"reconvene" poems
Sensual ripples,
Deeming sole existence,
Within embracing arms.
Eyes meet,
A gaze that says all,
Vocal words insignificant.
Lips reconvene,
Nebulas of love,
Amends made for lack
Of past recognition.
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 1:43 PM UTC
The old man told his story, lost within his troubled youth
His words quite labored, heavy... his raspy voice by now uncouth
At times mixing the conversation with gin and ice, and sweet vermouth
His eyes were clear however, and I saw therein...
a quiet truth
He talked of her at length, his thoughts concise,
composed... serene
At times he’d pause, efface another silent tear he’d wished unseen
His dreams would countermand the years... love and youth,
would reconvene
She’s waiting there for him you see… The girl with eyes,
of Paris green
Some had said her ways unsound, disposition... introject
He said she knew the rumors, and she thought them all quite innocent
He told of how she’d laughed at them… of narrow minds,
and intellect
He found in her the love he’d sought, although his hope remained suspect
He looked into her eyes, and saw the faintest touch of sorrow there
Shining through the gentle mist, and the eglantine within her hair
He felt somehow her pain, although she’d kept it obscure...
nom de guerre
And so his own mistakes were viewed, in Paris green...
and sad despair
Their time together thus unfurled within this anguished declamation
Of years now spent in solitude, with lost and lonesome lamentation
For one whose essence still bestows upon his dreams, in meditation
Aspirations there arise, to leave his heart in desperation
His thoughts remained unchanged, unbroken...
memories demure
He stood to mix another drink, then paused...perhaps his mind unsure
Gathering his memories, so past and present touch... concur
And then continued once again, his sad and doleful dream of her
I listened there, throughout the night... I lie in sedentary pose
Then as I fall asleep I see the here and now,
and then... transpose
I see myself in dreams with her, but why? my heart has not disclosed
I'm lost within some late, late hour envisage... or so I suppose
I then awake alone, to find my thoughts of her and then, no clearer
The snow outside my window cannot bring her memory nearer
Though I can dream of Paris green, and all those places, so familiar
Tonight I'll listen once again, and tell my story..
to the mirror
Dean Evans
1-06-15
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
There inside the chamber sits,
Awaiting patiently;
Gathering discourse and their wits,
To match with Chimpanzee.
Primate statues loom the loft,
‘Mongst whitening Baboons;
Fidget in their seats too soft,
Indifferent of this room.
For ghosts of former nobles peek,
In shame, as they observe;
The power of the abject weak,
Enable them to serve.
Parrots cackling ‘mongst themselves,
As peacocks flaunt their fan;
Gorilla preens, while tries to quell,
With gavel in his hand.
Chimp arises, intently poised,
To embellish his appointment;
Words rehearsed to fill the void,
Deliberate and pointed.
For he, and only he, shall reign,
While rendering his will
Upon the reaches, lakes and plains;
‘Pon feather, fur and gill.
Yet irony betrays this horde,
Of chosen beasts that thrive,
Who seek to witness own accord,
On who should live or die.
Baboons and the Chimpanzee,
May climb to endless heights,
Gather fruit from tops of trees,
And relish in their might;
But those who scrounge upon the ground,
Or forage in the sea,
Cannot relate to this debate,
Nor self-idolatry.
So this becomes an exercise,
In futile words exchanged;
In bartering the truth for lies,
Leaves jungle quite estranged.
Such is then, the sacrifice,
That satisfies this troop:
Lions shall compete with mice,
For homeland and for food.
This seems just, this seems right,
So pleased to then arrive,
To alter former terms of plight,
Ensure the like survive.
Commune must have order,
Compliance is then deemed;
Life must have its borders,
Confining self-esteem.
Parrots flee to bring the news,
Of brighter days ahead;
While creatures of the air and blue,
Fear the distance spread.
Content to reconvene again,
As this is their employ;
Govern those outside the pen,
Such honor they enjoy.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
dreams as validation for smooth
rhythmic notions cascading like
fingers, waterfalls slipped from
tongues laced with crisp sheets
(the ivory ladders fallen sideways and
forgotten in the wake of racing hearts)
slow down, reconvene behind mirrored
aspiration, compose stars that pulse with each
ache for your company, flicker to the pace of
water running, an escapee from the space of
world around you conformed, blanketed
sleep like a waterwheel
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
Await amongst the clouds searching for whom to be,
I stand here now silently entrenched with what I see,
A vivid gaze I do afford though few and far between,
The slimming wealth of all those helped desperate to reconvene,
I wont pull away yet to find grounded truths I must,
The banks on offer within the vault tears rain through the lust,
I cling to those of faith without the strength for what to give,
Is it wrong to sing along yet forget the words to live.,
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
the presence
of futility
an enduring antipathy
or dimensions
of the unresolved
emotions
of past lines
of the traveled
senses are damaged
from short lived
over applied
civilized
series was foreseen
long after
the desolate
unveiled
a raw reconvene
noumenon narrow
absoluteness
destined at zero
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 10:02 PM UTC
♪ ☠♫☃
Octosyllabic rhyme was killed.
Her epitaph I chisel here…
so face the book and feed your twit;
while I the rhythmic record clear.
The sad remains of Lyric Wit
are here interred – no more to rise
(lest poets’ brains be forced to think
and plummet from post-modern skies).
You phonies scrolling Twitter-blink,
and scribblers with advanced degrees
look up, and hearken to these words
while feigning your conceited ease.
The academic gallows-birds
reviewing chap-books, high on fluff
make darker the sepulchral gloom –
as if it wasn’t dark enough.
The verdict’s in and all assume,
as measured meaning leaves the court,
he meant to **** her (Poetry).
Life sentences are written short.
The killer grinning artlessly
in blank-verse handcuffs, void of rhyme,
composes abstract lines, the dull
memoirs of his poetic crime.
The prosecution’s notes are full
the case is made, the jury hears
his guilt made evident, at least.
The victim’s mother melts in tears
He murdered her himself, the beast.
then dumped her: a deflowered rose.
His incoherent imagery
dismembered her like slaughtered prose.
She met her end lamentably;
He did her in and cut her down
thus shortening her metered day.
(That free-verse wielding abstract clown!)
Behold her grave – where grass turns hay
as poets’ bones subside to dust;
her soul with God to reconvene
(or wander with bemused disgust).
Her grave-site paints a pastoral scene,
poetic fodder – life from death…
and calves shall fatten near her tomb.
Oh coward reader: take a breath !
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 9:22 PM UTC
Octosyllabic rhyme was killed.
Her epitaph I chisel here…
so face the book and feed your twit;
while I the rhythmic record clear.
The sad remains of Lyric Wit
are here interred—no more to rise
(lest poets’ brains be forced to think
and plummet from post-modern skies).
You phonies scrolling Twitter-blink
and scribblers with advanced degrees
look up, and hearken to these words
while feigning your conceited ease.
The academic gallows-birds
reviewing chap-books, high on fluff
make darker the sepulchral gloom—
as if it wasn’t dark enough.
The verdict’s in and all assume,
as measured meaning leaves the court,
he meant to **** her (Poetry).
Life sentences are written short.
The killer, grinning artlessly
in blank-verse handcuffs, void of rhyme,
composes abstract lines: the dull
memoirs of his poetic crime.
The prosecution’s notes are full
the case is made, the jury hears
his guilt made evident, at least.
The victim’s mother melts in tears
He murdered her himself, the beast.
then dumped her: a deflowered rose.
His incoherent imagery
dismembered her like slaughtered prose.
She met her end lamentably;
He did her in and cut her down
thus shortening her metered day.
(murderous, evil, free-verse clown!)
Behold her grave—where grass turns hay
as poets’ bones subside to dust;
her soul with God to reconvene
(or wander in bemused disgust).
Her grave-site paints a pastoral scene,
poetic fodder: life from death…
and calves shall fatten near her tomb.
Oh coward reader: take a breath !
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
When we all go to Memphis, we spread Ludington sand in Matt’s flower beds, like somebody died, and a silence falls as we let the sand sift through our fingers like ashes. It smells like Michigan, like seashells and ***** lake water, and it drowns out the construction workers making new-money houses.
Instead of funeral hymns, we’re blanketed by sawdust and cigarette smoke. We sip and savor Evan Williams and for once, none of us speaks.
Our veins light on fire from the whiskey, and our souls share a collective ache, like our bodies are made from some sort of symbiotic cell.
After The Spreading Of The Sand, we go to a haunted bar where entry is a password, where there’s a frown of a front door, and the exposed brick walls reek of the dead girls upstairs. I think, This is Memphis, a very loud city with louder secrets – the overpowering shadow spreading its fingers in all her corners, silent until she swallows you whole.
Memphis realigns your center –
a snap of the blues, a crack of whiskey and, all of a sudden, things run much more smoothly.
Memphis, she’s known as the City on the Bluff, a place where summer storms split at the river, don’t reconvene ‘til east of Arlington.
Her protection, it’s always there.
Like DNA shared among siblings, blood is always thicker here in her quarters.
Memphis, she tells me I should’ve kicked Worry to the curb all along.
Memphis, she keeps her people safe.
Feb 23, 2019
Feb 23, 2019 at 7:34 PM UTC
dark ocher elixir
of the arcane
when time did bend
you convey yourself to me
in a 16.9 fl oz reused plastic spring water bottle
thawing out in the crisper
bare my being
fang and all
and lick the blood from it clean
so that this light will reconvene with others being
and been
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
Let's talk about things that slither.
Let's talk about ideas that make you cringe
and break down the middle,
a broken vessel that's not quite broken.
Just a little chipped.
Kind of like your personality.
Stark and shiny, and unable to contain.
But you surprised me with your brokenness.
I looked at you and saw your depth.
I didn't know that everything was
pouring out the bottom.
So come, let us try to converse.
I know already that your depth is a lie,
and I will hold myself back from trying to fill you.
After all, I only have so much time.
But wouldn't I rather waste it on you?
Maybe.
Maybe I'm silly to pass up this opportunity.
Or maybe you should read this.
You can go and examine your chips,
and I'll stay here and examine my cracks,
and we can reconvene in an hour.
You'll probably have forgotten by then.
My words will probably leave no mark
on your shock proof reflective surface.
But...
Well, there goes the rest of me.
I'll sit here, waving goodbye
from my wicker rocking chair.
Don't mind me.
I'm just hoping for a second chance.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 4:46 PM UTC
i would do most anything,
to have you here right now.
i'd gather up ten thousand monks,
and speak to them the tao.
i would trade the sun and moon
and all the blue-black skies,
to wake to you one time again,
and not once more arise.
for when we lay there side-by-side,
there's nothing quite as real.
to pass these weeks without you here
cuts wounds too deep to feel.
but when our bodies reconvene
and our hands do intertwine,
our minds and souls will do so too,
free at last to recombine.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 12:24 AM UTC
A time zone separation of 3 hours, in reality,
is nearly impossible.
When the soft sun is lifting your eyes in morning, I’ve already been up.
When I’m sleeping,
you’re still perched brightly on the cheek of the night sky,
etching love letters into its velvet.
I wish there was a way to yank back the clock’s hands,
peel at the skin of its fingertips
so we could live in a single minute
together,
counting the music of seconds,
like blood
rushing through our entwined arteries.
There was a time when we sat
on a dusky mountain face
and watched the moon rise.
You told me to find the comfort in
the fact that it’s always the same moon
no matter the distance.
Last night, the sky was too dark to tell.
Maybe there will come a day
when you’re not in L.A.
and I’m sick of New York
and we reconvene in Paris,
or Tokyo,
or maybe, a small meadow,
as the grass dances red
in the sun’s final hours,
where time
is antiquated
and we measure the passing of days
with the songs of sparrows.
Until then,
we’ll send our love through telephone wires
and call it
even
if it takes me 2 weeks to get back to you.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
Those sols, Wings,
They shutter, Magnificent,
In order, Radiating feather,
To reconvene Trailing stars,
On the scene.
Their folded, Picturesque,
Ripe skin, Flawless perfection,
No single, Evolution,
Colour, Has begun.
Cheeked tower,
Head; Neck;
Body curled,
Lotus legs,
Beneath,
Flaccid teeth.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 4:32 PM UTC
Lent's painful labours yielded results,
When the now-bouyant child was found.
Still in the water, an infernal image of
Youths perfection lay drowned.
Prone to the tide,
His soft undulations suggested that by chance
His arrival had breathed new life
Into this hellish circumstance.
A fraught family on the shore,
reunited with their prodigal son.
Knowing that the time to lay him to rest
For eternity had come.
The final plans - the wake and funeral,
Will soon be underway.
To truly mark, in earth and heart,
The minors final day.
Any joy leeched from the event,
Was marred and stained with loss.
Knowing that to reconvene,
They'd paid a deathly cost
And identifying the body
Had yet to formally be done.
For some poor relative,
A haunting image of a loved one
That would reappear when you shut your eyes,
And ***** your mind with claws.
And weave into your memory
In place of what once was.
A closed coffin ensured
Only one person met that fate,
A morbid idol etched in their mind,
Surviving til this date.
The Catholic Shame surrounding
The unforgivable sin,
Fearing that God would not forgive
Or seek to welcome him in.
As for Heaven or for Hell,
I know not what will be.
But being laid to rest by familiar hands,
Is better than The Sea.
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
On Saturdays,
we rise with the sun.
I am dressed in my best dress,
next to you in tattered tee.
We pack into the Jeep:
ma and her girl, father and his son.
With the infinite Pacific on our right,
we speed down Route 1.
You ride shotgun,
as light spilling over the horizon
knocks salty sleep from our eyes.
You win the teddy bear prize
for sending the lead puck the highest
with your Carnivàle mallet—
I didn’t get to try,
because Dad said my dress
was too white.
In the early hours of the night,
a couple on the street stops and beams,
saying we are a family
that ought to be in the magazines.
(It will take me many years
to understand what this means.)
After pork and baked beans,
mom buys me ice cream
and we window-shop
while you guys fish off the dock
and talk about things
that mom and I find silly.
When we reconvene,
it is time to leave.
You sit with me in the back seat,
and as I nod into sleep,
I see Dad pat your knee,
gifting you with a smile—
one that he has never given me.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:57 PM UTC
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
My eyes are smiling a sad song
Weighing heavily on my chest
Crying crystal memories, so long
My dear, your sweet kiss, neglected
You're gone now, laying in a casket
Looking within, there is nothing reflected
I'm drowning myself, trying to mask it.
Missing you and our reading minds
The dormitories rainbow swirls and laughing
Walking and walking weightless and it reminds
Me of our wispy white choreographing
Our souls entwined
And now there's a part of me
Swift and free on the other side
Speaking, whispering through cups of coffee
I'm trying not to contemplate suicide
So you and I can reconvene
Remembering, though, I'm a part of you
On this side, living, white clouds and grass green
Breeching all realms, I'm there, and you're here, too.
Bones in a box, empty of yourself
I don't want to think about it anymore
Shutting pages, back onto the bookshelf
A tale for posterity, it's folklore
Wearing regret like my Sunday's best
Sad songs ringing, deafening, I'm praying
Paralyzed in bed, ghost treading on my chest
Trying to escape this place, but staying
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
I circle °§° when I'm attending to high priority problem solving...I get that "call", comes at any hour all the time.
I am a creative, straightforward problem solver, of that I serve a Use.
I don't sugar coat or concern myself with asinine diplomacy when what needs to be done takes precedence over graceful depositary.
I'm the bullseye solution spokeswoman, I see past the distractive story, connect the dots, then go in for the **** of the comfort zone, I do not speak enchanting hokee, to smooth the shock of my delivery.
I Call it Out for What it is, then lock my eye on each target who owes explanation to my Question, I go down the board until I'm satisfied, Cold Silence lets them shiver just enough to feel the Cold Choices they sold, then I sit and smile with ease, and Offer plausible suggestions to **** the problem, fast, and with no remorse for their poor professional Choice.
We reconvene within the hour.
I listen to their fumbled excuses, but they always impress with a touching integrity, owning their choices made for reasons I understand, but will not stand...
"Gotta keep the Machine running, even when it's broken."
I receive official plan of action which I must always find compromise...but immediate action is immplemented, when I get my way, The take down hits'em where it hurts, the sleezy ****
the **** is no small fish, the **** are the bleep bleep bleep with sanctioning power, so deft proceedings must start the the transition within reasonable forecast and market stability, but last 8 months showing progressive movement towards bleep bleep speaks louder, never trust the newscasters story, bleep bleep, it's looking like we will pull through, but turbulence is never far away.
Buckle up, stay cool, this baby is clear for landing and a safe arrival.
Still I will °§° circle, seems spinnings my thing.
Break to planned position...
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 3:08 PM UTC
The walrus used to find it nice
to spend their summers on the ice
but not so nice this year they felt,
as all the ice contrived to melt,
and they were forced to reconvene
on land with no space in between,
to loll and fight and contemplate
the broader question of their fate,
but none among them made the link
that people put them on the brink,
and those their fate depended on
stifled yet another yawn.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
Score thy song befitting Ran , the voice of the ocean proclaiming the finality of tide against land ..
The surety of sea oats that sway in the afternoon wind , Blue ***** shall reconvene at Dusk , schools of Red Drum , Whiting and Tarpon . Sand dollars appear where terra is drawn into the sea , the waters bounty having been secured by the fishermen of antiquity , for which I am one . As famished as the gulls that portray themselves at the shoreline , crying for their wages ...
A period lighthouse bids welcome to her returning voyagers , reassuring as the first light of day . Safe harbor turned the poet into a songwriter .. It numbed all the bad that afflicted the soul , removed unpleasant imagery from the minds painful repository of guilt , quelled the constant obsession with the garden of good and bad .
The steam from the cup cradled within these weathered hands returns to the Atlantic on this morn , recalling perilous epochs at the mercy of Neptune ..
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:51 AM UTC
Recent thought
Caught
In the revolving door
To my mind
Giving rise to questions
Molestation
Of things I believed
Were settled long ago
So now I am forced
To reconvene
The meeting
Just as the hall was clearing
As the last of them
Was going through the revolving door
And are now reappearing
Such is the weight
To be carried
By the inquisitive mind
To look for something
You never even knew
That you
Even wanted to find
So here is my quandary
If something isn't just black or white
And is in the grey area
One shade grey.... dark or light?
As it spans its scale
Does it graduate from light to dark?
That would make it immeasurable !
Anything that fails the black and white mark
Would be mired in shades of confusion
So it must be one shade
Of murky.. fog like.. swamp water
A smoke choked delusion
So after a bit of thought
To chase the blahs away
I've decided it's never really been
A satisfying concept-- for me anyway
Crazy.... Maybe....Okay...YES!
I believe I've always seen
A veritable rainbow of colors
Existing in that sacred realm between
For instance
What would be the harm
In trying to comprehend another
By saying I'm not sure about that?
I see it as orange or green
One-- or the other
Wouldn't that be a better way...
...To understand one another?
I think that's a tangerine thought
So what do you think?
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
Years that before
Mercy neared close enough
That the blur of the scene
Disappeared in the rough
So unsure what I mean
Or where would i reconvene...
And with whom?
When we are were we are
where they are there just to consume...
Everything they could.
Selling off everything that's good.
From that blinding white clear disaster
I thought I must fight or I'll rot even faster
I fought so I might keep from finding
I'm not really right and what's left's just reminding me how
High I shot and now why I forgot to keep track what I bought that I caught up a lesson I set out too taught
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
i see in pictures
no really, real pictures.
i still remember what the piazza looks like in my family's home town
its been 7 years.
i remember the old church next to it where they got married
i remember the stained glass windows along the walls
i remember the coffee shop across from the street that served espressos in tiny ornamental cups
i see it all.
7 years on and now i see you
i see you in that first red dress.
that first night with locks of hair that made me melt into the floor.
i see you in a dark cinema where i took the best risk of my life
where everything changed and now months later i see you
in a dress walking down the staircase
like an angel walking down from heaven.
i see you in my bed surrounded by the darkness of the night
your breath on me heavy with mine.
lost without a care.
i see you. by my side.
and i cant help but think how lucky i am.
as i write i view each moment like a photograph in my mind, some are fuzzy and unfocused but some are as clear as sunshine.
bright like the sunshine you are to me.
but i know, things are hard.
someone is going around stealing photos.
stealing images.
but we're going to take them back.
because i havent only seen and see now.
i can see what the future holds.
i can see the dew on the winter window and our faces pierced with sunlight.
i can see the nervousness of our first days into a new uni or work
and see the moment we reconvene at the end of the day to tell each other all about it
on the grassed steps of a sunken garden staircase holding hands
to birds chirping. sun shining or clouds pouring.
i can see us holding cups of tea watching ****** netflix shows
talking about anything everything
ill tell you the secrets of the universe as ill discover them
and later in the night,
we'll discover the secrets of our own hearts and souls.
between sheets. where we fall asleep to the sound of our own heartbeats
steady
steady.
i can see all of it.
clear as day even on a rainy night that this time may be to us.
to you.
you.
you did this to me.
you changed everything.
i can see all of it.
the future we could have with some time and hard work
with some love.
without letting anyone stand in our way.
because baby I'm ready to fall in love with you again and again
every single day because
i can see the future sometimes.
because i see in pictures.
no really, real pictures.
real pictures with real people like me
and you.
and us.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 6:38 AM UTC
Did I miss something?
Four years ago I'd beg
for you to come back to me,
and reconvene into the faithful
pet boyfriend on a leash
Now the chemistry is clear;
yet the feelings disappeared
A shame, I think;
we could have grown up
to have something stronger
than the whirlwind love
we had as teens.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC