"unrealized" poems
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
De-winged and flightless
is the dragonfly
that tried to slip by
in my slipstream,
It found instead the pickup
traversing the alleyways
of my convoluted imagination.
I don’t know why I’m driving,
ever driving someplace
unrealized and unexplored.
I feel so disconnected,
I feel so disrespected by the world
sometimes
But that’s not fair
it has been good to me.
I feel so disconnected
sometimes
and yet it comes in times
when I’m most consumed
most surrounded.
Maybe I’m just tired
and the walls around me quiver only
from the struggles of my waking eyes,
Maybe I’m just bitter
that I can’t have the perfect life
and feel as if nothing could be better,
Maybe I’m affected
by this liquid life I’m draining from my cup
in hopes of finding a different day
at the bottom.
Is it jealousy that lingers in my mind
or mere longing tinged with a heavy
dose of confusion?
I am confused.
And yet I’m still alive
unlike my dragonfly
and so I stumble onward.
-BRD
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
though deep he sleeps sometimes,
combining this exhaustive restorative
of old age, that alternates with a restlessness
rest of old age ~ the brain's nightly self-cleansing,
both necessities absolute
so he be unsurprised, by a parallel process,
occurring beside him, as woman rumbles, mumbles,
all the while reenacting the things we dare not acknowledge
in the waking hours, much too painful, much to fearfully real unreal,
but, best unrealized
she bolts upright, looks around, attempting to cross back,
looking, investigating, ascertaining time and place, localizing
her orientation, while assessing external+imagined dreamt threats,
till satisfied sufficient that whatever dreamt, realized or dreamisized,
before, going prone once-more
the watch man observes, the critical threat level, doesn't
approach the red line, not requiring hands-on interventions,
and relieved, that she has expunged and expelled the mind's many
molecules of memories, true or false, real or revisionary, making clean
white tissued neuron+cell for the morrow
and thus he reminds himself, that he be watch man, observing, uninterfering, is too, is also, a definitive infinite
only love poetry
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 6:59 PM UTC
Our town was to have a rail-line
Circa the mid eighteen nineties
This story has surprised my ears
A local amateur historian apprised me just recently
Documents to support this claim are archived in Sydney
Not far out of our town
On a well know property in the district
Two surveyor pegs are still in existence
Marking the route the rail-line was to track
Though the Forefather's rail-line was never bedded down
The powers that be government leaders of the day
Shelved these impressive plans
They never saw the light of day
Ribbons of steel not coming to fruition
Leading to our town
Other town went ahead rail-lines were established to them
Out town alas and alack missed out
Look where Tamworth and Armidale are to-day
Rail being in their favor
Our town was left to languish and to be dispirited
Going no-where no-where to go
Our Forefather's now lay in their graves
Not quite resting in peace
Their rail proposal for our town unrealized
Good ideas die along with good intentions
Hence their unsettled repose
Our town could have been a regional town
Industry and population dotting the landscape
Rail would have assured our place
The Forefather's rail proposal long since shelved
Consigned into the passing vapor of time
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
319
The nearest Dream recedes—unrealized—
The Heaven we chase,
Like the June Bee—before the School Boy,
Invites the Race—
Stoops—to an easy Clover—
Dips—evades—teases—deploys—
Then—to the Royal Clouds
Lifts his light Pinnace—
Heedless of the Boy—
Staring—bewildered—at the mocking sky—
Homesick for steadfast Honey—
Ah, the Bee flies not
That brews that rare variety!
4k
it's only deep in the night when my mind wanders most that i ponder why another night of drinking alone is the status quo. it's when i wonder why the wheel that started spinning so long ago keeps spinning, in the same direction and general speed. deep in the night is when the doubts and regrets run rampant like rioters through the square, flipping cars amidst flaming tires. it's when the needs and the wants clash for supremacy, assuring the mutual destruction of each. loves lost carve their names into my neocortex. where dreams unrealized fill their time by playing ping-ping until they're ****** from the backburner to manic importance. deep in the night is when blood-shot eyes and blaring computer monitors have a staring contest. deep in it, thought becomes reaction and the beans spill accordingly. knee-deep and we're ravaging the calm into frenzy and burning the books of our beliefs and abandoning rationale in favor of the spectre of immediate gratification at any cost, at any loss. deep in the night where no light penetrates, things become somehow illuminated.
Jul 10, 2011
Jul 10, 2011 at 12:41 PM UTC
Above the wind plains roaring white
With lightning crack's climaxing light
In the prepubescent gloom
Of fear, excitement, unrealized doom
The moon appears in cloudy skies
With blissful sighs as knowledge dies
****** grasses ripped from home
As breeze embraces seed and blows
To new beginnings and new ends
Where e'er the Fates may deign to send
A rose's bud seeps from below
Mixed with sticking undertones
When innocence concedes the stage
To reside in maturation's cage
And foolish fancy takes to flight
The sun forever fades to night
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
'Tis a tale, a sorry tale
Of a man, never took the leap
Of a man, free yet caged
A lion amongst the sheep.
A man of great ability,
Of unrealized potential
Confined and clipped by limits
The herd had deemed essential.
A man, a brilliant man,
Stripped of glory and his claws.
Left forlorn and wounded
By the sheep and their laws.
A man, a greater man
Led by the lesser to believe
He owed them much and more
And everything, without reprieve.
A man, a most herculean man
Could have the world, his to keep.
Alas had he only remembered
He was a lion, not a sheep.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Seldom doth man stop and stare
At the caste iron manhole cover there,
Seldom doth he analyze
The majesty, which beneath it lies.
The pipe work systems vast and long
Dark catacombs so precise and strong,
Buried deep beneath our feet
Extending forth from street to street,
Out across the breadth of town
Those secret fluids trickle down.
Laser levels carve the pathway
Through the walls of solid stone,
Shovels scrape and dig with effort
Forging hard trajectories home.
Digging, digging metal mountains
Sweat cascades upon the brow,
We lay the pipes in straight formation
Precision's satisfaction now.
An Artisan's great work is hidden
Lost beneath the earth's grey stone,
Appreciation camouflaged in that,
The cast iron manhole stands alone.
Magnificence unrealized
For deep beneath your feet,
A subterranean Michelangelo's
Sisteen Chapel, lays discreet.
Unsuspected rivers
Flowing darkly to the sea
In caverns of unwanted waste
Quite unbeknown to thee.
Vaulting brickwork chambers
Which are ancient works of art,
Carry oceans of excretement
Far from where their journey's start.
With thunder's crash and lightning flash
And torrents of cold rain,
The road's awash and gutters flow
Through roadside grates to drain.
Gushing torrents cascade down
In waves of flowing might
To the storm water system
Which promptly swallows it from sight.
Magic, you say ?
Nay, nay I say unto you
That the drain layers artistry
Is unappreciated, that's true !
That the Herculean effort wrought
In winning his great fights
Is largely lost to all and sundry
Who avoid construction sites.
They miss the planning and the layout
And meticulousness too
And the rubber seals which stop the leaks
Which really bother you.
The massive holes and danger
Of being buried in collapse
And the wondrous satisfaction
Of achieving downhill flows... Perhaps!
Marshalg
Apprentice drain layer
MHX Beachcroft site and Eastport
19 September 2009
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
Things in-between sometimes lost,
Things not recognized at great cost...
Things that compel,
Things that make us swell,
Things at times we fail to tell...
Things we know,
Things that flow,
things we do not show…
Things we wish we could control,
An unrealized future an aspiring goal...
Sometimes very real things are things Unseen,
Without tangibility on any physical scale or scene...
Nonetheless they still Impress,
Realities beyond what we all may possess...
However without these " Invisible things" would we really exist?
Kid yourself not, please try not To insist…
J.I.F.
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
The clouds are boring now
as I exist in a realm outside reason and romance.
These clouds are aimlessly
splattered on a dull blue sky
by a tried Artist
feeling uninspired…unrealized.
Is there any hope
for the Artist
and our world he tries to paint?
Why must the artwork continue
to destroy itself!
I destroy me
by staying stagnant and unamused.
Perhaps sometimes art
must be boring to soothe the soul
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:42 AM UTC
I pull out your picture
Smooth skin and hazel eyes
Even in photographs they hypnotize
Calling my name in whispers
Pounding at my *****
Electric shocks to the groin
Waking the senses
Feeling revived
Revitalized, alive
There, ever unchanged
Your gaze upon mine
Motionless, emotionless
Frozen, in time
When you realized I was she
Perfection
Unwavering
An alternate reality
Returning affection
A two way street of romantic love
Unseen. Unnoticed. Unrealized
Yet real just the same
Innocent, unthinking
With no one to blame
Knowing you want me
That you always did
Nothing but glimpses
Of an awkward kid
Turned man
Turned desire
Lascivious by design
Liquifying resistance
Wasting no time
A bit of shy
A hint of coy
Vanish all remnants
Of that innocent boy
By the light of the screen
I lay here
Alone
Feeling the heat of you
Making me moan
Desire unabated
I finish unsated
Abusing your picture
In ways you condone
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
Magic unrealized . . .
Man, woman interacting,
Child just loves flower.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
The men kept to themselves:
they were waiting for the swiftness of the last cyclists.
The women kept to themselves:
they were expecting the death of a boy on a Japanese schooner.
They all kepy to themselves-
dreaming of the open beaks of dying birds,
the sharp parasol that punctures
a recently flattened toad,
beneath silence with a thousand ears
and tiny mouths of water
in the canyons that resist
the violent attack on the moon.
The boy on the schooner was crying and hearts were breaking
in anguish for the witness and vigilance of all things,
and because of the sky blue ground of black footprints,
obscure names, saliva, and chrome radios were still crying.
It doesn't matter if the boy grows silent when stuck with the last pin,
or if the breeze is defeated in cupped cotton flowers,
because there is a world of death whose perpetual sailors will appear in the arches and
freeze you from behind the trees.
it's useless to look for the bend
where night loses its way
and to wait in ambush for a silence that has no
torn clothes, no shells, and no tears,
because even the tiny banquet of a spider
is enough to upset the entire equilibrium of the sky.
There is no cure for the moaning from a Japanese schooner,
nor for those shadowy people who stumble on the curbs.
The countryside bites its own tail in order to gather a bunch of roots
and a ball of yarn looks anxiously in the grass for unrealized longitude.
The Moon! The police. The foghorns of the ocean liners!
Facades of ***** of smoke, anemones, rubber gloves.
Everything is shattered in the night
that spread its legs on the terraces.
Everything is shatter in the tepid faucets
of a terrible silent fountain.
Oh, crowds! Loose women! Soldiers!
We will have to journey through the eyes of idiots,
open country where the docile cobras, coiled like wire, hiss,
landscapes full of graves that yield the freshest apples,
so that uncontrollable light will arrive
to frighten the rich behind their magnifying glasses-
the odor of a single corpse from the double source of lily and rat-
and so that fire will consume those crowds still able to **** around a moan
or on the crystals in which each inimitable wave is understood.
2.3k
In the air, floating just next to the window
solidly constructed
as sure as the golden highway
stretching from Frisco across the Bay
looking square
as the acres of boxcars
north on the interstate
on the south side of Chicago,
it's all atoms...
This morning my son postulated to me a so-far unrealized condition
relating to matter transmitters and, probably, hyperspace. "What
would happen, " he asked, "if some guy transported himself inside a big rock?"
Indeed.
Putting on my ears, I considered the situation. Would the hypothetical solid mass of rock give way, shudder just enough to allow the insertion of a soft, squishy human being? Or would the spaces in their respective atoms--rock's and human's--intermesh neatly with each other? Molecular integration? But such a challenge to the atomic bonds holding the things together might result in a nasty atomic accident. Would that leave a human-shaped void inside the solid rock, a mold exact down to the finest details of skin texture and even eyelashes? Imagine the crystal-filled waters seeping down to find such a hole--Behold!! Geode Man.
Holding my silver pen extended
like a rapier before me,
I dissect the wispy chunks
of smoke. The balance of air
that gave them form
is destroyed. They are
no more.
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 4:29 PM UTC
Forgive me for my passion. I feel so stupid to feel so much, so deeply. Abashed, embarrassed, shamed by a feeling that so many seek and never find: love. And I've got too much of it to give, and no one wants all of it.
Forgive me for my sweetness, my purity of thought. No one wants idealism mixed with such bitter truth. No one wants to see the ugly realities of life through such tender eyes.
Forgive me my simple admiration, adoration, intensity. No one wants to be worshiped with such devotion and selflessness. No one wants to be so loved without reason.
Forgive me for my undivided attention and careful agreement. No one wants to be listened to.
Forgive me empathy and sympathy and care. For no one wants to see that others share their feelings, and want to help. Not really. Everybody wants to be alone in their troubles, and somehow special for it.
Forgive me honesty and honor and truth. Nobody wants the truth, not really, the ugly truth. We like to live in our lies, and hurt our friends, and deceive ourselves.
Forgive me for my absolution. Cruelly I withhold my vengeance and bitterness. No one wants to be forgiven, not really.
Forgive me for seeing beauty unbidden, unrealized, unappreciated. No one wants to see the good in such a world that has hurt them.
Forgive me for myself.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:25 PM UTC
it’s been quite some time
absence creating a fondness
only the heart can understand
blank screen calling
screaming to be invited back
into the fold of daily life
so here I sit
placating the cyber paper –
it’s been too long since last time
and I strain to find reason
for this medium
substance within flowery language
and metaphor
pretending to grasp the vernacular –
it’s getting harder to care
why waste time expressing the same
memories and personal imagery
as everyone else
in a form older than English
eurocentric ethnocentrism –
it’s not even practical anymore as a stress relief
nonspecific pressure to create
seeking likes and hearts as opposed to seeking a release
and freedom
posting poems as a pothead –
it’s going to be alright
this is just another phase or passing fancy
the plight of an artist is to find himself isolated
in self-doubt and unrealized potential
all the while desperately attempting to create something
to make everyone love you
all the while knowing
there is no comfort –
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Our nights are seldom
sound
More restless and
unsettled
Our Mind begins to ask
The bigger questions
of life
As a child
carefree
A day lasted
forever
As a youth
so anxious
To grow up
As a young adult
Restless
To be free of
Our parents
Control
to taste life
Through our own
eyes
Middle age
a bit of
fear
Enters our mind
Of what lies
ahead
Reminiscent Of dreams
Unrealized
We ponder
How old age Will
unfold
As our sprit grows
Meek and mild
Restless and wild
Looking through the eyes
Of a child
Walking slower now
Life means more
We prepare for
The next chapter
Of life old age
Life lessons as our gage
How will that play out
Will we live in pain
Lose our mind
Dementia,
slightly off our rocker
insane
How will our life end
In the arms of a loved ,a friend
Will we be ready
Or will we fear
Did we learn our lessons
To grown in spirit
I know they say
the journey is
As important
as the destination
However will we ever truly
know our purpose
There are no random accidents
Every action has a reaction
And life’s movements
Ever changing
Emotions rearranging
We are not messured
by our good deeds
But by those who remember us
Relationships cultivated with
God greatest gift of
Love
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
This I pledge:
To my peers,
To my enemies,
To my unborn children,
To those who have left blood in the streets
(And their better years unrealized),
To my Mother,
To strangers,
To myself.
Yes, this I pledge:
I will be a warrior.
I will charge at full speed,
Without reservation,
Having removed my brakes,
Having cut holes in my safety net,
Having burnt all bridges leading back to safety,
I will rage and rally
against injustice
against oppression
against empty stomachs
against tear soaked pillows
against razors stained by blood
against those who hold open arms while exhaling poison
against silence
against apathy
against the chains holding humanity down.
This I swear,
This I promise,
This I guarantee,
This is my bond,
This I pledge:
That injustice and I
shall be in constant battle.
He will remain busy throughout the night
and I will wake in a sweat
and sprint from my bed
only to return once I have been properly bloodied
and removed a chunk of skin from the beast of oppression.
Wake, repeat.
I will not be win.
Defeat will not be defeated.
But, this I pledge:
So long as I breathe
there will be no peaceful coexistence
between pointless suffering and my soul.
This I pledge:
To give my life in this struggle,
For you and you and you.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
A life lived in black and white. No time for middle of the road. Lines drawn straight and narrow. Passion, only with rules. Love, only as stated. A heart filled with admiration, adoration, and caring. Nothing missing from the list of "supposed to". All boxes checked off. I's dotted and T's crossed. Perfect on paper, perfect to onlookers, perfect in bed. Never a thought of something missing. All boxes checked. Not able to settle into a life. Unable to blur the lines. Must be good, always good. Mistakes happen, but not on purpose. Not by choice.
Always the good one
Right is the only option
Mistakes...still happen
Before we fully become, life is full of confusion. Who we are and what we do are enmeshed within our surroundings, our perspective, our emotion, and our lives. Pulled together, yet fighting every step of the way. Beyond our understanding of purpose or passion. Afraid of everything we are as yet unable to understand. Trying to get through to the next phase without falling too hard.
Peers skew vision
Rules confine the innocent
Love hides unnoticed
Grown into a life of checks and balances. A nice life, a good life. Loved by many, yet alone. Always alone. Able to love, willing to love, believing love is what is being lived. Unseen circumstances. Friendships remembered. Longing, pulling toward one another. More than passion could ever be. More than who we thought we were. The need to be right, to do the right thing, is stomped unrecognizable by emotion. The past melts into the future. Is a life unfulfilled, yet loving, enough to maintain, or is love supposed to be so full of passion that it takes you outside the box?
The thought of a life
A love left unrealized
A world in a cage
A chance to live in happiness. Fires burn in body and mind. No sorrow, no regret. Pushed by one into another. Two hearts alone run to each other. Holding fast to all that is real. Yet casualties will line the road forever tainting all that could be good. Checks and balances. Pros and cons. Does one give up happiness to maintain the perfect facade, the perfect family, the "perfect" life? There is no perfect. There is only what is. The possibility of happiness could be short lived. Hearts broken and bridges burned. Broken families, broken lives. Happiness could be tangible. Happiness could be real. Pros and cons. What price shall be paid. When should love lose and happiness not be a goal? Choices, pain, there is no fairness. There is no black and white, there are no boxes in which to fit.
Straight and narrow life
Checklists, I's dotted, T's crossed
Thwarted by passion
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 10:51 PM UTC
There are men (fair knights) who always get what they want.
If suddenly, Mr. Knight doesn’t get - say, a girl (the fair maiden) - he’s confused - what IS this, he wonders but he doesn’t KNOW. We will assume that getting this thing (girl in our example) is important to him.
Though his perceptual systems are still searching for answers he gets a sinking feeling because his limbic system reacts faster. It tells him something’s wrong - and it might be a predator (the dragon) so he starts sweating, he wasn’t prepared for a dragon - for chaos!
Why didn’t I get what I wanted, he will ask himself.
Maybe I’m not attractive? (That would be a horror of the 1st order)
Maybe this girl is trying to hurt me.. attack me? (the predator) - that may be a thought, but it’s unlikely and an unhealthy one.
Rejecting that he must ask himself questions: Did he come on too strong? Was he acting like a **** Did he make too many assumptions? Am I well dressed? Did I shower today? (he smells his breath, checks himself in a mirror) He goes back over the encounter in his mind. Was he really trying his best?
If he decides, at this point, to go on, he must face his unrealized world in order to slay the dragon of chaos blocking him. The issue may be something outside of his normal, conceptual structure.
In that case, the problem is literally, the snake in the garden (his walled conceptual garden - his view of the world and his place in it).
Now this IS something - a snake in the garden - again he can give up - quit with this girl, quit trying period, quit dating, bathing, eating - that’s how the dragon can ****
Failure is a message from the implicit world. The good news is - it’s a message from the real world and it may be a gift - the best thing that ever happened to him. A slap that says: wake up, learn something, clue-in.
It can be a treasure, the gold that dragons hoard.
Dec 2, 2021
Dec 2, 2021 at 9:14 AM UTC
when winter thaws
and our delicate red noses
turn to gold
Again.
After years of solace
might you entreat a glance
from bewildered eyes
that sing songs of stolen years
and seasons past
and unrealized summers
ripe with ifs and
Suns,
and overgrown fields
to shield us from the world
and shiver in the wandering breeze
with that hands brush upon your
cheeks and long, summer arms
to whisk your hair about
in strained fits
to hearken lovers lips;
an entire tryst
In the ascendency of summer...
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC