"unheralded" poems
every poem gets the exact number
of reads it deserves
<>
nah, I don't think that for
a millisecond,
shoot,
not a ****** nanosecond (1)
truthfully
I'm torn up inside
and my thinking
absolutely
could be wrong
or could be right
absolutely
just like the optionality
of believing in god;
has to be some force
of intelligence that
could create such
microscopic complexity randomly
or just thinking the world
is just a series of accidentally
interactions
so
who's to say what's good,
what's not so good,
and by what standard
one should judge
Is this a poem?
Heck if I know
and what sbout the poems that
get not a one,
a single one, absence of curiosity,
an unheralded execution.
death by silent ignorance,
a master's mastery of exactitude
all because
just because
Is that a collective decision
by an unconscious collective,
the best moderne equivalent of
the unmarked death
of just a single one of
your billions of brain cells (2)(3)
all I know is
that my confusion is confirmed
my constancy is inconsistent
my equatorial balance is
gonzo, dragging me down,
each division wants to piece me up,
and today,
right now
got no answers
at all
how do I define myself?
what categories do I fit
within?
and yet
that answers one question!
**do not write interrogatory inquisitions
at 1:15 am
(unless you're a DUMB lucky *******
who believes they got
answers**)
Jul 12, 2025
Jul 12, 2025 at 3:19 PM UTC
Hidden in the grey morass out there amidst your workforce
Are Pearls in a lattice work of intricate disguise.
Gems of enlightenment and soldiers of conscience
Who battle with adversities’ regressive, shut eyes.
Clad in the rigging of everyday costume
Hidden to all but the discerning few,
Seeing the gold of the extra steps taken,
And observing initiatives made there for you.
Gold in the form of an everyday worker
One who excels far above average way,
Unrewarded and unacknowledged
Responsibly shouldering this all in his day.
Towering over the mass mediocrity
Holding the strands of a mess of loose ends,
Always dependable, doggedly purposeful
Easily marked as definitive friend.
Driven by his own hard volition
In striving for that extra won mile,
True champion of mans’ Endeavour
Unheralded in his own low profile.
The movers and the shakers all
Fly their flags of self acclaim
But the Pearls of the Unobvious
Shall be this nations’ future fame.
Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
24 November 2010
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC
They tell me on the morrow I must leave
This winter eyrie for a southern flight
And truth to tell I tremble with delight
At thought of such unheralded reprieve.
E’er have I known December in a weave
Of blanched crystal, when, thrice one short night
Packed full with magic, and O blissful sight!
N’er May so warmly doth for April grieve.
To in a breath’s space wish the winter through
And lo, to see it fading! Where, oh, where
Is caract could endow this princely boon?
Yet I have found it and shall shortly view
The lush high grasses, shortly see in air
Gay birds and hear the bees make heavy droon.
1.4k
They tell me on the morrow I must leave
This winter eyrie for a southern flight
And truth to tell I tremble with delight
At thought of such unheralded reprieve.
E’er have I known December in a weave
Of blanched crystal, when, thrice one short night
Packed full with magic, and O blissful sight!
N’er May so warmly doth for April grieve.
To in a breath’s space wish the winter through
And lo, to see it fading! Where, oh, where
Is caract could endow this princely boon?
Yet I have found it and shall shortly view
The lush high grasses, shortly see in air
Gay birds and hear the bees make heavy droon.
1.2k
*There are moments when it’s barely perceptible
An incessant itchy scratch creasing the soul’s walls
Culminating into sparkly luminescent smiles
Dancing eerily on a day dreamer’s visage
Or a soft pain lodged deep into the abyss of the soul
A laceration to the soul
That throbs rhythmically almost in tandem
To the heart’s diehard throb
When it’s too overwhelming a circumstance
Them eyes become awash with emotion riddled tears
Cascading in an unheralded kind of way
Down the glorious hallways of faceless facades.*
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
I once read a poem.
At least it was called a poem by the poet who penned it.
It certainly stirred a hot cauldron of controversy.
Evoking the elite establishment of hallowed
writing circles to shout their disdain,
to cry out their contempt for such audacity.
"This is not poetry," was the hue that arose,
"it is nothing but prosaic, plagiarized drivel;
written thousands of times across the aeons by
those who have lost, have gained, or ever hoped for."
Perhaps some of us were tainted by the sin of
envy for this unheralded poet and for what he
had achieved with such rudimentary text.
At the time, I also spoke to the crime of the author's intent.
My own aspersions were raised by his act of describing
such incredible possibilities with such simple words,
such purity of condensed thought.
Alas I see now, it was the very simplicity of
the poem that blinded us all to its wondrous truth.
Elementary words which could envision glorious unexplored
mountain peaks, and the assurance of their height's
attainment with nothing more than a steady, faithful pace.
Hopeful words, filled with such grandiose power.
Capable of birthing new life solely from the
pure belief in their profound truth.
This great work of art was forgotten till this night,
as I sit here in a futile attempt to grasp words from intangible air.
Chasing and forcing them into a meager
attempt to share some small piece of wisdom
for two young hearts beginning this journey together ...
two whom I care for as you.
But, lacking as I am, I fear I must
expropriate this forgotten poet's verse.
Offering it to you humbly as my own,
stealing these words even as he stole them before me.
Simple words, distilling all the grand descriptions of all
the illustrious poets, bards, and romantics throughout the ages.
Proclaim it to each other as ecstasy bursts forth,
for its wondrous spell is then truly manifest.
Declare it over sorrow's shared tears,
for its healing sway is miraculous.
Whisper it over anger's destructive rage.
It has the power to quell the thunder.
Speak it as a vow, never to become merely words.
It must be proclaimed with the passion and soul of a poet.
Welling up from the deepest depths of the heart,
and the truest regions of the mind.
For these mere words encompass all.
Believe them as they are intended,
for these words are truly everything.
"I LOVE YOU"!
© S.Loeding All Rights Reserved
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 3:22 AM UTC
Silent Rain
As time gets drained
An uncalming wait
I wished to negate
Will her flame begin to wane?
As the the memories remain
A woman unparalleled
Led an action unheralded
At a time precious yet precarious
I couldn't take enough of you,
In that cherished time when you were mine
Now I can't relate
As good things come to those who wait
What a terrible saying
For my heart kept saying
Take me to the golden state.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
The road was broken in segments of dream huts
clinging to 10 sqm of waterless, worthless plains
beside a million flies teeming for life sustaining energy
from rancid smells and miracles of justice that never come.
Living in the light of palaces, the poor understand pain
and poverty like life's great gifts of wonder
to philosophise and burn in the tabernacle of
rotund politicians. How easy for them to girth
the national wealth under a huge lie.
Out in the open the crows capture the days sound
with raucous caws of indiscretion. Unrestrained
by manners or moments of ecstasy, each crow
sounds off the days entertainment.
At nightfall the city slimmer's to sleep
and the slums awake to underground life
living and moving relentlessly, from one
moment to another, unheralded, unsung
fully awake with hunger, even as the darkness
closes in and absorbs the days movements
with its blanket of silence.
Tomorrow is another day for the cycle
to turn one more cog in the direction
of no return. Sad. Sad. Sad.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 4:21 PM UTC
When dead men tell no tales.
My poetry still spouts from the grave,
to the tune of taps, a melody over the air,
signaling I shan't be saved.
She drops me off at the intersection of last year and tomorrow.
I look ahead with anticipation and
behind with sorrow.
Why do I cry out in distress?
Is my life really such an unheralded mess?
Or, is this path of distraught paths really the
god’s way of kissing me, saying, “son, you are
indeed blessed."
These pills cloud me, the gods of medicine hear
my plea and require a copay, a fee.
My vowels propel through space and time,
With a rhyme I dance with the
art angels in a basement of grime.
Carry me on the wings of pestilence,
I refuse to let go of this golden glow.
4am 5am 6am
I wonder
as I wander,
where this absent cavity in my chest
will be filled.
I go to the ocean, to the sea,
only to see the waves lap against me and,
for a moment I feel free, yet still absent from life.
I traverse the plains to find myself
lost in an empty great wild American praire expanse,
until I find myself trembling at the foothills
of the great mountains rocky of the west.
Climb, I must, or die alone and
hungry still absentness beating
within my chest.
4am 5am 6am
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:38 PM UTC
The illumination rounds light up the sky,
My love, and it's time for us to embark
Where the heavens are our cover
The darkness is our saviour, and
Only victory our release.
For you know how it is m' dear
When the lead starts to rain
The field rages hot with fire
And in the heat of it, you alone
Stand besides me, unflinching
Unquenchable spitfire that you are
The world dances to the Lady's whims
The night and snow close around us.
But in you alone, there is a comfort.
To face death and come what may,
For when the sun shines again.
Our hour shall have come.
We march together for glory awaits us
But so does death. And he waits. He watches.
He sends down fire, and splinter and shot and shell
And you never fail to reply .
He shudders the earth and melts rock,
And yet your aim is true.
Victory is enshrined in your musical chatter
For even though I lie, with you in my blood smeared,
You live to fight another day.
My victory is your resilience.
My courage is your accuracy.
My sacrifice is your continuum.
Your mortals have fallen many times afore you.
And yet you soldier on. Unheralded unlike him, with bronze on his chest.
You deal in lead.
And in victory .
At the end of all things, you alone stay with me.
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 6:55 AM UTC
jesus frost.
dog attack.
sold bible
to bible
salesman.
made me sick
did the weakness
of mass
mailbox.
would be
bloodbrothers
instead I witness
them take
separate
*******
photos.
I am not smart about it.
it lives alone.
or dies maybe
surrounded by
those who
were not there
the man’s
men.
I want to capitalize
*** capitalize
on your two
ruined
entries.
jehovabeast & throng-
ophile.
want go
unheralded
as misanthrope’s
diary
of winter.
**** if
both sides
of the nose
don’t marry
while the mouth
is on
location.
lose a hand
swatting the neck
to get the swatting
done with.
then it’s church
the hotel
for church
goers.
some dads
get they
insides
bit
to bite down
on god.
I’ve been outside
and I’ve been outside
women.
don’t have a clue, army.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring
and only son of Boyce and the late harriet harris)
made his unheralded debut on a brutally cold
January thirteenth.
Once awareness blossomed
within thee Iris of each eye, Mother Nature with
proclivity to become most grounded when basking
in the seasonal pastel of sounds and smells.
This predilection a rose and stemmed from self-propelled
exposure to fauna and flora.
All creatures great and small found him bedazzled, de
lighted, fixated, harmonized, kindled, moored, ogled, quelled,
seduced, tantalized, vaunted from biodiversity.
His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with
general electric - heard the powerful lungs of this gangly new
born prior to being permitted to cradle said infant.
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority
of his existence at two rural areas fifty plus four years ago.
Audubon and Collegeville the geographic names of said locales.
His ability to adjust from one than another grade school evinced
early signs of difficulty.
Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect (sub
mucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other classmates.
As an outside neutral observer, i watched with gut wrenching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited to join in any reindeer games.
Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered manna to bullies.
Matter of fact, this vulnerability and susceptibility being
the pluperfect target, thee oafish goons i.e. enemies all against
a once upon a time puny punt able person unfortunately at
receiving end of verbal slings continued all thru public education.
He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with scathing expletive filled lectures.
The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and withdrawing
from countless colleges and/or universities.
Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark shadow creeping closer like the edge of night.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
Irony often oozes the blood stain
That history will use to paint
An honest portrait of erstwhile deeds
Or to turn some altered soul to saint
Few are those that exist within the mist
Who loom larger than the shadow portrays
And seldom does a shadow exist undiminished
By the dreariest of all darkest days
So when seeking blood in passionate resolve
There comes a mordant aberration of unheralded stature
Rising to fly above mortal attributes into unremitted immortality
By assiduous conviction born of monstrous evil of unparalleled scale
Born among the Carpathian mountains
From the ancient and mysterious Transylvanian forests
One who seeks blood for righteous alliterations
Not for glory but for the saving grace
A quest to alleviate all alien allagory alligned along the meandering memories of non-mordant minded men
No imagery conjured by Bram Stoker thru Van Helsing
Encompasses the unmitigated reality seen
The lifelong - still beating strong - near century long shadow of the denizen of our brightest outlook
The creation of circumstance as much as man ( unkind ) made
Maybe unheralded by too many
For such a knave am I so sorely cursed now...
With shame
I ...who have always strived
to drape myself
in the raiment of the eternal optimist
Now pay overdue homage to the true and absolute optimist
BEN FERENCZ.... Is his name
Seek out his story now ..
.while he still lives
Reach back ..
Into those dark, dreary days
To share what history gives
and you will see what he means
when he say's
" I'm Right. "
For I truly know that he is!
Keith w. Fletcher
Humbled by the humanity exhibited.
Apr 12, 2018
Apr 12, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
dry grass thin stubble in late summer's heat
reflaring here and there to darker green
in mottled shade there's no one to be seen
a heavy silence rules upon the street
we crave completion seek the upward beat
of ravens' wings demand the vision keen
of tropic vultures we release our spleen
on hapless ears but then we must retreat
in each cool cave the music cannot fail
to guard against the horror of bright day
while keeping hearts in balance from the strain
of sensing that there's more to the true tale
as yet unheralded in what you say
but for the moment we must count the gain
Aug 20, 2011
Aug 20, 2011 at 3:40 PM UTC
"Things are becoming good",
What beautiful lines erupt from the wisdom,
Oh!
not from me,
From one who had pree,
Pree myriad possibilities,
Unheralded life proffered serenity.
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 10:52 AM UTC
she pens a thank you note, for my stealing inspiration from her observation,
to create a “beautiful bundle of words”
my vocabulary acquired by just hanging around this planet of aged years,
(hirsute, multifarious, repacked packets of globbed and gloated pins and notions),
is minimally useful in the arced architecture of reassembling a new combination
that pretends to be a beautiful bundle of words, a nouveau riches,
a poem rearrangement is only addition but that a new poem, does not make
to make a creation, one requires
a beautiful bungle of words,
each tripping upon the next, somehow discordantly harmonious,
a humorous pin ***** sordid that moves the lips into an O shape light emitting,
“why in the hell did not I think of that”
if it makes sensible than it’s likely just recombinant, i.e. a used car
if it makes sensitive as if it’s a new cry, unheralded unheard and
the first newborn among its peerage
bungle your pictionary mistakable notions from fumes of intoxication
stumble into a new theorem predicting the relativity of the impossible,
combine cross pollinations, fish and fowl, meat and milk, stench and best,
faucet drips of hurricane magnitude, draw insights from inside a child’s vision,
and say to yourself repeatedly,
this is how I bungle breathing into new poems,
this is how I birth beautiful
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
the asteroid came
unexpected unheralded unprophesied -
it didn't think, it didn't have theology
it put a hole through the earth
it implied: *"I'm in a hurry;
not going anywhere in particular though
and all of you making all those plans
you got all those birthdays
and your Grand Days
and New Year's Eve to celebrate -
you can go, you're just dust"*
and it waved goodbye with its tails as it left
*"goodbye, spoilt brats -
you can go, you're each just dust"*
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring and only son of
Boyce and the late Harriet Harris) made his unheralded debut on
a brutally cold January thirteenth almost three score years ago.
His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with general
electric heard the powerful lungs of this gangly newborn prior to
being permitted to cradle said infant.
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority of his
fifty plus LIX existence within southeastern Montgomery County
Pennsylvania.
Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect
(submucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other class
mates.
As an outside neutral observer, I watched with gut when
ching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited
to join in any reindeer games, rather mean kids balled their fists
and swung faux pas sucker punches to sleigh **** shay -
so they did say.
Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered hue manna
tee to bullies.
Matter of fact, this vulnerability, and susceptibility per
receiving verbal slings continued thru public education.
He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then
endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with a scathing expletive
filled lectures.
The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and with
drawing from countless colleges and/or universities.
Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark
shadow creeping closer to the edge of night.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
*When the night bird
stopped singing.
and the
Spears of sunlight
pierced the last
of the night time.
I looked into her
beautiful eyes.
as blue as a
wild Montana sky.
and I loved her.
this love has
come unheralded.
I did not want it
or seek it.
it landed here
in my bed
like a plane crash.
leaving no survivor
on board.
I will worship
at the temple
of her body
with the spirits
that have
waited inside her heart
for me to join them.
I can no longer feel my body.
perhaps already
I am a ghost.*
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
The Beech Grove
Last steps make no sound;
They superimpose on moist unstirred grass,
On a cold bright lane, shadow strewn.
Flanked by beech, destiny’s guard of honor,
Branches crowd in intangible, tangled glory.
Feet fall within a psychic landscape,
Bereft of earthly impact
Above wrenched-away Earth.
Dappled light dazzles
Those left to wait for unheralded end,
Smearing the screen of one born of silence.
A sight of earth displaced from sense;
Cold clarity. Gone absolutely.
The steps of the unbelonging
Walk an empty country lane-
An after dinner stroll that ends
In Another Place.
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 5:52 AM UTC
I like conversations in the rain.
Empathic words soaked in urgency.
I like fields of tall grass layered in fog.
Tired clouds on beds of green.
Tattered flags hopeless in salvation.
Beaten down by years of neglect.
Unwarranted smiles from strangers.
Moments of blissful silence unheralded.
Few are the things I can relate to.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 9:26 PM UTC
Such an unheralded cascade to repose,
Face aglow, mind so welcoming like the smile of a new mother.
Can the answer ever be nay? the invite brimful of Psychedelic blooms so palpable they smell of eternal summer.
Serenity oh!
Nov 2, 2019
Nov 2, 2019 at 3:59 AM UTC
The indigenous Alcantara explodes across
the garden floor, unwanted and unloved.
Rosehips are nipped
to give extra nourishment to the rose bush.
The blossoming pink Tree Mallows will last to January,
until then they are left alone.
Brambles are cut at their base
excising their climber roots,
nor forgetting the unheralded demoisturising Ivy.
My Cleparata Eremurus tubers
are gently put into the ground.
Nov 14, 2021
Nov 14, 2021 at 4:07 AM UTC
Those who oil the wheels of eternity
Must not have sight of too many of its spokes;
‘Tis best that griefs and calamities arrive
Unheralded, that our days may be glad
And untainted by fears of things that are to come;
For he that sees the beginning of his path
Meeting inexorably with its end,
The sum of his exertions and labors come to naught,
Has not the heart to set himself to his task;
Time’s hands are best moved by the arms of the blind,
That against its will they may not mutiny.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 12:25 PM UTC