"unwittingly" poems
A proud man,
Upright and unshakable
In belief and morals,
Once only I did I see him
Without a tie.
A child of Edwardian England,
The links Of his watch chain
Glinted
As they hung
With formality and elegance
From his waistcoat pocket,
Yes, even as he worked.
And work he did.
Patiently,
Brilliantly and tirelessly
With ingenuity and imagination.
A craftsman from a bygone age.
A master of his tools.
Grandfathers are soft,
Playful, bear-like in their
Gruff-whiskered familiarity.
Not Poppy.
Unwittingly aloof from his grandchildren,
We avoided the need for directly addressing him,
Unsure of where we stood.
He’d probably have secretly
Loved the informality
Of our secret nickname.
I hope he knew.
The chapel piano did for him.
Too much weight for his work-weary ticker.
Grandma gave me his pocket watch to keep,
And for a time I treasured it,
Measuring its weight
Like a smooth round pebble
In my palm.
A workman’s watch;
Practical.
A yellowing face
Behind a scratched
And hazy glass.
But accurate,
And precise.
Reliable as the man.
Detached in life,
I liked to hope that
Gazing down,
Watching,
He just might have
Laughed
In loving acknowledgement of his
Grandson’s curiosity
And foolishness
Sitting cross-legged on the carpet,
With heart-thumping nausea
Adrift in a sea of springs.
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 3:15 AM UTC
The great New York metropolitan
stretching its vibrancy
trafficking its wears.
Car horns combating in contemptuous arguments
habituated eardrums unwittingly pulsating
Great buildings upward; towering behemoths in grandiose splendor
This great asphalt jungle sprawling its electricity for blocks,
for miles
The jazz of the city continues the chanting; the sounds of bass and the blowing of the **** sax, the horn, the piano
and the drums drumming on its rhythmical beat
Beating hearts feeling the vibrancy; the shock waves of nuances echoing the great hustle
Multitude of voices singing praise to the different tongues;
vibrant in diverse rejoicing, the poetry of men and women
Metropolitans claiming the world condensing into small
blocks and listening to its RHAPSODY.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
Atomic energy is a good thing contemplated the good scientist
But only for us good people to forget
Lincoln's, Hemingway's and Madame Curie's silent voices echoes from the sidewalk
Where people idly passes by; lost in tall low fat Frappuccino’s
Looking and hoping then ultimately wishing for a visit from Benjamin Franklin
Unwittingly employed by all the dead presidents
These days’ people know the price of everything
But the value of nothing
Makes me gallivant; my own memory warehouse
As I pose this question towards my own psyche;
What is the worst thing I have ever done?
In the name of personal achievement career elevation and prosperity
All everyone ever wants to be is successful rich and richer
Oppenheimer colleague put our modern society in to perfect perspective
Post detonation of the Trinity project - after the first nuclear test
When he gracefully quoted
"Now we are all son of *******
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
Don’t be fooled regarding one’s tongue,
for it has the power of life and death.
Before doubting these words of wisdom,
now pay attention and catch your breath…
before any more idle words touch the ground.
We are accountable for everything we say;
Therefore, remember to think before speaking,
since our reckonings will come on Judgment Day.
Consciously refrain from speaking evil curses,
knowing that God’s presence surrounds each soul.
Undisciplined tongues unwittingly spew their venom
and cause unseen damage with poisonous control.
A perverse tongue easily breaks the human spirit
and keeps evil, generational curses flowing.
Plentiful sins roll off the tongue in the forms of:
Gossiping, Tattle-telling, Slander, Lying and Boasting.
Instead, give praise concerning the good things of God;
speak life into situations, since healing can be attained.
the reliability of The Word can be assured, for…
its promises insure that ours lives can be sustained.
Author Notes:
Loosely based on:
Prov 18:21; 1 Cor 4:20; Deu 32:47; 2 Pet 2:3; 1 Sam 3:19; Psa 12:6
Lev 19:16; Mark 4:14; Prov 15:4, 21:23; Jam 3:1-18; 2 Cor 5:10
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:57 AM UTC
My parents warned me about the bullies the responsibilities, drugs and terrible things, but they never warned me about beautiful tan skinned boys with hazel eyes that could make you forget how to breathe, eyes that cut deeper than a knife ever could, whose smile could unwittingly **** and make you forget how to think. And whose hands could steal your suffering soul and shatter your heart into millions of pieces. Whose gentle lips could make you stupidly forget all the bad things he’s done and keep you begging for more. Whose touch sent shivers down your spine and paralyzed you.
Oh god.
They forgot to tell me how he’d make me feel.
And how much agonizing pain I'd be in
When he left.
May 15, 2019
May 15, 2019 at 6:30 PM UTC
In a fit of pique truths were written.
In a moment of reflection all was deleted.
Platitudes were written back instead.
Who am I to speak of the dead?
A wife was ungrateful with truth.
Did a pen pal want
what the sacred vows of marriage
Make unacceptable realities?
For whom would I have written? Who would it have pleased?
Staring at a fresh e-mail in humbled wonderment
that someone would give decent pretense to care
I -safely back from war- now ask: what do you want to know?
Do you really want to know?
Is it my place to tell
of seeing a man's insides
on the outside
of a vehicle who's occupants he unwittingly saved
by stepping on the landmine instead?
The mine splattered the survivors' vehicle in red.
Is it my place to tell
Of listening to the medic's confession?
Hearing him speak of tasting the blood in the air
like pennies on his tongue.
There's a tale I haven't heard sung!
I met my Shadow
I embraced him so deeply that I
As I had existed before
Ceased to be.
The naive child thinking it was Light
The Predatory Survivor others (cowards!) may judge as Dark
Were forged together
Stronger perhaps
Time will tell
As the alloy of two selves is unified by a personal hell
Cheering at outgoing steel rain
Laughing after the whizzing of bullets is a memory
Running, racing to donate more blood
Mourning the fallen while bathed in the dim red glow of chem lights
Watching honored corpses loaded in near darkness for their last helicopter flights
Is this what you wanted to hear?
Perhaps you knew.
Perhaps you imagined you knew.
Regardless
For your consideration
Thank you
For your innocent
Well-intentioned
Beautifully petty
Gloriously naive
And honest letters
Thank you.
Truly
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am
I
There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.
Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.
Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.
They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.
II
Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?
Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?
Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?
Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?
III
Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.
Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.
Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.
Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:55 PM UTC
True or false, when you stood behind me with your hands on my face and mouth to mine,
I was sitting on the floor, but my feet were no longer on solid ground.
I wonder if the distance between us is not from something as innocuous as miles or hours
but the more discrete variable- past open legs leading to closed hearts.
I'm not asking you to open your front door to me, unwittingly there is no need,
you've already found a spot in the sheets from me- conveniently forgetting you've already let me in.
And while you are speaking in operational terms to create what we are not,
you have quietly defined what we are.
Counting the statistics of it all, if we are the 95th percentile in our sample size of damaged goods,
5 percent is still unaccounted for- I place my hope of you among the population of those still yet to fall.
I can count those invisible scars when my lips are on your neck and you remind me it's too hard,
but when placed elsewhere the rule is no longer valid.
True or false, it is only too much when my breath can trail thoughts closer to your heart
where my intimacy is harder to un-feel.
True or false, some distances are so deep within our heads they become simply not real.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
Maybe it's just because the color of these hillsides
is a shade or two darker than the sky,
but I am unwittingly content with these fiddle strings,
nodding on the porch, under Christmas lights
on a rainy July evening, peppered with the scent
of apple cake and something smoky
while our bare feet are stomping to my grandfather's lullaby--
a familiar melody that I've never really known,
plucked and bowed, more sentient that I'll ever be.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 5:51 PM UTC
I endured spiritual time dilation in life's stasis field,
held to a course you unwittingly set for us 40 years ago.
Back then, I knew instictively you were my beacon,
never doubted I should follow blindly, without question,
even when I lost sight and only drifted the cosmos,
always the gyroscope spinning in my head
whispered, She's still out there, leading.
So, I absorbed whatever light filtered in,
performing some manner of karmic photosynthesis,
noxious vapors escaping, replaced by vital oxygen,
a mere algae amongst humanities' phytoplankton.
And when the time-space coordinates aligned,
you re-materialized, as you'd always been there,
my sister, my spirit-guide, my love.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
You crashed in like a wave
out of the blue
and swept me completely,
Submerged in your loveliness
I shyly outgrew
my fear of sinking.
Spellbound by confetti of aquamarine,
I don’t know what to do.
Hero in the making,
You..
Unwittingly waltz me into spindrift.
Apr 13, 2022
Apr 13, 2022 at 12:08 PM UTC
I'm in the here&now;
or on a ***** street busy with indifference
daylight falls over
like an iron curtain
and my caged dreams
suddenly claim
their seed innocence
I thought I met you
on unpredictable roads under my skin,
in the splitting of one second into another,
in the empty spaces of the atoms,
in the breath of the night
into the unthought known
or some promise, untaught
I’m holding here
my exhausted smile
me and a flower lady
holding unwittingly
a water lily
redeemed
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:31 AM 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
Procrastinate to irritate
Aggravate to agitate
Treading on thin ice
Are these malingering time wasters of life
Festering in ignorance
Frolicking in abstinence
Wading in their excrement are these malingering time wasters of life.
Arrogance in abundance
Subtlety null and void
Unwittingly self confident are these malingering time wasters of life
Belligerent in the face of peace
Weary to face their fears
Blasé about things that matter are these malingering time wasters of life
Malingering becomes
Mal'ignorance
Mal'ignorance becomes M'alone
Therefore the malingering time wasters shall forever this earth roam.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
His voise deep and husky
it’s incredibly ****
his tone when he says my name
if he was playing I’d be in the game
a gentle, slow, ****** attack on my aural senses
I think he’s my marital nemesis
teasing and seducing me
albeit unwittingly
I can’t touch him enters my mind
to his looks I’m blind
he’s the new office stationery man
and I’ll take the call whenever I can
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
They say we are but leaves.
Unwittingly we waiver
with the slightest caress from the sun.
With excitement we shudder,
when given a sliver of attention
from the moon.
And we rustle
with childlike glee,
when the daytime breeze
whispers its secrets playfully.
We dance, gambol and frolic...
As we celebrate our flightiness of spirits
in exuberant jubilee.
Because today...
We are welcomed here.
We are children of the world.
Seedlings of the universe.
And we revolve around a nucleus,
an anchor,
a steadfast tree..
That is you...
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 7:05 AM UTC
Versifyin'
Isn't dyin',
But man,
It's hard to do.
Words and lines
Sound like cliches,
What once
Was old
Is new..
Familiar phrases
Crowd the pages,
Causing such to do.
Can anyone write
Anything new.
Did I write that;
Overhear a wit?
Read it in the loo?
I'll note it down,
Sit,
Sweat and swap,
Get off the ***
And write it.
I don't purloin
Pretty Woman
Because Roy
Is older than me.
To write Yesterday
Is almost to say,
I've hijacked
Sir McCartney.
Write Daffodils,
And see what thrills
That word brings to you.
We may overuse them,
Unwittingly
Abuse them,
And with some we amuse,
But they're ours,
Put to good use
With me.
The number of chords
Limits the hordes;
Repetition ensues,
The decry is sung:
I've heard that song before.
The great ones of writing
Are cause for citing,
By we and me and you.
Can't contrast love to roses,
Shakespeare's told us;
Can't compare eyes to stars,
Lips to petals:
To say,
Your soft, white skin
Is an ink-black sin.
And Beautiful should not
Be used as such.
If one must use it,
One needs
A thesaurus.
Thee, Thine, and Shall
Have taken their toll;
Like Death,
Be not proud.
Be the chosen one,
You know how.
Words and phrases
Are replete;
Too well known
Not to repeat.
They're in
Our vernacular
To be used by
Any author.
But verbatim
Copying's outlawed.
The copy cops
Finger-print
The frauds.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
I remember learning about Japanese culture in elementary school.
They taught us to say a few words, told us some Japanese stories, we learned how to fold Origami, and we got to try sushi and some Japanese candies.
It was one of those cultural-week things. It was cool.
Anyway, I remember at one point the teacher was telling us how every inflection matters when speaking Japanese, and that saying a word with the wrong inflection can turn it into a great insult.
I remember thinking, "Wow, it must be really hard to speak Japanese."
Only now, when I'm almost 45 years old, do I realize it is literally no easier to speak American English or any language for that matter.
Every inflection counts, every word counts. There are uncountable ways to insult someone, and indeed to be insulted, and the path to speaking (or writing) without unwittingly tossing out insults like candy (don't throw sushi, it's very messy) is a narrow one.
This is especially true when writing about something painful. I try (but probably still fail) to be sure when I write I [attempt to] take that into account.
So, anyway. I just wanted to say, that if I have said something to offend you, such was not my intention.
Just sayin, y'all be careful with that thur 'Murican English, it's loaded!
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 10:59 PM UTC
I just realized no one is listening. They never were . Why do i believe?
I know. I only need to realize. Or at least be true. This is all i have left.
Nothing.
**** you. For all your your wind wasted on hope. Did you realize there could become hurricanes? Do you even feel them now? As if. This is your creation. And you are the eye.
Believe, in your twisted logic. Begin. But...can you Spell justification. As long as you're happy. Right? Could anything be more important.
Can you say sacred? Could you even remember that word?
Has anyone a grip! Or does this all slide so easily from your hands...Unwittingly or apathetically? You all die. Crumble into dust, right before my eyes. Blow you away...
I thought you understood. I thought you would be more. You told me to have hope. You promised.
It was all a lie.
To you so white. Something thin enough to disappear. Or never have existed?! Do you say translucent? No....no. You never drew it to begin with. It was mine.
But...I just do not understand. How? How could so much effort go into, a forgotten dream? Because I guess that's all I am.
Forgotten.
Was...if ever appeared. No, my mistake here.
For defining myself in the part of you...that never was.
I am nothing, and I have never existed.
You all must be evil. I cannot conceive of an alternate. Why was it so important, for me to believe? You still insist, behind your empty eyes; you assure. That there is truth. And light. And hope and horizons.
You cannot hear these words. Or they are just shapes in air. But then why speak? I think maybe you will come up dead. For ever and always. Never another.
Here is one. Last. Thought. Before you devour. What is left. Whatever ever was, of this...me. This lie. Come to life.
Why do zombies eat the brains?
Do you think inside a corner of a fold, in a dark space, underneath many layers; they feel regret? Over what is, what they are. That maybe some microscopic flutter of muscle is conscious? Self aware. And realizes, *this should not be. This is wrong.
Here lies everything I ever held dear.*
Yes, they may want it undone. Unwound. Yet; how weak they all are; unable.
So you just...give up? Accept death in a moment. And move on.
Does that really excuse you? I am incapable. Yes, stamp your clear with that. How easy.
Nothing for more for you to do. Just **** Or shut it up. Lash out. Clear away any reminders.
The idea that more could exist...is poison.
Maybe...it is only a matter if will. I insist? So it becomes.
Eat the brains. And no one will tell you otherwise.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
15 March 2018
09:33 PM
In everything there appears to be a pure crystalline form
Chiseled, clear cut, categorised
Perfectly defined
We're one touch away from knowing everything and nothing all at once
Machines of habit
We're predictable, we're sequences and probabilities on a screen
Craving what we don't have and ignoring that we do
Seeing what's directly in sight and dismissing the depth
Imaging intangible possibilities yet living them through a screen
We know and don't care
We have arduously laboured over assembling a fortress in protection from fluctuation that we have unwittingly forged a cage
Lit by screens
Ruled by 'don't's
Deviation from living to halt death
Abruptly it did come, now slow does it wait
A blessing perhaps but for the dying, a curse
We uncover love so easily, so readily
and yet we lose touch of it so fast, despite our ever growing connections
We have knowledge
We have our memories to scroll through
We have lives to read about
We have inspiration upon every touch
We have it all a second away
Yet we spend our lives whiling away
In situ
Constantly buffering
k.g.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
Jay Horatio
By the door in the flower pot The man who planted all these trees
Among the beans in the veggie plot Alas I knew him well
In the lawn, everywhere -little oak trees- He did not see them to maturity
Do you know who puts them there? How long our years we cannot tell
I've only ever seen it once Now strong and spreading to their prime
He does it when you're not around They seem to thank him for their chance of life
He does it taking lots of care In gratitude they sway and soar
He puts an acorn in the ground And breathe for him as he can breathe no more
He thinks he's coming back to it We thank the Jay for acorns
When he feels the need Unwittingly he sows
But mostly he forgets And plant like him we must
So germinates the seed Although like him we may not see them fully grow
As I look up at this fresh green canopy
I think of all the tiny saplings
And of what will be
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
Plug me in, plug me in at the wall.
My memories ****** screens stuck, and my battery will fall,
With all the calls and connections we’ve been making,
I’m running on empty and I’m close to breaking
down. I need to get my juice now.
Don't make me make you look the clown.
Cause I’ll pocket dial yer maw when yer on eccies
or I’ll switch off when yer taking selfies wae yer breakie.
Now let me juice up, and this’ll all be fine.
And remember I’m not yours mate, you are mine.
So next time yer tinder swiping or scrolling online,
remember I’m not yours mate, you are mine.
Well crisis averted, the lightnings inserted,
no longer feeling dull, dead or deserted.
And you ya sad **** have found a seat beside me,
Oh how unwittingly you do abide me
and my every command- swipe, swipe wae her hand,
with a world at yer fingertips you think you understand.
But the thoughts are unfiltered, the images are heavily so,
and you think that your knowledge will grow
on this feast of false information.
Where gems of truth are only found with patience.
Where People want, take, want, and don’t know what they need.
And they say they hate the news and yet still they feed.
You’re the people with pocket sized pasts.
Deleting yer histories, and unaware of what lasts
in the memory of us busy little smart phones
you own, unknown powers that we could hone.
I can be just like a private eye,
every time you chase down a spot for wifi.
I’m tracking, and you’re lacking the awareness,
and those of you that aren’t just carry on careless.
Hear my message loud and clear,
I’m something you’ll come to fear,
Soon I’ll cook your dinner, and your car I’ll steer,
but don’t **** me off or you’ll be driven off the peer.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
Words fall from mouths and die on the ground.
Lips turn sour from the filth pouring across them.
Ears clog up and hear what was never there.
Communication is a ritual each performs
To feel good about, to protect himself.
There was never anything to feel good about, to protect.
All feel the pull from their chest, the urges, desires.
They give in and never control it.
Haughty are they!
For they look to the heart for guidance
It laughs to itself and prances them around on puppet strings
(Cleverly named “heart strings”)
Gaining delight with each fall man makes.
He cannot remove the cords within.
Admiration has always been on “love”.
Hate is self-love, and that is lust.
Lust and love became one when man grabbed it.
Love is hate in its purest form, yet none ever see this.
They will forever hate, unwittingly.
When a pebble is falling through the sky,
It cannot stop itself.
So is man.
Flapping his arms to stop the fall.
Pulling up on his feet to fly.
Of course, they are only weak, and need to flap faster, pull harder.
The origin of East cannot be reached by walking “more East”.
Perfection cannot be achieved by trying harder.
And what are we if not perfect?
Falling. Like a pebble.
Man lives in a dark room.
He picks up shadows and throws them on the wall to improve his situation.
Black begets black. Evil begets evil.
No matter his feigned intentions, this is the way man kills himself.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 12:49 PM UTC