungry girls in the Mississippi Valley have read the instructions seven years and found neither illicit loves nor lawful husbands.
PROFITEERI who saw ten strong young men die anonymously, I who saw ten old mothers hand over their sons to the nation anonymously, I who saw ten thousand touch the sunlit silver finalities of undistinguished human glory-why do I sneeze sardonically at a bronze drinking fountain named after one who participated in the war vicariously and bought ten farms?
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she has prized credentials
where grovelling is concerned
and many a brownie point
without merit she's earned
******* up to management
is something she's good at
her activity is as undistinguished
as a gross gutter rat
she crawls all over the high ups
like an uncontrollable rash
her sycophantic behavior
causes our teeth to disdainfully gnash
to observe her inching
up the head honcho's ***
makes us all snigger
at her sniveling farce
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 11:06 AM UTC
Some days the sky is a glass chalice we hold between our lips to take a sip
The palliative qualities divine in nature are seeping through the subtle splits on the surface of our palms
Fleeting textures suffuse through our quivering hands
Various hues illustrate the wrists as they coil upon the cadaverous structure
Outlining our internal scaffolding with diverse shades
Colours ricochet within our human receptacles
Our bodies are prisms allowing the light of the sun to shine
Beams break forth from the orifice that rests upon our undistinguished faces
Reminders of what is within splintering through every available opening
Wandering rays rendezvous at the core of the chest
Exploring uncharted paths on the geography of our physical selves
Transcendent roads vague to our periphery
Slowly defining their forms on the outskirts of our wearied retinas
Our illuminated minds, embodying the sun
candescent stones fortified by layers of bone meant to hold their fluorescence
Our organic beams of light, such tender arms, lingering in the punctured sky
are using the clouds as paintbrushes, pieced together bits of mosaic already at their disposal
Our backs resting on abstract clay with shifting pastels, whispering clarity into our cartilage
leftover laments torn apart to bits with the newfound realization that we are whole.
Like unearthed clairvoyance, we survey the translucent waters before us
peering into the stillness our bodies disrupt like the pillars of beautiful dissonance they are
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
That's not too late to call me, in case you can't tell,
it's never too late for me, you're taking me for someone else.
It's never too late to text me, I never sleep anyway,
if I take too long to reply, perhaps I haven't seen,
or I have nothing to say.
You can always see me as you will and want,
but you can't make your wishes come true.
I'm an undistinguished shadow in your house,
sometimes I'm on your bed, just passing through.
There's this feeling I can't define, I feel it everytime
you and I are in the same room,
as if time has stopped and there's only us
sitting by the window on a rainy afternoon.
I feel like a king, I wanna be set free but I can't resign,
the risks are high, my feelings are strong, I'm by your side.
Even when I seem to be very far away from you
trust me I'm always there and you should know.
When I grab my laptop and start working on all those words
you think I'm drifting away from you and that's unfair.
How I wish I could have any quality time alone
without having to constantly force you out of my mind.
Jun 14, 2021
Jun 14, 2021 at 9:56 PM UTC
this town burns like old tales of wet villages near Halifax
a hub of nowhere, lined to hubs all apart at travel-trap distance
undistinguished but cultured, the spec manifest of an always rolling boulder;
party party, debit card!
welcome to the corner of the world.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
That old coat, the one you wore,
You wore in laughter,
Drenched in rain, cold water pouring, droplets of pearls,
Glistening in light of the single star, the one,
Which didn’t die yet.
That old coat, which sits by the fire,
A hearth of orange, now only black,
Devoid of colour, life, warmth,
A dead tinderbox, of passed emotion,
And happy feeling, all turned grey.
That old coat, frayed, torn.
The brown leather faded in patches,
Patches of memory, think back,
To happy days once before,
That old grey coat, you used to wear.
That old grey coat, stained in mud,
Undistinguished in the rough hide,
And broken seams, rough stitches,
Coarse repairs to hide the scars,
Of just been worn out.
That old coat,
You used to wear,
The one which was a part of you,
Sitting on a rusty peg, holding memories, so carefully.
The snap. The drop. The thud. The coat falls.
And the thoughts shatter again.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
I saw madness in his hands
shaped like a path straight to me
straight thru me
I pretended
I was shy
He thought he knew me
Fingers stained
primary colors
he'd told this story before
and bold strokes,
he painted his home
Across my skin
a wilderness
awakened
while my eyes
closed to heat with no sun
He whispered
thru the trees
Once Upon A Time
causing the leaves to rustle
and shake
making me
lose direction I was lost
forget I was
civilized
Sense[s] turned savage
I moved against him
stealing his story
with friction
and cannibal drums
Quick breath
words without manners
devouring his pallet
till the colors ran together
wet and
undistinguished
He became lightening then
heavy pulses of
electric and heat
swallowed
I was thunder
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 9:05 AM UTC
Of late:
this "silence" conceptual haunts,
an irregular daily daunt,
coming evenly but oddly timed throughout the 24 hrs.,
writing Psalms and Sonnets demands sacrifice, sweat,
tears, no blood as of yet,
but who's to say, that it will
not be eventually requisitioned
in my life,
there are long intervals of intramural silences,
when afforded,
the art of contemplation assumes templar control, and my senses
to overdrive go
somber somnolent,
ironic that,
in the periods of deep surficial calm, creation is raging
in the fibered tissue of my neuronic cells, and though,
outwardly still, my heart chest pounding me to emit the
inner contents and context
of the 4 W's of every moment of my existence
(who, what, when and why)
the quietude of silence
is never whole, notions fly in, runabout, then depart, without a word of farewell, leaving not a trace behind, and the potential poems shrivel into stillborn drivel, leaving only an undisputed but an undistinguished stain, a fact that they was, were, conceived, but the mind's body was not fertilized sufficiently to see them nurtured to expulsive birth fruition, a less than subtle reminder that even and every state of being is regenerative even unto the very last breath,
when it is no longer...
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 11:54 PM UTC
Wild Rosehip grew in dusty soil,
By life's tough struggle hardened,
Yet undistinguished are its heart and soul
From rose in cared flower garden.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
I walked by the playground. The little kids- reminiscent of little versions of me- were bundled in puffy parkas, scarves, gloves and hats tied under their chins so tight that their chubby cheeks poured over the bow. They can barely lift their arms. They stumble and wobble, rolling around the playground, up the pyramids and down the slides. The crisp air of a warm winter engulfs them as they think about their new friends, and how they enjoy playing tag on the playground. The kids, they’ve been there forever it seems.
Couples walk dogs. Women with curly black hair frizzing out of wrapped striped scarves, with glasses, with wrinkles. Men walking slowly behind, undistinguished, unremarkable, but peaceful nonetheless. The grey of the city pours into the park, a timeless grey filling corners that are easy to mistake as empty. Filling the cracks in the old cement all along the paths between playgrounds. Buildings stand right on the edge reminding you of where you are. Marking the minutes left you have in a playland. Soon you’ll hit the bustling streets where coats, scarves, mittens, socks mix with people walking so fast down the sidewalk in a cocktail of cold, pain, business and ambition. Sometimes cheeks flush as new lovers hold hands. Children laugh and tickle one another. But more often than not, everyone drinks the cocktail and keeps going- destinations unknown but going nonetheless.
When you’re alone you drink the cocktail, and think that you’re the only one. It makes you tell yourself to keep going, that you’ll go far. You pick some imaginary destination and push yourself towards it with all your might. Just like parents push the little bundles of pink and blue sitting on the swings at the playground.
Someday, maybe you’ll bump into someone- who will help you remember that you aren’t the only one. You aren’t the only one drinking the cocktail. And you’ll feel like maybe you can walk together, bundled now not only in your coats, but in each other. In the warmth of someone else, and the softness of their embrace.
But all too soon, one of you will trip- holding each other – one person holding on too tight, or another tripping over shoes. It’s inevitable.
There’s a bench. A bench at the intersection of three paths, one that is incredibly hard to revisit, but one that doesn’t move. It’s hard to find- at that intersection. It’s under a bridge, behind a museum, covered in shrubbery, and overcome by passersby. Under the bridge there’s a man who plays his flute. It echoes though, offering a trail of crumbs to find this place.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
The raspy waters shattered,
Against the fearsome shores,
They hailed the stormy Winter,
They opened many doors.
She walked towards the peril,
The hail battered her skin,
She kissed the wind that whipped her,
With lips of reckless sin.
Her bare white feet, they trampled,
Upon the sodden path,
Her eyes began to tremble,
She chose to face this wrath.
The dainty hands gripped mercy
It weighed more than her thoughts,
She felt it, most diaphanous,
While Nature raged and fought.
The icy Winds, they beckoned,
Their voices full of cheer,
For she was but another,
To leave a life so dear.
But who were they to conquer,
She knew she had a will,
And it was them who urged her,
Set forth to find their ****
She threw her mercy to them,
The Sky, the Wind, the Rain,
She knew this was her ending.
The one that eased the pain.
Her mind began to scatter,
And hold her back, away.
Her heart knew more however,
And allowed her not to stray.
And thus the Thunder bellowed,
Deadly, yet alive.
Her wispy clothing held her,
As her body slowly dived,
And the crash was undistinguished,
Against the heartless weather,
And her mind thus found serenity,
As her heartbeat ceased, forever.
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 7:55 AM UTC
Tantalizing texture
the feel of your skin
philosophical grandeur
your wit spread thin
too much
touch
not enough
the erratic tempo
of your tell tale heart
undistinguished symbols
bewildering marks
the mystery of youth
innocent truth
focusing real
now
trembling hands
to hold me close
with nothing planned
our thoughts erode
enveloped in a moment
while time ceases to exist
with every breath expanding
the knot in your chest
nerves are getting better
the best of you
words so demure
was nothing so true
so uncorrupted
pure and plain
how something so wonderful
could I have obtained?
Jul 19, 2011
Jul 19, 2011 at 7:54 PM UTC
It was undistinguished, commonplace,
A little shop, just one in a row,
But on a winter’s day to walk inside
To feel the warmth, bask in the glow
Of an atmosphere filled with the scent
Of coffee beans and almond nuts,
See tablecloths in red and white,
Hear the tinkling tone of teaspoon on cup,
Was to escape the weather’s hellish grasp,
The biting cold, the blustery wind,
The drizzling rain, the swirling snow,
And find a piece of heaven within.
From Entertaining Verse Poems
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)
http://www.macdonrod.com/EntertainingVersePoems.htm
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
A room fill of people and a heart full of hope
Pulling on my mind like a worn out rope.
Faces undistinguished prove a possibility unwon.
Thankful for sight, but tortured by the one.
The one will save me without being asked.
The one who is unseeable. The one I just passed?
Tortured by mystery is a sad case to lead
Impossible to stop because waiting is the key.
The key to freedom, and the key to unlock.
But where is the key to this neverending clock?
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 8:38 PM UTC
I imagine there is no place that I could go
where you haven't imagined me
Something, someone
that I am not
Before 18
Never smoked, never kissed, never dated
Never touched, never danced, nor wanted
“Below average student”
Unsuccessful in every way
Vaguely plain
probably poor
as things go
From undistinguished family
Big name
Wrong branch
Below budget
"You can always spot the clothes
the wanna-be's
the losers linger last-- hoping
to be chosen
Mercifully not
under-performers
hangers-on
The underside
So outside
til only now....
Somewhat silly
Too ready to do whatever it took
to be even liked-- a little
But too deeply shy
wandering away
to be loved another day
Probably not--
Not about all this....
Never!
Never look strength
straight in the eye
It must be born of something... someone... somewhere
Nov 23, 2021
Nov 23, 2021 at 10:38 PM UTC
Robotic
Silver tears fall from robot eyes;
The hole for a heart has broken wires.
The love we used to feel? I have removed those files.
Robotic people lead robotic lives.
Delete memories to give us more memory space;
The undistinguished face is factory made.
Modelled in clay; repeat again.
Another body, with another face; we are all the same.
Robotic people live robotic lives.
Work for the master for nickels and dimes.
Programmed to function, incapable of lying;
Programmed to self-destruct at the end of our time.
Watching people go by, living ordinary lives;
They are not the robot I see in the reflection
And they seem to be doing just fine.
Dreams of former lives never remembered in this mind;
I am robotic, but I pay it no mind.
Heartless and constant, I am becoming less than I should;
Infected files corrupt us from the inside,
When we were only trying to feel good.
Love is just data, magic does not exist; it is just a pretense.
The formula to the equation of my very own existence.
The failure of a maker who brought me into this world;
I am strong on the outside, but inside I am fetal.
Empty of emotion, now I have lived this life;
I see ordinary people living exotic lives,
But I am a robotic being and I cannot experience a true smile.
Nothing behind the eyes to show a real emotion;
I am just a robotic person; I am just in need of a function.
I am lost without romance in this web of confusion;
Robotic people lead robotic lives and I am living in slow motion.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 9:14 PM UTC
1:47am. Standing on my thumb
awakened by my badder bladder, disobeying the rules,
one reaches for the tablet’s reassuring whiteness and
its scrolling alerts; ascertain that the world order is yet
extant in a normative disarray, the elections are over
yet not, my sports teams have creaked to losses,
my inner devils are resting nesting in anticipation of another
day of sweet self-torture and guilting for a life full of
sinning and mine failures, a dawning realization grasps
my twilight self, half-awake & somewhat sleepy, that
I am writing poetry in the nether space where rules
and space are permeable, my river of conscience consciousness
flows between the gaps of truth and disfiguring lies, and that
I am standing on my thumb.
Yes, a single shorty, stubby, chubby digit is firmly attached,
arrested onto the screen, a portal tween love stories, podcasts
of human grief, leaking creativity and foundational support,
I am upright, upside down, feet in the air and kept there by
a small undistinguished and unattractive teeny weeny appendage through which hard data, drowsy dreams,
arousal, stories are bytes flowing in conflicting directions,
all at risk, great risk, by defying gravity, and the awful pull
of the accumulated weights of sorrow and grime of wasted opportunities, unbearable weight of lightness & love both
taken and given, potential horror stories, and the deniability
of humanoid excuses is pathetic and inutile, indeed, futile.
my suspended state of betweenness, the past and future,
caught up in animated currents of the perpetual and eternal,
unbelievable fantasy and unrecoverable missed opportunities,
cognizantr of a chasm division entre my failing body~shell and the sparking consciousness that cannot destroyed.
all while upright standing, aloft by a single but critical thumb.
the watch face glows 3:12, this episodic journey will be eradicated, molecularly scattered, permanent only in its
self-destruction and the remaining disquietude of the
unrealized reality of a naissance and a renaissance
having occurred,
I am no longer awake and never was…
NYC
Thu Nov 10
2020
Nov 10, 2022
Nov 10, 2022 at 3:41 AM UTC