"unredeemable" poems
Overborne barrels
Rolled out in weights
That God knows how much.
Down the bottomless pit
Of unredeemable darkness
Where desire laid unrest.
The hounds of greed
Stripped off the barks
But hid the naked truth.
Where pigs are kept
For the coming slaughter
By the hungry crocodiles.
Only brittle bones
Shall be thrown and fed
To the ignorant river.
But the water saw blood
And soon the tide will rage
To drown the narcissists.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
Our empty syncopation's are patiently ambushed
By restless margins of undeclared territory;
Shivering cymbals, entraining cloistered memories,
A nimbus inclining toward unredeemable quarries:
Refrains unimagined, of star-tipped dawns
Upon certain days of ritual, unbelievably worn.
Breathing dragons of fire-squandering meridians
Pour round water upon semblance's drowned emotion;
Cleave then to me, who cleaves to the last vestige
Of rarefied air, breathed by bellows-smothered centuries
When your foot trod the newly opened ****** earth,
And your hand hinged loves diagonal, even unto death.
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 12:15 PM UTC
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
loneliness,
cold and empty as
the winter sun
it slithers in
the back of my mind
coiled around every
doubtful thought,
encasing them in a prison of
paranoia.
i wonder who i am in
your mind,
a withering flower,
a wavering voice over
the phone?
i am afraid of how you
see me,
how one day, my fear may
overflow, making me
unredeemable.
oh, how i try so hard
not to wither in your eyes,
not to fall or need
reassurance.
i try to be a fairy,
a maiden, a wonderful
mystery
but the spell has fallen away
leaving only myself,
and i have never felt
more alone.
Nov 28, 2020
Nov 28, 2020 at 1:19 PM UTC
But I know…
this blending of a warped (time) continuum,
the future resting on shaky table legs,
errors of habitual inconsistency,
one on top of a prior, on top of…
we pursue regrets, misdeeds, theorizing
that we can fix the wobbly mess we instigated,
that can we smooth the ruckus that
the unknown in surety is bonded to be
surly serve up buffet style,
we help ourselves to troubles so attractive,
like rice thrown at a wedding, dead seeds of
messes yet to come
*old regrets freshly regretted, for we waste
not even
what we wanted then
even now!
for we do not proper value the passing of each momentary,
but weep and mourn the entirety of years corrupted by
wrong-headed mish-mash of longings,
swift stupid inexcusable acts of impulsive weaknesses permitted,
so that we dust
the dust encasing artificial flowers,
that are so faded that the dust mispermits one
to fool themselves
that they were once ,
burnt orange vibrant,*
like the optimism of a sunny day gone and hoped for
just once more
yes, I know why…
<><> <>
**Burnt Norton by T.S.Eliot
**
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
All time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.
My words echo
,
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
<><><><>>
postscript
the rushing to my ever nearer demise
the dust suffocates,
the regrettables
have no half life,
and I dust,
I know
if I do not,
I choke…
Dec 30, 2023
Dec 30, 2023 at 8:39 AM UTC
To be washed under a wave;
persistant. . .
thinking how sad life is
Drowning, excrutiating, breathlessly squeezing love out;
Showing "it"
pathways to escape like sand
through fingers, one grain at a time
Unredeemable time flying
and pushing, pushing all, to impending doom
Death and darkness awaits.
But ignore, ignore. . .
take no notice of this horrific pitch-black reality.
Afterall
there's nothing one can do about it except to
fear it
. . .
Impending doom?
how very cliche, how very awkward!
well atleast no one is left behind this time;
All life forms driven all at once,
like lambs to slaughter,
relentlessly by Death on its two light feet;
night and day.
But we are stubborn, we still laugh
Defiant, we still hope. . .
As we march on to this promised doom
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
The boys and the girls
Of the town,
Were all lost in the mist
Of a world divided
Into the good and the worse.
They thought justice exists,
And they hoped that
Redeemable their town was.
They figured the fault
In them laid,
And replicas of their grand ancestors
They became.
Sure they were of how
Unredeemable their town was.
The men and tha ladies
Of the town,
Were eccentric.
Were all stuck in a reality,
Which the boys and the girls
Of the town
Believed is quite redeemable
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 1:38 PM UTC
put your mask on, let's play pretend.
no smiles--no language.
only the glide of our hand, trembling--
like the way your mother body shakes when
you have been gone away too long from home.
whispers are allowed, but only secrets and morse
and the sweet after taste that you always tried to chase.
let us disappear into this play, immerse and submerge--titanic hitting an iceberg and sinking.
unstoppable, unredeemable. a tragedy.
but you and your soft lips and the slight rasp in your voice, the misery and the life and everything in between, made a storm that saves life.
so the theater applauds at the happy ending, love that saves the day.
completely ignoring, that the day only wants to end.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
Time makes no resting places,
such occur in time spent, unredeemable,
waiting to see the effect,
suffering now to be,
wait, a call, yes
or
no, I have no terms to offer. Redeem the time
you have,
don't feel the need to borrow on eternity.
----- jump cut ---
Salve on the wound, ******* spits out the bit.
Mount up old man, we got an old tale
stuck in a Shalomic message state during
an ego war.
-- there are those scribes
-- wrestling, like kittens with the yarn…
Heir of winds am I, in mind to be.
What would I do,
eh, Jesus, what about you?
peace, be still, I'd say, in a voice so small,
few feel the call to listen to the first word
plied off the point in ever outward,
pearling, pear shapes,
stem to pollinator,
being all we may imagine,
in a given moment of peace past understanding.
With a prosaic drumming mixed in the humms.
Bees at ease in my perennially
blooming rosemary hedge. These fingers tapping.
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 5:08 PM UTC
Things Worth, Or Not, Remembering:
T.S. Eliot, O.L. Poetry and the Passage of Time
<>
“Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden.”
T.S. Eliot
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
<>
Only in a world of speculation, but what if,
There was no such world, one speculates,
Where safely looking in both directions as
We cross the alleys and boulevards of now is
NOT required; living in series of moments,
a steady spasming of venturing, and always,
something gained, something lost, but never,
additive, cumulative and more sensational
than experiential and we have no memory,
and thus no prejudice for or against!
Living with constant aspiration, not reckoning what are
Things Worth Remembering, is that not more than
no footfalls, only footsteps, to new love, renewed love,
possibilities of all doors opened, and we take each day
as it is given, banishing longing, jailing regret,
believing round every turn is a new fragrant, radiant rose garden,
or not…but perhaps means eternal, forever looking.
O. L. Poetry
May 28, 2023
May 28, 2023 at 1:51 PM UTC
I can't get a single word out
Before everyone's problems flood over me
Overwhelm me
And drown me
I can't find the words to say
To make myself feel better
And it's hard
Because when I try
Nobody wants to listen
Every one else
Has problems
That are one thousand times worse
When I tell them my own
They don't listen
Not like the way I listen to them
Time and time again
They brush me aside
Don't ask me if I'm alright
People are selfish
You see
They only care about themselves
And don't bother with anyone else
It's the ones who suffer silently
That go off the edge
It's the ones who suffer indefinitely
That stick a bullet
In their head
The ones who are silent
The ones who are selfless
Speak little words
But are so broken
That they grow tired
Grow tired of waiting
For somebody to finally share
All the pain they've been facing
Grow tired of
the extra problems
That they finally
Cave
And commit the unredeemable
Act of sin
And cheat themselves of this life
And all it has to give
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 7:14 PM UTC
after having slurped such oysters
and mawled such mole-anal
mounds - perfected the steak tartar -
it's almost inconsistent with
the fact that i can:
welcome some sort of civility
in this fragile medium of writing...
i dare say: notably prostitutes -
Puerto Rican, Bulgarian or Ukrainan...
i might as well have
soaked my mouth in a sponge
dipped in olive oil -
and to even think it possible,
having slobbered in these
regions to then pry open an
Augustine repentance -
and claim a god,
having stretched
beyond imagination
the do of invited crude...
to keep a pristine mouth in
both affairs seems contradictory -
i dare say:
no lesser creature is accounted
for, other than in pure jest:
better cloaked...
i can only fathom performing
oral *** on a woman when
first, able, in appreciation
of the fruit of Poseidon -
nice, tacky, it's not a case of
poetic wording,
what, if not the grit of
a hog's snout rummaging in filth?
there is a deep seeded melancholy
in these words...
i am rotating on an axis
of unredeemable consequence...
man the tool use,
woman the floral imbue -
god at best no socio-political ideal -
rather the same stuff of
"encrypted" rudiment;
if i concern myself with god
i concern myself as performing oral
*** on a woman, and her onomatopoeia
resounds deaf in the ears of god,
for my tongue in her... ahem...
is the sort of tongue in the skull
akin to the undifferentiated
claim of animal:
due to ****** man is no more
than a wolf's creed -
talk of man is akin to a cat
purring - while a cat's meow is
man's ****** -
all is well, gott ist taub.
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 12:35 PM UTC
Night descends upon us,
As we sat beside one another,
Gazing into the stars just because
those gents hath brought the night colour.
Thy sweet tender voice,
Speaking of thine love for the arts,
Mine own really had no choice,
But to give thou all of mine heart.
Speaketh on the topic of love if thou must,
But an act so unredeemable,
Is when thou speaketh of love without just,
For thy words preach incapable.
.........As mine own eyes witness the stars and its glory,
.....Mine mind and heart hath truly forgotten that thee art a star,
.........So I promise to heed thine words and thine story,
.......For mine mind wilt at each moment remember thou and thine guitar.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 12:29 PM UTC