"reappearing" poems
yesterday i saw dolphins
i swam with dolphins
their black knife jackknife dorsal-whatevers
slicing the water, scalpels into flesh,
disappearing, reappearing, disappearing,
reappearing
a herd of silent Lamborghini cracking jokes at my expense
(looks plural to me)
yesterday i saw dolphins
i chatted with an old man
who said they're laughing all the time, diving for *******
"Oh yeah, we get dolphins here,"
he might as well tell me Jesus lives there, too
or some kind of black magic came through
making these creatures appear
his nonchalance is weird
yesterday i swam with dolphins
well, saw, not swam, viewed, not caressed
but
all i want to do is see them
all i want to do is breathe with them
all i want to do is float in the same sea with them
my heart ripped to pieces in appreciation
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
Smooth, silky hair tied in a high ponytail
Clear lip gloss
Fingernails painted pale pink
The perfect girl next door
Pastel cardigans and sweaters were her thing
Waking up with red, swollen, puffy eyes
Staring at her reflection in the mirror for hours
And reappearing fresh cuts on her wrist
Yet no one knew the blackness growing darker in her
What's done is done
No way to go back in time
A little attention would've been sufficient to stop it
But to be fair
She got it in the end
As her body laid on the ground
With blood gushing out of her hand
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
they're spotless, no room for human flaws here.
with faultless sense of selves and fragile attributes
are silver stars, whose homes are cold glittered spotlights
pressured, battered and bruised. look away dear, they're "fine"
they're fine, scared and composed until the next plot twist
rarely, ever so rarely - a perfect one slips
a miscalculation on a regular day
phenomena, wasn't supposed to be that way
perfectionism drove them faultlessly insane
when the known consistent road, shatters to eggshells
"ever so rarely", they reason to the mirrors
with guilt mixing in the blood of walking in fear
inner madness unleashing, black swans reappearing
the wrongs, how cruel that it doesn't let them go on
"this is only once in a blue moon", they echo
deep breathes, clutching close, the past's panic they can't let go
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 11:46 AM UTC
this is the problem, you see. i hate orange flavoured things, but don't mind the fruit or the colour itself. i despise chocolate flavoured items as well, but will never complain if a whole bar fell into my lap. i cannot decide if it is the simple idea of disliking the watered down version of the original thing that irks me the most, or if it is something more. perhaps it is the very thought of a half truth - an illusion, if you may - that disgusts me, because these things will never be as good as the real, original item to me. you are the same, i have realised; years of sporadic vanishing and reappearing have not wavered my feelings for you, and all the people i have tried to replace you with pale in comparison.
i might be capable of lying to everyone around me, but i cannot do it to myself or you. the funny thing is that you know this, as much as i know it too. for we are vulnerable as we are broken, and somehow deep down in the darkness where we sink we are guided by the same light, which always brings me back to you, and you to me.
-
"how have you been?"
*i miss you in ways i cannot even begin to describe. i miss you the way sleep lingers in our eyes as the dawn breaks, and i miss you when our song comes on. i miss you the most when the storms arrive or when a joke is made and i turn around expecting to see your accompanying smile, but meet empty air.
the truth is, i'm lost. i miss you completely, terribly, unbelievably so, and it eats at me every single day.*
"just fine."
i put on the biggest smile i can muster and walk away.
(A.H.Z)
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:43 AM UTC
Opening my heart,
opening my mind;
I inhaled
without regret
and watched
the world
unwind.
Comfortable
in my
non-proverbial
sling-shot,
I was catapulted
from this Earth,
out of my body
and into
Hyperspace:
a sight
of radiant
splendor.
Streams
of bright,
neon color
soaked through
my vision,
illuminating
the blanketed
brilliance
of
the experience.
This eternal
round-about
spun
in wide circles
around my being,
rapidly
gaining speed,
taking flight.
Time
broke apart;
it's pieces:
fractured,
severed
and split
into
the expanse
that lay
all around me.
The walls
glistened;
scintillating
with fervent
sparkle,
a shimmering
twinkle
of prismatic
grandeur.
Breathing deep,
I felt my spirit
begin to return.
With limbs
outstretched
I grasped for
the reality
I had
just barley
touched
with
****** fingertips.
Eyes opening
back to the
shadowbox
of this
existence,
a singular
tear
escaped.
Reappearing,
I wept.
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
"my soul to keep"
this prayer
elegant, simple complexity,
comes me haunting,
every evening,
this notion,
a faint ghosting,
repeatedly reappearing
and nightly leaving,
disappointed,
from between my crumpled, sweaty bedsheets,
departing with a demanding unsatisfied, incessant,
coated with a diabolical, unfeigned challenge -
write of me,
relentlessly commanding,
right me
only,
no notions,
come realized,
no poem body, resolved solutions,
are easy offered up
your inner voices,
fettered and deterred,
begging you,
screaming,
this one,
defer, defer,
for better days,
for better poets,
who require
no assembly instructions
cannot improve upon it
my distress, sensed;
the lady of the house,
over the shoulder peering,
sees the moody poem title that
has self-selected to core this poet's core,
for endless torture,
raining down ruinous lamentation
she, ever softly spoken
*"good man,
your soul,
your poems -
both mine to take
and
mine to keep
this title,
this poetic obligation
fulfillingly, fittingly,
my responsibility
mine to write
mine to keep
mine to right
mine to mine
for its
bejeweled contemplations
render easily unto me
what I have Caesarean seized,
pried lovingly and forcibly
from thee within
though seemingly rightfully thine,
title has passed,
legally, tenderly,
into your lover's arms
banish poet thine troubled assembled,
ensemble senses,
this particular poem's journey
and the soul that bears it,
released and relieved,
for now,
mine to take,
mine to keep,
and
thy soul,
in mine to dwell,
and
mine to complete"*
~
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 8:35 PM UTC
When past comes knocking
I am most aware
to decision taking
and ghosts reappearing
past is always
pink and gold glitter powder
best untouched and
messy in open envelopes
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
With a sunset stormed in all the evils
A creeping temptation to abomination
A swirling appeal to haphazardness
Then came a wild night when i let things go
An ordinary aberration from a chaotic junction
An occasional stray from a lost path
An intentional overlook of unscrupulous mischief
A through misjudgment under ruthless predicaments
With a sobering dawn i found myself
A delusional justification for foreseen consequences
An unconscientious injection of fleeting remedies
A deliberate neglect for recurring failures
A self-inflicted blindness to vindicate oneself from misery
Then it is a calm morning
Though i know that it is all in the history
I cannot avoid the reappearing of the serene night
Whose other side awaits the furious storm to shatter me down yet again
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
You say something to a person
thinking that it won't hurt.
But one single word
can keep reappearing in a person's mind
way longer than a bruise or a scar.
One word can follow a peson
until the day they die.
One word can push a person to the edge.
One word can steal one's confidence.
One word can destroy a life.
So think before you speak.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
There she was
lying still on the couch
posing the best she could
with her gaze transfixed
deep into his eyes
basking in the thick silence
that surronded them
the only sound of his charcoal lead
stroking the paper could be heard
His every stroke defined her curve
a little better
His rough hands blending the lines
staining her soul a beautiful shade of charcoal
She could feel him
making sure strokes
thus bringing the woman on paper
to life
she felt her heart slipping ...
slipping from her hand
and on to the paper
the color of her skin fading
and reappearing on his masterpiece
the fullness of her lips
was nothing
as the beauty on his canvas
now owned it
the last thing she felt
was the twinkle of her eyes leaving
adding the final touch
to his creation
and it was when
he broke the eye contact
taking with him
the beauty he sketched
he left ...
not knowing that
He left the masterpiece behind
on the couch .... !!
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 6:40 AM UTC
at a young age, my father taught me to love
insects.
instead of killing, my father would capture spiders,
centipedes, beetles in empty pickle jars.
he would show me the anatomy, let me admire
the different colors, the shape of the pinchers,
how each one moved.
we had a praying mantis hung up on the wall,
it scared my girlfriends.
we had a hairy tarantula encased in a glass orb,
guests could never stare at it for too long.
i compare these insects to my father.
elegiac, with pinchers hidden but
present.
like the insects, i could never understand my father.
when he disappeared for days, reappearing with nothing
but a frown and the scent of beer,
i imagined him with the wings of a beetle, and he had
to fly off to a faraway kingdom.
i compare these insects to my father,
beautiful, but threatening.
his scorpion’s tail was his hand with a bottle,
his poison was the amber liquid squishing
his blood.
i compare these insects to my father,
fragile, unwieldy.
as a butterfly glides through spring, it is similar
to my father discussing his favorite things,
or deep in thought in a novel, or how his eyes
glint when he sees me after a long
absence.
but my father is far more exquisite than
any butterfly.
i still am intrigued by insects, yet i do not
admire them in empty jars.
i set them free, imagining if my father ever longed
to escape his own
jar.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:13 AM UTC
I keep on crawling
Bashing, walking, disappearing
Reappearing in your nightmares
I have not done anything but you distance yourself
Back out, Abort, Fight back, and ****
Inevitable.
My poison is pain
My poison is harm
My poison is death
It will do us apart
My insides break
You stepped on me
Crushed my soul
Yet I armed myself
Of pride, strength and independence
I am broken,
Arms shattered
Heart battered
Poisoned by my own toxins,
I altered myself
I hide in the dark
To be unknown
Leave reality
And weave my thoughts into a house
Then you break it,
Breaking, into useless strings
Spinning into infinity
Breaking from reality
Settling for disparity
I crash, unbridled
I sit between the lines
Keeping myself
From the light
The harm of the its shine
Triggering, Stunning my arms
As I embark life;
Discovering,
Living,
Dying.
Learning that everything will end.
Recovering, from the glass,
That demolished itself
Corrupted itself
And breaking into pieces
Stabbing me, bits by bits
Analyzing the blood
Flowing down my arms
Streaming down my cheeks
Setting up a castle
Lies and Lies and all those cries
I am mistaken
A behemoth,
Out of your fallen minds
Revealing darkness
Unveiling the pain
From life;
Tortured souls
Self harm
Suicidal tendencies
How we are today
The castle of fears and pains
Build, standing steadily
Yet at one angle
Breaking
Tears streamed
Will anyone see
Will anyone feel
Will anyone weave my house, my castle
Back to place
Let all the darkness disappear
And crush my pride then Call for;
H E L P.
-jnldm
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 5:13 AM UTC
I hide behind my hair
apparently it makes me shy
I love to play with his ears
apparently it turns him on
I have a habit of vanishing and reappearing
apparently it freaks people out
I like to pretend I'm invisible
apparently it's sort of true
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
In second grade, we did an experiment with static electricity
We rubbed balloons on our heads,
& stuck them to walls
& kissing you is kinda like that
My hair stands on end,
I get shocked when I touch things
& I want to tell you stupid stuff like,
kissing you is a bundle of kittens
colliding with my face at .5 miles an hour
It's like being shot with a dart gun
made of hummingbirds
that shoots darts made of hummingbirds
& your lips are so soft,
I can't actually tell when we are touching,
like braiding hair underwater,
like napping under a blanket filled with rainbows & clouds,
& your favorite books
When you kiss me,
the cartoon devil & angel on my shoulder
climb into my ears,
like all of my neurons,
& start ******* on my brainsteam
If you were a 300 pound professional weight lifter
& if I were a Kia Sorento,
you could drag me anywhere
Kissing you is patient & impossibly slow,
like peeling paint off the wall with glittery stickers,
or cooking a turkey with a lighter
You remind me of the time in second grade
when Bethany Hopkirk
called me a freak face & stabbed me in the arm with a pencil
Cause kissing you is kinda like that,
unhealthy & will probably result in disfigurement
But baby, bring on the ****** scars & lead poisoning
Cause when you kiss me,
you are dangling me off a bridge by a belt
You are the screen door of my childhood,
all taste & swinging
So full of holes you could never keep anything in
You are every black eye,
you're a semitruck & I'm a turtle with two broken legs,
& a broken heart
You are illegal fireworks falling down stairs together,
driving on four flat tires,
playing frisbee at night with a saw blade
Kissing you is like falling out of a 37 story window,
exploding into a cloud of robins
& reappearing on the ground with my mouth full of feathers
& when I can't kiss you,
I try to find the static electricity in my apartment
I dig around in light sockets,
change lightbulbs with my teeth,
& make out with the toaster
& I know we've only been seeing eachother
for a couple of weeks,
But baby, when you kiss me,
I can't remember my middle name,
or which one is my left foot
So come over tonight
We'll shuffle around the apartment in our socks,
& we'll let our lips drift toward each other,
like tectonic plates made...
out of kittens
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
Did you ever, as a child, chase a butterfly,
A tiny Golden Birdwing, perhaps
Or a Bronze Roadside-Skipper?
Flitting, faster than an arrow,
Over a rusting wheelbarrow fortress,
Under an electrified washing line,
Dive-bombing plastic remnants
Of the light infantry,
Before spinning away,
Courting the breeze in a whirling dance,
Winged-eyes blazing bright as childrens' buttons,
Vanishing in a cluster of gold chrysanthemums,
Reappearing, fluttering freely,
From a sea of bronze fennel.
Did you dash dash dash,
Arms flailing madly,
Mouth locked in a giggling grin?
And did you ****** ****** ******
Tiny hands grasping, clutching at air,
Desperate to hold natures princess?
Do you remember?
Dashing, Snatching, Grasping,
And suddenly,
She Was Gone?
And did you dare peep, clumsily,
Into your tiny hands,
Between your fragile fingers,
Half afraid you missed her,
Half again, you may find her,
Crushed In Your Hands?
The quest for desire is a chase,
So demanding,
So determined,
So distracting,
Attainment without consequence
Is your end game,
And is all that matters
Until you face the consequence
Of your end game,
When all that matters
Is What Remains In Your Hands?
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
born of insects and grass
in deep hue -- as purple as the gin blossom
climbing for new altitudes
the wall breaks inside of me
I fall through the forest floor
and into the ocean of sky
all the places I go are in freefall
but there's a reappearing rhythm
heart is a drum
heart is a drum
and it will join the dots of
a prayer remembered
(the fierce words of a holy sonnet)
consoling me in its shadow
when the turbulent, inverted plane
could no longer hold itself together
Sep 12, 2023
Sep 12, 2023 at 5:30 PM UTC
Mary, Oh Mary!
I wish you would have seen it Mary!
They were floating at such slow pace,
As if they were oozing from one another
And then slowly seeping back together,
Telling complete stories without words,
Never stopping,
Disappearing and reappearing out of the Blue.
Humans were once peaceful like these clouds, Mary,
Although only for a while.
They still try to mimick one another,
To complete eachother,
But now there's all this sin.
It feeds off us,
Stops us from respecting and sharing.
It enjoys the chaos so effortlessly created by the easiness of indifference.
Help me make it stop, Mary.
I want to care again.
And maybe, just maybe,
We'll open the others' eyes, too,
Before we lose all hope.
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 3:04 PM UTC
the wet brown deck planking
repels the the holidays invading
raindrops
I count the ones that bounce up
until the nth,
a scientific notation number,
achieves the mystical numerology status of
"a lot"
so,
not even eight am,
already have fallen in love,
two or three times,
once more
she's a
'all night long'
restless sleeper,
mouth moaning and body thrumming,
yet her smooth forehead is without lines,
those tree marks demonstrable
of the passage of
time in human time lines
breathing slow and at last resting quiet,
I count love vows renewed as
my glancing dewy-drops,
but tally only the ones that bounce,
reappearing as wet tears
upon my
foolish face
thus, even heavenly raindrops numbered,
have a mystical competitor,
love glance-drops,
in common,
both,
achieving the numerology status of
magical mystery called
"a lot"
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
you are the echo in places after everyone's sound has gone.
you are the reluctant resonance in air between breaths.
you are the leaving that's overstayed its welcome.
you are the racket in deprivation of company.
you are the uproar after music has ceased.
you are the chord eternally reappearing.
you are reverberations of want, of lack.
you are sweet tinnitus in every hush.
you are every absent reoccurrence.
you are epitomes of entirety.
your gale still lingers.
but you do not.
you do not.
you do.
not.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
He’s probably not everything I’ve ever wanted
Pompous and overbold, he shines too bright,
Like he’s some star that refuses to die,
An insignificant blinking wanting to conquer the universe.
It hurts to watch him,
a fragile twinkle who’s so desperate to encompass his
Struggles, to survive, to not fall apart to his weaknesses.
He believes “talent is something you make bloom”
Obsessive, compulsive, the only things he makes bloom are
The tired lavenders under his eyes
and angry blues on his knees, the colors fading and reappearing
Remind me of when days turn into nights, nights into days.
Reckless and confident, he makes me want to punch him
He’s a train wreck happening, a shooting star hurling through space,
When I find him, he’ll be in pieces, and I’ll have to hold him together
He’s a constant motion, an existence that weighs like the whole world when he leans his forehead onto mine, and I tremble in his arms because I can’t stop him
He hides his daily torture through high-pitched whines and flashy smiles,
As if he’s the center of the universe, when all he is
is matter being absorbed into a black hole.
Pretentious and annoying and troublesome and stupid and dumb and
_more than enough_
I gravitate to him, he keeps me afloat
When I stare into his eyes
I see galaxies
When I hold his hands
Supernovas form
When he wraps me in his chest of insecurities,
I feel the planets align
When he kisses me,
I know a stellar collision has happened.
If that isn’t enough proof,
My heart, in all its stardust, a living form of space,
Pulses and radiates, in sync with the universe’s heartbeat,
A steady affirmation that yes,
He’s not everything I want
But he’s everything I need
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 2:53 AM UTC
where the hell did you come from?
my callow frame in younger days
was cause for derision and nick names
i was “will o the wisp”
who disappeared when side-ways
magically reappearing when front on
i was lean and keen
a blonde-haired light surfing machine
now when side-ways there is a bump
a belly **** that wasn’t there before
was it habitually too much lunch
that steadily grew the paunch?
was it all those beers and cheers
over the years and years?
was it the invisible slide to a life sedentary
that expanded organs alimentary?
or is it a denial of my peter pan myth
that with age i just have to put up with?
anyway suddenly it seems to have come
but where the hell did it come from?
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
As we kissed
the constellations in the skies,
started disappearing one by one
and reappearing in his eyes.
I stumbled back
and looked with wonder,
an entire galaxy twinkled in his iris
but I spared myself from the inhuman lure.
Maybe he was a galaxy,
he was still not my world.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
The empty space that sits and waits
Spaces sit so bored and cold
We left and locked up the house today
Left one way I've never known, without you.
The empty spaces on the walls
Grow more useless every day
Calenders have lost their date
The numbers are growing old (like you did).
The empty beds are in the rooms
And there's a perfectly good one
But nobody has the nerve to sleep there
So the mattress cries, and weeps- it dies (kind of like him).
The empty closets once filled with doodles
With hearts and names and numbers
The numbers from my mothers childhood
That are probably disconnected (like yours).
The empty fridge that held our meals
Endless containers of coffee creamer
And seemingly reappearing bologna
Contains just a solemn old fruit cup (kind of like us).
The empty chair that was your space
I sat in about three times today
Where you sat and we did crossword puzzles
Quiet yet interesting puzzle books (just like you).
The empty house that sits and waits
Watches the garbage bags being taken away
Watching us discuss prices and family problems
Watching us secretly mourn in our own silent way
Of cleaning out your already empty house.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
I recently read that in order to flourish,
one must build a proper foundation.
So, I painted my bathroom...
and I'm still not peaceful.
I buy things, and arrange them in a certain way.
I work for six days, and sleep on the seventh,
and since I can't bring these things into heaven,
I should just burn it all down and face the elements.
Know what I'm sayin'?
I don't see much of a point to any of this.
Buying **** and keeping it.
Dusting it, adjusting it.
Fixing it, fussing it.
Fuck it.
I'd be far more productive if I were free of these luxuries
that we all hold so dearly.
I'd see more clearly with nothing interfering.
Severe healing.
Myself, reappearing.
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 1:00 AM UTC