"unexceptional" poems
Ireland is riddled with
cancer.
Pesticides, herbicides,
fungicides-
Are obviously, not the
answer.
Dairygold® have got
it right. Surprisingly!
Organic pastureland,
green grass, happy cows!
"Golden Valleys,
Growing Naturally" ?
("Logo ™")
without the question
mark.
<>
In the event of Corporate
Punishment, IE, finding a
herd of hungry Friesians
in my front lawn, or my
next organic pizza happens
to be a Crispy Cow Pat with
lashings of Mozzarella, I am
hereby declaring that Silent
Spring lady, Rachel Carson,
was bumped off for making
metaphorical accusations, such
as could be interpreted by those
who are currently involved in
the depopulation process by
way of poisoning the people
via consumer products, that
are known to contain harmful
carcinogenic compounds veiled
by misleading advertising.
natural
adjective
1. her policy of using fresh, natural produce: unprocessed, organic, pure, wholesome, unrefined, pesticide-free, chemical-free, additive-free, unbleached, unmixed, real, plain, ****** crude, raw. ANTONYMS artificial, refined.
2. a natural occurrence: normal, ordinary, everyday, usual, regular, common, commonplace, typical, routine, standard, established, customary, accustomed, habitual, run-of-the-mill, stock, unexceptional. ANTONYMS abnormal, unnatural, exceptional.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 4:43 AM UTC
you have entered the realm of life after separation.
gone are the daisies she tucked behind your ears. it’s autumn now.
you are getting older. your boots are heavy and your chest is heavier.
you were given something gleaming, but it isn’t yours,
anymore. you seethe in your own ache.
this is your first silver october. the blushing leaves have gone greyscale,
like an i love lucy rerun. they evoke a stab of grief between your lungs.
you have to rewrite the story of your life now,
go forward knowing that everything after will be somehow
lesser than her. no person will reach into you the way she did.
you are a lost girl. resignation is all you have left,
resignation and streets bitter with dead leaves, streets where you run and shout
a silent prayer of loss.
but then:
but then.
you are reciting a poem for a room of people and your words
belong to your body now. a deep glow has fallen over everything,
right onto a girl you’ve only seen once before.
front row. face open. taking in what you are saying,
your retrospective sorrow, with a particular kind of attentiveness
you have needed all along.
everyone is listening, but she is hearing you.
in that moment, when you are raw and earnest,
you think that perhaps there’s something different about
this one. how even when you are done, she still seems to be
hearing all the words you cannot say.
and then:
and then.
spring is thrusting its way out of cold dirt
and you are twisting and breathing and this girl,
this girl, she is one million ******* shades of red. all you can do is
look at her without turning away, as if you could do such a thing
even if you tried. maybe this is how rembrandt felt
when painting night watch.
full of thick, rich burning too immense for language to hold.
this girl, this girl in the midst of life after. this girl so good
she’s put meaning back into the messy coming of spring.
you have learned not to trust. not to believe.
to love with a window open, a hand on the door,
in case of incineration, ready to run.
but this girl, says your heart,
says the peachy light bleeding onto her lips and nose,
this girl is not like those who came before her.
you’ve been a stranger to yourself for so long, but this girl
is reintroducing the two of you, rubbing you raw with longing.
do you understand, you want to say to her,
how stunning you are.
standing there like that. in your sincerity and laughter, as it weren’t
breath snatching to witness. as if it were commonplace,
unexceptional. as if you weren’t the tenderest work of art.
do you.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
distracted yet again by
the fullest of moons
on an unexceptional night
blown out of proportion
by undue reverence
and misplaced relevance
looming larger than it seems
nature should allow
a false sense of light
marred by hues
of orange and red
forced upon it by
this unseasonably late
summer's twilight
there are those who
will assign meaning to
this sight and to any
signs thus associated
guided by the symbolic
grounded in the scientific
somehow the truest
of explanations are overlooked
the simple will always
inexplicably
be far less appealing
than the convoluted
Oct 7, 2023
Oct 7, 2023 at 7:34 AM UTC
A space million miles broad
Windows are open wide
You choose to move ahead
And take the fearsome ride
Knowing all of constraints
You remain bold and positive
Without a single hate or frustrate
Even if its too hard to believe
Not letting it bleed
When there is suffering
You smile to help along the way
No time for emotional fury
To win or lose, it is unexceptional
Right and wrong are intertwined
Perceiving all things in optimistic mood
No worries, and everything is fine
Doing things in a hard or easy way
Not taking problems so seriously
For it will not help for the recovery
Just took the right road and how good it will be!
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 9:03 PM UTC
A single page of her
fills her lover's world
ardent appetite to be cradled like the
adoration of a mortal unexceptional goddess
who sometimes has high-heeled shoes of clay
leaves her and her lover to waver among
joys shared blissfully diffused by tears shed quietly
A single page of her is written
with the fundamental spirit of a lust for love
an ambition to live loves dream
which is central to every man and woman's heart
A single page of her is provender for the soul
with a common language of immortal romantic notions
A single page of her
just a human being
a lover of another human being
just an exceptional love within an uncomplicated heart
a softly written cage open to lights of loving warmth
A single word of her
fills the canvas with brilliant colors
takes on the shapes of this feverish love affair
takes on the hue's of these hearts at ease
that wrestle each other's naked souls
then cleave to each other with a dire thirst
A single word of her statuesque illustration
histories and futures softly spoken in the animated night
expressions of this average celestial throne
this world of exceptionally average simple beauties
A single word of hers
that I have never actually heard
but knowing its there unspoken in her eyes
just a human being
A single picture of her
fills a poet's hands with rich verse
words laden with potent essence within their expression
as wild as the wind in the deepest part of the rain
as enriched as breathing exaltation and splendor
her photograph pasted to the mirror's edge
as if she were a reflection of dreams
as if perfection had a name
A single picture of her
embroidered by a light that shines
only from some souls
a warmth that greets every passing stranger
an intensity that verges on fire
A single moment of her time
leaves impressions upon you that will breathe within you
growing in the remembrance
like roses upon the vine
interwoven and lovely in the warm light
just a human being
but she will always be
just Kristen
© 2017 mark john junor all rights reserved
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
29/4/14
I have the urge to spill my tears in hopes that their sadness will absorb some of my own
For I am not the embodiment of beauty. I am a lesser being, I conform only to the standard named 'average' . (and I can see)
No straight, natural-style hair
Tanned skin, white teeth, big eyes. Non compatible
But non compatible with the other side of pretty
Frail, fragile and magical. Pale skin and paler hair, collarbones and wrists.
Unexceptional and desperately mediocre (and I can see)
Revolving around this society's mentality that beauty is a set thing, and of course it is (I can see)
I spill my tears
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
We're the kind of people that fade into the background
We're the kind of people that get red as soon as someone says our name and often we're the ones that people forget are in the room.
This is us, too comfortable in our shell to even be bothered.
We are told we are too quiet and shy and that we lack a personality.
But they fail to see the universe within us and the light in our eyes and the kindness in our voice.
we don't waste our words
when we speak we make flowers grow and we build up but when they speak it only causes harm.
we do not misuse our words
and no we don't get the most popular award in school, and we probably get overlooked at parties and our names are not the kind of names that make it on to newspapers and quite frankly my dear,
we are unexceptional and quite mediocre (or at least they say).
but this is what we are and we are these things in the most beautiful way.
so please,don't take these words in a bad way when they throw them at you. Instead, hug them and realize that you are are you and that those who don't value you , lack some good judgement and are quite plain in perspective. And overall, they will never have the privilege to truly see your wonder.
so when they stick the word "unexceptional" on to your forehead,remember you are unexceptional in the most exceptional way.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 10:47 PM UTC
An unexceptional relationship
Is one with few words,
Where few thoughts converge
Nothing is given or taken or got
Not much was sold, stolen or bought
Some few true smiles, But zero harsh words
What can you say when not much is said
The texts that we sent meant little when read
The heights weren't too high and the lows were too low
To make up for the way that it goes
So I think that I'll leave
And I think that you know
It's ourselves we deceive
With this sham of a show
And I truly believe
We're better off on our own
So, Good bye,
And have a beautiful life.
