"unprinted" poems
I have not been anywhere,
done anything, thought anything,
and feel nothing.
At least,
that’s what my blank, plain-clothed
T-shirt would indicate to other people.
A man walking the earth with
no visible identity.
When I put on my Hawaiian shirt, however,
they believe my mind to be full of
pineapples, hula girls swinging softly in the
ukulele moonlight, palm fronds swaying
in the dacron, or is it rayon, ripples
of my baggy upper man.
Let others think what they might
of my images, or the lack of words
and logos.
My inner tag says that
I’m size “L” and that I’m made on
factory looms in China, that my buttons
are constructed to look like the
real thing–a round slice of bone or
perhaps ivory.
I am not so much anywhere on the
outside, even though there are places
I would like to go fling my few dollars.
Inside, however, I am lost,
pleasantly lost and hiding, within the
convenience of my unprinted shirt.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Touch a rush
Floral green trim
A dress of deceit
Ferocious credibility
Strike, shock and distraught
Question her everything
A maddening cluttered up chest
Red unprinted marking
She is a tempus tip toeing
Digesting hearts of many
Warned, they crawl
Enthralled, lurking for her gore
Her dress tore in natural beauty
Cleaning syrup from her finger tips
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
Words rub off
on one another
Linguistic f r i c t i o n
between unprinted covers
to start a poet's mind
on Fire.
Yet the turning
of wheels and cogs,
transmissions through
frayed wires
Requires quite the opposite.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
How can I see?
The spring in its silver notes,
Sweet sounds of watering, with
The meadows that are meant to be.
A linear existence emerging
From the synchronicity of sprout
The greenness that comes to caress
Soul of the spring time, which
Captures a stillness of the growth.
A beauty of change, that doesn’t resonate
In the bloom of life, but rather
During the glisten of withering light
How can I compare
Duality of change in nature
Newly born buds predictability,
With my spirits unfolding
Yet to come so frequently
In the face of bitter winter,
Steps taken towards the tempest
Imprints the raw snow,
So willing for a fervid journey
It burns onto a spring plain,
Only in a hindsight
You see the change in true life
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 11:56 AM UTC