"recirculated" poems
The oxygen that we breathe
in
and
out
every minute of every day
is not lost
but shared
re-used
recycled
recirculated.
If we are in the same room –
or sealed hermetically for hours
in the cabin of a plane –
we breathe continuously
the same air,
the oxygen goes from me to you
and back again.
But air currents,
prevailing winds,
the jet stream,
cyclones and anti-cyclones,
all move the atmosphere further
and further still,
so that even if we are
on opposite sides of the globe,
separated by oceans,
it is a statistical certainty
that I still breathe in
atoms of oxygen
that were once
inside
you.
Do they carry your thoughts,
your feelings,
your poetry to me,
or mine to you?
Who can say?
I can but hope it,
as I thank you
for keeping me alive.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 3:09 PM UTC
I reached the summit in time to see,
the grey of dawn just leaving,
The new sunrise begin to ascend.
The breeze, reborn, fresh as the day.
An Eagle soaring high over head,
spiraling on updrafts, master of the sky,
not hunting, just testing his wings,
apparently enjoying a little joy ride.
Oh what freedom that must be,
to fly like that as you please,
so completely released from gravity.
I watched him play, 'till out of sight.
Below me, on a slope stood a
sure footed Male Mountain Goat,
Warming himself in morning sun.
Head held high, proud and alert,
eyes searching for opportunity.
Mountain Jays squawk and play
among the sparse trees below
my lofty perch, as if they too frolic,
in new day celebration.
A day ago I saw the sun rise from
the fourteenth floor window,
of my office building.
That same sun, I now see,
from the top, of this mountain peek.
But it was very different.
Rather than fresh air laced,
with the scent of Fir and Pine,
It was the stale stink,
of cigarettes and dust,
Air pushed through a vent,
Resuscitated, recirculated
and processed, dead air resurrected.
My view East slightly obscured, by ***** glass.
A picture window that can not even be opened.
The Cascades majestically blue on the horizon,
The new days sun, resting on Mount Hood's shoulder.
A bright light inviting, Big and yellow, calling.
And but a day later,
here I stand, on Three Finger Jack,
Looking further East,
Breathing in this new clean day,
Taking memory pictures with my eyes,
Alone, but never completely.
Next time I will not wait so long.
Oh, if I could only live right here forever.
On further thought, after I'm dead,
haul my ashes up here, and leave 'em,
Sunrises and sunsets for all eternity.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
*how this came and come to be,
from gone to come to gone rediscovered but unreleased,
a passage thematic that birthed
fully formed, formal in its inception,
contented in its first appearance and
its primary coincident deception
who wrote this? not me? could not be!
yet a scented hint of
eau d’familiarité
suggests that I may have
inadvertently
plagiarized
myself
this old poem mine,
we certifiably have never met,
but nonesuch a hail fellow met,
that upon our (re?) acquaintance,
the heavens marked the occasion with
hail and neither of us deemed it strange
so we well recall our ancestor’s words*
”there is nothing new under the sun”
adding our brand new imprimatur
”not even June or the Moon or other iconic loons”
*we may have borrowed from the insights,
recollecting what happened to us when separated at birth,
envisioning like the prophets of yore what was implanted
long before we remembered it well
upon its birthday
our intertwined twinning
fate befallen*
postscript
**quaking heart, trembling pointer
dawning and dying
simultaneous
neither tissue, cell, molecule,
i am but a composite of
letters, alpha bits and bets,
recirculated songs and tunes born
like me,
compromised, bridged,
newly un and recovered,
lengthy and unabridged,
my appearance faulty,
my eyes ****** ruddy and red,
my fingered tips blend and bleed
words acquired, words invented,
marching before me,
old lands recaptured,
new ones set free
take and give -
there’s no difference -
intimation, initiation,
all
bring me home
to where my boundaries begin**
<•>
this one, for the ladies who loved its
predecessor
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2367267/the-temple-of-you/
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
lachrymose: suggestive of or tending to cause tears; mournful....given to shedding tears readily; tearful.
make no dithering,
wily excusing or explaining,
among this band,
I count myself
a brother and a man
eons ago shed the
reptilian skin masculine,
my six-shooter now a manly
cheap Bic ballpoint blue-eyed pen,
used to fell forests of egos,
mine, first foremost and ever last
every write that sore tries my heart,
lives hard by a stream replenished,
by freshly born, yet stale, recirculated
salt-mine tears, salt, mine, tears,
that include those storing and storied,
some preceding and some succeeding,
and some spilling
even as
this story told,
here and now,
is in the hearth,
forming and fulfilling
if man enough that you can cry openly,
then man enough to write good poetry,
this then, this be the simple and finest
line I ever wrote,
line I ever cried
5:20pm April 20th,
The Year of the Tear
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
When I was little
And the hot world outside my house
Was blessed with summer rain
I’d stare outside and be lost
In a world only I could see.
As I met others I found
That this place of collective consciousness spiritus mundi
Was shared by others
Beautiful tapestries of adventure awaiting just around the corner
Shared time and time again.
But time is the passage to the great equalizer to the end
And fireflies that shimmered behind our glowing eyes
Dimmed as the calls of Neverland and lost boys faded
So playtime was replaced with homework
And toys with video games
And imagination became madness.
So when I tried to exit reality in my early teens
(When I was younger
I’d be lifted by an angel into the starry night sky
And see the Earth illuminated
By spiral staircases made of rainbows
Leading the dead to Heaven
Where I’d meet God on their coffee break
For wisdom and advice on staying alive)
The state of Massachusetts sentenced to me to a hospital for my brain
And I decided it was a bad idea to confide in my psychiatrist
That the wind spoke to me
And told me the secrets of the world.
Beyond the brightly colored pills
That are washed down my throat
I look for an answer to madness
Amongst the hundred voices in my head
And auditory fever dream
Hallucination delusions of hearing my name.
The answer is always the same.
Stable sanity is serenity
Imagination is devoid of practicality
The lone child in the back of the classroom
Staring out the window daydreaming,
Will be the first in the unemployment line.
Are we human beings or trees
Being fed on a steady steam
Of halogen and pixels
Recirculated air
And to others who work at computers replace the use
Of that landscape of infinite possibility.
So I’m left to ask…
(When you wake up from a dream
Where someone loved you
You don’t remember their name
Or maybe even their face
But you’ll remember the ghost of their touch
On your skin
The warmth of their body
Pressed against yours
And whispers in your ear
Of things you never hear while you’re awake)
How can you prefer reality
When all that you ever wanted
Is just a moment away
Past the darkness when you close your eyes.
And embrace that you’ll be lead
Behind the white door
Leading to the white room with padded walls
Labeled madness?
Apr 17, 2015
Apr 17, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
Insomniac demons recirculated in the lenses of my eyes,
And the pads of my fingers,
Cheer up and smile,
spread those beautiful lips and whisper sweet nothings,
You are everything, Beau,
Especially the thing in my heart,
Like Constantine to my haunting darkness,
You ignite the monsters with your flame,
So bright and strong,
Light my flammable heart,
And bless my mouth.
-July 3rd 2013
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 5:20 AM UTC
Perhaps Grief’s stiff grip around my neck,
the one that robbed my throat of air and asphyxiated me,
is still coercing Mother Nature to make my walk a constant downpour.
This is always a possibility.
But what if said hold is one by one loosening its fingers, the blood gradually circulating back into its whitened knuckles?
I, too, feel recirculated, renewed, revolved,
like the sun’s final leg on her ellipsoidal path.
The colour has returned to flush my cheeks,
the radiance to frolic in my eyes
instead of being veiled by dark shadows,
because my heart has found a new light.
And it is that light, that candle’s bitty flame, that will not be extinguished
by the winds of confusion,
of muddled and undefined feelings,
of heartache.
No; this lantern follows closely behind me,
lighting the forest trail and inviting the sun to pierce through the treetops,
to illuminate the world with it.
It will not yield in guarding me,
overseeing my journey from rear attacks
and keeping my spirit warm.
Furthermore, I feel as though this light should maneuver alongside me rather than behind,
for we are equal,
we are one.
It is this light I find myself slowly clinging to
instead of the falsely beautiful mask Grief teased my heart with.
Yes; it is this new glow that I prepare to capture in a jar,
much like a firefly whose glow never fizzles out;
like a light-bulb with no expiration,
as I let it guide every direction I follow,
every footstep, one after the other.
Every breath I inhale.
Every breath I exhale,
without blowing out the flame.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
~ encore un autre, inspiré par Sally B.~
another poem excised from an
interdepartmental message from
The Dept of Poets, (Global), a
ridiculous thot mine, deserving of
removal, remorse and regret,
(modern human’s woke 3 r’s)
nonetheless deserved of exegesis,
mainly because I think so…
Surficially, I comprehend that of the bones,
of the billions of those who have gone to
their where~ever, if could speak. we would
require a huge commitment to building out
our cell phone networks, the best comm
tool, for portability between differing
dimensions, times and spaces
let us cut to the chase (thank god),
my bones shall be without a doubt
return to a granular dust, my minerals
contributing to some future breakfast
cereal, thus assuring my recirculated
inspiration for generations to come(?),
acknowledging that my “gifts” are
the product of apriori Jews who wandered
this planet, forever rootless and semi-
displaced by their haters for reasons
that have nothing to do with reason
By way of my gratitude that you have read
so far, hopefully to continue, let me assure
you that this P. will not trend, nor spit or spot
or high lighted, as it’s worth is as fleeting as my bones, when one dwells on the size of space expanding and the time & space
continuum
that disclaimer claimed, we breathe easier,
and I happier, and now at last to the meat
of the matter:
My poems will wither, and eventually their
ions will be erased when the internet servers
undergo the many purges that yet will come
(better this than purging people)
yes, my ego’s cells, which one of you will
no doubt will imbibe and perhaps????
imbue, may actually reappear in a newness,
in a refreshing refreshment, that some Believers will think is absolutely brand new
(which it won’t be), for the new treads are on
the old treads, only now, dug a little deeper,
and I, in my ionosphere, inside my cells
yet within you, will muse amusedly,
“there is nothing new under the sun” (1)
but the sun will be shining and that is
good enough for all of us
Nov. 23
9:04 am
nyC
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 11:26 AM UTC
Tithing ,the soul
The eyes
The ocean breathes
Tides
Blue is Earth, universe
But our blood is aged and stagnant
Recirculated red
And the microscopic wet lizard spirits
Breed until their voices grip our heads
Jan 1, 2025
Jan 1, 2025 at 9:33 AM UTC