"recollecting" poems
21
We lose—because we win—
Gamblers—recollecting which
Toss their dice again!
13.8k
33
If recollecting were forgetting,
Then I remember not.
And if forgetting, recollecting,
How near I had forgot.
And if to miss, were merry,
And to mourn, were gay,
How very blithe the fingers
That gathered this, Today!
7.5k
I fell for that basic human endeavor,
To find me a place where I made sense,
Living that sleepless dream of unreal desire,
Listening for songs where I belong,
On this tiny speck adrift in space I call home,
Quantifying the distances and spaces between us,
Past the horizon from me in all directions,
I found a way around the earth that led me back to you,
When I looked at you I was thinking, if only,
Then you looked into me and your eyes acknowledged,
I pointed to that future,
I said, let us get to us,
You said to wake me from my dream,
Indulging with me was a variability involving risk you were not willing to take,
For memory of a confused yes,
With lack of pictures with stories,
An unnamed story of yours, entangled with mine,
You became that forgotten part of my life that I can’t stop recollecting,
So I do what I did promise,
Till death, I will live my life.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 8:34 PM UTC
I Am Waiting
I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Unreality: Thanksgiving Miami Style
It is 70 degrees, afternoon,
sunny Miami winter style.
Nike shorts, flip flops,
polo shirt white,
music, pandora, and
no place he
needs to be.
the collected works and
worries, left behind,
the boy, and he is taking
it to the limit,
wanting a day of no cares,
one more time.
yet, recollecting, writing
impertent, dissatisfied,
no reason, none that I can
irrationally explain.
previous night,
my eyes have
seen the
second-coming.
everybody smiles
happy, looking fit,
tight black dresses
the law of the land.
food flows like wine,
wine flows like water.
lose track of the numbers,
glasses of Cortese di Gavi,
cold and white refilled
in the Miami heat,
exactly, how old am I,
and where
my eyes should
not be staring,
bodies intended
to maim,
after they
**** you.
it is a long-short tale,
how it came to be,
that I am living thanksgiving
in the unreality of Miami style.
was supposed be at the
head of the table carving,
giving secret tastes to
numerous grandchildren,
multiple dogs,
defrosting after the
Macy's Day Parade.
my children, their
kith and kin.
that was supposed to be
my New York reality,
at the head of the table.
divorce, monkey wrench,
I am in a different state,
a different table, a
welcome bystander,
but her love,
my love,
has brought me,
to unseasonal places,
higher and higher,
where I am welcomed
as her man.
not a bad unreality,
but still someone has torn
off a piece of me,
a tasty combo of
sad and guilt,
that I ******* up,
which is why this
writing is my re-righting
the ship of perspective.
maybe I am dreaming
of what was never,
could have been,
should of been,
kidding myself, with an idyll,
the unreality of an idol,
though I vague recollect,
there were meals like that.
think this is my fourth trip here,
sort of, almost a tradition.
BobbyDylan, he reminds
what that woman,
done for me,
been doing to me.
*"I was in another lifetime
one of toil and blood,
when blackness was a virtue
and the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness
a creature void of form.
"Come in" she said
"I'll give you shelter
from the storm".*
so she did,
a new reality born.
so semi-sad poem, but
happy thanks to give,
for this day,
new family
embracing, and I am
recollecting,
read somewhere,
you cannot be thankful
for having,
only for giving.
Thanksgiving
Not
Thanks-having
Thanks-receiving
New Reality: Thanksgiving Miami Style.
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
It’s 10 a.m.
& rays of sun beam across the room
Lighting up the empty liquor bottles
Consumed to **** the aching sorrow
Of your lonely blues
But the haunting stench of failure fills up the room
Like a kids coloring book
Mad with no direction
You’re living life a drunken fool
While laiyng next to a naked woman
With her arm across your chest
In a different room
A different bed
Feeling cornered by walls as u notice the door just once again
& with a pounding head of recollecting thoughts
U start to feel like u can’t ever rest
Light up a smoke
& start to puff
U crawl out bed & start to dress
Meanwhile u hear her voice
Asking u “so what’s next”
U give falls hope
Like u have to all the rest
Reaching for the door
U turn the ****
As u leave behind another mess
U take a breath & put on your shades
Walk down the steps with baring shame
Another night that’s come & gone
As u walk on down with loneliness within your heart
Hoping tonight u fill it up
- Abraham Avalos
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 4:28 PM UTC
It was made of cement and lime,
And expected no praise or any rhyme.
It was placed in the park,
Amidst few trees and growing leaves.
He used to come on every twenty seventh,
On dot from 6 to 8 in this heaven.
He was punctual even in rain,
Determined to reach the bench in pain.
It was the bench who was the witness,
The only witness after God’s inference.
It is the bench who can answer,
The repeated questions he used to repeat.
He was so soft on that hard seat,
And waited for that long meet.
He used to be quite in his thoughts,
Recollecting the moments just passed.
He could speak only to his soul,
Sometimes to the bench in whole.
He cried inner in and outer out,
On that bench his heart out.
No matter what, he was always there,
Be it rain, a fever, omen happening,
Infected, dejected or rejected signing.
He was there , yes he was there on the bench.
The bench wished to speak,
For it could bare no more weight,
The weight of his heavy heart,
And his cry for the constant try.
He was told by many for its of no use,
To wait for the gone and the wrong.
But he was adamant to protect his chaste love,
And to defend his chaste vow.
After a year and after lockdown,
Now the bench is empty,
With no weight of him,
Nor the wait of her.
The bench seems to be happy for knowing,
That he has learned lessons from his love.
Though the bench could never speak,
Yet he always heard the voice beneath.
He no longer waits on the bench,
Nor has any tears to shed.
But he misses the bench,
More than her and less than her love.
Dedicated to the bench in that waiting park.
Thala Abhimanyu Kumar
Dated: 27/06/2020
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 2:07 AM UTC
898
How happy I was if I could forget
To remember how sad I am
Would be an easy adversity
But the recollecting of Bloom
Keeps making November difficult
Till I who was almost bold
Lose my way like a little Child
And perish of the cold.
3.5k
Dear Madam Sabrina,
The lonely beach shores, I walk
Tossing seashells of affection in remebrance of you
A pursued love interest that is overwhelm
Overflowed by tears I attempted to hold back
Slithering ghostly as we never embrace
A tender kiss, ponders across the bay
Given a mysterious essence
We are lost
In an oceanview desire
Recollecting inner thoughts about another
A woman I found,but an achor
Abreast from you
Rejection is a raging wave that conquerors
My ability to forget you
A stranger to calm sea
Can float away
From peaceful shores
Of love
Yours truly,
A man without dignity
Sep 29, 2009
Sep 29, 2009 at 4:25 AM UTC
The notion of age
Trickier than time,
We can never decide
On what is accurate
When it is early,
Or definitely too late.
We tend to feel older,
Older than our actual age.
As teenagers alone,
We could not wait,
Wait for that salient day
To be taken seriously
As mature as we ought to be.
I am not a child anymore,
An exasperated sigh,
I make my own decisions now
I have learned all the know-how.
But once we get older
The tables turn
And we are chasing the years
The years we spent acting older.
The wise still comment
Take full responsibility,
Deadpan honest,
You are not that young anymore
You got to think about the future.
And we ponder,
We reflect,
Reviewing the times
We already felt too old
Though our blood was so young.
Recollecting those times
We were surely too young
To be behaving so old.
And you wonder,
Puzzle over,
When is that time
That timing that is right;
Because truthfully,
You are reluctant -
Is there ever a time
A time you managed
To act your own age?
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
"Do you want to talk about it?"
You ask, seeing my impassive face.
It's been a while, and though I could
Remembering feels out of place.
Recollecting just makes it hurt.
Forming the words again is hard-
They're overused; now they sound curt.
In too many I've confided
To too many people I've told
All my sorry, deep, dark 'secrets'
Some warmed me when I was too cold.
I wish I could say more to you,
Explain why it's not escaping
Sometimes it's nice to not talk,
Than to break what I'm now shaping.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
A trivial thought like stabbing daggers
Sets the path to our devastation
A maze of chaos from simple matters
Failing paths of imagination
Not every quote you read is a masterpiece of wisdom
Not every act that’s weird is an evil conspiracy
Demons inside her head, their kingdom
Celebrate every victorious fallacy
Persuading herself by hollow theories
Fooling herself by un-ignored “if”s
Recollecting only the worst memories
Deciding the truth, deadly and stiff
Stop creating this useless drama!
Can’t you see it’s tearing us apart?
‘Cause every self-destructive trauma
Crushes again my exhausted heart
Fire is put out by heavy pouring rain
Arms protect from thoughts too scary
Why can’t I relieve your pain?
Why can’t I be your sanctuary?
My shoulder offers affection
To be gained
And has no intention
To feint
Come rest your eyes
And faint
You will find paradise
Unstained
Come near my dear
Let me lift your worries for you
Stay with me here
Let all anxiety leave you
You will see clear
No demons to haunt you
Dissolve your fear
In my arms around you
~Epic Monkey
May 2013
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:25 PM UTC
*how this came and come to be,
from gone to come to gone rediscovered but unreleased,
a passage thematic that birthed
fully formed, formal in its inception,
contented in its first appearance and
its primary coincident deception
who wrote this? not me? could not be!
yet a scented hint of
eau d’familiarité
suggests that I may have
inadvertently
plagiarized
myself
this old poem mine,
we certifiably have never met,
but nonesuch a hail fellow met,
that upon our (re?) acquaintance,
the heavens marked the occasion with
hail and neither of us deemed it strange
so we well recall our ancestor’s words*
”there is nothing new under the sun”
adding our brand new imprimatur
”not even June or the Moon or other iconic loons”
*we may have borrowed from the insights,
recollecting what happened to us when separated at birth,
envisioning like the prophets of yore what was implanted
long before we remembered it well
upon its birthday
our intertwined twinning
fate befallen*
postscript
**quaking heart, trembling pointer
dawning and dying
simultaneous
neither tissue, cell, molecule,
i am but a composite of
letters, alpha bits and bets,
recirculated songs and tunes born
like me,
compromised, bridged,
newly un and recovered,
lengthy and unabridged,
my appearance faulty,
my eyes ****** ruddy and red,
my fingered tips blend and bleed
words acquired, words invented,
marching before me,
old lands recaptured,
new ones set free
take and give -
there’s no difference -
intimation, initiation,
all
bring me home
to where my boundaries begin**
<•>
this one, for the ladies who loved its
predecessor
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2367267/the-temple-of-you/
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
The woman of power, of the final hour,
Stood upon the gaping edge of death,
Savoring her final due breath,
Recollecting her spent time, as the demons beneath, did climb.
The woman, once unknown, many must atone,
With a simple display, she tore the lights that held the night at bay,
For nothing as powerful as she, should anyone but agree,
Resting upon her belt, the stars forever dwelt.
The woman, demur of the end, a challenge to death, she had penned,
A game, we shall partake, with eternal lives at stake,
For if I do not wish to die, your purpose, you must defy,
With a stolen piece, her years did increase.
The woman of blackened markings, her mind of ever-workings,
Stood tall upon her mare, chased with twisting white hair,
Upon her belt, rested pouched treasures, glittering fondly with pleasure,
For her company never to shake, as her pale eyes did forever take.
She was the woman of Cree, far beyond The Black Ink Sea,
The taker of stars, leaving naught but empty scars,
She was the winning player of Death's Game, her rewards, to gain,
With the twisting marks of power, deep to the pit, she did glower.
For nothing of its sort,
Shall ever hold her short,
From any a task within her aim,
A woman such as I, victory shall I claim.
And with that thought dancing across her mind,
She leapt, and left the mortal world behind.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
.*but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: **** the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin ****** off Chopin)... **** better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than ***
i was never into blocking someone,
esp. if someone is liking your stuff,
but it happened to me with
that poetess on here,
i wanted to know how it feels,
to just randomly block someone
who really enjoys your stuff...
and then... **** gone, never
to be seen again...
Wattpad is basically a fascistic website
to boot this thread of thought...
who the hell gets booted off a platform
for starting a cordial conversation?
- but i really did wake up with
a moral hangover...
excuses?
irritability...
there's just a certain level of
conversation i can take,
i can't get the pedant
out of me... i really can't...
i tried and i tried,
notably because when speaking
to natives, i see them lazily doing this
or that, while i come with an acquisitive
perspective, hence the furthered
acquisitive impetus to further this
acquired language... while the natives
are like: blah... it has been given to them
from birth...
and conversations,
after having completed a...
well for me it was an exhausting poem,
the desire to finish it before off
the rails with the bourbon instigated
a thirst, matched with irritability...
**** i hope i can unblock the guy
and apologize...
spare of the moment thing...
well... if i can't...
i know what it feels like:
not being on the receiving end...
so... that's one plus from all of this.
p.s. that sort of direct messaging language,
aged... 40?
how can i talk to someone
who's older than me, on that level...
(looks up his profile page)...
huh?
so i didn't block him?
*Dennis Willis's profile is not
visible because they have blocked you.*
and i still have the block option
handy...
mind you... i didn't wake up today
recollecting some pretty
trippy ********
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
. *and today's prime concern of the day? i can't access the recipe site for Australia's master-chef... maybe it's Australia, and their restrictions, or it's the ******* E.U... but... come to mind... last year i could access Eliza's triple-fried tamarind chicken... my god! they're going after restricting access to food recipes!*
could i ever think any woman as being, "ugly",
neglected, yes,
but... "ugly"?
please...
all manner of things become beautiful
around the mandible zenith upon
the grinding wheel of the big O...
nothing quiet like deathly screaming
in the hollow of the night,
but some drunkard loser -
speaking in tongues and recollecting
a myth of a patriarch
akin to Abraham...
'it's just the moon, you shit-face!'
'yeah, and my grandmother sees
a Herr Tvardovsky in it from
time to time, riding a ******* cockerel!'
which equates to a banality of
two things (well, three):
1. she shouldn't have been given
opiates during WWII to shut
the **** up, as a baby, so my great-grandparents
could hide in the Polish countryside,
i.e war zone....
2. i shouldn't be drinking and reading
religious text /
listening to Finnish folk songs...
3. about that Hollywood thing...
how movies are getting ******** and
******** by the day...
see... in philosophy there's this point,
not a Hegelian dialectic crap,
a Kantian coordinate,
a starting point,
zee: res per se...
a thing in itself...
blah blah... noumenon...
i hardly think t.v. shows will reach this
level of "self-consciousness"...
i.e. will be making t.v. shows about
making t.v. shows...
English soap opera tide barrier...
but movies have certainly turned
to focus on this, "vantage" point...
the disaster artist for starters...
birdman?
eh...
and like any cascade of falling
down from an airplane akin
to the opening image from
Salman Rushdie's the satanic verse...
mighty fine looking up
and cackling while flapping your hands
in imitation of a Canadian goose.
ha ha ha... ah... **** never gets old.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
Heartfelt confessions
With jovial eyes
of sincerity
Blossoming affection
With pure and
Delicate mutuality
It was sunrise.
It started blooming
Like redolent flowers
in springtime.
Sensible to meaningless
Talks in daytime
Secrets unraveled
Under the ineffable beauty
Of the cloudy sky
Unblemished hearts
Had grown to love
As innocent as
The newborn child.
Nearly twilight
Lovers in paradise
Exchanging thoughts
Priceless stories
Hands intertwined
Creating future
Dreams, plans.
Thinking, forever
Is in their hands.
The night of moonless sky
Was the time to bid goodbye
Forever is over now
Castle of promises somehow
Turned ashen gray
Dust and sand
All blinding the eyes
As one heart escaped
And the other remained
All shattered and pulverized
A quiet midnight
Nothing but a silent cry
Resonates the room
Recollecting
Ephemeral moments
Indelible memories
Both ravaging
The soul and heart
Hopeful for
A kind of dementia
To erase all
The wounds and scars
It's clear dawn now
A curve in the lips
Hiding , enduring
The pang of
boundless ache
Wishful of the
Forthcoming sunrise
To bring about
The celestial fate
A Better tomorrow,
A beautiful aftermath
Of the twisted
Playful life
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
recollecting collections projecting selections injecting protection infection dejection
dyslexic narcoleptic rejecting dejections ******** complexion complicating interjections
perplexed inspectors intercept pterodactyls relaxing in backpacks extracting disillusion
contortionist philanthropist dejected transgression implementing eradications of moss buying patrons
eclectic perfectionist rests limp-wristed whispering disparaging remarks to the wait staff
trombone percussionist impressed and impoverished gravelling wistfully mimicking Rickles
I sit half disheveled grinding my wisdom teeth feeling the fleeting muse sitting in disbelief –
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:21 PM UTC
wake up, feel terrible
for all the right reason
it is all too easy
this augmentation
this grandeur of emptiness
it is silent
a car traverses
another road
humans are out there
alive and breathing and asleep
still asleep
eyes open
the humans are just
as empty
in seventeen years
they will be as empty
in paris
or new york
or moscow
their eyes will still speak
as their mouths curl
and their children cry from
their cultured gardens
the unfixed faucets dripping
in their marble slate bathrooms
in the shower
they still wonder
what happened to their lives
their dreams
and how they'd changed
with every pivotal moment
they'd passed up
for comfort
or a new dream
conveniently forgetting the rest
they'll think back
to the faces of lovers
they lost to the road
or to chance
or to themselves
and cry
in the shower
if they haven't
forgotten how to
recollecting
how once
long ago
in a dream
they had learnt
dreams don't mean anything.
Feb 2, 2013
Feb 2, 2013 at 8:45 PM UTC
living off
of apologies and time
spent in desperation
recollecting and reflecting
on where
all of the good vibes went
then
I may have smoked them.
underestimating my
control
of the situation
like I'm not
educated in protecting
my Peace
and healing my whole
mind, body
and Spirit
deflecting questions of
my integrity
all
because I prefer
complexity -
it takes me
three lefts
to make it right.
also some
times
I have to remind
myself
that it's okay
to cry
boiling hot emotions
got this little black kettle
singing high
currently
I'm choking
on the
hard pill
of a broken home
..heartache
worse than a broken bone
this is admitting to myself
that
I could be traumatized.
True.
I need a
get away
like Lenny says
quick break
with Mary, Garcia
and Vega
the only chance I ever get
to take flight.
in all Honesty
I am really
tired
of people
pushing me
and pulling me.
college drop-outs
they think
they schooling me
they are
tools to me.
Shorty,
swing my way
with that hammer
No
I'm not
driving for that *****
some say real
Love is
Black
some say it's
blue..
I say it's both
you know
the winners
always leave with
a little
bruise .
or two . .
or3 . . .
there probably may come
a time of day
where
you have to choose
whether
to lose
yourself
in this matrix
or
to fight
by your own rules
and well
Here
is to you,
my Little Light
your presence is proof
that some
times
choosing
True
Love is
the right thing to do.
May 4, 2022
May 4, 2022 at 1:48 AM UTC
I have been recollecting our shards
Shattered glass of incandescent past
And I do not care if it cuts
My porcelain hands do not feel
For you have drained my blood
I have nothing left to bleed
But somehow I'm glad that
If you are reading this by any chance
Know that I didn't love you just once
From the first meeting until the last
And all the days in between
My love will stay unthawed
Frozen and locked here
-Petrified Heart, Margaret Austin Go
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 7:40 AM UTC
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
Recollecting endeavours drives her to a dry pain
Throbbing, throbbing
Hamlet's hamartia discards her to the lowest of the dead
His vanity requires no response;
Her life on the line and he's got nothing to lose.
So much more the eye can see
Caressing, caressing
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass;
Leave me, carbuncle:
Words she has never been able to utter . . .
Loudly, she thinks it
It doesn't translate
Shivering, quivering
Brittle monster bestows one final patronising kiss
I must exercise some form of self control
Hardly aware of her departed lover,
She lays in a yellow blanket;
Phosphenes in the emerging light of day.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:10 PM UTC
Are "things I'll always remember"
same as "things I shall never forget"?
what's the difference, or matter,
to each and the same
I haven't forgotten them yet.
I recall with vivid intensity
the taste of salt on your skin
through the membrane of years
and the veil of distance
such thoughts are absolved of their sin.
I shall never forget, nor abstain from
recollecting the shape you once made
as you moved through my world
in effortless sweetness
and next to me quietly laid.
I shall never forget hearing my name said
by your fathomless, deepening tone
but, I shall always remember
an embrace that felt something like home.
I remember the weight of your kisses
roses burdened with raindrops, and then
a release of all meaningful reason
**** I wish I could kiss you again.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
The air is warmer
at the river’s edge.
The insects cloud
around his head,
and the cottage
his wife's father
built by hand
blazes white,
as if burning
in the afternoon sun.
The hammock strung
between two dogwood
trees twists in the wind,
channeling the murmur
of the song she sang when the children
were small and sunkissed,
splashing in shallow water,
catching minnows.
The allure surfaces
silvered and swift:
the temptation
to imagine her calling
from the other side.
The slap of a fish jumping
lands like a palm to his cheek.
Out there, in the middle distance,
silver scales flash in clear water—
a contorted shadow swims below,
hooked to impossible brightness.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
Recollecting the recent years past.
After the unwritten fulfilled;
I still believe that I was a phoenix.
Even then.
Perhaps one not filled with imperishable flame,
For some beautiful creatures have greeted darkness,
Darkness that haunts the capable slain,
Into a horror far from bliss.
I know this figure was far from divine bliss,
For when eyes gazed upon the dusky feathers from years past,
The blackened twilight feathers were difficult to dismiss,
A clustered reminder of what these wings flew from, fast.
Though of late, those tufts of feathers have begun to transform.
Molting away this figure, marred with memories scarred,
Unveiling inner embers with lavish crimson and gold flame; a reform.
But why stop with wisps of the past merely charred?
For the time has now arrived to greet gracious death with a destructive goodbye,
An opportunity for this phoenix to endure a radiant rebirth,
Now, time is nigh;
For this phoenix to rise from the ashes of her own self worth.
Copyright March 3, 2013.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC