"recognises" poems
A horse and a saddle
Cold wind at the gallow
Emotions are mellow
No hi and no héllo
His face is so sullen
The land is so barren
He stole for his child
Her reaction is mild
She recognises not the man hanging so high.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
She's a woman of integrity,
She recognises her beauty,
And her specialty.
Knowing she's not perfect,
She reflects before she can react,
She may not be every mans desire,
But that doesn't matter because its not something to require,
Love and total attention from one is enough,
Lots of times she laughs,
At times she even bluffs,
When life gets rough,
She gets tough,
She's a survivor,
Her familys reviver.
She's a woman,
A woman of integrity.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
My mother used to bake cookies with me when I was young
Intricate designs of colored icing that varied with the seasons.
They were always perfect and looked far to good to suffer the crime of eating.
For half a century I always baked cookies for the holidays
Whilst my children grew tall and independent with no apparent
Interest in baking
As the pale blue winter light falls into my kitchens I see myself
Cutting shapes and painting colors a silhouette on the shadows of the wall.
Placing the last cookie into a Christmas scene can I
Arive at the hospital and sit next to her in the ICU
I see her frailness the alarm in her eyes as she recognises me
But is yet unable to enunciate her thoughts.
Silence as loud as thunder fills the room the seams of the walls are stretched to their limits.
The outer limits beep of the monitor acknowleging her heartbeats
Counting down each one until the last.
I miss our intimacy in that long ago kitchen
And the random thought enters my mind
I am her only child and she is my only mother.
The monitor rings an alarm a code blue
Signalling the end of her like the end of a football match.
I feel the loss of her like a razor blade cutting my flesh.
And as I leave her for the last time
There seems to be a a mortality in the measured unknown days ahead and the cans of cookies yet to be baked.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:04 PM UTC
In a beautiful garden
sits a pretty flower
surrounded by plant life
it's filled with music
it dances and grows
as chlorophyll flows
But a vandal comes
and digs up theflower
grabs it carelessly
ripping out good roots
soon the flower
lies alone on the street
the music, the life
everything, everyone
is gone
The flower is left alone with itself
the flower hates itself
it's ugly, its wrong, its
just not perfect
and noone tells it otherwise
there is noone else
as it fills with black hate
it ripps off its petals
and plucks out it's seeds
it starts to die
it does not look like it will last til dawn
But it does
and as soon as sunrise
a wise old woman
out for her walk
stumbles upon this
pile of sadness
she gently lifts up the flower
being careful not to rip the leaves
or break the stem
she cradles it in her wrinkly arms
and takes it to her house
she waters it
and watches it
and everday she sings to the flower
day by day she always persists
and sure enough, that flower
grows new petals
and strengthens it's stem
life flowing though it
so lyrical now
it recognises the beauty
that has always been there
One day, the woman
returns the flower to the garden
and the flower dances and sings
and worries no more
because it feels beautiful
on its own
and doesnt need the other flowers
she sings for herself
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
DRESSMAKERS to the stars J’Aton have turned designer detectives after one of their most valuable couture gowns was stolen from a bride’s home last week.
The one-of-a-kind gown, which was stolen from Leanne Bartucca’s Greenvale residence along with other valuables, is estimated to be worth more than $40,000.
It weighs more than 18kg, and features intricate 100-year-old vintage French lace that has been carved and sculpted onto leather and layered tulle.
J’Aton designers Anthony Pittorino and Jacob Luppino, who also made the wedding gowns of Rebecca Judd, Nadia Bartel, Jodi Gordon and Yvette Prieto, wife of Michael Jordan, are appealing to the public in the hope that if it goes for sale online, someone will recognise the distinctive dress.
“We are so devastated for our dear friend Leanne; that dress has a special place in our hearts and is so sentimental to us all,” the pair said.
“It’s a dress that we created especially for Leanne, it has her and her husband’s initials embroidered into the train and we just hope that if anyone recognises the distinguishable design for sale on websites or social media, that they report it to the police.”
Ms Bartucca, who wore the dress in March, 2014, says she has been devastated by its theft.
“It’s such a sentimental thing; my family and the J’Aton boys have been checking the internet daily in the hopes that we will see it for sale,” she said.
“I had dreams of using the fabric from it for my children’s christening gowns, and even framing a section of the fabric for our home.
“[The thieves] definitely knew what they were doing. As a former fashion buyer, I was surprised how much they knew — what they left behind was just as telling as what they took.
“They could tell the difference between real and fake jewellery, they left certain shoe brands behind and obviously went straight for the J’Aton dress, which was covered in tissue paper and in a white box at the top of the wardrobe.”
Police said they were investigating whether the burglary was in relation to another in the same area.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 12:12 AM UTC
PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion.
pacing
internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation.
one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers
“go away go away go away go away”
running
linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip,
praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs.
i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy
the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age,
my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in
breathe in
breathe out
falling
wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks
desperate to make my voice heard
but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor
leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind,
one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
There’s always a bustle here
In my ritual place of ribs and beer
The sharp scent of ginger and coriander
The acrid burr in my nose of seared flesh
Fusion food served around me
But I go for Hirata.. again.
Can’t argue with taste, and it tastes
Korean bbq and Buddha beer
A brief nod to the moments of clarity
As said by drunks
The beer bottle cool in my hand as I reflect
Beads of condensation forming on Buddhas belly
And I’m here hoping for Constant
It’s now my third attempt
In as many months to catch a glimpse
And tonight apparently the stars align
Jupiter and Mercury on the rise
As I walk in
There is a way about him
So much bluff and bravado...
reminds me of someone I once loved
There is a mischief in his smile
Something warm in his eyes
Even beyond his jokes of his ego
Too big for the Room, apparently
I don’t discourage..
He’s honest in a way that piques
So here I am
Third time lucky finding Constant
To my delight he recognises me instantly
“Lucky Buddha for the lady?”
His eyes dance..
I interpret, maybe to much
But believe he’s pleased to see me
So we joke..
We laugh
I watch him get an earful
For not concentrating on the flow
The manager in tow..
and he side-eyes me and winks
Inwardly I hi-five myself for
Timing this so perfectly
So here I am
Trying not to watch Constant flow
Trying not to blush as he looks my way
“I’m too old for this **** I think
Then feel like a kid
When he throws a grin my way
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
Mounted in Ulster Mausoleum
you greet me with your rotted smile,
with oaken bones splinted into pose
with cloven feet riveted to the floor.
To the side your cratered eyes
that tunnel down to your cage
that watches of how we feed,
that recognises skin, fur and hair.
that will keep to see,
waves crash on mountain peaks
and we, holding hands in barren fields
and no one finding fossils in the mud.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 11:53 AM UTC
You may believe home to be an address,
You are wrong.
The co-ordinates I list as my place of residence,
Are subject to change.
As do the seasons,
As my health waxes and wanes,
As my job becomes a harrowing echo,
My home will remain,
Incorrupt,
Unblemished.
As the night-sky,
Glistens and reminisces.
Its nostalgic ribbon intertwines with my soul -
My heart,
Recognises its home.
The waves,
That serenely lap against the shore,
Leaving, once elapsed,
A maze of its belongings,
Like a Nomad on his journey.
Demonstrative tides of exposure,
Against our profane human culture,
To jumble together
In definition,
Our home and our belongings.
Does this translate,
That home is sovereign
Of worldly corruption,
And is therefore
Safe from life’s unpredictability?
Home,
It is a state of mind.
Home is the essence which coats your soul.
Home is the promise of peace.
Home could never be my place of residence,
For between hospitals and the couches I have surfed,
Void of worldly possessions,
I have never once been homeless.
I possess more than the man who cannot see
That a fixed abode in this world is not the true interpretation,
Of a phrase so bespoke.
As I look into the night-sky,
And reminisce;
As the waves serenely lap
Against the borders of land and sea,
I accept that no matter where in the world I may find myself,
The moon will still shine,
The waves will still sing soft melodies to the sand,
And my home,
I forever hold in my hand.
Jul 20, 2019
Jul 20, 2019 at 10:28 AM UTC
The woman holds a letter
crumpled and crumbling at the tip like insanity taking its first few licks at calm
and liking it
brushing black-inked words beneath her fingers
like she's contemplating some black haired deed
like anger
or hate
or ******
and maybe she is.
The woman lifts her hands unto the skies
crying for help from a darkness that won't help her at all
but she wants it
banishing her innocence and taking up home
in the old, abandoned shack of spite and malice
wanting blood
wanting love
wanting power
but not just for her.
The woman meets her husband
taunting and teasing and twisting his words into a sadistic mockery of what they were
and he believes her
with a slap across morality he agrees with her
takes her outstretched hand to show that
jealousy is married
determination binds
it was his idea first
and weakness is sin.
The woman turns and faints
blanching so white it's like the evil wasn't ever there
it's hiding
waiting, longing to consume her whole
she'd thought she'd washed away the deed
with just
a little
spot of
water.
The woman enters the banquet hall
hanging off her husband's arm like the weight of the crime that holds her down
she's shaking
trying to hurl off all the lonely isolation
as her husband lo and talks to ghosts
and kills
not just
men but
her as well.
The woman walks and talks asleep
scratches skin and tries to scrub away the sticking-plaster guilt
but still it stays
forces of darkness she invited
staying long past their welcome and
not just
eating all
the food
but her as well.
The woman recognises blood
splattering the deceased's names across her arms in swirling crimson lines like marker pen
that won't wash off
maybe she'd be better off dead than praying
wishing she could drown her err
in just
a little
spot of
water.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC
A frail old man wanders aimlessly along the boardwalk of a deserted beach
Hunched over like the the boughs of an oak tree weighed down by its branches
Things burden this man.
Heavy in weight on mind and body
Once swarming with tourists in a way similar to flies around a porch light this beach is now dank and dismal to the eye
The preconceptions of flashing lights and rowdy parties filling its strip just reside as a distant memory in the depth of the deep blue.
On which he gazes out to after taking a long wheezing breath into his shrivelled lungs.
He stands alone reminiscing about previous conquests from his long distant youth
Thinking about all his relationships with friends and loved ones
Perusing through his memory bank as of he were a granddad proudly giving a slideshow to his only grandchild
And as a tear slowly trickles down his weathered face he reconciles with himself that like seeing the last copy of an acclaimed novel being sold he definitely let the one get away.
As this fact dawns on him, knowing he shall always be alone
He takes a deliberate pace towards the steps leading to the sandy wasteland that used to be so glorious and golden.
Gradually picking up speed and stumbling over himself he makes the journey to the edge of the water
Fully aware of the desire that is overtaking his mind, body and soul
The sea begins to seep into his shoes then dampens the tip of his trousers
Now with the water up to his waist he is shivering and struggling to catch his breath
But onwards he walks becoming stronger as he battles the waves cascading against his body.
Is this really what it has come to,
but as the last strand of his silky grey hair disappears into the salty blue
He feels the weight of the past float away and he is at peace
The water has cleansed his soul, rinsed his mind
Deep in the depths of the sea shall his regrets remain forever.
And as his body floats to the surface his soul rises higher and higher up to the clouds
Reaching the end his eyes catch a glimpse through the pearly whiteness
Of a silhouette he recognises
It stands facing away seeming to exude beauty like a single rose in hand of a romantic gesture
When he steps through the gates
The silhouette senses his presence and turns
He knows in that moment, he has made it
He is in Heaven.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
This city has become so familiar.
An endless refrain.
Sometimes the sky pulls away.
Sometimes I feel I could slip through the earth and disappear.
Nobody would even notice.
The other day a crowd gathered.
Bunched together as their paths narrowed.
Then fanned back out into space.
It was an endless flow.
Faces moving so fast they blurred into one.
I sat by the river afterwards.
Unable to stand.
There are seven billion people on this earth.
Drifting through themselves.
And everyone around them.
Train.
Cars pass one another.
Smoke.
They cross the road when the lights change.
Living is effortless.
Invisible.
Two of my friends' relatives died this year.
One from suicide.
There are small moments of grace.
That do nothing to stave off death.
Or the unfairness of existence.
I’ve been moving my hands a lot lately.
I’ve been learning to sew.
Sometimes we fall into dreams.
And lose sight of the present.
Because it’s too painful to consider.
The crow recognises itself in the mirror.
Along with everyone else.
And breaks it.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
Like a clown, walking down past the hotel room
his red-nosed cigarette alight.
The lobbyist winks, he recognises me.
Tap tap I'm leaving. Tap tap.
The train with swollen hearts departs this thawing furnace.
In the corner is the clown;
Comfied round his wearied eyes and weary pride.
Playing with her number like a child with a toy, wondering,
will the embers suffice?
To decoy and employ our tangled kisses and nibbles and bites through the nights.
Or get soaked up in depravity and a bottle of gin?
Excluded in the watered down reality of the phone.
The clown remains without a clue,
Are you thinking about me? I'm thinking about you
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
*Atoms once enmeshed,
Dispersed
The essence of void
It lingers on
Adoration of these
sublime bones you possess
With which I built a cathedral
Whichever soil
Those steady feet may tread now
My blood recognises you still*
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 4:48 PM UTC
Forgive me, I know I’m not perfect
my loving ways aren’t perfect
but my love for you is real
fear may have concucted my mind
fortune tellers may be redundant in this matter and somewhere along the way I will hurt you
but don’t let the hardships change the way you perceive me
the way you turn my imagination into reality
my soul recognises your scent instantly
my heart has countless beats
when I pour my feelings to you
when I contemplate on the windows of your soul
that lets me into your garden of mind
that lets me rest for a while in your deep breaths
'cause really what’s life with getting the wrong direction
I lack patience
sometimes I ride way too hard on my sense of humour
I’m misunderstood of my sarcastic ways
of my ironic mindset of love’s understanding
ups and downs mend our connection
melancholy, interestingly, keeps us intact
forgive me, for I am not perfect
speak up, might wanna change my ways.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
To be left behind
Alone
On the shores of one’s life
Deserted
Lost
As the ships of fortune
Roll away beyond reach
To perceive
Even the smallest things
As a source of terror
To shrink
From the very light of day
Yearning for the escapology
Of black night hours
To let roll
Tears of desperation
As one recognises
One is nothing
But a broken being
How strange to be
So isolated
So alone
In this whirlpool
Of *******
Black
Tar
If only describing
The sentiment of inadequacy
Could disable its grip
And free one
From its power
The cold winter months
Take hold
Of my entire being
As I stare at emptiness within me
Longing for escape
Bruised words spill
Over my page
In tribute to
The crisis hours
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
Le Luna sees you Gypsy boy
gazing upon you
she recognises you
like a peice of music never forgotten.
Le Luna hears you Gypsy boy
she listens as you convey your truth
she hears your silent screams.
Le Luna touches you Gypsy boy
and feels beneath your skin
your mask
feels your dreams
so tactile.
Le Luna thanks you Gypsy boy
for seeing beyond
for hearing her truth
for touching her so deeply....
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 2:41 AM UTC
Barefoot she walks along the beach
Retracing lost memories in ripples of sand
The murmur of the surf plays in her ears like muffled notes bowed on a cello, as the sun drips down behind the cobalt waves casting shadows to equal those of her longest night
Hushed colours paint her skin in hues of poignancy, her heart beating in rhythm with the tide as she glides through the surf
Footprints erased as if she herself had ceased to exist
A hallucination in the twilight
She pauses
Salty spray kisses her cheeks like unshed tears from fatigued days and solitary nights
Gazing out upon this vast entity
Sublime in its majesty
She recognises
The meaning of it all
Life, love, death
Images of antiquity play a delicate overture weaving dreams
A skittish child, pigtails and freckles, wearing a yellow gingham dress - collecting precious shells that will gather dust in a long forgotten attic
A timid teenager throwing pebbles into oblivion with the boy who will steal her heart, her kisses, her youth
A young family drawing their lives in the sand, building castles for the sole pleasure of knocking them down
A graceful woman cloaked in bereavement concealing a smile for the reflection of youth glimpsed in the wrinkled mirror of time
She lays herself down on a bed limestone
Silver hair fanning out amongst the seaweed
And gives her last memory
Back to the sea
(C) Pixievic
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 7:31 AM UTC
Halloween:Truth or Tricks??
Halloween evolved from "All Hollows" Eve. It originated from the pagan holiday honoring the dead. On All Hallows Eve, the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead was thin. It allowed the souls of the dead to come back to earth and walk among the living
Halloween is a religious holiday belonging to the Roman Catholic Church. ... The holiday is “All Hallows Day” (or “All Saints Day) and falls in Nov.
Jehovah's Witnesses: They don't celebrate any holidays or even birthdays. Some Christians: Some believe the holiday is associated with Satanism or Paganism, so are against celebrating it. Orthodox Jews: They don't celebrate Halloween due to its origins as a Christian holiday. Other Jews may or may not celebrate it
While the Bible doesn't mention Halloween specifically, it does, of course, have lots to say about the forces of evil. ... Scripture is full of stories where good and evil are pitted against each other, as well as Bible verses that offer wisdom about facing darkness, deception, and fear in your own life.
Samhain (pronounced 'sow'inn') is a very important date in the Pagan calendar for it marks the Feast of the Dead. It is also celebrated by non-Pagans who call this festival Halloween. ... Samhain has been celebrated in Britain for centuries and has its origin in Pagan Celtic traditions.
A few observations:
HALLOWEEN is the most important day of the year for Devil worshippers, according to the founder of the Church of Satan, and everyone else has been urged to avoid celebrating this “dark” day
Anton LaVey founded the Church of Satan in the US in 1966.
He was the country’s most prominent Satanist up until his death in 1997 and authored several books, including The Satanic Bible, The Satanic Rituals, The Satanic Witch, The Devil's Notebook, and Satan Speaks.
In the Satanic Bible, Mr LaVey wrote: "After one's own birthday, the two major Satanic holidays are Walpurgisnacht (May 1st) and Halloween.”
Walpurgisnacht, or Saint Walpurgis Night, is a German annual event which is known in German Folklore as Witches Night.
Even today, the Church of Satan recognises Halloween as an extremely important day for evil.
The occultists’ website states: “Satanists embrace what this holiday has become...
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 9:36 AM UTC
Tired feet stumble back
Tingling through and through,
Legs so numb, sleepily complain
Of all the running they had to do.
Thirty hours of relentless work,
And only stolen moments of rest later,
The calf muscles I pampered all my life
Cringe and cramp and labour.
Oh my fatigue is palpable,
I can feel it in my heels
In the weariness of my soles
And my jaded tendons of Achilles.
The first respite swiftly comes
When my skin finally recognises
My soft, familiar slippers,
I sink into the feeling and I like it!
Then comes another wave of relief,
Gently easing those knots away,
When my pajamas caress my legs,
Draining out the pain of the long, long day.
I dive into bed, and sleepily wait
For my final portion of cosiness
Which comes when sleep lulls me to bliss.
Indeed, home is where the feet are happiest.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
The perpetual want of being held
by someone who recognises
just how touchstarved I am
Feb 8, 2022
Feb 8, 2022 at 2:50 AM UTC
Beyond the trees in the clearing stood courage unclothed; always the preferred attire. Its gender, female; hence I will refer to it here as she.
Such femininity supressed in the webbed corners of masculine satire. To know it is to have it, to have it is to use it. Of course she recognises fear hiding in the wind that bends the trees–she too, is afraid.
She stands at the water’s edge, stoops to see she has no reflection, only blue sky staring back with a whisper, “Where there is no reflection there is courage.”
She exists in the space it takes to step from this place to the next. Courage will guide you when there is no water and if you get lost, look up,
—She is there too.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
*If I tell you
That I love you
You can rest assured
That I mean what I say,
If I tell you
That I care about you,
Know, that for you,
I would well and truly
Go out of my way.
For, if I have placed you
Inside my heart,
And you now own
A space inside my mind,
It simply means
That I appreciate you,
I find your uniqueness
To be a blessing -
I believe that you are rare,
One of a kind!
If I tell you
That you are a true friend
To me,
You can rest assured
That I value
Your designed placement
Inside my reality,
Because friendship
Means so much more to me
Than just words,
It means that my soul
Recognises your soul
As a second home,
Meaning that
My soul admires
Your beautiful personality;
And, from it,
My heart
Will never want to roam!
Because, to me,
You are like sunshine,
You are an umbrella
In the rain,
You are as dependable
As each morning sunrise,
You understand
That imperfections and flaws
Make us all unique;
Hence, around you,
I never feel any shame.
So, if I tell you
That I love you
You can rest assured
That I mean what I say,
I wouldn't change
Anything about you,
I wouldn't have our friendship
Any other way!
By Lady R.F. (C)2017*
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 10:04 PM UTC
the cosy little nest that she had made
of their relationship is empty
the straws at which she had
one clutched
strewn all around her
now she runs around as
a headless chicken would
trampling on the empty eggshells
she now recognises
as his promises of eternal love
Jun 11, 2021
Jun 11, 2021 at 12:16 PM UTC