"unpublished" poems
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished.
Like us, a draft
of what can be called
"the both of us."
A draft created
that's open for change.
A change
to be better
---better
than who we are
or what we are
in the midst of the conflict
that floats around us
for the sake of us
for the both of us
---for each other.
A change
to be smoother
---smoother
with no mistakes,
with everything
in order;
consistent,
and coherent
even with the dialogues
we say that matter.
A change
to be clearer
---clearer,
meaning it is
at least what it is
meant to be conveying
with no underlying
vague wordings
when it comes
to our feelings
---for one another.
But that's there all is:
a draft
of what could be called
the both of us;
a product
of what we can become
if we make it become;
a product
of the possibilities
of what can be us,
of what might be us,
of what is it between us
between the fragments
of the words,
the lines,
and the series
of all of them
that constantly paint
faint descriptions of us,
descriptions
created [fabricated]
in my mind
like a work of fiction,
of pure imagination.
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished,
like the poems
I wrote for us;
like the poems
about us;
like us, a draft.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC
(a tribute; if mere words could be enough)
~
the life of this River,
'tis an unending stream;
is an unpublished book,
its current fast at flood;
a flow that washes clean,
all the gathered debris;
its words like diamonds,
sparkling neath its lapping
waters at its river bank;
a sound refreshing,
hushes the rush in my mind,
calling to my soul.
where does the river go at night,
and whence flows its waters
when hidden, out of sight?
its flow is eternal to the sea;
a place of waters gathering,
of floods heaping,
of reflection's seeking,
where still waters lie,
where the hand of friendship
holds and lifts all who venture
to its depth where feet
can touch no longer
the point where most
would flounder
become a place of calm
of peaceable retreat without
and deep within
a flow of tears for thee!
~
*post script.
a heart on sleeve composure,
for he who knows the River best!
who's breath is water deep,...
who's heart beat its very current!
added 12-13-16
my dearest HP friends, i want to thank you for this Daily and for your generous words, though i cannot truly claim this credit for my own. those of you who have walked these halls with me for a few years will read between the lines and will know precisely for whom this tribute is written. he is become to me one of a small handful of poetry mentors and it was a moment of great appreciation for his artistic talent that inspired these words... words that tumbled from this pen as a rush, and in mere minutes. such is he, that he inspired this spill of words; a flood that i would not claim for my own. to he who knows, thank you, my friend... this River... these and this belongs to you!!*
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 2:22 PM UTC
Spectrous aberrations of youth
Surround him, embrace him
Leaving him disoriented, dismayed
Amidst sultry belongings
He’s tethered to that pole of vicissitude
Draped by disfavor
Postmarked Valhalla
Addressed to Folkvangr
Teased by irreverent lovers
In pursuit of contentment
His chronicles restart
In an unpublished testament
Bound by leather, cows unfettered
One lifeless body stationary
Crimson streams part chalk-dry lips
As love’s guillotined victim drips
His future’s fortune forsaken
Willingness to triumph in battle
Leaks from this dimension
With each fluxing discharge
Of her stream’s outgoing apathy
And his fluid permeates alluvium
In streambeds near life’s summit
Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 11:12 PM UTC
My Solace
when every aperture is a tunnel narrowing,
a light pin diminishing when nearing,
when the desk drawer yields up unused theater tickets,
for performances concluded yesterday,
when the denouement is nothing new but worse,
revealed in the coming attractions trailer,
when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,
Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,
I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,
my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
I am so sick of love.
Loyalty, honesty, dedication, compassion, compromise, for better or for worse (when it's always worse)!
I am so sick of love, and all the drama that accompanies it.
Most of all what makes me absolutely ill, in a brain and heart exploding in anger and disappointment respectively, kind of way,
are the Lies!
"You're all I want", "I need you", "I need a friend", "I still love you", "I will always love you", "Is there any chance?", "Can we get back together?",
all the attention seeking, melodramatic, time-consuming crap!
Followed by guilt. That nauseous feeling of, what if? What If? WHAT IF?
Was it the right thing? Will I find another? What about the broken heart?
The sleepless nights of pondering how to end things, the poems written and unpublished, the practising in front of the mirror, cigarettes to channel the guilt elsewhere...
For crying out loud!
After years of guiding me, I should have given way more credit to my instincts.
And now for the new chapter. Embracing an old art, new to me. Currently so underrated and misjudged by priests, mothers and newly-weds.
The philosophy of zero expectations to infinite pleasure and everything in between.
No regrets, no time wasted (and hell was my time wasted on you!#$#$#$).
Time to give up my soul to the darkness, (God, I hope you'll understand I still love and believe you, but I prayed and prayed. I can't wait any more!) and my body to the sailor boy!
Absolutely No Strings Attached.
No bull **** no promises, just *** (and cuddles), a lot of *** (and waking up next to him?)
Anyway, NO STRINGS ATTACHED! [Except for the invisible, really strong one. He is irresistible after all and I'm a dreamer who never, ever learns, and follows her instincts way too much!]
One thing's for sure.
I am so profoundly sick of love!
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
I pile up twenty years worth of
Publisher-declined
Collections.
They reach me to my knees.
Little towers of Poetic
Injustice;
Mini-monuments to the years
Of mailbox disappointments
And cursing the arts.
Now I thank for every manuscript
Returned with their polite regrets.
Another volume of *"Unpublished
Works"* for the future.
They are my Twelve Monkeys.
My Poetry of Gold at the
Rainbow's End.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Let me continue the story about a guy named Akshant,
Who belonged to Mathura in India, once the city of Krishna.
Akshant rejoined college and scored acceptably well this time,
He had realized his mistakes while he was to stay at home.
Repentance on committing mistakes intentionally was ripe,
He barely controlled the regret from flowing through his eyes.
Anamika was the only friend who was by his side in this time,
Giving him relief from loneliness which rang as the door chime.
Akshant had a poor memory so not much could stay on his mind,
Stressing his memory too much would only make his brain to grind.
Akshant then studied cautiously holding onto Anamika's hand,
Cautious he was not to crush it as he had formerly done to others.
He brightened up his professional life along with the romantic life,
And he scored brilliantly given his mental health was really affected.
The dried clots inside his brain were still an issue two years later,
But he controlled himself to not harm others from his anger.
The clots used to come out through as tears and ear wax,
Almost all was physically well after three more years.
Akshant went Kodaikanal after his bachelor's degree college,
He was an eligible bachelor when he had a job confirmation.
This happened when he was drifting away in the Kodai lake,
Anamika who sat next to him in the boat congratulated him.
Now Anamika confessed her feelings for Akshant in the boat,
Akshant couldn't find any words & found himself quite quiet.
This made Anamika challenge and taunt about his manliness,
Which caused Akshant get enraged & kiss his reply on her lips.
The boat swayed terribly in the star-shaped lake's still waters,
Anamika ogled & felt her hair get wet & this made her ****** Akshant.
She started kissing him back now & her eyes were coming back to normal,
These had been wide ogling when Akshant had started kissing hard and so it was.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
SpongeBob SquarePants is an American animated television series created by marine biologist and animator Stephen Hillenburg for Nickelodeon. The series chronicles the adventures and endeavors of the title character and his various friends in the fictional underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The series' popularity has made it a media franchise, as well as Nickelodeon network's highest rated show, and the most distributed property of MTV Networks. The media franchise has generated $8 billion in merchandising revenue for Nickelodeon.
Many of the ideas for the series originated in an unpublished, educational comic book titled The Intertidal Zone, which Hillenburg created in the mid-1980s. He began developing SpongeBob SquarePants into a television series in 1996 upon the cancellation of Rocko's Modern Life, and turned to Tom Kenny, who had worked with him on that series, to voice the titular character. SpongeBob was originally to be named SpongeBoy, and the series was to be called SpongeBoy Ahoy!, but these were changed, as the name was already trademarked.
The series was previewed on Nickelodeon in the United States on May 1, 1999, following the television airing of the 1999 Kids' Choice Awards, and officially premiered on July 17, 1999. It has received worldwide critical acclaim since its premiere and gained enormous popularity by its second season. The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, a feature-length film adaptation, was released in theaters on November 19, 2004, and a sequel is currently in production, with a projected release date of February 13, 2015. On July 21, 2012, the series was renewed and aired its ninth season, beginning with the episode "Extreme Spots".[2][3]
Despite its widespread popularity, the series has been involved in several public controversies, including one centered around speculation over SpongeBob SquarePants' intended ****** orientation. The series has been nominated for a variety of different awards, including 17 Annie Awards (with six wins), 17 Golden Reel Awards (with eight wins), 15 Emmy Awards (with one win), 13 Kids' Choice Awards (with 12 wins), and four BAFTA Children's Awards (with two wins). In 2011, a newly described species of mushroom, Spongiforma squarepantsii, was named after the cartoon's title character.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
In the early mornings,
when I cannot find the motivation
to get out of bed,
I look at the books
that I have not yet read.
A wave of guilt washes of me.
I turn to look at the unfinished drawings
and the pencils that are still sharpened.
A wave of guilt whispers to me.
I roll over and see the empty words
of stories, with the characters unpublished.
A wave of guilt drowns me.
It seems these days, I am nothing but
Guilty.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
my words love to dance
on the rhythms of your heartbeat
but each prose without you
always seems incomplete
the stained ink on the pages
become more brighter with each fall
as i breathe in the aroma
from the depth of your beautiful soul
you're my prodigy classical
mystifying divine sound
An unpublished masterpiece
waiting to be found
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 1:40 AM UTC
the waiting in hallways
lined up on the wall
with eyes following the chatterbox and her
flowing train of rabid listeners
who hang themselves ritualisticly on her
shallow water illustrations
swimming on this thin tide of unpublished lip candy
her bubblegum words are commentary
upon which her followers build temples
to the unfit mothers of televangelists
the chatterbox spills her loud thoughts
on the sun warmed concrete
as the summer lawnmower navigates
around santa and his late december reindeer
and the children's labyrinth of christams morning plans
while i sunbath nearby
she gathers her spilled thoughts
and races away proudly proclaiming that'
my poems are too short for the pulitzer
so she is ready for her laurels
and a fast road to academia
with a neatly packaged version of her inner perversions
spread like *** and lip candy
on the local coffee shop bookshelf's
for the pretty college girl with glasses to drink from
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 2:08 PM UTC
we both work in the postal service
but neither one of us
has ever sent a single love letter
maybe it's the drill of the job
maybe its the grind of the machines
or the clack of the keyboards
grind turns to a drone
and i look around to what we thought
were industrialized patents
were actually what we had once considered our friends
was that where they disappeared to?
instead of quitting the dead end
i had assumed too fearful to follow the leap
they hid away in mail bins and P.O. boxes
i thought i was alone
maybe i was
maybe they really did leave
their souls gone
with empty shells of bodies
remnants of what once was
yes
i am still alone
those who i knew have fled the building
in search of a more meaningful existence
winding in up in god knows where
anywhere but here
these gluttonous pantomimes only accept hopefuls
midlife crises who leap
at the opportunity for promotion
like increasing payroll would reduce their age
same as the twenty five year old liberal art grads who need a filler
to help pay rent while they work
on what will collectively become hundreds of thousands of volumes unpublished
here i stand
twenty eight years old
and strip off my badge
as it falls to the floor
i walk out the door
say hello to the next boarding train
(last stop your hometown)
and goodbye to the dead end road.
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
I left my phone in the gym
What a small black rectangle
Filled with many secrets
Many unpublished poems
Many short stories of life
Many unfinished text messages
Sitting alone in my locker
Cracked everywhere but the front
With my friends and emojis
Secret new and old tumblrs
Pictures I cry when I see
Quotes I cry when I read
What a small piece of metal
To hold my life's story
Every friend, foe, lover
Every tear from sadness, laughter
All woven and intertwined
Within the circuits and wires
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
The transparent roof covered her from sudden precipitation
Ice pellets pelting the ground around as she waited for the bus
The shufflers and grumblers huddled in the booth for cover share
Riddled with cold holes from liquid ***********
Look at them, she thought
Untold stories in a crowd
Grey figures among the concrete and the puddles
Blank pages thickening unread novels
Returning home to stagnant plots and forgettable characters
On the auto she scanned the library for research-relevant titles
A fairy tale cuddled publicly, all lips and hands and smiles
An anthology with stained sections and shredded, well-worn binding
Scribbled frantically to transfer himself to more unpublished page
Give up, she wanted to scream
Paper dies and no one reads
No longer did she believe in hidden literary gems
Far too many friends had rushed their tales
Conclusions writ in sharpie slop
Conclude she had in pencil but the writing hand would never stop
Not for cramps of authoring nor material that she lacked
Not until the cover closed
From which there was no flipping back
Perhaps I am an article, she thought
Meant to be short and skimmed
A brief point to be made and greater issue slapped within
She wondered something dreadful then, a tremor in her bones
She never understood the other chapters, stories, poems
Reflecting in her epilogue, would she even know her own?
My pen was never full
I am illiterate
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.
Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?
To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.
With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.
I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.
Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic. Now I use it to influence my movements.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
You found me.
You're so clever,
You're so mysterious,
So cunning and coy.
You hide and sneak,
Laugh and giggle.
You grin with knowledge
And my lack thereof.
But I have the real secret,
I'm sly and crafty,
Sneaky and hidden
In my openness and observations.
More so because my secrets,
stay secret...
I know you better
Than you may believe.
I love you more
Than you can understand.
So I will stay hidden
In my open observations.
I will stay and silent
My crafty cleverness.
I want to be a secret.
You are my secret.
I'll be your's.
You found me.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
Phantom Fierce Pierce
For Sally
Do have the courage of fear?
What!
You heard me.
Admit that we are all inhabited,
Admit that we are all inhibited.
Fear, the eleventh plague visited upon the Egyptians,
Nothing more paralyzingly complete.
Walking down an average day, an average street,
A median day, a medium day that a
Black disease from whence unknown,
And you are a froze shadowed chalk figure
Drawn upon the concrete, unable to move.
What would you pay, anything,
What would you give, everything,
Cleanse it all
Cut out the incisions
That with precision
Haunt your every
Waking and sleeping moment.
The deeds that did not get done,
The deeds that cannot get undone,
Both your undoing.
A plague on both, a plague on me,
My plague, unique to me,
Free me from this whatever the cost.
But it can't be arranged.
No devil to sell back the things
Of which you are ashamed,
No stain stick extant to guarantee success.
When the hollow is so great
You feel non-existent.
But you do not see what I see...
Courage, raw and plain, admits
These phantoms are not phantoms at all.
Those figures try to break you.
There is a beach, a path, where you know,
Safety.
Not easy to get there. The bus schedule unpublished.
But the bus line exists.
And you have the courage to wait, patiently
Until it arrives.
There is value here, if you read between the dashes
And the dots.
I see you for who you are.
You are the phantom fiercer piercer.
Shown us the way.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
For more information, including the origin of Honku, please visit the official website:
www.honku.org
Clogging traffic flow
twin, brake riders in the lane,
they're really a pain.
America's love -
Unsupervised car racing
on our new highways.
Rubbernecking state:
Welcome to Connecticut,
spend more time on road.
Suggestion only?
Painted lines are optional
for lane straddlers.
Forget the roadkill!
Rubberneckers demonstrate...
Lust for dead bodies.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
Let me tell you a story about a guy named Akshant,
He belonged to Mathura in India, once the city of Krishna.
He was born on 23rd of December in the year 1990,
It was a stormy & rainy night when he was born.
Krishna was born under much similar conditions,
He was taken to safety away from his wretched uncle,
Time is exactly as the glorious & glorified mythology has it.
Akshant spent his early life much like any other kid,
Just the difference was that he was totally alone.
He spent his teenage in similar lonely circumstances,
Akshant searched for love all his teenage but to no avail,
Time gave a lonely -read tough- early lifetime to Akshant this way.
Akshant met a deadly accident on the highway,
And he went into a long & carefree coma.
As Akshant slept he took their breath away,
But they prayed for him to come out of the coma.
Time has its own ways of teaching lessons & for him it chose this way.
Akshant had been wasting his time in the search of love,
Ignoring the words of parents, his studies & friends.
His girlfriend ditched him for a fit & fine guy,
Who could take her out on dates unlike our Akshant.
Time had its own wicked ways of making him pay for the wrongs he did.
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 7:41 AM UTC
Take all of my belongings; pictures of
Beloved ones and grandmother's bible.
Just leave me a piece of paper and my
Will to describe the memory of my losses.
I take the pen for granted, as one does when
Leaving a bank in deeper debt.
One man's advertisement is another poet's
Tool.
I, Poet, would arise in the morning and praise
My tiny square of window, even with its
Iron bars.
I'd find poetry in prison wall profanity.
I love losing. Crying over love, over
Tragedies the size of full history book pages,
Timeless art lost in gallery fires, bad poetry
Gone viral and unpublished classics discarded.
I, Poet, laugh out loud in disbelief at sunsets
And other banalities.
Take spring rain showers and act at times
Like a hipster on ether; a hippie kissing his
Last tab of acid with the heart of his tongue.
I care less than the unfree.
Drink water; wash my feet with wine
And walk miles and miles of fire.
I, Poet.
Ink in my veins, fountains of blood on my
Pages. I write no diary, keep myself between
The lines.
The areas of white between the words.
The opposite of
Nothing. It is where gods,
Truths, and the poet's way of loving
A dual life lie. As
Unseen as
Unhidden, in
Broad daynight.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
silence
three quarters up
an excuse to leave behind
what i felt is worth
leaving this silence to forget itself
to forget that i ever
once wanted a smooth path
bricks lain out to find patterns
in the cracks
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:47 PM UTC
#25 | 31 Poems for August 2016
A few months ago you didn't know that I could write or recite like that.
My notebook is full of broken masterpieces that fail to come together like contour lines.
If my art goes unappreciated, unnoticed, unloved and unpublished then just know that I wrote from the heart.
I know that love is a beautiful thing but sometimes I feel like its main intention is to tear me apart.
So don’t be too surprised when I tell you that I’m slowly falling to pieces.
The ocean in my muse’s eyes reminds me of the colour of the sky and how I want to dive into the depths of who she is.
The world has made her feel like an abandoned church but in my eyes she’ll always be a cathedral.
She will always be a cathedral and you can say hallelujah or amen to that.
We are from the city where jacaranda trees light up the streets with their purple blooms.
Went from breaking up, breaking down, breaking through to finally breaking new ground.
So even though I’m hurting now I know I’ll eventually be safe and sound when a new season comes around.
I’m still fascinated by spring, jacaranda petals and the countless anthologies that Mother Nature continues to write.
Reading the lines on a woman’s skins is poetry and too many men are illiterate.
So they will never truly understand the fact that liberty begins with literacy.
My notebook is full of broken masterpieces that fail to come together like contour lines.
Even if my art goes unappreciated, unnoticed, unloved and unpublished I will always write from the heart.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
In between me and you
There are volumes untold
We the bookends
Kept the stories within,
Pop up books
And color by numbers,
There's still crayon splatters
Across the pages,
Folded corners
And still wet edges,
Wilted bookmarks
And underlined sentences,
Highlighted passages
And crossed out paragraphs,
Pressed in between some layers
Are dry roses and leaves,
Memories that left the letters smeared,
And though our stories may finish
And remain unpublished,
I just want to tell you
Our love was volumes
With no bookends...
© okpoet
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 3:14 AM UTC
Pages
of unspoken sadness
hidden between each page
Paragraphs
of loneliness
present after every line
Sentences
full of desperation
only adding to the fire
Words
of harsh insults
only repeated in each line
An unpublished book
only hidden among the
weak and innocent...
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 12:41 PM UTC