"unravelled" poems
do you recall
the crunch beneath our feet
a gesture small
as we ambled down the street
dirt and gravel
I felt pebbles through my shoe
I unravelled
When I looked at you
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
Sunlight peaked through maple branches
in such a tranquil way
missed chances to make advances
I always hoped you'd stay
a fork in the road ahead
we went different directions
I used many different methods
to try and snag your attention
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
you never seemed to notice
you just stared ahead
heart bloomed as if a lotus
while I tugged at a loose thread
sometimes I'd begin to speak
but choked upon my words
so I walked next to you without a peep
and together watched the birds
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
it's odd and super subtle
the synchronicity
insignificant and pointless
yet means the world to me
quiet walks every afternoon
past the garage and dead leaves
we watched the starlings courtship
do you remember me?
Where did you come from
Are you real?
Is this how I’m supposed to feel?
A dreamgirl
In a dreary place
I’ve counted every freckle on your face
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 2:29 AM UTC
The mahogany table-top you smashed
Had been the broad plank top
Of my mother's heirloom sideboard-
Mapped with the scars of my whole life.
That came under the hammer.
That high stool you swung that day
Demented by my being
Twenty minutes late for baby-minding.
'Marvellous!' I shouted, 'Go on,
Smash it into kindling.
That's the stuff you're keeping out of your poems!'
And later, considered and calmer,
'Get that shoulder under your stanzas
And we'll be away.' Deep in the cave of your ear
The goblin snapped his fingers.
So what had I given him?
The ****** end of the skein
That unravelled your marriage,
Left your children echoing
Like tunnels in a labyrinth.
Left your mother a dead-end,
Brought you to the horned, bellowing
Grave of your risen father
And your own corpse in it.
6.3k
You breathed gin.
This is blood for you.
Your hands held your hair and your eyes shut.
The alcohol lulled your brain to black.
It escaped your veins,
Diluted by 37.5% truth serum.
Gasping at the
Divine realisation
Where slurred lips
Contradicted
Your once straight-faced,
Certainly-certain speakings
Of your very crooked lie.
So crooked, it wound his heart around yours.
But that ball of yarn unravelled in an instant.
And the jumper you knit together,
Came apart
Stitch by stitch.
In my fogged memory,
I had choked myself that night
With a bottle and a ball of yarn.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
may the way that gives way to this accord of may be in awe of truth and not the fruits of disarray
I shall be meditating upon the roads travelled and many discoveries gather that I have unravelled
I shall curl my high excitements and misguided ambitions to unfurl what the calls of the wise unfurl and admonish
In the mist amidst the tricking twists of fits and false gists, may I hold up fists that will seize to desist and delete the disease of fallacy in curtailed wit
In the shadows dark, some pale
may I not fade into the tales of lies and manipulative games
In the guise of dames so modern and fabulously inclined to fame,
may I guage and carry my animosity into the mystery of my identity where only the genuine and real can relate
In the encounters with material and all that deters from the mystic and ethereal,
I hope to remember the real surreal to surmise the reels of fantasy thrills in graphic frills and euphonic trills
However the gigantic systems of the world in money, greed, vanity or lust, may doctor sickness into the souls of the lost and weak:
may my heart remain meek and my vision bright and led by the lens of the soul....
With or without I pray not as a religious pilgrim but a sage seeking neverending Light... ever the more grateful, harnessing the grapes of creation, worshiping a servant's code in humility.
hustling about this rash hassle of life overshadowed by pyramids and castles
remaining true to the cause even when temptation is endlessly bustling about
remember remember the hustle when you were down and out without
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
Santa sat and looked about the mess that lay before him
"How will I get these gifts all wrapped and gone by Christmas morning?"
The workshop looked as though it had been hit by a Tornado
But instead it was all the fault of *** he brought back from Tobago
A little shot in the elves egg nog would make them all work faster
But, as he saw the end result was short of a disaster
The more they drank the more they all got up and danced on tables
And in the end elf Juniper was left wearing only labels
She looked quite good despite her age, she was just about six thirty
And what she did with candy canes...well, you can say it was quite *****
The paper stretched from room to room, many miles were unravelled
Santa looked at the mess again, and thought "It's high time that I travelled"
He left the North to make a trip to hire cleaning staff
But , turned the reindeer right around, because he knew they'd laugh
How do you tell a person that you are about to hire
That the mess that they will soon clean up, is because my elves were wired
Santa thought that magic would be just the way to go
He would use it to clean up the mess, and nobody would know
The only problem with this stunt is that magic has a rule
He can only use it Christmas eve, it was not his private tool
The toys were strewn everywhere, and most were broke or nicked
He would have to wake the elves all up and to start things getting fixed
So, if you wake up Christmas morn and there is nought beneath your tree
Don't worry, Santas late, he should be there by three
He left a little late this year, but he will be by real quick
And he swore to never serve elves ***** or his name is not Saint Nick!
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When your muse will gently kiss a faded parchment ,
And give birth to verses
That will keep me awake all night.
This isn’t the first Saturday night ,
When I will spill more ink than a wounded soldier ,
Writing his last letter back home ,
From the treacherous trenches
Of scarlet love.
But then the trenches I sought refuge in,
Are more treacherous than the rusted bayonet ,
With which he will script ,
The final chapters of his life .
And yet like him ,
If there’s one thing I have come to believe in ,
Then it’s this :
There is more comfort ,
In believing ,
In an unshakable absolute ,
Than there is in hiding ,
Beneath the mills of woolen warmth.
And
There is more naked grief ,
In letting your dreams ,
Be hinged to uncertainties,
Than there is in daring ,
To brave the winter without your warmth.
And yet you wonder?
Why I detest absolutes,
Which need a blanket of uncertainties ,
To survive the chill of a Saturday night ,
A night which as it drags on,
Like a frozen Nicholas sleigh ,
Seems to mock every fiber of hope in my being ,
Fibers that I unravelled to adorn
The dwelling of My absolute.
This isn’t the first Saturday Night when the tale will remain incomplete
Without that innocent question I crave to answer
For you are my absolute ,
Uncertainty.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
My world is a-spinning,
I chase wild deer -
For pleasure, not trophies -
My conscience is clear.
I chase ‘em through forests,
Through grasslands and doles.
I find giant craters
And tiniest holes.
My eyes are wide open,
I hail all life,
Asleep all these years...
But now I’m alive!
I’m ready to ponder
The sense of it all.
My mind doesn’t wander -
This time, it’s my call.
I challenge old habits -
Deep-rooted they be -
My deer chasing rabbits
While rabbits chase me.
I’m easily happy,
My cry is of bliss,
My tongue fires wisdom,
My shots never miss.
I eagerly travel
Through darkness and light -
All myst’ries unravelled,
My troth here I plight:
To battle for freedom,
To fight for the poor,
To champion peace,
To ignore all the lures.
I never will falter -
My mind is my guard,
My faith is my altar,
My love is my God.
My world is a-spinning,
I’m dreaming all day.
My vision a-clearing -
Ill thoughts fade away.
And what of the wild deer? -
You might want to ask.
Gone home to the Highlands,
They’ve finished their task.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 7:49 AM UTC
See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon
the banks of the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite
Ballad of Hamilton beginning—
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow!
From Stirling castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravelled;
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my “winsome Marrow,”
“Whate’er betide, we’ll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.”
“Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, ’tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow’s banks let her herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downward with the Tweed
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.
“There’s Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;
There’s pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?
“What’s Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere
As worthy of your wonder.”
—Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn;
My True-love sighed for sorrow;
And looked me in the face, to think
I thus could speak of Yarrow!
“Oh! green,” said I, “are Yarrow’s holms,
And sweet is Yarrow flowing!
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
But we will leave it growing.
O’er hilly path, and open Strath,
We’ll wander Scotland thorough;
But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.
“Let beeves and home-bred kine partake
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow,
The swan on still St. Mary’s Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!
We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There’s such a place as Yarrow.
“Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it:
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?
The treasured dreams of times long past,
We’ll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we’er there, although ’tis fair,
’Twill be another Yarrow!
“If Care with freezing years should come,
And wandering seem but folly,—
Should we be loth to stir from home,
And yet be melancholy;
Should life be dull, and spirits low,
’Twill soothe us in our sorrow,
That earth has something yet to show,
The bonny holms of Yarrow!”
3.6k
Using my fairest hand
I wrote your name on a scrap of paper,
And slipped it into my wallet
So it would be next to my heart
All day.
So that I could carry you with me
To venerate
Like the bones of a blessed saint
In a casket.
I opened up my box of relics
A testament to loves
Unloved
To hearts broken
To lives unravelled.
An acorn that did not grow into an oak.
A fossil from some petrified forest.
Mocking my broken heart
With it's unthinkable age.
The note, scribbled,
The perfumed scarf.
The poem.
The coaster.
Things.
To remind me
As if I could ever
Forget.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
May I have your hand?
Okay....
I would like to tell you
how you were made
And what these folds mean
Inside your hands
I know it sounds silly
but please listen to me
Haha okay so...
That crease right beneath your fingers
Means invincibility
The ability to ensure serenity
when encountered by enemies
the will to build
the power in your veins
strive during the worst
to prolong a better days
A creative freak
A pursuing perfectionist
Etiquette of measurements
Treasures endeavour unhesitant
And you care for it
Your strength will prevail
Take your time
And you will see
How your mind is unparrelled
Do you see it?
Can you see it smiling at you?
And that crease at the bottom
That cups your thumb
Represents your beauty
And your the rarest that they come
But you haven't realized it yet
And its frowning at you
Your potential to succeed
And the elegance you brew
Your smile is of wonders
Your eyes are a universal sunset
Gorgeously burning
But you haven't realized it yet
Do you see it?
Do you know how beautiful you are now?
And now....
Its your middle crease
That bounds your strength and elegance
With such unravelled symmetry
Now I want you to look at it
......
Stare into its shape
......
Now I will hold mines up
And if they all match
It means we are soulmates
Wow,
They look so much alike
So give me your hand
Let our fingers interlock
And our uniqueness will stand
.......
For the rest of our time
Look into your palm
One will frown and one will smile
And the middle will keep you calm
The middle is me
The reflection of your soul
And it will be there
Till our spirits are up with the nightsky glow
I want you to look at me
And repeat what I said
Because no matter where I am at
I will be in the folds in your hands
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
lush cornucopia of greens
and overlapping canopies.
rays filtered through
somewhat a broken lens.
an arbour found
which carelessly took root.
calling out,
inviting,
offering sanctuary
from the shrill calls
of the turbulent outside.
a harbour
to which my heart
had taken to.
and had intended to stay.
but such is the nature
of man.
*no other man's peace
can be left unruffled.
no other man's cocoon
can be left unravelled.
no other man's haven
can be left uninvaded.
and no other man's trove
can be left unraided.*
like before I'll have to go.
and just like man's exploratory nature,
I leave seeking another
unfound recluse.
inadvertently,
paving the way for more to come.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
I have an insatiable appetite for oxymorons, as they can be violent in their state of calm relaxation.
Although Bacillus anthracis is truly antisocial within the context of biological weaponry; so, domestic discipline has become intertwined with the Hindu philosophy of Vatsyayana.
So, what do you think about that?
Personally, I have never consumed methylated spirits even though I have unravelled a myriad of ideologies whilst my boots concealed precious opioid syringes.
Therefore, always reflect upon the Code of Hammurabi, because she is the epitome of savory stew.
How alternative are your affiliations?
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 11:28 PM UTC
The ceiling seems to be spinning.
The way my heart unravelled itself the day you left.
The ceiling hasn't stopped spinning.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
He, was always well composed,
what a father should be.
And she, plastered a smile day to day thinking next of what could be,
but it was always just a thought never acted.
The world sees what you want it to see,
how foolish of them,
how foolish of me.
But as a child you also see what you want to see, when the people you love the most hide behind a veil of protection,
Until that veil shatters.
And you are ****** into a world of unknown called adulthood,
you see the bruises, the letters, the threats of violence,
you remember his face,
but now behind his eyes it wasn't love that you saw,
it was possession.
The smile that you loved on your mother was to keep the tears at bay,
and the nightmares you had of her crying and begging were alive because they were right outside your door.
Now left to pick up the pieces,
there is a girl left abandoned,
a farther who hurt because he never loved,
a mother who still says “what if”,
and a facade unravelled.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 5:29 PM UTC
You were too preoccupied
With trying to stitch your
Heart back on to your sleeve
To notice that you became undone.
The seams had burst and your soul
Unravelled,
And with each step
You fall apart.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
A white abstract silence falls heavily like phosphorous snow… odd and oblique with nervous intensity of random limitations… sensitive and fragile in its unremitting generosity…A fluency of motion of imaginary realisation in silent turbulence descends in tenebrous shadows of illusion detonating the unconscious… the symmetry and exactitude of silence beyond all compass…. an intricate camouflage… meticulous and consistent.
Disinherited it tries to sanctify the air….. a silence in where stars evaporate vibrational loud and inquisitive…. freezing time by the velocity of its inner momentum of silent adrenalin.
Concealing its true identity isolating me in unknown realisation of what is to occur.. It resonates with constant tension waiting for unpredictability’s of indispensible voices that don’t speak….. This is a realisation of the imagination…. a vibrant insensibility…. density of unravelled thoughts that vaporise within me causing a vibration that fractures the equation of time and space in the burning crucible of my mind.
Intractable proportions of silent thought…. hovering… a constant mirage of irrational calculations….. This silence forces all the tears of consequence to fall upon my face with no avail…..Then in this thunderous silence see graffiti on white walls…abstract and meaningless….Like primitive lives…those with meaning yet possess no meaning… an ungovernable democracy of fruitless endeavour… of non factual fastidiousness… a glimpse of life and its fallacy.
Yet the words were spoken and written… by whom… And for why.. Now the silence punctuates and instructs…. phosphorous extinguishes itself and hides behind another truth…..The noise of the world cascades in torrents deafening… attempting to defeat… subordinate the senses in atavistic cruelty… Prowling searching for the silence… but it has gone…. disappeared in the imagination of my inner self…. an abstraction I call me….. But I know where the silence has gone….
Mar 22, 2012
Mar 22, 2012 at 7:07 PM UTC
I'm unable to feel, to be human, to reach out
From inside my sad soul to my fellow earthly brothers.
And even were I to feel, I'm unable to be useful, practical, quotidian, definite,
To have a place in life, a destiny among men,
To have a vocation, a force, a will, a garden,
A reason for resting, a need for recreation,
Something that comes to me directly from nature.
So be motherly to me, O tranquil night . . .
You who remove the world from the world, you who are peace,
You who don't exist, who are only the absence of light,
You who aren't a thing, a place, an essence or a life,
Penelope who weaves darkness that tomorrow will be unravelled,
Unreal Circe of the fevered, of the anguished without a cause,
Come to me, O night, reach out your hands,
And be coolness and relief, O night, on my forehead . . .
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
There lived, amid the common folk
A seamstress of renown
Tucked away most smartly
In a quiet sort of town
So perfect was her needlework
And delicate her hand
That all and sundry sought her out
Her skills were in demand
To gain a moment here and there
She took a silver thread
She deftly put a stitch in time
And curled up in her bed
For she was such a busy girl
Deserving of a nap
But as she slept one evening
The stitch in time went 'snap!'
Time unravelled rapidly
From 'will be' to 'before'
And coils of causality
Were all over the floor
But fortune is a canny dame
For a needle was at hand
Still threaded up with silver
At an artisan's command
She bustled in a flurry
And rummaged through the ages
She sorted out the centuries
With diligence, by stages
While shoring up the borderlines
And patching up the wars
She darned the holes in spider silk
And trimmed the dinosaurs
She hemmed the mighty oceans
To snuggly fit the sand
Then zipped up the horizon
So the sky adjoined the land
The night was stitched in situ
In between adjacent days
And time was mended seamlessly
And better in some ways
She locked away her needle
And her strand of silver thread
Her work would wait 'til morning
And with that, she went to bed
So next time life is hectic
And leaves you in a flap
Allow yourself an hour
For a cheeky little nap
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 6:14 PM UTC
i.
drunken in my pockets,
the day whispers to the trees that
pin to you, albatross
of a wind-swept sea loosening
feathers and heart-beats in
short, death-caught seconds.
ii.
gorgeous girl of height,
your caves are bright mysteries
your light an elephant's graveyard
of grey.
iii.
bitter note of earth,
you anchor birth
to our eye sockets, unwrap
mint and honey from the hills.
iv.
uneasy mistress,
dark daughter of sight,
sunk into all the corners of the world
you break like string,
you break and i break with you.
v.
vignette of ivy-coloured dreams,
sunny trail, you break my heart and
glue it back, sigh and sigh like a viking raider
conjured out of porcelain
and rose-water.
vi.
warrior of distant planes,
dense harbour of a lonely city,
landscape of water, unravelled
in an instant, a velvet
ribbon tied into a bow.
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 11:15 AM UTC
Bravery and strength
She broke the hourglass of grief
Knotted dreams unravelled
With pretty shades of purpose
The moon, her poems as witness
Jun 5, 2022
Jun 5, 2022 at 12:42 AM UTC
The quiet flute
melody
ribboning through the
murk that surrounds
my heart
sings it's way in
all the way in
to the center
where it belongs
where it weaves it's way
like a water snake
amongst the tangled reeds
of my worries
and barriers
gently pulling them
from their roots
and tying them into
beautiful bundles
each with an ethereal
flutesong bow
burden-bundles
song-swept away
unravelled
one by one
lifted by the
floating echo
a life song
rests
in my core.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 11:36 AM UTC
He sits next to you on the train.
Your heart flushes as he smiles your way.
There's something about him that draws you in,
maybe it's his dreamy hair,
that seems to shine in the morning sun,
or maybe it's the book he was reading,
or maybe it was his hollow eyes,
the ones with the rings under them that makes him
look like he's three weeks past bedtime.
His four patches on his blue, denim jacket,
each with sassy comments on them, stating his hatred for Trump,
or his place as a Feminist?
The colourless rainbow tattoo on his wrist,
next to a heart.
It has her name on it.
And you sit and wonder...
Am I her?
You aren't.
You're not his tattoo,
the one that sits on his wrist.
A name that is passed carelessly throughout the carriages,
The name that stops at the platform.
You are a gentle thought,
unravelled in the minds of others,
growing and nurturing,
exuberating kindness as you do so.
You are not his tattoo,
but a garden,
soon to flourish and grow stronger,
toughening through harsh winters.
You are not his.
You are an evergreen mass,
you were born to live
and you thrive as you do so.
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 7:22 PM UTC
1
I’m driving.
I don’t know where, I’m more being driven, but all there is to do is peer out the window at the rushing
trees.
Anita is in the driver’s seat, moving her head slowly to the beat of the music playing delicately in the
background.
And we’re stuck in a time when the world flows around us, where our actuality is habitual.
With no concern for the world outside me, I contemplate a perfect stack of rocks outside the window,
on the side by where we are stopped.
Time is unravelled.
And I am taken to my childhood, on foreign beaches where people had stacked rocks.
Anywhere I have ever been, there has been a stack of rocks, even inside myself.
At the end of a twelve mile hike through the mountains, a stack of rocks.
I wonder if she notices my consciousness.
In the space between time and something else, she stacks rocks that will plaster themselves together
endlessly and she will bring some home to stack in our kitchen as a reminder.
The stacks take us in.
2
I paint rocks for her to stack.
Each rock with a symbol of reality so that different stacks have different values and all add up to
something invariable.
Family comes over for dinner and asks about the rocks painted, stacked on our furniture and tables.
She smiles with a look of embodiment, for if they must ask they do not know.
And the neighbor boy comes on slow days and stacks our outside rocks, runs away in fear when we
catch him.
But we only ever catch him to give him more rocks to stack.
They tumble, sides not enduring and wind breathing against them but we know that if they fall they were
never meant to stay up at all.
And the totality of the stack is a dream where the world stacks itself onto a neat shelf and never asks to
change or move at all because it is logical.
And the atmosphere of the rocks is the behaviour we choose to observe because they come together in
ways we never could.
I love walking on the beach.
Each and every one has a stack of rocks.
If a human has walked the shore, there will be one.
She picks up a smooth rock and glides it into her pocket.
3
A common misconception of people is to think they are different from everyone else, to expect humans
to differentiate themselves based on irrelevant variations.
Her and I understand them all the same because we have breathed everywhere, and the air is always
abounding with repetition.
The repetition is the stacking of rocks.
The human tendency to stack rocks.
Mar 2, 2020
Mar 2, 2020 at 1:23 PM UTC
We were unravelled
so we could see.
We were unbound
so we could feel.
We were untied
so we could flee.
We are undone
so we could heal.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 5:04 PM UTC