"reclaimed" poems
For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.
For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.
For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.
For beautiful hair, let a child run his or her fingers through it once a day.
For poise, walk with the knowledge that you never walk alone.
People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed and redeemed; never throw out anyone.
Remember, if you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of each of your arms.
As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.
The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure she carries, or the way she combs her hair. The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.
The beauty of a woman is not in a ****** mole, but the true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul. It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows, and the beauty of a woman with passing years only grows!
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
*Her soul was clenched in the hands of distress
The feeble screams were reverberating in the dungeon
Not even the faintest light were allowed to entertain her
Till her soul regained the power to scream
Only her soulmate in distant land could hear it
As everyone was oblivious of her agony and suffering
Defying all odds, the soulmate reclaimed his Love*
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows
cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak
We grow here
with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation
seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march
downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They move in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing,
Moving
wearing the city on our minds
like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet,
We'll wear their dreams at night
like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking
and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders
under the watch of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC
This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce
Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain
Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives
Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade
Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
One day I awoke, strangely to find
the person I used to be gone, left behind
Somewhere, somehow, I became someone new
Who was much less like me, and a lot more like you
The changes were subtle, I did not even know
Until people asked me, just where did "you" go?
It appears I gave up being me just to please
the person I once proposed to from my knees
But the strangest thing is, I did not even see
the way you genetically, modified me
I looked like the me, that everyone knew
but instead of myself, to you I was true
And now that I see it, and begin to turn back
you're angry and bitter and start to attack
You think that there's someone else I now see
But don't see how that someone else can be me
I don't like the person, with you I became
It's not all your fault though, I'm partly to blame.
And just as I let you make me not the same
it is I that must choose my old self to reclaim
So from now on my dear our ways we must part
There's no place anymore for you in my heart
I'll put myself first, be alone for a while
Until I can look in the mirror and smile
And see there once more who I used to be
the reclaimed original version of me
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC
A ship in a bottle is a useless thing,
encapsulated, isolated.
It is meant to be crewed.
We are each holographic captains
seeking first mates
and yeomen to climb the riggings
and guide us through the storms.
Floating colonies needing founding,
battened hatches guarding dwindling
stores and shielding superstitious
sailors galore.
We must learn to trust our
crews and captains alike to
brave the rough seas and
coral reefs of life and
nature's faith.
Sometimes ships run aground,
the founding of the colony,
and then sandcastles reign supreme.
We must learn to trust our
crews and captains alike to
learn from their faith in nature.
We must build upon the dunes,
carrying buckets of water and
trust from the sea to inland
shores. The castle, like the ship,
will one day be reclaimed by the
sea, despite our efforts.
We build them anyway out of hope,
fearing faith, learning trust, while
wishing we were safe in a bottle.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 8:23 AM UTC
Rain showers, mazes uncovered
Dancing like a little child with a toy
Reclaimed as the drizzles recovers
Pouncing jumps like a kangaroo
The winter burns as the fire blaze
Warmed by the ambience of the logs
Reflections denuded, secrets unearthed
Times lost bouncing like a ball
Bare and **** in the cool mist and fog
A shadowy phantom arises me
An Orion exhibit, my alpha constellation
Carving me out of the hidden cave
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC
WOMEN
I cast you out for pandering your ***
WOMEN
You are shameful
On you
I gift this hex:
*If you need to be the object of manly gratification
If you have no interest in the freedom or the liberation
Then your life will now be governed by the exploitation
A vessel pure and simple for man’s ***********
WOMEN
You are worthless
**** upon my shoe
Read between the lines my friend
Figure out the clue
For it is in here somewhere
Deep within this write
Nothing's ever as it seems
Nothing's black and white
WOMEN
Does a bloke walk round?
With his ***** hanging out?
Does he emphasize his testicles?
Does he bandy it about?
I think you know the answer
Just stop and use that brain
Then maybe in the future
Equality will rightly be reclaimed
But all the time you flaunt your ****
****** you ***** in their face
You, my friend
To the sisterhood
**Are a ******* skanky **** disgrace**
Wake up and smell the Costa
For conditioning is wrong
You need to understand
You cause The Cause to be prolonged
This is my stand
I hold my own
I’m never fazed
By stick nor stone
For I know deep within my heart
The value of my worth
I will never sell my principles
For merriment or mirth
**So … please …. just take a moment
To digest
The words within this write
Unharness faux benevolent blinkers
Because this is our absolute pre-emptive right**
Feb 3, 2011
Feb 3, 2011 at 4:31 AM UTC
A lesser human being
Something to be hated
An abomination
Repulsive
Me.
They make it seem like
Somehow it's worse
That I'm black
As well as
Gay.
I'm not a ****** that word
Doesn't describe who I am,
I just want to love
Who I
Want.
Would it help if I told you that I probably
Will be single anyway because
I'm not attractive and I'm
Direly afraid of
Love?
Being pansexual isn't the definition
Of the word ****** at all
Because pansexuality does
Not mean a pile of
Sticks.
So, you see, I am not a ******
The word shouldn't even exist
As an insult; however, it can't
Really be reclaimed
Anymore.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
An old tombstone
slinking off into the lake behind it
The tiny graveyard
forgotten by everyone who knew the plots
Forgotten by time
Forgotten by the city
Forgotten behind forestry
Reclaimed by nature
The right corner shattered
Erasing her last name forever
Now 'Cynthia Fe-'
Her swimming tombstone in the back
Reaching to the waters
The calm waves splash against it
I bet she was a swimmer.
"Gone but not forgotten"
Sounds like sarcastic graffiti
But can you be forgotten by everyone
And not lost?
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:14 AM UTC
Imagine yourself a red ceramic Poppy,
placed with care into the English soil.
One hundred years ago you were a soldier,
a frightened teen in a chaotic world.
You’d been sent, by King’s command, into the battle-
A mindless melee John French thought he’d won.
Perhaps some yards of France had been reclaimed
at a mind numbing cost of mothers’ sons.
You were one of those shot, gassed or burned.
Hit by a shell and blown to kingdom come.
(In ‘fourteen they had funerals for the fallen.
Mass burials became the norm before Verdun.)
That’s how you went from the playing fields of Eton
to an unmarked grave somewhere in Northern France.
So now you are a red ceramic poppy,
a symbol of an Empire, now passed.
Placed in English soil by teenaged hands.
one of nine hundred thousand home at last.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 6:08 AM UTC
Why the sudden alarm I ask?
Because you've eaten a horses ***
For years we've eaten all kinds of meat
Mixed with things you find in paint
A list of E numbers a sentence long
Who knew if they where doing wrong
Colouring from crushed beetles shells
Or other insects as well
Artificial raspberry sounds yum yum
Yeah it's made from beavers ***
So here's a tip to help you shop
Look under the bar code at numbers lots
This may stop you getting cross
If it starts with 5 sling it out !
Its Asian chicken bleached and vile
From roadside **** or any source
boiled in salt of course
So we now protest at a bit of horse
Years to late we've eaten worse.
On holiday you eat bulls *****
Your hotdogs could be his other smalls!
Sweetbreads eyeballs hooves the lot
So diced, reclaimed or added in
You've no idea what's gone in
Mad cow mad horse or confused pig
I wonder if I've eaten each
The veggie options just as bad
With GM foods Monsanto's bag
MSG enhancers to to stop the food from tasting goo
So wine or beer for me tonight
As foods now a depressing sight
Bacon butty anyone?
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
Beautiful
The word you said as you kissed my lips
You've repaired me
Helped me
Helped me love myself
When i could barely love another
Hugged me so tight the broken pieces fit together
Now you've ripped out the stitches you repaired me with
You've moved on without warning
The stitches you've reclaimed
being weaved into another's soul
Beautiful
that wonderful word carved from the Earth
the joyful word we all love
ruined forever
as you kiss another's lips.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
We all want someone to hold whilst the music plays
but this is a delayed reaction to teenage hormones,
you're clutching to not-a-lot-of-nothings,
smart jeans and smart cologne, a stolen ring
from your step-father's collection tidied away,
deep, in a box under bed sheets in that drawer.
Your mum says the right one will come 'round
soon enough, but so far the results
of dressing differently have resulted in
women speaking like spray from under a van:
rainwater white noise and not a lot else;
though you're still searching, if not for you,
for your mother instead, elderly and re-married:
some else's burden, another husband to carry.
Carry out of the bottom of drunken wine glasses
and into clear meadows on weekly walks
where discussions take place, peace treaty
talks about holidays in the Mediterranean,
upon balcony ledges they'll embrace, learn
about fading stars, the history behind buildings
visit local bars to drink sober cocktails
conjured up in off-the-web smoothie makers
bought with the ambition to make a living
and help the community out.
If not now then when, your **** shouts
hiding beneath moneyed material
cut in sweat shops, washed in sweat heaps,
delivered by the sweaty mail man of the Bronx,
will women love me you'll say,
will women want a house with me, stay the night
under reclaimed, bought from thrift shop,
lights and kiss until mornings turn into weeks,
those weeks into new jobs
and before you know it, retirement plots
in allotments off Broadway?
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 7:49 AM UTC
I’m a renaissance woman.
Not in the sense that I’ll birth your children, and keep a perfect clean house
I am a Muse.
I rebirthed and reclaimed my mind and body
Away from the Dark Age of adolescence
So, I can finally feel present in my own skin
I’m a renaissance man in a woman’s body
Not in the sense that I feel trapped in the wrong time, place or body
But that I've become skilled in many fields
I will never stop trying to better myself
I have designed and engineered a par of perfect wings.
I guess you’ve never seen an angel in disguise
But unlike Icarus, my wings can hold me,
So, **** you Leonardo, I’m a better renaissance woman than you were a renaissance man
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
In Lisbon, we blended
ended the day with spectacular culinary
Shopped and hopped side to side
In Dublin, we vented
as the whisky and Guinness was **** good
Shipped the hire car to Galway
In Italy, we invented
dropped coins in fountains of love we already held
From Florence, to Milan, to Rome, to Bologna
In Paris, I rented
alone in protests and hippies at Place De La Republique
Dreamt of you as they skated
In Romania, I persisted
up on the icy Tranfagarasan highway traps
I saw a bear and it had your eyes
In Stockholm, we insisted
As the Vasa sunk on tables of *****
Pecked on the trains and shied away.
In London, we protested
It was an ordinary day and the flowers didn't bloom
The Thames was gloomy and stale
In Oslo, we transmitted
The reindeer meal and cranberry was a disaster
The gloom followed us to southern skies
In Copenhagen, you were sorted
Smiled and amused by the Tivoli gardens
The night became day and the wind withered
In Amsterdam, we did what we did
Stored the memories on the reclaimed lands
Free-spirited in love and in eternity
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
~
the smell of timbers,
aging in the sun and daily misting;
neath the shuffling sound,
footsteps of a man,
bucket filled with daily catchings,
the reeling in of memory’s castings,
of creosote's faint lifting,
drifting on the breezes;
of old tackle boxes,
of shrimp and lures;
the gatherings of hands,
ragged and weathered,
the collecting of years;
of hand-me-down hooks,
bobbers and sinkers,
the odd bits of dust,
gathered in corners,
pliers worn by use and rust,
save from drownings
grateful rainbows
one by one,
their too-short lives
extended with each
catch and release.
tired ropes wrapped
’round bent iron ties,
summer-time-baked...
cracked and dried,
by day's too old to count,
the numbers, the flutters,
since this heart began its bleeding,
it's journey beating,
floats of faded red and blue,
recall of a yesteryear
of a grandfather renewed;
the one-time, one-day
he and i walked
hand-in-hand
down a dusty road
to an old, wood fishing dock
on a grassy river bank;
dock and day long gone,
but love-scribed now,
deeply in this memory.
a day with rod and reel
when on a river long ago
a boy and a man,
an afternoon of fishing
to his heart listening.
a wistful day
of boyhood’s dreams
now in wishful haze;
forgotten midst
the growing years,
tumbling out in verse,
those smells, the sounds,
now reel out words
between the tears,
now catch-releasing,
a heart's docking...
and memory’s rebirth.
~
*post script.
funny, this memory thing... how we can be so not conscious of what lies ’neath its surface, but then is reclaimed in vivid, YouTube vision by the smallest sight, sound, or smell. with a childhood spent 8,000 miles and an ocean away from my home country, i have scarce few memories of my grandfather. today i am grateful to reclaim this one, a tearfully joyous recall of a six-year old's wonder-filled afternoon,
caught and released so long ago.*
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
1-DESIRE: 4-UNCARE:
All of me now desires,be deep Distracted ideals,a nature human
Wholly Inside of you,Pervade Heavenly woven synergies broken
Your mind, limbs, Heart, all pores Power of pleasures mortal, killing magic
Soak in your salty sweat warm Snapping wands,bonds dearly formed
Mold dancing to a one united. Sweet temptress transient, conquering care.
2-PASSION: 5- DISILLUSION:
Bodies’ lithe now twined serpentine We betrayed, cheated US, in neglect,
Straining desperate, for a merger Holes in hearts bleeding precious Love,
Spiritual, souls both for unison striving Admitting indifference cruel, ruining stealthily
Hearts two pumping as one to fuse. Our paradise gained, won so easy, lost terribly.
Sacred is everything, this carnality too. Chanced eternity wasted, destiny unmeant made.
3-LOVE: 6- REALITY:
Ensconced tight in warmth’s mutual, Tempered in time space, 3-LOVE loyal savior sole,
All is for sacrifice on our loves altar, Enshrined indestructible, in being, memories relived.
Suspended thoughts, egos burnt ash Pleasures now cynically felt, loves truly responded,
A Love Mindless meditating deep, No dilemma human; I flow generous, as an epitaph,
In some state mystically enlightened. Thanking destiny for this reclaim, my love,faring well.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:55 AM UTC
Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?
Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.
The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.
T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.
Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.
Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.
Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.
Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:36 PM UTC
My name is stolen like a Spaniard
Inquisition,
My heritage barely a patch of fog,
What is the truth of myself unwritten?
" Your name is....You shall be called"
My father once said,
But I sign this name at the end of no poem,
Are you sure this is my name?
Have you navigated the flows
Of lava in my bloodstreams,
My geographical mind that beckons
A deep bitter valley,
Dark beautiful mountains that have
Reclaimed by nature what my people
Claimed her?
Can you see my subterranean pyramids,
My great moist jungles,
Gutting out advanced mathematical models,
Bleeding precise positions of stars,
I can cry the Winter Solstice,
Oh my proud heart pounds
Through my chest with dreams of then,
When the Coyote was sacred and the
Nature of all things was balanced
Even in the darkest days.
Am I Gonzales from the old Spaniard name?
Does my brown skin and hairless
Arms not cry for the Aztec of my ancient
Fathers?
The root of my root,
The flesh of my flesh,
The veiny branches of a family tree
Where wild flowers grow in
The words of the Aztec bark,
Bleeding its sap through me,
Is this Spaniard to you?
(I know the difference)
Let me ask my blood:
Do you not see the fire in my eyes?
Don't you see the fire raining tears
Of embers onto paper,
Every word a burnt offering?
Maybe one does not know of my
Great grandfather in the valley
Of Mixcoatl, there he lived as the last
Nocturne, his great scar along his back,
The last of a warrior
Where he died among the stars of his fathers,
The scar from a knife, a knife that
Stole his true name!
Has Olin and Ehecatl taken it
With a breath of wind?
I will take the Sun Stone with you Octavio!
Take me home.....
And I can see it!
The noble people forgotten
As time forgets all,
My voice of the Warrior grateful
And speaking like a shiny tip of
Spear piercing the night wolf!
I am no longer a riddle in the water,
But a pure flow of immenseness,
A profound respected beast,
I feel the purity of ancient things,
I dissolve into memory's ink,
My combatant blood boils,
The land flames of my fire,
The people of the Sun!
My ancestral blood with calloused feet,
My ancient jungles,
Tamers of beasts,
Oh the Aztec Dream,
Yes, I am what my blood says I am,
What's in a name?
The identity misidentified.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
Wider roads
Reclaimed our abode
Lesser spaces
More roadways
Leads nowhere
Classy vehicles
Steering for long
Congested traffic
Life comes to
A standstill
Homes push away
Further from heart
Electronic signals
Directs our journey
Everyone back home
Waits for none
This is a journey
With a passion
Without a rear view mirror
There’s no looking back
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC