"unspent" poems
Le ***** Quest
Glasses up, Hair down
*** up, Face down
Ignore the sisters, I’m after the cousins
The catholic approved crevasse to bust in
I wouldn’t say im obsessed
But the ***** demon has me possessed
I’d call you blessed, its what you guessed
I’m hard pressed to bend you east and get at the west
I’m on a ***** quest with a lascivious request
to admire the caboose cleft
I can’t repent the intent of this unspent cement
But I’ll give up hemp for lent
Embark on a posterior pilgrimage of preposterous proportions,
Devoted to the search for thy voluminous bloons for which I swoon
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
that feeling when (your) finger tips clutch (my) bare skin
veiled in casual apathy
we watch the screen in silence
not knowing what to say
i don't know what went on
behind your flickering eyes
as for me, the moment of contact
sent jumpy tingles up my spine
unexpectedly
my mind reeled forward
to unspent nights in dance clubs or backyard barbecues;
the way your hands felt in mine when we leaned in
lips still intact--
unbroken
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
Eternal flame burning bright for me,
A beacon of hope across life’s great sea,
A symbol of faith for wandering ways,
A guiding light for darker days.
The symbol of life that burns so quick,
That tall proud candle, with unspent wick,
My life it holds within its flame,
Either good or bad, it burns the same.
As life grows long, the candle grows short,
For a life lived carefree, or one of thought,
The candle cares not one jot,
It lives to burn, that is its lot.
Through time the candle grows so frail,
Just like myself, through time I’ll ail,
And just like I, oxygen gives it life,
To cope with all our daily strife.
Our time on earth, is fleeting, brief,
If time is tree, then I am leaf,
My faith proclaims life’s heaven sent,
But ends when my candles wick is spent.
All I ask from the life I live,
Is people appreciate all I give,
I care not for fame, nor even wealth,
Life is good if there is health.
I have the greatest gift of all,
I have my children, I love them all,
The gift I’ll leave hides in my words,
To me as melodic as the song of birds.
My candle of life continues to burn,
I have so much I've still to learn,
Until the day I give that final choke,
And my candle itself shows only smoke.
When time has passed, please don’t be sad,
Think of me with memories glad,
My candles flame, extinguished, gone,
Deep in your hearts, will still burn on.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2012
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 6:21 AM UTC
Her orchards I often dream,
buries of my eye,
lost in my fairy book
of beaten pages,
of sunken tears and of mind.
I kept turning the pages, racing,
racing,
looking for her,
between the lines,
now gone,
gone ... are those
lovely high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
swaying and smiling,
her,
her saintly smile,
haunting,
yet shadowing me forever
in my mind.
Each page turned, a sad tear falls
deep and deeper,
for the pages are blank.
Her absence ferreting out
blackness,
skeletons and silhouettes,
the pages turning,
weeping ...
my heart pains
for the book of love
unwritten and unfinished.
The wishing well of ink unspent.
Her essence forever corked
from my heart ...
I now lay arrest,
peas in a pod,
aberration and distortion,
for
lovely those high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
gone.
Sullenly the music plays
to a different song.
Indelible was happenstance,
our chance encounter,
a special one at that,
puzzlement lays a longer shadow
... of why she walked,
without any words.
Logan Robertson
11/09/17
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
Give all to love;
Obey thy heart;
Friends, kindred, days,
Estate, good fame,
Plans, credit, and the muse;
Nothing refuse.
'Tis a brave master,
Let it have scope,
Follow it utterly,
Hope beyond hope;
High and more high,
It dives into noon,
With wing unspent,
Untold intent;
But 'tis a god,
Knows its own path,
And the outlets of the sky.
'Tis not for the mean,
It requireth courage stout,
Souls above doubt,
Valor unbending;
Such 'twill reward,
They shall return
More than they were,
And ever ascending.
Leave all for love;—
Yet, hear me, yet,
One word more thy heart behoved,
One pulse more of firm endeavor,
Keep thee to-day,
To-morrow, for ever,
Free as an Arab
Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid;
But when the surprise,
Vague shadow of surmise,
Flits across her ***** young
Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free,
Do not thou detain a hem,
Nor the palest rose she flung
From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself,
As a self of purer clay,
Tho' her parting dims the day,
Stealing grace from all alive,
Heartily know,
When half-gods go,
The gods arrive.
4.2k
With our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent
with blind zealotry they refuse to relent opposing our mergence
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.
As we share these moments and begin our physical ascent
be aware that they will not capitulate in calling for our penance
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent.
Remember this simple covenant in order to circumvent
the condemnation of our actions as unforgivable flagrance
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.
In these sheets we have long forgotten the virgin's lament
because the silent weeping is drowned out by our cadence
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent.
By our mutual pleasure we have earned their unrelenting resent
and we are endlessly castigated for our lack of temperance
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.
The cries of fanatics prove their opposition to be hellbent
they would prefer that we endure the torment of abstinence
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
I have all this love
And nowhere to put it
It's rotting inside me
Soft,warm
Unspent.
I reach out in dreams
But wake up alone
His name buried in my throat
Like a secret
I was not allowed to say.
He didn't stay
But the love did
And now it grows wild
Inside a heart
With no one left
To give it to.
Jun 18, 2025
Jun 18, 2025 at 1:20 PM UTC
There are those days best forgotten
In solemn silence all begotten
Comes fear and fire
and all that's rotten
In what seems
suddenly ..to be
my lot in life
Life is lived in cost-conscious revisions
Applied like mud poultices
Upon all daily impositions
Inclined to find
the weakest point
in the structure
Eating at you
in silent observation
Of your salient need for salvation as it ***** your
soul
Into the void
where all lost causes
Seek redemption
For all wasted time unspent
In cost - conscious
Solemn silence
When fear and fire
And all things rotten
Were what should
have been forgotten
Instead of all that
you left
unbegotten
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 3:00 AM UTC
Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph
they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.
George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt
I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.
The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with
I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
Desires aren't ripened tangerines
They do not fall off the tree when they are ready
They do not fertilize the roots below
They do not shrug off the sense of un-pickedness,
just like that,
Not like tangerines do.
Desires unspent are starving termites.
They bite into living bark
And burrow into the breathing deep
Past rings and rings of precious age.
They corrupt the tender core
And, soon, no new leaves grow
And no more fruit drops.
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
I have longed to move away
From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terrors' continual cry
Growing more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.
I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.
2.1k
Moon drops splayed themselves
as though crystal blankets on summers ethereal stream,
Violet memories traced her deep obsidian eyes
How she beseeched Lethe’s empty flow
Night stars dreamed of patchouli perfumed rhymes
Ebon blooms dance with dulcet tones,
And fireflies whimsically danced to tune
Unspent words whispered from bottles of hope stored,
Hypnotized by sweet bees, her heart swept laden fruit groves
─ As hunger ate her soul
Eucalyptus his breath against a smoked filled dawn
A wood fire burned and hands clasped content
Tender his silk fingers traced blush her lips,
Consecrated by night she devoured poetic blooms
Of gold the cauldron blazed how yellow the young flame
One drop be lemon acid boiled black she sang,
Tasting dreams on smoke tarnished in polished prose,
How she bayed to moon’s blueberry gaze and bled geranium red,
By his voice herbs and stones weep and she forgets
─ she forgets, only the night moon bleeds
© Arnay Rumens / A Sol Poet
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
2.1k
The cat lies on the table. She is keeping her own council, a philosophical feline. It is mid afternoon, an hour before the possibility of tea and cake. Already the room is retreating from the lamp's light into a dusky gloom. Outside the winter garden lies still, damp and cold and still.
Rain comes. A winter rain, almost snow, spreads itself across the window. Ice-full it is a drum with tiny particles rolling across a taut skin of glass. The cat stirs, turns on his side exposing a tummy of white fur. An old cat this, a silent presence now, hardly a purr on a waiting lap.
Books. Piles of books. A book open to reveal pencilled annotations. Several arrangements of papers paper-clipped together, colourfully highlighted. There's a scholarly journal 'borrowed' with a concert programme marking a ‘required’ read. Telemann and Bach infiltrate an investigation of Jewishness in George Eliot's Daniel Deronda.
A framed photograph stands companionably amongst today's letters and the coloured cards of Christmas to come. There's a red-haired girl, a portrait against old roses., a child in a school-blue dress, freckled with green eyes she is smiling carefully, as though not convinced taking this photo is a good thing.
As darkness encroaches, the stories in this space circle the lamp like moths. They rise from the table, detach themselves from the walls (like bats) and float in their own form. Catching leaves, wish-making in a September wood; the fierce tide pouring across the Lindisfarne causeway; small children picnicking by a cricket field. The recent thrill of Jerusalem. Taverner's Mass –
*Oh Western Wind,
when will thou blow,
the small rain down can rain?
Christ! If my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!*
Here in this small suburban room there comes together a past; a life reverberates in a temporary peace, a truce in the long campaign of family, ageing, ****** discomfort, obligation, regret (always regret), passion unspent, books unread, poems still to write. And this waiting for a clear answer yet to come, a promise yet to be fulfilled? All is contained here as the alarm clock's digits move towards 16.30 and it is time for tea and cake. Time to rise from the table and feed the cat.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 1:45 AM UTC
Like stars spilling from whiskey dewdrop lips
Words streak across a midnight sky of longing
What proverbs may come from these whiskey lips For every lightless night spent apart For every unspent voucher to destinations we will never travel to
Find something beautiful
And don't let go
All things of beauty
Must pass away
Maybe one beautiful thing can stay
Hold tight the breathless moments spent dreaming in aurora skies
For every darkness carries the remembrance of the sun
How it left warm kisses upon fluttering eyelids
In this way we too will find heaven
That undiscovered heaven whose patterns we have run through
and dimly remembered sun
the hopeless light that sits quietly
In the souls of the storm-born
That far
that distant
That's where the hurt is
That is the proof of love
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Sardonically ironic, moronically harmonic,
Are beats of emotions unspent.
Overly protective, and somewhat selective,
My shoes on the gravel-laden roads
Of winter are old.
Your silvery hair, neat and bare
Is unfinished. We’re not there yet, you and I.
My name becomes forgotten,
Yesteryears laundry on clotheslines
So hauntingly frigid, and cold they could dance.
The secret of warmth is lost
As the moth dies into the hold of my hands.
Bone-framed windows, with a cryptic message
Surround my palm-tree hair.
My front door is open, hopin’ for a
Short visit, of friends I had not there.
Winter’s approachin’, tree lines are lookin’ in
On the cuckolded dreamers.
Repent.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC
An unfenced field
of memories awoken ,
frozen pastel flowers
color fast ,
though fading
on borrowed time
A one-way footpath
disappears unencumbered
between the snowdrifts
leading across
the winter stilled
iced up creek bed ,
coursing a path
of least resistance
destiny unknown
Changing tawny petals
scatter like potpourri ,
fallen collateral
in the aftermath
a beautiful dream's
passing light
Pressed and dried
memories buried
under dog-eared
tear-stained pages
black topiaries
that grow in the dark
Redemption unbid
and unwelcome,
earthen mineral rights
surrendered unspent ,
Natural order
decomposing
reclamation ,
chilled to the marrow
A scorned lover’s
bated breathe
bared ink unspoken,
Unbidden laments
eerily betokened
in an unseen
netherworld ,
undeniable , yet
bashfully remarkable
I see the frosty
fogged breath
that repents
in choral dialect ,
speaking in known
tongue , with
the absolvable voice
of a bitter cold wind
wind is the wind .... December 20. 2016
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
her perfume tells stories of ambient destruction
and i always kiss her good night in bed
struggle to keep watch
keep my eyes open and in the clear
but every morning she's disappeared
a fading memory that claws to be set free
stuck somewhere between reality and fantasy
somehow trapped between unspent love and unleashed fear
familiar warmth on your pillow
were you just here?
a flash
and i remember the welcome in your eyes
in your summer dress smile
wow, that smile
i would build a rocket with my own two hands
plant your precious smile for all the world to see
right up there
on the silvery moon
wait,
where am i?
it's dark
oxygen alarm blares
hear my breath inside the visor
i startle awake
open my eyes
realizing
it's morning
no gravity
and it's me
not you
that's not really there.
Jul 10, 2015
Jul 10, 2015 at 1:43 PM UTC
Of all the lands I've roamed till now,
I find my love in these
In the voices that I've come to know
Floating gently as the breeze
So calm and clear, the waters now
Of my restless crashing soul
To you, my friends, I give my heart
Which you all so kindly stole
For all the times we've lost ourselves
And been saved along the way
May we raise a glass for the times we've spent
Growing fonder every day
As grains of sand within that glass
Fall slowly to an end
There'll be no time I leave unspent
With the greatest of my friends
So as long as you are on my mind
I will keep you in my heart
At each journey's end there are more to come
Just waiting for their start
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
Hello to the Tin Man
Said the body of various organs
Warriors sit in fields of fire
Braving heat, metal, and fury
Kneeling in the battlefield
Swords to stomachs
Bullets to brain cavities
God Bless America
Unpatriotic
God Bless the World
What's so **** special about the U.S.
We have freedom,
That's well and good
But why can't we wish for blessing
Across humanity
Avoid warriors in fields of fire
Stop braving heat, metal, and fury
Don't take a knee in the battlefield
Don't even approach it
Put down the Sword
The bullet can be unspent
Thank you soldiers for the fight for freedom,
But God Bless Everyone
Not just the winners
Not just the losers
The Tin Man's bent to hell
He's seen too much
This body of organs
Would like to stay intact
But the saving of the soul(s)
Is far more important
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
I could be here for you,
and would you be there for me,
The words you speak, I do,
and it took this long for you to see,
The time I spent unspent,
has no regrets on my own part,
You never ever said what you meant,
and I always spoke from the heart,
So now we may become far,
and you think that you might miss me,
Well, I will never forget who you are,
or the person you want to be.
SDPope
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 5:27 PM UTC
Ribs
and pointy sticks
and scarlet ribboned
sanguine teeth
all down my side
they slide
from chest
to rib
they bite
from skin
to smile.
I itch and scratch
and nick and pick
and all the while
a supple
smile
licks
flavoured
at my lip.
Pretty as a picture
Gilled and arced
small crescents
and the presence
of an ornate touch.
So much
{silence} unsaid,
{sweat} unspent,
{sense} unfelt,
Choked and bound
skin ground
and breathing
beneath the blade.
Trussed
and
Trust
Etched seamless
strokes
Volatile,
then comes the
Calm.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 2:20 AM UTC
Much like the shining freckles of light
That gleam so bright in the pit of night
So far away from my outstretched hand
Above the sand of this windswept land
The distant road of my future bears
Many snags to catch me unawares
I ponder and think; I wonder why
Every choice I try to modify
But the future always makes it seem
Like it has no theme, no place for a dream
And I feel so scared; I feel so lost
The future's will shakes me tempest-tossed
An ocean of chaos, confusion, and fears
My life-boat is near a sea of tears
Drifting along with the ocean’s will
Living the thrill yet inept to fulfill
My dreams, my wishes, as well as my hope
Are caught in a whirlpool, devoid of a rope
Frightened of failure; unsure of success
I need to address an engulfment of stress
Racked by worries and subsumed by doubt,
Is a land of drought the only route?
I cling to the wish for an uphill climb,
And hope for the chance of a lifetime.
I weigh each moment I have yet unspent
I’d never resent to trail my intent
Yet distractions make it hard to decide,
Do I push them aside or let them reside?
Each choice I make creates a new road
So I’ll take the one that’s best bestowed
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
I have secrets. Not really. The
thing about secrets: everyone has them.
It doesn't matter how close you
feel to someone. If you know
someone, you keep secrets from them.
To avoid keeping secrets from someone
is to speak your every thought
and conceal no transient stirring of
opinion. And who can boast that
they have never held their thoughts
in check for the sparing of
an unwilling or unwitting ear? Indeed
I have no secrets from others,
simply sides I have not shown
them. And no one can be
my closest confidant, for there are
questions I have never been asked.
So when you feel I am
keeping something from you do not
assume it is my malicious vouchsafe
that I guard from the daylight.
The things I tell others are
as readily apparent in me as
the steps I take, the things
I have not divulged merely the
undersides of my feet, not displayed
but ever present.
But there are things I have
not divulged within me that have
been scrutinized and been subjected to
taboo. These for want of a
better word, we can call secrets.
They are small motes of golden
truth which swim in my bones
and glitter in flames of indignation.
And they are alive for they
move throughout my entire being and
use quick teeth to try to
rend me open. They thirst, these
infinitesimal planets, for the sun which
casts light on everything and bears
nothing in more genial light than
its neighbor. I rather suspect they
would appreciate that equanimity.
However were I to free them,
to cast asunder their parasitic bonds,
I would be cast from my
comfort and tormented, guilty as a
twin shamed for his brother's faults.
So what am I to do?
These glazed traits, my inner selves,
have teeth so I feed them;
I feed them with knowledge and
the comfort that they are not
unique, for others are feasted upon
by the unknowable and un-"what"-able demons
that lie in wait in their
bodies; I feed them with promises,
so infantile yet that they cannot
be tested for emptiness, of an
eventual release and the opportunity to
cast loose the bonds of disgust
with which my peers lasso them.
And they grow larger. They are
engorged with hope. Still when the
beast grows larger, larger grows its
bite.
And when I am at a
loss to placate my secret in-dwellers
with hope, they gnaw. And the
bites which at one point might
have been an irksome scrabbling at
my heart now cave in my
resolve and threaten my breathing with
an erstwhile unspent vigor.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 1:46 PM UTC