"afresh" poems
and there i am in the midst of it all, conscious of what appears to be existent, yet knowing it is illusory. and if time is occurring synchronously then how can i look back with contrition? for if i have the capacity to move backwards and forwards in quantum leaps, i can erase the past like pastel chalk on an antique blackboard, then start anew. is not the sky my canvas and the arc of the rainbow my palette? and the stars in lustrous luminosity light my way so that ev’n at dusk I can paint. yet pain ne’er ceases to hollow me out. then through a barren vessel i catch more rain, and pour it out upon the parched terrain. just when i thought enlightenment was nigh, a sharp edge is discovered. must it necessitate additional sandpapering from the wind? when will the gemstone sparkle without further pressure? does it lie in its power to simply shimmer sans duress? perhaps it was dazzling at its inception, relinquishing its luster upon domestication. with this proviso, as it nears twilight i shall tarry and blend with the night. i’ll dance with a moonbeam knowing the jewel will glisten afresh upon the rise of the golden sun.
@2016janetaylor
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
You were forever finding some new play.
So when I saw you down on hands and knees
I the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay,
Trying, I thought, to set it up on end,
I went to show you how to make it stay,
If that was your idea, against the breeze,
And, if you asked me, even help pretend
To make it root again and grow afresh.
But ’twas no make-believe with you today,
Nor was the grass itself your real concern,
Though I found your hand full of wilted fern,
Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clovers.
’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground
The cutter-bar had just gone champing over
(Miraculously without tasking flesh)
And left defenseless to the heat and light.
You wanted to restore them to their right
Of something interposed between their sight
And too much world at once—could means be found.
The way the nest-full every time we stirred
Stood up to us as to a mother-bird
Whose coming home has been too long deferred,
Made me ask would the mother-bird return
And care for them in such a change of scene
And might out meddling make her more afraid.
That was a thing we could not wait to learn.
We saw the risk we took in doing good,
But dared not spare to do the best we could
Though harm should come of it; so built the screen
You had begun, and gave them back their shade.
All this to prove we cared. Why is there then
No more to tell? We turned to other things.
I haven’t any memory—have you?—
Of ever coming to the place again
To see if the birds lived the first night through,
And so at last to learn to use their wings.
5.4k
I am starting afresh, starting new,
not with the many, only with a few.
I left behind what did not grow,
held the door open, asked them to go.
For this year, my head is very clear,
who doesn't uplift you, really ain't your dear.
For this year, my heart is very aligned,
who is not kind, really ain't worth your time.
-Paras Bajaj #PoetrybyParas
Instagram : @mr.parasbajaj
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 12:09 PM UTC
i wish to unmeet you
only to meet you again.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Here come I to my own again,
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me,
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the Yards afresh.
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother’s mind, you see)
But there’s no reproach among swine, d’you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I’m off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there’s a laugh to it,
Which isn’t the case when we dine.
My father glooms and advises me,
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler’s gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I’m ****** if I think it’s fair!
I wasted my substance, I know I did,
On riotous living, so I did,
But there’s nothing on record to show I did
Worse than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man’s son.
So I was a mark for plunder at once,
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn’t give up and knock under at once,
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs.
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!
So back I go to my job again,
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that’s around.
I’m leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I’ll write to you!
I wouldn’t be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
3.8k
Tis I am just a man, a boy if thou want to sayest, a foolish lad; who hast hurt his blessing of a queen.
Tis I am just a man, a sinner, a prehistoric bringer; of sorrows
Where bird's dont sing.
O' wretched man I am; overlooking this perfect flower, she's arrayed as a petal neath the tropical hours.
O' im just the rain that brings the flood of many woes.
I wish, O' how I wish, I couldst pour all contentment and merriment into her lonesome soul.
Tis she's the rainbow, I the dusky storm. O' how her glow maketh mine day's liveable; O' how her voice is opulent galore.
If only she knew, she is mine better, mine best; mine breath of yellow dew.
Though I've not shown her the worth that she is; mine trials and tribulations hast become
mine abyss.
Though I shalt get through
This passage of gloom.
With God All is possible;
Even being set free from this tomb.
Tis I am just a man, a boy if thou want to sayest, a foolish lad.
Who if couldst wouldst start all afresh; re-giving mine love, and to get all mine best.
How a simpleton ive been;
To not seest heaven's eastern gem, glimmer her perfect wing's, for mine foolishness, these word's shalt I sing.
(Goes into song form, words "I love you jane, please forgive me" sung in spanish, greek, cebuano, tagalog/filipino).......
(Spanish)
Te amo jane,
por favor perdoname.
(Greek)
Se 'agapó Jane,
Se parakaló synchóresé me.
(Cebuano)
ako nahigugma kanimo Jane,
palihug pasayloa ako.
(Tagalog/filipino)
Mahal kita jane,
patawarin mo ako.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©earl Jane nagley dedication (agapi mou dedicated)
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
Sky, giving the possibility to fly
Like a hovercraft, every time in my eye
Endless, it seems as seen every time
Timeless, drawn with a blue line
Thoughts, giving the possibility to think
Transforming, into ideas that act like an ink
To write, the clean sheet of Karma
With, ecstasy(ies) and trauma(s)
End, gives the possibility to start
Afresh, anew, straight from the heart
Waves, the brain continuously sends
Possibility, it never ends
|AB|
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 1:42 AM UTC
We can be strangers again.
Laugh again. Flirt again.
Cry again. Smirk again.
Create memories afresh.
When in doubt, hit refresh.
But memories, they are tricky.
The moments that you love or hate,
simply go away in time-lapse
and somehow become the scars in your heart
that seem to define you.
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 6:13 AM UTC
1.
Each of us like you
has died once,
has passed through drift of wood-leaves,
cracked and bent
and tortured and unbent
in the winter-frost,
the burnt into gold points,
lighted afresh,
crisp amber, scales of gold-leaf,
gold turned and re-welded
in the sun;
each of us like you
has died once,
each of us has crossed an old wood-path
and found the winter-leaves
so golden in the sun-fire
that even the live wood-flowers
were dark.
2.
Not the gold on the temple-front
where you stand
is as gold as this,
not the gold that fastens your sandals,
nor thee gold reft
through your chiselled locks,
is as gold as this last year's leaf,
not all the gold hammered and wrought
and beaten
on your lover's face.
brow and bare breast
is as golden as this:
each of us like you
has died once,
each of us like you
stands apart, like you
fit to be worshipped.
3k
I recently had the great privilege of editing Mike Essig's latest poetry collection, THE BIOLOGY OF STRANGENESS, and I'm honoured to have been entrusted with such fantastic material. Putting together a book like this is every poetry geek's dream.
It's a beautifully textured assortment of poems, earthy yet lyrical, narrated by a voice that's uniquely grained with experience. There are pieces that will make you smile, think, wince; there are pieces that hit you in the gut out of nowhere; there are pieces that welcome you into them like old, worn-in shoes; there are pieces you will remember late some night when you're by yourself, and remembering them will make you feel less alone.
This collection of poetry makes you look at the banal and the everyday afresh; it finds magic and mystery in the mundane, and even Hawaiian shirts are poem-worthy when Mike Essig's writing about them.
The Kindle version is already available through Amazon.
A paperback edition is due out next month, and I can't wait to have a copy of this book on my shelf as well as on my e-reader.
Mike's previous poetry books, Never Forgotten and Huck Finn Is Dead are also available through Amazon and are excellent.
From his author profile on B Star Kitty Press:
"Mike Essig is a veteran of Vietnam and a retired English teacher. He’s also been recruited by the muse as a poet, like he hadn’t already been through enough."
Sample poems, links to sales pages and more info can be found at the B Star Kitty Press website. www(dot)bstarkittypress(dot)com.
Please do support this very talented indie author.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.
Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.
2.8k
Lets sail way hence .
about tempest gale , away from all glance .
for you are my Kaye and i your Blessing .
lets go by air or ocean.
and the sweep of our love will protect and govern.
come Kaye where there's no evil but cheer blessing.
lets move where fire doesnt hurt .
a place there is none to see but Kaye and Blessing's heart.
an empty land that belongs to two Blessing and Griser
lets move to place of no suffering .
a region where moon and stars do not set their racing .
that is a place where only love is the ever early riser .
lets join into eternity kiss .
arm in arm its Kaye and Blessing stepping into bliss .
where sun will not dull our beauty but keep us afresh .
Kaye hears the tune of Blessing .
the only that loves you more as your sweetest dreaming.
reach me over my flowery bed and lets unit into one flesh.
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 3:12 PM UTC
Ah, my feet hurt these days
walking on these hills and slopes
and it’s been seven days
since my straw shoes were thinned and with holes
and become tattered and absolutely useless.
I remember I was walking in the fields and
I could feel my feet touch the ground and I said:
Curse you, you silly straw shoes!
Is that how long you last?
Is that how you let me down
when I need you most?
Well, like humans I have known,
and so my straw shoes;
they too tire of their friends and relatives
and they too feel the burden
and inconvenience
of serving an old parent.
But I’ve just thrown old shoes away
as one throws old memories and the past away .
Let me make myself new straw shoes
as I sit below these trees and away from the crowd
and with a little peace
for an old man like me
I can be quiet in this shade
perhaps talk to myself or sing some far-off song
and make myself
straw shoes, new ones
and I’ll walk again with new shoes
as one may drop, discard
and put away all old memories
and walk afresh and anew
with no shadow of the past over one’s head.
Let me make simple straw shoes;
that will suffice, just for the purpose;
nothing fancy, just so to be able to walk comfortably
as I go about my work
on the hills and slopes and the fields…
that is all one needs…
…an old man like me just making his own straw shoes…
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 3:13 AM UTC
Have you wondered how tomorrow looks
When you've lied about today ?
Have you squandered opportunities
When you've refused to play ?
Have you sought the possibilities ?
Have you broken through the ruse ?
Have you shed your limitations
And tried to fill some bigger shoes ?
Will you spread your wings to fly
Across the chasm in your life ?
Have you shared your closest fears
With the one you call your wife ?
Do you long to break the mold
And try to start the day afresh ?
Is there courage there to stride out,
Have you the will to make it mesh ?
Is there a shade of self deception,
Is a colour bar installed ?
Are there feelings of inadequacy
Has your darling not yet called ?
Does your flacid nature falter
When pinned against the wall ?
Have you moments of reluctance
To recall it all, at all ?
Does it all really matter
That your world is locked within,
That the things which hold you back
Are simply things you revel in ?
That the greatest limitations
Are the ones you self impose,
That the key which locks the door
Is locked outside the door you close ?
Marshalg
reflecting@theBach
Mangere Bridge
28 July 2009
May 21, 2010
May 21, 2010 at 12:25 PM UTC
The magic of summer twilight casts a spell
In ink blue incantations and honeysuckle dew.
Each shadow stretched out like the years,
That spread deeper and darker, stronger too.
As the mystery of day's last light is cast afresh,
Gentle glows, fearfully goes our sacred time.
Hidden there we lose and find ourselves,
In the murmur of the evening breeze, our lullaby.
It sends us, brings us to a mystic place
In which we all relive each memory's hew.
Tom Lefort July 2023
Jul 2, 2023
Jul 2, 2023 at 5:22 PM UTC
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste.
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancelled woe,
And moan th’ expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
2.5k
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
2.4k
Ten years old again,
In a tree ten feet high again,
In scuffed shorts with tangled hair,
And with the boys I longed to be.
Sanctimonious girls in dresses and frills,
Boredom and constraint personified,
Stare up in incredulity
As I heave myself over mossy branches.
“Girls don’t climb trees.”
I do. I roll in mud, play racing games,
Never brush my hair.
“You’d be pretty if only you tried.”
You’d feel alive if only you tried.
The wind on my bare arms,
Dirt beneath fingernails,
Scrapes on my shins
Red and out of place
Like smudged lipstick
On children’s faces.
I’m not you. I’m me.
Boxes serve to keep us in,
Deliver us neatly packaged
To a society which cannot cope
With fluidity,
Individuality,
Uncertainty.
Boo!
She says those two misguided words:
“Make over”.
Impossible. One cannot start afresh.
This is the result of every waking moment,
Of every word heard and spoken,
Each memory joyous and painful,
A piece of art nineteen years in the making.
Not to be destroyed in one act of disguise.
Yet curiosity is my mistress.
She leads me to boundaries
I never knew existed.
Up goliath trees,
Into foreign beds,
To the brink of reality
In mind-bending worlds
Of parallels.
Like a mannequin, devoid of identity
I give my image to you
And you place yours jarringly
Onto my reticent body.
The obliging cheers
At my transformation
Into an eloquent femininity
Feel hollow and worthless.
I have done nothing of merit.
I totter like a toddler
Uncomfortable in my own skin.
I’m on stage, an act,
A project. Not a person.
How bizarre it feels
To wear a stranger’s façade
Of dresses and frills,
When you know you belong
To a different world
Of dirt, and treetops,
And freedom.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
Once there was a president,
Cold and heartless, who set about
Finding ways to make his country
Great by keeping migrants out.
"We'll place soldiers along our southern
Border," said the nation's boss.
"That way we can easily stop
Migrants from making their way across.
"And if the migrants become unruly,
The soldiers can shoot them, one by one."
Advisers turned to the president
And said, "No, sir, that can't be done."
"Then let the soldiers shoot the migrants
Low, low, in the ankles or thighs.
We will see the unwelcome
Migrants start to drop like flies."
Advisers looked at their boss and said,
"Sir, that's also out of the question."
The president, getting angry now,
Said, "Then here's another suggestion:
"We will build a moat along
Our border wall and fill that moat
With alligators and venomous snakes."
That idea made him gloat.
"And then we'll add spikes to the wall--
Spikes that can penetrate human flesh.
Find me the cost for all of this,
Or else we'll have to start afresh."
Suddenly, he said, "I know:
We'll just change asylum laws
And separate the families.
That should give the migrants pause."
Hard, hard the administration
Worked together to find a plan,
Using words like "riff-raff," "invaders,"
"Dangerous threats," and "caravan."
The whole world watched in horror,
Lamenting how democracy fails
When an unfit elected leader
Goes completely off the rails.
-by Bob B (10-4-19)
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain, - but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hands' palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
- These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
Treading blood from lings that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them,
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
Carnage incomparable, and human squander
Rucked too thick for these men's extrication.
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black;
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.
- Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
- Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
2.2k
1323
I never hear that one is dead
Without the chance of Life
Afresh annihilating me
That mightiest Belief,
Too mighty for the Daily mind
That tilling its abyss,
Had Madness, had it once or twice
The yawning Consciousness,
Beliefs are Bandaged, like the Tongue
When Terror were it told
In any Tone commensurate
Would strike us instant Dead
I do not know the man so bold
He dare in lonely Place
That awful stranger Consciousness
Deliberately face—
2.1k
What I choose I plan to do and with Satan's trap,
What I think I hesitate to choose but troubled by Satan's trap,
When I forget the Word of God I derive pleasure by Satan's trap,
When I feel God's Grace below my soul I bargain my soul with Satan,
How I play with God's patience that with the tool of Satan,
How I use Satan's tool that with my love of the world,
Why I love the world of filthiness that I fail to pray,
Why I fail to pray is that laziness has sneaked into my soul,
Where I look for the place to pray that I find nowhere to do so,
Wherefore time and place are no where found but in one's soul.
Let me drop myself into the Arms of God in Christ,
And look upon Him on the Cross where His Blood still flow afresh,
And each drop of His Blood is for my sins to be cleansed.
'O, Lord! Give me strength to resist temptation and sin!
In Christ Jesus
Dec 20, 2011
Dec 20, 2011 at 11:03 AM UTC
She was grateful
For the concealers who hid her eyebags
She was happy
Even for her empty lunch bags.
The grumble of her stomach didn't matter
As long as her thighs were not touching each other
So what if she forgot her in the Victoria Secrets
She is no longer named unfit.
She still hears the murmurs on the hallway
Taining her dreams every day
She is aware of their glares
That are giving into her scars
Her wounds are still afresh and open for more salt
But her smile still intact by default
All alone she watched them feel her body
All along she bit her lips from screaming in agony
The scarlet blood joined her maple red lipstick
She stood there watching her self worth
Dropping like the length of her favorite skirt
The corset is painting her skin purple and blue
But she has no clue
May 31, 2020
May 31, 2020 at 9:33 AM UTC
Some of you go so far as to disclaim any ability to find you, but I've got you.
(sonnet #MMDCCXCV)
Dare claim your writing does not breathe a strain
Of your dear essence: to be fooled. Thereby
Petrarca's soul distills its fervour aye;
And Wyatt cool good sense; while Surrey feign
With mildest touch and Spenser's pure refrain,
Sweet Shakespeare beauing hearts, dare cry
Amain. From Milton's kingly strength's reply
To Wordsworth's cold hauteur, yea come again?
Twas Samuel Taylor Coleridge roused me
To think afresh, his lively fancy through
Each line with his impress. From Shelley's plea
To Keats' indulgence, Missus Browning's blue
Yet mystic charm, don't think all cannot see.
You don't know me? But ah, I do know you.
31Aug13b
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
What do you think
When I say
And when I don't
What you like
And things you don't
Say things you think
So that I can link
And try afresh, try anew
A joke on me or two on you
But say it please
Clear and loud
My junk-head is all
Smog and cloud
With silly adventures of my own
with words and friends
In times bygone
I know me self
I miss the point
To make a point
You get it?
No ; I knew it
Missed it too!!
So bear with me
for I need you
To bear the self
When not with you.
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC