"unsurprising" poems
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe
nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?
Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today
Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah
Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)
over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology - well, message me asap
wow there really is a Saskatoon!
the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin
see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)
ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea
gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Jun 7, 2018
Jun 7, 2018 at 5:47 AM UTC
Sunshine arises a delightful smile on my face
For the time of twilight compassionate and sweet
The darkness of the night escorts an exotic trance
Where music titillates and tingles the tolerant minds
We trip the light fantastic ceasing in the catnap room
Reach for dreams as hypnotic states are entered
To the other side of the tunnel
Sequences continue like trees do through seasons
At dawn I will laugh from the salty raindrops
That declared war to my skin
Clouds shooting never ending water molecules
Ocean flavoured waterfalls drip down my lips
When the sun is sublime
The world makes me laugh
For people are odd and reality is unsurprising
The clock ticks life away as it puts life in time
When birds abandon sweet lullabies
Sunflowers wind their heads away from the sun
And tranquil colours paint the abstract sky
My heart is in peace and butterflies tickle my tummy
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
**Put down that pen
Relax your hand
Please quit writing
Smash your keyboard
With a sledgehammer
Please quit typing**
I’ve had enough with the compliments
On your half assed verses of antiquated love
On your verses of woe is my childhood babbling ********
On your verses of epiphanous enlightenment
I can’t believe that you’re what passes for good poetry
All that praise must be going to your head making you loco
Thinking that you can get away with writing that utter crap
I can’t believe you have so many admirers, so many followers
Hanging on to your every unsurprising word
Mad-Lib poetry, paint by numbers
It’s nice to see that that thesaurus and rhyming dictionary
Are working wonders for your writing
Like you’re some ******* messiah
Writing the perfect words for how they feel deep down
Like you're some ******* prophet
That speaks the word of the masses
Listen to the masses speaking from my tongue:
**Put down that pen
Relax your hand
Please quit writing
Smash your keyboard
With a sledgehammer
Please quit typing**
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
The wind blew,
aflame, not burning;
softly, gently, caressingly;
penetrating pianissimi billowingly.
I yielded;
I'm carried along,
effortlessly, unhurriedly,
seemingly randomly.
Little things,
a glimpse here, a sparkle there,
a dash of brilliance now and then,
simple unsurprising things.
Then I looked back, and I see:
how far and how changed I've been;
Truth, simple and little, adds up recursively,
transforming compoundingly.
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 12:19 AM UTC
sometimes I stop at you
and look
with eyes of grateful wonder
your spirit still all shiny
yet you are still here with me
yes some things aggravate
but why should they, if unsurprising?
they shouldn't really get to me
it's your different way of singing
well-seasoned are my campaigns
i've loved and lost a few
i come with all my baggage
to be here with you
i think that I am blessed
and live by this adage
happy with a playful angel
not being unaccompanied baggage
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Did I ever tell you that I miss you?
That now when the sun shines, I can't feel its warmth
Because I'm quite sure that you were the sun for me
My own bright star.
I could romanticise the constellations for you,
I really could.
But you of all people know that I was never a
Romantic.
Instead of love letters I'd give you stutters
And instead of flowers I'd give you a crane
Made from the napkin that I used to wipe pasta
Sauce from my face.
Unsurprising is the fact that you left without a word,
Leaving me here to write words about you and
Your arms when they held me,
Even for the briefest of moments.
Sometimes my brain tells my eyes that it was you
That passed the corner by our cafe.
But I'm still convinced that you're a dream and I'm
An insomniac not quite woken up,
Since my eyes are still half-closed.
You could be my Sirius or my Adhara,
Or even their flanks.
After all, Mirzam and Sirius were lovers-
Or siblings, I never did quite get that right.
Forgive me, gorgeous.
I lose my mind around you and talk about the
Stars as if they're your eyes.
That would indeed be the closest comparison,
After all.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 5:37 AM UTC
As I wander in, the path ahead unfolding
I'm forced to reassess the playing cards I'm holding
Conquer and divide the uncertainties,
only to find they're alive, they've multiplied
And though my days wandering down the wrong path have ended
Its set for the aimless wandering to begin
Most days are unsurprising
I can see the sun arising
Illuminating the things I've learned thusfar
Though still leaving me with a tin can for a heart
It's like looking in the rear view mirror,
objects no more nearer, rather farther
And it's only getting harder seeing, believing that my intuition's not deceiving,
That the feeling that's haunting me
Isn't just because of where I want to be,
That what I see is what I see,
That I haven't shrouded my head in rose colored glasses,
Not clouding myself with whatever flight of fancy
Passes me from midnight to midmorning, warning me
That morning light dancing across my bed isn't the harbinger of another day of medioctiry,
But the bringer of the life I swear I see.
That I haven't deluded myself concluding,
Reading signs alluding to some moment frozen inside my head subconsciously
That I swear has been there all my life,
That I'm fated like I thought, not condemned to waiting,
Not believing without reason, not deceiving,
But seeing the redeeming that I've seen,
Just believing what I've seen.
Just believing.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 2:36 PM UTC
<~>
Pradip Chattopadhyay:
“I think of death now, but more than that, the life I left behind.”
*this is like gray hair,
one day, just there,
lower back pain, joins the train,
this retrospection inspection,
seasonal,
neither spring summer or winter,
just a unique fall,
like gray hair,
appearing slowly,
surprisingly unsurprising.*
*there is no wisdom herein,
just timed capsule release
decay.
the weaker the eyesight becomes,
the squinting routine,
we see every moment,
through a rearguard retreat.*
did we win, or just
stalemate?
we cannot accept
the sense of lost,
so squint harder,
for looking ahead
is refused
for that is a neutral state,
facing backwards
is the only warranted
directive,
that you must, must
take to make hard
judgement.
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 8:58 AM UTC
I never thought that Lucifer would be so pretty.
He has your hands, darling- pink and white:
like roses in Russia, or else a scab that hasn't quite healed.
His hair is hot as hell, which is unsurprising, honestly.
He shuffles through the Moscow streets with reality
peeled away from his eyelids. I don't think he sees me at all
and yet I feel him, cold as the ice on which we tread towards each other. I wonder if he closed his eyes when he fell from heaven.
You did, I know. You hate heights, or perhaps just the falling.
Maybe that's why the love-thing never worked out.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
something along the lines of
you'll leave me,
won't you?
is what i say to you
which is
unsurprising,
given the circumstances for which
this idea seems so completely
appealing to me
(you'll leave me,
won't you?
you'll leave me,
eventually,
blah blah blah,
if you leave me
i'll **** myself,
blah blah blah
is it all the same
to you? do you think i
say this ****
for fun?)
how *******
blasphemous,
this idea that's so
absurd
to you;
do you so
constantly have your
head
up your *** or is it just me?
oh, wait, no
i don't know
what you want me to say
do you want me
to agree with you?
you?
you, of all people?
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
we slide through times
of nothing really
they’re delicate reminders –
i grew up learning cycles
with outlines hard to break
we vanish further –
unsurprising –
intentions fading footnotes
without the strength to leap
we’re shapeless
intermissions
the quiet ones for worse
caressed yet empty-handed
and waiting
with no end in sight
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 6:11 AM UTC
~~~
"is it just me?"
this habitual guest,
nay, by now, alien resident,
this panting ponderous puzzlement,
so habitual, it has founded a room of its own
in a secluded space
upon mine own, contested Temple Mount
oft it strolls about the premises of me,
arm-in-arm with his pernicious cousin,
a fellow imploding interrogatory,
"what if?"
these thigh-slapping cacklers both, living off in the hollows
of the doubtful spaces they create,
cozy, corner-bounded criers, walk-abouters in thine recesses hidden
today, just one more inflection point in this man's life,
of which your are a welcomed observer,
and if but ******
then let it be of thy own self,
for well imagine we, this pesky pairing,
that never venture far or away from their companionship
of any of us
friends of friends
I have no answer for either torturous query,
this answer, unsurprising and well expected,
for these visitors from a planet pernicious,
are astronomer-logged in your own constellation,
the dimmed light they shed, sheds no light at all,
having arrived light years after they were first posed
how can I counsel thee, that their risky business
should be routine dispatched fast away to another galaxy,
for here I am failing and flailing, well into my ending years,
yet waking once more in bed,
with this uncouth pair today,
haunting mine well worn, well trod paths
*have you no guidance, no solvable words to defer
the solvable drip of doubt with which they tint our souls?*
the only defense I am aware,
is to answer-deflect them with
yet another half-inquiry, half-commandment
that resides in the wellsprings
of thine best, supplanting them,
a goal to be,
by asking a twice-harder supposition
***how can I,
this new morning glory,
this new clean babe borning,
be a better human?***
~~~
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
In my more misunderstood days, I once read up on how to speak to the dead
The results were unsurprising; an article on Necromancy
I read on and on, it went quite hard to my head
It went quite hard to my memories
Upon that aloof, summer day of boredom in which I was first clued in
To the biggest secret kept away by grief and adulthood
I read why unspeakable corpse magic is deemed a sin
And why such things are sealed away with intentions good
But ultimately useless
Despite the misinformation’s efforts proven fruitless
We do not reach out; we do not speak to the dead
The dead reach out, they speak to us
They reach out to us
In dreams, in books, in stories
With much fuss,
They rise from the crypts and earth
And they whisper sweet glories
In their reeking, putrid breath exhaled from rotten lips
The truth slips, the future slips
For the dead, they can see the future
For the dead, they have lived the past
Necromancy, romantic for the living longing for the dead; suture
Of misinformation; the ideation that the living cast
A spell upon the dead, raising them for past loves and lives
When in truth, they are merely here to set free our eyes from our lies
The dead do not want us the living to die
For they know how horrendous fate can be
With screeching lungs rotting, they shriek of how the end is nigh
And share wisdom mostly ghastly
Willingly, they impart visions of future from bygone past
As, they - the ungrateful dead - lusting for life to return
With one last breath,
I remind you so you may learn
So, you may pass on from your own misunderstood days:
That which colours our miserable, romantic haze...
We do not talk to the dead
That is why we believe it bad luck to speak ill of our passed-on people
The dead talk to us and they talk to us of the future
That is the truth of Necromancy
That is the truth that you will now see
Beyond misconstrued myth, it is not the raising of the dead for love,
But for knowledge.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
I received my official
(unofficial)
unsolicited
free of charge
diagnosis today. From a stranger
on a bus.
Seems I lack balance,
everything in perfect portions
salty and sweet
wet and dry
meaning and irreverence
acceptable and perverse
a place of equilibrium and symmetry.
I find this state - unsurprising
Painfully predictable
transitory
a beacon for chaos.
Disorder only exists
against the theoretical backdrop
of order.
Nature unrepentantly marches towards
disorder
chaos
unbalance
asymmetry.
To hold balance, one must
shut the mind - close the soul
to new ideas and experiences.
Lest the delicate state
of transition be undone. Completed.
Balance is just a wobbling bubble.
driven aimlessly by currents of air.
Until the sphere inevitably - pops.
Entropy prevails,
We already knew it would.
always has,
always will.
Chaos snacks on tasty morsels of order.
Like little hor de' ourves
served on a shiny tray
at an impromptu soiree
universally,
eternally.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
An exponential explosion
losing potency
the orb of energy gasps
with its last act, fortissimo
the universal pattern emerges
unsurprising, yet ambiguous
arms as fluid as
the harp of Orpheus
hands of grace
caress the faces that appear
a clinging flitter
dwindling into the abyss
with your passing
the beautiful cycle continues
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
we plant white lies like seeds in the fertile soil of stories—
perfect as a magic bean, we’ll climb skyscraper-high
to a world of gods and giants.
when reality sets in, cold as a vise and just as tight,
it’s unsurprising we cling desperately to soothing fictions.
given enough hope and rope, we’ll tie our own noose.
we’ve memorized the plot-lines,
can trace the hero’s journey
as the veins in our hands.
in fairy tales and holy texts, they say,
“love will save the day.” but i have never met
someone who can take the pain away.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
I.
Some of the leaves are still green
crawling between cold alleys in morning
thin wind stringing them along
carrying them towards December
II.
The trees are decorated too early
every year is an unsurprising imitation
but still you are warm inside with your family
making up for the colours you lack outside
III.
Cocktail dresses flash like little winks
hints of resolve so ready to be broken
the gold flows like goddess ichor and smiles
kissing like lovers who will leave tomorrow
loving as if we aren't
IV.
Love is in the air like chlorine gas
and no one is the wiser for it
the streets are still covered in old, dark snow
but we're too tired of it to notice
it's only a few sleeps until spring.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
I continue to let the days fade
Because this game that we play
Only continues with the sun
The fighting is always worth the fun.
But games only last so long
I keep saying there's only so much that can go wrong
It should be the point of unsurprising
Everything we fight about the past re-rising
With every argument I tend to think
That soon our fights will begin to shrink
But wrong I am, and wrong I will be
Until our trust is brought back,
I hope we find that ability
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
The only thing that can make the surprise of tragedy worse,
Is when it is thoroughly unsurprising.
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 7:00 PM UTC
Are we running
because you're afraid of me
or the starting pistol aimed at us both.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 2:14 PM UTC
I’ve grown numb
And accustomed to
Whatever that was deemed
Extraordinary.
Does this make me dull
If the complexity of the universe
Has become
Ordinary?
No longer a stranger or an enigma
To my inner experience?
Does this make me boring
If I no longer find joy
In discovering something
Unsurprising?
For when you
Constantly dwell and live
In the unknown
Is it really a big deal
To find something unexpected?
I mean... what did you expect anyway?
I am more interested in human interactions
In the consequences
And the causes
Of my actions
And I have internalised the outside world
And the outside wonders and
Discipline and harmony
Has become my quest and
My childish discovery.
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 1:17 PM UTC