"unset" poems
On an Ohio vacation, we got the call.
Dressed in a navy t-shirt, and stiff boating shorts
(plucked fresh off a J. Crew shelf just earlier that morning –
I wanted a darker grey)
My mother and I parked by the open grave.
The visitation was packed with strangers.
Stuffy, suffocating almost – I tugged at the new shorts,
coarse, rough-feeling, no time to break in yet –
fibers still unset –
My back hugs peeling wallpaper.
My mother's tears stain my shirt, the salt stiffening fresh fabric –
Baptism. Each tear carves fresh wrinkles, crossing her face like rivers,
slicing into her like canyons. Her hands are childlike upon my shirt,
grasping blindly for anything, her vision blurred, her breath short,
her heart broken.
I peer at the uncovered casket and look at the woman's face.
Thin halo of white hair, skin pale like alabaster –
She is stiff. Eyes fixed, blood cold. Her hands clasp tightly.
Her black cardigan holds her like a piece of glass,
stiff, hard, yet so fragile, threatening each second to crack,
and the sounds of its breaking my mother's muffled cries,
and my hand's rhythmless consoling pats upon her back.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
Should I give up
on a chance that cannot be
To our story
that never even began
Am I just being petty?
We have not even started yet
Did I just leave the pages unset?
It’s just starting to unfold
Or have I really loss it? I believe
We haven't even given a chance
To our story that only has a page
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 5:36 AM UTC
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
It stood upright, a branch outstretched
and blocked the path on me.
In circumventing sideways dance
I edged in grass quite slow,
but a craggy root handcuffed me,
and would not let me go.
I stood in shocked drawn silent gaze,
unsure of where to turn,
This tree had pulled me tighter now,
it fought my urge to run.
But then it spoke in ancient voice,
in tones of guttural flow.
Dark words in wood translation,
spoke of a poisoned stream below.
The leaf on every branch now shivered,
in worried recounted tale,
as it described through words so clear
what caused its bark to fail.
A darkened tale of toxic waste,
a legacy untold.
of man's destructive story,
where greed and fear unfold.
Water table now unset
In (fractured gas) halation.
Land is sold and cracked
in tempted cash flirtation
War for oil in scarlet lands,
where majors lived at base.
The youth in pointless sacrifice,
to save the political face.
Where poverty prevailed amid
abundant arable nations.
and the silent cries of children
skewed charitable donations.
Air of grey, fermented
with pollen soft pollution.
Chokes of spluttered ash,
cast doubt on evolution
This tale of woe recounted
by nature's mother-tree
with roots now losing hold
while balanced grip on me.
Swaying branch quite dangerously
in forgotten leafy youth.
this once majestic elder falls,
unburdened by this truth.
It died in pain where it had grown
drowned slow in poisoned stream.
a fading track on reddened skin
where its handcuffed branch had been.
I straightened up and stumbled on
relieved it had let me go.
My eyes in shock, slowly adjusted
To wood in flat plateau.
I cast my eyes in horizoned view
not believing what I'd seen.
The wood in matchsticked pattern
where once proud kings had been.
The landscape now lay barren,
with wood strewn all around.
The stench of rot erupted
from muddy blackened ground.
I wandered off to tell the tale,
of being confronted by this tree,
unsure of what just happened
or why it had chosen me.
I walked for miles in desolate,
through air starved atmosphere.
but met no one along this road,
a winding pot-holed frontier.
I walked until I finally woke.
in spluttered inhalation.
Confused, I feared this reality,
of earth's final damnation.
In darkened dream, my walk was halted,
confronted by a tree,
Awoke, its tale will linger,
forever haunting me
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
"What Will Happen!!!"
How do I know there is anyone else
how can I be sure what will come
how do I know that you really feel that way
what will I do if I fall again
that's the answer I don't know
I don't know what I would do it
you tear my heart in two again
that will be the end
the end of my humanity
the end of my sanity
the end of this whole place
I will challenge someone to fear combat
just to end it there
If I go on like the way I would
I would be a soul
with no meaning or no heart
I would be the man of a shadow that used to be
the man that has to smoke **** to feel free
the man that won't give a crap what you think
that man that you will learn to fear
or gets unset over every little thing
this is what will happen if
you break the heart in me
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC
There's no straight lines from A to B
No compass does it show
It shows my life as it has been
It doesn't show me where to go
As time goes by the pages fade
Just memories of past times
At times the present's blurry too
There's just so many criss crossed lines
No pages show my future
Just blank, unfilled, unset
You can not have a road map
To things that have not happened yet
Some roads it shows are darker
Roads you'll want to use once more
And on other pages, blankness
You don't know what they were for
The map is everchanging
It's not always the same
You can blame the old mapmaker
It's your mind that is to blame
You trigger things with songs and sounds
And others you might lose
It's a map that should show where you've been
But it's no good without clues
A compass in the corner
Doesn't point which way to go
It's your life, there is no answers
You get to choose which row you ***
It's not an easy map to follow
Hills and valleys all around
But, somewhere there's a spot that
Is where your best can be found
A page that now sits empty
Tomorrow, will be mapped and show the way
But, it won't show you where you're off to
It'll show where you were today
So, enjoy the roads you've travelled
And the experience so far
For this is not a map you'll ever
Find inside of any car
As I said, it changes daily
There's only so much room for stuff to stay
So, remember just what's important
And make the bad stuff go away
It's not a map that can be folded
It doesn't show you where to start
But when you go and look back at it
You'll see your life was full of heart.
.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
My intuition flashes like a hot flair shot desperately into an empty sky
Where no one cast a seeing eye and I myself can only smell,
The charade a supernova a chemical shimmering sun
What seems to me to be the bitter sweet vapors of the powder of a gun
An empty thrill that builds atop unspoken words that usher.
Beneath the glare and a quickened stare I take a liking
to the lightning striking, a sharp spike on the wrong side
of the mountain we’ve been hiking, to get that
Panoramic view of you I’ve been lusting so long after,
a ****** addiction for your airy laughter like
the parched summer air with wide banks cradling sensual water
Lapping at the sand, the firm grasp of a hot hand.
You still stand eyes blinking kiss me, mouth unmoving murmur miss me,
Heartbeat quaking behind the curtain of your chest yelling at me
To take a chance. Wearing silence so inviting I sense,
You’re a trap unset to catch, but you don’t know
You’ll love me yet. You step through the doorway,
I turn my head to my feet, I don’t need to see to feel
My intuition flashing like a hot flair shot desperately into an empty sky
Where no one cast a seeing eye and I myself can only smell,
the charade a supernova a chemical shimmering sun
What seems to me to be the bitter sweet vapors of the powder of a gun
An empty thrill that builds atop unspoken words that usher
Beneath the glare and a quickened stare I take a liking
to the lightning striking, a sharp spike on the inside of every vain
You’ve not a word spoken, and yet I know I will never be the same.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 2:58 PM UTC
Is a poem not just a song
with rhyming verse
that’s not yet sung?
With repeated chorus
not yet stuck
inside one’s head,
amongst the muck?
Is a poem not just a song?
A daisy chain of verse
not yet strum
around a fire
among some friends
deep in the woods
on away weekends.
Is a poem not just a song
not yet proclaimed
by a choir’s tongue?
But uttered silently
in a bed-lamp’s light
at early hours
of the night.
Is a poem not just a song
that peacefully rests
in black ink upon
a white page
inside a book,
upon a library shelf
until it’s took?
Is a poem not just a song
quietly set to lips
that read along
on a train,
on the way back home
from visiting gran
for tea and a scone?
Is a poem not just a song
unset to keys
and not yet begun?
Not yet major,
and not yet minor.
Just metered in beats
and little other.
Is a poem not just a song?
I suppose it could be
but not this one.
Sep 1, 2023
Sep 1, 2023 at 9:16 AM UTC
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this ****** tyrant, Time,
And fortify your self in your decay
With means more blessèd than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset,
With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair
Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair
Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
To give away your self keeps your self still,
And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.
1.2k
****** if I'm through,
****** if I do
stick around to
let you feed on me,
see all the gold turn to green,
o r
this apparent love
turn to mean
something
a little stronger,
perhaps, last a little longer
than those cold, stygian nights
in some stranger's bed,
all those times you could've not
played with my head,
but yet, instead,
you did,
then you'd fib
and say you didn't mean,
oh, but I've seen it -
the dark in you, too,
play(th)ing; whatcha thinkin'?
I've unpacked myself
for you
and the wolves in your logic,
I've unset myself
for the second
I could see it again -
and those wolves concurring with your logic,
I found you hiding in the mirror,
creature of the lion's share,
drowned you in all my care,
my love,
a heart without sufficient sleep,
you tell me -
what was I supposed to think?
you made it so easy,
but how it got within me
I'm afraid to know,
was 'fraid to go
into the light without you,
but as I please -
I'll just
keep
going
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch. Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.
You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library. Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.
Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 2:37 AM UTC
“…where a kelpie lived”
“A little below the bridge was a pool where a kelpie lived.”
-Sigrid Unset, Kristin Lavransdatter, p. 8
If you are blessed with a little back yard
The smallest of gardens, a bit of grass
Then you have pixies and fairies and sprites
They like you, but they’re awfully shy, you know
If in your garden there is a little pool
Even a dish of water for the cat
Then you have a tiny kelpie or two
(And they are much nicer than you’ve been told)
In flower and leaf and water and soft night air -
Oh, yes, there is sweet magic everywhere
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC
Singing songs of glory
bringing joy within souls
of understanding, wisdom
heart, mind.
Completeness unfolding
softly before the light
of admiration brightens
with hues of irresistible
co lours conquering
spaces of wonderment
astounding, untouched
tranquility.
Long-lasting capabilities
controlling laughter unset
desires destroyed from
denial.
Glory is my song of loyalty
upon arrival of innocent
realities of known abilities
and surreal surroundings.
Song of glorious knowing
words untouched, acknowledge
accepted, enveloped in
anatomical discipline
and reliability.
Copyright ⓒ DerenaBree( All Rights Reserved)
May 27, 2023
May 27, 2023 at 1:06 AM UTC
.
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch. Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.
You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library. Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.
Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch. Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.
You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library. Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.
Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
And if your meticulously mixed colors
and carefully articulated strokes of the brush
happen to disintegrate in the charring of a fire
what then?
Was the time spent crafting your rolling mountains of somber lunar blue
or prickly fields of mouse-housing wheat
or soaring, rumbling majesty of an unset sky
for naught?
Does one create for the
eyes or the
currency or the
back pats?
or
Is passion crafted
simply to create
in a world of destruction?
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
Speak to the muses blamed for your bruises—
They might say something yet.
Forget that the news is staring right through this—
Their blades with blood are wet.
You know you and I, we peer through the sky—
Feeling for fates unset.
Even though they lie about where or why—
I knew I’d ne’er forget.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 6:05 PM UTC
Words can not undo what has been done
Desire can not unset the sun.
Time never stops, never pauses, never slows.
What happens next we don't get to know.
The world spins on, oblivious to chance.
We can sit it out or chose to dance.
Lingering in bittersweet memories past.
We long for a truth that will forever last.
We find ourselves crying alone in the night.
Chained by mistakes we long to take flight.
Trapped from within and tortured forever.
Until we let go and look back never!
So goodbye my dearest, my lover, my friend,
Goodbye seems so permanent, Is this the end?
© Crystal Erickson 2008
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch. Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.
You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library. Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.
Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
When first we met our words with each
Were laced with smile and touch. Our eyes,
Confessed and broke at the closing café
And fused in joy and salt, opened up
With long, arresting arms at our sides.
You brought me to your toppled room,
I counted a number of worn, weary
Books, various anthologies, travelogues
And philosophers, a few fierce Poets,
Looking on, strategies for study,
All assembled, with great measure,
It was an alternate version of my own
Battle ground library. Then, I was yours
But you were never mine.
Your stone,
Walled spirit encroached upon me
And I was unset to siege at the base
Of your winding turret and waged
With you a fortnight of five full years
When you rushed forth on your crusades
You left me, flung, far from the holy lands.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
It is too early, or too late, and
you are scrubbing your underwear
in the bathroom sink.
The light is white, and cold, and
the water is pink, and cold, and
your fingers are stiff, and cold.
Ice water and hand soap,
the tried and true recipe
for unset bloodstains.
It’s unsettling something else, too;
something coming undone in your chest
and pushing your lungs into
your throat. A Gordian knot
that loosens and loops
until you are so tangled
you lay down and hold still,
the better to swallow your frustration
my dear. It is shame, perhaps,
or shame by another name.
There is this thought
that turning your hands
into blunt instruments
by freezing the blood in your veins
will keep it from seeping
hot and sticky and clotting
like your frustration
in your hair and your throat,
and you just want
to be clean. By morning
your fingers will bend again,
but there will always be
a faint stain, a pink ghost
that you cannot scrub out.
A tiny haunting,
a sigh on laundry days.
But there’s no use crying
over spilled milk, or blood,
as the case may be.
Only more threads to pick at,
more low and high pressure
fronts moving through you;
lightning in the roots
of your teeth, acid rain
being used as bleach.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 11:42 PM UTC
They are strings of letters unset
from their horizons.
Swollen ink smearing
in air;
their little stalks, serene, suffocated,
like pockets of dust, attended
but in passing. Pieces
of you—agile, remiss—
spark notes in shattered
melody. The dying refrain
flutters;
only the echoes are staining. She
is like a tumbling highway,
still tumbling through full-stop.
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 12:11 AM UTC
The journal opened,
On its own.
Encompassed my thoughts,
My heart,
And bled them onto unlined pages.
Raw, and complete.
Synced up in perfect harmony.
The short hand on the clock moved,
Took its first step,
And shielded clarity,
That no depth could have foretold,
This is what I needed,
On the same page,
The battery started to recharge,
All on its own.
Until after awhile it began to tick,
The clock came unset,
And there was no countdown left to look upon.
It moved at its own pace,
Fate and destiny,
Weaved its intricate web,
Attaching red thread to the tip of my pinky finger,
The cord that stretched to the tip of a finger of someone,
Whose heart, memories, and experiences,
Were that much like my own.
But we can never see who is at the end,
We may cross paths on a busy street,
Our eyes might linger for a moment,
And we may feel struck in the chest,
By an unexplainable force,
Or we may pass without notice,
Always thinking,
That when the book comes to a close,
That soon their hand,
Would fit perfectly in my own.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 8:53 PM UTC
Monsters of men, not under your bed,
best do what they said, they said all is well.
Is all so well?
Monsters of men, know you not but know your head, we're fish in a net, mind-sets unset, we're living like the dead,
But only truly living after death
¿whø are mønsters øf men?
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Romance is distraction -
Romance is elaborating saga,
Romance is invention,
and not at all Love's dogma.
Love is discovery -
Love is devotion,
Love is creativity,
It evolved as we evolved,
Love is center, in all kinds
in the pure and the complex,
Love expressed in all the fines
the beauty in finding is yet -
Losing oneself in the find
or finding oneself in a loss,
unset from stone your searching mind
come morning, midnight, sun rise or set -
Love will find you as much as
Love willingly let's you beget.
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC