"unremarked" poems
words fall
like hapless fledglings
tossed from a cliff edged nest
with much screeching, squawking,
countless feathers lost
and then an awful thump
or hopeful, glorious flight
first love is tachycardiac love
all adrenaline, sweating palms
and stutter-stumbling sqeakings,
ungainly gropings,
when not with you, mopings
unrealistic hopings
for happy ever after endings,
breakings, bendings,
awkward mendings,
repeated leavings,
repented lovings.
heartfelt givings,
of broken hearted rendings.
lendings,
of time stolen from life
tearing, teasing,
tantalising teamings
crying, begging,
pleading strife
and then,
the metaphorical knife
cutting, slashing,
wordblow bashing,
screaming, reaming,
end to loves life.
til eventually, words fall,
like old birds leavings
to settle, unremarked upon
at the base of the tree of life.
first love's loss, is slow dying.
arrhythmia to flatline
in a multitude of laboured breaths
and long lingering sighs.
a loss of warmth,
from breast and thighs
and water copious,
falling from red rimed eyes.
sobbing, murmuring,
don't know whys?
from lips turned
toward,
bleakset skies.
as one settles firmly,
into black dog muck
no longer able to give a f▼ck.
tucked in tight to sadness,
lost all sight of former gladness,
caught up and shackled tight,
to the badness
around and around,
the carousel goes.
then,
at last,
the blessed silence,
as you die
one of many of....
life's little deaths
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
Two living statues,
a man of silver
and one who sits mid-air.
Crowds pause wonder stare.
A trench foot Tommy
stands lonely unremarked,
bronzed as his medal,
braced for our next war.
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 5:32 AM UTC
Yesterday morning you woke me
with a kiss, and a question
words were totally irrelevant
my body answered
Yes, oh my, please... Yes
I totally forgot what you asked
and time moved on
and unremarked upon issues
morphed from mosquitoes
to white elephants in the room
into the first lie you had to hide
Your J'adore is contemplative
and fueled my emotion
not complacent was my J'taime
Wasted, such is our devotion
I don't miss you
Body heat and trembling hands
feed my ****** dreams
highlighting such duplicity
Empty sheets and rainy days
feed my reality
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 3:19 AM UTC
wouldst you in the mist of my confusion
have me become a white mosquito boy
that by a grafted tongue would
mould powerful changes
around bliss and ecstasy
that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles
causes by his spaces openness
a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies
and yet my fevered brain
hotter than the hottest summer
wishes to embrace a white mosquitoe boy
become the cannibal of his dimensions
be subject to his unremarked experiments
Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices
a white mosquitoe boy
evolving into a public ethic
a dangerously obscure central truth
the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking
while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome”
shall I enter their grand boulevards
the ink drys, it speaks
its beautiful wondrous notation
says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes
you don’t become a mosquitoe boy
YOU ARE BORN ONE
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
"the sacred geometry of chance,
the hidden law
of a probable outcome"^
*so many days,
composing years of a book
of empty days
unlined with lines,
white on white pages,
subtitled
no joyous fear
of the
life changing chance taking
wrenching a thing past,
mostly forgot,
except for periodic
ache stabbing
you can't recall
the choices
that you didn't take
that got you here,
nowhere
the road split,
highway and river path,
always chose
incorrectly,
now
so past the younger days
question the lack,
no courage flaw,
what does it matter
anymore,
safe until death,
death having arrived
early on
always bore right,
when left was
the soul
go go
the chance right
un un taken
wanted needed accidents,
trip wires,
incendiary kisses
that rebirth
you one more time,
over over to
alive confirm
but fears of
breaking pain,
made you a broken man
the angles of life
obtuse,
the planes of life
flat fuzzy,
irregular, smudged,
flatlined
days drone by silent,
not a single word
out loud uttered,
three hundred and sixty degrees,
volume measured and
zero summed value
every normal distribution
has a tail,
some fat, some skinny
even this lonely man
has a tale
where the
improbable
is the most unlikely
day of likelihood
his days
were numbered,
they were,
each one had a number...
that day arrived,
calendar unremarked and unremarkable,
when
the hidden law of a probable outcome
saved,
the sacred geometry of chance
was rightly computed,
his number chosen
don't know this man personal,
heard the story from a mate,
third mate third
so third hand,
cause the other two were busy
one, holding her hand
and the other occupado
writing this poem
-----------------------
*A lyric from "Shape Of My Heart," as sung by Sting
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC
I like the way she holds my arm when walking…
up high, under the shoulder,
firm grasp on muscle, feeling
the blood beat acoustically, in joy,
sensually sensing a thrumming
thrombosis messaging, this is a
full bodied animation, liquid life,
“strong to drink”
“strength to break
off pieces and keep,”
a supporting mutuel
pillar column post,
given, taken, entrapped,
enwrapped, ensnared,
and
enshrined, mighty fine
feeling
“indeed”
pieces to mine,
pieces of mine
her taking is acceptable
my taking reciprocal
for her needs fulfill,
I,
walk taller, straighter,
in fuller strides, and when
she stumbles in the obstacle
course of nyc crack-ed sidewalkslop,
her whoosh of breath expelled
when saved by the arm firmament,
goes unremarked, for this is my
purposed occupation and the
occlusion of our skin cells
in tight bandwidth is certification
that our love is so much more than
mere skin deep,
or as she so oft summarizes, life is,
“indeed,” or in deed.
olp
Mar 22, 2024
Mar 22, 2024 at 11:21 PM UTC
She is the living embodiment of the cliché,
The song where the male sub-lead
Returns from some second shift, some third drink
To find she has gone, leaving some scrap-paper note,
Hastily scribbled and wholly incomplete,
Some variation upon Don’t try and find me,
And so she is suitably unfound herself,
As she has given great thought to her froms,
But rather short shrift to her tos,
Finding herself north of the Thruway,
Looking for somewhere to spend the night
(The twin motors of adrenaline and anxiety running on fumes)
Happening upon, as if almost by some beneficent magic,
A Travelodge bordered by an expanse of cornfield
(Long since gone to seed, the stalks bowed and spent,
Waiting for the patently overdue cob harvester)
And after she is checked in and somewhat unpacked
(The bored, bemused woman who slumps about the front desk
Mercifully sparing with the small talk)
The skies, which had been late-October slate blur-gray,
Slightly malevolent but only implicit in their threats,
Open up in a cold and unwelcome drizzle,
And, whys and wherefores being things for a later date,
She runs outside and begins dancing in the parking lot,
Unseen and unremarked upon,
And even though the rain is cold, soaking, grim in portent
(The forecast dourly noting the possibility of wet snow,
Nattering that accumulation is possible at higher elevations.)
She is seemingly unaware and unconcerned
As to the upshot of this drenching,
Any whispers of the two or three other occupants of the motel,
Any judgments passed upon her mad danse pour un,
As she has passed beyond any notion of admonition.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:34 PM UTC
Man who made the Cubs world champs 2016 Series winner, named best leader.
Upon being named greatest leader in the world by Fortune, Theo Epstein, president of baseball operations at the Chicago Cubs, had this to say to an ESPN reporter: "Um, I can't even get my dog to stop peeing in the house. That is ridiculous."
<•>
humble,
lives in the spaces in between our toes and eyes,
where a nightly miracle occurs,
linty dirt returns magically of its own free will
we wash our mornful faces dailies,
off with the night's crusted leavings,
gifts of The Elfin Elusives,
who come and go unremarked and uncaught,
with a kind of kissy poke in your navel 'n eyes,
a finer reminder,
don't ever get a prideful notion of a clean start - ha!
the stubble assiduously removed morning prior,
returns with a scratchy salutation,
"good morning and ***** off, you ain't the boss"
just in case you think u got it rightly wrongheaded,
by a passing stray notion filling your
grateful deadheaded,
master of the universe, egotistical bred
YOU,
the
greatest leader in the world,
go back to bed, it's the weekend
*but only after you have walked the dog,
Mr. Master of the Universe,
or suffer a
humbling reminder"*
<~~~>
Jul 6, 2017
Jul 6, 2017 at 5:20 PM UTC
“We’ve engineered the world for comfort and ease. Most people rarely step outside of their comfort zones these days—we’re living progressively soft, sterile, temperature-controlled, overfed, under-challenged, safety-netted lives1. And it’s slowly limiting the degree to which we experience our, as the poet Mary Oliver put it, “one wild and precious life.””
Michael Easter, Substack
<>><<>
five months have expired
from when this notion
1st caught my notice
but fallow lay,
unattended, unremarked
unforgiving
of my ignorance and inattention
but it freshly, rightly,
core challenges me
guilty of the underbelly softness
so well described,
I
choose to scribe,
wrestle with angel and devil,
two~on~one human,
and yet, still a
fair fight
"wild and precious!"
how rarely we employ these
adjectives,
that conjure the edginess of an
existence
lest you think,
that we are here to implore, urge,
skydiving, remote wilderness trekking, or other physical states
that set adrenaline on fire,
I am not
afterthat for them
oh, my
wild and precious
is far more treacherous and enthralling
what I beg you to embrace is
no farther than
nubs, knobs and stubbled nibs of your fingers,
the taste buds flowering invisible
on the wily, twisty tongue,
the tiny-vibrating little hairs of your nostril,
two extra large eggy pupils of your two eyes,
here lies danger,
your customized throbbing throbbing your drumming,
leadings
access to the garden of
The truly wild and precious,
the poems you will scribe,
from the safety of your captains chair,,
Throwing caution to the wind compose and depose yourself with bitter questioning,
For which the answered answers must be truly be
wild and precious
cyan sighs,
oaken cries,
furious colorless invasive tears,
steely stabbing personal truths,
yes those wild ones,
in your. chest close held,
spill them like cold coffee,
surrender the precious, and
inward confess your
shame, gains and the relit
that you are not merely
wild and precious
but a sea borne sailor,
a navy voyaging to
to where
danger enthralls
enlivens!
Jun 21, 2025
Jun 21, 2025 at 10:23 AM UTC
I am the invisible man,
You do not see me,
I am the invisible man,
The things I have done for you, are unseen,
I am the invisible man,
The heart that aches for thee aches unseen,
I am the invisible man,
The worth I lost in you is out of sight and mind,
I am the invisible man,
The miles I drive are unnoted and unremarked,
I am the invisible man,
The love I feel is uncomprehended,
I am the invisible man,
My hurt is of no import,
I am the invisible man
However those sins of mine,
My fallibility and humanity,
My faults
My misunderstandings,
My occasional rant,
My anger,
My self centredness,
My frustration,
My expectations,
My misdemeanours,
My poor behaviour,
Every
Single
Thing
That I do wrong,
Those things and only those,
ARE seen!
Nov 6, 2023
Nov 6, 2023 at 6:54 AM UTC
~dedicated to Robert Lepage^, a master at remembering~
~
we enumerated our days thusly,
each one was commenced with skyward glance,
eliciting an epithet, a blessing or a curse,
none passed unremarked, the plainest even,
acknowledged with an indecipherable glancing
mmmm from the chest cut or purred,
quick withdrawn and quietly shared
thus recorded, our history disordered,
who can recall if it rained or snowed
on the last Sunday of July of 1998,
or even the sunset fabulous
that was its global signature signing of au revoir
of course, agreed, we remember the great hurricanes
as if they were births or deaths of our most intimates,
but the vast attended, unto mounds collected,
the ticket stubs of dead leaves, sunburns,
rain showered soaked ruined silk blouses
and pairs of good shoes, are not recycled,
but forlorn forgotten condemned men in
a life's imprisonment of an unmarked grave,
with no epitaph possible for no one knows what here lies
~~
written on Sunday March 26th, 2017 9:08am
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 9:36 AM UTC
We walk through life,
blind,
knowingly,
and not;
willingly,
and not.
We see the
world,
and let it
pass,
unremarked,
taken as
a fixture
of eternity,
for the
most part.
This, is not
the truth.
The world
is not a thing
of diamond,
not a thing of
light, or
of spirit, wholly,
although it is
all of these
things,
in part;
It is also an
earthen world,
a fragile world,
a beautiful
world,
and one which
we are quickly
stripping of
its beauty,
and its life.
Our world is
dying, and
we are the
cause.
But, there is yet hope.
There is still
time, to
turn back,
to leave behind
us, all this
pain, and
desecration,
and soul-wide
apathy;
there is yet time,
but not for
much longer.
Therefore, I
charge you,
all who read
these words,
and feel them
within your
heart,
change.
Now.
Revitalize your
lives,
revitalize
the world.
Every action
has
significance;
think, before
you act.
I charge you,
do this
thing,
for yourselves,
and for the
world;
and I swear
to you, before
God, and
all the infinite
immutable
and yet
ever-changing
light,
of eternity,
there is yet time.
There is still hope.
the world will
change,
and flower,
for all of
time.
I promise you.
It will.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
There is, or so I am told, a debate raging
In fashionable rooms and the halls of government
Which concerns snowflakes: specifically, whether each one
Is of a unique and heretofore unknown shape and formation,
Or whether God sees fit to send down identical reproductions,
Like so many Wilton Diptychs being flogged at market.
I have, on the odd occasion, have seen the snow
As it piles up in billowing waves or lumpy bluffs
In the Alps and the Pyrenees,
And, although I lack such learning
Sufficient to dispute the notion of their individuality,
I can say that, in collections of the thousands or millions,
They are indistinguishable from one another,
And, I suspect, all of their like that has come before.
Like so many of her age, barely beyond the blush of childhood,
My poor sister saw her world in stark colorations;
Thunderclouds of black, endless sunbeams of white,
With no room in her orbit’s spectrum for anything in between
(Sadly, she left this life before she could learn to embrace
The beauty to be found in fine raiments of beige, gray, and taupe).
I have buried siblings, buried husbands and lovers,
Buried memories and mistakes,
And in the endless cycle of embrace and bereavement
I have learned of life
That it is the process of accommodation and compromise,
And that it is only dark, austere death
That refuses to give itself unto the joys of negotiation.
It has lately come to pass that the wretched and lovelorn have,
Seeing no way out of their particular predicament,
Began writing my long-dead sister letters
Asking for her advice, indeed her blessing.
Can you imagine such a thing?
The postmaster of Thurn and Taxis (a very old and dear friend)
Has taken to bringing me some of these abjectly weepy epistles.
I’ve long since stopped reading them, of course;
They sing no new song, tread no new ground.
I simply feed them to a good strong fire,
As anyone seeking the aid of a dead young girl
Has already passed beyond the refuge of last resort.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC
Improvising, accepting, closing eyes, my smiles
Unbeseeched for each awakening deserves its own,
Spontaneous distortion of expression suggesting
Fondness in being me, a human amongst others,
Permanently contradicting prospects of random sadness.
On occasion ineluctably dejected, as now,
On a plane fed, duty-free shopping done. Miniature
Liqueur bottles reminding me the depressing nature
Of alcohol eliciting my present gloom, submitting
To its essence, without the shadow of a fight.
Experience gave some the opportunity to declare
Me mentally unstable, talks of chemical imbalance
As tears roll down my eyes, salty taste on my lips,
Drops of ocean when even rain is sweeter than me.
Though familiar, grief has altered its character.
Uncalling for despair nor asking me to change,
This sorrow rises from the ashes of evolution, as I
Pretend not to see while nothing passes unremarked.
My eyes recognise the futility of their bogus openness,
While blindness is unable to encourage willed ignorance.
Consciousness alone compels to absorb the scenery
For scenarios retinas refuse to grasp, neglecting mind’s
Solitary drive, to live withstanding all and comprehend,
Embracing realities encompassing humankind, so that I
Have no excuse and remain obliged, to see.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 4:58 AM UTC
The house, positioned randomly
At a squat, awkward angle to the road
Isn’t the prettiest sight
I could have hoped for
And yet, it looks like home
Three steps rising to a porch
That looks like a wart
Incongruous and ugly
Slapped on in a fit of
‘well, the neighbours have one’ pique
and wide, sightless eyes of windows
too much glass
in a pale face of peeling, cracking,
***** white weatherboarding
and yet, it pulls me in
invitingly beguiling
in a hideous, ill-at-ease
kinda way
old lady roses on the hallway walls
faded carpets, bare at thresholds
worn by old lady slippers
and too much pacing
and still, I venture onwards
wrapping around myself a cloak
a warm, comfort of ages
cosy in the past laughter
of fuss-less lives
simply living
a simple life
unremarked upon
by any measure of glory
some houses have a way
of turning nothing into everything
and making it sparkle
with special grace
this home, this house
has waited for me
and, while waiting,
has given itself over
unselfish and whole
to the lives of others.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 3:18 PM UTC