"ungainly" poems
****
(noun)
1. any undesirable or troublesome plant, especially one that grows profusely where it is not wanted
2. a cigarette
3. ungainly person or animal
the weeds in the garden,
though sometimes unwanted,
sprout from the dirt yet full of life,
little in worth, yet lovely.
the weeds that we smoke,
dangerous to our health,
tasting bittersweet like memories
yet brings us short-lived ecstasy.
the **** of my life,
he was nothing but trouble
that brought about mirth
in my too-perfect garden;
he frustrated the people
who tended to me,
growing back into my life
every time they plucked him out.
unwanted but lovely.
dangerous but lively.
he was my whole definition of ****
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
words fall
like hapless fledglings
tossed from a cliff edged nest
with much screeching, squawking,
countless feathers lost
and then an awful thump
or hopeful, glorious flight
first love is tachycardiac love
all adrenaline, sweating palms
and stutter-stumbling sqeakings,
ungainly gropings,
when not with you, mopings
unrealistic hopings
for happy ever after endings,
breakings, bendings,
awkward mendings,
repeated leavings,
repented lovings.
heartfelt givings,
of broken hearted rendings.
lendings,
of time stolen from life
tearing, teasing,
tantalising teamings
crying, begging,
pleading strife
and then,
the metaphorical knife
cutting, slashing,
wordblow bashing,
screaming, reaming,
end to loves life.
til eventually, words fall,
like old birds leavings
to settle, unremarked upon
at the base of the tree of life.
first love's loss, is slow dying.
arrhythmia to flatline
in a multitude of laboured breaths
and long lingering sighs.
a loss of warmth,
from breast and thighs
and water copious,
falling from red rimed eyes.
sobbing, murmuring,
don't know whys?
from lips turned
toward,
bleakset skies.
as one settles firmly,
into black dog muck
no longer able to give a f▼ck.
tucked in tight to sadness,
lost all sight of former gladness,
caught up and shackled tight,
to the badness
around and around,
the carousel goes.
then,
at last,
the blessed silence,
as you die
one of many of....
life's little deaths
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
train myself to write anywhere and at any time...
as commissioned by ms. melan
~'~'~'~'~
so I, being a being,
a poet who carries his mind scheming
with him:
drags along his body and soul,
just in case:
that his hands might feel the touch of
beauty, skin and beyond,
the exteriors of his interiors,
to feel, to feel, to feel
every one of his surfaces,
the reality of his peculiar real
his eyes so one can envision the unimaginable,
and thus, never be satisfied,
for all is
always new,
beyond original
that his ugly, ungainly ears,
may never miss the sound of his tripping & falling
head!over!heels with the realization,
he just might be foolishly
in love
the tastes of life's living that
make his pulse race,
crease his smiling face,
causing his blood pressure so high
he pleads to surrender,
just begging to let his tongue
survive
and smells that arouse,
producing & promising
words proud & profound,
that have yet to succeed
in capturing
the fullness
of the
special musk odor
that masks
allure of attraction
no, not a lot to ask for…
5:26am
SunSep13
two zero two five
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 5:35 AM UTC
*Moon swept itching dark
Twilight, sunrises curtain
pink lids - open eyes
Crossing the shallows
trout fingerling feed at dawn
White dots steep hill path
My stride increases
a shadow skipping pebbles
lone thoughts dismissed
White dappled ginger
Ungainly long knobbed legs,
rolling - then sitting aware
Midday, pours blue heat
Standing shading their new young,
across clear pebbled flow
Smile’s triumphant glow
rests briefly on sweet green bank
Silver flash of joy
Dusk - apart painted,
eight queued paired mare and foal
Foliage lined dark black*
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 12:34 PM UTC
I plunge into the cold water on that warm July day
no goggles, only the loose-fitting swimming trunks
I swim through the blur of chlorine
pushing through the water
when a familiar tune I heard hours earlier traps itself in my brain
and I suddenly become weightless, a plane high above in the air
The water is pure blue sky, below me the clouds
And at the bottom the city in ruins
I take my plane and dive down below the clouds
past the blur, until the city is in view just below me
I level the bomber and let it soar low above the ground
Over the pale white shells of buildings
I remember the museum exhibit that inspires this flight
I walk through, studying the pictures and the uniforms and the weapons on display
when in the distance of the room beyond I hear the familiar tune:
Brian Eno's "Ascent (An Ending)". It brings me closer, and I move past the exhibits
at a quickening pace, past the slow browsers
glancing only briefly to read, to catch a glimpse of an object, a photo, a map
I keep going, "Ascent" on a loop, its minimalist beauty entrancing me
until I find a large television in a small corner.
A few people are gathered around, solemn,
the television entrancing them, the music washing over the room.
First the white words centered against the black screen: "The Bomb".
The come the white-and-black photos and footage of the mushroom clouds hovering above Hiroshima, then Nagasaki,
standing tall like ungainly trees in an empty field.
The soundtrack to the short video before me is "Ascent",
or rather an excerpt, a piece of it, stirring strange emotions
Familiar ones that I give attribution to when I listen to it on my own.
Yet it feels different coming from this;
on the screen a few photographs of corpses and burnt victims flash by.
And then the screen fades to black, a moment of silence
before it all starts again
I hear this loop and see these images before me as I fly above
the imagined city in ruins
And for a brief moment I am the Enola Gay;
I will only know it at the bottom of a hotel pool
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:23 AM UTC
About tea
Skinny tea, sweet tea,
Elixir exiling youth's ungainly exit
Tea and a lover, vogue tea,
Tea post ****** closing shoppe
Last call tea, homework, tea-and-a-boy
A born again tea boy
Cause she promised it was better than coffee
Kinda boy, the second steep
Citrus and swords battling them free radicals
Tea in a kiss, a sweet kiss, an oooooolong kiss
Third steep to keep and keep
Expensive swishy flower vase tea
Delicate butterfly shi shi tea
Tea time, closing time,
A steep for the road
Sleep off the load
Tea night,
Tea girl
About tea.
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 9:17 PM UTC
He had a habit of forgetting
That the knife should be
At his left,
Unlike others.
Every morning, she would
mechanically
switch the fork with the knife.
When they finished lunch
she started clearing up
and noticed the knife to his right
again.
That night,
after their routine drew to a close,
They talked.
Slowly, at first.
A touchy subject walks in.
It's time.
Even as the air is knocked from her lungs,
She gets up and scrabbles on the floor.
Nails scratching the carpet.
Eyes scanning the horizon, now black.
Her brain decides to get up,
Her body disobeys.
Her body disobeys.
Isn't that what put her here in the first place?
So what if she is pretty?
So what if her eyes are sparkling emeralds?
Her belly renders her defenceless
from his onslaught.
Isn't it her fault
that it is empty?
Isn't she wrong to want
independence from him?
Mentally, physically, emotionally?
He owned her, didn't he?
He owned her, didn't he.
He explained to her the benefits
of obeying.
Her pretty face wouldn't have been
all those ungainly shades of black.
Her eyes wouldn't have been encircled by blue.
All she had to do was obey
and not tell anyone
but obey.
Her brain rebelled.
Her brain rebelled.
Her body, for once, obeyed.
She stumbled through the hallway
She knocked down her favourite frame-
Their daughter on a pony.
Kitchen, her sanctuary.
She broke her favourite China.
Hurled her utensils.
"I arranged them last week, you *****
And then she saw them.
The knives.
The knives.
They were inviting
Her hands were pale, waiting.
His heart corrupt, hating.
"Knives to your left, darling."
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
I...
think...
I...
like...
crazily chasing concocted crushes
however hasty high hopes
earnestly entangled erstwhile enthusiasm
left languishing limp lethargic
suddenly soundless stupidly selfish
every emotion enviously expectant
an abject apology absent
purposeful pleasure purportedly posed
unearthed unhealthy ungainly uncertainties
devouring devotion disgracing dogma
an accident awaiting arrival
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 12:24 AM UTC
The plums tasted
sweet to the unlettered desert-tribe girl-
but what manners! To chew into each! She was ungainly,
low-caste, ill mannered and *****
but the god took the
fruit she'd been *******
Why? She'd knew how to love.
She might not distinguish
splendor from filth
but she'd tasted the nectar of passion.
Might not know any Veda,
but a chariot swept her away-
now she frolics in heaven, ecstatically bound
to her god.
The Lord of Fallen Fools, says Mira,
will save anyone
who can practice rapture like that-
I myself in a previous birth
was a cowherding girl
at Gokul.
2.9k
oh, lovely –
another of my ugly insecurities has come undone –
unraveling from my heart, tumbling across the space between us,
ungainly in its amble towards your feet.
if i’m sorry, will that be too little? if i perform an even bigger act of affection
(not always only for compensation)
will that be too much?
was it too much the last time?
as you watch me scramble for words, for explanations,
for comprehension of my own actions,
are you sick of me?
does it make your stomach turn to see my flaws? it sure does make mine.
i can’t tell you 𝘪 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 without lying
that 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘪 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥.
anyway, would you like some tea while we watch this show?
this tragedy of errors on an endless timeline?
anything else to make your experience better?
am i condescending when i ask for concern? is it fun to battle my quiet anger with your quiet neglect?
i’m sorry, maybe i assume too much. actually, i’m sure i do.
it’s so humiliating to find meaning in everything even when i know better.
oh, lovely –
yet another insecurity.
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 1:47 PM UTC
O generation of the thoroughly smug
and thoroughly uncomfortable,
I have seen fishermen picnicking in the sun,
I have seen them with untidy families,
I have seen their smiles full of teeth
and heard ungainly laughter.
And I am happier than you are,
And they were happier than I am;
And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
2.7k
She came into my life
a karmic explosion
over a pristine
midnight blue
upstate New York
lake,
its breath
damp and warm
and sweet.
Gasping,
labored efforts
expelled a preganant breath,
a prelude to
life.
Blackflies engaged in rutualistic seance.
Lethagic mosquitos emerged
from the evening's sweet mist.
But then raged into frantic spirals,
squealing out futile messages.
Timid pines,
guardians of the ancient site,
loosed their rigid stance,
Prickly spines shivered to the ground.
Anxiously, they awaited rumors
that would quell the fetal dread
that flowed through veins,
invading their bliss.
A bulky mass stirred from somnolent state
in that mud-lined basin,
releasing brown ribbons of agitation,
and inciting a ravenous hunger.
Friendly galaxies,
former guides in his dream state,
abandoned his cause,
flickering a vague adieu.
Having cradled him for so long,
the slick muddy floor now sent him flailing to and fro,
an ungainly dance,
embarassing to watch.
Where once he thrived,
he now gasped for air.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 12:10 AM UTC
A pelican glides by
Making a long, lazy slice through the air.
The look of an ungainly and awkward bird
But a more graceful glide and flight
You will not find.
Catching the updraft right off the surface
And that pelican rides along
With barely a movement.
It is effortless.
Inches from the blue-grey waters.
It pulls up and lands on a rock outcrop
To watch as a lonely boat cuts
The water of the harbor
Heading out to sea.
Five knots in the entrance channel.
Soon it will gear up and find cruising speed
En route to who knows where
In this weather.
I hope they get there before
Those rains on the horizon arrive.
Because alone at sea in a boat
Is no way to ride out a storm.
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 2:51 AM UTC
“Every act has meaning. Accident is a word born of confusion.” –Agnes Whistling Elk
Some memories are like crude graffiti
some gray in museums
still others, vulnerable chalk on the pavement
all fade
dawn makes no promises
it never has
If you’re afraid of what the night will bring,
or worse, you know
what it’s like to be young and out
of control
leaving a scent trail of blood and flowers
for the monsters of yesterday to follow
just let them
the fighting makes me so tired
Rust in the sun until rubies form
cry through the night until you have diamonds
pressure makes us perfect
because it made the cracks that
make us imperfect
fear is ancient, normal, mundane even but
fear is the anticoagulant
Meanwhile, I am very busy
construction’s going on in Hell
disrupted by
random clouds of
revolting, revolving gravity
knocking girders loose
violent vertigo
claiming kingdoms
work horses slide
into black holes
yellow tape flails as
white flags
cranes arch and spark
swing into the dark
silky black tar bubbles,
pops, seals
everything is
untimely interrupted
and later
ungainly speech mocks
the tombstones growing in the lake
Pain is like a good book
so hard to put down
separation of critical
moments crystallize
until everything has a compartment
and no one can touch each other
Decades old daydreams stink stale
like sour seeds in green fruit
lilies could grow out of so much
manure.
Rot bleeds through involuntary walls
The past is sweating,
afraid of what I know
May 17, 2010
May 17, 2010 at 11:40 PM UTC
For Susan on her birthday
At a distance they appear
so unexpectedly red,
a vivid vermillion strip
in a growing green field.
We walked up the farm track
to view a few stragglers
lost on their way to their
Red-Together meeting.
They were intensely red
with liquorice-black centres,
free from that dustiness
of poppies in swathes.
Alone,
and too red to be real,
their stalks too tall
ungainly, anorexic even.
En masse,
nodding variously,
a thousand-strong Red Army choir
chorusing their hearts out.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
*"Be the harpooner of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody, comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders into crinkly eye-lined smilers."*
l<>|
writ many years past, just another dusted off phrasing,
composed from life's lecture notes, collected by eyes tired
from the hazing,
eyes wearied by the addict-strong,
incessant observational needing,
of celebrating the loopy,
they who make this planet
capable of laughing at itself,
a helping habit for mutual survival...
*should you spot a man ungainly wrought,
weighted down by a harpoon cross
cursed 'pon his Cain-marked back,
you need not move to the other side,
'tis only a make-believe poet,
with his recording device,
seizing your rhapsodies to rhyme,
his collected artifacts, your crinkly smiles,
his meat, his metier, his chosen career,
a comfort caresser of your illusions into
a shapely sculpture of words for you to keep,
a token of your now examined worth,
a celebration for the keeping...*
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
Before the time of Legions strong
When Romans wore their tresses long,
Before the ape man rose *****
To view the world as circumspect,
Before the storms of red dust came
To render this parched land arcane,
There grew a tree of ugly norm
Of massive girth and height and form,
Ungainly so and so immense
As to astound thee to commence,
To fear the very sight beheld
On Africa’s savannah veldt.
The baobab rose from the plain
Unearthly, in demonic name,
An apparition to dismay
All those who dare to come this way.
Vaulting from savannah grass
To clasp the heavens in it's grasp
Then spread its’ limbs, as if to be,
All silhouettes’ eternity.
Giant Aloft in giant-less land,
Far more than thee would understand,
Mystic in its’ silent way
Eternal as the light of day,
Starkly silhouetted sight
Affronting delving sunset’s might.
M.
18 January 2016
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
I watched you today;
I admired your strutting decadence
Unruly, dishevelled bird of jagged honesty
Ruffled, disrespectful feathers that shine
And reflect your begging, squawking call
You and four of your friends,
Dragged down a helpless potato I
Left out for you;
Pinioned it to the ground
With strutted abandon
Oh bird much maligned;
Bird of ungainly beauty
Hobo, derelict, winged, caller
When you murmur the
Shaking stirred skies
With your flocks,
The noise black swirled and reckless
Never fails to make us catch our breath
That such flock - formed beauty could come
From a ragged kingdom call
Makes my own wings;
Take Flight
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
a small craft,
barely deserving of such a compliment as
c r a f t e d,
a few boards, just enough caulking,
made quick, with no regard for artistry,
but sturdy none the less,
purposed for naught,
other than to get from there to
here
even, then, all the more,
as if time chose to reverse itself,
solidified it, this ships soul strength
rather than wore~warped
its character essential
unclear who was the wood
and who, the caulking glue,
but they held together in bonding so powerful
when strangers asked
what its purpose be,
this modest boat,
the locals
to a one,
always answered,
answered always consistent:
ancient and ungainly, not shapely,
purposed as if to be, simply
a reminder
that nothing
could ere
be graced more,
complimented, honored as,
*seaworthy,
than this human loving crafting,*
long-lasting,
maybe ever-lasting,
a tiny notional idea,
that two could get
you from here to
there
it is in the more stronger strength,
of one thing
created from a loving,
two combinatory realization,
ruled and ruling,
this
craft
came to be
ruler of the sea of humanity
8/15/17 12:36am
born, falling, borne into sleep, to
the music of Johann Pachelbel
combined with a gentling snoring
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
When he rose to speak, I pitied him,
that tall, ungainly, man.
His speech was high pitched,regional,
but clear to understand.
An inner fire burned in him,
his spirit fairly glowed.
His eyes and voice enchanted us
despite his rustic clothes.
The constitution was his text;
By chapter verse and line
He taught us what the founders meant,
the thoughts that filled their minds.
He said a true Republican
would not bid slaves to rise.
John Brown was no Republican,
his actions were unwise.
He explained the Government
could forbid slavery's spread.
The Union is a sacred trust
and must be preserved, he said.
I felt my heart on fire
when I heard him speak tonight.
When I saw his homely features
Transfigured by the light.
This Lincoln must be reckoned with;
if the South misunderstands,
They'll be tears and lamentations
in many homes in Dixie Land.
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 10:40 PM UTC
An ode to the raggedy starling
I watched you today;
I admired your strutting decadence
Unruly, dishevelled bird of jagged honesty
Ruffled, disrespectful feathers that shine
And reflect your begging, squawking call
You and four of your friends,
Dragged down a helpless potato I
Left out for you;
Pinioned it to the ground
With strutted abandon
Oh bird much maligned;
Bird of ungainly beauty
Hobo, derelict, winged, caller
When you murmur the
Shaking stirred skies
With your flocks,
The noise black swirled and reckless
Never fails to make us catch our breath
That such flock - formed beauty could come
From a ragged kingdom call
Makes my own wings;
Take Flight
Just written :-)
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:10 PM UTC
When he rose to speak, I pitied him,
that tall, ungainly, man.
His speech was high pitched, regional,
but clear to understand.
An inner fire burned in him,
his spirit fairly glowed.
His eyes and voice enchanted us
despite his rustic clothes.
The constitution was his text;
By chapter verse and line
He taught us what the founders meant,
the thoughts that filled their minds.
He said a true Republican
would not bid slaves to rise.
John Brown was no Republican,
his actions were unwise.
He explained the Government
could forbid slavery's spread.
The Union is a sacred trust
and must be preserved, he said.
I felt my heart on fire
when I heard him speak tonight.
When I saw his homely features
Transfigured by the light.
This Lincoln must be reckoned with;
if the South misunderstands,
They'll be tears and lamentations
around hearths in Dixie Land.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
If I hedge thus a drooling wager and cash in
on my thrice-foiled cravings for her overdue bites
(plus a guilt-free laugh at his expense), I can
use minced steps to sidle around too-lively
trunks, and avoid the need to heed thugs
barking mad from within their crevice-laid traps.
How those bug-eyed brutes'll clamor and claw at me
to discard this protective wrap, clued in by my rep
of never bending willfully to anybody
but her. "Come on, shed! Get, uh, new set of scales,
for you we will — promise!" is how she'd stammer,
roughly translating their not-so-twee chatter,
if she were there. Rather, in that lavishly apt way
she has, she'll be away picking suitable pelts
to adorn her newly uncovered, quite public shame
while fending off an advancing clod, who won't go
easily, but who does go on ad nauseam with
a penchant for naming every ******* thing
that haps vitally across his cocky path. Beyond
a simple relish of mischief, I'm doing this (mostly)
for her benefit. How could a persimmon
be forbidden, as if he had permission to make
such bargains? He's dismissed it as an ungainly fruit,
and mocked its likelihood to "lava thy lips"
with an orange pulp, but in that chance smattering lies
the matter to inflame my soul. I'll feed her
the pudding-fresh flesh, and strip it down
to its delectably small seeds. In their splitting
I'll glean the silvery utensils to spill
a man's wholly worthless future. Let's tuck in.
May 18, 2010
May 18, 2010 at 4:31 PM UTC
of calculus the man had no good sense
which was plain in the poor syllable count he did
on figuring his abilities dense
an accounting firm wouldn't pay him a quid
yet he professed to being very sum smart
though of genius none could be reckoned
the error in the abacuses bead part
correct numbers of him so beckoned
eleven were employed on each line
over the roof by a digit he went
instead of using the standard ten mine
his sonnet seemed so ungainly of bent
the final total wasn't quite up to scratch
hence his poem not put in the flawless batch
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 8:27 AM UTC
Forgive my ungracefulness,
my awkwardness when I wave my hand,
how my bones crack when I walk
and how my movements remain ungainly.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 10:43 AM UTC