"unplayed" poems
i’ve given up on days that begin in late afternoon,
skipped breakfast and lunch,
days that fade slowly and end with
****** cut-out holes in eyelids because
the second i close them and it all goes black,
every moment with you comes back
played on fast-forward, the memories moving so quickly
that both our faces are blurred
and it feels like everything i’ve ever felt for you
is overflowing the tub, filling the washroom with
suds that take forever to melt
i’ve given up on those days.
i’ve traded them for ones that begin with
sunrises instead of sunsets,
days that are spent falling forward
instead of trying to chase the past, and i don’t
look back and see something broken, or
something that was better off left unopened
i look back and see our bodies so close together
that you can’t tell where yours begins and mine ends,
i see my heart that grew twenty-three times its size,
i see you and me wrapped up in something that
i didn’t know existed outside of blurry 35 mm
and overdue and falling-apart library books
that sit on the nightstands of middle-aged women
who are bored with their lives
and i’m just so happy i got to love you at all.
but i’ve folded up all the days spent with you
and taped them in the messy pages of my journal
and now i’m running into the sun,
running away from every lie that’s trying to
wedge its way in between my ribs,
running in the opposite direction of words like "regret"
and any feeling that insists that none of it was worth it
because all of it was worth it.
every moment we were together pumps
through my veins, and it will always be there;
it will be there when we’ve both graduated,
when you move out west,
when you kiss your family goodnight,
when you sit in your backyard with tears
in your eyes because you’ve lived a life
you are proud of
it will be there when i finally make it to new york city,
when i kiss someone who isn’t you,
when i find the answers you inspired me to search for,
when i sit on my rooftop with tears on my cheeks
because i’ve lived a life fuller than i could’ve ever imagined
and you and i will live these lives apart,
we’ll move on and forget what it felt like
to wake up beside one another;
we’ll find what we’re looking for elsewhere
and we’ll understand why this all had to happen the way that it did
but what we had will always exist somewhere,
in rotting apples and old mail and unplayed mix CDs,
in mosaics that line the city streets, in sirens and
red and white flashing lights that shine through
your window while you are asleep
you and i were magic,
we always will be.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:25 PM UTC
This year, Spring has been stopped in its tracks.
Incessant rain has driven life underground,
so as a diversion, we're putting on a play.
It's not the real world, rather a representation of it.
The director is a control freak, so her role is perfect-
she can dictate without having to act.
Rehearsals take place in the Philharmonic Hall where the local
band used to practice. But the young have all gone to the city
looking for work, so the drum kit in the corner stays shrouded
in a black cloth and the unplayed snooker table supports our props.
On the stage, the backdrop is dominated by a church.
Its steeple points to God only knows where, aiming to instill pure thoughts.
Impossible to believe, its true aim is to inject fear into its people-
depending on your point of view.
The main player likes to be different. He turns up.
A vain attempt to give some structure to his life.
Late as usual, he's unshaven, and drowsy with wine.
No one can decide whether he's in character or himself.
Waiting for our cue, we stand on the narrow balcony,
flicking damp cigarettes into the river of rain below.
Eventually, we all change, put on our monstrous armour,
become the same curious creatures following the same script.
Except one....
who refuses to change, deciding in his own mind where he will play his part.
So he pulls on his proofed coat and heads out for the bar.
Outside, the power is off.
The streets are silent. Even the cafes have closed earlier than usual,
tables and chairs left out in the rain chained together, like prisoners
crying for release.
He slips along the cobbled streets, chanting his lines in time with his own footsteps:
'There are more dead people than living....the living are getting rarer.'
Even he's not sure if he's quite himself or still in character.
Briefly, the clouds part to reveal the cold light of the moon,
the only thing in which he has absolute faith to guide him on his way.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2013
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
the wind sat still,
like a guitar
unplayed.
while the trees
sighed in the warmth
of the day.
the hazy ground
glowed bronze
with the heat.
and the children all
sank quiet in
defeat.
nothing was friendly
about that
midsummer’s day.
no one wanted more
than for the sky
to turn grey.
but the sun just
pounded on the
drum of the earth.
and the children cried
for winter, and the cold
that they deserved.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 7:27 PM UTC
"DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION?"
her heart was a red
fire alarm
going off
with nobody
paying it
any mind
her heart was
an evening hillside
as the sun went down
the light stealing
into the ground
her heart was a favourite
pair of cufflinks
with one link
missing
or an earring found far
too late many many
years later
her heart was a lute
that was mute
unplayed for
many many moons
her heart
was a house
burningburningburning down
razed to the ground
the sneer of her
pyromanic lover
lost in the shadows
her heart was
the junk mail
that came in one door &
out the other
instant *******
she felt as if someone
had pressed DELETE
her heart was
a crystal ball
that could foretell
nothing....nothing at all
her heart was
a knocked over cheap cocktail
that left a nasty stain
on the carpet...on the wall
her heart was
a tiny torn pink knapsack
that held all
she had known
her heart was
the forgotten iron
branding itself into
her nice new blouse
her heart was
a poppy seen
from a passing train
there&gone again
her heart
full of the perfume
of memories that refused
to ever
...go away.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
Distorted days and delicious dreams
Everything is always just as it seems
Tear me up and build me down
What is all this noise without sound
Trapped in between days and nights
So I regress and take endless flights
Higher I drop rising to the pits of despair
Climbing to rock bottom with out a care
With you by my side, all ways coming along for the ride
My roller coaster is the famed attraction
It is the ultimate distraction
From living and being
Because once your on there is no retreating
The dips and curves add excitement
Yet a sense of dread lingers
Knowing that there is no end
We will always have to play pretend
To live with our selves
To love one another
But one day the curtains will close
The lights will fade
And all that will remain is a cast with roles unplayed
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
Disappointment drips from our eyes
Littering our faces and chests with ash
and traces of broken dreams
Collecting at our feet in pools of heartbreak
and puddles of unplayed versions
of the life we envisioned.
Wading through the pain we find
a rescue boat in each other's arms
I whisper
" They say it gets easier with time"
You wince
" I wish it were today"
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 10:57 PM UTC
The secret taste, my own hand is completing, ice cream.
A private joy, the moaning, the fleeting, ice cream.
My unplayed sonnet craves for a maestro's crescendo.
A freezer’s siren song, I’m powerless, beckoning, ice cream
My desires, untamed garden, unexplored, ignored,
A frozen bliss, in pleasure's heat, I'm needing, ice cream.
Remorseful echoes haunt my yearnings, an abandoned hall,
Useless empty calories to be worked off, sinning, ice cream.
A painter’s brush, my hands splatter ecstasy, uncontained,
Flavor's colors, in pleasure's heat, dripping, ice cream.
Wisp of my scent, a memory of vanilla and sea salt,
Sugar cone explodes, no napkin, fingers sticking, ice cream
Imagined lover, I cup myself, between fingers, a slow pull,
Creamy soft serve cup, caramel drizzled, spooning, ice cream
Flavors of passion, spices of desire, I’m taste-testing,
Wandering endless isles, reading labels, discovering ice cream.
In pre-dawn mist, my sighs rise soft to kiss the sky,
Candy sprinkles scattered on hot fudge; uplifting ice cream.
Beneath the stars, my haven whispers, Gaia’s soothing grace,
In every touch, I find my truth, my love embracing, ice cream.
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 7:07 PM UTC
palms are masks
that cover nothing
fingers, frustrated fishermen
combing dark waters, searching
for the uninhabited isle.
the tree stump pitifully trying
to grow,
melody of the typewriter,
the letter opener's song,
withered daisy in a plastic display,
hidden bookworm art
carved into dusty paperbacks,
overgrown, abandoned houses:
sleeping animal,
dormant jungle.
wet asphalt puddles of fallen sky
dead butterfly
blind blue eyes;
tragic, difficult, poetic
you are
poetically
(unplayed piano furniture)
useless.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 9:57 AM UTC
my bedroom carries the headiness of stale captivity. the teeth of a years old trap are gathering debris where they’ve gnashed on my leg. my loved ones come to relieve me of my suffering.
the gentle winds bring me dead leaves in layers of red, yellow, brown and the occasional purple. “look at how they’ve changed,” the winds say. “things can change for you, too.” i brush them away. indignant, the winds whip dust and pebbles that become bullets at the right speed, threatening tornadoes that will never come. i wait until their lungs tire.
the cleansing rains rinse the matted blood from my wound and refresh my hot, mangled skin. “doesn’t that feel great?” the rains say. “you can feel like this all the time if you put in a little effort.” i dry myself down. angered, the rains disease the trap with rust and drench me until my bones attempt to float away, threatening tsunamis that will never come. i wait until the water recedes.
the giving earth sprouts a flower in the corner of my bedroom. “life is still growing, waiting for you,” the earth says. “you just have to come to meet it.” it’s a beautiful reprieve for my senses, i almost go to pluck it. as i come to realize my motions, my heart drops to an unknown place away from my chest. i hesitate. furious, the earth wilts the flower until it blends in with the rest of my bedroom. it shakes the ground violently, deepening the pain of the metal in my flesh. it delivered on earthquakes but threatened no aftershocks.
the lively sun dries me of the failures of the wind and rain and earth. the sun says nothing. i make no effort to repay its warmth. it reciprocates that lack of effort.
i have exhausted the affections of the elements, and in their abandonment now rests a deep stillness that urges me to look around.
over time, i have accumulated the barest of pleasures — some unread books, some unplayed records, some small tokens of loves long gone — that mimic a home, but bring you no closer to what that is supposed to feel like.
the odor in here is disgusting. unsophisticated in my aching, i wish for a sweet-scented breeze, or a balmy rain, or a fragrant flower.
or maybe i will just order a scented candle.
Nov 11, 2022
Nov 11, 2022 at 3:03 PM UTC
Within the realm of unplayed instrumentation
a crescendo of specific notes are lost
dangling on high maple branches during autumn leaf change
and only divots below the mowed through grassy soil
throughout segregated quarantine reserves
partitions of divorced land
In the bottom of a child’s backpack
so heart jarring and singularly dedicated to the wandering dreamer harboring any thoughts of doubt about what is and what might inhibit the coming up next
covering over wooden plank necks with strings of primitive notation drafted inside the woods create,
rows of ivory keys and ebony flats,
this includes either screeching or murmuring brass buttons can make
And depending on the blow
Lead based letters
Squeezed together grammar and prose
have no window to grandstand
in a duel verses this one climb of instrumental verse
these missing tones are in tangible reaches
could even be in a soft mother’s dream waiting to be awoken to bring an awakening
Who will seek and find this group of lost tones with striking nuances so spirit soothing
that seeing the mere future is old news
but instilling, feeling, and describing the true meaning of life after hearing what is under, inside and above this crest of colored resonance of tonal pitch...
Or maybe it can insight a minor confidence in the one who lacks it to take that small step forward
Ensuring another step
This is one who will hear this
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 11:46 PM UTC
Old wooden knot holed thing.
rust wearing; sitting unplayed.
Strings silent.
Manuscripts of faded scores.
Tarnished ink quavers and semi quavers,
ride the weary stave.
This unheard music fills
the room with it's silence.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 6:15 PM UTC
.
To gaze upon you in the dusky dark
There is light, light as fine as breath,
Spun gold, light that only the blind
Know, as they dream in blue daylight,
Eyes infilled. I see you as mystics do,
I colour your face with mute wishes,
That time has allowed and moments show,
My being unstrung as one abandonment,
A broken guitar in an alley so flayed
Of cat gut and new sorrows unplayed.
If you were any more ethereal —
I would simply lay down into dust.
.
Jul 30, 2021
Jul 30, 2021 at 11:54 PM UTC
Running rings around thirteen hours of opera
I sit spell-bound absorbing the angry music
Suppressing an urge to re-conquer Poland
Music a direct expression of world’s essence
**** passion means Israel is Wagner-free
Tristan and Isolde unplayed before Ludwig
Love and death and passion for Mathlde
Eros and Thanathos that predate Freud
Arthurian love story interrupted by Minna
Overwhelming influence frustrates his peers
Worried that his brilliance is simply anger
That guarantees you feel undead tonight.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
Your favorite CD's are waiting
I think going home is a good thing.
Your lover's messages on your phone
and the cat that you left all alone
empty trays and the kitchen sink's left unkept
I think going home is the first step
before you deal with every little details
of the odd and the unexpected
Your favorite books are waiting
to be opened and read once again
bookmark stains on the pages
you have read over and over
turned yellow with some cobwebs on the drawer.
Your favorite matress is waiting
neatly folded but cold and yearning
to be warm again with you and your pillow.
they are waiting; your collection of guitars
each strings unplayed and slowly becoming dull
not as shiny as before, standing on the cold floor
I think going home is the safest way
so I think it's best if you do it today...
Sep 5, 2012
Sep 5, 2012 at 5:07 AM UTC
They've gathered at his daughter's house,
I passed cars pulling to the curb;
The patriarch has been replaced,
His chair now sits usurped.
Will someone raise a glass to toast him,
Recount some craic to roast him?
Praise his assets,
Shush his regrets,
Strum his unplayed guitar.
They'll share feasts on his bench,
Conceive on handmade beds,
Take down a book from his many shelves,
And talk as though he's there,
Sleeping, unaware.
*What was it that he said?
He talked of love a lot.
Did he get it right?
He shared what he got.
Did well for a sot.
He could turn a *****
Write a verse,
Right a wrong,
Could dialogue with who knows what,
And if he couldn't fix it,
We knew we were *******
They just might go to sleep tonight,
And dream as though he's there,
Still sitting in his chair.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 1:44 PM UTC
The familiar sky became unaware
Twinkling stars are kept in the air
Necessary talks became unnecessary memories
God knows who call them stories
The colour of your love still remains the same
Just like an unplayed game
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 11:18 PM UTC
Fingertips bled four days
Vocal chords raw, tattered and ripped
Record collects dust, simply unplayed
Skin rolls through a lathe
reveals a new true color
pinkish, and a little bit softer
Feet broke, and terribly hurting
ankle spurs shard
Can't walk, can't talk
or play my cards play my cards again
Head numbed, complacently dumbed
for a second, spun
out of control, had to run
far far away
to an awful forgotten place
Spoke once, never again
Truer words don't come
to the meek
for they do not speak
unless forced
A struggle to shrug
no one gives them a hug
'Til all is well
heated from beneath
broth boiling in unison
formed once its poison
Next side is bubbling
stirred beyond its coined
phrased unison its poison
If depth makes
for those willing
try sitting try stirring
envy those and transparent osmosis
emit shades out of possible control
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 6:52 PM UTC
Rosina’s baby sister died.
The cot stood empty
in the darkened room.
Don’t go in there
her mother said.
Rosina opened the door
and peered through
the gap instead.
The toys were still there
by the pink pillow and cover.
Leave the room alone
said her grieving mother.
Moonlight shone upon
the place where baby sister
once turned her face
and smiled or made
her baby noise.
Quiet now the room.
Unplayed with
the idle toys.
Mother cried at night
and often in the day
and stared through
the window at the far off bay.
Father was away
in some distant war
keeping his head down
in some foreign land.
Rosina’s baby sister
was buried deep
beneath the ground
in a small white coffin
dressed in a ghostly shroud
with songs sung sadly
and tears in the crowd.
Rosina peered through
the gap of the door
at the cot
and moonlight’s glow.
She’s seen her baby sister’s
ghostly smile
but mother doesn’t know.
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 2:49 PM UTC
the shrouds are soiled,
without defense,
the curdled salve is laid.
no time is spent
without pretense,
the just of karma's paid.
we wallow in,
and swallow shouts,
with efforts all but flayed.
so born to age
through wrestling bouts,
and expressions left unplayed.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
I've been winding up the walls of the music hall,
watching the couples dance to La Vie En Rose,
the song is stuck on repeat and
to silence it I need to hear the end note,
but it never comes.
I weave my roots into the ground. They
kiss softly. Romance is making love to them,
And yet my love has not arrived,
crashed in the parking lot,
and she never comes.
I see then that I was never meant to love,
a lover like you,
my heart stutters when your machine beeps,
in case it prolongs longer than I want.
The day seems to be coming.
Our wedding song is on vinyl, unplayed
and dusty. I watch it spin as the couples leave,
their scents taking yours with them,
I am alone again.
You left,
just when I thought the stars had come out for
us.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 8:08 PM UTC
Sunburnt skins and moonkissed hearts, Pouring rains and heel-clicking walks.
Rough edged pages and unplayed tracks,
Carved pumpkins and ever burning lamps.
Unkept hair and pretty sundress,
Cold meal and unheld hands.
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 2:55 PM UTC
When a man found a rotting piano
In the woods of Germany,
Each unplayed note traveled through his red blood veins
up to his brain painting colors of wound and gas mask.
He could hear the music of war within each taste of sheltered forest air.
In his nails, shadows of bleed
and drops of motor oil,
the residue of sea salt from the hulls of ships.
The man
Thought of all the Jewish and non Jewish fingers
That never touched each key.
He played all the combinations of chords never played
On the tree trunk next to him.
The man felt his right fingers cramp,
Riger-mortic,
And saw his fallen brother behind the largest tree holding his palm the same way.
He thought of all the stiffened hands sitting in holes dug by living hands,
Hands begging for one more sip of water soup,
Hands begging for freedom,
Hands begging for death.
The man forgot his salt crusted boots.
The man couldn't forget how his gas mask could have saved two more hands to play the unplayed piano.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
He crawled through seven weeks,
her voicemail still unplayed,
burned letters on the stovetop,
and brushed the ash away.
The mattress holds her perfume,
her hair still haunts the sheet.
It lingers just to gut him,
then breaks beneath the heat.
I gave you what I carried,
a key, a ring, a name.
You marked it as a chapter,
the ending never came.
Streetlights blink and stutter,
pulse yellow, white, then blue.
They gnaw beneath the ribcage
and press on every bruise.
He heard her laughter echo
through gutter sweat and smoke;
coins scatter on the concrete,
a rimshot to the joke.
He cut this trail in whiskey
left dents along the floor,
no battle flag, no anthem,
just shrapnel from the war.
Her glance, a flint and trigger,
still burns behind the eyes.
Not love, not even fury,
just silence split with lies.
The bottle knew its ending;
its glitter salts the ground.
No sirens in the alley,
all bodies have been found.
He slips the lock in shadow
and drifts beneath the gray.
The gospel wilts by morning.
He never meant to stay.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 11:43 AM UTC