"reawaken" poems
Stop resenting me
For the way I shop
The things I do
To make sure
My food is fresh
I confess I feel blueberries
In my fingers
To make sure they are firm
Not too ripe
I confess I shake
Cans of spaghetti and ravioli
So that I know
The sauce is not
Congealed
I confess I pull frozen waffles
From the back of the freezer
Less likely that they thawed
And refroze into
Oddball shapes
I confess I smell trout
Before I buy it
Placing it against my nose
In the most unabashed
Way
Spare me your hate
About my consumer habits
When I know it has nothing to do with
Food
As long as I bring you warm release
In the darkness of your desires
Pull your tangled hair the way
You like
Bite your darting tongue
In mad hunger
Deep appetite
As long as I reawaken the
Woman
Primal animal hidden
Within
Turn your heat into a river
For a long passionate
Swim
As long as I attend quickly to your
Every ***** command
The craving of your ******
Insatiable
Demand
Then I can squeeze french bread
In quiet and peace
I can sniff cantaloupes
Without suffering ire
Or grief
I’ll take you tonight
In that filthy way
You like
Until then
Leave me alone
I’m shopping.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 6:15 AM UTC
_...All I remember was
Cancer and my hospital room,
My green gown, my bed,
My white hair and mustache
Until suddenly...
...Reality started to stretch…
…And flatten into a brief euphoric white…
…I felt a cathartic release
As I was encapsulated and bathed
In a glorious sensation…
...I floated for an eternity…
…Until I felt my euphoria lifting…_
…As my eyes reopened
I found myself gazing
Upon a room of tiny lights,
Blue and pink specs
Dotting the inner workings
Of large wall sized machines…
…They lifted me upright
In a gray metal chair
And with sharp robotic groans,
A long arm from the wall
Held up a mirror to my face...
...In the reflection was a young man
I thought I would never see again…
…I had a wife back before,
But now I have a new one
Everybody in my situation,
("Reborns", as they are called)
Has brand new things and people
Filling their lives and concerns
They bring nothing with them
When they make their returns...
…Every morning I wake up
On the west 402nd floor
Of a residential tower
Next to my slim, youthful wife
And the trails of flying cars
That populate our view
From our wall-spanning window
As they soar through the city…
…I was told of technology,
Created and discovered
That could reawaken people
Who, like me, had died
In an earlier era and time…
…It’s strange that my past,
In all its importance and meaning,
Memories, friendships and scenery,
Seems to no longer be of concern,
Now that I have all this…
…I love what was, very dearly,
But the life I live now is for me.
I have new children, knowledge,
Friends and technology…
…I’m quite sure it’s possible
That old family members
That passed before me
Could exist in the same place
That I now live and find myself…
…But I can’t be certain,
Maybe they live further,
Deeper, in an unknown future
That I can’t even comprehend…?
…All I know is that, like me,
They have a new life somewhere
So I’ll do what I tried to do
My first time around…
…I’ll continue to grow and live on
In this new, world-spanning cityscape
Fueled by the love and memory
Of a past life remembered
only by me...
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
There are conversations in which my mental frame leaves the
parameters of my body.
No longer can I fathom the concept of ‘being in love’
I witness dates
and
feel as an apprentice of such a trade might
an inadequacy to replicate the models of those before me
Gone are my indefinite moments of sanity
Childhood is laced in linens of silk
Soft-spoken words
and
Finely crafted spontaneity lacking responsibility
Ceaseless are the times in which I must conceal the thoughts I abhor
Depravity seems to chain my soul
which leads to
a Resolution in pixelation
due to
a visual handicap which has left my eye blind to choosing right
My friends make me happy
but as a glass transforms back-&-forth between half-empty &
half-full
one glance across our wooden dinner is all it takes
for
My thoughts to liquidate into bars of gold
Telling myself I must exchange their conversation for my motivation
heavy on the mind
light keystrokes
Once i reawaken at 1 A.M. from my conscious-coma
i ask myself
What good is it?
To be thoughtful
Yet have no action
What good is it?
To fantasize
Yet refuse your own inclination for renovation
What good is it?
To be dramatic
Yet have no one at your performance
I do understand what it means to ‘be’
Watching Tuesday suns burn in loops of ongoing weeks
- lacking peaks -
As I continue to lay under clothes line
Wrapped in a melody of melancholy
But I do not understand what it means to be ‘me’
My mind feels as a lemon candy might,
sour at first bite -
hollow on the inside, then gone
Without ever truly knowing what it tastes like.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 9:03 PM UTC
Seventeen years ago
America was shaken to the core.
Since not too long after that
We've been involved in a non-stop war.
Homeland security
Became an issue that since then
Hoped to assure Americans
That such attacks won't happen again.
During the past seventeen years
Many measures have been taken
To make us safe; however, it's time
For sleeping minds to reawaken.
Lacking foresight, our president
Has gone after the people who
Have worked to make us safe. The man
Doesn't seem to have a clue.
Discrediting investigators,
Removing them from key positions,
And pulling security clearances
Because of paranoid suspicions
Will only make us vulnerable
To future terrorist attacks.
Watch how his Republican friends
In Congress support him. Political hacks!
The president also hates
When investigators eye
American involvement with
The Russian mafia. We know why.
It's hard to watch as the president--
With almost each careless endeavor--
Stupidly goes out of his way
To make us more unsafe than ever.
-by Bob B (9-11-18)
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
When the sun sets, flecking clouds with diaphanous light and birds whistle daytime’s last summer psalms, we call it night.
We’re moonbathing and Sunny’s features are inlaid with glamorous silver-blue patines. We’ll reawaken soon, our time is measured in assignments, not in hours, days or even seasons.
Responsibility is a villain of our own devices. You can run from it, bolt your door against it, only to find it’s right there - in back of you - smiling like a tiger or a parent.
Unfortunately, the university isn’t a hotel. It’s more of a competition, like those survivor shows.
We’ll enjoy the moonlight, for a few, laconic moments, for it seems to possess a sweet power to cool and calm, but soon our purposes will call, irresistibly, and we’ll return to the performance.
Sep 21, 2022
Sep 21, 2022 at 2:40 PM UTC
Shimmering sudden sanctioning
Surfaces right in front of me
Twisting tomorrow’s tongue-tied testimony
Leaving my heart soaked in surrender
Colossal comb tethering in the hair of my offender
I wallowed in things to come while my whole life was spinning undone
Soothe thyself day to day so I won’t fade away
Internal clock knocks on my heartthrob
I am slipping into each moment
Oh I won’t hold it
I let go and slowly slip, swallowing every drip
This is just the tip of all there is
Reawaken each moment in this
Love lapses through me and I collapse into infinity
Struck by my own understanding
Preparing for divinity’s landing
I fall for it again and again
My dreams melting madness motion me onward
Tangible tussles through thick throats turning toward tomorrow
Sorrow leaks and seeps into the eyes of the blind
While they wait in their own mind
Suckling savage frolics as mankind slips into grayness
And blue lips use so much to say so little
Breaking our fiddle over our knees
Longing for hope hitched pleads
As our craze bleeds onto eternity, spun up into me
Creeping carefully so as not to spill this drill yet again
Letting it crack through the incomplete
Flushes back into the see
Finally, once again we arrive and float away with the breeze
Nov 5, 2012
Nov 5, 2012 at 2:10 PM UTC
i.
the stars do not shine
loneliness presses the air
into a tangle of last years withered
leaves,
loneliness in summer leaves
that whisper to a grey moon
a song of regret.
ii.
dreams of midnight,
cool rain,
songs more alive
than this low-roofed night.
iii.
teardrops like the ghostly moon, lost
against the heart that
flutters like a dark sky
breathing stars.
iv.
the mottled horizon
pools into greys,
tender eyed with
soft sadness,
in these dim hours when silence
cloaks the woods and
human laughter disappears
we sink against the softer sky
and the slow fade of moon and
long for dream, for everything
to reawaken and unwind.
v.
we are swimmers heading as far
out as we can get. surreal silver
stars, opening like flowers,
refusing to drown.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
I¹m not sure how I came to be obsessed with Dorothy L. Sayers and her
beloved Peter Wimsey. At any rate, I was determined to go on a pilgrimage
to England and walk in the places where she walked and to see the place
where her ashes lay. And to ostensibly find a signed copy of one of her
books every copy of which was beyond my economic horizons on my internet
searching. So I went to London I saw her heroine, Harriet Vane¹s
Bloomsbury. I went to Russell Square and stepped back into a time when
hotels smelled of potted meat and wet wool and it was always raining. I
saw where Harriet and Peter set up housekeeping after their marriage.
Finally, I wnet to St. Anne¹s Church in Soho DLS¹s final resting place
where she was warden for some 12 years before her deaeth in 1957. It took
three trips to the small tower where her ashes lay under the concrete before
I could get inside and stand in that place, but I finally got there What
is it that makes us feel connected when we stand where someone else is
buried?
And wandering around London on our second day there I stumbled into a
small book shop and, wonder of wonders, I asked if they had any Dorothy L.
Sayers¹ books and they said ³Are you her to look at her private library that
they had recently purchased at auction?¹ So I now have three of DLS¹s own
books and I have one signed and annotated in ink by her from her private
library. I have the books sitting in my living room in a small house, in a
small town in Indiana. But I have a part of something in my bookshelf I
take it out periodically and ****** it and feel like I can reawaken some
lost show in some other place and time.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:50 PM UTC
blizzard, winter falls and I
am summer; roots for feet
and a garden in my heart
this is how it starts
ash and scars, but the
ice is welcome here
if it only appeared at all
slumber -
you dream, spring child
the humming of bees and
clapping of dragonfly wings
echoing your laughter
the rain does not charm
yet only stays to love you
as everyone is prone to
all of lightning, thunder
grass and fire
autumn kisses the last breaths away
and I, summer field and dimming light
watch the sky darken as the moon rises
but you are eternal sun
summer falls into spring
see -
we were meant to transcend
it's always, always
been you.
(A.H.Z)
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:05 AM UTC
Bedsit lights flicker
floorboards creak
the night prolongs plans
to see through the situation
An envisaged train journey to Canterbury
may just reawaken this
side of reason
realising clear thoughts
the richness of discourse
where I may visit some folk club
summarise these my questions
through a better door
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 2:52 PM UTC
I keep telling myself our love is like
a lake in winter; cold to the touch but
beneath the ice is dormant life
waiting to reawaken
And on its surface are both ballerina
figure skaters poised with perfection and
toddling children wearing scrapes like
first place medals
Sometimes the surface cracks and out
pours freezing entrails and watery
remembrance - but now is no time for
nostalgia. The lake scabs over with
persistent breaths from the father-wind
and winter's secrets are secured
Some things are best left forgotten
until the season is right
But I know our spring will soon come
melting away the frozen crust and turning
skaters into swimmers as the Divine Sun
breathes life into our slumbering hearts
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
Condemned to a body that can not move,
Speak, or even have the strength to open one eye
I’m paralyzed
Drenched in a foul smell of fear
Barely have the will to scream
My tongue is stitch
Within my mouth
My vocal chords are ripped from my neck
To endure the agony the bleary world has secluded me to
With enough will power I was able to slightly open my left eye
The atmosphere of my surrounds was not the world the walked upon
A world of constant shock
Hostility
Animosity
With the little strength I had to move my eye was enough torment to bear
A world that is hard to explain
Only to be there to feel its ugly nature
A world that blinds the eye
To have your soul collapse
In the state hopelessness
No returns
Parasites feeding off the joyful thoughts of lovely memories
That soon turns into bitter nightmares
That becomes reality
Voices from left & right
That ridicules you for hope,
But in reality it just wants you to suffer its pain
Laugh; be amused, you’re its toy of pleasure
Desperately I try to move
Scream for help
Or even cry, just to feel something other then misery
At the moment of silence
Easily manipulated like a child
For candy
I thought this world of torment was over, but only to see a bleary man standing at the corner of this deluded world
Watching me as if nothing has happen
Why do you stand there?
Why do you mock me?
Are you even human?
WHAT ARE YOU?!?
No response, but only more pain is afflicted when it starts approaching me
Facing death literally 2 feet away from me is terrifying enough
No poor soul should endure this madness
In honesty, Death, cruel punishment of every soul’s demise I advert you on this grim second of my life
Strike me as you please, just end this horrid madness
And let me escape this world I dare not to think.
I soon to reawaken into the land of the living
Grateful to have chattered the unfortunate chains
Of the world of the unpalatable madness lurking around us
Despite of this ordeal
I feel this is only the beginning of something that yet to seize us into its world of disaster.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
Don't move.
The air is rich with magic.
The words that so recently dropped from the poet's lips
Now hold you transfixed, as if they were
The words to a spell of binding
Freezing you to your seat and reminding you
That the pen is still mightier than the sword.
You sit, unwilling to stir, because you know all too well
That the minute you move, you'll break the spell
And the shell constructed from the lines of verse
Will shatter like someone touched the magic with a curse
And the world will come rushing back in.
A single rustle is all it takes for the world to reawaken
And the spell to break. But as the mystic moment fades away,
You pray that some of the magic will stay
And cling to you like stray cobwebs,
Trailing the beauty of the words that were spoken
So that others might be touched by the magic that awoke
In the few moments you took to step away from the world.
But whether or not the magic leaves a trail for others,
It will not fail to nestle itself inside your head
And every night you spend tossing sleepless in bed
The words will be turning over and over--
They will dissociate and scramble and regenerate
Until at last they precipitate into a new brand of magic.
Then the day will come when you, too, will stand
In that sacred space before a crowd of eager young faces--
Or perhaps just sit and spend some time with a single friend--
And you will hold in your hand a paper
Filled with the dots, lines, and squiggles
That are the visual representation
Of this creation of yours, this poetic summation
Of the beauty that has invaded your soul
And forced its way out again.
As you draw your first breath, you begin weaving the net
That will set the stage for you to upset their status quo
And transport them to a place from which you know
They will return wanting more.
Then you will speak the words
And pass the magic on.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:09 AM UTC
sometimes, there's not an answer.
sometimes the only thing you can do to keep yourself sane is to hide.
keep yourself locked away in the sacred mausoleum which is your heart;
shy away from the turmoil of "everyday life."
reawaken your senses,
heighten your soul to that of a bird—
flying,
gliding,
ever higher;
at peace with the world around you,
for there you find the space from which your dreams are calling you—
reaching out,
pulling you toward your destiny,
your deepest desires.
beyond the realm of space and time,
there is a door with your name on it.
there is no key,
only openness,
gratifying you with something lighter than truth,
heavier than light.
it is here that you will find what you are looking for—
peace.
Jul 6, 2012
Jul 6, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Adieu I will curl away
and reawaken ten years from now
like an unwitting coil
I spring some confounded earnestness
of built up creaks and misalignments ,
serenade me not,
for discordant pipers foil
their sepia tinged pedestraness.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
I'm so cold without you possessing that piece of myself
I was perfectly warm before you though; there weren't self requirements
So there must be a way I might rediscover freedom now that you're gone
And reawaken my inner freedoms, that've always lived, all on my own
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
I just wish I could get my
head and my heart
to play on the same team,
but they are constantly
at
odds.
My heart still yearns for
a man that
never loved me to begin with,
convinces me that
it's worth responding when
he texts me some
empty ******** that
momentarily assuages his guilt
for his selfishness.
On a Saturday night when
all my friends are off with
someone who loves them,
my heart pumps heavy
against my hollowed chest,
trying to manipulate my
fingers like weak little
puppets,
persuading them to send a text
I will regret in the morning.
My heart replays the words he spoke,
the times he made me feel like I mattered,
the way our bodies made art,
how he understood me like
no one else ever has.
What if I made a mistake,
my heart demands of me,
a mistake in cutting him out,
in choosing to ignore his texts,
in attempting to move forward?
What if no one else will
ever open
their ears to all of my secrets,
their eyes to all of my skeletons,
their hearts to all of my mistakes?
What if I missed my
chance for love?
Remember, my heart whispers,
how he stayed up all night
unfolding himself
and
how you shared your poetry
and
how he sent you a text a day with
a new matter to ponder
and
how he knew what you thought
before you said a word
and
how he understood every
face you made and what it meant
and
how the lyrics you heard
always mattered to him
and
how he cared about what you were learning
and
how the minuscule moments
of your life meant the world to him...
or so he claimed.
And then my brain swoops in
to remind me how
he was all words, no action.
Days and weeks went by
without a peep
even though the week before
he had insisted on showing up at your
apartment five days in a row.
All he cared to do with you,
my brain recalls,
is share a smoke on the roof
and discuss life,
but never did he once care to
share in the outside world
with someone who he so claimed to love.
My brain reminds me of
the secrets he kept,
of the woman he lived with
behind my back,
of the gross refusal to make a commitment
even when he claimed
he would think of me in his last moments
and that he had never
felt for another like he did for me.
My brain knows of his emptiness,
of his excuse-making,
of how he blamed everything on his
pathetic circumstances
when he really was just a
selfish ******* who deserves
not a moment more of my time,
ever.
When I get those texts
that claim he's thinking of me
after church or
send me song lyrics in some
pathetic attempt to reawaken our
"connection,"
my brain reminds me to
ignore,
to remember that words are empty,
to wait until he becomes man enough
to give me what I deserve.
My heart makes me weak.
My brain keeps me strong.
My heart wants you.
My brain doesn't need you.
And even though I want
to listen to my heart,
my brain knows better.
Feb 8, 2015
Feb 8, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
The institutionalized Racism in America and inequality
is not something by chance.
When there can be persecution for
Something as Spiritual Dance.
There is a bit of unspoken truth,
one that I don't expect you to understand.
There's all evidence, there's all proof.
But no mater the devastation, we stand.
Let me take you back to a time,
to a land where proud Nations stood.
The loss of our land,
Culture is nothing short of a crime.
Our Grief and our passion is often... Misunderstood.
Walking on a trail of broken treaties
our feet bled and our hearts cried.
As they march on indifferently
while our Women and Children died.
We break away from the systems
that we're mean to divide,
reawaken the truth we all keep inside.
But no matter the destruction and devastation,
from the ashes, like a Phoenix we rise.
So my friend, regardless of the poverty within the reservation
It still will not silence our Strong Warrior's cries.
- S. Busick, R. Kayton, B. Powell, E. Sibley, 119
Jan 25, 2018
Jan 25, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
Did you ever hide your dreams?
It's time to look inside
Streams of life
Did you ever dream about where to go?
Did you ever want to know unanswered questions?
Unlock your dreams
Unlock your dreams
Follow the stream
Follow, follow, follow
After you have been shaken
It's time to reawaken
It's. Time to look inside
Time to decide
Did you ever dream about your life?
Unlock your dreams
Unlock your dreams
Unlock your dreams
It's time to know
Where you should go?
Did you ever dream where you will be?
After you have been shaken
It's time to reawaken
Unlock your dreams
Unlock your dreams
Did you ever hide your dreams?
It's time to look inside
Streams of life
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
Out of the pain, like jumping from a pool
Senses reawaken
Body optimistic
Feel the crisp strength of being
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
It has been beautiful, late August, full moon
a million crickets following
a million fireflies in June,
a million May peepers. Immersed
in insect, amphibian cycles, I am a mammal, drugged,
crossing the road, car approaching
fast, unnoticed.
I would choose to die in late summer.
Why?
So that my wife would have autumn, intense,
to grieve by,
snowy bandages with which to bind the wound,
and spring to reawaken into.
Summer to remember that she's loved.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 1:50 PM UTC
My heart is taken
By no one
Love
that was so mistaken
It should be forever
Feelings
Overrated
Story like compound lever
My heart is taken
By you
Pain
every morning reawaken
Now I say whatever
Tenderness
Outlying
Not happy end altogether
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
Must I fight for peace
When I never stood a chance
Must I fight this beast
Must I **** a man
To reawaken my conviction
To cast my pain aside
Must I try to hide it
Or should I just die
Swallow every pill
To **** me slowly
Saving my demise for my one and only
Screaming out the truth silently inside
Dying a little bit every time
I wish this loud voice in my head could be silenced
But hate is love
And heaven is violence
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC