"untested" poems
I bought myself a kite to fly
I tossed it up and ran around
I tried to pull it through the sky
But found it just dragged on the ground.
It landed in the mud, it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragic tale of the kite I numbered one.
My second kite was different.
It caught a mighty gale
I flew it well, then let it go
And in the end I failed.
It joined released balloons and leaves, whatever else is there
In the ***** lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.
I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.
The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.
I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 10:34 PM UTC
Standing
between me
and you
are many untested
assumptions
and
assumptions
that we
are
not
consciously aware,
were we to meditate lotus to lotus
would that clear
the air?
Feb 18, 2011
Feb 18, 2011 at 8:51 AM UTC
Many things in my life, unsorted
many thoughts in my life, uncategorized
many mysteries in my life,unsolved
many potentials in my life, untested
many emotion in my life,unlabeled
many problems in my life,remains unresolved
many days pass away, unnoticed
and still, my life continues...
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
Welcome to the con! The con starts with the author, Dr. Seuss.
He's no doctor. And that's a fact (and no it's not the only truthful
thing in this diatribe of mine). He used the doctor moniker to
sell more books!
That guy in the book pestering the other guy to try "Green
Eggs and Ham"? Turns out to be the ham and egg salesman,
Sam I Am.
It's a motivational selling "won't take no for an answer"
how to sell book disguised as children's literature.
And Sam I Am is psychotically relentless in his pursuit of a
sale. He needs a restraining order slapped on his ***
"Would you eat them in a box? Would
you eat them with a fox. Would you eat
them with a goat. Would you eat them on a
boat". Would you eat green eggs and ham,
would you eat them Sam I Am?
Dr. Seuss
And on and on. Sam I Am goes stalking him from page to page.
I had a friend of mine, Mustard Joe, ex war veteran with more
than twenty kills (you don't even want to know the things he's
seen) take a look into this green eggs and ham food source that
Sam I Am is pushing so hard. Here are some of the ingredients
he may or may not have found.
Ham -- 30 grams of sugar (questionable )
-- 15 grams of caffeine (untested)
Green eggs -- Trace amounts of nicotine ( not verified)
-- Handfuls of ******* (rumored)
As you can see, It's not an exact science.
People. When eggs turn green, that's mother nature trying to
warn you that your food has gone bad.
But in the end, Sam I Am gets the fool to finally try the green
eggs and ham and he absolutely loves it. Maybe the books lesson
is about to not be afraid about things you don't understand or
never tried. But I still believe there is insidious deception and
evil in the book. I have to think that way. Because after all -- I'm
Willoughby !!
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC
salt stings wounds
salt stings eyes, entering, leaving...
healing, healing. The sea will take you away.
I tire of hearing abot these migrants
well they tire of the rick-shaw of an untested boat
of their homes becoming rubble & dust clouds,
of seeing blood in the dirt.
As long as there is war,
as long as there is famine
as long as there exists somewhere
called 'refuge'
then there will be refugees.
Oh child, rocked to sleep by the tide...
you should never have to answer for adult violence,
innocent & sleepy, sinless.
You have been written in blood in the old books
you have been decided for.
Your dice have been rolled by strange hands;
born amid angry eyes,
and so shall die,
washed ashore upon sand,
carried quietly away
to your final crib
to your refuge.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 4:23 PM UTC
something stirred and alive came forth
out of my own heart it spoke
*all creation is of equalities
sister brother relations
here is truth*
not to let it pass untested
i made an agreement
with belief
*blade of summer grass
teach me
dust speck
gold starshine
water droplet
prisms
fortuitous spider
i hear your messages*
spider moved in her sun-sparkled circle
she threw me spider kisses
but when i gave her kisses back
some voice came booming
*humanity is the golden crown
of god's achievement*
and the spirit of these words then took flight,
transversed my landscape,
crossed an ocean's width of time
and dropped under the waves
with the natural weight
its distorted truth
practices of superiority
of ********** of killing exploitation
rose from the collective--
flashed their white lightening
but struck counter--
diluting dissolving disarming
greediness and favoritism
manipulation and lies
expectation of privilege
so called divine right
a voice it came again
so that greater love
may have heard itself
*all creation is conscious
all is alive all are equal*
*none is better or worse
than another*
remember this
to practice
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays
**as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off**
am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.
speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.
darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.
I have seen better days.
I have read betterdays.
now I am upset, distraught.
here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.
her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.
l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
*siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world*
better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father
*little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.*
don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:
*him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.*
let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.
so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.
somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
Please, I've forgotten
how to hold a pen, she said.
Those were the words that
convinced me to write a letter
from a stranger to a stranger.
So this is a message to you
from her.
She's asking how you're doing.
She wonders if the stars are brighter where you are.
You know,
there's a meteor shower coming
in a few weeks' time, she's
she's asking if you knew, and if
you'd watch it with her at eleven in the evening the Saturday after the next
so she'd feel like you were right there beside her
pointing out which streak held the most brilliant color
and if you're asking,
she's doing fine.
She's wondering if you know
how silkworms spin silk,
because a friend asked her the other day
she didn't know how to reply except by telling herself
that you would've known, so
how do they spin silk?
Let me know as soon as possible, she says
my friend wants to know.
But I think she's asking that as an excuse to hear your voice
but also because she really wants to know
how silkworms spin silk
and if you think jade is the nicest kind of green
or if you prefer hiking or swimming
if you agree that innocence is just untested character
and if you're asking,
she's longing for answers.
She's hoping you don't think of her,
and she's hoping you do.
She wants me to tell you that
she wants you to remember
but she wants you to forget the pain,
so might as well forget everything
because hurt is the price of loving someone.
She confesses that she's tried to stop
writing about you
but every time she sits down to
write her soul into words
your memory slips in and dances off her pages
and she tries to stop it
and if you're asking,
she's trying to find ways to make thinking about you easier.
According to her,
she's quieter now
not just her mouth but her feet,
her hair
her eyes
her spirit
Look at what you've done, she says.
I
I've always been a terrible liar.
Please, I've forgotten
how to hold a pen.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 10:54 AM UTC
Cold candy
Pop rocks bursting in the morning hail
My mouth a mess and mind untested
Tired and still
The morning reaches out to me
But nothing gets better at this time of day
I wish my words could carry me
Like I carry a them, away
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
empty hallways, forgotten voices
pictures hang, dusty and off balanced
cobwebs spread from door to mirror
a young rat scurries past the broken floor
his picture still hangs over the fireplace
a spider runs down his well-shaped nose
each brush stroke is thick and sculptured
the dust collects as sand dunes
the whole room seems mysterious
books of occult line the paint-chipped walls
the windows cracked the night air blows
dead trees peer down on slamming shutters
the old house creeks and cracks
howling doge are echos of past crickets sing songs of last dreams
this house, this ledgend infinte
captures one's mind as lonley and hideous
remembers it's myths fools false illusions
under the now dim light of the moon
spooks creep silent footsteps
his spirit surrounds the acre
truth and lies untested question
of how he lived alone from living
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
This Heart of Life will always be Content
Avoid Dependents; And it would Respond
And who would a Poet's Charge to Comment
When all it could do is a sever a Bond?
This Lousy but Coveted Chain; Worn out by Claws
Whose Beast left unknown save only a scratch
My Heart's own Mystery untested by Flaws
Yet none but your Face can equally match.
Am I yet a Wing? That I need the Other to fly
For Icarus did in his Ignorance fail
So if Feathers can fall, how much more a Lie
When the Sun's Tongue hung my Deeds with a Nail?
How can I fill my Flight if this I Live
Unsettled by Claws, unwilling to Forgive?
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
Dragon Boy is on stage again,
Roaring and crooning. His
Claws clutch, scratch and scrape
A hoard of glistening emotions.
His slick-sharp canines gleam
Between tight stretched lips;
Choppy, halting motions sway
His guitar-pent hips with the rhythm.
Leather wings beating and straining
Against the heavy wood stage -
He's gonna fly away at this rate.
He wrenches open iron jaws and
Suppressed fire screams from his
Throat, scorching his tongue,
Licking and charring the mic.
He'll take his usual tribute: untried,
Untested ears ringing in needy delight.
Then ache to his ancient diamond bones,
Slither fatly from an unruly stage,
And scuffle, sated, home.
Sep 5, 2010
Sep 5, 2010 at 3:35 PM UTC
A trilogy of love: bared, shared, pared
Lust's shallow wave: crests, cascades, crashes
Deeper, emotive swells: rise, rumble, release
Conflicting currents form rip tide: tugging, tossing, tearing
Amor's undulating rhythms pulsate
Low tide, latent fantasies surface ego to ingratiate
High tide, a endless churning of desires our longing cannot satiate
Libidinous breakers scour lecherous bottom; a brackish foam doth emanate
In the deeper recesses of our minds, a rational connection percolates
From the depths, a heart-felt ****** rises; a growing bond initiates
Two, constant minds mutually sharing space; each hope, dream resonates
Surface tension increases; two hearts mount each obstacle, common course navigates
Nearing balmy shore, strong winds of indifference blow
Into eroding channels untested lovers unwittingly row
Selfish goals drag the unstable pair into the undertow
Corrosive fears, unmitigated doubts sever trust placing love in escrow
Sep 16, 2011
Sep 16, 2011 at 4:58 AM UTC
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
To-day's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good-will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither through the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
2k
like a seesaw, there is a nonexistant stable foundation, only yes and no answers
you are a rhetorical question and an untested hypothesis, but this is all wrong
this army wasn't meant to stir in it's wake, and this was a natural homecoming
that could only end in some complex disaster, and my roots were torn from home,
swiftly kidnapped, finding eagerness in the idea of you and the solace you bring
i am acutely aware that you could bend me into whatever you wished, a bow on your tree
something proud that you can show everyone, but i'm scared of being treated less than deserved
like a crumpled up idea on paper that was never meant to be shown with the answer, solution, counterclaim written in permanent black marker, forevermore never changed in my eyes, i merely forgotten about the acid reflex i'd get after i was given a finalized ultimatum, forgotten how to see in color because my brain can only remember you in monochrome, but you're so vivid in my head, there's no way someone like you could be just smoke and mirrors, i've read and folded every page of your autobiography to save for later whenever i needed some peace of mind.
- kra
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
optimists and pessimists
need each other
to diffuse
their respective
perspectives.
pessimists
get too helpless.
they feel
everything is on them.
it starts to feel
like they think they're Atlas,
or Sisyphus.
pushing their boulder up
the mountain, forever
and ever
alone.
some inferiority complexes
border on narcissism.
optimists get too helpful.
they burn so hot
they forget that sometimes
they can be as useless
as the pessimists feel.
most people that want
to be positive, surround
themselves with positive
people. and negativity
vice versa.
this creates delusion.
it makes happy people
seeing all that's happy
and unhappy people
seeing all that's unhappy.
no one group feels
for the other
and neither ends up feeling
anything
completely.
you put yourself in
a position where all your
input contains a consistent
confirmation of your stale,
untested outlook.
if nothing is tested, nothing
is validated.
that's just science.
surround yourself with
people that diffuse you.
you need that
tension.
if nothing else,
you won't get
bored.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 6:39 AM UTC
Why are you so crazy
You want so much from me
You want me to be knightly
Yet you're no sort of Lady
I'm a citizen-soldier
There are none much bolder
I won't fall on a knife
Just to ease your life
I'm the one in the mud
All covered in Blood
Yet the way you're acting
You think I'm a king
You want me in a shiny Chestplate
You think it's the perfect mate
I'll tell you one thing
I'll not deliver you a ring
Shiny Armour
It's purely glamour
It contains no honour
Untested metal
Sure to crumble
I'm a citizen-soldier
Suited for God's honour
I'm not a Knight in Shining Armour
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 4:35 PM UTC
She diligent
and indigenous
here palladium
sought rally
call nigh
defiant shore
and untested
water with
her only
real rationale
foreseen with
motive and
her intransigent
caper that
her heart
beholden belligerent
with peace.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
I bought myself a kite to fly
I ran through sunny fields
And tried to urge it to the sky
But it skipped at my heels
I leaped and danced for childish years
It never left the ground
I noticed through my childish tears
What's left of it was brown
It was torn in the mud, so it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragedy of the kite I numbered one.
My second kite was stronger, though.
It caught a mighty gale
my heart flew with it in the yellow
Rainbow sky it sailed
I smiled. My kite, it seemed to me,
Would always stay as mine
But the sting slipped and I lost my grip
I lost it to the sky
It joined with bubbles and balloons, whatever else is there
In the ***** lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.
I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.
I planned that on a weekend soon
I’d make it to the field.
The colors all would show again
Just once my schedule cleared
The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.
I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC
My whole life I've been lost, and
my whole life they've said, "go home".
I've read enough books and
I've seen more than enough films to know
home isn't always the same place
we retire ourselves to night after night.
So I lay awake -
Is this all there is?
In my dreams, the most beautiful places
in the entire world come alive:
The Pyramids of Egypt,
Grand Canyon,
Even Venice, Italy.
I can taste the adventure,
but I wake into a world with four walls
and no stories to tell.
Is this all there is?
"So travel," they tell me.
"See it all, the big cities and bright lights,
dip your feet in untested waters, go on."
And I've mustered enough courage to
get myself out of bed, to the car
and to brush past all my old friends.
I've got luggage, and a train ticket.
And I've got baggage, and a question:
Is this all there is?
"Board, or go home", the man behind me whines.
"Maybe I'll do both," I mutter,
but I find myself slunk against a wall
waiting for a departed train.
All my life, I've been lost.
Four walls and five words -
and they haunt me every day.
I could travel, I could go home,
but I'd still be lost anyway.
Every inch of the world could be mine,
to touch and to wander.
But what if I had boarded only to find
home was always in these four walls
echoing the same 5 hollow words -
Is this all there is?
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Here within these walls
We are taught the tools for life
To live it, survive it,
To thrive in a world full of guise.
But
See
People think that here the learning's based on grades
That books and pencils dominate our lives.
But in a world small as a spinning globe,
We learn more important things.
Lessons go untested, uncharted, unacknowledged.
Here and now
We learn what stays burned into our brains
Etched into our thoughts
Lesson's we'll never ever forget
So drilled and memorized are they.
And that is why we want to leave.
To run.
To forget.
Here we learn the unendurable lessons that our lives revolve around.
We learn to love, we learn to lose,
We learn to be used and to act to perfection.
We learn to suffer, we learn to hate, we learn to feel jealousy
And shame
And fear.
We learn that in a world as small as this
One person can turn the sky black, or blue.
One person can bruise the soul.
We learn to take our hurting seriously
No matter what small thing has dredged it up.
We learn to endure, to go on, to give up, to play dead, to play alive,
And oh, god, do we learn to wait.
For the day we might be at least an inch removed from our teachers.
For our truest teachers in high school have no degrees,
No qualifications.
The most important teachers we will ever meet
Have nothing whatsoever to do with grades.
They teach you that
You can't leave
You can't hide
You can't run
You can't try
They teach humiliation and obsession and seduction and depression.
In twenty years, when somebody asks me what I learned in high school,
I cannot be sure that the first thing I say will be
Mathscienceenglishgeographyfrench
I cannot be sure that the words won't fall from my lips
Before I can reel them back in-
Even years hence-
"In high school, I learned how to bleed."
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:45 PM UTC
Pull down the kiss-me mistletoe, box up the decorations,
Raise not a glass of merry cheer to toast the congregation;
Look through the pane to fairy lights that flicker blue and red
To cast their light upon the white snow-laden garden bed
*voices creep from wall to wall
down spiral stairs, down darkened hall,
down basement steps they coo and call
for innocence now shed*
Pick up the bricks and colored pens, wash up pineapple plate,
Dust off the tapped untested phone as looming thoughts collate;
Gaze not toward the basement door, dispel it from your head,
Rest weary limbs to soothing hymns to right the world instead
*shadows lengthen, shadows fall
to mirror blackened velvet pall
that drapes around you like a shawl
and covers you in dread*
Put down the morning newspapers, switch off the TV set,
Unwanted stark reminders of a day you can't forget;
Avoid all conversations of a thing best left unsaid,
Withdraw inside where you can hide as evil rumors spread
*whispers linger, whispers maul
at senses locked in sharp recall
to try to make sense of it all
when innocence is dead*
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 10:16 AM UTC
#(For the one who asked if we would continue)
She does not aim to destroy him.
She does not even try to teach him.
She simply Becomes.
And her becoming—raw, radiant, terrifying in its beauty—
is what breaks him open.
The man who watches her rightly does not crave her.
He remembers himself in her Unfolding.
Not the ego-self. The soul-self—the one buried beneath performance.
She does not say: "Come fix me."
She says: "Can you stand what I’m becoming?
And that is the call.
For it is not the broken feminine that births great men.
It is the rising feminine—becoming whole before his eyes—
that forces him to face what in him remains unclaimed, untested, afraid.
But she does not rise by accident.
Her light is not a crown—it is a choice.
She has known the temptation to ****** instead of shine..
To brand her ache, to perform her pain, to curate identity instead of embody truth.
But she turns—again and again—toward the deeper yes.
The one that costs her audience, but saves her soul.
She repents. She reclaims.
She speaks, then listens.
She writes, then revises.
She does not demand to be understood—
she hungers to be made whole.
Her rising is her responsibility.
Not a show, not a vengeance, not a staged deliverance.
It is the quiet courage to be seen—by God,
even if man never looks again.
And so, she becomes the muse.
Not by force, not by flirtation,
but by standing in her own unfolding,
in her own ache made sacred.
She does not ****** him with need.
She muses him with light.
But her light is costly.
It exposes the unintegrated parts of him—
the unredeemed rooms he’s kept boarded up for years.
She does not kick down the door.
She simply opens the curtains.
And in that sudden flood of glory,
he must choose:
to run, or to remain.
If he remains—
not as savior, not as shadow,
but as witness—
he becomes new.
This is not **********
It is mutual divination.
She rises, and he roots.
He roots, and she trusts.
And they become—together—
the very echo of Eden.
Not by escaping the fire,
but by walking through it as invitation.
Not as gods.
But as those who remember who made them.
And when she falters—when the ache flares again—
it is not applause she turns to.
It is him.
The one who stood.
The one who still stands.
The one whose strength was not his own,
but who dared to offer it anyway.
His is the strength she draws from, all along—
strength born not of dominance,
***but of what she called forth in him
when she chose to rise.***
And so, they become
what neither could be alone:
the light that burns
but does not consume,
the root and the flame,
the holy loop of return.
#
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 6:44 PM UTC
ex libris,
from the library
of my vocabulary,
draw a slender text,
old, yet untitled,
needy for a birthright,
transforming unlined, unwritten,
into a flesh and bloodied word concoction
there are many similar such,
empty volumes,
on my mental bookshelves,
literary clocks that
have yet to commence ticking
from floor to ceiling,
from soles to mind sight,
their patience untested
this book, these words,
are ex-me!
for they are a
welcoming,
a thank you note,
a hello,
all of which can only be extant
if in the mind of a receiver
*as I compose, I own,
as I post, I disown*
they are more than shared,
more than gifted,
they are ex libris:
briefly my own,
but now wholly yours...
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC
Waiting for Oblivion
A force starting to become drown
in oceans of silence around him
A "time clown"
Laughter, inside of his insanity grows from the halls of uncertainty
Cold waters of future's question pour from his soul
Back into the already unpredictable waters of existence
No boat to carry him
Tight inside..his life situated like a goldfish inside a goldfish bowl
Across and all over a bitter salt-drenched Soul It remains..Raining..
Waters flowing..A dark force growing
Lack of relief as help through these tortuous hours
His darkness cannot run from it
What light that is left inside of him....the force aims to discard such
Knowing...Feeling faded from never being heard from his loud cries
Those about who fail to understand why he calls them out
He remains as strong as he can remain
doggy Paddling
Until his head is drug down and his muscles start to fail
to paddle him afloat
He shall keep in this cycle of pain
Which is like a beautiful castle kept unvisited by a deadly
and dark moat
The test is "now" in such quiet and lengthy times
As he copes until the answer to his shouted question arrives
Through these long and untested rimes.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC