"unfindable" poems
There are moments in life.
Then there are moments, in life.
It's a gift to know exactly when
you discovered what love really is.
It was laying ear to ear with you,
So quiet I can almost hear your thoughts.
Cheeks pressed together,
yours so much softer than mine.
Laying, our backs on the cooled pavement
watching the sky spread out,
and the world roll over.
It's knowing I see you in a way few if any will.
A beauty that stretches past words.
Unfindable in any magazine or movie.
A living breathing diamond.
Intangible and unequaled.
It was the late night rides with the windows down.
The heat of the day dying on the breath of the wind.
The entire air charged with nostalgia.
Full of thoughts of friends and memories and feelings.
Watching the headlights cut the darkest parts of the night.
Thinking I'd die before I could find a way
to explain exactly what you mean to me,
but knowing I'd never be so happy to try for the rest of life itself.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 8:32 PM UTC
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign --
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
****** up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down --
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
3.6k
Seeking the unseekable,
Falling up,
Melting into solid,
Cloning the uncloneable,
Finding the unfindable,
Doing the undoable,
Living while dead,
I have been impossible.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
I wonder why
Jerome
Likes my word
'Unfindable'
Seems absurd!
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 5:33 AM UTC
Near two decades since they arrived
The two geminis that would change the world
Fumblestumbletumble to teenage dream (phone screens are like stars in the night)
Two sets of eyes long for the landscape beyond the foggy window they share
They are specters like all teenagers
Shadows floating down hallways with the echoes of laughs left behind
But magic lies in those lilting giggles
As if to mock Plato himself for ever dreaming of the shadows (and the caves and)
Heads tilt as eyes gleam
Hair puffed with the tempest of their heredity and half-remembered fears
(Assuming fears can be so)
Shakes with the head as the laughter begins
Self aware at the kabuki theater
While in the vibrations of the beat to their dance
The poet's heart throbs and the champion's digs into the ground
Roots to dig and battles to win
Love (they say it's all you need but) in each wrist-flick and hug
Defiant in its drive (to what end)
The air is warm inside when we sit on a couch
Unaskable questions flying like the teenage dreams
And even though the wind blowing freezes
Sometimes the only warmth to thaw the skin comes from a loosened tongue
Or a smile with the unfindable answers shining on each tooth
So they laugh
And I am forever grateful
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 1:13 AM UTC
'Unfindable'
Is now 'Trending'
So our Jerome
Is not alone!
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 4:58 AM UTC
My heart is in so much pain
It's almost unbearable
My smile has become so fake
It's hardly believable
My life has become so sad
It's like a new lifestyle
My mind has become so lost
The Sanity's unfindable
My time is almost up
And the clock is unwinedable
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
I shelter myself so fiercely.
I am an ongoing discussion;
my life isn't perceived the same.
Do you know I love talking about the most unusual things?
Do you know I can't go a day without my mother's voice?
I wake to a new perception of myself,
one I've made for someone new.
The idea of knowing Diane,
the idea of me being open.
You'll grow tired, I can tell;
I always could.
I'm a girl who is scared:
scared of what the real me reveals,
scared of hurting myself,
scared of how you'll see me.
You can't know how obsessed I become,
you can't know how much power and wealth i crave,
you can't know how much love I hold to give.
I am dull,
I am unfindable.
I am nowhere;
I am lost.
I can't locate what I'm terrified people will see.
They always leave.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 5:43 AM UTC
Even my mind
Is mere appearance
To my mind
There have been a few things
I've been trying to find
That keep on appearing
To my mind
You
And me
And everything we see
Will be found unfindable
By you and by me
If I look for my house
Within it's parts
Start with the roof?
Then set it apart
And now the walls
Set them apart too.
Now the heart of the matter
The last resort
Maybe the floor
(Or the front door)
Now where is my house
Seen by me
And by you?
That house where I live
We will both find
Only exists
Inside my mind
And even my mind
Is mere appearance
To my mind
Sean Hunt
Windermere December 30 2015
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 4:22 AM UTC
Where is my poem
Where can it be found
Before it's written down
It cannot be found
Then when written down
And read by someone new
Do they read the poem
Read by me or you?
Is the title the poem
Or the first line
If you check you will see
It's not any single line
The poem's not a verse
The poem's not a word
The poem's not a salad
Of sounds that are heard
The poem is unfindable
Try, if you dare
You cannot point at it
Or find it anywhere
It may inspire some ire
You may burn it in a fire
Or place it in a gilded frame
To be read again and again
But! If your poem is about a certain man
Be careful what you say
Assassins may come
And take your life away
Sean Hunt
Windermere May 201
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 6:14 PM UTC
From your empty mind
Find something to say
That has not yet been said
Find a bride
That has not yet been wed
A country not yet found
On this belching ball
Hurling through the universe
Find a secret never heard
In human words
And a riddle yet unsolved
By the wisdom
Of our sages
Through the dimness
Of the ages
Sign the unsignable
Find the unfindable
Send out the summons
For that child of a barren woman
Sean Hunt Sept 2016
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
The words are there, and
they are lost, unfindable . . .
just suspension points.
Jul 16, 2023
Jul 16, 2023 at 3:12 AM UTC
why is every call empty
why is life meaningless
why are conversations lies
why are compliments shallow
why are you so optimistic
why is hope unfindable
why are there so many questions
and why are there no answers
why is there nothing but emptiness
why is there no rest other than death
why are my messages always
unanswered
why is my voice never heard
why does everyone move on without me
why does silence seem so loud
why is loneliness comforting
and why is being alone so painful
why do you seem to love me
but only when no one else is around
Sep 22, 2021
Sep 22, 2021 at 7:26 PM UTC