I hope things go well
My new never wife
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 7:38 PM UTC
As thunder put paid to my tranquility,
I ventured out of my darkened room,
Into my fecund garden,
Amidst blooms I'd lovingly brought forth,
Unblemished, unexceptional.
Fraught with anxiety,
I searched,
For peace, joy, equanimity.
And then the Gale brought me,
A shock of pink.
A battered displaced bloom,
Torn from home by violent gusts of wind,
Left to the mercies of strangers,
Disparate, unconnected,
Yet vivid, ablaze.
Ephemeral perhaps,
But substantial.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 9:46 AM UTC
There was almost a fight once.
I say almost, because it was.
I saw it with my own eyes,
in the bus station
that isn’t there anymore
because they blew it up
and everyone cheered.
I don’t remember it much
because this is years ago
and I hadn’t finished university yet
but I was standing in line, as you do,
avoiding eye contact,
like the cucumber
sandwiched between a grey old lady
and a pregnant girl on her phone,
waiting for the X4
or whatever it was called.
I was eating something
and then the black man stood up,
not too far away,
went up to the elderly man,
told him to move, got in his face
like an optician inspecting your eyes
except with more venom.
You could see it in the way he moved.
I don’t know what words were spilt.
I didn’t hear. I said I only saw it.
Then he, the black man that is,
kicked the other man in the shin
with the tip of his boot.
I just stood and watched
like everybody else
because it’s an unexpected moment
in an unexceptional place
as a brief scuffle began,
a thrashing of arms, a spell of aggression.
It ended.
The old man sat down again,
rubbing his leg as strangers spoke.
The black man looked riled.
Cops came out of nowhere
as if they magically transported
to a bus depot by mistake.
I don’t know what happened next
because I got my ride home
and got on with my life,
but I like to think they nicked him
for causing a minor ruckus.
But they probably didn’t.
The buses don’t go there anymore
because they exploded the station.
I might’ve said that earlier.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 12:32 PM UTC
A single page of her
fills her lover's world
ardent appetite to be cradled like the
adoration of a mortal unexceptional goddess
who sometimes has high-heeled shoes of clay
leaves her and her lover to waver among
joys shared blissfully diffused by tears shed quietly
A single page of her is written
with the fundamental spirit of a lust for love
an ambition to live loves dream
which is center to every man and womans heart
A single page of her is provender for the soul
with a common language of immortal romantic notions
A single page of her
just a human being
with another human being
just an exceptional love within an uncomplicated heart
softly written open to lights of loving warmth
A single word of her
fills the canvas with brilliant colors
takes on the shapes of this feverish love affair
takes on the hue's of these hearts at ease
that wrestle each other naked souls
then cleave to each other with a dire thirst
A single word of her statuesque illustration
histories and futures softly spoken in the animated night
expressions of this average celestial throne
this world of exceptional average simple beauties
A single word of hers
that i have never actually heard
but knowing its there unspoken in her eyes
just a human being
A single picture of her
fills a poet's hands with rich verse
words laden with potent essence within their expression
as wild as the wind in the deepest part of the rain
as enriched as breathing exaltation and splendor
her photograph pasted to the mirror's edge
as if she were a reflection of dreams
as if perfection had a name
A single picture of her
embroidered by a light that shines
only from some souls
a warmth that greets every passing stranger
an intensity that verges on fire
A single moment of her time
leaves impressions upon you that will breathe within you
growing in the remembrance
like roses upon the vine
interwoven and lovely in the warm light
just a human being
but she will always be
just Kristen
© 2018 mark john junor all rights reserved
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
You are the primary colors in their purest form. The following argument explains why:
Red
People tend to associate red with danger,
but you are not a warning sign.
You represent the russet in a robin's
breast feathers, the imaginative crimson passion
only humans can produce. Constantly moving,
thriving, your brain is multiple shades
of garnet gems - I can feel it in your skin
when I finally get to massage your heated veins.
Your flaming vermilion soul is
the only one to match my own.
Blue
You are the calmest turquoise ocean, yet
you pulsate with every breath.
There are so many varieties of blue
found in nature, and I can hear all of them
when your fingers tap an instrument.
Your music turns broken energy into
waves and waves and a soft, steady breeze.
I will take a dip into your teal silk arms and
stay for eternity. Sapphire isn't a way to the blues;
it's a realistic path to tranquility and the deepest skylines.
Yellow
You are golden beyond all other beings.
The warmth of your smile, your
soft eyes are a glowing reminder
of your effervescence. There's a child-like
wanderer in your heart that's seeking ecstasy
and the opportunity to bring us absolute bliss.
This is the part of you that makes you part of everything.
You are daises and sunshine. You are in
my favorite yarn and the amber streak
on an otherwise empty canvas.
Overall
You are a prism of idealistic intensities,
saturation and pigments
that are lost on the unexceptional.
Your arc of varied hues gleam beyond what a
human should be capable of mastering.
You are incredible illumination at its finest.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:55 PM UTC
I find that the poems I write about you
lack the impressive metaphors and stanzas.
They are less raw, less ****** less bleak,
than the lines I wrote previously.
I find that the poems I write about you
are half empty, or half full. There is a void
in my brain, because I'm not sure
if your eyes are more of a cerulean or a sapphire.
I used to have another "blue eyed wonder,"
although now, in hindsight, I see that
he was not wondrous, he was unexceptional,
and you are more worthy of that title.
But, my poems are suffering at your ubiquity,
as I cannot find the suitable analogies. And it
makes me question how true we could be.
If I can tell you my innermost feelings in a heartbeat,
is this a sincere, an unfeigned, a dependable love?
Or just another opportunity for me to get hurt?
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
At fourteen I learned to sail—
The difference between true wind and gale.
I learned that babies do not come from prayer
And wondered if we were all wanted,
As my mother often said.
At fourteen, I stopped myself from caring
What kids on the bus thought of me,
Or whether I ate school lunch alone.
How unnecessary had been all that fear,
When I learned that I liked myself
Without their praise.
At fourteen, I learned that other girls
Cared only about pimply boys
And the dates, rings and ownership each claimed.
What a small, unexceptional life, I thought!
But at fourteen, I was too selfish
To pity them, much less humor their desires.
At fourteen, I realized that my dad was imperfect,
When he dodged the excise tax on his car.
Did he commit this tiny sin to rebel
Against an unappreciative wife,
Or did he feel the vicissitudes of life
As I had just begun to do?
At fourteen, the world was opening
Like a lotus flower in a teacup,
Soon to spill over and fill my soul
With longing for passion and logic,
But for something else ineffable.
I would find in later years
That the wanting itself could be enough
To stir those depths into song or quiet joy.
Of all the things in my soul and mind
And in the world beyond, I would learn,
That the only absolute is inexplicable—
The only perfect, human thing is love.
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 4:49 PM UTC
Going to and from somewhere not far,
I pass a couple of children on scooters
shouting, Ice Cream!
from across the street.
When I dare to raise my eyes to look out
instead of down at my shoes as I walk
I instantly see faces of strangers,
crying- Eyesore. I know they are right.
But nobody is selling what I want.
It does not seem producible.
It is not a house on a corner, the size and charm
of a dormitory, with window treatments.
It is not those shoes my sister likes with the red soles
or sunglasses my mother likes with the diamonds
or the endorphins or the caffeine or the career ladder.
I do not covet Ice Cream, the biggest or best thing,
and I don’t have romance for pipe dreams either.
That is someone's else’s dream,
unexceptional, formless, but probably fulfilling.
