"unframed" poems
#there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow towards the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
overwhelms unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge
A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace
Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed
The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind
An emotionally enslaved heart
tarries, marooned high and dry
in a memory on a distant sand bar
lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless
Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate; vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake
It's getting harder and harder
for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree
Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp
A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil
Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas
Jesse Stillwater
June 2018
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 12:41 PM UTC
As I sit here, at the dining room table and stare over decaf coffee at the screen on my Mac
my eyes are drawn, once and awhile, to the picture sitting on the buffet in the butler's pantry.
Before we continue you should know that "butler's pantry" in this case
means the "third bedroom" that we saw in the listing on Realtor dot com before we bought the house and that,
in the usual real estate-ese, is an optimistic label at best.
But I was talking about the picture.
The picture sits, slightly askew, in a carved wooden bowl given to us by my wife's boss
as a housewarming present.
It, the bowl I mean, came with salad tongs or forks,
depending on what it is that you call them,
made of water buffalo horn.
They sit in the bowl too and,
although she'd never admit it,
I know that the thought of serving salad with water buffalo horn salad forks...
lets just say.....
doesn't appeal to my wife.
Right, the picture....
It sits in on the buffet,
in the carved wooden bowl,
next to another wood bowl.
This one full of carved wood fruits and vegetables,
which evidently, includes sugar cane.
When my wife's dad moved from his house to an assisted living facility
the kids, my wife, her brother and sister, took turns going down to help him move.
My wife was the last and dad insisted that
someone
"had" to take the fruit.
But, the picture....
It, and the wooden bowls full of fruit and unused salad forks,
are surrounded by both faux and real glassware
and placemats
which all sit perched
on the top of the buffet as precariously as refugees
and all of their belongings
on the deck and roof of an overloaded fishing boat
chugging from their homeland
to some place that is hopefully better.
The picture...
It was painted by my father-in-law and,
of all the others we have in the house,
is one of my favorites.
It sits on the buffet, askew in the carved wooden bowl with the horn salad forks,
amid polycarbonate and glass drink ware,
and placemats,
unframed for some reason.
All of his other works came framed
but this is one he did not...
and did I mention that it is one of my favorites?
I like his choices of frames on all of the other pictures we have,
but this is just canvas, stretched over a frame,
sitting in that carved African wooden bowl
with those salad forks made from water buffalo horn
on the buffet next to the other wood bowl full of wooden fruits and vegetables,
and wooden sugar cane,
in the butler's pantry.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 9:51 AM UTC
wax runs slowly from his candle
as ink flows freely from his pen
daydreams stretched out on his anvil
where each word he hammers into rhythm
with skill he’s tooling an ode of mourning
beside his fire lies a sonnet undone
paintings of prose around him are scattered
and unframed verses his walls adorn
a haiku sweet graces his table
a ballad long covers his floor
his home already filled to overflowing
one wonders if there is room for more
he’s unable to sell them, try as he might
though each skillfully crafted is a work of art
still driven he labors long into the night
his blood turns to ink as he pours out his heart
down at the market where men sell their wares
poems fetch only a penny a line
he’s chosen a craft that a pittance pays
he’ll have to settle for a book of rhymes
his inkwell low he walks down to the store
where he refills his stock of whiskey and wine
exchanging his farthings for bread and butter
and a chance at a glance of a fair lass fine
she, his inspiration, and fuel to his fire
yet she’ll ne'er know, she’s his psalm to be sung
so on marches time and their verse can't be written
for his words flow on page, just not from his tongue
so the wax keeps running from his candle dim
the ink from this wordsmith continues to flow
his daydreams he hammers over his anvil
but prose they might have written we’ll never know
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC
I kissed someone's wife today.
It felt better than I wanted it to.
In my tiny bedroom,
the walls looked more beige than usual.
Martha laid beside me -- her idea.
Frames.
I didn't have frames on a couple posters.
Martha rested her head on my shoulder -- her idea.
Instead of putting up my clean laundry,
an **** of boxers, button-downs, and jeans took place on the floor.
Martha told me she liked her hair played with -- I didn't ask.
I left my cigarettes in plain sight
on top of a face down picture frame.
She slid my arm under her neck -- I couldn't be rude.
While she spoke of her husband watching cartoons,
I noticed **** (used during last week's *** with an ex) lying behind a couple beer bottles.
I put my right leg between her legs -- I can't help it if I'm a curious man.
When Martha pulled the blanket over our heads,
I hoped she couldn't smell my ex's perfume.
She let me run my fingers along her waistline -- she didn't tell me to stop until the fourth kiss.
Tributaries of mascara ran down her face.
Rivers of regret rushed out of her mouth.
I played out what would have happened -- had I not grabbed her, pressed my lips harder on the fourth.
"I'm not this kind of girl."
I told her things would be better with her husband.
Handing her a clean rag off the floor, she said -- "My life wasn't supposed to turn out this way."
I broke up the **** of clothes, grabbed an armful; made a beeline for the closet.
With a beautiful sound, a beer bottle broke as I passed by.
Martha's teary eyes saw the **** -- "What the hell were you planning to do?"
She slammed the door.
One of my unframed posters peeled itself off the wall and feathered to the ground.
Most of me felt cloudy, but I knew one thing -- she's got a good 50 years of marriage to go to spite me.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC
Romancing the theories obviated by practice
Cryptic names in the fiasco
Work supplants play for the new actors
So time is technology?
Mass ethics supersede reason
Who are the cornerstone language guardians?
Radical superordination is for all
Ancient mystery can still delineate precise uncertinty
Shall edicts manifest by resurrection?
The conundrum must be isolated from protocol
In an analysis suddenly unframed
Compromise only promises compounded civility
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Your technicolor emotions turn into watered-down versions when the alcohol seeps into your veins. Creating watercolor paint, and with that, you craft me images of a world unframed. Sculpting beauty from hope and wonders you found on the floor.
Perspective lost to the consumption of liquid courage. Making way for actions unrestrained. A little too much. A little too lost. A little too loosely letting your tongue take charge. Amplified by longing. Tainted by the ever-growing ghost of tomorrow.
You will not remember when morning comes. The art you drew in lazy circles around my weary body. The daunting fables you wrote me into. Left to be nothing more than simple fever dreams to reminisce over.
Jun 24, 2019
Jun 24, 2019 at 7:14 AM UTC
Splattered boots
stand ready, resting
from tied black laces
and muddy roads.
An attaché case
gapes too,
cwtches the photo
of a young woman
with dark wavy hair,
her unframed
forever- smile
focussed on a face
behind the camera
at the moment
the shutter clicked
and clicks and clicks
opening and closing,
packing and unloading,
staying and leaving,
making up a bed
from striped & labelled
winceyette.
Here's a tear
of tissue paper
stabbed urgently
on folded cloth
with random red stitches.
Here's the Star
of King David
pointing upwards,
locked on the blanket
by one steel safety pin.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
Memories aren't made to be broken,
Yet lie in shards, each piece
Refracting unframed pictures.
Promises aren't made to be broken,
But words are malleable.
Hearts are too often broken, quartered
And flung to the elements.
Spirit cannot be broken
Under any crushing worry.
And love,
Away or dwelling,
Encompassing love;
Battered, betrayed,
Exalted, praised;
Spent like money,
Treasured, yet free as air.
Most invulnerable,
Most vulnerable;
Frail and omnipotent.
Unbreakable.
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 9:37 AM UTC
You're seated somewhere in
The realm of the unnamed
I've tried in jest to plunder you
With phrase; though you're unframed.
You are not a man I'll claim
With meter, phrase and line
The metaphors I'd set aside
You've not allowed to bind
In other ways I'll keep you
When the pen and page will not
My finger tips will bid you stay
When body's all I've brought.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 12:58 PM UTC
Sometimes I forget and the bells are unrung
Prayers unsaid
Hymns unsung
Sometimes I forget and the dirt is unstirred
Sky unrained
Birds unheard
Sometimes I forget and the worms are unfed
Bough unblown
Leaves unshed
Sometimes I forget and your face is unframed
Bed unseen
Stone unnamed
Sometimes I forget and your voice is unstopped
Flowers uncut
Life uncropped
Sometimes I forget and my smile is unfeigned
Nights undark
Days unpained
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 9:38 AM UTC
One night in a blacked out dream , I saw the queen.
**** **** **** strong and dark with no cream.
She keeps me up.
Beautiful art unframed and unfinished; begging a young Picasso -
To put the touch of his brush.
Kilo for kilo she's my addiction.
As the queen, I hit her 'gram' with the smoothest diction.
Not trying to collide but I'm lovin' her friction -
And despite impending demise and my lates affliction;
I see in her royal eyes, "Is he real or fiction?"
Those brown sugar eyes, they won't gleam - Even if a young prince got green and clean.
She discerns what glitters and what ain't gold.
She doesn't know much about love but she knows about soul.
That's why her heart isn't package and her time ain't sold.
She walks as if she's in glass slippers italicizing a beautiful woman in bold.
She's the dopest so she's never fiend and she's never leaned.
That black never cracked and her aspirations, she's never quit.
She a lil bit thick but she ain't never bricked, all net my baby;
I'll never pass her, that's just swish.
She got that Bantu up in Bambu -
Don't get it twisted.
That melanin poppin', not her cherry, she won't risk it.
She put Lynch on the bench - ain't no ***** ever ran through but they ran to.
She's the reincarnation of her mama, but she embodies her grandma.
She got the realest figure, before never after the comma.
Divined by God, designed by God;
Her eyebrows stay 'fleek' and her edges stay laid.
Her ideal man: good cook, a good lover and a good maid.
She always talks about living on her own, she actin' so grown.
She just wants a house with a man who knows how to go out but stay home.
To her, her womb is like the treasure of the Earth,
Don't talk about planting no seed unless you nurturing the dirt.
She's all about last, cause her last is her first.
And for all her dinner dates she hopes they end in desert.
By twelve midnight, she adorns her head-cloth, head wrap, head scarf -
Don't hit up her FaceTime unless you just want to talk.
She's the queen of all colors, she wears that black like it's true.
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
~
“Pristine your pose, exposed artistic allure”
Canvas on easel waits patiently
Naked in formless thought
Inviting rapture’s brush strokes
“White on white destined pleadings”
Visions engulf watercolor yearnings
Blending passion’s tints…
Seductive bristled breaths fall
“Soft curves fill unframed desires”
Olive skin seeps semi-gloss wishes
Hues of fire fed glazing
Smooth along tender tan lines
“Valleys of bliss penetrate oiled needs”
Mahogany eyes captivate
Pearl’d glints shimmer silently
Beckoning in secretive glances
“Portal’d palettes draw on my sight”
Crimson lips in whimper’d pout
Satin pillow’d arching designs
Whisper me my dreams
“Their touch breaks my will”
As I paint you, I linger in lust
Overwhelmed by your beauty
Falling helplessly into this masterpiece
“And we become one via art”
Saturated in drop cloth drippings
Sighs of fevered temptations rise
Releasing abstract movements
“Acrylic serenity, vibrant achings”
Melting in chromatic motion
Collapsing among overspray imagination
Embracing iridescent ending
“Lost forever in a portrait of love”
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 9:19 AM UTC
wax runs slowly from his candle
as ink flows freely from his pen
daydreams stretched out on his anvil
where each word he hammers into rhythm
with skill he’s tooling an ode of mourning
beside his fire lies a sonnet undone
paintings of prose around him adorning
with unframed verses below and above
a haiku sweet graces his table
a ballad long covers his floor
more he would add if he were able
but one wonders if there is room for more
yet still driven he labors long into the night
his blood turns to ink until morning light
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
A Portrait of Love
“Pristine your pose, exposed artistic allure”
Canvas on easel waits patiently
Naked in formless thought
Inviting rapture’s brush strokes
“White on white destined pleadings”
Visions engulf watercolor yearnings
Blending passion’s tints…
Seductive bristled breaths fall
“Soft curves fill unframed desires”
Olive skin seeps semi-gloss wishes
Hues of fire fed glazing
Smooth along tender tan lines
“Valleys of bliss penetrate oiled needs”
Mahogany eyes captivate
Pearl’d glints shimmer silently
Beckoning in secretive glances
“Portal’d palettes draw on my sight”
Crimson lips in whimper’d pout
Satin pillow’d arching designs
Whisper me my dreams
“Their touch breaks my will”
As I paint you, I linger in lust
Overwhelmed by your beauty
Falling helplessly into this masterpiece
“And we become one via art”
Saturated in drop cloth drippings
Sighs of fevered temptations rise
Releasing abstract movements
“Acrylic serenity, vibrant achings”
Melting in chromatic motion
Collapsing among overspray imagination
Embracing iridescent ending
“Lost forever in a portrait of love”
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 7:33 AM UTC
I have lost all sense of time, hours linger
days fade, I look at photographs
those of you and I, unframed
in gardens, or mountains
or pictures from the hotel
the warmth of you, my chilly toes
lonely - I remember your smile
the window, the trickle
of autumn rain.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
When I look in your eyes
I see an unframed painting
Soft pastels of love and joy
Then harsh streaks of the
Darkest shades of grey;
The pain and angst splashed
Along the center of the canvas
So here I am, lover first
Painter now, here to cover
The greys with pinks and yellows
Blues and violets to remind you
Of the colorful sunrise you see
Each time you look in my eyes
Together, our world is a painting
Splashed with the pastel shades of love
And the simmering passions of reds
Let me be the frame to your canvas
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 10:17 AM UTC
Blankets of blankness sit staring blankly into thine eyes,
while piercing wails of silence cradle in lobes of flesh.
Seal'ed doors of unframed bricks sit idly, occluding the sight of thy mind.
All the while, focus evades the perilous thoughts that thresh.
Still, well-knowing that of thy key to openness,
which lieth still within thy breast,
must, perhaps, be lost at best,
in cold, dark lying emptiness.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 3:03 PM UTC
.
Inmost as cold tomb,
A soul is left, hushed,
Only seeks true light,
Unframed, shows itself.
Welcome to breaking,
All minds who question,
Let the whispers rail,
Only for an ears open.
Look into chaos here
At the edges of doom,
Wish for nothing's no
Upset by veins so blue.
We are cut runners, all
Braving into new upsets,
Take countings down,
All days are numbered.
Jan 16, 2017
Jan 16, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
Satanic finger tips glide across the glass
as I am entrapped within a mirror
watching in my delirium as you pass
silently awaiting for you to draw nearer
For you to look deep into darkened eyes
to dig my nails into your deceptive skin
pulling you inside, where the true you lies
to the evil you repress within
As transparent tears trickle down your face
a viscous scarlet blood drips off of mine
as your unfortunate existence will erase
when a body and reflection combine
Bound to me, by torturous chains
my imprisoning glass blood spattered
inaudible screams trapped within the remains
of the mirror that was unframed, the glass shattered.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
Hello lonely madness
We meet once again
It's too soon, although I did expect to see you
Im just not ready
Hello lonely madness
The numbness is abiding, it never goes away
And when I think it does, we meet again some day
My mind is overtaken
My thoughts are overtook, my heart aches, yet I can't feel a single bit of hurt
Hello lonely madness,
Do you ever go away
They have another name for you
Depression is what they say
You take all the emotion
Not just the love but the pain
And leave me with nothing
Just empty and unframed
Hello lonely madness
Can't you go away
you've taken all my passion, there is not much else left to take
Do you want to see me lifeless
Or locked up in a cell
Maybe you shall get your way
Or maybe, just maybe i'll live another day
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 10:32 PM UTC
I wish I could frame this floating...
where the head sheds...
blank snapshots that bloom
forever.
Just to mindfully crawl inside the frame...
stretch, sigh and become unframed.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:35 AM UTC
You're prettier than a tree
Nonchalant beauty alone
Up the bare hill
Reposes in the golden Beams
lightly warm and free
to placate the moody wind
in the abode of leams
far from the thirsty rill
and the doggedly crow
and all of it I can imagine to own
Far in the abandoned land
Beyond that bare hill
Where a lake mimics tranquility
A womb of life laden and still
Mirrors as your calm beauty
And all of it I can see
From my dormer window
From a portrait of me
A sketch unframed, unfinished
On an easel, fancifully colored
Waits frailly thy brush and hand
To accomplish my metamorphosis
To achieve thy miraculous guesses
Of the unity of pure whiteness
And colors of passionate kisses.
Written by
Jamal Abboud
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
For a moment I smiled
The happiness I felt
couldn't be withheld.
For a moment I forgot
what it was like
to be on this constant cliff
I call my temporary home
Temporary but I've put up posters
Don't worry, the unframed kind
with thumbtacks in each corner
I forgot what it felt like
to have tears always at the back
of my eyes, to always hurt
For a moment
For a moment there were no sharp corners
no new love for me to trip over
no dark phones shadowing my thoughts
no empty space for my monster to run free
I held my breath and smiled
Then laughed, the kind that makes
my stomach ache in a good way
and my cheeks sore and stiff
For a moment I was free of everything
and it felt warm, because I'm always cold.
Just for a moment.
Then I woke up.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
This is the youngest I’ll ever be
going forward in this day
with gifts that I’ve received
along with all the miseries
unframed years beckon on
without a promise of the count
marked against where I am
in the spotlight of the now
there is no turning back
except to forgive and then forget
put aside the chains of angst
to move forward without regret
time is a measure without regard
beyond the present winding down
at this mark of youth’s demise
pushing forward to my desires.
© 2019. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20190316.
Mar 17, 2019
Mar 17, 2019 at 3:25 PM UTC
Hanging on a weakened nail
hidden just beyond fraudulent glass
the vile mask on the other side
of the impeccable portrait enframed
Naive eyes, blinded by distorted ways
as deceptions were glossed over
though transparent, were not seen
nor heard, past mendacious lips
Unhanging a diminishing adoration
a cherry wood falls from the wall
indentations, untrusting fragments
adorn the tiles of a bare floor
For inauthentic memories to release
trickle, down upon morose cheeks
seeping through credulous hands
onto the photograph unframed.
By, Melissa June
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 3:23 PM UTC