"unmolested" poems
Electromagnetic Motion Ocean Of Pure Focal Emo-tion.
The Very Sound Of The Creators Verse And Rhythm In Loving Notion Pouring Through The Crystalline Endocrine Indoctrinated Shock Ra Of Shocking Unblocking Colorful Tones In Unmolested Focus And Definition.
To Flow Your Emo-tions Through Your Core And Manifest In Your Intended Notion All Without The Misidentified Horror Of The Wrongfully And Negatively Defined Emotions, One Finds That The Mere Act Of William Tell And That Apple Upon The Head Must Have Been One Hell Of An Interesting Interaction, Yet Instead Of The Reassuring Smiles And Calm Demeanor Of The Archer As They Lock Eyes, What Pray Tell You Think The Eyes Of The Archer Looked Like On That Very Frozen In Time Moment As He Released The Arrow To Guided Love Of Perfected Intent And Delivery Of Safe And Demanding Fortitude Of Action To Defeat All Possible Variable , As If To Need To Bend The Very Laws Of Nature If They Were To Cause An Number Of Odd And Unpredictable Events To Derail The Intent Of The Man Shooting The Apple Off The Head Of His Dear Child's Head, For Not A Bird May Pass Between, Not A Gust Of Wind Be Seen, Not An Earthquake Be Fabled To Accrue, Not A Single Action But The Undeterred Focus Of Absolute Might In Will, His Fee Will In Flight. What Might His Eyes Be Relaying In That Frozen Moment? Reassurance, Pity, Fear, Confidence, Or The Electric Fire Of Electromagnetic Motion Ocean Of Pure Focal Emo-tion To Get The **** Thing Done And Without Foolish ******** Reactions To The Real And True Focus Of Emotion, And Pray Tell, What If The Child Mistook This Look In A Moments Notice And Flinched Out Of Concern That The Father Was Angry With Him? Or Is It Best To Realize The Real Importance Of This Story As It Is The Trust In The Definitions Of Intended Focus And Not Of Simple Trust.? ,... Yes, Intended Focus Of Emotions Being Trusted As True And Not Negative In Nature, Dear Friend, Yes. So Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot, Let The Flow Of Emotion Be Free And Not Dictated By The Restraints Of Control And Be Seen And Used In Negative Ways, For These Are The Crimes Against All Mankind And The Bigger Part Of Why Spoken Word Is The Very Spell That Binds The Psyche, For The Focus Of Or The Lack Of Focus Of Emotions True Meaning And Purpose Is The Crime Against All Life Indeed. Live Free And Pilot This Love Ship Successfully By No Longer Defining Self By The Ways And Means That Have Caused Us To Fear Our Own Power To Move Mountains, And Kept Us All Mustard Seeds When We Are Truly Far More Than You Can Believe. Feel Free, Yes, By All Means Feel Free.
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
John Scalla remembers
plain–clothed white coiffed nuns
in sunday school classes
who were the sweetest things
you’ve ever seen with a razors edge
carried proudly from an emerald isle
John Scalla spent his sundays digging
through big soft Bibles discovering
a father who loved everyone
as equally as he was thorough
a son born to wear a crown of blood
but never lost his most sacred heart
and a universal spirit’s open-armed
quiet embrace of your trembling frame
John Scalla was born to hold a communion
with something far more complex or
precise then our poor sweaty coils
wondering how bread could be body
and blood so eagerly consumed
John Scalla stole from complex pages buried
deep beneath outdated expressions
and miscommunicated messages
a simple cypher that condenses
all the rhetoric down to it’s square root
love
John Scalla locked the cypher
in that secret spot between heart
and stomach holding it close
dreaming on distant playgrounds
where it was slowly worn away
by bullies still casting long shadows
like limestone sphinxes now noseless
John Scalla’s distant playground dreaming
of a personal relationship with God are gone
because if He was there then that makes him
a single string of an infinitely intricate
vast woven narrative where he is only aware
of adjacent pieces unable to take a firm grasp
of the situation continuing to grow
John Scalla weaves narratives through
his prayers sending them nowhere
because they wouldn’t know where to go
with so many far-off stars dead and leaving
cosmic vibrations both here and everywhere
making it hard for them to escape with
their best intentions unmolested
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
fake interviews with fake people. the wording lures them from the fattening of babies who talk early. my silent uncle dying on a bed was asked if he had any first words. I was going to slice bread but pointed the knife at my ear hole, held it with my left, and slammed it in with my right. a man writes a song and sings it to the belly he thinks houses a son. his daughter stops a bullet from bruising his wife’s spine and is delivered unmolested but in high school begins to smell like gunpowder. she joins the KKK but doesn’t tell the KKK. I wake up behind the wheel of a car just in time to kiss the driver’s neck and the driver makes a fish face so horribly a child giggles in hell and pretty soon.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
Benedict stands
in the porter's lodge,
circa 1969, waiting
for Dom Tyler the monk,
to bring the large key
to open the church for Matins.
Dawn, cold air, smell of age
and incense and baking of bread.
He remembers Sonia,
the domestic at the home,
who pushed him to the bed
of old Mr Gillam and said
in her soft Italian,
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
then in her broken English said,
I could have *** with you here.
Another joined Benedict
in the porter’s lodge,
some holy-Joe type,
breviary under arm,
starved gaze.
The silence,
the smell,
the chill.
Dom Tyler opens the door
from the cloister
and rattles the key,
smiles, but does not
break the Grand Silence.
He takes them out
into the morning air,
opens up the church.
Lights are on, monks
are assembling, bell rings,
Benedict takes a seat
on the side pew,
the other sits
more in front.
The old monk who last time
talked to Benedict
of monastic life,
slides by, his body aged,
his habit like a shroud.
How he escaped Sonia,
how he managed
to get away unmolested,
he finds it hard to fathom,
except the promise
of the cinema,
the seats at the back,
the kisses and touching,
all in the dark,
the flashing images
of the film going on.
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
he utters under-breath.
The Latin of early morning
Matins begins, he dismisses
her image and her words.
The holy-Joe opens his breviary
in the semi dark, his finger
turning pages, muttering,
his head nodding
to an invisible prayer.
Benedict imagines Sonia
creeping into the pew,
muttering Italian,
sitting there.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses,
I blast not the fiends who have hurl’d me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which, bewailing, rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this—
Was my eye, ’stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright’ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing,
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
Yet, still, though we bend with a feign’d resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and Hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
Oh! when, my ador’d, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested—the dead.
1.4k
welcome
she welcomes my energy inside and gives me tea
calms my busy light without a single word
smiles at my bright aura
a tabby ginger cat purrs on a gingham cloth
blue Delft plates in a row
this was a time with no fuzzy
no noise
no waste
no haste
dimming of all goodness
a woman’s head rolls on the fine sifting sand
dry and warm
a rapier juts forward, pierces the guts of an old man
who carries a child on his back
there’s a red blanket what flies on the line
soggy and now, it’s hard to tell whose blood drips so
an elongated horn is blown from a desert hill
nobody lives in the mountains of Miranda anymore
her ghost has found voice in the echo of the brambles
her secrets still buzz in heavy hives of long ago
discovered and ravaged by trusted traitors
now hanging in clusters, newly unfound
dried corpses also hang (unmolested) in bloodwood trees
where every trace of gall is let flow in kino
the blood of Miranda flows on
she of terminalis
lives on eternal
in brook and vale and bush
in veins of progeny bee
and also
in the crickets of the field
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Don’t confuse the hypnotic
hum of highway traffic
with the anesthetic lull
of your dreams deflating.
Don’t confuse the murmuration
of small black flies above the bowl
of rotting fruit with the devastation
you feel in the hard pit of your soul.
Don’t confuse the blinding eyes
of white vapor streetlights
with the coruscating promise
of an unmolested path home.
Don’t confuse the empty auto lot
at the edge of town with an orchard:
tonight the gravel of crushed bones
blossoms in a shower of moonlight,
the interminable hush of a hard rain.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
We are progressing upstream, no sighting yet.
Their gods are letting us pass unmolested.
Even the sun beckons us up these blue waters,
but the cliffs are closing in, scarved with the icy
torrents of waterfalls spilling their glacial flux.
In the distance is a great broad path, paved
in crazy glazing, glinting in the sun.
There's no escaping this snare's enchantment.
Surely, they don't take us for their pirate
longboat returning to digorge its stolen treasures.
Somewhere Thor's hammer is at work. We pray
we will be spared his unforgiving anvil,
for we come only with our tourist tribute.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
People twist and swirl,
In a vague impression of motion
A surging stream, bodies mingle
The flowing crowd moves like water
In part I am drawn to join the decant
By a sense of missing human connection
Their minds wrap together twisted
The dance to the command of an embedded song
Snow-like static thoughts are unclear
Haunting blank stares bid me to stay aloof
A jovial atmosphere moves through the streets
On each face a hallow smile portrayed
With great effort, diverted gaze
Turning to new unmolested roads
I will not be swept away
By humanities passing parade
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 8:23 PM UTC
On the other side
of my over
thinking
I’ve come to realize I still have
more questions
than answers
The future feels just the same as
it did ten years ago when my now
was my future
then
Friends are more often
thought about
than visited
when later today turns into tomorrow
and tomorrow turns
into this weekend
and then next weekend
once a month
whenever you can
because time pushes us all into
this strange thing
called Life
and it’s full of all kinds of ********
designed to rob you of
your money
your sanity
your time
but don’t let this discourage you
from greeting tomorrow
with open arms
and a head full of more questions
than answers
The magic doesn’t seem
to happen as often,
but on the days it does
You have a good day at work,
you pay all the monthly bills on time,
your schedule syncs with an old
college friend and you meet for
coffee, or street tacos from a
local food trailer, or you shoot
pool and whiskey at a dive bar
early Saturday evening
and it feels like the old times again,
and you learn the things you did
were your first stumblings into
adulthood and even though they
sometimes change the way you walk
forever, it’s those times you discover
again when you start your third game
and the songs you queued on the jukebox
start playing and now that you can enjoy
the taste of good whiskey more than the
quantity of well, and all the loose fragments
of the memories we carry every day, left open
on the table in a journal with more strikeout
lines than unmolested phrases all become
complete with each corner pocket called
shot, each memory recalled and retold with
language alluding Greek Epics and Shakespearean
Tragedies,
It all starts to make more sense in ways
and stops making sense in others,
and the future is the same as it always was
some things
you can change,
some people
you can keep
some days
turn into weeks,
months, and years
trying to make sense
of what’s coming,
of what’s gone,
of just what, exactly,
we have now.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
.
These wrought iron dreams
won't bend in the wind anymore.
Unleashed immortal magick mimics death
within the hazy orb of crystal,
while the wizard stands motionless in the corner.
Darkness subdivided as his metamorphosis neared
completion.His dark black wings dried slowly
in the diffused moonlight.
My hands trembled as blood curdled up
the grimacing face of the moon,
an ungodly scream sent shock waves through
the unmolested silence.I left
the room.My unraveled nerves recoiled
at the touch of darkness.
The wizard pointed at me as I asked--
if I could continue the dream..
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 3:53 PM UTC
*Life is short, and to think of you,
Long and mad, is to long the longing
Of long bond papers, stretched,
Untouched and unmolested,
An ice rink awaiting
Its solitary soul.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 5:16 AM UTC
if i am
sober
wealthy
straight
clean
beautiful
happy
betrothed
unmolested
lucky
how will i
convince you
that we are not enemies?
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 1:18 PM UTC
Out, out in a world of pine
lay a land unmolested by time
Through and through, free of grime
was this land made, made to shine
Soon enough, decay had its day
crestfallen trees cracked and broke
ash took over roots with a sooty choke
Oh yes, Mother Nature was made to pay
Waves of denizens took to town-square
They discussed, raved, and cried out like thunder
Far too late had they realized their blunder
Mother Nature, meanwhile, had taken her fair share
The ground convulsed with violent rage
Thorny vines rapidly sunk into skin
each and every neck separated from a chin
accompanied by inhumane shrieks and the scent of sage
Out, out in a world of crimson pine
lay a land briefly ravaged by time
Through and through, now free of grime
was this land made, made to shine
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 8:39 PM UTC
Hello shiny loop of post-shower Rainbow,
you of mosaic-powered striated halo,
and so sages tell, a sign of faith.
You chaste secreter of much potted gold,
crescented magic of arc-perfection
your brilliant mixtures of shaded hues
break raindrops into states
of optic illusion which act as temptation.
Oh consummate sweep of bow-creation,
who can know when and what
day you appear, colourfully naked.
Favour no seekers, oh Rainbow whom
by digging for myth will
selfishly follow roads right to your end.
Make therefore no friends
of illicit searchers for treasure, those
who see you as meant lure
for retrousséd wealth-embellishment.
Rainbow you cover your real blessings
in pseudo-gilt with which
ingratiates have become obsessed.
Sedate then all lucre-lust with a curved
root at each end of your
rain-augmented foot to waylay theft.
Divert and deflect looters with luminous
know-how and curl into
spacial deception before desecration.
Bedazzle all lechers by preventing entry
to any pretentious view
of your sensitive and tremulous end.
You as writhe of kaleidoscope can keep
away crooked schemers
by retaining your varisome irridescence.
Alive with mysterious rays
behave like a ghost loathing the sun, be
as invisible, turn pale, fade,
and disappear to invalidate trespass.
Rainbow hide what is always your own
from blind passers by with
greedy spade-eyes, stay unmolested.
Stretch out your tracery uncontrolled,
a beauteous vision who keeps
her vaulted prism a glorious whole.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 7:51 AM UTC
My seed was planted.
My home was growing,
I couldn’t believe what life had shown me
Love,
I have witnessed blessings from above,
But none were they as appreciated as love
I love my wife,
With her shape taken directly from her mother,
Earth, he skin ton resembled the most nurturing soil,
Each curve flowing into the next
With such precision a machine could only attempt to mimic.
Her eyes could tell no lies,
Pools of brown that turned my world upside down.
And my children,
Young and in love,
With life, just as I had taught them.
They turned to the land every time they needed a friend,
After all they knew where I conceived them,
The stars in their eyes, so beautiful, people would orbit,
Their gravity was unmolested,
They were children of the wind
I could do little to stop, them.
Nothing could take this lion off his throne.
My mane was long and strong.
No beast would dare infringe upon my family.
Nor man.
But white devil never known my land,
Never known my children,
Never known my people.
As I protect my pride,
I watch,
I watch the lands, ravaged.
I watch,
I watch my people, locked and chained
I watch,
I watch my family, crying from pain
I watch sun lose its shine.
The animals lose time,
Our gold does not glitter anymore,
Our blood has spilled
Disbanding the throne.
Now,
After we left our mother at home,
In shackles,
We bow our weeping heads,
Hoping for a morsel,
Her children need to be fed.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
Under the cover of night
A knight and a long knife
Ready to stick ready to slice
He looks mad tonight...
The darkness is deep.
And black,
Black Like the lac sittin out front.
The notion of movin’ inconspicuous is masked
With the shadow of guilt
Swallowing any spark of light
Threatening to dissolve the lust over darkness
Projected by a mind shrouded in grey space.
So he sits low.
Eyes shaded by his fro.
He's patient.
An attribute many deems worthless,
He basks in its tide,
It washes over him with powerful waves of humility
Cleansing any possibility of being replicated.
Never in this life time.
Each step he takes is a movement in the composition of time.
Its flow is powerful but only under a benign face.
The dynamic is only determined after an attempt to cross him.
His mission is calling,
It has led him to this darkness.
The forests of skeletons
Infesting the closet space of his mind only confuses.
He has realized his afflictions.
Seemingly they are lost in the black.
He watches the politics he has been sent to stop.
It’s disgusting.
But his mission is clear.
The path to success is not.
The path he has chosen is unique.
It has led him into the belly of the beast.
His intel was correct.
His approach is dangerous.
The chance of defecting is high, but he's betting on his will.
As his age grows so does his determination.
With every second passed he stands more ready.
And as the darkness consumes more of all he has built,
And as emotions of despair, pain, embarrassment, loneliness, and worry
weigh down his proud shoulders,
a peculiar spasm of creation happens.
He finds something.
He finds...
Well, he finds himself.
Every ounce of his frail, unmolested, un-influenced self,
Before he discovered lies, and suffered cries,
Before time played its tricks and stole his youth,
Before he started prayin’ for a direction to sin,
Before he discovered his truth.
Now he contemplates.
It’s never too late. He can change.
But His mission stays the same.
After all that is why he searches the dark.
To improve his third eye.
To absolve the blind.
He will not achieve perfection
but the end of his mission will come.
Remember he walks through time it does not move him.
Its blakops, the subconscious thought.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 11:59 AM UTC
Every second with you
Is a glimpse
Of the days
Before the Fall of Man
The sparkle in your eyes
The purity of your smile
The warmth of your touch
Something God forgot to curse
Or perhaps left unmolested
Just to gift humanity with hope
A peek at a world
Devoid of hatred and deceit
Avarice and malice
And plant a seed in our minds
That perhaps, just maybe, God willing
A better world is possible
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
A great fire swept through a forest
burning everything in its wake.
In the fire's path stood a Jack Pine.
The tree, wanting to be left unharmed
pleaded for mercy from the blaze.
Reluctantly, the fire agreed
and passed it unmolested.
Countless seasons passed,
the forest grew back larger,
more resilient than before.
Many trees released their seeds
in the destruction;
The Pine, however,
unable to open its cones
could not help to reseed the forest.
The Pine, now older,
but weak and brittle from time,
realised the fire would bring devastation at first,
but in its aftermath,
new life would flourish.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC
Auschwitz Rose
by Michael R. Burch
There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar,
a rose like Sharon’s, lovely as her name.
The world forgot her,
and is not the same.
I still love her and enlist this sacred fire
to keep her memory exalted flame
unmolested by the thistles and the nettles.
On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles ...
They sleep alike—diminutive and tall,
the innocent, the “surgeons.”
Sleeping, all.
Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals,
if accidents of coloration, gall
my heart no less.
Amid thick weeds and muck
there lies a rose man’s crackling lightning struck:
the only Rose I ever longed to pluck.
Soon I’ll bed there and bid the world “Good Luck.”
Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Black Medina, Voices Israel, Other Voices International, Verse Weekly, Poetry Renewal Magazine, Mindful of Poetry, The Eclectic Muse, Promosaik, Famous Poets & Poems, The Wandering Hermit, FreeXpression (Australia), Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), Trinacria, Pennsylvania Review, Poems About, Litera (UK), Yahoo Buzz, Got Poetry, de Volksrant Blog (Holland)
Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, Auschwitz, rose, Sharon, name, forgotten, sacred, memory, flame, briar, thorns, reddening, sunset, thistles, nettles, innocent, innocents, surgeons, blood, crimson, petals, weeds, muck, lightning, blitzkrieg, strike, struck, attack, war, violence, ****** death, bed, grave, goodbye, farewell, good luck
Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 5:03 AM UTC
There are some
Who wear make up
To hide behind
Like a mask
Or to be someone their not
Some have worn it
For so very long
That they have become their mask
Or maybe the mask becomes them
Like a ritual, some pagan act
Antiqued and traditional
Some feel naked without it
But I saw you
Eyes stripped of all
No highlights, outlines or lashes
For all intents, completely naked
And behind the mask
And you were beautiful
Softest, smoothest lines
Untouched, raw and unmolested
Purest clean and untainted
And I loved you, that much more
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
Lily magnolia
written November 29th, 2020
I walked by you this summer
dressed in all your green finery.
If I thought anything
it was, "what a nice little tree."
I am sorry to say
I did not look close enough
to form much of an impression.
Now fall has come
you have shivered most of your leaves off
a few hold on tenaciously
trying in vain to cover your virtues.
I look at you and am I ever surprised!
Your branches are craggy and twisted
displaying the lovely complexity of advanced age
result of many exposures to the storms of life.
The tips of your branches
hold fuzzy little nubs
that remind me of ***** willows.
I stand near and marvel
at the aching tenderness of your womanhood
kept hidden until now
under your leafy raiment.
I look but I do not touch
I have not asked permission
and I will not.
I hope the world
continues to pass you by
leaving you unmolested.
It is not easy to be so revealed.
I look forward
to seeing you next summer
all dressed up again.
I will smile and nod
as I pass by
knowing what your verdant covering
hides beneath it.
Nov 29, 2020
Nov 29, 2020 at 6:05 AM UTC
What a trip! Have you ever
Had a capsule endoscopy?
The prepping procedure's exactly what
You do for a colonoscopy.
It's SO much fun! Of course, I don't
Have to say I'm being sarcastic.
The feeling of peeing out one's rear
Isn't a feeling I'd call fantastic.
After the prep, it's all downhill.
A pill-like camera is ingested--
One that travels through the body,
Basically unmolested.
Wires taped to your body
Connect to a monitor, which will record
The camera's journey through your system.
"Everybody, hop on board!
"After the throat, we take a plunge
Down the esophagus. Hurray!
We're now in an empty stomach.
There's no food to get in the way.
"Watch out for those dangerous acids,
Which ask, 'What is this to digest?'
To them a camera passing through
Is NOT a very welcome guest.
"Next stop: the duodenum.
Here we go around the bend.
We still have a ways to go
Before our adventure nears its end.
"The long trek through the small intestine
Is a windy, curvy path
Five to seven meters long.
How many feet? You do the math.
"Say hi to Mr. Appendix
As we leisurely pass him by.
He's not the most appreciated
Part of the human body. Poor guy.
"As we traverse the colon we
Realize the end's in sight.
How refreshing to know that at
The end of the tunnel, there's a light!
"We hope the journey was a safe one
With NO dangers or major surprises.
The prep indeed was the worst part of all,
But life is full of compromises."
What happens to the capsule next
I'll leave to your imagination.
If everything comes out as planned,
That'll be cause for celebration.
- by Bob B (4-4-17)
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 12:48 PM UTC
a man goes unmolested into the knowledge of his body. has one hand had no choice. puts a doll in a carseat. makes his boy watch. a man recoils mid-dream
from a caterpillar. I am
what I’m
again.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 9:58 AM UTC