I hope I am never fulfilled.
In my hand there’s a digital map that orients me
in a roundabout. I am a breathing oscillating blue dot.
I can’t get anywhere from here.
Why do I not want Ice Cream or summer dresses?
Why do I not want to be out on the town, meeting new people?
Why do I not participate?
I watch people on television, traveling.
I am so scared.
I listen to Neil Armstrong radioing from the moon.
I scan the transcripts over and over of
Earhart circling Howland Island:
*We are unable to hear you
to take a bearing.*
Intermittent despair- what can you make from that?
I look up to see the sun caught in the tail end trail
of a jet. I wave:
*Do you hear my signals.
Please acknowledge.*
And then all my thoughts are frostwork and blue
with parachutes and windows on walls
and I am filled with clouds and I can’t see.
We cannot see you.
Now I know I begin and end with images,
how far across this field can my voice spread out,
extend and reach in singing, in screaming?
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
A body of Innocence
filled with unexceptional notions
Innocent of the occupied realm
of reality...
With the vows of assurance
to the betterment of oneself
Burdened by the Ignorance
and Denial of others...
Pictures the amused self
but a Projection of confusions...
Maintaining a moderate phase
of Life
And growing with the Faith of
Truth and Compassion to a
Self of Hopeful dreamer
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
the thing is,
you aren't magnificent.
my mind isn't laced,
with the thought of you.
there is no rarity,
beaming from behind your eyes;
no slight shimmer of a marvel,
beaneath the surface of your skin.
falling in line with those ahead,
and those behind:
you bore me.
if i was given a chance to pull back,
your carefully sealed unexceptional flesh,
would i see and feel something,
i was unaware you possessed?
a tiny glimmer of unprecedented original beauty,
an unknown personal outlet
exemplifying fearless individualism?
...or would i be disappointed,
by the nearly hollow expected interior,
singularly displaying a rudimentary *** drive,
and the unimaginative blueprints,
on how to fulfill it.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC
When hate gives oxygen to publicity
you surprisingly realize
that obscurity is the killer
for obscurity is bland, unworthy, pedestrian, not notable
just another one in ten, fifty, six hundred,
just a *** actually *** is very appropriate
wild, uncouth, mindless bellicose nothing itching to rumble and vent
that's the place the asinine bully originates
so sit back and dissect the nonentities bullies
obscure, insignificant...defo not please with their lives
***Defo not a professional..in fulfilling rewarding work leaves no time
to mess around looking for attention or validation
***Immature, not well read or intelligent...OBVIOUSLY!. intelligence
at least real intelligence offers confidence, balance, self assurance
***Talent-less and unexceptional...OBVIOUSLY...creative talented people find better and right outlets than trolling or venting or hating
***Most likely ugly with no personality...YES!...most bullies are exactly that, the fat ugly ******* at checkouts, the long nosed hag at the store the weedy fellows, the unkempt, yeah, mostly they are not visually nice in appearance
***No strength of Character...OBVIOUSLY, bullies are alway weak, insecure, inadequate cowards.
Confident secure people in a good place emotionally would never dream of bullying
***Juvenile mentality, feral, unsociable, dorkish...that almost a staple for bullies, just some no mark simpleton looking for attention, they think it booster them amongst others
Imagine the thoughts of all these hapless nonentities
making one the target of their neurosis or sad happenstance
actually taking the time and making the effort to troll and do ****
Man..that's some serious **** can make a lesser person big-headed
I don't even write Fan letters to Artists I appreciate
( I should really write and praise Stormzy for his Charitable work )
much less sit and bother some other human with hate and bullying
that to me is as low as you can get.
If you're good I try to learn from you not Hate you...wow!
YES, OBSCURITY IS THE KILLER
Its really sad to be insignificant, no mark, pathetic drones
worst still, appears the only distractions to their pained obscurities
is Bullying...and look what bullies are, little wonder they talk of going in vicious circles.....
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 7:13 AM UTC