"unmaking" poems
Can I be grateful…truly?
Can I open my heart…fully?
Can I connect…deeply?
Can I be me…absolutely?
Daily life, daily life, daily life
Dawn and dusk
Sunrise, sunset
Sun and rain
Waking and sleeping
Making and unmaking
Ever turning
In a sea of change
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
I thought there would be a grave beauty, a sunset splendour
In being the last of one's kind: a topmost moment as one watched
The huge wave curving over Atlantis, the shrouded barge
Turning away with wounded Arthur, or Ilium burning.
Now I see that, all along, I was assuming a posterity
Of gentle hearts: someone, however distant in the depths of time,
Who could pick up our signal, who could understand a story. There won't be.
Between the new Hembidae and us who are dying, already
There rises a barrier across which no voice can ever carry,
For devils are unmaking language. We must let that alone forever.
Uproot your loves, one by one, with care, from the future,
And trusting to no future, receive the massive ******
And surge of the many-dimensional timeless rays converging
On this small, significant dew drop, the present that mirrors all.
7.1k
***The mistress of my hereafter stole me away,
As she so oft does,
To a few minutes of quiet conversation.
In her silenced voice I could read my own
Long since Christianed anguish,
So near it is - but so ****** far away.
If only in Faraway we had us a private cottage,
Maybe then we could retire to our dreams.
The dressing room there
Would always be yours.
For I make everything yours
And call it so beforehand.
Thus making you the mistress
Of my entire hereafter.
My alpha - my omega.
This “Hereafter” is but a melancholy term ‘lest
We find ourselves stole away whilst
Communicating through our spirits.
For in spirit we have already met and
Shall surely meet again.
Let the certainty of it
Brighten us with its forth coming.
Thou surely must be the author
Of the utmost of our faith.
Faith in that day of heaven’s thought where
In Faraway the cottage nestles between
Twin peaks in the sweetest valley
Ever laid at your feet while eyes
See every days' blue azure sky.
There we dine together by candlelight
In the middle of the day while we
Cater the meal toward happiness.
In Faraway, all around us lives
In a rapturous praise along with all that ever was.
And if you should ever find my wit oppressing to
Your kindness, then show your disdain and
I will surely take my leave.
As we look together through the candlelight
Let us see only the highest values in each other.
Let my eyes put your name on notice
That if I were so employed as to be a slave
In this land called Faraway, then my heart
Would be no less than the prophet accommodated
Somewhere within your walls.
There with a stool and a candlestick
I would sit patiently waiting for your unmaking.
There my soul could be at peace from this world.
I’d lean against your wall with the candle in my hand,
I’d look into your eyes as I blew out the light.
The cottage would then come to life
As would the hearth within us.
We’d breathe in each other fueling the fire.
For love is the fuel that burns here in Faraway,
Our sweet vapors rising high into the sky.
They are bless'ed fires that never end.
Come - blow out the candle once more and
Let's lose our disguises–
Later I'll relight the candle so we can
Blow it out and do it all over again.***
Jun 4, 2017
Jun 4, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
I fall for her crab passions.
Her embracing chelae
Even when unhug
Surround me when she’s away
It breathes in me poetry
It makes me feel
What I want to be
Unmaking the dull and drab
Setting a mood
That this world is good
Still worth living
And the leaving
Will just be the frame
And the reward
That one word’s
most beautiful emotions!
I fall for her crab passions.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
in the darkness darkness calls
. . . i am losing him
with the raining rain falls
. . . i am losing him
in the light lightning strikes
. . . i am losing him
can you love Love’s dislikes
. . . i am losing him
at the end ending starts
. . . i am losing him
can One remake unmaking hearts?
. . . i am losing him
ashes to ashes dust to dust
. . . i am losing him
turn the metal back to rust
. . . i am losing him
finger pointing points the blame
. . . i am losing him
appointing disappointment all the same
. . . i am losing him
pray the prayer children pray
. . . i am losing him
“Closed eyes keep monsters away.”
. . . i am losing him
‘Adults’ no better but better be
. . . i am losing him
or embrace the brace of tragedy
http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/im-losing-him-sandy-hook-school-killer-adam-lanzas-mother-nancy/story-e6frf7jo-1226539695762
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
. (Mythology Re-Imagined As Fairy-Tale & Deconstructed) .
No one recalls when he arrived.
He was already there, in the corners of high rooms.
Carried in on wind or instinct.
Too composed to belong, too still to be ignored.
He wasn't from the sea, though he stared at it often.
Stared like a man who missed something he never touched.
He lived above things—above feeling, above endings.
He wore distance like other men wear charm.
And she—well.
She wasn’t where she was supposed to be.
---
They said she’d been sealed beneath water before time had a name.
Not drowned. Not sleeping.
Just paused.
A beauty left half-sketched.
A song trapped on the bridge, never reaching the chorus.
She existed in the almost.
The kind of presence that ruins men who believe in silence.
No one put her there.
But something had.
Something old and silver-lipped, a clockmaker with no face.
---
When he found out, he didn’t shout.
Didn’t storm.
Storms are for men who want to be heard.
He simply started unmaking himself.
Small things, at first:
Giving away secrets he never told.
Letting starlight fall from his shoulders like ash.
Standing in rooms long enough for people to forget he was tall.
Eventually, he gave away the last thing he had—
the part of him that never wanted anything.
And that was enough.
---
She came back like foam curling over marble.
Not as a lover. Not as a reward.
As weather.
She passed him by.
Looked at the space he’d vacated inside himself
and nodded, as if to say: “Yes. That will do.”
---
After that, things changed.
She walked through the city like someone who could end it.
Touched doorframes and left them trembling.
Spoke only when the sentence would shatter something.
He, on the other hand,
was seen less and less.
Not gone—just thinned out, like smoke after a gunshot.
---
Some say he became the silence in her laugh.
Others claim he left, unfinished, like a poem crumpled in a lover’s pocket.
No one’s sure.
But if you ask the sea just right—
after midnight, after mirrors—
you’ll hear it whisper:
“He let go of the sky, so she could walk through it.”
{fin}
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 12:02 AM UTC
this country
America
has a lot to learn
from those that have survived
the making
and unmaking
of whiteness
this existential
exponential
build up
of advocacy
for noticing humanity
when it steps out of line
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
Yes, she stole my thoughts
devoured, digested and made her own
in the shortest possible time one could imagine,
made her imprint to make it a through job.
all between a stuporous sleep of my unmaking
after that frenzied mating instigated by
her cheating instinct at its acme.
she did it quietly in the dim light
of the zero watt bulb,
after we slept together
for the first time;
it was eerie
my romanticized thoughts
were the first to
get drawn out,
a tree full of wild red blossoms,
the name of which slipped
from memory to oblivion,
migratory birds of different feathers
sitting on that tree chirping in love's sweet passion.
i woke up
when the thoughts circling
like blood in my veins were touched,
she was there prowling
with the look of a witch,
a happy one at that
how victorious she looked!
my angst has no place in her scheme of things
after that, she coughed and spat
and pretended ,IPR never was violated
When you get bitten by the
serpent called lust,
and two ***** conjoin,
thoughts go down and hide,
one become unreasonable
and glide through moonlit sky,
stars wink, thoughts wink back,
and the stupor takes over.
*yes, she stole my thoughts
how could one complain?
You need to be one or the other at a time.*
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
*These things that we masteringly cover
With layers of wrinkle free sheets -
Covering the warmness that never was.
A weighted depression left behind
In a never ending circle of hidden desire.
Tightly tucked, pillowed and shammed -
Soft coolness inviting remorse.
Spirit of lighted darkness awaits the unmaking,
From dawn to dusk dreams plunder
Molding obsessions into sleeping reality.
The comforter only slightly moves,
This place made up for now tonight becomes…
Haloed in darkness, dreaming real.
A breath resounds hidden
In the softness just before twilight.
Listening for a whisper
Calling out my name.
Dare I to open my eyes
In fear of loosing all again.
Through closed eyes I gaze
Upon the eyes’ crystal hue.
Hair vivid with no color
Inhaling tender features – thy very essence.
A dreaming splendor anew.
If reality can come but in a dream
Then in dreams I shall reside.
Ever mournful of the morning light while
Caressing dream’s eye covering
The warmness that never was.
Dream weighted impressions, asleep
Tightly tucked, pillowed and shammed.
Dreaming in splendor of …*
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:18 AM UTC
Where might I be
in my last breath?
When the ongoing sunset fades into darkness
where absent stars twinkle, ignorantly,
and the oceans drink and ruins crumble
in eternal, perfunct serenity,
for there will be no dawn,
where might I be?
At the unmaking of history when origins die
and the land masses curdle and cover the sea,
when Poseidon emerges to reclaim his rites
while Hades laughs gaily, where might I be?
When time falters truly over caesura
-If "when" it can truly be considered to be-
And the void calmly beckons for matter's fair soul;
when the ellipse quietly loops, without warning,
and darkness pervades over freedom and truth
that cannot exist ingenuinely
for nothing remains except nobody,
if 'be' I can be, where might I be?
At the end of the pages, where the margins dissolve
live creatures of forethought creation who choose
to acknowledge the limits of what they control,
or not, says their God, says the author, says I.
For every soul, a collective demise.
And a needless debate o'er if preconceived.
But the truths I create are the truths that will stand.
And so, at the end, here is where I am.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
It won't be easy and you won't get it straight
When the sun goes on you in agony
You be ready to go to madness to the great
I might been sad and broken and jammed
But kept your love in very tremble way
Once I'm done, I really am
I'll plead you leave and not to stay
You see Paris crying above your head
And gothic wind is to come to blow your heart away
October the fifth you wake up in your bed
Perchance you'll see it coming through the rays
You moved to Venice to obtain any good
But as for me I chose freedom
To lie and sleep and brood
Upon the past, and I still see 'em
The visions of you and me in flames
Burning down to the ashes
Our love which's unmaking to the frames
Now falling down with the smashes
Of the feelings in my chest
Goodbye I tell you at that fest
Of all the heart-broken ones
Never thought of joining the club
I never expect love to lie thus
And the fate that way to fool around
Is there anything that left for us?
Or we have nothing to be bound (to)?
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 5:56 AM UTC
A living ball of white plastic twine
its bulb of body conscious
slim head pointed down towards the floor
chaos of legs whirling
knees bend inwards and go slack
like a flower opening and closing
a shimmering life
the size of my kneecap
hanging from a thread of silk
spider as a puppet
marionette legs
flailing as they play empty notes in space
haggling without gravity
mused into waking they paw at the air
smoothing the surface
of imagination
making and unmaking
an invisible tapestry
all these careless maids
whatever their purpose might be
whatever heartbreak is
the encroaching ends of their creations
meticulous in movement only
when the sewing
commences
In the morning
all the magic has worn off
the spider is a tiny brownish
common cellar spider
a miniature Daddy Longlegs
just the hull of what
was massive
and sentient
in the night
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 11:37 AM UTC
Do you ever think
about becoming
someone new?
About unmaking,
Recreating,
Partaking,
In the life of someone -anyone-
Who isn’t you?
Hours and hours and days and weeks and months and years
I perfected, rejected, resurrected the art
of becoming someone new.
In mere moments,
a new me.
a new world.
a new dream.
A world to be anyone
or go anywhere
Or be anything.
When I just
Don’t want
To be
Me.
New demons and angels,
New shadows and suns,
New curves and new angles,
New characters
to become.
A world not like
my own.
The trees are paper.
The people move with a blink.
Grass is woven from knowledge and
Leaves are sprouting from ink.
There I go
at a moment’s notice.
Diving, delving, digging.
Revealing
an impossible time.
Where the improbable, inconceivable, unimaginable, unthinkable
occurs every
Other
Line.
I am disappearing into the books.
Invisible to the world.
Unmaking myself,
Recreating myself,
And becoming someone new.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
A soft beginning at the dawn of day,
at the dawn of the universe,
where light didn’t hurt
and darkness hadn’t nested inside of my lungs,
blowing out ash with my every breath,
already awaiting my disintegration.
A softer ending-
when God isn’t watching
and I can become
the one who didn’t have to beg for immortality,
because I didn’t want it in the first place.
I speak in the spaces between words,
I walk with one foot over existence
and another over the no-longer-here,
and would it matter if I slipped
and fell
or if I burned at the moon’s mercy on a starless night?
There’s no difference in unmaking,
there’s no one to say I haven’t lived the seconds I stole
from my mother when she screamed me into being.
God wasn’t watching then.
The emptiness in my chest
turned outward
and spread like mold on the forbidden fruit.
They say Eve regretted her mistake.
I’m not so sure anymore.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 11:44 AM UTC
I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR
is what your eyes are screaming at me,
pencil scratching across page as
fingers stampede, stationary upon
your desk. don't you
know what you're doing to me,
with your Catholic faith and
artesian frame?? I swear
to your god (for I am
Protestant and yes they are different)
that you will ruin me and I swear
to my god that I would
love nothing better for in
your unmaking of me there is
a subtle art,
not an artifice, and it is
this which I adore, possibly
even more than I adore thee.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
at once, a world is deigned in
colour or some other life-like
artifice. with no need to find
fault in these motions, the
sky trails on, the clouds follow
in all and fragile suit. for
an instant all things are
composed.
all animacy
yields this wallpapered lounge;
the stacks of light, in sway.
and here, me, in
obsoletionary pose, in drought.
the entropic slow loss of
self-esteem, the ability to
retain memories, the light
burnt clean through these
papered walls.
but i still brush my teeth,
still keep clean, still keep
hope bundled, tight, close:
a dream,
i'll never see.
a memory never
made reality.
common uncertainty, or
the unmaking of me.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:19 AM UTC
I am a craftsman. My hands are made of clay.
They're soft and wet and mould silhouette.
The last I made were without shadow,
The next will be more musical.
They will be spin around me -
Chimes in a western wind. Chimes of a different figuring
perhaps to hang in branches, simply as decoration.
If I rest, there will be no forming.
I fear this.
I fear the unmaking and forever sleep.
The chimes will awaken me with their shadow-music.
*******
Squalls and storm clouds move inside me.
I hear thunder. Some say
they see change coming.
I see constant weather. There
is purpose in their forecast,
no in-decision and in a precise moment
the exact snap of thin ice.
*******
I awaken before a bridge - reaching far across a rocky canyon.
Going to the edge and leaning over I see
the darkness of endless sleep. I hope to hear
water song and the expanse of rain-dreaming.
I wait at the bridge for a traveller like me to pass -
I will ask him to describe his journey and
The way ahead which I have not yet seen.
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
She stepped into the wall of steam,
Allowing the shower to unmake her
From her neck to her ankles.
Never her head, never her feet.
Her head was an exploding star
Full of simultaneous destruction and creation.
Constantly making, unmaking, and remaking.
Impossible to unmake something while it's being made and unmade and remade.
It's all chaos and kairos.
Her feet cannot be allowed to be unmade.
Even in the sanctuary of sweet oblivion,
There are miles to go yet.
Chaos and Kairos. That's all there is.
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
Estranged from the familiar
you made me by unmaking me
for getting tired too soon
of fostering
like I was
an unwanted child,
yet still you are the one
who have become unparented;
an Orphan King
in a Borrowed Land,
always
halfway to a
hallway of
all ways.
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 4:18 AM UTC
I feel
So very unlike me
passive
quiet
small
I will forgive you everything, anything
Forever
I am here
Forgiving you for unmaking me
For making me
For
Everything
For
Anything.
Forever.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
My grandfather was not a boxer
but he loved to fight, throwing
punches at the faces of hard men,
left and right hooks, uppercuts
in barroom brawls and alleyways,
with hands the size of iron trivets,
forearms cut with ropes of muscle.
Eventually, after decades of stitches
and bruised knuckles, after his hair
turned white and his eyes clouded,
he would shadowbox in the garden
behind the dilapidated potting shed,
swinging slower, less light on his feet,
but safe in that manicured square
ringed by boxwoods and evergreens,
the bees in spring buzzing applause.
My grandmother would watch
him from the kitchen window,
in a sweater she always wore
regardless of the weather,
and wonder what he was fighting
against, or, perhaps, fighting for.
And that’s how my grandfather died:
throwing a final right cross in the air
before dropping to his knees at last,
knocked out on a mat of green grass,
washed by an unexpected downpour,
water collecting in opened red tulips,
loving cups in full bloom, the first
ten drops of rain counting him out.
Standing in that garden decades later,
I know I am no fighter.
Approaching old age, hands in pockets,
I watch for signs of unexpected weather,
worry about things beyond my control:
car crashes, cancer, electromagnetic pulses,
the minutiae of a thousand apocalypses.
Is the future drawing back
a left hook I will never see
coming? Will a haymaker
hit me like a hammer,
unmaking my family
before the final bell?
And suddenly I realize:
maybe I should have
learned to throw
a ******* punch.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 8:52 AM UTC
Roses and ashes- a world is awaiting.
a mistake and you fall,
but you won’t be regretting
all the screams and the cries,
the unholy you’re creating.
Rome is falling
or burning-
there’s no difference in unmaking.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
A KISS OF RAIN
written inside him
with wild calligraphy
the littlest of her smiles
it was raining hard
the kiss hardly a kiss
unmaking making the world
the kiss
making him all at once
aware of his existence
the kiss now
making them oblivious
of a world turned to rain
rain & laughter rain&laughter
he kisses her like a happy
ever after
Jan 25, 2025
Jan 25, 2025 at 4:55 PM UTC
There is no word for these:
Old friends in new bodies
gOld souls with
Ancient minds and
Youthful eyes.
Some of us have
The blood of Mary inside
Others raise from wakeless lakes
You, I beileve, have both.
Balancing on her railroad ties
She whispers,
That's your own impression
And she adds,
Why do all your smiles pass like clouds,
Instead of sticking around like thick crowds?
Because! I answer ( in different words )
Even the best eyes, still
Cannot untie our blind minds,
Cannot disarm our arms,
Cannot keep our feet from passing on.
Fair, she allows
But now, quiet your mind
Forget your words, and
She starts to hum softly
His soul circles him, it turns
The passing train breaks his trance
Buried back in his body now
Hearing pistons pounding in his head
Dreaming up old friends again,
Real and fake, then
Unmaking them, one by one
Finishing with this one
Lady of the lake
Toes tickling the water, blond curls like clouds,
Eyes belying death...
How is it this one shares a friend
In us all?
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 12:28 AM UTC