"recanted" poems
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom
For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.
Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.
We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.
Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.
Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.
But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,
*The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath*
Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.
Why just men?
I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know. end.<nml>
Jan 6, 2013
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
This is the last thing I'll let you know,
Before I say goodbye,
Before I let you go..
I forgot the reasons that brought on this end.
Wiped back the tears that I let fall.
Changed your title as my friend.
Unraveled your lies and figured it all.
I found the answers to the questions I had.
Spent all of my time trying to know you true.
It seems I, somehow, banished your bad.
I guess, it was because, I really did love you.
Now all I want, is for you to know,
Why I'm saying goodbye,
And why I'm letting you go..
I see your face through every crowd,
And within the moments you're not even there.
The silence became extremely loud.
It seems, I lost myself somewhere.
The knots in my stomach became undone.
As you continued to walk, in my mind, you grew small.
My journey backwards suddenly begun,
And I swiftly remembered it all.
The moment you had first taken hold of my hand.
Posed for a photograph with that crooked smile.
Times when, together, we would stand.
Or walk, if not even, for a single mile.
So this, my dear, I hope you know
I've said goodbye,
But I can't let you go.
I took back every single word I had ever said.
Tore out the chapters from the story of us.
Broke everything in sight, if only within my head.
Woke up one morning, and boarded that bus.
The glimmer in my eyes dimmed down slow.
I recanted the first smile that welcomed you that day.
Collected up the pieces of my heart, and decided to go.
I gave you one more look, and then turned the opposite way.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
In a perfect world, equal opportunity would be a facet of every society, not just a promise made and then recanted.
In a perfect world, fixed annuity would be given out with staunch sobriety, and the cries of poverty would cease being chanted.
In a perfect world, the disparity of race would be forgotten, replaced with celebratory practice of traditions, preserved.
In a perfect world, discrimination would no longer be begotten, and nothing but compassion and kindness would be reserved.
In the perfect world, medicine would work like magic, with disease being left as a thing of the past.
In the perfect world, a diagnosis of cancer would no longer be tragic, and our bodies would be engineered to last.
Yet, the future’s uncertain, and the past’s all but gone
So the present must be where our battles are won
If a perfect world is what we desire
It must be done now
Where our bones are unweary
And our minds shall not tire
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
I love too much, but not too often.
My heart gets broken, but I keep going.
I am transparent, iridescent like glass,
So when you strike with the force of a hammer you leave more than a crack.
My heart is fragile, a bird with a broken wing.
I thought you would fix it and make it continue to sing.
I stand tall and confident in all my feelings,
Something that’s scary to you who is not used to these dealings.
I feel shame for the way I am.
Feeling love and passion for you that I wish I could bury in the sand.
A treasure left for you to uncover,
Not something I should have exposed to you undiscovered.
I tend to frighten away the one my heart wants to hold,
Do you see me as crazy, uncontrolled, too bold?
I often take broken loves words and wear them as scars.
Reminders of lessons unlearned and love unforetold by the stars.
I try their words on as an outfit of choice.
If I can change who I am, maybe for once someone will appreciate my voice.
But often times it’s too late.'
My true self exposed in revelations of hate.
No matter how hard I try to mold and bend,
I can’t change who I am, I can’t please every man.
But for some reason I never stop trying.
I can never give up my mind and hearts constant fighting.
I literally drive myself insane for a chance at true love.
I let my mind run wild for an ecstasy that will never come.
Because if I am changing who I am to achieve what I was fooled to see as true,
I’m mistreating myself and I assault my love leaving it ****** and bruised.
It’s funny how the world can constantly build me high,
But it only took you to send me crashing through the sky.
And when I fell and hit the ground,
The armor I built was shattered around.
Underneath it all I could finally see,
The only thing that remained intact was the original me.
I, myself, am my greatest force of nature.
And when I try to change who I am I’m in immediate danger.
The second I wear a mask to fool someone I love,
Is the second that my love is broken, recanted, torn up.
It’s not love if I’m not myself.
It’s not true if I pretend to be someone else.
I’m done being a victim in your insecure schemes,
But I’m also done pretending I walked away perfectly clean.
Yes I am hurt, and yes I wanted our love to be,
But I won’t sacrifice myself for you I’d rather let you go free,
Because somewhere, out there, there’s someone who wants me.
All my imperfections and everything you made me see as faults,
I consider beautiful, rare, a gift to make someone’s world halt.
I’m not sorry for the way I express myself.
I’m just sorry it has to be for someone else.
I love too much, but not too often.
My heart gets broken, but I, I keep going.
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
Galileo Galilei--
Physicist, mathematician,
Astronomer, philosopher--
You angered the Roman Inquisition
And later the Pope and Jesuits as well.
Your scientific observation
That the earth moves around the sun
Was deemed a heretical revelation!
Spreading ideas "contrary to scripture"--
A risky endeavor and path to take--
Guaranteed life imprisonment
Or a gruesome burning at the stake.
Under pressure you recanted:
"The earth doesn't move around the sun."
They say that under your breath you muttered,
"And yet it moves." You lost, yet won.
Though you lived under house arrest
For years until the day you died,
Your scientific contributions
To benefit mankind cannot be denied.
It's sad when dogma and ignorance attempt
To force dissenters into compliance.
It's sadder yet that in this century
Too many people still ignore science.
Our thoughts aren't shaped from cookie cutters;
Beliefs don't all fit the same mold.
Praise to the thinkers who soar to great heights
And break authority's stranglehold.
Praise to those who dare to defy
Petrified positions or views--
Who challenge our mind-set and open our eyes
To truth and awareness, despite jeers and boos.
- by Bob B
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 8:55 AM UTC
My father once told me the story.of The Scorpion and the frog,
Have you heard it? Robert Blake told to me a couple.of times too while I watched
Baretta.?
You know.ole "don't do the crime if you can't do the time"Baretta.But
I digress.That was a long time and one ****** ago.
A tale of woe of being true to one's nature.
A scorpion stood on the river bank seeking to cross for the family reunion.
Comes a frog swimming along.trying to get to his nephew's wedding.
So. Brer scorpion sticks up a thumb
"Going my way" ? He says.
Sure said the frog but jump on that log .you might float over by sundown.
"If you let me ride over on your back,I can get there in time for the feast"
No way Jose,"you will sting me to death if I let you climb on"
said the frog.
The scorpion insisted even offering bribes until the frog recanted.
The frog pushed of with his cargo aboard.looking back with one eye and the bank
with the other not really trusting his long tailed brother then BANG,BANG
went the scorpion's tail.Frog was done mid river
sinking slowly he began to shiver.
"But you will die too he said to the frog."
"Believe me I know" said the venomous bug
"Then why asked the frog"?
"Fish gotta swim. Birds gotta fly"
"The moment you let me on We were destined to die "
"Nature called. That was all. Nothing personal friend"
"I will see you on the other side and thanks for the ride"
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC
Under the thinning boughs of the Ash
he recanted the hush of the woods
The rain's dearth relented
as the Dryads, braided new ideals,
promising great abundance.
The sated Moon-flowers swallowed the
nocturnal owls silhouette.
The fallow lands impervious
to these swathes, broom
sealing their heedlessness.
May 24, 2012
May 24, 2012 at 2:23 PM UTC
Excited I am
immersed in your music
to witness essential soul
flowing through fingers
in passionate dances
raw tenders with humorous roll.
Variant genius
your stories recanted
in cadence to memories drive
now syncopate rhythm with fresh melodia
haunt intertwining vines.
Joyous transmissions
you have developed
beyond the range of words
evolving anew
each time that you play them
vitality trilling the urge !
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 11:11 PM UTC
Once
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Once when her kisses were fire incarnate
and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame,
when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes,
leaving me listlessly sighing her name . . .
Once when her ******* were as pale, as beguiling,
as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist,
when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me
all the while as her lips did more wildly insist . . .
Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered
through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant,
I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing
that I vowed all my former vows to recant . . .
Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed—
this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed.
Published by The Lyric, Writer’s Journal, Grassroots Poetry, Tucumcari Literary Journal, Unlikely Stories, Poetry Life & Times. Keywords/Tags: kisses, fire, incarnate, lipstick, dunes, ******* heat, lips, breath, sighs, passion, desire, lust, *** bachelorhood, recanted
Mar 26, 2020
Mar 26, 2020 at 3:14 AM UTC
Listen intently now, if you will,
To the sorrowful story of Emmett Till--
A black fourteen-year-old lad
Who hadn't done what they said he had
In August of 1955.
It's possible he could still be alive
If only he…if only…well,
Listen to what I have to tell.
Caught in one of those circumstances
Of having made ****** advances,
Till, whose actions were taken for granted--
Note: his accuser later recanted--
Was brutally tortured, lynched, and shot.
His body was left in the river to rot
Not very far from Glendora, Miss.
How shocking to hear stories like this!
Two white men, in a great hurry,
Were later acquitted by an all-white jury.
Such incidents are a wound indeed
On the soul of America. Watch it bleed!
In 2007 a sign was erected
At the site of the ****** but someone objected,
And suddenly the sign disappeared,
Just as many people had feared.
A second sign replaced number one,
But thugs seeking perverse fun
Destroyed the sign with bullets, and so
Sign number two had to go.
Officials did what they had to do,
And sign number three replaced number two.
Within a few weeks, it, too, was marred
With bullet holes leaving it scarred.
The bullet-riddled sign demonstrates
There's work left to do in all fifty states.
Prejudice and hatred are blinding;
The road to justice is long and winding.
-by Bob B (8-21-18)
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 12:14 PM UTC
Hands trembled but their hearts did not
on that Independence Day.
When they signed the Declaration
many signed their lives away.
Some signers died in prison
or sank in poverty.
Several closed their eyes on life
before final victory.
One man, Clark, of New Jersey
deserves a special nod.
He suffered much for Liberty
at the hands of Howe and God.
His two sons were imprisoned,
floating on the New York tide.
Deprived of food and water
what could they do but die.
The British were true devils
and said they'd be set free.
If their father would come out for King
and recant Libery.
If he betrayed his sacred trust
He might well save his sons.
If he recanted they'd be free-
what would you have done?
His answer echoes down through time,
Their proposal he denied.
Our document was signed in blood and thrones must be defied.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
We were traveling roads out west
'cross the plains of the great divide
We'd been up into Canada
a country that’s both tall and wide
We drove across the Queens Highway
over the mountains one by one
To the North West Territories
in the land of the midnight sun
Where we came upon a mountain
that was cleaved in half at the top
At the bottom lay the result
for there the road came to a stop.
Where once had been a little town
now lay the boulders far and wide
An earthquake had torn it in half
and ripped off an entire side
At the base of the mountain lay
a plaque inscribed with all the names
Of those who had perished there
all the families who'd lost their claims
Each of them were drawn by riches
to the gold fields of the North West
There strong of heart, sought a new start
and were willing to brave the test
An old woman in the diner
where we stopped to marvel the scene
Set there telling us the story
as she managed to cook and clean
"Only one soul had made it out
and lived through that horrible day"
"You know" she said, “they went to bed
that same night that they passed away"
"The night before had seen a storm
that blew a gale across the bridge
They'd built with pride, to the far side
that led to the top of the ridge
There they had drilled and dug and fought
to reach the gold and silver vein
like the miners, Forty Niners
and their kin of the Spanish Maine"
"A child’s cry was the only sound
that could be heard that fateful morn"
But after that I'm sure she wished
that perhaps she'd never been born
The old woman’s face lined with pain
told how she'd lived through cold and fright
Recanted as if yesterday
for the folks she had lost that night
Tate
© 2013 Tate Morgan
Written
September 30, 2013
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 11:32 AM UTC
her right handed face reclines
and peers at me from the shadowy
recesses of her distressed mind
wrapped now in the silken leisures of
forgetfulness and surrounded
by the christmas thin dream illusion
purchased at great price to define yourself by
mere reflections of a perceived past
like living today through a photograph of childhood
mold your nature to the template but its plastic features
are brittle with the cautions your heart throws and
reproachs seen in all avenues of egress
her leashed thoughts are chained to the premise
that she cannot overcome the troubles that shadow her life
so that she move in concentric circles around my last dealt words
she peers from behind this set of thoughts and
with all that inner noise clouding her vision i must navigate
the perilous waters uncharted
she means much to me so i step with mindful care
lest her defensive pattern flee with her like
a bundled child up a dark road with fearful glances
for the great unknown some rough beast in rabid pursuit
that is in reality's harsh light nothing more than
shadow of childhood trauma
i sit at the emergence of her thoughts and wait for her to follow
spoken is trailed by felt
spoken can be constrained and recanted
but what is felt is a woman's temple and that
should not be breached with a light foot
she appears from underneath her veil of tears
and my hand clasping hers reaches her need
where no words to say would suffice
i am yours and yours alone
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
So many written down and erased captions,
And recanted decisions to leave as is,
And multiple distractions,
Contemplations,
Platitudes and words of gratitude
All written down only to be erased again
And finally an overthought decision
To settle for a hashtag
All for an online post.
...
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 4:11 PM UTC
The first time I went to the guidance office
(without being asked)
I was crying
You see, my friend had killed himself the night before
And I was having a hard time coping
He was 2 weeks away from graduating high school
We weren't going to school together at the time
But we lived in the same neighborhood
He was close to many of my very close friends
His mother was an addict
His father was abusive
He was forced to move in with him despite the fact
Some kids had decorated a tunnel in his name
There were pictures and poems
I left flowers and ribbons
The police officers told us that the pictures didn't look like him
When he was asked how he knew Cal
He said, "I met him on Sunday"
His only reference of a beautiful soul was
Him hanging above a bike path
By a rope he kept hidden from his family
Yet he claimed to know him
When he probably didn't know his name
Or what he did for us
They covered the art with paint
Claiming it was "vandalism"
This was the day after the funeral
I recanted this to Ms. Jackson
She told me he would want me to focus on my school work
She sent me back to class
They ask us why we never open up to them
How can we open up when the system is broken?
This isn't the story of a young boy's suicide
We are supposed to build trust with those who are around us for seven hours a day
But how can we
When they turn us away as we're crying?
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
In an attempt to walk the path I had
Beaten bone dry with the
Soles of the sneakers I wore for years
And years
I was stopped by
Overgrowth and foliage
It used to be mine
But time had claimed it for herself
In an attempt to put me in my place
Daring me to not relish in what
Used to make me who I am
In fighting my way through
The bushes and leaves, I was
Forced to surrender to the
Simple fact:
I have changed.
I stopped living on that
Dirt ground
And sitting on those four rocks
That divided your house and mine
To catch my breath
And decide my next move
The downcast shadows of the trees
Recanted to me the stories of
My former jubilation
And versed me in the
Games I had missed
I traced the stars with my cigarette
To find the meaning they'd hid from me
Since birth dropped me on this rock
To learn all they had to teach
I thought I knew when I
Jumped the puddles in the road
And the cracks in the sidewalk
To avoid broken
backs and
Accidental swims
Exhaustion on my heels
I began my ascent to the
Canopy, holding the answer to my
Long-drawn inquisition.
Discovery drove me to this new creed:
I am stronger than my scars
Give me credit for.
I understood my dryness in a
Fit of introspection and
Cold sweats and
Warm shivers,
My sobriety, my closest familiar
So I buttoned down the boxes that
Help me get to sleep
And said a few words about the friend
I used to keep at the
Edge of those woods
Back when growing up seemed easy
And nothing seemed too hard
Jul 23, 2015
Jul 23, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
Precious
Are the things
All the things,
That one does not have
That one cannot have,
That others take for granted
That others have recanted,
Precious
Is she
Whom I cannot love
And cannot love me,
Precious
Is she
Thief of my heart though
Gladly I'd have surrendered,
At least it can be
Pocket warmer
For her hands,
Precious hands
That will not ever
Cannot ever hold me,
Precious
Is the time
The fleeting time
Away from her
Away from me,
Precious is she
Precious she'll always be
Precious she'll remain
Precious is this pain...
APAD13 - 031 © okpoet
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 3:30 AM UTC
The meek are in the pocket,
of the powerful,
The artist is in the pocket,
of the authority.
The authority; cops,
are in the pocket of the law,
The law is made up,
by politicians,
Their deceptive truths,
puppeteered by criminals; gangsters.
The ruthless tyrants are,
in the pocket of the
malnourished, emaciated, gaunt,
faceless demon,
Shriveled and terrifying,
pock marked arms outstretched,
Slithering up the back,
Recanted by the one,
Absolute wisdom,
Of the meek,
The beggars are in the pocket,
The vagabond fools and jesters,
The guru shaman mystic ascetics,
That journey,
Yet never set foot,
Whom hermitage,
Is a pilgrimage,
To where the Absence of mind,
Isn't Mindful,
It is just simplicity,
Sacrilegious ease,
The safety of the Pocket.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
Every day
We find a way
Though kept so far apart
Still fill the voids of heart
Never taking for granted
Passion others recanted
Reciprocated
Together sated
Unfolding each other
Holding one another
Lost souls found
Eternally bound
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
You learn, and generally to your discontent
That wishes and horses have much in common
Each likely to prove less than obliging
To take to the bit and bridle
No matter how fine the metal and leather may appear
And should the procurer demur,
He may find there are provisos and caveats
Governing that which can’t be recanted
Returns and refunds being frowned upon
As such items, being one of a kind,
Custom accoutrements which only one can don
And regrettably one is apt to find
That you may not have found a perfect fit
And once it breaks, you’ll find you bought it.
Jun 24, 2022
Jun 24, 2022 at 4:13 PM UTC
Mr McCormick whacked her with his stick.
His nurse that was.
Didn't want to be bothered.
He was busy reading the paper.
A political persuasion.
Frustration aggression maybe the theory.
(Michael Rutter, I believe)
Mrs Brady,
A lovely old lady.
Elderly but beautiful as she recanted tales of how she reported how she cavorted and partied when younger.
Such relentless hunger.
With aged joints, she still wants to dance.
Find herself a little romance.
A bit of a rumble,
Potential to tumble.
She lives in a world where all's risk assessed.
Mr Jones,
An old bag of bones.
He gave up on all of his food.
He knew what he wanted.
Family all tried to persuade him to eat.
He wanted to meet the old boy upstairs.
Greet the guy at them pearly gates.
Sipped only from an occasional caring cup.
She bade him goodbye as she walked from her shift.
Stood out on the pavement.
Window's open.
Looked close as she she walked away.
Through the open window.
She swore, she saw his spirit leave.
(C) Livvi
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
iwalked into the desert u said you would be there u said baby i missed u to a ghost half dissapeared smoked thru talk for hours
sun folds and burning red when I bent to kiss you the devil shook his head and said hey pretty baby i been dreaming i feel u + i need you we ran and burned like cigarettes dripping by a ghost the whole world smelled like gasoline left in bitter smoke. in two convoluted circles our desert fell apart flew like slamming windows recanted our blue hearts dark now so dark dark now so dark dark now so dark dark now so dark dark now so dark a gold pen malediction and my soul to trade instead theres nothing left to love for when you’re already dead ripped off my face laid in my grave burned off my prints ive been erased and everything still looks like evil
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
iwalked into the desert usaid you would be there
u said baby i miss u to a ghost half dissapeared
smoked thru talk for hours
sun folds burning red
when I bent to kiss you the devil shook his head and said
hey pretty baby i been dreaming
i feel u + i need you
ran and burned like cigarettes dripping by a ghost
whole world smelled like gasoline left in bitter smoke
two convoluted circles when our desert fell apart
flew like slamming windows recanted our blue hearts
dark now so dark
with your gold pen malediction and my soul to trade instead
there is nothing left to love for when you’re already dead
ripped off my face laid in my grave
burned off my prints ive been erased
and everything still looks like evil
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:22 AM UTC
Ask to find. Don't run and hide.
The person is not the pleasure which is in mind.
Just as fears are never lasting, ever fading fast we die.
So also should our conversations be more just than that in mind.
And yet I find...
That it is the pride of self expression, which comes most before the fall.
Perhaps our story has been recanted. And I did not share Me at all?
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
Mom,mommy,mother
a word and person of sweet attachment
Missed more than any other
More precious than any parchment
Let us not take mothers for granted
So that when they finally pass away
We will remember what can't be recanted
May God above lift up our spirits today
Remembering Estelle a year since
You went to your final resting place
With warm love and beauty sensed
A harder loss than ever faced
May God bless you and keep you
With him as well as in our hearts
Where you left flowers and nature true
Your poems of honestly, love with heart
Give quiet witness to God anew.
Jim Goulet
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC