"reclaims" poems
Fingers tapping, one, two, three,
A slow rhythm drums in my chest.
The words on my screen blur and fade before me.
The world slows as we are put to the test.
The streets, barren and eerily silent,
Darkened windows, chairs on tables.
Places once filled with noise now absent.
Are we now living in one of God's fables?
Perhaps, then, we must stop and listen,
Listen to the lessons He is teaching us all.
These drastic measures, so brazen,
Yet we are close to the edge, were we to fall?
See kindness and beauty,
See all that is good,
As Mother Nature breathes freely,
Tired from all She withstood.
Laughter and bored games,
Brought together by distance,
Whilst the air, the water, She reclaims,
No more waiting, no more patience.
Yes, waters clear as emissions drop;
A truly beautiful consequence.
But we must not forget - take the time to stop,
Extend our minds to at whose expense.
Unemployment creeps ever higher,
Many lives are lost.
For those a dark and terrible chapter,
Enduring such a saddening cost.
The good that lies within,
The beauty of humankind,
Rainbows, clapping, togetherness underpin,
Our world, our people, our priorities realigned.
So listen we must,
To our animals, our rivers, our Earth.
Look to your nearest and dearest,
Use this time to recognise their full worth.
Nov 2, 2021
Nov 2, 2021 at 6:12 PM UTC
arboreal
capitulation
to the last saw;
just lying there,
rusting and dull,
a senile serial killer.
a dirt water droplet
circlestalks the sun
like a vulture.
wild flowers
split the concrete
like jackhammers and
the vines hang low
over city streets,
while unmaintained
botanical gardens
shrivel and decay,
breeding mushy immensities.
bears hibernate in subways
and deer flock in herds
and oh, the birds..
the birds.
spiders hang webs
from ancient clock towers
while moth returns
to chasing moon.
dams crumble,
the water flows,
sea reclaims the shore.
but the
eldest
trees
still weep
when memory pains,
and so surrender
to the saw,
however harmless
out of hand.
Apr 18, 2010
Apr 18, 2010 at 1:43 PM UTC
Wide-open smile
delicate
child’s heart
Divine
trust
Given
Unknown far
bidden.
Mother-figure
Destiny feature
Infinity’s Keeper
broke One Heart.
Spirit bright
Eternal Light
hosts innocence bid
endures moment
silent torture
breaks
integral being.
Survives tide
feather in flight
footprints uncover
test seal.
Broken yet not defeated
reclaims Right.
Notion fights
Love
Lives
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 8:26 PM UTC
On her knees, head in her hands
Crying, she's seen the promised lands
As she sits shackled in razor blade chains
The only thing free is the thoughts in her brain
She is only there to bear witness to the fortunate souls
That deserving or not, get to cross to the land of gold
Her fate was sealed before her birth
She's made to pay for the sins of others, it is her curse
She watch's soul after soul enter the land
She was forsaken in it to stand
So as the razors slice and bite
She set's her mind free, what a beautiful sight
From deep insides there shines this light
It becomes a beacon, it's so bright
With every slice of the razor
Thought to withstrain her
More light pours through
But the razor chains cuts ensue
Till all the light in her pours out
Through her lips a slight whimper escapes, ment to be a shout
Darkness reclaims where it always belonged
Another souls claimed, the ding after the ****
She was only born to watch the happiness of others
She was only born for agony to smother
She was only born to bear witness
To the beauty in darkness, mother nature's mistress
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:31 AM UTC
The truth lies in the dirt
Feathers sifting brown flour
Sunlight prisms dancing
And I let you
New green, her ritual comforts
While I lie contorted beneath you
The scent of wet soil
And I let you
The ****** bud reclaims her power
Rhythmic earth turn, turn
Spring, thy mirror of veracity
And I let you
Blinded by a heart grown
Veiled in misty mornings
The great lie, just out of sight
And I let you
Out of a hard rain now
No death by my hand
Nature continues her march
And I let you
Go
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 12:45 AM UTC
Because nothings worth the price they will staple to your head
What will be left of you when she repeats everything that we've said
What will be left of you?
As I lose myself in your subtle unannounced fame I grip tighter on the waist high poorly built stage
That's held, more than once, a new coming face - screaming with grace, to the crowd that can't wait...
Find yourself in rekindled faith
Falling deeper in love with the lyrical genius, I accept that he defines all I am unsure of,
giving in to the butterflies he knows won't subside -
take a moment
to slow down and
join me tonight
Is this moment everything you've dreamt of?
Safely tucked in the warmth of her bed, she relives all the fairytales her Dad never read..
completely consumed with the thoughts in her head...
Where were you this time?
She holds on to another memory, thankful for every second,
She knows tomorrow is never promised
so she gave up on the ********
and vowed always to be honest
But that is not costless...
As her eyes become heavy and her brain quietly calms down,
she sets aside the thoughts that stop the words from spilling out, she reclaims her crown ...
She controls her feelings now..
Finding strength in the fights that cut as sharp as your knife I refuse to accept I no longer have rights…and the pain you inflict won't be worth the sight
of the mascara covered
cheekbones
barely visible tonight
Pull me closer and breathe in life...
Sing through my soul
going high and then low
I hear the truth in your laugh
as gradually you become
the best thing of my past.
Don't stress the hard stuff slow down and relax
This moment could so quickly become our last so let go of your broken unfinished past and live for the seconds your heart let's you laugh
Walking together is always better when you can't find the path...
Walk with me.
Oct 28, 2011
Oct 28, 2011 at 4:16 AM UTC
Another numbered summer, over
plans packed away
watches wound
boots back on pavements
lawns forgotten
And the sun apologises
as it rises too late
and the cackling wind
reclaims his domain with a flourish.
Have a good day, boys -
see you at teatime.
Aug 30, 2011
Aug 30, 2011 at 7:10 AM UTC
The winding whispers of a newborn leaf
Uncurl its muted rhymes
And weave the Lord’s eternal song
Among the trails of time
God’s risen Son reclaims our souls
To rouse a slumbering earth
And spins a fragrant melody
That mirrors our rebirth
Mingling shadows shake the stillness
Ringing through the trees
In hushed remembrance of the ancient cross
That held salvation’s key.
Faded murmurs of the Savior’s voice
Engulf the rambling sky
To wrap her soul in solitude
Where untouched dreams reside
The rosy frailty of a budding branch
Dethrones its broken past
Hung with the breath of dormant hopes
Resurrected at long last
My wild wanderings lead me back
Where the wide-eyed crocus stirs
A transient token of abiding grace
As long as faith endures
From Christ’s surrender arose new life
Where the light of redemption springs
His footsteps call my spirit home
Borne on eternity’s wings.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
#(For the one who asked if we would continue)
She does not aim to destroy him.
She does not even try to teach him.
She simply Becomes.
And her becoming—raw, radiant, terrifying in its beauty—
is what breaks him open.
The man who watches her rightly does not crave her.
He remembers himself in her Unfolding.
Not the ego-self. The soul-self—the one buried beneath performance.
She does not say: "Come fix me."
She says: "Can you stand what I’m becoming?
And that is the call.
For it is not the broken feminine that births great men.
It is the rising feminine—becoming whole before his eyes—
that forces him to face what in him remains unclaimed, untested, afraid.
But she does not rise by accident.
Her light is not a crown—it is a choice.
She has known the temptation to ****** instead of shine..
To brand her ache, to perform her pain, to curate identity instead of embody truth.
But she turns—again and again—toward the deeper yes.
The one that costs her audience, but saves her soul.
She repents. She reclaims.
She speaks, then listens.
She writes, then revises.
She does not demand to be understood—
she hungers to be made whole.
Her rising is her responsibility.
Not a show, not a vengeance, not a staged deliverance.
It is the quiet courage to be seen—by God,
even if man never looks again.
And so, she becomes the muse.
Not by force, not by flirtation,
but by standing in her own unfolding,
in her own ache made sacred.
She does not ****** him with need.
She muses him with light.
But her light is costly.
It exposes the unintegrated parts of him—
the unredeemed rooms he’s kept boarded up for years.
She does not kick down the door.
She simply opens the curtains.
And in that sudden flood of glory,
he must choose:
to run, or to remain.
If he remains—
not as savior, not as shadow,
but as witness—
he becomes new.
This is not **********
It is mutual divination.
She rises, and he roots.
He roots, and she trusts.
And they become—together—
the very echo of Eden.
Not by escaping the fire,
but by walking through it as invitation.
Not as gods.
But as those who remember who made them.
And when she falters—when the ache flares again—
it is not applause she turns to.
It is him.
The one who stood.
The one who still stands.
The one whose strength was not his own,
but who dared to offer it anyway.
His is the strength she draws from, all along—
strength born not of dominance,
***but of what she called forth in him
when she chose to rise.***
And so, they become
what neither could be alone:
the light that burns
but does not consume,
the root and the flame,
the holy loop of return.
#
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 6:44 PM UTC
***** beats, kids barefoot in the street
Running up & down across two yellow lines
In little parks with iron fences, dead grass
Surrounded by broken fences & empty houses
Rotting off their own foundations
Slowly the foundation crumbles,
after the frame is long gone.
Slowly the grass reclaims concrete,
transmutes into soil.
With roots as deep as oily puddles,
runoff after the downpour.
Waste your life in four cornered rooms
Contain your life in ceilings & floors
End your life under cheap sheets
There is a garden out back, full of weeds
Strangling out sunlight with noxious yellow flowers
I've turned over that soil so many times
But only weeds grow
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 5:10 AM UTC
It begins with a whisper,
a shadow stitched to her womb,
its weight pressing like a secret,
its roots spreading unseen.
They call it normal—
the blood that floods like rivers,
the cramps that steal her breath,
the clots dragging her body down.
Pain coils in her pelvis,
a fire that burns without end.
Her bladder aches, her bowels rebel,
her back bends beneath its weight.
They say it’s just being a woman,
but how do you explain the storms?
The tissue growing where it shouldn’t,
the scars binding organs into one.
She carries fatigue like a second skin,
her energy drained by invisible wars.
Her body becomes a battlefield—
every nerve alive with rebellion.
Doctors speak over her pain:
It’s all in your head, they insist.
But how do you imagine blood that stains,
or pain that splits you in two?
One day, she stops asking for answers.
She stands tall in the face of dismissal.
Her voice rises like thunder:
This is my body; I know it best.
Her womb is no longer their battlefield;
it is sacred ground she reclaims.
The shadow no longer consumes her—
it becomes part of her story, not its end.
Feb 4, 2025
Feb 4, 2025 at 9:02 PM UTC
It's like a pit (a
massive gap in the thoughts that
unsettles you)
and (lest your resolve be crushed to
a fine powder suitable only for the most
tasteful framing)
saturates conversation like a
virus
but there's a problem with this
invitation, if only to
convince yourself the gap is
useful, (that it's a landmark of
sorts, a real treasure, why not
picnic next to it, make up stories
and holidays and marvel at the
obvious ingenuity of the earth in
creating such a beautiful loss)
at the end of the festival, (when the
streamers have faded and
the food lies stale, when the cars have
herded their people home for the
night and the moon reclaims
her sky from clingy weathermen)
it is still a hole, (and you might
fall in).
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 4:14 PM UTC
Sing me a lullaby
Let the lion lay down
Till the sun graces the sky
There's not a care to be found
Sing me a lullaby
As the day slowly fades
Darkness reclaims the sky
The star's dance and cascade
Sing me a lullaby
The sun surrenders
The moon claims the sky
Yesterday is only the remembers
Sing my a lullaby
As I drift off into slumber
Looking at the Diamond filled sky
Listening to the beat of the drummer
Sing me a lullaby
As you lay down beside me
Love so immense it fills the sky
To my locked heart, you are the key
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 11:26 AM UTC
An inseparable companion
Caused by the interception of light
A comparative darkness
That is crystal clear in hindsight
Like the soul dictates a person
A shadow’s bed is made
From dawn to dusk, its fate is ******
into a merciless grave
For a shadow is dependent
On the laws of light
& It’s movement is restricted
To it’s suburbanite.
Its fleeting fate is understood
& yet it goes ignored
I wonder if the shadow could
End the misery it endures
Because as the day persists
Shadows continuously change
This lack of self must be felt
with a tremendous sense of pain
So as the shadow dwindles down
To the object it draws near
The entity becomes unbound
As night reclaims the hemisphere
Therefore, a life is worth the strife
The truth shall be unveiled
A shadow’s love for the night
Is one that will always prevail
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
#
Let it be the Mountain she finds Holy—
not because it sparkles,
seduces her
or speaks in riddles,
but because its dark loamy soil
receives her bare feet like a memory.
A prairie hill above the sea,
where grasses bow and whisper,
and the wind carries the salt and scent of things
too old for names—
that’s where the house stands.
Not built from stone,
but from time.
And longing.
And the laughter of those
who once remembered Eden.
Let her dig down,
as if the roots of a wildflower
were waiting to rise through her skin,
lifting her slowly from within—
the stem, the pistil,
the fragile yet indestructible bloom.
Let the soil speak to her in silence,
saying:
*You are still loved.
You are still alive.
You are not what happened to you.*
Let her turn toward the sun—
not in shame,
but in radiant defiance—
and know in that moment
where her help truly comes from.
Let her running to the mountain
be joy, not dread.
Let her ascent be not an exile,
but a return.
Let her wings unfold brazenly,
as the daughter of the living God.
Not tucked.
Not hidden.
Not compromised.
She does not belong to the mountain that mocks love
and feeds on the ruin of hearts,
or exploits that which is still unhealed
She belongs here—
where her own flesh and bone
become not only family
but friend,
through the common bond
of the soil that gives life to all who dare to sink into it.
She belongs
where peace lives in warm light on cold nights,
where cotton sheets smell of soap and skin,
and starlight sifts through trees
like the hush of forgiveness.
Let her remember her first love..
before the theft,
before the theater.
Before the wound.
Let her toes remember
what it was to wiggle in the dirt
of something unbroken,
unshamed,
true.
Let her find home again—
not in a place carved out for her,
but in the space she reclaims
with her own rootedness.
Let her petals unfold slowly in the sun—
but only with her feet deep in the mountain's soil,
where others also have planted their lives,
becoming one
in harmony of breath and memory and Grace.
She will not enter into a sepulcher
or a place that makes usury of her pain.
She will stand on the mount before the rising sun—
alone if she must,
but never abandoned.
And somewhere in the hush between
the breeze and the soil,
she may yet feel
the quiet echo
of someone still with her.
#
May 31, 2025
May 31, 2025 at 10:37 PM UTC
born a sinner,
under crescent moons
and among chants of "talaq, talaq, talaq"
forced to hide behind a star studded veil to be preserved against blood thirsty eyes
glass bangles and silverware replaced the dolls in her hands and the fairyland of her dreams
led on a rose colored path, and into a gold painted cage marked marriage
greedy scars crafted by her lover marred the canvas of her body
only punctured fairy blue wings and dying embers of an electric soul remain
but she rises from the ashes,
sits on her velvet throne
and adorns the bejeweled crown
she reclaims the legacy of her goddess mothers,
durga and cleopatra
this time you don't get to see our strained faces,
this time you don't get to mock the dying fire of our eyes
because now,
we know our rights.
now we're armed with spears of knowledge.
we're the queens of our own kingdoms, unique in our reigns.
we were supposed to be treated like flowers, right?
but you threw us into the mud of your crimes
and we bloomed like lotuses,
reckless and vivacious.
we earned it all.
- standing beside, not against
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 9:57 AM UTC
Angels cry beside my shadow
Looked up to the stars and you will see
The scroll of your life passing you with no remorse
Every now and then let go to the uncertainty of your hands
Derail once before by a freighting
desire of walking back to a dark corner
Darkest moment seeking my other face
Sensibility lying on the road to heaven
Promised to bowed in silence
As my tears flow through a river of sadness
The believed of eternity flows through my veins
True to the game, the streets still singing the song
Mothers bear witness to the unborn pain
Claiming for the struggle of righteousness
The blazing sensation of lust
Sweetness of love, blooming inside a rose
A flame burn inside a fatherless child
Drastically I feel the pain closing the door
The state of mind lingers and devours our sanity
On the top of a mountain my lungs clear a path
For the last breath of infinity
Expend a life time with a reflection of her
Chasing you through the woods, Shook a silent whisper
Serve one purpose, the light…
Her soft touched came through, and left me breathless
Long jeopardy reclaims my senses
Waiting for the massager to deliver me
From eternal fire…
Rony Joseph all rights reserved 2010
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 2:36 PM UTC
The water had risen to just below the brim and
cracks were observed along the poured concrete rim.
For days now such troubling signs had appeared;
The Dam Keeper had expressed concerns, then been told not to fear.
The Chief engineer had come up and opined
that the mighty Dam’s walls would stand all tests of time.
Down there in the valley with the last of the light
The ranchers and their families bedded down for the night.
Their ignorance was bliss for no one foresaw
That flood waters obey an immutable law.
The Saint Francis Dam in the San Francisquito Valley
Was about to give way. There’d be no time to dally.
At three minutes to midnight came an unearthly sound;
Twelve Billion gallons of water knocked the dam down.
Bodies and boulders, stone structures and trees
Formed a wave of destruction that raced for the sea
A mighty Tsunami; a hundred feet high
All those in its way were those destined to die.
Man, in his hubris, seems always to feel
That he is the master to whom Nature must yield.
Yet, in reality, we are helpless and small;
Overcome by flood waters we are nothing at all.
Mulholland, the department head shouldered the blame.
Bravely I think- Who today would do the same?
The ruins of Saint Francis Dam still stand to remind us
That our works are ephemeral; Nature reclaims our dust.
Our land’s infrastructure is in need of repair.
We must not wait for more cracks to appear.
The innocent suffer if we fail to heed this call.
Its three minutes to midnight for us one and all.
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 9:08 PM UTC
.
*Clouded skies somberly cascade
upon motionless vistas,
floating unrehearsed melancholy hues
where muted feelings roam
on a spring morning echoing
a weary winter dream
I sit beneath a weeping willow’s
unhurried leaves fluttering
like silent wind chimes,
quietly pacing unheard melodies,
as dandelions seek the sun
now absent reflections in my own tears
And I reminisce of the days when
magnolia petals were our sunrise,
sweetly scenting the virginal dawn
in soft aromatic whispers,
lazily lingering upon our skin
when your smile was my every morning
Now I wait below wilting branches,
listless arches desperately reaching
but never touching the ground,
allowing desolate thoughts to wallow
as the soft earth reclaims me
from an infinite finale in gray*
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
There's so little remaining
of my affection for anything.
Even poetry now offers
it's forgiveness
for it's unfullfillment.
I've lost the patience
that carried me here.
I've grown tired of waiting
for something worth
the waiting.
There's so little remaining
of my love for living.
I've exhausted this forge
for its ceased creating.
The universe churns
and remembers little
of its former solidarity.
As gravity struggles
to collect stardust
before the void reclaims it.
Christ, but it must be so violent
and lonely there,
dependant on forces
that shape
and disfigure
on passing whims and fancies.
There's so little remaining
of my need for continuing.
When the morning is a knife
****** keenly in my side.
Before the caffeine cleanses
and imbides it's chemical veil,
to lend a false sense of purpose.
Black urgency,
coupled with a need for exceeding
the accomplishments of our fathers.
There's so little remaining
of gravity's hope for retaining.
When all it should do
is start letting us go.
-Kevin James
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 8:02 AM UTC
*You paid me a most humble courtesy
Ingratiating my own imagination’s sensuality.
It ‘tis one of those quiet thinking moments
Where for a time – mere moments – one’s spirit bows
Down with the body telling the mind a beautiful story.
But the body does so much more than just tell it.
So as I remember it, your mind does replay it.
The pleasure – as if it were greater than an actual
Remembrance of any true physical event.
What does this mean? you ask.
My feelings – my dear – would not be worth a penny
If I had not given these memories along with it.
Within ecstasy's imagination you will always remember me.
Whatever comes of it will make you the better for it.
What is imagination but a prelude to creation?
With the creation of anything – its being reclaims the imagined.
Imagined – created – imagined – created –
It goes round – n – round making of itself
A flavored reality sprinkled with the sweetest of all that is.
The sprinkles you feel are the effect of the seventy five
Percent water that we all truly are.
What can you imagine would happen if our memory
Awakened with this capability while holding hands?
My love, I can see the innocence in us both.
Innocence does not mean that we have not known life.
Innocence means that we are not guilty of failing our love.
If you are affected by these words or by any of my others,
May all of them be received with an equaling retort.
Upon each turn, each ascent and descent – they all are but
Road signs marking out our journey.
The safety that I afford you is as real as my memories.
Let my memories wash you clean of the evil
That you endure daily – repairing all that is damaged.
Absorb my imagination in word, in song and visually
As you feel yourself evolve.
Isn’t it sweet to feel these sweet threads spun in love
Mixed with the colors of our affections?
You have never touched me before -
But you have haven’t you?
We have all by ourselves, with a liberating simplicity,
Coupled our minds which must prove that love
Can be out of our heads and for my part in it
I cannot help but have these convictions.
All I ask in return is that you wear this love
As if it were a coat of arms letting my
Imagination free you from any evil harm.
For my kiss caries within it an Apostle’s heart.
If evil should continue to stand in our way
I shall imagine that evil’s demise.
Casting out the demons with nothing more
Than the warmest of all kisses.
Can you not feel them cower now?
That is the power of the imagination my dear.
For what is imagination if it is not a wish?
And is not a wish a prayer?
And is not a prayer Divine Ecstasy?
Let this be our truth!
Oh Lord hear my plea, I imagine ….*
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 12:05 AM UTC
This light, it drifts on in waves
Herald me, let me catch it
Let me drink it.
In the recesses of my mind
My darkness contorts to hide
How it loathes these better times.
As ever, light's tide subsides
Darkness reclaims its wicked halls
And again supersedes all that has come before.
Trapped within this deadened state
The past is all I can't erase
Shudders in the darkness
Mimic the stirring of a soul
How I long for something more
Yet in the darkness of this maze
I am blinded by twisted views of fate.
Sincerity could bring serenity
If only it were real.
Monstrous red flowing from lines of fragile blue
The dark zeal and steel rule supreme.
These are the things of which I dream
Yet again cowardice stays my hand
I lie awake and dream of being that better man
The glorious shards of light brought on by those anonymous smiles
Perhaps they will quiet the darkness for a while.
I convey the words of a source unknown
I assure you, you'd find no pleasure in my own.
To illicit joy, laughter's light
Cut great vast scars in my night
The magnificent contours of green grass and sky
If only this too were not a lie...
How I've yearned, Burned! For those days of light
But the sinewy hands of a loathsome mind
Will grasp and hold the weakness of these times.
I struggle, I scream
Surely a God would cut these ties
Oh kaleidoscope, oh light!
Darkness has seen you sink and fade
I begin to both forget and regret my better days
My mind spies betrayers, witches and fakes
Yet they are your righteous, your angels and namesakes.
And so, I shall dwell in Hell
For this Heaven's sake.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC
The birds have fallen silent.
Dancing Meadowsweet stands still.
The airs intaken breath is paused.
The world awaits until
his hand reclaims the pen once more.
Scribes verse upon the ream.
For he's the final Poet.
Lonley dreamer of the dream.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 10:01 AM UTC