"recast" poems
You’re wishing plus wanting
to win the other side
remove your pride,
you untied tidal pool,
the wide subdivide of these paper pages.
Unrelenting numbers
remind you of the next stages,
taking you wildly to Namibia,
surrendering you to Zimbabwe,
the terminal station.
The narration vocalizes the translation of quotations,
your obligation to the violation of the rules, the regulations,
vulgarization of spoken word.
Pretty paintings plaster typecasts,
the pitter-patter of pity’s pretty ******
quickly shifting refurbished velvet sofas.
Overcast symphonies outlast
witty recast stanzas,
scores with notes naturally quote
verses romancing seltzer spines
noticing the negotiation of sore throats.
Oblivion’s oblivious to the people,
obnoxiously obscene with syncopated
saturation of public vital signs.
You’re the vain strain of virus
photocopying yourself within skin,
waste your sin on tattoos trapped on shins
safety pins selecting prints
pinning sets of twins to tanned wrappers
protecting official reports.
The ossuary welcomes records printed on thick paper
suspiciously missing skeleton swords.
Writing stories reversed while tipsy,
quickly preforming risky poetry smog,
sweetly omitting secret words,
trying to spell simply without the proper prologue.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 1:52 PM UTC
The sea cast a gift ashore
one stormy sullen day
and the barren rocky coast
was suddenly recast
as a natural history museum.
A whale.
A real whale, just lying there
shining on the shale
In another time,
we'd have known how to react.
This astonishing bounty
would have been quickly stripped
Bones for building
baleen for support
blubber and oil for fuel.
But now it lay
surrounded by detritus
made of better stuff.
The truth was,
we didn't really need it,
couldn't really use it,
like being presented with
Casablanca on VHS.
A sign appeared:
"Quad bike rides, £2",
red paint on rainsoaked cardboard.
I wasn't tempted.
Children poked it with sticks
in a desultory way,
stricken, intrigued, ashamed,
and utterly dwarfed.
The weeks passed
as we coughed in embarrassment
not knowing what to do,
until finally
someone brought a digger down
and discretely buried the beast.
By now, it will be a perfect skeleton
a prehistoric wonder
an artefact from unjaded days
when nature could still astonish,
trampled by unknowing tourists
as they dream of sunnier beaches.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
If I were to be dropped
directly from above,
I'd talk to God first
and pray to you last.
You're my hunger, my thirst
my punishment recast.
Jul 17, 2022
Jul 17, 2022 at 9:09 PM UTC
There is something about her
that's not good
for letting go,
so I say this here
on a muggy winter night
as she lays on crags
in the wind,
pulling me closer
to those lovely halcyon stars
but a valkyrie of gin.
so I must say goodbye,
to this war machine of love,
I must lay my heart
back in it's proper place
against those soft cheeks of hers
where my lips were boarders
and my heart became wily.
I hate this letting go,
it'd be easier for us to hug,
searching lips buzzing
for the growing rose of the tongue,
I would rather
have things be easy,
and never have to
not see you go,
but whatever we had,
let its skeleton of love
grow old in the murk,
let its bones be recast
into something of worth,
let my heart reside easily
in the oilyness
of iniquity,
someday soon I'll meet another
and start this war machine
with its grandiose sacrifices,
and subliminal pains,
all over again.
So maybe this was your plan all along,
the great general
pushing the arteries around
like so many toy soldiers,
until the whole thing
was gone,
and there was nothing
to remember,
I really don't think so,
but maybe I'm wrong.
I hope you meet him
somewhere nice,
where you are warm
and flakes of yourself fall into
him like glaciers,
I hope he can become
the beast of love to break you down
again
and make you love him insanely
with only the best kinds of sin;
the kind that make you burn warmly
and feel young and wily again.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 7:40 AM UTC
You cannot oppose decadency then tell me nothing is sacred
You cannot tell me I'm too sensitive then barrage me with hatred
You cannot preach guidance if your moral compass is latent
And act so cavalier while advocating patience
You cannot tell me you love Jesus and throw his teachings in a forge
Recast them in the flames to a weapon for your scourge
You cannot read me scripture and cast the exile aside
For the blessed are the weak but not the weak of mind
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
Until now, my best work yet: a boat, a love, the Leonids.
Quite beautiful as heartbreaks go, a near miss on a midnight
lake, with wishes dropping left and right. I laughed at that,
said take me back, and until then, I thought I meant
to shore. Nice story; camera fixed on Indian Point, boat exits
left 'neath fireworks, sponsored by the Galaxy, brought to you
by Tunnelvision. Cue piano, pretentious fin, but then
you – a star: hotter than those meteors, colder than those
miles of lake. I wrote you in, rough draft, known as
the man who loved this woman best, but take your bow;
you've been recast: the man who loved this woman last.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 11:50 PM UTC
this is no ordinary night
she was here
her perfume still lingers in the shadows
the snow cannot cool the heat she left on my lips
cannot cool the fire she started in my heart
she gave me all her soul contained
gave me her candle light jazz bar nights
gave me satin warm love benith the stars
alone with every tender inch
alone with her knowing
with her
inside with everything she has to give
nights have never been so long
the world has never been more mine
than in her arms
the soft scent of roses and that white dress
she gave me her candle light jazz bar nights
her endless nights on the sheets
as her man...her only ever man
this is no ordinary love
this is passion
now a fever burns in my mind
now a madness burns in my heart
now she is in me
consumes me with a fire cool and deep
a love that can never be undone
a bond that can never be forgotten
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC
the woman disregards
what's best for me,
( See http://hellopoetry.com/poem/bus-poems-victuals-victim/ )
gives me with kind regard,
what's best for me,
for this is the kindness
that hallmarks
the long lasting kind
bring before your childlike tap tap attention wains,
a treatise on leftover chicken wings
and other such nonsensical
finger food additions,
purposed
to inspire, to find innovation,
in expressing, reclaiming and newly exclaiming
that miscreant four letter word
that appears in the other 99% of les ecrivants
(See the notes)
in some poem writ recent,
pontificated that the
most overused three words,
yes, those abused three,
degraded by overuse,
losing their poetic juice
thru constant repetition,
being nearly
boringly indecent,
even when
boldly italicized,
the impact upon the reader
is in the realm of
"oh yeah, that's nice for you"
Better to be best in show,
deduce how,
to demonstrate
rather than insistently remonstrate,
new ways every day
to say
chicken wings means..
you know what...
Some get tea and oranges,
others get cherished
when our repast is twice recast,
when she feeds me leftover
chicken wings,
both kinds,
spiced and honey just like
l....e should be
do you know why
Silly
has two L's?
Correct.
for the run lies therein,
kissing knuckles when unexpected,
********** the exhausted, tucking them in,
going out for ice cream in the midst of a
polar vortex,
recording the game to watch later,
so her downtown abbey guys,
she can be watching at the
proper English
place and time,
and celebrating life the next day
with leftover chicken wings
and other heartfelt,
but unheart healthy food additions
that folks, is how you writ a poem in deed,
that will be returned to you sevenfold in reads,
when you want to explain how,
you can, truly, sigh,
you know, love another...
with sinful, leftover chicken wings
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:01 AM UTC
A fresh start to things recast
I start my job - it may be my last
New things, new roles, new people
Will I succeed, will I fit in
We... Are on A Journey
At first, I see a pleasant face
A smile that cheers the soul
She turns and looks and dare I think
She'd make my life so whole
We... Are on A Journey
It started small as some things do
A word, a glance, a sterling smile
The understanding is so clear
I marvel more and hold it dear
We... Are on A Journey
As time moves on, I settle in
The days and weeks stretch further on
I feel secure and have a place
I long for her warm embrace
We... Are on A Journey
Then one day she bears a gift
In jest, I'm sure as hearts abound
I love the thought it could be true
I hope nothing can change my view
We... Are on A Journey
One day she sits and opines
we have so much in common
I agree and say for sure it’s true
The path is clear, but can I woo
We... Are on A Journey
Years pass and life it moves at pace
With joy and loss, a mix we share
We look, we smile, we talk
We know we fit but leave it sit
We... Are on A Journey
The word is comfortable we share
The feeling is so clear
The word is love, dare it be
How can this work we’ll have to see?
We... Are on A Journey
We are so good at being good
Platonic is the word
But love I know is such a thing
I hold out hope by just a string
We... Are on A Journey
The eyes so strong and blue
And listening and attentive
Are but a window to her soul
I barely keep my self-control
We... Are on A Journey
Friends for life it seems to be
The outcome that is best for all
and if it comes to that alone
My heart will not have turned to stone
We... Are on A Journey
Aug 11, 2020
Aug 11, 2020 at 2:32 PM UTC
Memory
is
tomorrow’s
filter
Straining our
history
distilling the
past
Each year
a screen
on what
becomes us
On what
eludes us
our fate
— recast
(Dreamsleep: September, 2025)
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 11:32 AM UTC
Falling like leaves off a rotten tree.
Husks of fruits and seeds; the ripen and those who will not complete their deeds.
Not bound by cold decrees, nor lifted by the warm breeze. Travelers who've reached the destination, faces lost to me.
We shared a way; hearts filling veins and soles stepping on lanes, dreams kept us sane, how things change; even in stagnation it's impossible for everything to stay the same. We were many now left with few, the numbers keep rising; those who now enjoy a view.
Never been one to believe in haven or hell,
I can feel that which separates us is but a vail. They, as the sea, are unbound free; as there are desert coasts one can know drought before they decide to float. Ships sailing on the horizon; they look like they would tip the moment the sky sings, I did not see the strike but the thunder now rings.
I look for understanding not pity because ,you see, if life is like a movie my future plot now has deleted scenes because one can not simply recast anything, especially, when the actors character was the key. If Ndingumntu I'm now missing more parts of me.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 9:36 PM UTC
Another place
Another time
Reunion of family
And thoughts that bind
Memories of past
And struggles anew
The future recast
In different hues
Of current events
And change and decay
Of inner renewal
And fog shrouded days
And visions of clarity
That suddenly reveal
Snow covered peaks
That once were concealed
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 10:08 AM UTC
Everyone is anxious
For Chekhov’s gun is still on the wall
It has not been fired
And we are soon approaching the next act
What do they wait for?
A provocation?!
Dear college age white boy
(Not unlike myself)
Your pseudo-nihilism bores them
We all know these things are just for show
Besides we see how much of an elitist you are
And how little you understand the words you are saying
If Nietzsche’s life were recast
You’d be the man beating the Turin Horse
Why does he say such things?
Does he understand the human mind, the human condition?!
We all wait for the collapse to come
And all of its children to return home
For we are already all aliens to each other
And we know what sweet flowers can grow from ashes
If life is to be a garden
I intend to be a worm
Does he really mean that?
We can see in his eyes he is not convinced
How long have we been going in these circles?
Or is it true that I am unique in this regard alone?
Every philosopher
Every poet
Every self perpetuating artist has their bag of tricks
I have whatever I can pillage
Everything that can be said
Has already been said
He am going back into the gallery
And drawing mustaches on all the faces
And as the audience leaves
Chekhov’s gun remains untouched, suspended by a thread
And this time only
There are no deeper meanings
Aug 30, 2018
Aug 30, 2018 at 2:11 PM UTC
He that will the world
remould
should first himself recast.
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
Anticipation spans the season
Gone so fast with just a trace
You leave no rhyme nor reason
Off you fly with cold malice.
Even the driest patch of grass
Restores its former chloroplasts
Bright green trees begin to fade
Your legacy is leaving.
Splash, the constant drumming
Sets the tempo and transition
Swap the pastels for pantones
Go indoors and reposition.
Not one to miss a queue
This rain was built to last
The whipping winds harmonise
Like blowing over hollow glass.
The interval is all but over
The show yet to be recast
Fly in the white cliffs above
The Dover shore blends at last.
The tapping of rain becomes a thud
As the treetop leaves lose their colour
Gales whip up - down empty streets
The people crowd indoors in horror.
Fearsome is the cold and wet
Now that joy and happiness has passed
Regale stories of the Summer
And hope that winter retreats as fast.
Sep 4, 2016
Sep 4, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Flee the scene;
Mind, take cover - No!
We must abandon ship.
The battle is lost,
Cover will not save you now;
You must let go.
As the depths rust the ship,
Its living moments reorder and recast;
Transmute and alter.
Its iron-cast reality dissolves away;
It is no longer your ship,
It is no longer your memory.
Now you may float once more,
Undburdended, unhindered - unknowing,
Until the next screaming vessel
Meanders by...
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 2:21 PM UTC
All good things come to those who wait.
Maybe, finally,
I have waited long enough
for a chance to have,
for a chance to love.
For a chance to spread my affections
through the great expanse of your heart,
damaged through past afflictions
and bitter memories,
I can soothe.
For I seethe
much the same,
and there is no blame,
to be cast or recast through
the past,
it's a shame.
That one so heart-wrenchingly beautiful,
(but she can't see so)
can be so trodden upon not to
see.
Not to see that it is she
who wanders and floats through many
a dream,
within a dream,
and casts away the sub-standards
of basic human wants
into something of god-like taunts.
And the dreams I have are never-ending.
Not because they don't end,
(Oh, they do)
but because I refuse to let them.
Alas!
I cannot slumber for eternity,
I must wake.
I must face that which is an
inevitability in its own right.
The insatiable desire of the freedoms
that we must not retire,
no.
We must be free to wander forth,
into a darkness, away from the light,
then see a sad soul
and regain to...
fight?
To fight again and again and
again?!
Perhaps we should cease,
if only we could.
We continue all the same (in much the same),
knowing what is to come,
knowing what peers just around
the bend.
Knowing, yet hoping,
against all hope,
that all good things must
end.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
on winds broke words, gentle echoes -
piano's chords, sweet, freed foregone sins
by its voice lost from across a vast canyon
recast halcyon the tempest - it paused, a tree rejoiced
pitched leaves, ever bitter, tasted gentler breaths
rested, murmuring their peace which weaved
season's tapestry, as poetry
came home to its nest
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 7:46 PM UTC
The suffocating sky upon my skin
in heavy sheets of satin, locks me in
while rising tides trade water with the air;
my silent screams resounding pagan prayers.
Reflections cut me close and ripple past
an upward gaze (a plea for fate recast).
The options slim: to fight or drown before
my vacant core dies flaccid on the shore.
All that I have ever known or been
gets swept away and washed ashore again
when self-indictment draws me back to you.
this masochistic need for black and blue
wraps tight around my ankles, pulls me deep
into your arms, the ocean floor - asleep.
While water fills my lungs and steals my air,
your tightened grip - it kills me unaware.
***
they say that time can heal all wounds, but can it heal all fear?
the truth disguised in little lies, the answer drawing near.
my heart in two (my soul to keep) but deeper yet, my will
drowns out beneath the water cold and settles lower, still.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:57 AM UTC
Back in the day
of youth and play
my dreams
and my reality
seemed so similar to me.
I'd get that deja vu
and the scene came true,
and I knew I'd make it through
because I had been in those shoes.
I learned to lucid dream -
I loved to control the seams -
and the characters around me
were creations of my animosity.
They reflected my thoughts and visions
under those pubescent conditions,
and yet I stayed one step ahead
by resting cozy in my bed.
Then time had passed,
roles recast,
and the settings changed -
a bigger bed, a room rearranged.
My dreams had changed course:
reality and fantasy divorced,
and each individual's face
lost its place
in the palette of my desires;
if a dream never comes true,
is it then considered a liar?
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 6:09 PM UTC
I write your good-bye letter over the course of two days.
I started-over seven times—hunched, under the weight.
These worn pages and spilt ink, remember your name-
I hear it softly murmured among their rustling grain-
And as mine fades from the aged oak of your sprawling bed frame--
There is nothing left here for me.
My pen falls as the climbing-cry of cold morning comes,
With a quaking in my wrist, and sharp silence in my gums;
The patchwork quilt is half-hazard, and snaked across the floor-
Where your tremolos dreams had tossed it-the night before,
And only your body’s ghost-imprinted on the mattress-do I look for-
Because there is nothing here left for me.
It’d been fun, I suppose; like Peter and Wendy, infinite and young-
We’d drawn together and merged; then delighted, we had run-
From the duty of daily, the city-those mechanical ghosts scattered among,
And the curtains of riches-in the air, which we’d spun-
Had garnished all of our days; a honeyed veneer of ambient sun!
Yet severe as the prophets-or poor Noah in God’s storm-
In the corners voracious shadows gladly took form
With the slipping lines of your smilem, the lingering chill round the door-
Fall had swept in violent: laughter-dead then, was mercilessly tore-
From our wild-flower wind-pipes, that once inviolable, bore-
Proof of something here left for me.
Now aching, I crease the note crisply and vainly, do try,
Turning it caged, between frail-bird fingers, to descry-
The moment opulence burned, and from the ashes recast-
Mocking imitations: these edacious phantoms! Aghast!
Howbeit! Were we not unassailable then! United, so certain to last--?
Yet just silence, is here left for me.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 4:00 AM UTC
The rain had stopped
Hours ago,
Class had been cropped
Only miles to go,
The cars drive by
Splashing and dragging water,
Not another sound to be heard
Just the swirling patter,
As the water is thrown off the wheels
And onto the pavement,
It’s a sound that appeals
To a certain extent,
Vehicles drive by fast
Their sounds soon swallowed by the damp air,
As my mind is recast
And I pull back my hair,
A new rain starts falling
Giving new thoughts that draw in
I wonder if this rain
Had been with you,
Barely a week ago
When you thought I should know
That the rain was falling down
Outside where your are,
I reach my car
I seem stuck in place,
You are so far,
I wish to hold you in my embrace
The weather is perfect for that
I think to myself
I wonder where you’re at
As I’m wishing to see your face
I shake my head and get into the car
One last glance
At the rain water dance
We’ll get our chance
Until then we romance.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC