"unready" poems
Bells in the town alight with spring
converse, with a concordance of new airs
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
People emerge from winter to hear them ring,
children glitter with mischief and the blind man hears
bells in the town alight with spring.
Even he on his eyes feels the caressing
finger of Persephone, and her voice escaped from tears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
Bird feels the enchantment of his wing
and in ten fine notes dispels twenty cares.
Bells in the town alight with spring
warble the praise of Time, for he can bring
this season: chimes the merry heaven bears
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
All evil men intent on evil thing
falter, for in their cold unready ears
bells in the town alight with spring
make clear the fresh and ancient sound they sing.
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I lost myself on a cool damp night
Gave myself in that misty light
Was hypnotized by a strange delight
Under a lilac tree
I made wine from the lilac tree
Put my heart in its recipe
It makes me see what I want to see
and be what I want to be
When I think more than I want to think
Do things I never should do
I drink much more that I ought to drink
Because (it) brings me back you...
Lilac wine is sweet and heady, like my love
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, like my love
Listen to me... I cannot see clearly
Isn't that she coming to me nearly here?
Lilac wine is sweet and heady where's my love?
Lilac wine, I feel unsteady, where's my love?
Listen to me, why is everything so hazy?
Isn't that she, or am I just going crazy, dear?
Lilac Wine, I feel unready for my love...
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Bipolar sunshine;
Life's periodic lullabies
Changing me,
Waking me from ash to animal,
Trapped in the cage
Of my past lies,
Present cries,
Future demise.
But underneath this skin,
I'm still a human;
Boats of evergreen
Floating on tideless seas,
Yet I think I'm dying,
Unready for breathing;
Wild waters, blood oceans;
Mind lost, nightmares healing.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
these thoughts...
they are my own,
walled within the deepest recesses
of my
cerebral labyrinth.
sprouting out of vine covered walls,
are multicoloured blooms
brandishing thorned stems
and
thirsty stigmas,
dripping with
absinthe.
mind full of poison in
permissible amounts...
i am caught in a
web of restless stupor,
anguish...
and regression...
these thoughts...
rationed out sparingly,
for they're not for unready ears
blooms of thought meticulously
triaged before
necessary expulsion.
hairline cracks between
insanity
and peace...
i tread precariously
the fine,
meandering line.
still clutching my flowers
in a tight obstinate grasp...
not letting go
for these tainted blossoms
are
undoubtedly
mine.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
These eyes have felt
their fair share of tears that burn
Forgive my eyes for they are yet so green
They have seen much but still they do not learn
These lungs have breathed
The air both fresh and acrid
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They only do what they must when all runs turbid
These ears they've heard
Hurtful promises and whispers that have stung
Forgive my ears for they are yet so green
They're know not to ignore the language of forked tongues
These lips have served
The most callous of opinions
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They can't seem to curb pent up notions
These hands have grown tired
From shielding my tear-stricken face
Forgive these hands for they are yet so green
They're still so afraid to welcome the gift of future days
These legs are sore
For they have travelled far
Forgive them for they are yet so green
They knew better than to enter through doors left slightly ajar
This mind is weary
From thinking of a life meant only for dreamers
Forgive my mind for it is yet so green
They know not of the inexistence of greener pastures
This heart... My heart
Pounding each beat that betrays
Beats with an anvil in tow
Forgive it for it is yet so green
It's having more trouble than it cares to show
This face I wear
A weathered mask I'm unready to shed
Forgive it for it is yet so green
There's still life in it...
For there's yet much to be said
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
*standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself*
1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we spread it out real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints
and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old
by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright
common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres
2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour
when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay
*no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..*
:)
S T - 24 Jan 2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC
When it comes to matters of the heart
it pays to be both wise and smart.
Be proactive and take care
of vulnerable hearts who take Love’s dare.
Perhaps a stress test would be smart
before old Cupid slings his dart.
Be sure your pulse is strong and steady
Not weak and racing and unready
Take Flax seed oil as a precaution,
before you dip into that Ocean
besides the undertow of emotion.
The mermaids that beset your dinghy
may tend to be a little clingy
The sea of love is cold, I’ve found
Tho oft I’ve floundered, I’ve never drowned
Dec 7, 2011
Dec 7, 2011 at 9:56 PM UTC
A cloudless night like this
Can set the spirit soaring:
After a tiring day
The clockwork spectacle is
Impressive in a slightly boring
Eighteenth-century way.
It soothed adolescence a lot
To meet so shameless a stare;
The things I did could not
Be so shocking as they said
If that would still be there
After the shocked were dead
Now, unready to die
Bur already at the stage
When one starts to resent the young,
I am glad those points in the sky
May also be counted among
The creatures of middle-age.
It's cosier thinking of night
As more an Old People's Home
Than a shed for a faultless machine,
That the red pre-Cambrian light
Is gone like Imperial Rome
Or myself at seventeen.
Yet however much we may like
The stoic manner in which
The classical authors wrote,
Only the young and rich
Have the nerve or the figure to strike
The lacrimae rerum note.
For the present stalks abroad
Like the past and its wronged again
Whimper and are ignored,
And the truth cannot be hid;
Somebody chose their pain,
What needn't have happened did.
Occurring this very night
By no established rule,
Some event may already have hurled
Its first little No at the right
Of the laws we accept to school
Our post-diluvian world:
But the stars burn on overhead,
Unconscious of final ends,
As I walk home to bed,
Asking what judgment waits
My person, all my friends,
And these United States.
3.9k
Anastasia was my friend
her face was always pale
she always wore a ribbon
& her daddy went to yale
she was the talk of all the playground
the new girl always is
excited, unready to settle
like her coke-a-cola's fizz
until she sat beside me
& tapped me very slow
"i want to run away," she said
"but i don't know where to go"
i too was quite unpleased
"come and follow me"
so there we packed our knapsacks
and took off for Belize
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 2:26 AM UTC
December falls upon my eyes;
I am scared as hell.
The numbness of limbs,
the sorrowful gray
that casts over me and you
and what we once used to be.
December will be the death of me,
I know for sure
because this time
I sit alone with my sword unready
and the candle flickering.
The winds will whisper
in my ear, things I already know
and unto you,
the realization that will never come.
December,
I am afraid.
I am not strong enough
to face you.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 6:54 AM UTC
Sanity speaks in silver tongue
Tripping is where clarity comes from
Anyway west makes me think of you
But every day I feel the nothingness brew
And I've made friends with my demons, they told me I can be a free man
When you let me inside your legs I let you inside my heart
I saw you in a dream, and you weren't you
Just a wildflower
Unready for bouquet
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
In the bowl where beauty lies
enriching its in its glow
remains an enigma that drives
deep shadows to the surface
we don't see everything we want
to see or show , analyse, own or disown
we may fail to seek all the answers
a torrid past, a broken heart
a blistered and bruised ego
something fragile, festering fuming underneath
the facade , creating a silhouette skin,
cosmetic exterior, mannequin interior
a patchwork quilt of emotions
restless, unready, growing.
we take what we see
in complete trust, faith beatified
drawn into the magnetic depths
seeking the pole star
sailing unkempt oceans
raging against the silhouette
that clearly conquered
the magnificence of the moment.
Love has no shadows
just a glowing light.
Author Notes
The journey to love.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
I have forgotten how to breathe.
For something so natural,
I’m finding it so hard.
I catch myself talking
through the process.
Much alike coaching
a child to walk.
Each breath is a step
- slow, calculated and clumsy.
And with each successful step
comes the exhilaration
and the confidence.
The next following steps
executed in haste causes
the body to lurch forward.
*Losing balance.
Losing composure.*
Unready feet caught unawares...
Haphazard footfalls.
I have fallen.
I have forgotten how to breathe.
I’m out of sync...
And I’m at a loss...
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
Pardon the faults in me,
For the love of years ago:
Good by.
I must drift across the sea,
I must sink into the snow,
I must die.
You can bask in this sun,
You can drink wine, and eat:
Good by.
I must gird myself and run,
Though with unready feet:
I must die.
Blank sea to sail upon,
Cold bed to sleep in:
Good by.
While you clasp, I must be gone
For all your weeping:
I must die.
A kiss for one friend,
And a word for two,--
Good by:--
A lock that you must send,
A kindness you must do:
I must die.
Not a word for you,
Not a lock or kiss,
Good by.
We, one, must part in two:
Verily death is this:
I must die.
2.1k
her eyes are bluest in the bathroom
in early afternoon on the west side of the building
(but you probably knew that)
those are the lights, there
and there are lions in the lights and their gold circles
are halved and the gold circles
beneath her eyes are halved
and there are lions in her eyes, too
except in the bathroom, on the west side, in the early afternoon
it has always been something but not this
always there but not so big
her eyes are bluest in the bathroom
where you wouldn’t think to follow her
you tell the story and it is
happily-ever-after, goodnight
(day is so much better still)
she’s unready still
always unready to run with lions and so she tames them
in her eyes, and in the lights (it is ethically challenging)
and the gold half-circles
are bigger
and so is that other thing
always there
always unready
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 3:23 AM UTC
i was 15 when Kokopele knocked me up
and i was ripe, though unready --
every day i visited my spot
at first to relieve, but then to sate allure --
invisibly appeared,
mysterious pleasure day and night
throbbing at the thought
of that strange spot.
i clawed to sate in dream
what goddess women understand
in noontide reveries,
sultry swells of swoon
i don't know how my belly grew
was it at that drafty wall
or by the reeds..
there were several spots it seems.
i am ashamed
i was told to be ashamed
of this belly i love, and body
cravings carved into my soul,
covert sudden lusts
set in stone at 50,
children grown and making music of their own,
in tents along the streams'
comingled murmur moans,
he visits each in turns
to teach the spiral dance
and finish in the seeded womb.
flowers glow to settle racing heart with truth
infant recognition of an origin's choiceless birth
and now, i am in force --
become katcina cougar, proud Kokopelmana:
the role is taken by the horn --
eat my cornmeal cakes
with crooked somiviki smile while i make you mine
you can scatter but i will find you hiding
purring soft to catch you firm --
every boy and man will learn
.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 11:13 PM UTC
It's Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:
"Why bother with worship—in church or the zoo—
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?"
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.
You've bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded, satanic—
while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.
Those simple plebeians: you'd love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.
Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let's read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you—not whether but when.
The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.
The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner—there's something amiss:
The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you're reading the Times...
(immune to the words that some Christarded poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)
Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical squawk.
Then she'll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will talk.
It is Sunday in Babylon. What if your sunlight ends...
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast—or calculate dividends...
what would you pay for salvation?
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
*staring through heat wave shimmer
baring to the sky
thoughts unseen*
1.
watching
picking of peaches in drop-day sun
rows and rows of others
neat aligning synchrony - laden baskets
like well-oiled piston-joints
2.
and when you think nobody looks
a sudden-bite into fleshy-soft ardour
taste oh
of swollen heaven-fruit
*oh ******
accordion-vision spilling of the unexpected
(drip.. drip.. splash.. sink.. )
onto the collar of your cotton-blouse
in slightly off-white splendour
arms thrown up in harvest-fervour
a semi-circle of moist petal
winks at me
from arm-pit labour
a deep flush on cheeks as your locket-eye feels a touch unready
finding my mild-gaze resting on your
rubiest-lips ever seen
3.
later
it is sure
a plumb-matching of that pretty furtive-stain
will be rather fetching
on your light-green peasant-frock
hark now!
the winds will howl in least protest
and
waves off southern-cliff coast
where hardy-souls dare go
will quite steadfast
roar..
in unison
*oh, ice-rains may fall and squalls may blow
yet finest moment-dawning will be
much like..
picking at the ripe-time*
S T - 20 sept
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
the world is unjust
unready for you, little one.
just hold on
just one moment — wait,
please.
don’t go yet. wait
for me, my legs are slower
than they used to be.
brittle, you know.
you and i are both
getting older.
wait —
don’t go yet. stay
just one moment.
i’m not ready.
Sep 18, 2019
Sep 18, 2019 at 4:12 PM UTC
Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, again,
and I'm wearing green shoes, green shirt--
overeager as usual. I've never really enjoyed St. Patrick's Day, or any other holiday, for that matter, and I find
it ironic that the more significance we give to a person or
event the more their meaning is deluded. But it's good to have something to look forward to.
Today, in America,
St. Patrick may as well be a naked, red-headed lepperchaun.
People don't care about him as much as me; they don't get out of bed
each day that week wearing green and scoffing at
the timid early-spring sun gazing at the short-sleeved men and
brown-thighed women.
Maybe it matters to them that suntans at the beginning
are only de-tubed relics of an ancient, burning photosynthesis
relinquished to the ground. It matters to me more that
these women think-- even more, know!--
that it is too late in the early spring to cover their legs and
allow the pale, unready skin lie in hibernation.
They want to show the men their defined calves and
undefined dreams. They fain naivety with bright hues, such as Kelly.
And I frown, because I know they have to do this, or
I wouldn't notice them. Waking up and putting green shirts on
the whole week leading up to St. Patrick's day.
Anticipating the Spring, which is already here, they raise their glistening
arms in the air and lean back, smiling, to sing a toast to the short, Irish martyr.
Who wouldn't rub their flesh with dripping tongues for fingers?
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
Growing up I always had my head in a cloud
Especially when learning about love
I was told it was the greatest feeling ever and
me I love great feelings so naturally I would pursue
It was a very young age that I learned that this thing called "love"
doesn't always love you back
It will cloud your judgement, break down your walls and before you know it you are under attack, under siege if you will,
It's very goal to break your heart, break your will
It's very goal is to steal, to ****
I used to think love was a wild fire
A force that couldn't be contained
but demanded to be fed
A force that isn't easy to be controlled, and hard to be read
I used to think that love was a fire
with a blaze that burned to cinder, hearts unready,
with a match like tinder
My heart now burned, scorched and fading to ashes
I look at my battered soul, whipped by love look at all the lashes
I know now that love isn't fair
No words, no apologies could ever clear the air
No poem, no letter could ever pay the fare
couldn't cover the price of what you did,
or the secrets from me you hid
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
“Do you believe in destiny?”, she smiled
“Only when you stumble upon it.”
“And what if it’s all planned?”
“Keep dreaming”, he smirked, “You’ll soon enough quit.”
“Romeo was bound with Juliet,
star-crossed lovers till the end.
In death, they found one another.”
She stared at him unready to bend.
“Star-crossed lovers, you say?
I say it was serendipity they met.
And one was fortunate to see the other,
right before their tragic death.”
“You’re not going to believe are you?”
“Is it in my destiny to?”, he asked.
“We will meet again if it’s written”, said Fate.
Coincidence smiled, “Only if we meet by chance.”
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 9:02 AM UTC
Day taps away—
In the numbering rains.
All the fleet years, enveloped,
How many questions were founded,
What was granted by our solo vacations?
We have trussed, only films, yellowed and bent
****** into an makeshift, unready, empty album,
Dreams made right, journaled without strewn hands,
Lips rung dry from want of heat, touch and caress,
We kept our pride, penultimate, throughout
All the days, longing, dying, we slept
Together, in a broken bed of dreams
And thought, when will this play
Be glad? When will that isle
Appear? Will it ever show
Among the dark oceans
Rise— to ferry us away
Before the drunk sun
Sinks in the sea?
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
Sometimes words are weapons
Add an s or a certain order and
They will cut to the bone,
Eviscerate a bowel,
Destroy a dream,
End a life,
Break a lovelorn heart
Other times sans s fronted
They caress a weary cheek,
Lift up a tired soul
And reassure a faltered
Dream that its time
Too will come to
Faultless fruition
We speak thousands of words
Every day of our lives
Without thought,
And spoken they come
With added edges and jagged spurs
Of intonation, tone,
Expression
Or with balm for healing,
Warmth for the cold
Respite for the bewildered
Mind and soul
Lifting up repairing all
And making good
On harm
But beware the poem
Most of all! for it
Is a fearsome trap
For the unready author
Who writhes upon the created flow
Struck from their own verse
Read well by another,
For poems tell our truth
Warts and all,
And like singing lay us bare
To critic judge and common herd,
Who hear, absorb
And find us whole and
Nowhere left to hide,
We are forced to face
Reaction,
Reaction to our souls and hearts
Captured upon a pen's point,
Pinned to a board or a page
And read aloud
Where all can see
And what do you hear?
What do you see?
My God you see
The real and naked,,
The one and only,
Me.....
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 8:43 AM UTC