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DieingEmbers Feb 2012
Insomnia stole my dreams from me
and dropped them in a hole,
dug into my phsychy
deep within my soul.

My mind unmoored left drifting
in a sea of restless nights,
drownding in the darkness
of a world devoid of lights.
Julian Jan 2016
Gruesome blister on a denatured mind
Chimes rumble the anchored soul foggy with Elysian wine
Flippant ruse ignites a battered fuse rusty with malevolent impotence
Blustery portents beyond expired extent throngs the chapels and pickets along the electrified fence
That separates the grave from the gravity of a physics enslaved
A physics where disillusioned mathematics and decay are as sure as taxes and the last earthen day
Nescient of giant leaps our stepwise ascension is helical and cheap
It snails along with unctuous repetition of pendulous rhythm and sails biologically with evolved and animated meat
The advent of acid and bass is a keepsake for the epicurean chase
Of a fulgurant galvanization of phases that remain unfazed
Trends punctuate vain diversions and lionized conversions both raise and raze
The velocity of money ensures a melliferous alchemy of a well-oiled plutocracy buffered by praise and pay
Ivory-tower elegance is immune to demotic ignorance
When the shot-callers devise the rules to the game with impenetrable clandestine eloquence
Hebetude and lassitude sink abundant platitude and offer trite prescriptions for useless attitudes
But the vogue of disembogued vanity entraps individualism and trains martial raillery
Trends tantalized by preening epigamic tens makes the roosters become owls that neglect nest egg hens
Fatuous ambush of the Kardashian putsch is as clockwork as Big Ben
Murky lies appear in flimsy disguise suitable for mice “say cheese” demise
Privacy cries and answers only lurk accessibly when spurred by wise “why’s” never asked when garish time flies
Tweets and beats make us obese with threadbare wheat cultivated by nescient bleats
Beatific ambition obscured by the wail of sheepish sheep
Outnumbered by obtuse angels and a cute horde of meretricious dissolution that ever wrangles
The shelter turns to rubble and the cloister turns to bustle: useful convolution thus entangles
Agorophilia defiles a voiceless lechery on speed dial
Disembodied violence sprints a green mile bankrolled by the peaceful throngs slowed through the paid but dilatory turnstile
Thus we loiter in queue as the slew of vibrant militarized celerity taxes our pews
Pews which enthuse jingoism eager to apportion sentient deaths through religious abuse
We can surf beams of light chasing verisimilitudes of diversion bright
Of unwagered immersion gambling a pittance for vicarious thrills and riskless fright
To discover the vestige of war, a useless artifact of sore egos we now deplore
An enormity of unmoored evil percolating apace of the paradoxical rush hour from shore to shore
But more decisively than an implacable brush fire on pristine ground abetted by sleek star-crossed winds that soar
Irenic ignorance placates, because a vagrant vacant mind is more a felicity than a bellicose grimy crease
Because excess corrodes squinty detests, and partial enslavement is both a rest and arrest to earth’s untenanted lease
Decries the devolution of pop culture that transmogrifies people into sheep and then makes them sheepish over their peccadillos. It also bashes war as a callous mechanism of useless death. It concludes by asserting the paradox that the throngs in real life slow our movement but we can move at light speed through technological implements. It concludes that useful idiots are irenic if also disheartening. In the earlier sections it laments that materialistic monism is taking over because science has made us deterministic and thus blind to the numinous beyond that staggers beyond our comprehension. It addresses how we are silently monopolized by artful esoteric chess masters immune to trifling quibbles, and how distracted society has become with respect to digital plasticity and consumerist disfiguration spurred on by fatuous and meretricious values. It further satirizes the effigy of modern culture deliberately disfigured with grandiloquence to deploy resourceful linguistic invention. I hope you enjoy this piece!

Here is a response I posted on another poetry site with respect to this poem. It explains the emblems, themes, philosophical agenda and metaphors of this poem so that more people can appreciate the level of meticulous care I preen with my craft
“I understand the charge of hyperbole, that was unintentional. It is an epiphenomenon of protean grandiloquence ( multi-pronged connotations suffering entropy through translation) crafted to emblazon lurid imagery and to conceal arcane mystery with an emphasis on cadence. When you use big words it is inevitable that some words chosen connote more strongly than you originally hoped for when writing it initially. Also, it was not designed to be solely a scathing harangue bemoaning the decadence and anomie endemic to this zeitgeist. You should read the final four or five lines (after I lambasted how war makes human life unnecessarily disposable for expedient aims). In those lines I marvel at miracle of technology wizardry and insinuate that in modern times we can wager much less to gain the same thrills we would have risked life and limb for before. Instead of a bottlenecked turnstile of industry that admits one person at a time like when entering an amusement park (the sluggish pace of premodern industry) to fund the clunky and internecine annihilation operated through rapid-fire death ( “Disembodied violence sprinting ‘the green mile’ A.K.A. a prisoner’s last walk before execution). The pace of society is a central theme of the poem throughout. The gravity of a physics enslaved implies the dilatory and dismal apprehension of a universe moving at an infinitesimally slow rate. A helical and cheap evolution mediated by animal meat snails along throughout history only to precipitate the exponential acceleration of human progress witnessed more recently after the advent of language. The rate of speed (the velocity of money line) is the lifeblood of all culture and all entertainment but it has become such a blur that it obscures the inveterate values of a leisurely stroll rather than a hedonistic galloping gallivant. Ironically, the plutocracy depends on gradate—(thus slow enough to lull people into the “say cheese” mousetrap (privacy eradication)—cultural devolution (clockwork like Big Ben to me evokes the imagery of a slowly ticking clock, a fixture and emblem of the proctor of the old world domineering over newfangled world prospects). Pop culture centered in the Anglophonic world depends on a rapid velocity of vagary blustery with money inuring people to fast-paced changes that abide by slow-moving subterfuge( the Kardashian putsch). The word ambush in that sentence implies that the encroachment of hegemons depends on a furtive approach solidified by an alacritous leap at the heartstrings of mankind in a moment of brinkmanship. The mousetrap is the slow roll but steady bet “say cheese demise”. The irony is that the only way this plan could work is because “wise why’s are never asked when garish time flies. This bewilderingly rapid pace is also the mechanism whereby sheltered obtuse angels are desensitized by breakneck cultural celerity that disabuses their naivety thus leading to useful convolution (paradigm shift). But there is also a lament that “meretricious wranglers” could lead to unmoored decadence bewildered by a smug agnostic relativism tethered to nothing more than the culmination of momentary fads reverberating in a plangent delay chamber like a finely crafted sound effect in a musical production program. The poem ends optimistically by concluding war is a vestige and concedes that partial enslavement (PC culture) is irenic precisely because it shepherds pedestrian considerations predictably in order to secure a stalemate. The Earth’s Untenanted Lease is thus arrested by counterbalanced nuclear specters. This leads to a rest and also an arrest of territorial claims. There is so much deliberate and emblematic imagery deployed here, drenched with subconscious enrichment that is unintended. A perfunctory interpretation of this piece misses so many astute cultural commentaries. The poem ends on a relatively positive note. The final several lines announce war as a vestige but concede that peace is built upon a latticework of acquiescent sheep indoctrinated to despise the past rather than learn from it (this goes slightly beyond what is directly stated). This poem in essence is about the ironic dynamics of history at the intersection of our modern cultural identity.
selina Jun 2021
like a compass that has lost north
spinning without pattern, without end
my heart races erratically, unmoored
by just the soft touch of your hand
Lauren Christine Dec 2018
She stands—
every few minutes turning abruptly to no object.
Hips pushing forward, shoulders sliding back,
red soled sneakers and plaid flannel slacks
beneath a dramatic black trench coat,
in the grey shadow of a gothic church.

She smokes the grey and blows white,
and scrolls through the neon screen
with her one ungloved hand,
a bun perched stiffly on her scalp, unheeded,
an afterthought, if there was one before.

Her backdrop—the heavy iron fence of a graveyard,
and centuries old glorious stones watch
as she spends her minutes
engrossed
in the luminous green of infinity.

it would feel normal if it was a bus stop,
a grocery line,
a hospital waiting room,
even a lonely bench.

But she stands,
and periodically pivots,
meanders two steps and stands,
and jolts three steps back,
glitching through slow time,
anxious and unresolved—
yet so engrossed.

Finally now she is following the fence out of view, slowly,
and I hope she finds rest.
I feel grateful as the sidewalk carries her now
away from my puzzled gaze

The great stones and I exchange long glances,
and perhaps they are more compassionate than I,
for they seem not phased.

Oh stones, teach me patience, teach me rest.
For you are glorious in endless rest,
and I am still anxious and unresolved.
Travis Kroeker Dec 2019
Like the licking of an old dog that insists you take her
for a walk
the insistent swell
laps your legs.

Off port, headlamps
slip by in an unending current
supplying the illusion of your
inevitable progress forward,

and little certainty you had ever been moored at all.
Now for years I haven’t seen him
nor know if he is alive or dead
the shadowy man who floated like dream
each moonlight on the roof surfaced!

When from my window his silhouette I caught
saw him on his voyage embark
the moon stalker day’s small-time clerk
wove a magic spell on my thought!

As the moon came over the eastern edge
silver orbed in her glorious rebirth
he would be there lost in his gaze
like a moonman stuck on the earth!

Madly his eyes riveted on the sky
in pursuit of gain unknown
as if once unmoored to her he would fly
leaving this world disowned!

Hours passed by his wonder not ebbed
eased not the moon stalker's trance
it seemed to me moon's waning he grieved
mourned dimming of her silvery dance!

Each full moon saw this unfailing zeal
on the roof two lovers' meet
his eyes sky bound till he had his fill
the moonman on earthly transit!
Sjr1000 Jan 2014
Well Annie now you've done it
through your gyrations,  characterizations
imitations
a spot of light of spirit
flipped out into the ether
like some kind of spiritual dandruff
all crystal prisms
twinkling stars shook off of you
and floated
through my eyes and ears
and penetrated and infused
my pumping heart
through my circulatory system
snapping synaptic changes,
touching those places
of
dreams and trances.

Well Annie now you've done it all night long
with images of Olive Oil
and no Popeye
I have become a sailor man
unmoored from the safety of the slip
dragging the anchor
until the tether breaks
and find myself floating
on some Jungian sea
of the unconscious far away from the shore.

Well Annie now you've really done it -
How will this all play out
when walking down the faux marble hallways
as I roll up one wave of imitation
and down another in
clients/secretaries/billing clerks
deranged psychiatrists stories
and all of this reality
grabbing trying ranting riffing
how is this all going to play out
when strange guerilla theatre
erupts on backwards
in administrators offices
and leadership committee meetings
when I spread my  legs
as my grand opening
in carrot top hangings
and turn to clients
offer them too
this spirit spark of
courage.

Well you've really done it this time Annie
when my door is locked
and pagers are begging for my attention
but I will be in the room at that desk
throwing rules, regulations
and my professional reputation
to the current winds of unwinding
truths and soulful stories.
When they turn to me
and ask for my forgiveness
in their true confession
or when I shift shapes
to the big onion
when everyone who wanders near weeps
when they ask me for that magic sentence
to make it all okay
or write a treatment plan
or
just a hand on the shoulder;
as they begin to talk
like rooms of old echoes-
I will tell them that will cost them extra.

You've done it now Annie forever
in my minute little world
rocked the boat
that spirit
like the butterfly wings causing the hurricane
of courage.

You've done it now Olive Oil Annie
I have found my spinach
and
freedom cannot be far behind...
zebra Jan 2019
I do believe all poets must not only read a lot of poetry but read a lot about poetry. Of my 50 favorite poets, there is not one who has not written about poetry, the philosophy of their work and of the craft. That in itself is fascinating- and difficult, like the depth you find in NY Review of Books. I do about 2/3 (poems) to 1/3 (being books about poetry) From the most philosophic works of archetypes by Northrop Frye to the most public and basic questions of Zupruders good seller "Why Poetry?" .
That last book opened up a new reality for me, to I ask myself all the time who am I writing for, in context to all this reading...I realized I was really trying to communicate the poetic truths of living, of my own small life in the world so full of beauty, horror, paradox and death. I realized to do this I had to make compromises, to not try to impress or amuse myself with poems that could only be understood by me. The craft and presentation became as important as the message. That is currently my direction, I'm writing "collections" of poems with themes so a reader could enjoy a concrete theme. (The last book I just read, a signed collection by Ferlinghetti ( nice and cheap in a used bookstore) was just that- the theme of light in "How to Paint Sunlight." Accessible and very full of several poems about light)
So you are stating two different issues:
I don't like being not understood, Having people throw up there hands perplexed, I'd rather be popular.... Its lonely
But I cant write for others because than it would be feeling like a commercial venture My motivation would be destroyed.
Id rather be desolated and write for those few who get the twinge...
Well, first of all, we poets are possibly lucky because we ain't making beans for our poems. Forgetaboutit. Even our most lauded poets end up teaching to get the health care and severance. I suppose there may be 3 poets in Amerika that make a living on just writing poetry....if that many. Who's buying? I didn't see much word "poetry" once in this weeks NY Times review of books. Only some letters crashing last weeks review of Leonard Cohen, who the critic called a wonderful lyricist and performer, but an awful poet. These dialogues are important to me, but really, quite a small audience. Either way, lyrics and song paid the rent, not Cohen's books of just poetry.
I'm sure there is no immediate cure for your paradox. If you want to be popular you have to make compromises. If you don't want to alter your vision, you can get the joy of a smaller readership and forget the rest. You have to manage expectations is a world that hardly notices our craft.
It's hard to be both, I suppose you should stay true to your motivation. And if readers like me don't get it, **** em. Let it suffice we acknowledge the craft, and that we will get closer to some poems more than others be enough. For me, accessibility, the ability to engage a reader into whatever poetic truth I am feeling, is more important than in any way hiding the meaning in the poem in which I alone can understand it.
I want people who never read poetry, which is most people, pick up a poem by me and feel the poetry power without feeling intimidation which is what most people feel when they read most poems published today. For me its that fine line between letting the imagination do the work, and the poem setting up the narrative to allow it by inviting a reader into it. I get great joy reading my poems to non poets who are scared by even the idea of it, and get them to feel something new, that wonderful way Aristotle put it- that poetry provides an ultimate truth that is found beyond the boundary of philosophy.
Best Mark
…………………...

Admittedly I have gone off the rails focusing on the meta or man as dreamer. Are we not dreamers first before descending into the material, deadening the faculty of imagination or as the I Ching says "a darkening of the light"
I want to bring the reader up and when I read I want to have the sensation of ascending I try to give what I like to receive which is to be brought into greater fluency and light
Have we abandoned our inner life to such an extent that when confronted with it we find our selves strangers to it; reinforcing and amplifying a kind of cognitive dissidence?
Are we in a sense a stranger to our selves having lost the lucidity of our magical youth
Do we see the world as vacant utilitarian stuff and other humans predictable lusterless cogs in a wheel like cued robots?
Witches Seers, Voodoons , Hermeticists, Kabbalists and Occultists of very stripe know and use objects as essential to their operations and craft because they have hidden meaning and power.
Has the life of fantastical creative cognition been sacrificed to inveterate congenital pragmatism?
"Beloved imagination, what I most like in you is your unsparing quality".
Andre Breton
To transgress is to process ones madness as opposed to the customary botched behaviors of repressive modalities we hide behind . It seems to me that poetry is a great ground for that exploration.
Perhaps Its a good thing for a reader to think about what the writer means, albeit a difficult pleasure as opposed to the instantaneous and facile modes of naming and claiming Reading towards the abstract can be a mystical experience Most people who read are shallow readers Shall I than aspire to be a shallow writer?
What surrealism (Detailed descriptive language unmoored from linear rationality) affords the writer like pure abstraction to the visual artist is a great opportunity to explore the musicality of language ie the musicality of form i.e. the energetic configurations of architypes.
Part of our craft that makes things crackle as you know well remains sound play ie the strategy of syllables ... Long vowels / short vowels...the length of words and sound of words in relationship to one another
As you know Mark to analyze the subtle abstraction of sounds i.e. words to the ear is just like music and like music although not wholly translatable has an undertow of non verbal meaning especially if exploited out side the linguistic necessity of linear prose like poems i.e. a device that most never use consciously and strategically or certainly to its fullest potential.
So when we say a poem is beautiful do we impart mean its those amazing tintinnabulating sounds that ****** with their musicality? Poems that do that well stand out to me.
Further I think we are in error when we confuse the realistic with the materialistic. It seems to me realism has magnitudinal underlying meta elements that need to be felt in poetry and to think other wise in my opinion would be a dull conceit
A good example is thought itself
When we speak our ideas thoughts impulses we have no real sense of where they emerge from The processes are so meta their incomprehensible even to neuro science and scientists have little if any understanding of consciousness or its meaning as far as I know
So perhaps the surrealist has a place of worth too; and that is to remind people of their inner life out side the cage of end product think and commodification. After all what is a life and what is a poem?
Best Z
Yasha Harkness Sep 2015
I hear them
The tolling, wailing bells
So we've come to the end
The last page of an epic
The silent fadeout of the silver screen
The dimming embers of a massive bonfire.
We've unmoored our boats from the flotilla we once knew as 'home' and 'family'.
         
                   The end of  us

We stand in the ruins
Of a great building
It once held the relation
Of a father and daughter
Of a husband and wife
You set it on fire
But we will not put out your flames
With our tears and blood
Anymore.

Let the fire take away your poison
And let the rain scour away every last toxic residue
Of the bond we once held.
This is my requiem. Perhaps one day this too shall seem like a dream.
I'm just so tired of loving you.
Aaron Blair Nov 2012
Some nights,
I dream of my father's fists,
or the blue-green color of his eyes
and how they watered,
became oceans,
when he'd had too much to drink.

There was a galaxy inside of him,
a great, gravitational mass.
He opened his mouth and swallowed worlds;
became a death-eater,
teeth biting down into a swollen black tongue.

When I was a fetus, I felt him pulling,
so I gnawed my way out of my mother's womb.
Covered in her blood, I met my adversary.
I dove into the sea to stare him down,
but could scarcely remember my amniotic swimming.

I drowned. My lungs filled
with the emptiness of space,
and for ages I floated, unmoored,
drifting by stars forever unimpressed with me.

One day, the universe will collapse,
time flying backwards toward its end.
I will see him as he was when he was new,
a stardust embryo not touched by awfulness.
I will know what it means to love.
Elaenor Aisling Sep 2021
What’s the difference between
Drowning and drinking, adrift?

Between
floating unmoored
body taught drum leather
through the current’s veins and
slipping beneath the surface’s mouth
The brush of its lips over arms
body taught drum leather
And sinking until sand meets skin.

Swallow a drop, scream a wave
Salt-blind eyes, sealess, starless,
The compass spins in circles
Lost.  

Can you tell me what I’m supposed to see
I can’t make it out
from the periphery
I never could judge the distance
Between you
And me
Devin Ortiz Oct 2021
The golden hours of the morning met my eyes with favor.

Cherished and tender, the Sun kissed her skin in a swath of freckled light.  

I meet her gaze and she fades like waning of my magic.

In her absence, I stumble from then to now, tethered along by the wish of her reality.

She is ethereal, her between moments, unmoored by convention.

She is a freedom, I do no know.

She whispers her truths, words which wage war with profound ambition.

Dusk comes and I succumb, it is time.
Olivia Catherine Jan 2021
He floats, adrift over wine-dark depths,
Veins of denial and luciferin,
Dressed in silk ribbons, deceptive in their innocence,
The discarded robe of a fallen monarch.

He glides, elusive, over nothing, solitary in his rule,
Unmoored and untouchable, even to a hand offering solace,
For fear that this same hand may tether him to an unsavory reality.
Lying to himself, the king of falsity and bioluminescence.
Rikki Aug 2014
it would seem
this boat we are in
took on some water

were our hearts too full?
too heavy to bring about
the bouyancy that
drifting at sea requires?

were we paddling with impatience?
that song we sang it had
a cadence that left
little time for reflection
no time to notice
the water lapping and rising at
our own feet

despite what we've been told
rarely is one prepared
for such a trip

after all
who could anticipate
the severe solitude
one discovers
adrift at sea,
hearts unmoored,
souls all afire
all aflutter
sails stormily snapping
and lapping up the
tempestuous wind
Dan Schell Oct 2011
It is hard to see him now,
frail body confined to the bed,
a doll drained of stuffing
beneath his blanket,
topped with graying head.

I cast aside the memory of a man
I once knew:
the man who wore his liver
on his sleeve,
the bottle before
any woman, any job, any law;
the man who told his young son
they could drive anywhere
as long as they spent no money;
gas flowed from pumps like water;
the town unfolding as we drive,
an endless archive of stories untold
before wide child eyes.

The man who rose from bartender
to janitor to professional,
back to the bar and then,
in a flash, this hospice bed;
cruel arc of a careless life,
a life unforgiving of mistakes,
disease, and the great, great
imperfections of men.

I am too ingrained for him to forget,
culled from the years erased,
a memory plucked from the sea of fog;
implanted too deep in his heart
to dissolve into dementia’s ether;
but too many memories
have become unmoored,
ropes dangling, anchor lost,
drifting along the tides of time,
listing with the waves
in a silent good-bye.
Published in “deuce coupe,” Jan., 2011
http://deucecoupe.wordpress.com/
©2011 – Dan Schell
raewyn Sep 2018
your new beau sleeps
on the left side of the bed
and he has a smile like mercury, like moonlight:
it spills over you like a melody you just remembered
your mother used to sing when you were sleeping.

your new beau sings
(sometimes loudly, in the shower)
and he showers you with love like summer rain:
warm and soft and charming, like a teddy bear you find
that still smiles, buoyed by ghosts of your affection.

your new beau lights
cigarettes, your heart, the room
with the careless chaos-grace of a tornado:
sleek and bold and brilliant, so natural yet so strange
that you can't ever really catch your breath around him.

but there's another reason why
he will remind you of a storm
and there's a reason his bedside is the left;
he left me, he always leaves, and someday he'll leave you too
as the moon sets, the rain stops, the storm rests.

he'll leave you unmoored, and adrift, and confused
a ghost ship, alone in the blue,

he'll appear in your daydreams like the quickening wind
that asks of your sails: "where to?"
Rikki Aug 2014
III
do you know island, that you
are and have always been thriving
on the life that you give yourself?

unmoored you are not.

you are about as adrift
as the coral reefs
that ring your most sun drenched
shorelines

your history
shouldered with love -

you are rife with a certain heaviness
that weighs in a fastening
balance, a brilliant strategy
in cahoots with
all the others

it is true, of course
that we commune with the same sun
the waters drift between us and our neighbors
many of the same clouds are found
sauntering amongst our respective mountains

but you - you are filled with your own stories
they are still echoing,
incantations deeply canonized
from within those temples you call
forests
your very own cosmology that
you yourself
are only beginning to discover
Tim Knight Mar 2016
I dreamt of travel disruption last night
and haven’t woken up since; know that though,
a whole ****** of crows hidden along
the hemline of a coat was not the
reason I was late, nor were black stamps spat
out through mirrored windows, panes unmoored from
frames in the wake of two late goodbyes: one
said at a check-in desk disguised as point
A; the second, central, wrapped around an
orbit of children where they now lay.

This news- again, it is news- is an air-
bag of ears, of interviews, listening
so we don't have to, colouring pallor
in post so the ghosts of aftermath do
not go unnoticed when we believe it
may not of have happened.

I'm going to buy out the sky right of
tragedy and skywrite,
                                     vandals of companionship are not tolerated below this message, or above.
from coffeeshoppoems.com
Jonathan Witte Sep 2016
I

*******, the blues
were running, the scrum
of seagulls a white cloud
of chaos above the waves.
The water churned and chopped,
teeming with small fish
devoured by bigger fish
ravished by the sharp-toothed bluefish—
all of them darting frenzied toward shore.

And my father screaming
for someone to, quick,
grab the fishing poles
for God’s sake.

My little sister
in her yellow
bathing suit
would not wait
for the poles.
She yanked fish after fish
from the boiling surf
with her small hands,
screaming in delight and victory.
She ran up and down
the beach, between
colorful umbrellas,
pausing only to toss
another writhing body
onto hot sand:
a wild child flinging
silver-scaled sacrifices
to stoic, multicolored gods.

We ate smoked bluefish for weeks.

II

Remember sitting in our first apartment
watching the snow beyond the windows,
listening to records and drinking seven-dollar
bottles of Malbec from juice glasses on the futon,
the narrow hallway strung with Christmas lights
illuminating thrift store paint-by-numbers?
Billie Holiday was singing “Lady Sings the Blues,”
her voice like a lady’s shoe, worn-in, refined.

I remember pondering the present
I would give you a few days later
in Ashtabula on Christmas Eve,
neatly wrapped and hidden under
the bungalow’s sagging eaves
(more vinyl, a Coltrane/Hartman reissue).
The snow would be falling in Ohio too;
your grandparent’s house filled with the smell
of Scottish shortbread and the sound of daytime TV.
When your grandfather died a few years later,
we listened to Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again”
at the service—your grandmother crying in black.

But what I remember most about that night
was later in bed, the snow subsiding,
the radiators clanking with warmth,
the Christmas lights casting colors on the wall,
your finger tracing songs across my back:
the stylus gliding to center, making me spin.

III

300 milligrams of Wellbutrin,
orange pills arranged in my palm
like hallucinatory ellipses, swallowed
to see where the last sentence will lead.
A bleak prescription: pain has a syntax;
grief, a simple grammar.
A land of blue shadows. An ocean of glass.

But that was years ago now, thank God.
I wrote poetry like crazy then,
on a word processor with a screen
the size of a paperback novel.

I smoked. Skipped class. Slept 17 hours at a time.
I scoured the dictionary for recondite words,
turning sesquipedalian over and over
in my mind, each syllable a sedative.
Like Rilke’s panther, I paced in cramped circles
around a paralyzed center, my winter boots
tracking mud along the brightly lit corridor
that led to the psychologist’s office.

One night I crashed
at my aunt and uncle’s
place in the foothills
and woke up alone with
a sense that the room, the house, maybe
the whole **** world was shuddering,
coming unmoored.
I retrieved my uncle’s .357 magnum
and tiptoed from room to room brandishing
an unloaded firearm in my boxer shorts.
The only sound, diffuse in the darkness,
was the gurgle of the fish tank filter.
I cocked the hammer, watching lionfish
swim in vibrant, agitated circles.
Next morning, I read the newspaper
and chuckled, having never felt
an earthquake before.

With a shock, I think back
to the Thanksgiving break
when I flew home from college
for the first time: the vertiginous
sensation of floating thousands of feet
above the Wasatch range, the mountains’
blue shadows and blinding snow
disorienting, my heart an unspun
compass incapable of pointing true.
The plane’s engines roared in ascent.

Decades later, I’ve landed:
married, with three children,
we drive across the country
in our minivan with the moonroof open,
howling out Tom Waits songs in unison.
Our moments together are conjoined
like tender marks of punctuation—
commas, semicolons, colons:
when the wind washes over us,
it whispers
and, and, and, and, and....
ZR Simon Sep 2021
There's a light on in my mind
If you look closely you'll find
The light's merely a glimmer--
A fragment lost in time.
It flickers in and out--
a futile manifestation of doubt,
my mind, the bygone and broken--
A vessel left unmoored,
endlessly wandering through memories
obliterated by time.
The lighthouse of my mind
Darkened now--no ships to find
just lost souls and memories--
fractured pieces left behind,
eternally echoing in the night.

There is no light.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2016
CHOOSING THE RIGHT ADJECTIVE TO GO WITH THE RIGHT NOUN.

She drifted
through reality

having become unmoored
from morality

fleeing from time
fleeing from her self

the insistent totality
of being

who she was
not.

A stranger looked out
of her

mirror.

A faux French
ingénue...yeah!

She choose today's mask
like she choose today's dress

something that hung
on a hanger.

Clothes were roles.

She, an actress
forever playing a part

in the movie
of her life

THE PURSUIT OF PLEASURE.

Never knowing the next
line

making it up as one
went along. . .
Zubair Hussaini Aug 2010
I could fly if I
tried ○ To where fey delight
lies ○ And in the moonlight
rest before ascending higher yet



Fair or foul, none would elsewhere
stare ○ Because see, I am up there
bare ○ Dizzying dives of despair
shared ○ While breathtaking climbs, with flair,
part cloudy veils



Oh, how my wings would, like the sun's echo,
glow ○ Sparkling eyes would the course of tomorrow
know ○ And with nary a care, choose to forego
woe ○ I'd swoop and swirl and soar, to through shadow,
flow ○ And still dancing unmoored, dare to follow
dreams yet undreamt.



I could fly if only I tried
All the way to where happiness lies
But why bother
When all that rises must falter
veritas Jan 2019
sometimes, it's the songs without words, the ones that slip silently beneath the undercurrent, that will seek you out,

that will sing you the terrible story of crows to mend your heart, that will whisper what no one will tell you because it's your soul manifest, it's your heart reaching out --

they open themselves slowly, but you have to be careful with them; you have to look

at them from afar, and bow, and maybe then, she will open her mouth to you, where not words but wisteria lie, where not passion but pain rest, where everything raw and immaterial pours out in the haze and panic of devolution in the chaos of the earth and skies and all that suffers in between where in the center of the swirling mass amidst the high cries of sorrow and love will be her

and just,

   her ,

some songs will move you, shift the light through you, shift the pedestal of surety and blow it right away.

some songs will obliterate you, but most will hold you.

and when they'll release you, you will fall, and it will be so glorious and so terrifying that you will become a god in the storm and you will know, truly know, then, what it is like to be immortal, to be unhurt and untouched, unmoored and unbridled, impossible against the possibilities of a mortal existence.

you will deify.
inspired by the song "nuvole bianche"
Graff1980 Feb 2017
I do not pledge allegiance to a flag
But dedicate myself to eradicating hate
I sing love, love, love, love
Knowing these words will never be enough
To raise the dead but if I can raise a head
That has been hung so low
Take one heart that does not know
That it does not beat alone
But taps in chorus with the rest of us
I pledge to write to the heart of us
Till we are synced in purpose
I will not give you some sappy slogan
Or worship a cloth symbol
Which is not even half as red
As those strangers who bled
To pretend they defend righteousness
Imagining liberty can only be defined by this
False crucifix sacrifice, I drink to life
Pledge that you will not die un-mourned
That words will not set sail unmoored
No matter if your gay or straight
Mexican, American, or poor
Brown or pink skinned
I will not give in to the only sin
That I recognize,
As **** crow thrice I will not deny
I will rise
And pledge allegiance to love
Leeann Sep 2016
The chariot of lost hopes
clatters down the cobblestones
of broken graves and broken hearts
Flag fluttering listlessly down the boulevard
The horses weary and drooping
their hooves heavy as air

The chariot of lost hopes
drifts unmoored
Its weeping driver long gone
faded away into the dark mist
headed to lands never sunkiss'd

The chariot of lost hopes
never makes a stand
Hopes dreams ideals slip past like sand
The whistle of wind itself
is never heard where this chariot lands

The chariot of lost hopes
is always near
If one listens carefully
with growing fear
The sound of empty hooves
gradually becomes clear
Havran Oct 2015
"Welcome home! I wonder if you knew how much those two words meant to me. It’s been so long and I’ve gotten so tired of drifting between empty apartment units. I was unmoored, out of sync with everything, and here you are, still waiting. Your arms weren’t the breaking point. They were home."
Zoe Mei Mar 2021
all i have ever wanted
is to be
unmoored
alone
a ship
cast off
from the populated shores
into a sea of stars
to sail among cotton clouds
into fantasy beyonds
to need never look
on the world i leave below
and never glance back
on my body which my mind
leaves behind
on the lapping shores of the living
Dylan Nov 2012
Fear will take shelter
under the rafters of faith.

Allow the building to collapse;
no harm can come from

the liberation of becoming unmoored.
All beliefs must come to an end.

It is okay not to know, so long as
the mind remains open without

hoping for a solution
or fearing a rejection.

That is freedom.
ryn May 2020
our mouths go dry,
our actions get lazy,
our anchors unmoored,
our directions change,
our bearings are misaligned,
our charts remain unplotted,
our complacencies swell,
our greed metastasise,
our ignorance nurtured...


How then,
would our story end?


.
michelle Dec 2015
If  my path should be a river,
what a hazy one it'd be;
the banks shrouded in mist and murk,
the end nowhere to be seen.
And so I stray, a raft unmoored,
adrift and wondering,
"Does this guide me to a bay
or empty out to sea?"
I glance back down the marshy shore,
though fogged I know the way,
past that bend, above that fall,
a wistful dock still waits.
But though it's warm, and sweet, and safe,
the days were ever grey.
And so not stars, not love, not fate
could keep me there to stay.
Simon Soane Mar 2017
Once
every beach
had our name on,
a potential place to walk
and be us
for special hours.
Slowly a tide covered those days
and no more shore for sure foot to stand,
steps gone under sea covered land;
no more roaming nowhere hand in hand,
no more roaming nowhere hand in hand,
no more roaming nowhere hand in hand,
no more roaming nowhere hand in hand,
unmoored,
a sun not ours anymore,
a sun not ours anymore,
a sun not ours anymore.
Nihl Jun 2023
I emerged as the middle son of a resolute military family—a nomadic existence bereft of any fixed abode to call my own. No town or state bears witness to the imprint of my childhood, for I have been consigned to the liminal spaces, perpetually suspended between homes. It is an accursed experience, fraught with the ache of belonging nowhere, and yet, it bestows upon me unexpected offerings.

The bonds of friendship, woven through the thread of shared memories from childhood, elude my grasp. There are no cherished recollections etched upon the walls of a familiar dwelling, no nostalgic imprints of camaraderie nurtured through the passage of time. Instead, I traverse the vast expanse of existence as an eternal outsider, a wayfarer devoid of a place to call my own.

And yet, from this tempestuous journey of perpetual transience, there have been a few select gifts bestowed upon my nomadic soul. A unique charisma courses through my being—a bittersweet manifestation of my transient nature. It is a magnetism that dances on the periphery of attention, challenging the captivation of others with its fleeting essence. Like a passing zephyr, my presence tantalizes but eludes, leaving behind an ephemeral imprint upon those who chance upon my path.

In the ebb and flow of a life unmoored, I have come to cherish the transient beauty that accompanies impermanence. Like the fleeting bloom of a wildflower, I embody the essence of transience, embracing the delicate fragility of the present moment. It is within these ephemeral spaces that I find solace, for I have learned to embrace the inherent impermanence that weaves through the tapestry of existence.

Though I yearn for the stability of rootedness, I have discovered the gifts hidden within the nomadic rhythm of my life. The absence of a fixed abode has granted me a fluidity of perspective, a capacity to adapt and acclimate to the ever-changing landscapes that unfold before me. I have learned to find solace in the transient connections I forge along the way, cherishing the fleeting encounters that breathe life into the narrative of my existence.

As I wander through the kaleidoscope of human experiences, my heart bears witness to the beauty of impermanence. Like a wandering troubadour, I carry within me a melodic resonance, echoing the transient nature of existence itself. In the fleeting moments of connection, I seek to infuse the lives of others with the warmth of my presence, knowing that our time together is but a fleeting vignette in the grand tapestry of life.

And so, I continue to roam, forever embracing the ebb and flow of impermanence. With an unyielding spirit and an open heart, I navigate the uncharted terrain that stretches before me. For within the transience of my being lies the essence of my journey—a pilgrimage through the fluid landscapes of the human experience, where every encounter, no matter how fleeting, becomes an indelible stroke on the canvas of my ever-evolving narrative.

This ebb and flow of friendships and romances have woven a tumultuous pattern, their threads intricately tied to my family's enduring connection to the military. The comings and goings, the hellos and goodbyes, have become an all too familiar refrain in the symphony of my life. And as the seasons of connection have passed, I have become somewhat numb to their transient nature, a casualty of circumstance and repetition.

In the wake of these constant comings and goings, I find myself standing on the precipice of adulthood, bearing the weight of an unyielding separation. A veneer of detachment and professionalism masks the turbulent sea of emotions that surge beneath the surface. The few friendships I do manage to form are delicate, like gossamer threads, easily frayed and dispersed by the winds of impermanence. It is not that I lack the capacity for presence or charm, but rather the ever-lingering expectation that these connections will be short-lived. I have learned, through bittersweet experience, that relationships, like the changing seasons, are ephemeral and transient. What begins as a radiant summer romance inevitably fades into the distance, like the distant memory of a winter's chill. And I bear the weight of this impermanence, not as a burden to be cast aside, but as an intrinsic part of my being.

I perceive the world through the lens of a fleeting observer, a witness to the beauty and fragility of existence. Like a breathtaking sunset, each encounter shines brightly in its own fleeting moment, bringing a tear to my eye as I cherish its transient glory. But as quickly as the sun sinks below the horizon, so too do these moments slip away, leaving only the treasured memory in their wake. It is not a fault to be placed upon the shoulders of those who share these moments with me, for their presence is a gift I hold dear. No, the fault lies within myself, in my unconscious acceptance of impermanence.

And yet, amidst the ephemerality that shapes my world, there is a profound wisdom that has taken root within my soul. I have learned to embrace the beauty of the present, to revel in the moments of connection while acknowledging their inherent temporality. Each encounter becomes a masterpiece in its own right, a brushstroke of color upon the canvas of my existence. And though friendships and romances may come and go like the tides, leaving imprints upon my heart that reverberate with both joy and sorrow, I have come to accept their transience as an integral part of the human experience.

In this dance of impermanence, I have discovered a resilience that allows me to move forward, ever open to the possibilities that lie ahead. Each goodbye, though tinged with a touch of melancholy, becomes an opportunity for growth and transformation. I am a wanderer in the realms of connection, forever seeking the fleeting sparks that illuminate the path of my journey.

And so, as the chapters of my life unfold, I walk the delicate tightrope between attachment and release. I embrace the bittersweet symphony of impermanence, knowing that every encounter, no matter how fleeting, leaves an indelible mark upon the tapestry of my existence. Like a precious gem, each memory is polished and treasured, while I carry forward, forever attuned to the ephemeral nature of the world around me.
jeffrey robin Jan 2016
^
(  • )
/\

she my love

The naked beach

The unmoored sky

The shifting light


Is that her swimming in the misty night

In primordial seas ?

)?(


The story !

Weaves itself unto a picture

Who can tell ?



The visions part

Just

Gods and Goddesses remain

A hint of seaweed and a sweet mermaid

•••

the song is  

Of us !

Yes !

( boys and girls )

In tomorrow story

Standing totally


.
Lewis Bosworth Jul 2017
All are invited to taste-test a French meal, free-of-charge, at the
Table of near west side Chef Louis.  The first course will be a
Salade Niçoise, prepared the usual way – vegetables, salad greens
From the Periwinkle family, des oeufs durs et des olives ‒ Flavored with a pinch of myrtle.  Those so inclined may have escargots instead.  Louis will pop the cork on a vintage vin rouge.

The main course:  canard à l’orange, spécialité de la maison.  
Known far and wide as the best duck in town, it has a secret sauce
Including the bird’s bone marrow, and is a favorite of Paul Soglin;
Hizzoner has been showing up brandishing a “ditch Walker” sign.

While the cuisine is incomparable, the dinner music, too, is
Délicieuse.  In town for only a week is the diva, Renée Fleming,
Accompanied by the virtuoso cellist, Yo-Yo Ma.  To forestall the
Entry of hordes of fans, Louis will have the louvers closed.

The wait staff will be in the wings with the dessert du jour, Crêpes
Suzette
– using the best Orange Curaçao ‒ before a small frigate
Is unmoored for return to the Lesser Antilles to pick up a new
Stash.  Louis is a total service restauranteur, and he has vowed to
Let all his guests take a selfie, with him, Yo-Yo and Renée, in the
Private chef’s booth, in just a glimmer of the day’s remaining light.

Though he’s unbearded, Louis uses Brilliantine regularly to help
Him attract the most voluptuous of available dates.  Mais, prenez
Garde, mes demoiselles, Louis est français, après tout….
  


© Lewis Bosworth, 7-2017

— The End —