"unmastered" poems
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Everyday a soul is lost
Souls of love
Souls of lust
Souls on endearment
Souls of trust
Souls full of knowledge
Leave people like us
With questions unanswered
And feelings unmastered
The void of their absence
Still lingers with longing
Tear drops of silence
will forever keep falling.
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue
my mental torment,
headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills
a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.
do it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.
none.
was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.
come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower
warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?
defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.
simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not ! Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.
Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.
Do not!
Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.
poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Natalie!
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.
indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t
this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?
why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover
say!
where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?
so add :
come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC
Sweat brow perculates,
unmastered tongue erased all evidence,
moist palms dripping anxious thoughts.
pursed lips crackled and dry
flow words like rapids,
blink open eyes crusted by innocence
each scar buried in rock,
fracture and fault.
heart uplifted bent in regrets,
memories unconformities,
missing from sight.
flash to love, metamorphosed in time
growing, blending to crystals born.
layered finely touched in pain,
like grains lithify
ossify,
remain untouched, preserved
in stone jointed connections made.
meandering tears entrenched down-cutting
cheeks, bone exposed to roots.
once deposited feeling, now eroded to nothing,
blown by winds unforgiving
these days pass like eons.
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
hearing Shakespeare,
my-own-voice
crack'd, stilted,
stuttered-shut by the
mocking silence of still
waters on the brain
poverty exposed,
raggedy verbiage for a
raggedy man's
frayed fringed garments
ashamed of
every word I ever wrote,
not even ten survivors,
not enough to pray collectively
for muse~forgivement
****
hush me not,
no chairs turned,
the public has not texted,
new tattoo:
write on for audience of one
a necessity, a life sentence
a single topic, a subject,
a life, mine,
still unmastered,
decades of trying
poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth,
or what it is not
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
If I could walk years past or years later
like doors we pass
I'd go to you
and with I
we'd who it through the uni and the verse
no Dr fix or save
just the savouring of new days
long ago when
then before
before after
till our internal clocks
finish there unwind
our bodies lost in time
conscious to the space
the external clocks would continue
and our memories bloom shall wither
ash to the vortex
the complexity of our life's
shall remain unmastered
insignificant to passers of graves
but at least my love of free
we would have hold of each other
in those final hours
See old smiles once innocent and young
in those closing minutes
and breath our last
in them terminal seconds
If only time were as easy to control
as reading maps
I'd go to you
By Dylan Oscar Rowe
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
don't ask permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have no clue.
my torment,
the headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
to poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay the bills.
a breadwinner has a job.
feed the family.
protect and serve.
do it well.
because there is
no acceptable excuse.
am afraid.
when was supposed
to be easing on down,
am slipping under.
have come so far.
my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition,
in the legs, knotted shoulders,
aging faster than
hungers, fingers, can write.
warped,
reversal of causality,
the older he gets,
the more mouths to feed.
man, it is tough,
this unexpected,
for me,
already,
a nine lives survivor.
can he do it
one mo' time
on borrowed lives,
again?
it is simply amazing.
my eyes,
constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong
so long.
but this well,
just got dregs left,
drudgery dregs ain't potable,
worthy of your drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
there's not a single
object on this planet
wanted to posses
or worse,
be
possessed by.
more cannot say.
jutting chin,
stomach ****** in.
nothing gonna
change my world.
monday,
wrestle with strife once again.
today, on the sabbath,
deny reality.
Do not!
like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
have been strong so long.
when hearing Shakespeare
my own voice, stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
am ashamed
of every word
ever wrote.
hush me not,
for tis true,
yet write on for
an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a subject, a life,
mine,
still unmastered,
even after
decades of trying.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
Startled by the crack they launch,
spread wings and soar
through rising summer breeze
Perfect black symmetry
wingtip to wingtip
recalling the first flight of courtship
seven years before
Circle the ripening corn
living the wind
feeling the sky
tilt, turn, circle again
Black eyes cast below
they see a figure,
watching, waiting
rifle lowered, patient
And she begins to falter
to mistrust the surging sky
her element, suddenly unmastered
He is oblivious, effortless.
Spiralling, alighting,
he turns his curious gaze
to seek his mate
And finds only empty blue
where she should be.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 5:05 AM UTC
There is an animal
that loiters inside of me
and it takes shelter in these
broken blood vessels
you left on my neck
It sleeps
on the words
you left on
my pillow
It is a guessing game
of whether
I will awake
to your silhouette
in the dark
peacefully, deliriously
I swear
in those moments
if I blink
you will disappear
So this animal
it must hibernate
out of biological
instilled and
predetermined fear
that I cannot make
you reappear
again
It is both the paranoia
of an
unmastered magic trick
that makes this animal run
and the certainty
I felt
when I opened my eyes
one morning
and realized
I had never
quite experienced
a ******* thing
that has
felt even half
as good as you
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:37 PM UTC
Are dreams meant
to be mastered?
I doubt such a plan..
Try and recall all the
dimensions we frequent in REM.
Bedrooms and hallways it’s always the same..
Uncomfortably lost
in an eternal maze…
An institution of collective dreamers, all trying to escape!
Then quickly forgetting
when we awake..
What is that voice that is not us,
Why are we hiding and gathering all this stuff?
Nature always has a plan
somewhere in the DNA
of being human..
Dec 25, 2024
Dec 25, 2024 at 8:15 AM UTC
_I
may
play the
joker, *****
the knave, covet
the queen, and tuck
the ace of spades under my
pillow on a ringed moon night,
but I am forever shuffling the same
deck of cards. Marked cards, imprinted
with loss and patterned with misfortune. Co
urt cards dressed in ill-fitting suits, each face as
familiar as my own. Four seasons, four pips; twelve
months, twelve crowns. One card for each week of the
year. Sequentially pred ictable, and as underwhelming
as a rigged roulette wheel. U ntil, unable to distinguish
between the red and the b lack, the picture and the
plain, I fold. Void of co ntracts, and bleeding
widowe d blanks.
__.....So.....__
deal me in,
but deal me unpainted
and unmastered. Deal me clean._
Jun 2, 2020
Jun 2, 2020 at 4:14 PM UTC
There was thought
Then thought waking
Lifted eyes of knowing
To go away
There rested word
A place inside every page
Word too
**** in the sun
Lifted eyes of weight
To go away
When I see the wind in the trees
With the birds the bugs the bees
I see there is nothing else to do
But believe
In this place and this place
Only
There are heads turning
Burning
Bending
And mending
Towards objectives that turn to nothingness
Dissolve to ash to sand to a fine sawdust dance
Then the energy melts to sorrow
For the realization of that effort
Shows a painful hue of awakening truth
HOW TRUE WE ARE UNTIL IT TURNS FALSE!
HOW HARD WE WORK UNTIL WE SEE THE OBJECTS TRUE END!
HOW WE LOVE UNTIL WE FEEL WE LOVE NO MORE!
Water sacks float underneath bridges made of rickety wood
Chipped brick from wars I only can understand from pictures
The sound of maggot chewed drift wood gently rocks against the corpses of the beach
To be dead in life
Is to leave unfilled unremembered unmastered undone
Leaving you to come back again
Towards the like-wise pondering machines of mechananistic relapses
Churning in a cyclone of black matter
The self dissolving into the self into nothing
All like before
To not be forgotten or remembered
To turn to nothing
To be born again in nothing
To be but not to be
All
In the true nothingness
Of being
Sealed envelope claps its jaws shut
Biting its own tongue
Today
Light shines on myself
My friends
On the creamed filled mountains floating silently above me
But maybe
Not
Tomorrow
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 9:15 PM UTC
When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for tis true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.
My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
*Oh if all the answers lied in the cap of this pen,
And it knew just what to write time and again,
Chaos of expression swept under the carpet,
A front of collectedness facing the world.
I'd write an apology that could slice through glass,
To get to have another take on an unmastered past,
It'd be all you need to hear before you close your eyes,
And the morning will bring a tomorrow of another kind,
Oh and I'd take this pen and stand where the currents oppose,
It would whisper to the wind, what to say, it'd know,
And all the anger would dissipate in well versed lines,
Every comma and every period holding it together like a spine,
Through the ink, I'll sail from my island of speechlessness,
"Rivers can fall from my mouth, tears my eyes can't suppress."
Then my mind can rest for a while, just a little while,
Clearing more room for newborn thoughts to pile.
But now it refuses to speak,
Letting my restless fingers twitch with tension,
My throat's overpopulated,
So I'm just a nameless passenger traveling to another dimension.*
Apr 16, 2017
Apr 16, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
Thinking
unarted inking
messy firings against the brain pan
Huskwork
a scutting dance-like activity
frictioning away energy
a poverty
not a tool
unmastered and fooled;
to be untaught
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC