"unpicked" poems
Diseased turnip
Rooting in the dirt
Rotting fodder
Unpicked
Untapped
Gnarled and bitter
Lying under your bridge
When you are gone
No-one will miss your rancid rag
© 2019 MJL
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 10:02 AM UTC
I arrive in Lima
The sweat-sogged poverty
lumped onto concrete
pushes at my heels
The tight black air
swallows the nakedness
of prostitutes and thieves
Pockets empty like a traveler’s stomach
growling beneath the world of Los Incas
In Cusco
My head throbs in the thin air
with the sound of boys
trying to shine my boots, my sandals
my bare feet
no problemo
women sell fresh papaya and guava
sweaters and trinkets
Hawkers surround me
like a tightly stitched T-shirt
Cusco
The Navel of the Earth
A bulging belly
throbbing
digesting
living
Sunset
I spread my toes
over the evaporated flood waters
of the Rio Urubamba
where it once flowed
from the fingers of Manco Inca
over the fleeing conquistadors
at the top of Ollantaytambo
Momentary brilliance
before you retreated to the jungle
Spain, always gnawing at your heels
It’s a mouth-full-of-coca-leave’s journey
to Macchu Picchu
I enter the dream
spitting wet leaves
on the silence of a dead kingdom
Gasping for air that once filled lungs
of Inca messengers
carrying news of defeat and conquest
over the great Andes
Los Incas Caminos
The cloud-dripped mountains
spread green across my eyes
I see ghosts
a steady move of feet through the depleted air
Porter, takes my backpack
carries it against his brown crusty skin
ancient, sun-baked descendant
of the Earth’s naval
A toothless, painless smile
It must have been different
before we came
with money the color of unpicked rice
Now I hear your belly-groan
Between the perfectly fitted stones
of Sacsayhuaman
My voice bounces circular
off invisible walls
because your magic has survived you
Macchu Picchu
Unknown and majestic
Hidden from blood
from the stink of vultures
No more
Black raven feather
drops on my skull
floats on the shiny gray stone
under my feet
which are wrapped in dried, brown skin
naked, without a heartbeat
It’s past sunrise
the tourist bus has arrived
and the flat shadow of the crowd
blocks the light of the ascending sun
that tries to penetrate
the perfect holes
of a perfect wall
in an imperfect dream
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Dearly departed,
Pray for me
In life I still need to excrete
Not only faeces but thoughts
Just like food in my mouth
I chew possible sounds
Until they are… reproduced
I think
What I thought was art
Is now a bit bitter on my tongue
The saliva must be tainted
With odours I’ve inhaled
Because this ******* I taste
Is too flavoursome
I know this isn’t appealing
But neither is the finished product
Unwrap what you can
Of what we toss down to you
And swallow what you think is sweetest
You know it will all be… sour
I think
What I thought was lasting flavour
Turned out to be flesh
And even as I write this
I feel the unpicked hair in my teeth
So that when I create
I am secretly painting in words
From the inside out
I am closer to you in this way
But in that way-
Not so much.
Dearly departed,
Pray for us
In life we must run to you
But in living we must wait
Amongst the rotting peels
We left in our backpacks
For too long
We’ve learned to speak
About the smell
But in doing so our breaths
Stink up the air
And our legs are getting stiff
Sitting cross legged and festering thoughts
Bubbling images we wanted
To forget
God, this is a witch’s ***
But she forgets to stir it on hot days
And we decay
Faster than you do, I swear
The curses don’t become me
I know, the curses
Must be me and them.
Dearly, Departed,
Pray, and still listening
I’m sorry about the foulness of everything.
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 4:12 AM UTC
Disheartened
The Dutch tourists have left
and last year’s cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts
that are also full of worms,
and who says the grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring
on a blind sky,
disillusioned.
As a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper,
at a rundown hotel
which calls itself Bellevue;
last stop before sleeping rough.
Nothing is more abject
then an out of season tourist town,
worried shopkeepers and tarts
even the flowers are grey;
except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa
and will not return
before the rain stops falling.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 5:35 AM UTC
Tiny little parcel
All wrapped up and waiting to be
Undone.
Sitting quietly
Under the shade of
Resentful
Ambiguity.
Cautious scarred and wry
(smiling)
insecurity
See me sitting calmly
assembled
All parceled up and wanting
Waiting
To be unpicked
Carefully
Hand stitched
Calling softly (upon deaf ears)
To be untied
To see what lies
Beneath each fettered
Layer.
Role player
This small and softly spoken
Box
Of being
Seeing nothing
Feeling everything
With wary
(doleful)
Soulful eyes.
(closed)
Dreaming of being
(open)
I am token
Bundle
******
a pile of sticks
untamed.
Paused upon the ground
unsound
Aspiring to to be burned
In order to
(feel)
spurned.
This collated stack
Of feelings lost to the numb of
Being wrapped up and tied to the self.
A book full of stories
Unnamed.
Pages upon pages
Loose words
Collected
Piled and falling
Upon a dusty
Neglected shelf
Too much of the self
Not enough of the other.
Resting.
Worn out
Dog eared
Belayed by fear.
Waiting
Wasting
Hasting
to be undone.
To be unknotted
Frayed
Displayed
Vast volume
Unspoken betray.
Hold fast
This minute
Package
Lying restless
At your feet.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 4:07 PM UTC
Im 17 and I still have my flower the
petals have yet to fall keep trying to
tell these boys you gotta have it all
I need someone who can keep up with my
Pace or maybe a little faster
Not someone who wants me to chase after
I just want a boy who wants to see me
Make it and not see my naked
Momma raised a queen
These heels to tall to chase a boy
Im far too good to be played with do I look
Like a toy?
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Time has turned her back on me,
So I feel the rough shoulder blades of sin,
So I no longer conjugate with her reflective eyes,
But see the incommunicable universe, as cosmos
Of ribs and unshining lungs, wet and clay-like,
With fingerprints where I pressed in.
Time has a ravaged back and the organs drop
Like sodden fruit, gone unpicked.
Time is that woman looking back,
With her hair witchery of forever turning.
I see the future lovers on her crystal path,
Translucent workings of her single-sided glass.
Jul 8, 2019
Jul 8, 2019 at 11:11 AM UTC
The Cri de Coeur
screeches urgent emotion
but their Exclamations
are unpicked , back to determination
Did the Revellers needlessly pay for this their Summer ?
But for Capricious truths
they now run fickle and jarred
naked is the heart of the matter,
a hastened path runs counterintuitive
as empty silences often veers
ungrounded.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:44 PM UTC
no scab unpicked
no wound left
I haven't licked
no slight unnoticed
karma is fair
revenge is cold
even clothed, I'm bare
no lash is imperfect
dragging across my skin
no scar is perfect
on the outside or in
NO
you can't hurt me
desert me
take away my power
or subvert me
no stone unturned
no hiding place
as the mirror shows
we share a face
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
Who the **** was I?
And who the **** am I?
In a tree, on a limb, suspended
on the thin green twig
upended
from the hands of the old gods,
let fall to smack
every fat
branch on the way down.
Penniless and unpretty,
useless and sometimes silly,
sometimes a little bit clever,
sometimes a listener
sometimes performs well,
tricks, no old dog, new *****
forgotten in the bottom drawer
every seam of that old life unpicked
everything we stitched
torn up, cut up, ripped.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
Young, slender, soft and small,
Twigs stretching from thy palm,
Rings of shining dew at morning’s call
Clashing beautifully against my arm.
An ode to the thin spindles of affection
Tightly tangling around my heart’s string,
Sharply strummed with sleepy, dainty precision
Playing a song that only dreams could once sing.
A medley of feelings: peaking elation
And troughs deep enough for hot brews,
Between branches and amidst conversation
It seems my mind and heart can find truce.
It is said flowers that bloom tears to eye
Should be left to grow as beauty unpicked,
I must agree to admire and assure I am nearby,
To offer my service to such that has me rooted, fixed.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 5:57 PM UTC
*Old acquaintances die on the vine , left at times
like unpicked apples in backyard groves
Their purpose completed
Their value long since depleted
Their help painfully unneeded* ..
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
This crooked timber set deep in these bones
Oh, when the wind blows how they wail, they moan
“Such a fine day for this human design
to wither, to char”. Unpicked fruit on the vine
lingers in sight such a tempting insult
to all we once were, before this result
was tempered by the unyielding seasons
and bone branches creaking for numerous reasons
cling to hold fast, but cannot hold on;
they drop like the fruit, lost and forgotten.
The wind does not care for wind never stops
the branches still creak, still grow old, they still rot.
The winds it blows on, to be bent is to crack
The fruit doesn’t know this, never looks back
to where the wind came from, wind never creeps
but like deadened roots sunk deep in the creek
searches for stones that they mistook for seeds
not held in the murk, carried off on the breeze.
Forget seeds and fruit, leaves or trees under
which we now lie, feeding bones to the sky
The wind won’t uproot you, no earth can unshake
endless regret for on eggshells we quake
at the notion of another long day
trying to reach through the stars in our way
trying to feel for the warmth of the sun
for deep in these bones we know there is none
this crooked timber when set to the rack
will remind these bones there is no way back.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
Sometimes I dream
of the foghorn near the docks
whistling like a forgotten friend
in your letterbox
walking home from work
after I had left for the last time,
Remember the ringing of the last tram
freezing in the air
like a photograph
before breathing too quickly
ain’t you glad you walked away?
Sometimes I dream of
the chime of the clock
which freezes at mid-day someday
weeping under spires
and underneath dock boats,
Dreaming of my heart
tied up in chains
instead of knots
before I unpicked the lock
and walked away without regret
stealing inspiration from the sunset.
(From the End of Summer - https://www.amazon.co.uk/End-Summer-N-Andy-ebook/dp/B01LY7YR9K/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1475915722&sr;=1-2)
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 4:55 AM UTC
I wish you could see how beautiful You really are,
Just because nobody has picked you
Doesn't mean your not beautiful
As a matter of fact,
This means you are the most beautiful
When the other flowers get picked,
They get picked early,
This means that they have not
Completely bloomed
Because you are not picked
This means that you will bloom
Into the most gorgeous flower
Of them all
The years of being left out
And unpicked is only making
You better than all of them
Because you are riper and stronger
When those other flowers get picked
They go into a vase and
Die within a
Week
But not this flower,
This flower has developed
To be an honorary flower
In a bouquet for royalty
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
tied up like
the perfect man.
but let my neck drape
low like
an unpicked Lady.
bathe me in attention
but dont ask if ive earned it.
'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
well god bless the
turpentine i transfused
for my blood
thats keeping me
upright.
i only live in the now
and by the time you
get there
ill be gone.
chasing a pipedream
or a dragon that might
give me a different
perspective
on things.
'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
all you want is warmth
but i breathe
snow and
hail
into your atmosphere
not because i want to,
it just cant stay
here
anymore.
i dreamt a pair
of wings into my
life to find if i was
ready to see
the tops of buildings
without wanting to
jump
off them but i
gave up.
only i know whats
good
for me i think
thats the
problem.
'its chilly out here'
she told me through
smoke
from her breath.
she wiped the
frost
from my hair
and i felt
juvenile
the comfort of nothing
all over.
the
high
ive been chasing
from the edge
of a
hand.
Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
the color of blood is not scarlet
or crimson red. it is the rusting
of old metal and the frothing
tantrums of lava. it is an overripe
strawberry left unpicked on
the vine to rot. it is a rose with
thorns or a leaf in autumn,
blown awry by vengeful gusts of
wind. it is streaks of watercolor
against the canvas of the evening
sky. it is a grain of sand in the
harsh desert or a pebble in a small
stream. it is a pomegranate in
persephone's hands or a single
perfect red apple in the basket
of an elderly woman.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 9:24 PM UTC
I wanted to place my heart on the hearth.
I wanted to show someone all that I can be.
Why was I so scared back then? I wanted to speak to you.
I dreamt of days when I walked up to you and saved you from a bully,
of days when I impressed you, and you let me hold you.
But for some reason I couldn’t talk around the dam in my throat.
So I started over. New places and new people.
I wanted to be a somebody to someone, to pull out
all the stops and make you feel like you’re worth it.
So I invested. God ****** I gave it my all.
But, like the tomatoes in a garden unpicked,
when the sun went away, I withered. And every year
I’d regrow my fruit and shine so someone new can pick me.
But every year, my tomatoes would wither.
I’m done with this garden and I’m done with this fruit.
I don’t want to be someone special to anyone nor you.
I want to be me, with no frills or flash.
I still want to have you,
but with no strings attached.
I want to disappoint you, **** you off, and make you laugh.
Why? Because I’m nothing special.
I don’t want to be special,
I just want to be me.
Some ordinary man, who’s extra ran out
on those who wasted it.
This is all I got now, but I’m
happy with it.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 7:01 PM UTC
Humans die, is that really fine
All we can do is be withered
As we grow old and lose our shine
I can feel the warmth of your body
And the vibrancy radiated,
But with each moment you’re always a breath short
Reminding me of an inevitable outcome
You can’t unpick a flower
But not picking it does not ensure it lives forever.
I thought I would, when I fell for you
Let you clip me by them stem
Lived and laughed while love played us fools
Still my heart flutters when I see you
Breaks into a million little pieces
When I think of you now and tomorrow
I wonder how the unpicked flower feels
To be admired by all and shunned by none
In the summer bliss of a trillion gazes
To belong to all and not just one
Yet one day before your time is come
To find yourself, conveniently replaced
With one who’s young like you once were.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
In the garden
before it was lost,
(come back soon
lost garden),
pepper vines grew around
the sweet fruit trees.
durian fell
sarongs rose,
all was fecund in the globe
of sour tamarind
and bitter herb;
a balance, a unity
of love given and
lust taken.
chilli red yellow green
shone in morning mist,
evening gloam among
myriad leaves clogging the undug pool,
hurting the fish breath
in the old frog pond.
unpicked, the fruit.
unclipped, the hedge.
all my life
too lazy to get ahead,
leaving all my fruit to seed.
let it rot and feed the sand
soil, grow turf beneath the trees.
in this moment only hell and heaven.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
your hands pulled me apart at the seams
unpicked each stitch with a touch so soft
until I shook and my breath came out in ice
then you ripped what was left to ****** shreds,
your eyes undressed each disguise of mine
replaced my duplicity with biblical truths
I have one apology sent weeks (years) ago
and an inability to feel at peace or to sew
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC
We tread in silence, wreaths upon
Gravestones, where you lie amongst
Flowers unpicked, at rest.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 11:21 AM UTC
she sprints through the grass,
where the blades won't harass,
the gentle wheat crops against her skin
running fast, they tickle her shin.
galloping, chasing, like a gazelle,
rays of sun caress, enchanting dark skin with spell.
curvaceous body with no care,
lovely lady, as free as her hair.
she grabs at the violets, press to her face,
indestructible woman, found her place.
jiggling, wobbling, dancing with joy,
this here woman, life is her toy.
she moulds it and holds it as she changes to sprint,
the sadness in here bares no hint.
curly hair, heritage rich,
this bird here, unpicked every stitch.
she stops, she stops, at the edge,
scrambles scrambles stopping before ledge.
jiggling juggling, in the ****
she dances around, no want to intrude.
escapee, escapee, that's what she's become,
and oh now, she feels like the only one.
boundless beauty, encased with dark lattice scars,
her body contains a bounty of stars.
no shape can hold her,
no one can tame, encase,
no hands can hold her,
more valuable than lace.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
Bell tower
against the afternoon sky
and the tolling of bells
for the office of None,
Domine *****
mea aperies,
the sun in the church
through high windows
pouring in the light
and we stood
chanting in Latin,
siamo come Dio
ci ha fatti
said the Italian monk
as he aided me
in the sacristy,
see I am as Eve
come enter my valley
she said and I obliged,
pray as if everything
depended on God
but work as if everything
depended on you
said Augustine(saint),
the feel of the rope
between hands
as we pulled down
to toll bells
for the office of Sext
George smiling
and I too,
Dieu se trouve dans
le silence the French monks said
as we walked
the abbey woodland
after lunch and birds sang
from high trees,
she peeled down her clothes
and revealed her soft fruit
partake she said,
Hugh stood in the shade
arms folded
gazing at the tree
in the garth
and the fruit it bore
still unpicked,
I polished the choir stalls
with a yellow duster
and red polish
the smell mingled
with incense
from mass that morning,
sprechen mit Gott
the Austrian monk said
as we walked
from the chapter house
one early evening
and I did but
was he listening?
I wondered,
perfect numbers are like
perfect men they
are very rare Gareth
said quoting Descartes
as we washed up
after supper
in the small room
by the kitchen,
my husband will never know
she said if you want to,
Deus qui possit ita
salvare te,
but I closed my ears
and even in the dark hours
I saw little light,
and I closed the shutters
to the departing day
and gazed at the Crucified
on the wall
above my bed
but small connection
to Christ in my head.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 2:35 AM UTC