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TWO loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.

The name on one all men may read,        
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.

On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;      
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.

To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;
From this white stone that nearer lies
I turn me with unuttered woe.

O God, I pray, if love must die,
And make no more of life a part,
Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.
Valsa George May 2016
Unexpected…..
So unexpected was the meeting
It was in the dim candle light
of a city restaurant that I saw her
How time had etched its marks on her
The long dark curly hair
has turned all white
The even set of pearly teeth
now discolored with missing gaps.
A weeping willow with gnarled branches!

Did she recognize me?
Her searching eyes registered
a limp awareness
Soon I saw her cataract eyes shining
in unclouded recognition!

My memory like the arm of a crane
lowered to plough up the hard crust of the past
and rose with heaps of broken rubble
I nosedived into the past
to the little village
where, as children we ran round
the long necked shady trees
until our little heads went dizzy

Stealing behind the tall grass
how I would suddenly yell out;
‘The thief is in hide
Come and track me if you can’
forcing on her an arduous search,
all the while giggling at her vain efforts!

How we ran after the ripe mangoes
that fell in ones and twos
when the winds shook the fruit laden boughs
and how we quarreled over the yellow ones
like mongrels over a piece of bone

I remember once when the drizzle
suddenly strengthened into a heavy down pour
with thunder and lightning accompanying,
how we ran dripping and frightened
seeking shelter in the empty cow shed
at the backyard of a house,
clasping tight to each other!
She was then a little girl
with springing feet and dancing steps
naïve and naughty with all mouth and ears

But as time skipped by
she kept a safe distance
No more I saw the former ebullience in her
In its place, a quiet reserve settled in
The chatterbox no more opened her mouth
To my questions, her answers were mono syllables
My efforts to walk by her side
always ended in futility
either she would quicken her gait
or lag behind at snail’s pace
Seeing me somewhere
she would walk away with eyes down cast
But I always noticed a faint smile
lingering on her curved narrow lips

Around it, I built my dream castle
where she reigned as my dazzling queen!
I am not sure how it was with her
One day even without an abrupt goodbye
I had to leave my hometown to an alien soil.

For long, she came, sailing in my dreams!

After a couple of years when I returned
to the land of my childhood
the mute witness to my unuttered passion
I knew from a close friend
that she was forced into a marriage
much to her consternation!
She is reported to have confided to someone
that she hoped the ‘thief who stole her heart
would one day, come out of hiding’

We met again
We heard each other’s cracked voice
and stood unable to recollect all

Much water had flown down
under the bridge
And we floated in the rush of currents!
This poem has to be understood in the light of the highly orthodox milieu of an Indian village of the time between 1960's and 70's when no computer or internet facility was available. There was a lot of segregation between the sexes and no free mingling was allowed. So there was no open expression of love. In a society where arranged marriage was preferred, even falling in love before marriage was seen as a taboo !
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
Thoughts descend
in neon whites of infinity
to hit the keyboard as an avalanche of words
to leave thumb-prints of ingenuity.

Words become cadaverous,
impotent to birth them.
They leave stillborns
with pale yellow shadows!

An eerie pain numbs my senses.
I suffocate.
O, had I become the unuttered word!
mojo jojo Jun 2015
a rune unuttered
kept for eminent times
for some divine
stays within
eats me
still i couldn't
let it be
abstract lingual
to me known
defining down
meaning to moan
dazed eyes
stare
word deficient
allusions arcuate
anxious lips
fluttering questions
asks why
forged a lie
but to myself
to rely
to define
and saw it why
she is the light
and flows now
from glaciers of my vision
rune frozen
now a mellow river
K Balachandran Jan 2013
The owl
owns silence,
it dawns;
movements
are arrested,
as stillness
comes alive
as owl moments.

The condor,
gravitas,
incarnated,
in relentless search,
circling around
the sky's navel,
in a mystical quest,
a motif that arrests
motions of mind.

An owl sits and sees,
a visible presence
of an invisible absence,
on the cosy notch
hid by foliage
on the  tree of loneliness.

Perking up ears
inner silence,
the faithful watch dog,
listens owl's unuttered words,
ever echoing,
deep within the walls
of mind's corridor.

The owl and the condor,
the eloquence of silence,
has two voices speaking
in unison.In the secret center
they reveal the forbidden,
silence rules, the dawn of wisdom
bright and spectacular, awaken
the fog filled landscape.
Regrets, they come in waves and break around his feet
And he begins to wonder who he might have been
Had roads diverged in different woods and fields
Not yellow or yet any colour still unseen
But clearer now by day than windless nights
Still nearer than the objects of his dreams

It'd rained late into the evening, and when the lights were shaded
Around the pool outside and with the windows shuttered
He'd thrown on loose clothes, flicked open an umbrella
While high outside the stars the lightning flashes muttered
Pulled open doors that led to the veranda
And moved outside once more with all his thoughts unuttered

The smoke, from fires on Java lies heavy on his senses
An omen of the time of year and of the past condition
He shrugs, ***** in the acidic nighttime odors
Reviving lives not lived but revealing his admission
That time beyond the present that mirrors every movement
Within, without, and yet again, the flicker of suspicion.

The pistol in his pocket, illegal not unloaded
A symbol of his state of mind and by  his sole discretion
He kneels beside the water, deep-set and in the shadows
Lips forming wordlessly around the last confession
Images of where and what and who and why and whether
A portent of that final action, sensing and impression

The smoke from fires on Java lies heavy on the water
The reek of cordite mixing with the smell of burning grasses
Indignant birds protest the crack of one small set expulsion
The echo round the swimming pool reverberates and passes
Nothing more and nothing less and time and space and matter
Slick red upon the treacherous tiles, the shattered bloodied glasses.
To those who asked: in spring, the farmers on the Indonesian islands of Java & Sumatra set fire to their fields to clear them for planting. Illegal but widely done. When the wind is in the right direction, the smoke drifts over the Java sea and covers the island of Singapore in a toxic mist which lasts for days. Suicides in the region increase during these depressing times, whatever the underlying causes...
Justin G Dec 2014
-ACT I-

I once was a dreamer and a lover of dedication.
There was nothing in my path I couldn't overcome or revolutionize.
I was the practitioner of self indulgence;
the preeminence of gluttony.

I held myself in the highest regards.

Whatever I desired, I made sure to obtain.
Whoever I desired, I made sure to detain.

I was fascinated by my own passion for existence
It was only natural for me to bear hatred for those
who I condemned wasteful and destructive.

Throughout my years on this planet
I desperately and yearningly needed space.


I wanted to be distant like the stars,
so I decided to disconnect myself
from society altogether.

-ACT II-

In my own world away from the world I was in
I often found myself counting minuscule grains of sand
left in the hour glass that brutally executed my ancestors.

I have counted approximately eighty six thousand
four hundred and fifty six grains of sand before I realized
how insignificant and meaningless it was to persist.

I asked myself, why must I be so flagrant? Why am I so conflicted between my ability to be sane and in my inability to be inane? How was I to know I would become what I hated most?

I have become wasteful and self destructive.

I wasted so much time in counting the time I had left,
I neglected myself from moments that were essential and nutritious for me to experience and treasure.

I realized how timing and planning aren't always most important.

Sometimes it is better to simply take chances and jump without worrying too much about where we land because it is the memories that we cherish most in thee end.

All fears and boundaries come secondary. They are all subject to change. I learnt to think of them as illusioary variables.

-ACT III-

All I ever wanted out of life was to talk and express myself
in a way that will be cogent to everyone.

I wanted to express my deviation in a way that will be supplemental to our everyday life. I urgently felt the need to be ingenuous and indispensable.

I knew it was necessary to be more direct and down to earth,
but my head was too far stuck in the clouds. I was duped into thinking that love was in the air, and all wealth and knowledge were all at the top.

I was naive enough to pilot myself through stromy weather in the high hopes of finding better.

Flying fearlessly reckless I swore I would keep my distance
I swore to reach far beyond the stars, and rock the milky way, but unbeknownst to me I learnt an undisputed truth.
The sky above is truly the limit.

The space I thought I desperately needed ended up being lifeless and unbearable.

-ACT IV-

I went above and beyond just to be unworldly enough to give you the world, but doing so only left me feeling alienated. I was too blinded to see the rocket I flew was built with infatuation.  

I misconceptionally thought love was the highest power,
but in actuality it is the most deepest.


The sound of rain and thunder deafened me from sound advice and good judgment. Reality struck me out of the skies above,
and harshly colluded me against the cold deep blue sea
where I struggled to survive and failed to overcome.

The aphotic pressure below was far too much for me to endure alone.

My strength hasn't quite recovered from the impact of the collision. I tried to recall how I gotten myself into this predicament, but the only thing I could remember was me searching for something. I was too weak to move, too weak to admit defeat. Nothing made much sense to me anymore.

-ACT V-

I was told our lives flash before us just before the moment of our demise, but it wasn't long before my confidence along with my dignity were instantly crushed. My eyes widen when my heart shattered.

My voice sealed shut by the suffocation of silence.

I had no memories to cherish, and had no one to save me. I had no one to breathe life back into me. It was all elusive and reclusive. I had fallen from the skies and crushed deep into the sea where it swallowed me whole.

My mind locked away in a book of endless darkness and pure abyss, but somehow my body managed to remain functional and intact.**

My body was washed ashore on a remote island where it continues to walk in a path of agony and unfulfillment.
I wrote a little heavily here, but if you manage to finish this lengthy gem I'm sure you might find a bit of inspiration and joy from the twist and turns of a young man's inner journey to an unexpected enlightenment.
They say life's a bliss.
But what if
When you play the words, you stiff.
For a gift of tongue, you're not blessed.

Your opinion, unheard.
Your point, misinterpreted.
Your side, neglected.
Your existence, taken for granted.

Who says it's happiness;
When life itself is the maximum limit?
When you battle for your right?
The right to express what's in - deep.

It's a continuous struggle when you're your own foe.
It's an everyday cry of your unuttered woes.
Nat Lipstadt May 2016
~~~*

this old man's tiddlywink, land-locked words,
runted, blunted instruments,
needy for release, the balm of salvation,
woods, neither silvered or exacting,
more a spit stain polish for a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon,
smoothed 'cept for the brute brunted bunting
of christ-crossing railroad tie lines,
all across his roughened terrain'd face,
a black and a white Degas
pen and ink etched illustration
of howling agitation.

the concrete moonscape
racked upon his soul and face,
mapped remembrances of variegated Judas kisses
each left in a pockmarked hidey place,
tired principles bent, bent from sacrificing oneself,
a rockstar burnt offering,
to any deity that promises illusions that time,
can be healed, all its cursed residues & sins sealed,
in locked antechambers, fully furnished rooms,
rentable for perpetuity if so desired,
but irony dictums diktat says you've locked yourself in,
in circular spaces where every angle stab-states:

yo, there are no unpainted corners for escape,
no day of atonement on your petite universe's calendar,
nor a host of worthy words that can e're suffice,
so howling makes perfect sense

inventory the wasted errors accumulated, accentuated,
uncovered by the howling of only "I'd known better,"
his accountants all jolly rip roar laugh,
when you beg them to ******~reduce jail time of
ancient leaden bulletpoints from the taxes future payable,
they profess there is no statue of limitation from any authority's press
for dues owed arising from your own imitations,
they mock me by howling in poe-ing unison,
"nevermore, nevermore...forevermore"

the contradiction of those criss#crossed fine lines,
each pointing in no direction, a trap of inaction,
fie, fie, on the double dealing hand you have dealt yourself
in the game of liar's poker, where all the face cards curse with smiles,
pretend portents portrait paintings of only rosy outcomes,
each a one way sign,  each pointing to a different,
magnetic compass course in a world
where all polarity confused, reversed,
so wayward, the only direction home

before Rembrandt's self-portrait @  Met Musée, he worships,
the painter's hipster jaunty hat pouty-pointy stating,
"what me worry,"
but the cracked crevices, whisper even louder,
"nothing left to lose,"
in the gallery, all stare, misunderstanding why,
why you weep profuse in perfect recognition at the
mirroring witness testifying, from whose pixels you cannot be protected,
each agitated paint pore shouts words of 
"j'accuse, j'accuse"
in a dulcet howling harmony

words lip locked, no exit, traffic jammed inside squirrelly cheeks,
scabs form, mortar and pestle a pus paste of
jumbled sounds and tongued blood,
a delicacy of swoosh and swish spit,
ugly kept behind prison bars of yellowed teeth,
a vile concoction of glorious bile of new combinations,
destined to die unuttered,
the howling all internal, becomes silence,
and yet, here,
here lies buried proof positive,
"even silence finds a tongue,"^
even words, unspoken,
yet, mind-reader read quietly,
permits the howling agitation exorcise and surcease,
rein to escape
inspired by David Hare's  play about Oscar Wilde,
The Judas Kiss

^John Clare (English Poet, 1793 - 1864)

composed April 30 ~ May 15, 2016

this will likely be my last poem for awhile
Little Bear Jun 2016
This is for the father that does not consider to be a whole in his creations life.
This is for the mother who chooses to 'opt out' of being a giver of love to the fruit of her womb.
This is for the one who has chosen to be an absent parent..

This is for you...

WAKE. the. ****. UP!!

What are you doing?

What is wrong with you?

It seems to me you may not fully understand the ramifications that your chosen absence will play in the life of your child.

So I will spell it out it for you..

Your child, your gift, your delight, the one who was created from your very own dna, the one that you willingly gave life to and brought into this world...

will remember everything you have not done.

And they will carry this as a load upon their back for quite possibly most of their life.

Each will carry it differently, but carry the load they will. Some will carry it with forgiveness, some will carry with resolve, some will carry with the added weight of a heavy heart. Some will carry defiantly and will never truly forgive.

And no matter how they position the weight you give, by choosing to be absent, they will still carry that load...
because of you.

And you will continue to add weight to that load every day you choose to be absent from their life.

Each missed opportunity will be a pound of disappointment that your child will carry... for you.

Each broken promise will be a pebble.
Each late appointment will be a handful of sand.
Each missed birthday will be a tablespoon of gravel
to fill their pockets.

And every achievement they experience, that you have missed, will weigh upon their mind and their heart.

And because of this, throughout their life,
they will continually try to win your love.

You hear that...??
They will try. and. win. your. love...

Because... it is not given freely...
so they will try to win it.!!!
because, bottom line...
let's face it...

you're a selfish ****.

And because of your self centered behaviour, everything that they need, want and have to experience without you will be tainted with your chosen absence.

Every tear and heart break, every grazed knee, bad dream, smile, whisper, secret, colouring on the fridge door, every clay model, every needed word of advice, comfort, support and encouragement, every exam result, every moment of despair, loss, grief and first love...

each and every lost opportunity to say 'i miss you'
each and every unuttered 'i love you'
will be carefully, silently and invisibly weighed,
measured
and carried.

And i promise you this..
the weight you have placed upon them will be keenly felt  
when it is their time to fly.

This is not to say they will not fly, because they will,
and beautifully so..

And with wings that you did not help to fashion.

And, because of your chosen absence, your creation, your child, your very own delight will always carry the weight that you have placed upon them.

And the weight of your absence is so much heavier than you could possibly imagine.
This is a thousand times NOT about parents who fight to see their children against insurmountable odds and the evil they face in even gaining a few hours with their own child. Nor is it about the parent, for genuine and honest reasons, often out of their control, which means they cannot spend as much time with their child as they would wish. To those parents i wish for you so much love and kindness.

This is a rant if you will, for the 'parent' who 'opts-out' of being in their child's life. Who chooses to be anything other than a parent.

Maybe this will be controversial.. ?
I don't know..
This is written only from my own experiences.
Stranger...
I know you
Beyond the screens
Even in the silence
That surrounds me...
I hear you chuckle and laugh

Stranger...
Conversations we have
Only words unheard
Unuttered go by...
But they mean much more
Than the sound of spoken word
That resonates over my tympanum

Stranger...
Across the different metros
Sits you and I
Yet we connect and continue
In our journeys
To our own goals
Parallel paths drawn...
Yet some common thread
Linking us all

And I feel you
At one hand's distance..
That is the connection
I have..
Strange are the ways of communication
It dissolves strangeness
Into an unexplained acquaintance!
In a poetic conversation with Vijayalakshmi Harish and Aditya Bhaskara... :)
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
~~~

set aside
the 31st day of every month,
even if not on Gregory's calendar,
in actuality,
it's an always monthly revelation

this 31st day
of everyones life,
is a set aside,
to

set aside

the regrets that
Halloween haunt,
those overly generous ghosts,
goblins, too eager to remind and provide,
the tainted candy aplenty of
failed past deeds,
and worse,
the misdeeds

- the quantity insufficient
of unuttered "I love you"

- the lost, unrecoverable bidding of farewell finales failures,

- leaving unsaid that which
weakness delayed,
sadly now, a ticket voided
by an eternal expiration moment

the lost boys of opportunities
who live in the endless hell of
isolation in the Never-to-be-Land

- the right course we chose to
unsee

- that person we should never have
let go of

- for the easier, less costly,
charm of the error self-deceptions

- the damnable accursed if-onlys,
visible only in the rearview mirror of dreams
that with nightmare blended,
now can only go
one-direction,
forward

- attempt escaping,
both slow and quick,
from the maximum security prisons
built to be inescapable,
where you offer yourself
daily meals of only the stones of pain,
hopes skin-scratched off
as irretrievable lost,
poisonous diet of radioactivity

you own these regrets and
do not deny,
letting them go to partial freedom
even harder,
even worse,
now, when compared
to the bitterness of the
of original errors past committed

no absolution-complete,
these persistent insanities,
found in our possession,
unable to be defeated

and yet,
the thought,
a passerby muttering,
perhaps
by sharing, ours, yours,
mine,
we will uncover where the yellow brick road
to redemption commences

~~~
have oft confessed

the sadness of the
loss of living children, ex's,
who cannot forgive mutual trespasses

wasted anger that won't cease,
bile-ing and piling up,
like ten pound weights ankle permanently fastened to
the bitter buds of your tongue

the security of every wrong fork
incorrectly chosen,
calculating, over-valuing,
safety over risk

for within the chances untaken
lived the far better possibility
of a life without regrets

struggle everyday to
not allow the days
tween the first and the thirtieth,
to infect
the 31st day

this monthly maker reserved for
confession and atonement
and forgiveness granted by pardon
by you,
the one absolute ruler

for sentences that already deserve release,
if only for time served

all ready for forgiving,
and if yet still deemed unforgivable,
be eased by the the finer quality of
the humanity of
the overlooked blessing
that in the
never forgetting,
are deep buried in the roots of
caring...

~~~

October 31, 2015
7:10 am
NYC
http://blogs.webmd.com/art-of-relationships/2015/10/burdened-by-regret-how-to-break-free.html?ecd=wnl_men_102615&ctr;=wnl-men-102615_nsl-promo-4_title&mb;=zNOFoqgNPBRY1krNNKlXzhXFE73IOX1cv%40KF%2fM%2fVd7s%3d


You carry the weight of a regret – maybe even a bundle of regrets – that you just can’t seem to put down. Perhaps in your more honest moments, you think you don’t deserve to let it go. By carrying it around, you feel you’re doing a kind of penance. But somewhere inside you realize that carrying it around is not doing you or anyone any good. It’s not making the situation right for others. And, it’s not making you a better person. Still, walking away from the regret seems impossible and, perhaps, irresponsible and uncaring.

This dilemma is more common than you might think. Being human practically comes with a guarantee that you will do things you regret. Even if you haven’t been able to move on, others do. They find a way to come to terms with their regret, freeing them to enjoy life. You can do this, too, if you choose to face your actions and the human error behind them.

If you struggle with regret, you may have already taken a step in the right direction by taking responsibility for what you did or didn’t do. It’s important that you acknowledge this responsibility – or “own up to it” – without making excuses for your mistake. It’s okay, and even important, to understand the reasons for your actions, but that does not excuse you.

At the same time, though, it’s important to balance “owning” your actions with acknowledging and accepting that you’re simply human. Everyone has limits. There are some things you can’t, or simply don’t, know – that’s just part of being human. And even when you do know better, you will sometimes make errors in judgment. You will, at times, act emotionally and irrationally. You have weaknesses and flaws and you will make mistakes.

Think about the friends, children, or other family whom you accept and love despite their imperfections. Your acceptance of them as human is the same feeling you need to practice for yourself. Because, in reality, your mistakes are a testament to your humanity, not your failing as a person.

Even as you come to terms with your regret, you will still feel upset about it – whether that means you feel guilty, sad, or some other emotion.

Here are 5 steps you can take to help you start working through those feelings.

1. Don’t deny or suppress these emotions. Allow them in. They are part of you. Just as you would soothe an emotional child, choose to soothe yourself.

2. Tell yourself that you will be okay. Act compassionately toward yourself. You might go for a hike in the woods or take a long, hot bath.

3. Reach out to a caring and supportive friend who can help you feel better.

4. If you can, make amends. Say you are sorry. Do something kind for the person you hurt.

5. If that’s not possible, you might commit to helping others in similar situations. For instance, if you realize that you haven’t been there to help loved ones through troubled times, you can choose to help those  in need now.

Maybe those you’ve hurt will forgive you. Maybe not. Maybe it’s less about what others think and more about your own disappointment in yourself. Whatever the regret is that you carry, you are ultimately responsible for lightening your own load. You must see that you are more than just the mistakes you’ve made.

You may never feel good about the thing you regret. But you can still feel good about being you.
P Venugopal Dec 2015
For days it was as if I never existed.
You have flung me out of your world
like a wilted flower from your vase.

I have treasured our unuttered pledges—
rising with your name as a prayer on my lips,
breathing the morning breeze,
marveling,
oh God, isn’t this the same fragrance my dear one breathes!

I waited beneath your window last night,
heart aflutter under the moon,
for a rustle at the curtain,
a fleeting glimpse of your shadow...

Throughout you kept it shut.
Tempus Fugit:

Nought is eternal,
Nox is ephemeral,
And
The Charred Canvas
Of
The Night Sky
(Noctis Lucis Caelum,
Scala Ad Caelum)
Bedarkened & besmirched, bespeaks
A
Love-Worn Wayward, Wayworn.

In the
Citadel
Of mine
Temporal Heart
Time
Streams infinitely
As an
Exhalation of The Ethereal One.


The Chronology of
The Arbiter of Fates
Shalt Destine,
Herald Eternitas
Upon
The Phantasmagoric Horizon
Of
Mine Mind's Sky
Wondering
Upon
Days of Yore.

(The Hither,
The Thither,
And
The Morrow.)

These
Luminescent Children are
Are born
To wax Luminaries
Then,
Wax Nebulous
For all eternity.

O, Metempsychosis;
Born of
Edicts Unseen,
Of that
Which was,
Is,
&
Will Be.

(For
All things
Are
Circular & Cycling,
Existentially.)

We were conceived
Infinitely
To
Infinity
And beyond.

Let He, Let She
Whose
Ears & Eyes
Of
The Unuttered Anima
Be unstopped, unfurled
To resonations:

Deep within.
The Emerald Lifestream Anew
Dost begin.

The Sovereign of Songbirds sings
Esprit d' amour
To those who wait.

(Se' Lah.)
Cosmic Reverberations
from
The Cosmo-Plexus of Empyreal Love,

The Communal Oneness
Tethering
The Denizens
Of
The Macrocosm

&

May You All
Effloresce
In the
Aeonic Light
of
The Empyrean One.

~Excelsior Forevermore~

-Sanders Maurice Foulke III-
Nat Lipstadt May 2013
Ineffable: Too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words; Too sacred to be uttered.
-------------------------–-------—----------------------­---------------------------------------

The whimpered cries of the dying
in the rubble of Bangladeshi avarice,
announcing we were worthy of life,
to which we think to ourselves,
agreed upon
with our,
a whispery, silent
amen.

The still alive cries of children,
tornado-tormented parents screaming unfair,
teachers body shielding their charges, whispering
save us Lord, from your inventive toys,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

But here comes the Oklahoma tornadoes again,
now four more dead in Houston,
selecting the innocent, the brave,
logic in any of this, none,
nonsensical at its worst

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

~~~~~
The first I-am-alive cries
of new born lungs,
I have grandson, stain-less, perfect,
recovering in the stainless steel delivery room,
I hear the all babies in the neo-natal unit in unison
pronouncing a Hebrew blessing,
the Shecheyanu...

(Blessed are You, Lord our God, Master of the universe, who has kept us alive and sustained us and has brought us to these special moments)

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

These unspoken poem devotions of adoration
of the sleeping chamber, that cannot
be heard or answered for they're dreamt and
perchance in the morning thankfully recalled,
enough to be transcribed,

to which we think to ourselves,
a whispery, silent
amen.

Ineffable.

A day, just another supplying an average day
to the mass of average.
Birth + Death = an average day.

I thank a God for the
birth of a newborn perfection

On this day the newspapers report
about silence of the God others pray to,
could be the same deity,
reporting that in his holy places,
Jew spits upon Jew,
Muslims usurp Christian lives,
all for none,
all forgetting in
whose image they were created.

to which we cannot say nor think
anything.

Ineffable.

too sacred to be uttered,
so instead of the paucity of these unuttered words,
know that each tear in
the reservoir of my eyes
is my unspoken poem prayer.,
my amen.

*Instead of answering
amen out loud,
wipe my eyes
with your fingertips,
silently.
Krizel Grace Nov 2020
Unneeded words we kept on uttering
Whilst needed words we left unsung
A world brimming with unsaid kind words
Until when will they spill through our callous mouths?




©kg
You
Only a long, low-lying lane
That follows to the misty sea,
Across a bare and russet plain
Where wild winds whistle vagrantly;
I know that many a fairer path
With lure of song and bloom may woo,
But oh ! I love this lonely strath
Because it is so full of you.

Here we have walked in elder years,
And here your truest memories wait,
This spot is sacred to your tears,
That to your laughter dedicate;
Here, by this turn, you gave to me
A gem of thought that glitters yet,
This tawny ***** is graciously
By a remembered smile beset.

Here once you lingered on an hour
When stars were shining in the west,
To gather one pale, scented flower
And place it smiling on your breast;
And since that eve its fragrance blows
For me across the grasses sere,
Far sweeter than the latest rose,
That faded bloom of yesteryear.

For me the sky, the sea, the wold,
Have beckoning visions wild and fair,
The mystery of a tale untold,
The grace of an unuttered prayer.
Let others choose the fairer path
That winds the dimpling valley through,
I gladly seek this lonely strath
Companioned by my dreams of you.
daisies Jun 2014
I spot my reflection in the silhouette of your eyes.
Like a mirror, you are me and I am you.
In this lonely hour, and in this hollow room,
my eardrums fill with piano notes and rhymes,
as everything around me suddenly goes quite and silence blooms.

I come to realize our love is nothing but
meaningful lyrics hung upon abandoned piano keys,
and unuttered syllables written
amongst a music sheet.

Yet, the symphony plays perpetually,
loud and clear, demanding to be heard, to be felt.
It lifts me up, swirling me in your galaxy,
and every so often, I approach to tear off the mask you've been hiding behind,
till there's nothing left but musical debris.

I strip you of salvation.
I unleash your wholeness.
Rondes and blanches and noires
punctuate and embellish your figure.
They are a halo.
They are *mine.
Wrote this while listening to Erik Satie's Gnossienne no. 3. Give it a listen if you'd like.
Sally A Bayan Oct 2015
Carpe Diem (2)        
  


It is a hot day....but, we're having a brief shower
i sniff the earthy scent carried by the afternoon breeze,  
feel it blowing, brushing against my moist skin,
i spot a beetle wandering away from its home,
the Pine tree...it travels... oh...so...slowly...inching
...reaching at last...the...window...sill...


Amongst the leaves of the tall Fortune tree
daddy long legs appears......its fragile body quivers,
as it dangles...going down from its web
to meet its neighbor and beetle friend,
.....and from the window ledge
the two fall down on the bushy flower bed,
like a dual suicide act.  
quickly, they vanish... into the thick
of bloomers, yellow, white and pink


The rolling hills landscape on the horizon
breathes peace and calm at this very moment
the valleys...streets......the church and houses
people from all walks of life, going through their chores,
they suddenly enfold my whole being...
there is  pulchritude in the faces of the women,
slim, strong, bulky...hips, bouncing, swaying rhythmically...
fair-skinned and dark, short...long haired...all are smiling warmly,
like they have no other cares in this world
signs of fortitude on their faces...obvious, but unuttered.

i, too, feel a lilt deep inside..i beam with a smile,
acknowledging theirs, as they walk past me.
enjoying every bit of  God's miracles
that meets my eyes

...a few lines pop in my mind...they become a story...or a ditty
suddenly, words in a joke...from someone who's witty
comes sweet laughter...during moments untethered
hours of heeeeeee, and ha-ha-ha, and shared giggles...

Anything that comes to sight
comes with a smile, so bright
i squint from its brilliance
i bask in its radiance
i refuse to let go of this glowing,
an unknown  inner feeling,
outside, it is revealing,
my soul, it is embracing

i claim it:
this moment of bliss
i have finally seized!


  

Sally

Copyright September 21, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
When first your glory shone upon my face
My body kindled to a mighty flame,
And burnt you yielding in my hot embrace
Until you swooned to love, breathing my name.

And wonder came and filled our night of sleep,
Like a new comet crimsoning the sky;
And stillness like the stillness of the deep
Suspended lay as an unuttered sigh.

I never again shall feel your warm heart flushed,
Panting with passion, naked unto mine,
Until the throbbing world around is hushed
To quiet worship at our scented shrine.

Nor will your glory seek my swarthy face,
To kindle and to change my jaded frame
Into a miracle of godlike grace,
Transfigured, bathed in your immortal flame.
Hilda Jan 2013
some unseen hand of cruel fate
tainting her deeds of sacrificial love
loaves of home baked bread
turned to stones
cups of cold water
taste lukewarm
soft melodic words
ring sarcasm in dull ears
toiling from sunrise till darkest night
only to bring others delight
never taking time for her dreams
unuttered cries and silent screams



*Hilda
dedicated to those who labour for Jesus and others and hope their sacrifices are not futile
Mercurychyld Aug 2014
Between earth and sky
is where I abide.

Grass grows beneath my
feet and inbetween
moments of deep thought,
longings and unuttered
desires,

as I sit, communing
with the trees

and for a while, just
doing as they do...

just simply 'being',
no matter what

as they hold majestic
limbs up
toward the heavens

in adoration or
perhaps
interrogation.

And that is but
speculation or
imagination
on my part.

I sit, quietly,
somewhere between
this moment
and tomorrow

and wonder those
simple, complex
questions of old...

What does it all mean,
in the end?
What price do we pay
for passion or apathy?
Why are we here?

In my mind
worlds collide, die
and begin again

and this most
encumbered heart
still holds hope
by the throat,
refusing, yet, to
let go.

Between earth and sky
is where I abide.

That is where
you'll find me.

Full to the brim,
with questions,
wild, vibrant dreams,
and a never ending
sense...
of wonder.


-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life’s foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life’s form and Love’s, but by my spell
Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart
One moment through thy soul the soft surprise
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,
Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart
Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart
Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.
With the man I love who loves me not,
I walked in the street-lamps’ flare;
We watched the world go home that night
In a flood through Union Square.

I leaned to catch the words he said
That were light as a snowflake falling;
Ah well that he never leaned to hear
The words my heart was calling.

And on we walked and on we walked
Past the fiery lights of the picture shows—
Where the girls with thirsty eyes go by
On the errand each man knows.

And on we walked and on we walked,
At the door at last we said good-bye;
I knew by his smile he had not heard
My heart’s unuttered cry.

With the man I love who loves me not
I walked in the street-lamps’ flare—
But oh, the girls who can ask for love
In the lights of Union Square.
Doy A Oct 2014
Warm thighs
Cold nights
Empty bed
Tears shed
Dry hands
Feet untangled
Messy hair
Lips bare
Nervous sighs
Hungry cries
Skin untouched
Fingers unlaced
Moans unuttered
Thoughts cluttered
Wandering soul
Time slow
So slow
Pangungulila.
I went back to the clanging city,
I went back where my old loves stayed,
But my heart was full of my new love’s glory,
My eyes were laughing and unafraid.

I met one who had loved me madly
And told his love for all to hear—
But we talked of a thousand things together,
The past was buried too deep to fear.

I met the other, whose love was given
With never a kiss and scarcely a word—
Oh, it was then the terror took me
Of words unuttered that breathed and stirred.

Oh, love that lives its life with laughter
Or love that lives its life with tears
Can die—but love that is never spoken
Goes like a ghost through the winding years. . . .

I went back to the clanging city,
I went back where my old loves stayed,
My heart was full of my new love’s glory,—
But my eyes were suddenly afraid.
All beauty calls you to me, and you seem,
Past twice a thousand miles of shifting sea,
To reach me. You are as the wind I breathe
Here on the ship’s sun-smitten topmost deck,
With only light between the heavens and me.
I feel your spirit and I close my eyes,
Knowing the bright hair blowing in the sun,
The eager whisper and the searching eyes.

Listen, I love you. Do not turn your face
Nor touch me. Only stand and watch awhile
The blue unbroken circle of the sea.
Look far away and let me ease my heart
Of words that beat in it with broken wing.
Look far away, and if I say too much,
Forget that I am speaking. Only watch,
How like a gull that sparkling sinks to rest,
The foam-crest drifts along a happy wave
Toward the bright verge, the boundary of the world.

I am so weak a thing, praise me for this,
That in some strange way I was strong enough
To keep my love unuttered and to stand
Altho’ I longed to kneel to you that night
You looked at me with ever-calling eyes.
Was I not calm?  And if you guessed my love
You thought it something delicate and free,
Soft as the sound of fir-trees in the wind,
Fleeting as phosphorescent stars in foam.
Yet in my heart there was a beating storm
Bending my thoughts before it, and I strove
To say too little lest I say too much,
And from my eyes to drive love’s happy shame.
Yet when I heard your name the first far time
It seemed like other names to me, and I
Was all unconscious, as a dreaming river
That nears at last its long predestined sea;
And when you spoke to me, I did not know
That to my life’s high altar came its priest.
But now I know between my God and me
You stand forever, nearer God than I,
And in your hands with faith and utter joy
I would that I could lay my woman’s soul.

Oh, my love
To whom I cannot come with any gift
Of body or of soul, I pass and go.
But sometimes when you hear blown back to you
My wistful, far-off singing touched with tears,
Know that I sang for you alone to hear,
And that I wondered if the wind would bring
To him who tuned my heart its distant song.
So might a woman who in loneliness
Had borne a child, dreaming of days to come,
Wonder if it would please its father’s eyes.
But long before I ever heard your name,
Always the undertone’s unchanging note
In all my singing had prefigured you,
Foretold you as a spark foretells a flame.
Yet I was free as an untethered cloud
In the great space between the sky and sea,
And might have blown before the wind of joy
Like a bright banner woven by the sun.
I did not know the longing in the night—
You who have waked me cannot give me sleep.
All things in all the world can rest, but I,
Even the smooth brief respite of a wave
When it gives up its broken crown of foam,
Even that little rest I may not have.
And yet all quiet loves of friends, all joy
In all the piercing beauty of the world
I would give up—go blind forevermore,
Rather than have God blot from out my soul
Remembrance of your voice that said my name.

For us no starlight stilled the April fields,
No birds awoke in darkling trees for us,
Yet where we walked the city’s street that night
Felt in our feet the singing fire of spring,
And in our path we left a trail of light
Soft as the phosphorescence of the sea
When night submerges in the vessel’s wake
A heaven of unborn evanescent stars.
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2015
Hardly Hidden

for Helen,
the High Definition brunette momma among us


there are tracks in your arm
ready visible
to all those
with a personal microscope
if one
optically
examines the empty spaces
tween your poem-words....

the exterior all smiles,
whooping it up,
children, all smiles,
tumbling, breaking things,
ceilings collapsing, winters arriving,
as is the way of the kids
and nature,
inexorable,
occasionally
breaking you to
smile too

Abut to all this
is the contentiousness,
the aboriginal sense of loss
for what once was,
plain out in
in the secret messages sent
and
you know
you own
my all
unuttered utter devotion

we need no qualification
of what we are

we are friends,
not drinking buddies,
the straight out
semi-secret fans
of each other

thousands of miles apart
of simple purity borne,
you warm me
with endless jokes
and familial tales

and I thank you
for sharing, for trusting,
me with that troubling notion
that I am missing
a sorrowful deepening
that is
after a wellness examination

hardly hidden**

but t'is heard around the world,
gunshot to my heart,
come to me when
ever
is understood that this
paean ~ pain ~ poem
is a simple wayfarer's way
of declaring
forever

I know you are sleeping now,
but when  the fall sun breaks,
here is hoping me that you
break into private tears
in private places
like the ones decorating me,
celebrating
the best of what
humans
can be
Andrew May 2010
A cloudless sky elicits

No Meter.

A thoughtless mind elicits-

No Rhyme.


A closed mouth, contains

No Words.

No Context,

No Syntax,

No Rules,

No Name.

Emptiness is a title

better left unuttered.

And titles, like rooms waiting for guests,

or minds racing with thoughts,

are best uncluttered.
May 2010
Sana Sep 2014
Go, cry one last time
Feeble and withered  in the storms
Your soul had its darkest night

Ye think its the wrath of God?
This endless menace
Or the creation of your soul?

However ye may deem my friend,
How good wings are without wind?
And the blossoms without scent?

Ye spread the wings to glow
Mistaken; to reach heaven?
But the gentle breath withheld its blow

Bow not to the pity of your heart
Nor the squashing unuttered pain
For glad tidings will be heard

Cherish, for what ye have in soul
Rare bear in such might
So go cry one last time
Debra A Baugh Jun 2012
He sneaks into my mind in slumber,
emanating his fervor; awakening *****
to a frenzy, then whispering wet
licks against me, I whimper deep
within from his delicious torment;
labials unveil for tongued ecstasy.

Wallowing in my bedewed rose; he
breathes its ambrosia with tongue &
nose, stiffens each dip into garden
of Eden, he knew I'd buck and tremble
begging to feel him deeper; unearthing
sighs and whispers.

Touching me with promises; as I eye his
sinewy masculinity, entwined limb to limb
our desire erupts each plunge into
paradise, wet, each teased withdrawal,
inner muscles contract breathing him back
in, rising to meet and sheath his firmness
in unuttered realms of ecstasy.

I whisper, need to swallow his measure;
and sweet hotness trickles down throat,
******* my own wetness; he greedily suckles
one at a time savoring its aftertaste, tonguing
me to taste what he's enjoying, moving slowly
in and out.

And...

I shudder from the sheer feel deeply
embedded as his passion leaves me
softly broken.
Thou unrelenting Past!
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain,
  And fetters, sure and fast,
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign.

  Far in thy realm withdrawn
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,
  And glorious ages gone
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

  Childhood, with all its mirth,
Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground,
  And last, Man's Life on earth,
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

  Thou hast my better years,
Thou hast my earlier friends--the good--the kind,
  Yielded to thee with tears--
The venerable form--the exalted mind.

  My spirit yearns to bring
The lost ones back--yearns with desire intense,
  And struggles hard to wring
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence.

  In vain--thy gates deny
All passage save to those who hence depart;
  Nor to the streaming eye
Thou giv'st them back--nor to the broken heart.

  In thy abysses hide
Beauty and excellence unknown--to thee
  Earth's wonder and her pride
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea;

  Labours of good to man,
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith,--
  Love, that midst grief began,
And grew with years, and faltered not in death.

  Full many a mighty name
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered;
  With thee are silent fame,
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared.

  Thine for a space are they--
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last;
  Thy gates shall yet give way,
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past!

  All that of good and fair
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time,
  Shall then come forth to wear
The glory and the beauty of its prime.

  They have not perished--no!
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet,
  Smiles, radiant long ago,
And features, the great soul's apparent seat.

  All shall come back, each tie
Of pure affection shall be knit again;
  Alone shall Evil die,
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.

  And then shall I behold
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung,
  And her, who, still and cold,
Fills the next grave--the beautiful and young.
Heather Anderson Apr 2016
V
An auspicious vicissitude
Can easily become a brevity of euphoria
And emotions become a poetic verbiage
In our unuttered votive of veracity
Due to our mind's vicarious compliance with our heart's volition
Second poem I wrote for my poetry class.
Lindee Nov 2013
what is my home if home isn't home anymore
whats a house full of locked memories pushed
to the side in decaying cardboard boxes
gathering dust with my whispered scary stories of a place called home
whats a house without beating hearts?
a cemetery.
a house of the walking-drained
I find it incredibly ironic that the place I'm living in is killing me
suffocating me with echoing words and ghosts that linger despite the blinds being wide open
home was temporary and then mailed and lost
amongst letters to Santa and I'm sorry cards never read and bills and taxes divorce papers and trial hearings, court cases and prescriptions expired
home is written on my heart in scars and on my tongue leftover from the unuttered phrases and cries only to be heard by the moonlit room of my brick walls
home is a factory
routine assembly line of insults and prying questions and denials that are cast on the floor crunching beneath my feet
this house I am residing in is not a home
how could it be
when the mirrors are plastered up with this-is-what-you-must-do and unanswered questions only to be replied with excuses of uncertainty and disabling fear, swirling, fogging up my vision
home is where my heart burns and my legs ache.
there's no safe haven
not in this house.
not even behind dead bolts and lock and secrets of the mind
home isn't home
Sally A Bayan Mar 2018
.......a parade of thoughts,
crowd its tip......sad...sweet,
scary...unpleasant...pleasant,
hopeful...or prohibited,thoughts
come.....one after the other,
like white circled smokes from a spectre,
smoking....hiding, behind the curtain,
triggered by a song, a verse, or somethin'
else.....like a photo, a voice...a memory...

when they come to haunt...and taunt
..... i just bow my head,
and let my  pen stand *****
or lean inside my palm,
allow it to make curves, loops and  
lines, to cross out untimely thoughts
on white blank pages...
pen struggles with me--whether or not, to share
my likes, dislikes, my disgust, fears, my despair...
my endless questions are frozen...wintered
within...i wonder, will they remain unuttered?
....the answers, as before, are uncertain...
.........my discontent, oh, so apparent...
::::
.....when i hold my pen...is when my soul
breathes and relaxes...it journeys...i forget all,
....hunger pangs do not enter my mind
..my troubled self....and the peaceful me
....join forces....their combined energy
flow freely, inside my inner streams...
...i sit tall when they bring out the best in me,
...wonder if i could bring back worst moments,
......and correct the wrong in them...but,
who's to say what is right? what is wrong?

when i hold my pen, i realize its might,
its omnipotent power....its written bold words,
exclamations, lines, commas, dots and dashes,
can incite, or douse strong actions and feelings
it softens the sharp edges of anger and pain
it can puncture deeper...better than a sword,
it can heal...soothe wounds and  slashes
.................inflicted by other pens


........when i hold my pen,
i let it speak for me...time and again...


Sally

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 21, 2018
Not everything I can make into a poem
like the sky just after rain
her embroidered smile its minutest hem
in her shade of cornea a grain of pain!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like wind eddies from wings of bird
her amorous veil that stokes my flame
in her lips’ quiver the unuttered word!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like the heron’s swoosh on the moon of marsh
her endless aroma without a name
in her eyes the million stars!

Not everything I can make into a poem
like when perches the bird on nest
her flushed cheeks in love game
in her kiss the sea salt’s taste!
Jacob Sykes Feb 2013
I haven’t ever known a sight unseen a sound unuttered
I haven’t ever felt a sadness that washed over wave after wave
I haven’t experienced unending depression that only pain will take away
I have felt pain
I have felt sadness
I have seen the scenes and uttered the sounds
I guess I am just one of those normal people
A face caught in an unending sea of hyperbole
Exaggeration
I haven’t ever known me

— The End —