"unrecorded" poems
which man has saved us from a dystopian future;
where each one of us must decide between good
and evil without fear of punishment from the camera
lens or laws that have become as onerous upon our
lives as a world without any law at all; which man
would be genius enough to survive his own evil
no matter the height of our intellectual achievements,
it is the emotional strain of one life in one world that
cannot care no matter how much we pray beyond
gravity’s last remaining outposts that lays waste to
souls that beg to be equal among beings made in an
image that has not been defined but merely assumed
when tears are no longer welcome as before and
when anger serves the strong well, then will the
light know to assume it’s place in the darkness which
hides from the absence of the knowing, undefined
by Gods or beasts that live in the depths choking
on sinks of man’s glorious quest for immortality
if one man knows of the legend if not each jot of
the law then would the spirit hover above his heart;
must he decide between living as a depraved knave
or martyred by unrecorded history, unfathomed
by meaning or the depths that have no end except
his will to suffer for what he once knew to be true?
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
I think it’s important to make peace with your long line of perpetually confused and self-indulgent ancestry once grasping at and fumbling through a life at which they, preceding you, assumed they occupied the centre of and sought to prove this to mostly anyone, with rapacious might and puerile visions of their own success story, which no matter how successful would always only occupy the dark corners of their blood-successors’ historical records of themselves, which is to say you, adding them up with other people who were once important to them and stuffing them into some numerical equation on which they occupy the left, and you the right side of the equal-sign, but all of which exists in the vast and endless vicissitude of spinning void, of which you both (and us all) occupy some cosmic equivalence (and importance) of the universes stray skin-cell, somewhere on the foot perhaps, unconsidered and left alone until we all disappear into the casket of an unrecorded history.
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
Contrapuntal
— adjective, Music.
- pertaining to counterpoint.
- composed of two or more relatively independent melodies sounded together.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If we set this site poetic to music,
there would be two
contrapuntal melodies.
A harmony of disharmony,
met and matched by a
single refrain,
a harmonizing voice
meeting the needs
of the sopranos, the altos.
the low of the lowest basso.
I am in love,
life painting me beautiful.
The dawn is cracking,
opening my heart with love.
*I am a heartbroken shell,
in a living hell of neverending.
There is no light
in my bed at night, bulb broken.*
Let's write of joy,
celebrate reunification, singularity,
of our place,
our happy collision,
our universal location.
For where you are,
I exist,
no where else.
*Less than nothing,
gave and given in,
found a lost plateau
where there is no substance, only
pieces of broke,
pieces of ache,
pieces of brown glass*
I live you.
I die you.
There is but one color, and it is the color of us.
There is but one color, and it is colorless.
There is one vow for two,
the vow is one!
Keeping it,
natural, easy,
time is unrecorded,
forever is immeasurable.
*There are no vows ever kept,
only lies,
passing promises of vanity.
Never is the only time
that can be recorded.*
A new world symphony
that never ends.
What then
the unifying
refrain
uniting joy and pain?
Write it down.
Write it up.
Write it and believe.
We will listen,
and care,
having been there,
both ways,
both sides now
we are
write
alongside you.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 7:22 AM UTC
The houses of my Babylon lean upon each other.
They will not fall, not until the last hard hand
quits the last hammer, not until misfortune
loses prey, not until the least last child
is gently packed in wool and sent to play.
Sooner will you hear their see-saw hinges wail.
Will you then ask of them a song of home?
The windows of the houses of my Babylon
lay bear the walls around them. Who but gray
grandfathers marking time press their noses
to the glass? The visions of their lonely vigils
fade, half life unrecorded, shadows on parade,
whispered secrets kept secret. You will never know
with what intent they overlook your passing through.
Rain tears on the windows of the houses
of my Babylon, the bath of unattended panes
dropped free from heaven. They will not wash
clear. They will ever wear the haze of tainted air.
You think this stain the mark of unrepentant sin.
Who, then, gives the absolution of so many
brown-burned fingers that will not scrub up?
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
humans paint the galaxies;
stars poured by the gods
on a piece of dark, endless canvas.
the nature talks about freckles and moles on a maiden's skin
and how interesting connecting dots into intricate shapes is.
humans boast about love.
all the mediocre melodies to woo, cupid unleashing arrows,
and the cries written on minor scale;
blacks and whites of the piano.
the unexplainable look on one's eyes.
things they left unrecorded though—
ones the studio of the universe releases an album of:
motorbike roars as a boy speeds through countless others
that are deemed insignificant,
compared to the thought of his mom waiting at home.
for centuries and more centuries,
the poets go on about emptiness.
the caging abyss, they said,
of sadness. a dark place.
but seasons whisper the stark difference
of breeze nibbling on your skin
and of the dropping temperature of winter
harshly piercing your senses like knives.
dancers waltz to the moonlight,
reenacting silent screams and insanity.
but withering flowers' petals got themselves caught up in a game of tag with their own kin.
it's funny how humans talk about the comparison (as i am doing right now)
of the art we make and the art that is already there before us.
when the universe tries again and again to teach us
what kind of little majestic things we are, what kind of little majestic things surround us.
(must say, we're quite dumb. unable to understand.)
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 10:53 AM UTC
72
Glowing is her Bonnet,
Glowing is her Cheek,
Glowing is her Kirtle,
Yet she cannot speak.
Better as the Daisy
From the Summer hill
Vanish unrecorded
Save by tearful rill—
Save by loving sunrise
Looking for her face.
Save by feet unnumbered
Pausing at the place.
2.8k
I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it! Such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
If only now I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know!
1.8k
human revelations in our sleep poses
she sleeps with both arms back, murmuring,
flung over her hearing head,
as if she is surrendering
nightly
me slip away for a few, only to find
her left hand ****** by her arm crook'd,
fit to her temple, as if to bear the weighty weight
of a heavy head plein des thoughts, dream-mares, tales and talks,
too dense to contemplate
without assistance,
armed support to hold on, hold up,
fighting/ accepting as a unwanted outcomes
or retrying old misdeeds
(no, no, oops, that’s me)
stirring,
she swift motions/crisscrosses her arms into an X,
a human parts tiara atop, on blond tresses, that fully messes
any remaining daytime efforts and her nighttime wild dancing^
no one reveals me,
none inform on me what positions
my containership adapts, adopts when my woke-guards
are dismissed/released and
lay unprepared to disguise my innermosts exposures
ow, early am resting comfortable with a six poem-pack of
slept hours on my tool belt,
so far this weekend one shot fired before the day officially
is belle rung and these poses thoughts
are upon what my eyes alight
can’t decide if knowing how I dance in the bed at night,
reflationary, deflationary, worth fact facing,
for this is no secret
*my sleep hours are colored,
admixture of moving pictures,
punctuated with
stills of past and future,
the poses
of how to greet, were greeted,
withstood upheld ran from wept, murdered,
faced up, faced down, go unrecorded
and the
poems residuals
and the
poem prophesying-
both!
fearful confessions for acts
committed and foretold*
Decision: I don’t want to know
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
”Let there be Light,“
He said.
”Let there be Night,“
Unrecorded,
And never said.
Yet without the night,
Occured it would have not
The birth of light.
Yes young knight,
The night eventuated the light!
So it is in our life,
The night is never averred,
The night is never asked,
But remember young knight,
The crusade of life,
Is like a cosmic void,
Without the night,
The light is never in sight.
Make your light bright,
And carry on,
Carry on with your fight with the night!
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 4:15 AM UTC
You find yourself walking home at 4:00am
On a walk to find yourself
When you find out what time it is
My creative side
Lights me up
Like street lights
Show the sidewalks
What direction
To move in
Do blue skies, rise awaken, or open
This stroll is taking its toll
On my shoes,
On my knees,
And on my soul.
All alone, this open space is my microphone
And I say
Out loud
To myself
After every masterpiece
Of wisdom, love and sorrow
“How the **** am I going to remember that tomorrow”
Recited and
Instantaneously
forgotten
I have to borrow a line
From E. E Cummings
“Nobody fails all the time”
And from late night walking
I’m now running’
Back to whatever bottle
Subject manner
Heartbreak
And street corner
That decided that my unrecorded, undocumented, untouched,
And unwritten
Work
Goes witnessed
This is not exit music
This is a prelude
Pertaining to
The definition
Of wealth
These are the things you learn
When you go walking to find yourself
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC
Please read the notes first.
Tally time, conclusion forming,
"Some day," grown nearer.
Tree's longest branch,
Coming to reach, reaching to come.
Soon to beat and plead upon
Cottage window and door.
Rooted whisperer, jealous reminder,
Revered warning, timely sounding,
Your time of Reckless Choice arriving
Destination's unnamed coordinates, uncoordinated,
Journey from wherefrom to wherever, unrecorded,
Observed by silenced overlording sky,
Testimony of the seeing voiceless clouds,
All nought and to no avail, destination head-shaking,
These white witnesses,
Muted, deaf, dumbfounded,
Knowing, yet incapable of telling
State of sated steady staid,
Sundered by sharp silent sounds,
Reckless surpasses Riskless,
Life is a recitation, an enunciation
When my less to say is soon none,
My Reckless Choice, now chosen,
Unforced but enforced,
I shall be gone
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
It's all we can do but rent a room.
Old, with a view to the Bay
Ocean turns shore stone into something
finer than air.
It's time that's needed. We want what flees
and forget ourselves. How much the bone
has stretched to shake with laughter. Gone
and come back
crease over crease
marrow combed, tenderly.
Think how relief washed over her when he deplaned,
returned to the coolness of their susceptible world.
Or the sorrow that was deposited like salt in him
when he looked back and she had disappeared.
In these ways we try to recall the unrecorded performances.
Where an emotion held the room in a trance
with the certainty of moonlight through glass.
We do not know where the applause goes.
Hands that work, released,
flutter up like wooden birds to rise, a throng of geese.
The face is a palimpsest. It is not of Greece
or of the Far East.
Its origin is candled by a city
just visible through the window of a rented room.
Jul 5, 2011
Jul 5, 2011 at 11:26 AM UTC
Boston, what a colorfully gray city you are.
At daytime Downtown seems busy.
People in suits, always walking with a purpose and defined destination.
Never stops.
People don't act if they don't have reason to.
And how the sun is hiding the people are as well.
When the bright white moon comes up, the narrow streets are quite, no soul is found.
Im the lector of the unwritten letter,
the crowd of a canceled opera,
the observer of an unrecorded satirical filmstrip of this colorfully gray city. Boston
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 5:57 PM UTC
If I lived a thousand lives
with you,
I still wouldn’t have enough.
I would still ask for more—
more of you,
more of your passion,
more of your jazz,
and my pasta
you do so well.
Well,
nothing seems definitive,
nothing beguiles me
more than the rhythm
and beats
we share over
a glass of Pinot
and the unrecorded vinyl.
Vanilla perfume
and the New Orleans clubs—
no human is restored
from the disdain
my brothers stretch
over gully phrases.
Where the saxophonist
who raised me got her fringe,
and her never-ending endings,
and longings,
and belongings—
only the strong survive.
Where have we gone
with the tones
no one recorded,
and the lights
no nights
can overshadow,
and the stream
no dream
can portray,
and the greedy green
waves of tranquility.
What happened?
Three twenty-seven
is the perfect time
for jazz and depression,
jazz and repression,
verbal oppression,
and the starvation
of the posse nation.
If I had a thousand lives
to live with you,
it would never
be enough.
I would always
crave more.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 6:03 AM UTC
O sweet baby,
it's so magical,
this technoligical-realm
of fantasy!
My apparent want of you
is fiery, so astronomical.
I succumb to your
desirous-advances,
make love to you
in the shadows.
I can taste your
"Y" in space,
rinse
the screen-dust
off my tongue & face,
but then what darling?
French kiss you in email,
whisper sweet nothings
into my cell,
finger your text,
do you with symbols,
*** you up good in jpeg,
explode together on Skype,
hammer you on Twitter,
free flow into you with a fax,
seed you with a nice
warm stream of pixels?
O my dear lady,
I miss the feel of real flesh,
the sensation of your
feminine flower-grip,
that sultry look
in your pretty-eyes,
the wanton shuddering,
nailed-fingers streaking on my back,
your hypnotizing unrecorded-vocals
& the alluring fragrance
of your raw hot-skin.
And O I feel lonelier now,
more than ever
before this modern age of science
& hi-tech communication.
How 'bout you,
do you feel the same???
Just sext me &
let me know!
:-P...
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 7:06 AM UTC
nothing much happened today
no great calamity, no suprising visitor
the cornflakes dried to a cement like
consistency in the chipped blue bowl
the tuxedo rex vomited on the newly bought
home beautiful magazine..
my heart beat at a lazy 74 beats per minute
when i checked after my nana nap
my bad ankle creaked and twinged
reminding me to get the towels in
before it rained
I made a wonderful chicken cashew curry
for dinner, but fogot to buy naan bread
and yogurt to accompany it..
I kissed the god boy goodnight,
then read two chapters of Harry Potter aloud
as the tuxedo rex, watched me, from the windowsill
marked some essays of dubious quality,
was given a shoulder massage,
by my agong surfer dude,
that led to much greater intimacies
no, nothing much happened today
yet it was fufilling, upon looking back
it had rhythm and purpose
turned the cogs of my world
it was the miles between the milestones
that often go unrecorded
and as I sit in the almost dark of the moon
I do believe it was one of the best days of my life
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC
metal machines
steel words
automatic movements
free from humanity
we sink our own instincts
walking aimlessly
down the park of moments
we became vagabonds
in unrecorded moment
while the time grabbed
with its scrawny long legs
hungry we stuffed
love without flavor
with bony fingers
in our gaping mouth
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 10:00 AM UTC
Contemplate for a moment
the pleasures of zero,
in a strange uneasy pause
from your important life.
Belly button fuzz, dust mice,
stale chips in wrapper,
and long lost keys,
in furry fresco
under your couch.
Strange modern art forms,
swept nose wrinkled,
***** to bone
to the wastecan,
unrecorded for posterity.
Across the planet is a woman,
picking over dumpsters,
her favorite flowers
wilted from gravestones
to her table.
Across the ocean
theres an anonymous man,
sleeping under papers and box
snoring a lullaby
for some subway train;
No deadline to mortgage,
rolaids past lunch,
the quality of problems
light years and eons
to yours.
How does it strike you, friend?
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 12:50 PM UTC
TUESDAY Aug 9 2022
05:59AM
(for you)
*silent alarm trips me up into a dawning at with a five o’clock
wakefulness, (‘woke,’ cancelled) that comes with morning daylight,
this is the likely culprit~catalyst, for the sky is traced,
blending multi-palest shades of whitening blues,
crowned by toppings of baby orange + pinks of faun~sun arrays*
*an hour prior, my 1st day-view,
is of mine eyes popping corn open to Peconic bay waters,
waves moving actively, not yet rascal-frothy winded,
meanwhile the woman*
*an hour later deep dreams of what I know not,
but rumbling and mumbling
and noisy shuddering combinations course through her frame and
whatever turbulence she’s experiencing is plainly nothing good*
*my apriori
training kicks in and a tender embrace and the be-not-afraid caresses work quick, restore her own waves to a comparable calmer current*
*now, she sleeps peaceful, breathes in easy quiet as I, writing, memorializing the moment, all else can wait, and Tevye’s prayer~
memory comes pinging, re the powers of it who makes all via a
“vast eternal plan,”
*crinkles my smiling eyes and my fingers begin to radio-receive the signal of dash dot dash of words you currently are reading/imbibing
something unknowable raised me up
amidst the all-quiet of the first watch,
thus I, was snap ready to ease her troubles, at the very first moment…
<~>
now I am cellular~level conscious of witnessing and feeling
each of the trillions upon trillions of minuscule defractions
of light bendings that will populate, articulate,
the entire world’s rolling day,
give them to me, please,
the causality source of millions of minor miracles that will go unobserved, unrecognized and unrecorded
I rise from the bed needy, urgently seeking them,
your adventures, their earthquake interactive tremors,
the raw minerals of what will be all the future poems of our lives,
but, first,
coffee.
06:49AM
Shelter Island, N.Y.
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 8:19 AM UTC
Over the years I stop at that point
only to board a vessel
to the other side of the river
for further journey to the sea
but for the brief period of waiting
I keep pondering about the name of the place
Harwood Point.
Who was this Harwood?
what was he doing here?
what good deed made him deserving
to name the place after him?
I am still baffled
after a quarter of a century.
Googling throws up many Harwoods
dead and distinguished
but there's no clue to connect any of them with
Harwood Point.
I imagine he was one of the administrators
who left the shore of England
to be stationed at this place a century or two ago
then a tract of almost inaccessible jungle
for surveying the prospects of trade
for the East India Company
but that leads me to further questions.
Was he a noble soul that loved the place
and came to like the people there
so much so that the natives after his departure
made his name permanently etched there?
Or was he among those typical British Officers
who vented their wrath for having been interned
to a god forsaken mangrove wilderness
treated the natives with extreme disdain
proving himself worthy of his position
and duly rewarded by his masters
by making him a part of history
ironically undefined and unrecorded.
I love to think though
on a night when the moon
made the tide rebellious
he walked into the river
and was lost for good
and to this day none knows for sure
what happened to Mr. Harwood.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
She laid on top of him with their bare skin kissing
and whispered in his ear,
*"poetry is not only made of words
and all poems are not written down
poetry lives in our hearts
and dances on our breaths
it is all of Kubla Khan in the moment
before and after a kiss
it is the marriage of Blake's Heaven and Hell
and all his rural pens and pipes and Songs of Innocence
in a brief glimpse of eternity as felt in a single sigh
as our lovers have left our rooms and our hearts
it is in every word of fear and trembling
of Kierkegaard in a sigh of joy and grief
as our lives close chapter after chapter
it is in the bloom and the root of every flower
of Baudelaires fevered mind
as we lay and move breathless
in the hours of sin and decadence
it is there hiding under the skin
and the stars and gardens of a skirt
with pleasures waiting to be explored
by eager fingertips
it is there in the flesh growing hard
beneath a loosened belt waiting to feel
the heat and twist of a wet tongue and moist mouth
it is all the loneliness of the broken typewriter
without a ribbon and missing the metal head of the "v"
and the hard strikes of a mind gone mad
with too much to say and no way to say it
it is in the blood and the ***** and the bird
and the song only Bukowski could understand
in the way he understood things
it is there in the sounds of lust grinding and pounding
and plowing and slithering and sliding
our bodies into and over and under
and behind and before and above and below each other
it is there in the silence of dreams
of light and truth when we become more than
flesh and pleasure and delight and joy
where our souls collide and become one
with the thread and fabric and vibration of love
it is in these moments without ink and paper
and pages and books and unrecorded bliss
that we become words of fire
and poetry that lives and dies on our every breath
as we say more than just I Love You
without writing or saying a thing"*
and they kissed again and fell into dreams
and sleep and farther into love without saying
or thinking or needing another word
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
I disbelieved at first,
Remembering your pianist fingers dragging through my hair. Remembering
My hand in yours, you turning it over, marveling at the smallness.
Yet in the truest corner of my thoughts
I knew my time was running out; you had said you loved her,
Somewhere unrecorded, hopefully.
So this death dirge soft shrill in my ears - this nagging unconsciousness,
This plodding inevitability, reached its crescendo and bellowed.
Discontent to pass quietly, it trumpeted like a drunken elephant,
The Third World clash of car horns and splitting concrete,
Constant and irredeemable.
Hughes swallowed Plath like a pike. No one
In your charade did such a thing, ever managed to
Consume the other. Still, it was a dance of
Damnation, spiraling around your loose definitions,
Waiting with bated breath for someone to fall into mediocrity. The
Slave can never rule the master. Remembering
You on your knees before her, begging for a sip of
Non-alcoholic beer - I wanted to ***** so badly,
From jealousy, from lust, from sheer disgust. I was a slave
Worshiping a slave. In that moment, we were finally near-equals. I hated us both.
It hurt. You dabbed distilled water
Onto the cuts you accidentally created, standing up to
Defend me from prying friends and awkward moments, but never
From yourself. Not that I needed to be. The ache from the unit of you
Was exquisite. I was so distracted by the burn -
So used to lying in cliched darkness, so refreshed to be slain daily by resurrection -
That I failed to hear the first drums of funeral march renew.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
I want to paint it
this plaint
I've worded
one thousand
unrecorded instants
only to see both
the deep and tinny
syllables I thought
vibrantly tinted
dissolve into
pale, gooey-bottomed wails
I should pitch it
this paste
to patch an unfrocked
eye searching
puffy tears for atoms
escaped within
abandoned margins
as narrow as
the difference between
my white canvas
and an emptying hand
I have to plug it
this post hole
bored by my frantic
inattentions
and stencil a sign:
bold letters below
a starched cuff,
its pulseless finger
pointing out
there's one way
round sniveling sounds
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 9:47 AM UTC
my mind opens to
unlearned knowledge
unwritten words
unspoken voices
unrecorded lives
untold wisdom
unearthed by
unceasing
undertow of
universal
understanding
undeterred
unless
my mind closes
Mar 29, 2011
Mar 29, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC