"unsmiling" poems
I knocked the black
door knocker
on Janice's nan's door
and her nan answered
and said
o hello Benedict
Janice can't come out
she let the canary out
and we had
a hell of a job
getting it back
in the cage again
so I'm keeping her in
I was going
to tan her backside
but I thought
keeping her in
was more
of a punishment
on a day like this
o right
I said
looking at Nan's eyes
and her greying hair
and unsmiling face
but you can come in
and see her
for a few minutes
shame that you
have to be
without her though
so she walked
back up the passage
and into the sitting room
where Janice
was sitting on a settee
looking disgruntled
it's Benedict
come to see you
he is only staying
for a few minutes
so don't think
you can go out
because you can't
Janice nodded
and looked tearful
and her nan walked off
into the kitchen
I didn't mean
to let the bird out
I just opened
the cage door
to get it to stand
on my finger
but it flew out
and it to ages
to catch it again
and Nan was so angry
that she was
on the border
of giving a smacking
but then she thought
keeping me in
was more
of a punishment
so here I am
on a lovely warm day
sorry about that
I said
where are you going?
she asked
I was going to Jail Park
on the swings and slide
I said
I see
she said
looking at me sadly
what have you got
in the bag?
I opened the bag
it's that Robin Hood book
I bought it
in that junk shop
on the New Kent Road
she held it
and opened it up
and looked
at the words
and pictures
maybe next time
I can be
your Maid Marian
to your Robin Hood
she said
yes
I said
looking
at the canary
in its cage
that'd be good.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
Desire and
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you,
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen, throbbing soul.
6.7k
It’s so easy to feel so small
I’m on a bus, the last one that runs on a Wednesday night,
Sketching a tired face
Bags under the eyes, made of black ink
I’m eavesdropping on a conversation,
(Does it count as eavesdropping when
There are only two people speaking in an otherwise
Silent bus?)
My heart’s been having an existential crisis,
And my stomach and chest
Empty
Yet heavy
Someone’s hands are holding my insides
And squeezing them in a fist
It is exhausting
It is lonely
In my right ear is this beautiful song
Violin and cello and
A raw passion that reminds me
That it’s okay
To be human, and to be scared shitless
I’m still listening, partly
But not really
It’s late
I want to sleep
Busses are full of zombies-
Phone, earphone, unsmiling zombies
And despite the
Tired sketch on my lap
I’m one, too
The conversation slows
I smile
I turn and I recognize the face in front of me
I’m told that this person, vaguely familiar face, whose conversation
I’ve been eavesdropping on remembers one of my poems
About stars
And the line is on his wall
A line from a poem that I wrote
About stars
Is on someone’s wall
Even better than when Chad Oliver told me I was
Quite attractive junior year of high school,
And I remember writing that poem
And I feel a little less useless
I want to cry
My body hasn’t known what to do with itself lately
You see I exhausted myself in love
And now that it’s gone
I feel useless
My heart pulls towards mediocre sketches
First sips of coffee in the morning,
Listening to the violin
It doesn’t know what else to feel for
It’s been left in this dark room
Grasping for a table,
**** even a stepstool,
Heartbreak is exhausting
Because it’s not just the heart
And it doesn’t really break
It just has to re-learn how to feel
But I get off the bus
And the night is warm,
The moon is
Beautiful,
This white-hot luminescence
Burning through the silhouettes of trees,
So bright the sky is still blue 6 hours after sundown.
I open my palms up to her
I see the stars
I open my palms up to them
They guide me home
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
The monk stands
in the shadow
of the cloisters,
said Benedict,
his arms folded
beneath his black habit,
his features unsmiling,
his stare out at the garth
and the clock tower
over the way.
I watch him,
feeling the sun's warmth
where the shadows aren't;
the flowers in the flower beds
are in full bloom,
the afternoon air
throws birds into the sky
to set free and fly.
Other monks
gather in the garth
after the office of None;
Patrick wheels out the trolley
with tea, coffee and cake;
we stand and talk
in the brief recreational break;
white clouds drift by,
birds take wing above
in the afternoon sky.
One talks to me of his book
on the abbey, the history
from its origins in France
until exiled here.
There is the bell
for the end of the break
and on we go
to our occupations
in our rooms or church;
I attend the Latin class
with George and Gareth,
our novice master aids us
in our studies, we learn
the holy sounds
of the Latin phrase and chants.
I love the office of Compline:
the chanting in the half-dark,
the evening light
through high windows,
the utter separation
from the outer world
and our communion with God
in prayer and chant and song,
and our hymn to Sancta Maria,
and the final bell,
and the prayers on wing and air,
and I stand momentarily
silent there.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
Tired faces shuffle home,
Unsmiling countenances,
Irritated by impoverished nuances,
Stress, like a hanging, stifling dome.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
Since a sea of unsmiling glass
was caught by my lover,
his sky has shifted
oh so dark
and I watch him
taking cover.
He takes the rose of winter,
wonders why
it doesn't bloom
and it’s too bad
he doesn't know
he never gave it room
Now all hope he has
of home and hearth
and my consolation
drifts across the land
as the wind……….
of all of his frustration.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
in all the photos
he was a young man -
my father
handsome and smiling
a useful smile
i tried to find one from later
when he was a bystander
on my street -
older, unsmiling, obsolete
- there were none
i wish i had known
how he felt
now that i do.
r ~ 11/25/14
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 7:23 AM UTC
When I look at your photograph,
my son, there beside my bed,
the one of you in dark suit
and glasses, dressed as
a Blues Brother for the work's
Christmas party gig, I have
to smile, yet at the same time
hold back the tears, as days
become weeks and weeks
become months and months
years, since your untimely death
soon after. Silent now the jubilation,
rare the celebration, low key if
at all the laughter. The only
photograph where you're not
smiling, where you stare back
in fixed unsmiling mode, as if
you had some inner clue or
foresight of your fate one month
ahead when you would be no
longer here, but dead.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
throw fireworks at little brothers,
laugh, until they start crying, then hide
make mom cry, a lot. worry her, a lot.
make everyone who loves you cry, at least twice
run your ******* up a flagpole, steal a flag
smoke cigarettes at school
through bad ***** and insincerity
get drunk, then kiss everybody
borrow people's things
make them regret lending to you
throw up in such a way it'll ruin a party
throw up in someone's bed
leave it for them later
buy cheap drugs, steal cheap clothes,
exploit the good nature of others
spit at someone's feet
start useless arguments,
especially with bigots, especially when drunk,
especially when you need to impress people
get kicked out of something holy and sacred,
in the process, shame your grandparents
flip the bird, yell impolite things and trivia
at friends, strangers, anyone
set a plastic trashcan on fire,
leave it somewhere important
forget about it
pierce your face, more than once
pierce somewhere not on your face
show people you shouldn't
say trite thoughts, dress them up with $10 words
look pedantic, unsmiling, and snooty
put everything off, procrastinate
until it ***** you up, wonder what happened
finally,
stay awake at night, remembering all this,
then pity yourself, you ******* *******
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
Mona Lisa, mona linda,
O emblem of western beauty!
A hundred greedy eyes rest on you,
Drinking you in.
Crowds and crowds gather
To feast on your unsmiling face,
Your stiff posture, your
Lifeless gaze.
Within the golden frame you are
Frozen in time
And unable to escape those relentless gawks.
Life imprisonment
With an audience of 2 million.
Adoring fans, passers-by
Cry out in praise!
“Beauty, beauty, beauty!”
Do they know what they see?
Bland Western beauty standards served up on a plate.
Fresh from Ireland and ready to eat.
Dreams of wealth and success
Wrapped up in pale white skin
And short blonde hair.
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
Auntie took me
to Milly's place
across the parade ground
Milly let us in
and Milly said
to her daughter Elsie
show Benny
the blue budgie
Elsie looked at me
sternly and unsmiling
budgie wants to sleep
Elsie said
budgies don't sleep
in the day
Milly said
show Benny
the bird
Elsie sighed
and walked
to the other room
where a birdcage
was hooked up
to a metal stand
I saw the blue budgie
on a perch
that's the bird
Elsie said glumly
looking at me
what's it's name?
I asked
why'd you
want to know?
She said
so I can talk to it
I said
talk to a bird?
She said mockingly
boys don't talk
to birds
I studied the blue budgie
hello blue bird
I said
the budgie chirped
and flapped its wings
it's name's not blue bird
Elsie said
what's it's name then?
I said
not telling you
she said
and walked off
is it Elsie too?
I said
she turned
and gazed at me
no it's a boy bird
boy birds aren't called
girl names
she said
Milly came in the room
to fetch a couple of plates
are you talking to Billy?
She asked me
yes
I said
he chirped at me
Milly smiled
that's good
she said
Elsie glared at me
as her mother
walked back
out the room
hello Billy
I said to the budgie
the bird chirped again
Elsie stood next to me
and stared at the budgie
perhaps he likes you
she said
I don't know why
I looked at the budgie
I like you
I said quietly
Elsie stared at me
do you?
She said
I nodded
I don't know why
she added
and walked away
nor do I
my voice
uttered softly to Billy
Elsie had gone
and the bird
flapped its wings
and flew across the cage
to the other side
I did like her
I didn't lie.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
**The young woman, plain, was unsmiling behind the control panel,
a ribald passion filled his veins, her mien has to do something,
the airfield was deluged by waves of grief, among them
was those robust women, he tried to forget but couldn't
who may defeat the purpose, if he takes a second look.
She gave her word to fly the single engine airplane
"Don't fear darling, i am an aerobatics specialist
if need arises i wouldn't hesitate to crash land,
take care of your hurt, bleeding lonely heart".
How reassuring! never would he turn back,
after this difficult take off awaited life long.
No more entries in this log book.
Her dark make up, was feline an added attraction
that gave him a libidinous surge, an ******** with ample promises,
to last till he reaches his destination final, from where
the return flight, is even unthinkable the lady pilot winks.
This Cessna to the unknown, has the aphrodisiacal scent of
wild orchid flowers he once discovered in the far stretches
of the Western Ghat mountain ranges
and ******** secretions of one particular lover
a reminder perhaps death wants to carry as it happens**
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
Why cannot here be peace
on this many colored world there could be
where the circles of pain and hate
burn ever moving into victims
freezing hearts from loving movement
to the stillness of the never born
the unsmiling grip of payment
where shrieking heard cry
they owe for what they did
though righteously deny the fee that comes
breathing vilely above ignorant heads
feeding of words that know no better
cursed to echo what went before
for the circle only knows this
here past is the future
there future the past
and without breaking the endless spinning
change shan't be able
we all cry for a hero to change our ways
though to step forward is too much
though when they come
as one treat them as have been treated
and expect them to be better
hope they will be better
beg them to be better
while we tear them screaming
down to equality
in the dark and pain
from where escape only exists
in the fragmented dream of peace.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
I don my pale green hoodie,
blending into the seafoam crowd
Unsmiling eyes and unlaughing lips
united in a tightly held breath
Silent metal walls
curve over our pale heads
Cold, dull and smeared
with printless finger marks
White floors and white faces
waver under the ripples
of quiet breath
Tension strangling whatever
might have been left over
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
frock coated mourners all men
standing on the roof tops
while a silver haired woman
speaks through a megaphone
with a Calvinistic zeal
though her voice is lost
in the howling wind
smile unsmiling smiles
terracotta soldiers stand
in rows around this
grotesque assembly
while large disembodied heads
at the beginnings of thoroughfares
impede any progress
sinister flags smirk from
countless one roomed wooden houses
the terracotta soldiers laugh
for they know they are but dust
then the high frocked coated
male mourners smile unsmiling smiles
and say to us
"the future we bequeath to you"
there is a lifeboat in the street
but no water
we sob...sob...sob....sob
for there is no future
the birds all fly away
no future just an unknown place
determined only by the mediocrity
of its frothing melancholy
what have they done
jesus what have they done
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:40 AM UTC
last night I had a poem inside me, I lost it on the highway
in the Christmas of red and white continuous light
on either side
there were other thoughts, in other cars - their webs spun & ready
the wind beat against my window, holding the tail of it --
"there's still time"
but I just looked back at you, driving.
hands sure, your unsmiling lips somehow
still holding,
kind.
and remembered this sizzling, poppin' n' fizzing
feeling
and could have written
pages and pages and instead
just
burned
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
You know I’m strong.
Even if you can’t do this, I’ll be strong.
The ocean is still an ocean,
the sky is still a sky
But an ocean without its horizon
a sky full of dark clouds.
My world is still here though.
There is still the dark mist that hides the sky,
and the huge grey cliffs which bury all the directions,
and the sun, the moon and the stars.
There is still the stillness in the ravens’ crow.
The heavy waves still roll
and drown my white naked feet unto the shore.
And I know I still exist. I still walk and breathe.
Partly breathe, but it doesn’t matter.
For I still can and that’s what should be.
Even if you’re like this for the next decades,
for you I will always be strong.
If you say you’ll die if you start loving me,
then don’t.
For I won’t die if you don’t
but I will if you die.
The world is still here
and I don’t really care if it won’t turn.
But please, be still. Stay as far as you’re near.
Let those eyes be as empty as they are.
Dark, distant, a glance of nothingness, I don’t care.
We are both blinds anyway.
And I am always kind.
Even when I know
you are not behind your skin when I touch you,
I won’t complain. I can’t feel anything either.
As long as you stay with me like this forever,
in this forever where there’s no night or day,
you know I’ll be strong.
Even if you’re just a ghost, unfeeling, soundless,
staring straight at the grey, hushed waters,
I won’t let myself know you are. I can feign.
For even if you’re like this beside me,
even when your heart had crossed this isle
and left me for another,
even when your chest is only filled with air,
just the ocean’s air,
as long as your body, your face,
your unsmiling face is here,
you are mine. Mine.
And I will stay like this with you
even during the soft perils of a morning’s light hail
or drown with you when the abyss of the ocean
consumes this little heaven of mine.
For you know, I am strong and I can always be.
Even if I know that you being here is a lie,
and that my world is half-living and I am half-alive,
as long as I can still sleep on your silent *****
and I can still lean on your cold arms,
you will always be adorned, and worshipped.
And I will lie on your lap as I stare at the white sky,
watch and taste your dry mouth from the splashes
of the rushing waves,
then feel the thin silhouette of your face,
your hands, your feet, your chest, your hair,
your soul from all the shadows around me.
Oh dear! I can just do anything and everything for you!
Believe me, I can do all these! I really can!
For you know I am strong. I really am.
These feelings are immortal
and I have already immortalized you,
here, in this isle,
in my little-found heaven,
where I am always strong.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 4:35 AM UTC
Yiska sits on the sofa staring.
Music on the radio, background
noise. Naaman walks the length
of the locked ward, right hand
in his dressing gown pocket.
White bandage, blood stained,
wrapped around his left wrist.
Avshalom’s razor did the job
unsatisfactorily, he muses,
feeling the soreness where
the wound’s wrapped. Yiska
taps the sofa seat and beckons
for Naaman to sit beside her.
He sits down, hands on knees.
She’d found him in the locked
ward washroom wrist slit,
blood drenched. She talks to
him, low voice, muttering words.
The nurse at the desk eyes them.
Slit wrong way, Yiska says, the
Romans had it down to a fine art.
Naaman senses the wrist throb.
He smells her soapiness, wants
to wrap himself into her. Some
deem it a sin to take your life,
she says. Doesn’t matter a ****
once you’ve gone, she adds, tracing
a finger along his artery. More
ways than one to go, Yiska says,
reaching the bandaged wound.
Naaman says, I know, I tried each
in turn, failed me each. She smiles.
That hanging **** was a no no, she
says. Need to go beautifully, not
boggled eyed with protruding tongue
like some rabbit hung. The nurse
takes his hand and feels the bandage
hold. She unsmiling looks at both,
their conversation dumbed. Naaman
senses the nurse’s hands trace a
line around the wound. Unimpressed,
she moves away, eyed by Yiska’s dark
stare, watches the nurse talking to
another standing there. Makes work
for them, Yiska says, no feathers in
their caps if you break through to the
other side. Naaman sniffs her soapiness,
warms to her nearness, seeks to dissolve
into her otherness. Sylvia had it off to
pat, Yiska says, head in the oven dozed
to a death. Sylvia? Naaman asks, his eyes
skimming along her thigh where night
gown showed. Plath, she says, the poet,
back in 63. Naaman drinks in her dark
valley where her night gown gapes, his
black dog mood barks in his brain. Look,
Yiska says, pointing her finger window
wards, after the freezing snow, comes rain.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 9:40 AM UTC
The iron monster tempts her closer
with a rusty soul
glistening bolts
and a wide-mouthed brim
of steel and secrets.
Her eyelids
fall to her lashes
anticipating the dreams that
weigh heavy on her heart
of underwater cities and
of things that were meant
to be.
The drop isn’t much too far
but she hangs onto its copper body
and for once
she is afraid.
But the clouds serve as a witness
and the friendly waves
down below
call to her.
The sun approaches quietly
once more,
just like yesterday
just like she practiced.
Except today
she isn’t interrupted
by unsmiling visitors
Mr. Ford, Mr. Lincoln
and their friends
with their minds pumping
and their engines roaring.
Jun 23, 2010
Jun 23, 2010 at 6:40 PM UTC
One Sunday
evening after tea,
Benny's old man said:
do you want to
go see a horror film?
Yes,
he said,
that'd be good,
but it's an X film
and I won't get in
(He was about
12 then).
Put your long
trousered suit on
white shirt and tie,
and we'll see
what they say.
He Brycreemed
Benny's hair,
polished
his black shoes.
He said:
if anyone asks
how old you are
say nothing,
I’ll tell them.
So off they went
and stood in the queue
at the cinema.
Benny felt
a bit conspicuous
standing there,
but he put on
his unsmiling face,
stared at no one,
and squared his shoulders.
When they got
to the ticket office
his old man said:
two adults please,
and gave her
the money;
she gave him
the tickets.
They went past
the usherette
who just looked
at Benny,
but nothing.
They found two seat
and sat down.
Soon after
the lights were lowered
and the Pearl & Dean
adverts began.
Benny was then
inconspicuous
one of the crowd.
He had been taken
as an adult,
and got into see
an X film:
Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
He sat there
with a smile,
and with a bit
of schoolboy pride.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC
christ you hang tinsel on a wooden cross
(drooping) your unsmiling figure
by the christmas tree tinseled too
silver clever ringlets wreathing
hung by hands delicate
ornaments dote 'pon
the boughs swinging
swaying
in
some unfelt
breeze they jounce
those
lovely sparkle sprinkled
spheres
mingle in the arms
of pine and soft
cinnamon
smells
cru
mbl
i
ng
wafts increase
from
the hot busy
pocket
of
the kitchen
into soon sleeping hands
my body enters
to the sound
of small
laughter
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC
You both rode your bicycles
to the small church
along the lane
and parked your bikes
against a tree
in the churchyard
out of sight from the lane
will there be anyone in there?
Milka asked
as you tried
the old wooden door
don't think so
people only come here
one Sunday in the month
you said
you opened the door
and walked in
it smelt of damp
and oldness
and no one was there
you walked up the aisle
and looked at the old pews
and stained glass windows
people still come here?
she said
guess so
you said
kind of old isn't it
you stood looking
back at her
her dark hair
brought into a ponytail
her jeans and green top
do you like the place?
you said
for what?
she said
to visit
you said
been to better places
she said moodily
thought you
were going to take me
somewhere
we could be alone
and kiss and such
she added
looking around the church
we are alone
you said
yes but hardly
the place to kiss
and do things
she said
we can kiss here
you said
then what?
she said
she walked down the aisle
looking about the place
you watched her
we could have ridden
to the pond place
and did more
she said
let's just sit
and get the feel
of the place
you said
she reluctantly walked
back to you
and you sat in
one of the pews together
I wonder how many couples
have walked down
this aisle as man and wife?
you said
a few unfortunate couples
I guess
she said
you smiled
some make a go of it
you said
don't get any ideas
she said
I'm not ready
for that stuff yet
do your brothers
still needle you
about going out
with me?
you asked
not any more
they got bored with it
in the end
besides you're
their friend
and I’m just their sister
they said
you ought to see a quack
after going out with
she said unsmiling
and my mother
trusts me with you
which is annoying
why annoying?
I wanted her to be worried
that I was doing things
and have her look at me
like I was a no good *****
you laughed
what for?
to see her reaction
she trusts me
you said
well she shouldn't
Milka said
not after
what we have been up to
it's not always
what you do
it's what people think you
do that makes them
judged you
you said
I don't like this place
she said
let's go elsewhere
ok
you said
and so you got out
of the pews
and walked out
of the church
and got on your bikes
and rode off
into the Saturday morning air
giving her moving hips
as she rode
a happy stare.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 3:49 AM UTC
I choose a table in the middle
To feel like I'm part of the rush.
Regulars are identified by their silence
Receiving their drinks without need for a word.
I stumble over my order...
One small? tall? short? Fat ameri-frappe please hold the dairy...
I'm certain I did it wrong
Every hole in the wall has its own lingo
To distinguish those in the know
From those who wandered in
I'm a wanderer, without a doubt
The man behind me is impatient
He's one of the silent ones
Unsmiling in his dress shirt
I wish I were a real person like him
Who knew to say short instead of small
And didn't sit alone at tables
Writing phrases no one cares to read.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
dogs snarl and
yowl as she approaches:
her silken dress trailing
the ground,
her ashen face, unsmiling.
lady of the night: she leads
her army of ghouls with cold,
heavy chains that make a
sickening sound as they
stroke against the black concrete.
she is unseen, but watching,
cold malice in her
shadowed eyes.
she can see the sweat beading
upon your pallid face
as you struggle to wake, gasping.
heed her unnatural beauty,
for it is too dark to see
her true face. she
parts the road thrice
and awaits your decision.
a smile curls her lips:
she is warning you.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 6:11 AM UTC