"unperturbed" poems
Smell of lilacs bloom
to no end—a nebulous glow of
purple, perfect, and unperturbed—your
poem of lilies with caution tape
snug in my backpack—
your pollen hundreds of miles
away—a firebrick orange
sung again and again. A cotton
blow unlike anything colorful
—a white puff of dandruff before
the rain—a bouquet for
your spring stitched
stem by stem.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
anonymous winds
bend tall Timothy grasses,
wake rabbits napping
in the brush
they ripple the surface
of the stock tanks, tickle the haunches
of the beasts who wade there
to slurp the tepid waters
they birth red dust devils
for my eyes to follow, as they scud
through mesquite, and hopscotch over canyons
older than time
one day, soon, they will blow
over a shallow earth bed; I will not hear
their sibilant song, but my sleep will be deep,
unperturbed by their mystic music
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
She stands before the class
Her voice rings loud and clear
Each word beautifully enunciated
For all who wish to hear
The perennial English teacher
She reads with such dramatics and flair
Such a pity that its only noticed
by students in the first few chairs
She's reading out my poem
She paints pictures with her words
But honestly? Sometimes I find
Her explanations quite absurd
No, That's not what I meant!
Dear teacher, stop twisting my verse!
Dear students, please notice the flaws
In the story she so carefully rehearsed
It's amazing how sometimes she understands
The thought and feelings of what I wrote
And sometimes she gets it so very wrong
That I want to strangle her throat
She continues unperturbed
By the lack of interest in the room
Students only see her smile and energy
Not her disappointment and gloom
She worked so hard to teach them,
A little appreciation would go far!
But they just sit and pretend to listen
As they wait for the end for the hour
Finally, she comes across
That fateful line
The one that sparks a discussion
I watch the class come to life
In a tsunami of opinions,
She smiles proudly, riding the wave
She launches into her explanation
And it's the completely wrong one she gave
Its one of many misinterpretations
Of my carefully crafted work
There! That student! She understands what I meant!
Now now, don't tell her she's wrong. Don't be a ****
A debate ensues and words fly
The classroom divides into two.
Half are on my side, dear teacher
And the other half believe you.
Out of the blue, the bell rings
For once the students want more time!
A pat on the back for the English teacher.
This victory is both hers and mine
So what if she gets it wrong sometimes?
So what what if she's too dramatic?
Sometimes she's just unreasonable
She's your average literature fanatic
She always gets her point across
Without having to scream and shout
She teaches the students the value of words
Isn't that what it's all about?
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
This is my rising,
it is so glaring.
The longer you hold
me down the better
and brighter I shine.
I am like the firefly,
illuminating
the remote darkness
with my brightness,
giving it an
illusion of magic.
The tinted glow
mixed up with
the cries of
mammals and birds
of the night makes it
a mysterious moment.
Alone at deepest abyss,
with the flicker
of the moonlight
penetrating through the
leaves in the forest,
i can hear
the wolves calling out
as if beckoning for
me to approach.
The fireflies giving
out their light
freely unperturbed
by my presence.
How can you not see
the love of nature,
working tirelessly
in synergy
with all things.
Even though you ignore it,
never can it go away,
for the beauty
of its flame
can make the fairies
grant your wish.
The heart knows
the unexplainable
mysteries of the
invisible which the
mouth cannot express.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 11:30 AM UTC
you play
finger puppets
in the black sky
warm
unperturbed
little worms
eating
hot soil
and foot
“I’m going to
eat this star.
Actually, I’m going
to eat them all.
I’m awfully
hungry.”
you find the
nutella I hid
under the rock
and dip the
puppets in
“Did you know
I sew?
I sewed these
puppets.
Even
the little black
eyes and the
teensy red
buttons. All in
the patience
this sky taught
me.”
your mouth
is dry and
you search
for lake water
“I swear, it’s
so hard being
a fish in
Arizona.”
the desert
agrees
once
we prayed for
rain and danced
naked in
the sand
now it’s
night and
the sand went
to sleep
now it’s night
and the stars
are disks
“Lord, take
me now. I’m a
painter, a
painter without
color.”
the act is
over
the shield
put down
and the night
swallows
disks
as you lick
chocolate paint
from your
fingers
“Goodnight, friend.
Sleep well, fish.
Until tomorrow, moon.”
your body
fresh
black
the emerald
of color
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
"If you lie on the grass,
you can feel the heartbeat of the world."
We all play our parts in its symphony
and I — perhaps I am the hydraulophone
I like imagining myself as water.
The river running through Liyue.
It is smooth and calm,
unperturbed by anything
Even words — they fall like fragmented shards.
Leaving ephemeral ripples on the surface.
At least, this is what I aspire to.
But at my core, I am still frost.
Push too hard and I can still turn to ice.
And the pagophone in the ensemble,
playing to its own beat.
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 9:38 PM UTC
#*Tears flow
Tricky tears they know
They know, they have it their way
They know how to trickle down
They flow
They flow ceaselessly,
Unsightly, unexplained,
at the slightest of pain
Discomfort their name
They lie hidden in the depths
In times of despair
To your rescue, unperturbed
They surface Unrushed
They can be trained
To Master the art of deceit
Shrouded in lies
A weapon, honed with might
Held in disguise
In their master’s eyes
They stand as warriors
For emotions left unsaid
A paradoxical deluge
No ocean can hold
An unstoppable wave
Tears of joy
Tricky tears they know
They know, they have it their way
They know how to trickle down
They flow*#
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 11:25 PM UTC
Curtains, veils of virtual vice
So, gaze through the ****** intermix
of positional latency,
nano-notions lost in frantic phantasm,
requisites of an idle, unhealed mind.
Draw the virtual screen curtains open,
bring forth the lustful images to
feed the circuitous appetite, lurking
front-row-presence, at the keys.
Unknown, undertones
of desirability, poses in patient wait,
online implication of fallen ways,
predication of unveiling moments.
As any-time-porn pours its spill
of sickest gratification behind
the curtain tab selective viewing.
It is someone’s child the glides on rails
of drawn conclusions, through windows
where drapes of cyber mindlessness
hang on dank walls of seedy buildings.
The ***** grinder always plays the tune
to which monkeys happily dance,
in a world where Neanderthals hang out,
unperturbed with new technology.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC
She'll sleep tight in a parallel universe tonight
my deeply serious rainbow girl astral projects
communes with Shiva and champions chakras
she has the recipe for what passes as illumined
her ignorance of current events is appalling
but that chosen ignorance is staid and unperturbed
I grumble and complain, I use the news like a ******
I put the pieces together, pattern the puzzle-
I see the BIG picture…I cut my life short
possessing a keen memory is like the proverbial millstone
the information is the lake
rainbow girl is contemptuous of my self inflicted plight
we realize its a matter of time before disparate likes divide
I am fire and she is water, I the destroyer, she the preserver
the passion can be complimentary for just so long
Like the lady bard said:
*You read those books where luxury
Comes as a guest to take a slave
Books where artists in noble poverty
Go like virgins to the grave (Joni)*
She'll tolerate my confabulated artistry a spell
I can see she's a caterwauling banshee of protestation in the waiting
Her mellifluous quietude, equanimity and perfect poise can only last so long
Before my brash stripped down vituperative diatribe is as acid in the eyes
Then be off to resume her prior harmonic convergence of heart stuff
as I with my artistic bent, abbreviate my life
*http://jonimitchell.com/music/song.cfm?id=38 The Boho Dance
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
Upon the arboreal dozed and limb,
Extended coccyx serpentine loose,
Throne of inspection, tenet and dumb
Stillness hunts akin stealthy Mongoose;
Except for the natal locomotive
Soft deep sufficiently immense purr
Emanating from some industry; effective
In the cover of the thick supple fur.
The lord of his unconquered empire,
Thrives on flesh and quenches on milk,
Wintering unperturbed reading the fire
That flickers, gleaming his bed of silk.
Ever landing on appendage quadruple
Acrobatic athlete not soiling once his back
Consummating in strict concealment marble
Couch of perpetual indulgence buried black.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:35 AM UTC
We sat outside the coffee shop
next to a fire,
watching the sun set behind decrepit buildings.
I lamented over the lack of a roller rink in the area,
reflecting on memories of wobbling around in circles
with dizzying lights and blaring speakers
ejecting Pink, Daft Punk, and Eiffel 65 onto my critical youth.
I felt like a king.
We finished our smoothies and retreated
to an empty hotel parking lot,
where I taught her to skateboard.
One foot over the front bolts,
the back foot over two of the back bolts
but resting over the tail,
kick, push,
it's in the ***** of your feet--
weight distribution.
Tic, tac, scrape, thud--
she falls repeatedly
and gets back up.
I admire her resilience and perpetual smile--
This is what skateboarding is all about.
We roll around the hotel parking lot,
our endpoints being a lone luminescent lamppost
and a telephone pole beleaguered by a plot of shrubbery
that demarcates itself from the pavement.
We circle around the poles for hours,
forming an imaginary oblong track between the two,
our laughs carrying into the cool summer night lullaby
that sang the drowsy small town to sleep.
The fading throb of the wedding reception
at the bottom of the town square by the wharf,
carrying over to us.
The stores closed up hours ago,
silent empty windows reflecting the lonely streetlights
and our ambulance back at us.
We skated on unperturbed into the night hour.
A man walks outside the hotel
to have a cigarette on the sidewalk--
I imagine he is watching us and admiring our glee.
Rolling between this telephone pole and lamppost,
the glare and reflection of the empty silent windows,
the soundtrack singing above our heads,
our laughs, and the tic-tac of skateboards
and groaning of wheels over stubborn pavement
bringing my melancholic reverie to a halt,
recognizing and understanding happiness in the present moment--
This is my roller rink.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
I'm a bright blue box with a bitter black inside.
I screamed 'open me! open me!' to those who had tried.
As they peek in it takes their breath away,
how broken and sad before them i lay.
Shuttering and sobbing, i scream out: close the box!
because i know no one can undo my sad twisted knots.
shame on me for trying, who could ever care?
I wanted to be happy, but i doubt I'll make it there.
My inside grows darker, my dreams more disturbed,
but the outside still gleams blue, fake, unperturbed.
My dark insides take over, I can't turn it off
I'm trying, I'm trying, but the voices just scoff.
Happy? Loved? You? You've got to be kidding.
These things are reserved for light, your darkness is forbidding.
Close your eyes babe, and try to make it through
while your dark dark insides utterly consume you.
So come on, sit down. Make yourself at home.
Let the voices talk, let your mind roam.
Because you're trapped here darling, inside this blue box
no keys have the power to undo your locks.
Your blue box is shut. Seal it off, seal it tight.
It's simple, you just have no hope to ever see light.
The people, they leave. They don't understand.
Each time they go, unable to withstand.
You're a being of sadness, disguised as a girl
come on, fake a smile, let your lips curl.
Yes, cut yourself off, you little blue box.
Make yourself tough, a foundation of rocks.
Because not feeling anything, nothing at all,
is the sure-fire way to make certain you don't fall.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
as i sit
unperturbed it seems
i feel the familiar itch
of the nicotine screen
at the back of my head
in the conscious unseen
i feel the familiar itch
of the nicotine screen
my eyes adrift
in the circuital seas
i crave a quick drag
of the nicotine screen
scratch the itch
wipe the conscience clean
but i'll soon lust again
for the nicotine screen
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:22 AM UTC
*This poem based on a joke on eggs (!) is dedicated to Timothy, a fellow-poet here at HP….I was reminded of that joke about eggs by Timothy’s comment on my recent poem: “Corax versus Tisias”.
Timothy: “This is great, Raj, another humourous poem with a good meaning, if you are an Egg or a Crow, lol! Keep them coming!!!!~<3<3:):)☺♂♀♥♠♣♦◘☻◙•○.O♫” …
Well, here’s another humorous poem, Timothy – and dedicated to you…*
Dad, the Kid, and the Girl Next Door
(1)
“Dad,” says 6-year-old Tim
back from the neighbour’s
*“Sandra next door and I’ve decided
to get married”*
Dad laughs…What do these kids know? he thinks…
*I’ll humour him, just kid along
with this precocious child of mine*
(2)
“But you’re too young, Tim,”
says Dad
“That’s OK,” says Tim
*“Sandra doesn’t mind I’m a year
younger than she”*
“Oh,” says Dad
*“but marriage is such
a huge responsibility”*
“Yeah,” says Tim quick and sharp
*“Haven’t you seen my school reports?
Teacher always says I’m hugely responsible;
it’s the same on Sandra’s card”*
Dad’s smile weakens
*“Well, what will the two of you
do for money?”*
*“Oh, we’ve worked that one out
We get $20 a week in pocket money
between us and we reckon we’ll take
on extra jobs:
I can mow our lawn;
and she’ll wash dishes at her home
Beside we’ll save a lot of money
since we don’t at all eat out
and lodging is free -
a week here and the next at Sandra’s”*
(3)
Now Dad has lost his smile
These kids have thought of everything,
he thinks. *I’ve got to do better –
come up with an objection that’ll strike fear*
“Have you thought, Tim,” says wise old Dad
*“about babies? Married people make babies –
what you going to do about that?”*
“Simple,” says Tim the kid, cool and unperturbed
*“We’ve googled all that:
Every time Sandra lays an egg
I’ll crush it under foot!”*
Dad sighs with relief…
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 2:15 AM UTC
Unperturbed in austere times
Unentangled in a web of complex signs
Unfazed by a vicious complex
I find solace in the face of duress
Configured to righteousness
I am withdrawn from Cross and Crescent mess
Invisible against a tide of boisterous wave
I weave my way and gravitate towards space
The sun a distant memory
Passion and zeal my most valuable armoury
In the heavens i light my stars
In paradise lost i leave my mark
With Noah's design hacked
Not even Jupiter can navigate my ark
Unlike terminator I Am Back
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC
When the moonlight
lowers
i see in the night
a tearful ghostly light
don't know where it came from
can't even get a whiff
but i know
the petunia is meditating
unperturbed
can't really read her heart
can't tell how strong
she actually is
though the frost and dew
have barged in
the angle of the fallen fence
is expanding
but this i know
when the morning comes
she'll be awake
she'll be something different
i know
it must be the sunrise
that is able to mulch and sprout
the most captivating smile.
Jul 25, 2023
Jul 25, 2023 at 8:40 AM UTC
even the gulmohur looks confused
--"where is the sun?", it seems to ask
the dark rainclouds
as it sways distractedly
outside my window,
its orange flames
flickering rhythmically,
engaged in a waltz with
the falling rain.
the bamboo --wiser,
greener, stands unperturbed
barely reacting as the
water rolls off its leanness
nothing seems to surprise
its experienced being
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
06.03.2013
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:48 AM UTC
Gitano yawned,
stretching out under
the shrine of Öli.
Here he plotted
and hid a mouthful
of secrets; and the Lord
watched over him
as he slept.
He plotted,
for coyote wisdom
is disguised by folly
and cunning
and guile.
All about, the vermilion
stain of Mars. The coyote
chuckled mischievously,
dreaming at the feet
of the Master and Judge.
Above,
a ziggurat raised
to the Goddess.
Two great black eagles
circled in a sky
of dry roses and lilacs.
La Santisima Muerte
stood at a distance,
yet bore Gitano
in Her *****
His mischiefs were scribed
upon a cartouche
to amuse gods
and teach men;
Yet men are not
so easily taught
as gods are amused;
For men have not yet
learned to believe
what makes them laugh.
And so Gitano sleeps,
and talks while he sleeps;
wherefore the Ways
of mischief and trickery
were laid bare.
The secret is to teach
at the expense
of innocence.
Certain illusions persist;
they must be shattered,
but their thrall
can only be broken
by design.
Whether bitterness
takes root in the wake
of the shattering
is not Gitano's concern.
Because sometimes
realization can only come
through being made a fool,
revealed to ourselves
as absurd.
Angry at our own foolishness,
we blame the one
who denudes it.
The coyote, too, is a Fool.
A Fool can learn,
shaping destiny
by taking responsibility.
Through death a Fool
becomes wise,
seeing the joke.
The burden of karma
is left to those
who cannot laugh.
Man grits his teeth,
his brow furrowed.
He despairs.
Gitano chuckles,
unperturbed.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
The water shimmering ripples in the moonlight,
The sky reflecting visions we have seen,
The meadows are concealing our secrets,
And the memories behind the screen,
All the traces have still survived,
On the roads we have ever been.
The misty morning brought us closer,
With your scent still clung to me,
The alarm ring would remind me,
That you were lying next to me,
In the light,the sun would call us to see,
The twinned souls we craved to be.
And everyday, our road would split in two,
Along the distinct patterns and routes we chose,
Miles away we go momentarily,
Yet the petals of the same rose,
Our lives unperturbed by the silence in-between,
And the adios has been our transient dose.
Because i have always believed,
Not much the whispers, nor the feelings enclosed,
But the words in the palinode,
Echoing ,"You are the shadow walking through me,
Traveling with me. Traveling back to me."
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
Upon the arboreal dozed and limb,
Extended coccyx serpentine loose,
Throne of inspection, tenet and dumb
Stillness hunts akin stealthy Mongoose;
Except for the natal locomotive
Soft deep sufficiently immense purr
Emanating from some industry; effective
In the cover of the thick supple fur.
The lord of his unconquered empire,
Thrives on flesh and quenches on milk,
Wintering unperturbed reading the fire
That flickers, gleaming his bed of silk.
Ever landing on appendage quadruple
Acrobatic athlete not soiling once his back
Consummating in strict concealment marble
Couch of perpetual indulgence buried black
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
A large **** slashed open its side.
A collision with a boat we all think.
Though no boat has claimed its ****
The wind whipped its scent through the crowd
a saltier tang than usual.
More concentrated; more direct.
Its chest heaved with the rhythm of the waves
as water poured into its lax mouth
expanding its chest
in a mockery of breath
before deflating again like a balloon spent.
Bites from opportunistic feeders
marred the solid gray-blue-white skin
with a pinkish hue
and gaping holes.
Its blood lingered in the dark green waves
a sandy-pink as it flowed with the current.
And people still swam in its wake!
Unperturbed by the dead still bleeding
or the funeral procession watching on
in a half-circle of grief and awe and humor too
as the largest of lives we don't normally see
lay dead on the beach.
Sep 15, 2021
Sep 15, 2021 at 10:07 AM UTC
It's supposed to be
98 and cloudless today.
By the time I roll in,
and park my car,
Roman's walking up to me,
his gold tooth a
full yellow smile in the sun.
“Hey meyer,
I need you to
Pull the box truck around,
We’ve got some plants we’ve gotta load,
Then we’ve got a landscape job
About an hour from here.”
“Are we gonna be back here
Today?”
“Probably not
until
late.”
The box truck
Is a holdover from the old owners
Of Ken’s Nursery,
It’s still got
Ken’s Nursery in large comic sans
On it’s rust-streaked sides.
The wheel wells are rusted
brown as salt deposits
On the shores of sulfuric oceans,
and little ringlets of decay
rock as the truck bounces;
It’s old springs
Giving back after all these years.
Today we have:
Forty-two veriagated ferns.
Ten dragon lilies.
10 cannas,
But cannas have to have a male and female to flower,
So 20 cannas collectively,
And we’ve gotta mulch.
By the time we’ve loaded all the plants;
stuffed the mulch in with the Bobcat,
And thrown in our picks and shovels,
My shirt is soaked through.
98 degrees and cloudless.
Roman walks to his car
and takes off his shirt
To reveal a pink belly
full of folding skin
and matted black upwelling *****
Singing with sweat-diamonds
In the unperturbed vision of the sun.
My shirt is soaked already too.
But even as I loaded the truck,
I thought about Melissa.
When I get home,
She probably won’t be there.
When the female is separated from the male canna,
Nothing dies, the two live happily ever after.
But the canna does not flower,
And doesn’t remember enough
To miss it.
Just continues quietly with a black bulb
The color of a skink’s underbelly.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 12:01 AM UTC
A blind woman stared at me
no, that’s impossible
without eyes one can’t stare
maybe gaze,
graze my soul
feel me
know who I am,
without I even knowing, known
sitting alone in a corner
playing with pen and paper
she can hear me, she can see me
so she sits and stares in my direction
mouth closed, lips form smile.
At what does she smile?
The mad woman, rocking back and forth
to and fro, as if to music
as if she’s seen notes on paper
writings about her, her defects
deflections, that’s all they are
she cannot see that I stare at her
no,
lovingly watch, hopefully she knows
I swear she knows it.
Why else would she smile?
Glasses block her eyes,
thick, black as night,
blacker probably,
but who am I to compare?
I’ve never seen like her, never not seen
like her
she draws in my being, I can’t look away
I can’t, must feel her
touch her face,
tell her, “It’s going to be alright,”
let her know I love her,
that I need her.
Her smile never leaves,
she sees something I never will.
Soon,
she will walk over, strut
magnificently, majestically,
unperturbed by my probing eyes
feeling her way across aisles
on moving train,
she will hold me in her arms,
her untouched arms
soft, yet weathered
begging to be held,
to hold
me
and tell me,
just tell me,
“Don’t worry, child,
it’ll be alright.”
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 1:29 AM UTC
A MONOLOGUE
Walking through the path of solitude
Through the busy streets
And the passing tweets
The crowds are hustling
Bustling
Walking by, my head in air
Trying to reach that path
To a solitary stair
Over the bridge I go
Along a narrow road
Turning left with the rows
Upon rows of period houses
In their thousands
I walk past and up the steep hill
To the path of solitude at will
Meandering across from left to right
My solitude has come back to beat the fight
Walking and listening to the birds in the trees
And so it is a gentle breeze
I reached to the top and turn left
A mingle of people surround
As I walk, listening and watching
Sometimes trotting along the lonely path of solitude
I turn right to a row of more trees
Gathering together amongst the breeze
Along the pathway
The smell of foliage, crisp and clear
All is quiet along the path of solitude
Listening, thinking, observing
The silence in the air
Above and below
Low and behold
So tranquil and bare
On the right, a school, quiet as it may seem
In their classrooms learning a dream
Moving on in my solitude
Viewing from a distance
The rows of vehicles
To and fro
To and fro
Too far away to hear their engines
Too many to mention
My solitude is still with me
Walking amidst the sheltered trees
Me in midst
Like the abyss
Leaving the wooded trees
Turning left to a suburb
Of rows upon rows of semi detached
Still and quiet
As if the world has gone to sleep
Now walking at a steady pace
Saving grace
Vehicles in the driveway
And people coming out
Chatting, laughing
As if in doubt
I take another left
Descending downhill
Cross the road quickly
Streams of vehicles
Moving uneasily
Pace quickens
And the movement thickens
My solitude is disturbed
Unperturbed
Around the corner I go
How would I know?
The right path to true solitude
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:27 AM UTC
you are my blue
you are my serenity
and my buoyancy
my happy skies,
my comfortable denim
you are my yellow
you are my optimism
and my bliss
my incandescent sun,
my summertime glow
you are my green
you are my resurrection
and my liberation
my vivacious budding,
my sturdy oak tree
you are my red
you are my passion
and my fortitude
my pulsing heart,
my ceaseless flames
you are my white
you are my solace
and my relief
my unperturbed clouds,
my blank slate
you are my hues
you are my spectrum
and my exuberance
my opaque neon,
my life-altering colors
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC