"recognitions" poems
Tonight is a cluster of
Recognitions, remembrances
Mostly reminiscence
Which sift in the breeze
Gusting beneath the temporary
Tarpaulin tent
Backs are slapped
Arms embraced
Smiles predominate
As shiny faces and gleaming foreheads
Illuminated by flashing cameras
Twinkle like fireflies displaying
In a muggy June meadow
Photos pulled from stained
Billfolds move from hand to hand
Displaying glossies of babies, graduations
Weddings and “The big catch”
Relatives, friends and officials
Find their place on folded metal chairs
For a wedding ceremony
Tonight has become a gathering
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 8:46 AM UTC
i wish to touch the bits of you that endure my dirt.
i wish
more than ever the shape of your face in the curve of my long and twisted fingers.
there's something about it that make my hands
okay to look at again.
like they may have a found a fitful purpose, caressing the demon mouth
that kisses my angel teeth,
residing underneath
my loved lips
that send trips
to your words.
they encase your bright
eyes
and devour the confidence left in them.
but what i meant
to say was, i see your bright
eyes
showing fight to the fence
that you build so high.
i can see the lies shine
like a light was tied ,
just for me to breach them.
just so i could teach them,
you are one to beat them.
even though its you who seeds them.
emitting the aroma of tainted goodness and its all
okay
because of the eutony of this all.
these words can break my fall.
if i make the call,
and summon the space,
my soul
will come and take the place
of the weak face
i can no longer
sonder,
anymore in the background of your filled up recognitions.
there's
no
space
for
my
sad
face.
there's
no
place
for
my
heart
ache.
sent into solivagance.
this is a dark red redamancy,
one of a curse.
the birth
of our breakage
started at the first
touch of a sacred
unto a scarred soul.
and she cried
finding nothing but an empty black hole,
in return. forever churned
in a lustuous magnetism.
a
love prison.
its something that buries itself
beneath all the logic in my heart,
creeping from underneath my sins.
its some kind of wonder,
beckoning the birth rights
of every death in my future.
[ it's some kind of mutual case of kalopsia. ]
Of all the questions that beg my being,
why do my fingers still only look straight
when they're resting on your rigid face ?
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
a family album
perhaps especially
or happenstance discovery..
breathless vistas
seashore places
evening laughter gatherings
stark recognitions not
mistaken..
precision abiding..
and then
sudden emergences from
nowhere..
habitual viewing torn
prompting new explorations
awakening patterns unseen..
iceberg revelations
now realizing our settling
assumptions
deceptions and unexpected
origins..
other slices
parabolic mysteries
left and right..
perfect picture now..?
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
When I first learned how to read
When I got wounds and bruises
When other students bullied me
When my friends turned their backs on me
When I fell in love and got my first broken heart
My birthdays, recognitions, graduations, and family days
these are some of the times
When I needed a hug,
a pat in the back,
my Superman,
a Doctor,
A best friend
Someone to say "Congratulations! and i am proud of you."
Someone who is my father
But you were not even there.
It seems like you don't care.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
The beauty of life isn't captured in files nor profiles.
It's in a blink or a thought of a distant place.
It lies in emotions that reminice of a time not yet spent.
It is a few seconds in a multiple uncaptured frames.
It lies in the ignored existence of composure.
It influences the untapped recognitions of appreciation.
The beauty of life is not about me showing or telling.
It's only about a few thoughts that inspire ambitions.
A few dreams that elevate fantasies.
The beauty of life is about me in a second painting a picture of elegant brush strokes,
the motion of the eye that composes a visual symphony,
it is an organised cluster of sounds that co-ordinates the performances of all other senses.
It is about leaving open a beat of the heart, only to fill it with the energies of the living.
The beauty of life isn't about searching for joy,
but learning from memories of both depression and tranquility.
It is about the heart losing weight,
the smile gaining width and height.
The beauty of life is about the value of sorrow depreciating.
For me it's about ploughing joy from seeds of madness,
or overturning a frown into a thing of beauty.
It's about dreams that don't need me to sleep and nightmares that have no back up files.
The beauty of life...
As much as I try to define it,
the statements always have a questionmark at the end.
So forever I search, for the beauty of life...
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 8:19 AM UTC
lengthy
delayed decisions and recognitions from the wasted years. she looks and she does too and they do and he does. they look and try to find my substance. extract the core.
not much talking.
his sits on the floor away from him. turned away from him so he can't see it. and she looks directly at it. melts into my white blood cells//red.
blackandwhite nostalgia under christmas lights. another you. another you was here before. gone like the smoke from our cigarettes. we should stop this. smile and light me.
happy birthday princess. blah blah keeps talking.
these games are no fun. pass me the ***
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
He manages to free his thoughts
as he gazes the television
for news from a distance,
while continuing to sample
his supper of rice,
and sauteed vegetables
on a aluminum serving plate.
The restaurant he owns
dimly lit this mid-afternoon
with ghostly lanterns,
and artistic impressions
of times past on the wall,
while customers
walk and gingerly pass
ordering from an eclectic
menu of indo-latin-euro-oriental cuisine.
A neapolitan of condiments
dancing among garlic chili sauce,
and mayonnaise.
Mahogany grained panel walls,
and formica woven
seats, uniformly
scattered among
porcelain white
plates; traditional.
Engraved Jade pieces
hung with colors of luck
on each entrance.
I approach the counter.
A sepia toned
picture of his family
hanging by his register
no first dollar bill
or recognitions.
Just family held,
through time,
as he hands me a check.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 10:29 AM UTC
Eyes that give
half recognitions
with almost
audible clicks
and the universal
amp that is
the human
ivory smile,
drives it home.
Deaf hands moving
with blunt precision,
fumbling for alarm
clocks, bra hooks,
chem notes and
silent red cups.
Doing essential jobs
that essentially
involve doing
nothing.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC
Art
is like worshiping god
With the purest of intention
Of surrendering to master
Pouring the love in the form of art as a mark of devotion
Art is melting oneself to the mould of the form
Lifting the soul to reach beyond the worldy consideration
Art is beauty in the eyes of the artist
It is love beyond comparison
It is promise unbreakable
It is the faith and believe of one's existence
No rewards and recognitions matter
When it's deeply pursued from heart
Love and devotion feeds the soul
When cherised in the form of art
Manisha
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
I Want To End My Life.
Right This minute.
I Don't Want To live anymore
I Don't See Me Worth Living.
I Don't See Any good in me.
I Don't Have Any accomplishments
Any Recognitions.
Im A Useless peace of trash
Just taking up space and Air
I Can't Handle My problems
Its to many
Im too much.
I Honestly just dont know anymore
There isnt a word to describe my mood right now
I just want to be dead right now
End it alll
Temporary Frouns
For My loved ones
Then
Long lasting smiles as the days continue on without my presence.
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 4:56 AM UTC
It was killed before it was tortured
nothing dead could be hurt they said
but what was hurt here was already dead
what had taken years and nurtured
you killed it, World
be cursed, and behold
sinner! here comes the night
And slowly does it strike
the spark of the stars
the final hours
i cry ****** ******
and i dare you run
and see your conscience be a deserter
And i shall give a death not from a gun
neither a blade for the matter
but i shall ****
Vanquish your pride first
then end the thirst for your
recognitions so utterly desired
and **** your self
with the pelf
you killed mine
and in hopes of this the night shall dine
with your fears and resentment
while i shall feast in your fears
Here I come...
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
Done with the past,
Moving on to the present;
Fulfilling dreams
For a successful future.
Life’s not just a walk in the park,
It’s a threshold of obstacles;
My past was not a joke,
I bet hers as well.
She achieved recognitions,
Gained a lot of friends;
Met up with past friends
And even fell in love.
But all these changed
As time passed by.
Betrayals in the back,
A heart break tore her apart.
She was totally lost,
Got nowhere to go;
Just about to end her life
Until hope reached its hands.
Through true friends’ help,
She was revived and changed;
Life went back to its old way
With more achievements to boot.
She had buried the dying self
And brought herself back to life.
As the time had come,
She succeeded in flying colors.
Now, no more of this soul
That lingers in the past.
Now, here she is
At the best time of her life.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
When I meet the one, it won't feel like a
fairytale laureled with happy endings
walking out of a book and coming to life.
It won't be cherry-kisses and holding hands
while sky lanterns ascend from the ground.
When I meet the one, it won't be about that
"I know that they're the one" the moment our eyes meet;
it won't be it's-worth-writing-a-song-about kinda romantic.
When I meet the one, it won't at all be
about spark and fires
or skipping heartbeats
or slow-motions
or soul recognitions
or true love.
For meeting the one —
it's watching everything we had
collapse into a sinkhole of memories,
and down, down they go — each and every one we made.
Meeting the one — it's walking away
and away and away, and risking a glance
at your fading silhouette
It's knowing you'll meet yours too,
and knowing it's not me.
Darling, it's coming to terms
with the thought that
the future we planned
is now reduced into a television blur
and spilled beers, drying up way too soon,
and in the end,
it might have been you.
It might have been me.
It might have been us.
And, that's all we'll ever be.
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 2:42 AM UTC
Some years ago,
in December, I died.
my breathing skipped, the blackness came in,
and I was dead.
in the next few instances, a few moments past,
I took my first breath, again.
the light returned, my son was born.
now...
before meeting him,
the days prior, I had yet to really see me.
I was living an identity, something taught over
me.
taught to me, molded on to me.
it never fit well.
the closest moments to this rebirth
were filled with these recognitions,
awakening to the parts I had shunned.
the magical parts.
December, the month of the star.
the month of the dark. The moments of death.
in some parts, no god light.
the stars show up, guiding our paths.
walking us to the grounds that
await our rest.
the parts that refresh things.
my energy has always known this depth,
where all goes to die.
that darkness was waiting for me,
captured in my womb,
waiting for me.
no moment before could I break free,
soaring took time.
the peace to be felt at that level of the light,
gliding side by side with the powers
of the sky.
they came alive that night,
the beginning of things,
the ending of things,
nines divine right.
circling until the next cycle ignites,
no fear for death,
proven it births light.
my son's eyes opened bright,
a baby lion's stare.
aware, prepared for the work.
they will keep coming forth,
the call is loud.
the womb is birthing warriors in the dark,
quietly, carefully plotting it out.
eyes are watching, careful now,
pull the dark out and allow it to
light the path of One.
pull it all out.
standing I gave birth
and I will not sit down except to
rest, steady now, following my heart.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
Error
ER...R...RRROR
Threat detected
Its eating away at the tissue
Within my skull
Developing thought and recognitions
To only one word
"Sorry"
Trojan Detected
Delete and Reboot
Error 4.67.B11.809C
How do you protect against an assault
To a dictionary with only one page
Capitalized in bolder print than tattoo ink
"Sorry"
Definition not recognized
What the hell happened to never caring
No longer letting others burden you
With whips and freight
Ox to this world begging for labor
I only have one word
When I **** up like I always do
"Sorry"
Please Restart
You Are In Danger
FILE CORRUPTED
There is no warning
When you become another broken dictionary
Left with one word
And a prayer that it all ends
Excuses begin to pile
Quarantine the problem
It never helps
Just begins a back log of information
Frying your brain quicker than flames on flesh
This life can't begin
If all I'll ever know is one word
With no worth
That couldn't buy me a tear to quench my thirst
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 11:40 PM UTC
may reappear.
whatever reason,
comfort for some that there are recognitions.
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 1:09 AM UTC
Metaphysical meaning of Lod
Lod, lod (Hebrew)--
division; conception; emanation; pregnancy; travail; nativity; birth; contest; cleavage; fissure; strife.
A city of Benjamin (I Chron. 8:12). Its Greek name was Lydda. In the New Testament it is called Lydda.
Meta.
The breaking up of an old group of thoughts, or thought habit in consciousness, that a renewal of the mind may be accomplished. In other words, the effort that the seemingly human mind expends in bringing forth new and higher ideas, or the strife and contention that attend the breaking up of error that Truth may be brought to birth and take precedence
(division, conception, strife, travail, birth; a city of Benjamin)
<>><
how would-could you know that my Hebraic background,
gave me a specialist insight into your writings,
in any language you employ
each and every trait.
in a potpourri scented and secretly elixered
division, conception, strife, travail, birth, travail
fissure, contest, nativity and birth
a potion powerful that needs to take
the moments of anyone's life
and bring to it, to them,
scope, recognitions, inside light,
for all conception
is precessed
by de~visions of,
strife, travail, birth,
for us all, even those,
who hail not from Lods {z}
there is much mystical here,
even magical emanations that occur in seconds,
how does one concept~conscript them,
to take, remake, mold them
both new and old simultaneously,
is a quality super
so truly human
so Agnes, write to us, write for us,
in any language of your preference,
for the it is the
captured content of those exquisite seconds,
that is all that matters,
and be of good cheer,
for your are
well received
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 2:56 PM UTC
Under the Bridge, along the Promenade: we
walked with words trickling through our
waxy lips. Where the Seafront was all silk.
Where the Waxwings, sealed wax tips,
lumbered about the Empyrean yonder:
splayed upon a Canvas
of Sapphire and Azure.
Before the Starry Night has come.
Before we reached the Shore only to
Digress.
"Liebe verleiht Flügel,"
I heard, or read in a Book.
The Streets are crimson rust;
The Spectators in Sanitariums watched
drab passersby. They shambled and
coughed admixt the crowded room, only
to find the Peristyle vacant and dead.
A Mantic Women, cards of dread,
stands on the corner; our
eyes catched, and She speaks:
"Wo bist du?"
"Wo bist du?"
Louder and fists shaking:
"Wo bist du?"
The buildings doddered, filled with
Cuscuta.
In Montauk, where we met, now withered,
covered in snow, I stood - my comportment
unsteady. Flashing in the distance I see
Point Light - Captain Kidd musing with his
Money Ponds - an Angel guiding wonderous
blights - The Recognitions, blimey,
Mr. Gaddis has gone blind - The Faustian
apotheosis abound -
The Streets are crimson rust
filled with dread.
Smelling of Jack-by-the-hedge -
I'm walking...
Noctivagant aura permeates -
Mich.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:18 PM UTC
Devil unwary
Essential recognitions
Hours knock marketplace trash
Carnival unfortunate
Shipwreck pilgrims
Hellish wisdom never found in eggplant mush
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
Soothing hue, tranquil blue.
A scene serene in testament to you.
I thank it, this blanket hung soft in the sky,
and drift on the breeze, the mute lullaby.
We are children of stars, all of us each,
if you look way back far beyond memory's reach.
Past fire and lightning, spirit and beast,
our atoms return, and stars we complete.
Look to the sky, our bubble of blue.
A window our parent forever feeds through.
A gentle notion, and grace in a descending motion
so subtle we feel only a warmth on our face as we float in a breathable ocean.
A mirror perhaps it holds above
and paints in clouds the world
with spires and cities and oceans
and shifts so subtle in ways unseen
so we won't forget the nature
of where we've been.
For though the world seems still and quiet
it shifts and it's easy to pass by it,
as we focus on each little thing
there's a joy that it brings, our Ozone,
in its patterns of premature recognitions
shapes that are born in a state of remission
and only those who are readily staring
see that the earth is patient and caring.
Mar 17, 2025
Mar 17, 2025 at 7:00 AM UTC