"reconvening" poems
Windows rolled down to catch the hint
Of the first faintest salt-tinged taste
Of air as it rushes into our eyes and ears and noses.
It arrives long before the destination,
Expectations increasing as sandy patches
Begin to burst into view.
Never before witnessed by eyes of these occupants
The palm trees, seashell shops, and forever blue expanses
Plaster our faces and finger-pointing hands to windows.
A flying fish breaks the surface as we skim our own sea
Curving and turning the contures woven for us.
The stop is long-awaited, long-sought, long-debated
But soon, as in a dream awakened, our feet touch
Something other than carpeted floorboard. Sand
Gives us one second's pause until shoes are discarded
Where they lie unguarded as toes touch the sandbox.
Hot sand guides us quickly to water where white waves
Rush on its newcomers, greeting with kisses the blue-white
Eyelashes of the ocean eye. Splashing and crashing
Waves beat us down, then again pick us up, lifting
And twisting till our faces wear red-sun masks.
Collapsing in sleep, energy spent by ocean's leaching
Reconvening in silence as bed's teaching leads us
To dream and desire, the new advantages of energy
The ocean, with no ride to slow us, wakes us with calls
"Rush on! Rush on!" as every wave turns.
The one day of driving, seems so long compared
To the week of fun flying sooner than thought.
The best trip, this trip, had come unexpected,
And its end, abruptly so.
A trip discovered with the flip of a coin,
heads: east, tails: west.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 4:33 AM UTC
(the reconvening of my mind)
It's always the extremes
that bring me back to center,
but it's the trips I take on purpose
that remind me its time to go home.
Today it was the thought of blood.
I cannot stand the sight of it,
and neither would I brave a plunge
in icy depths this time of year.
I’d rather gather sunlight
and convince myself there are
no ghost revivals,
only blood reprisals from
daddy's DNA.
I tell myself
I need to get away
to where I can pray
again, to quit giving in,
to stay and fight wars,
the black, the white,
the gray fluttering darkness that
comes out of nowhere swooping
past my ear, scaring the **** out of me
as if it never happened before
but it has, its just been a while.
So I call for a council of angels,
then prepare for the riptide
of demons that join the fun when
my cranial convention convenes.
The left against the right,
The east against the west,
The pros against the cons,
all the ups and downs,
I don’t give a **** what it is
just give me back my wars.
Give me back my reasons to live.
Give me Nietzsche
Give me Brennan Manning
Give me Sam Harris
Give me Frederick Buechner
Give me Bertrand Russell
Give me Henri Nouwen
Give me Daniel Dennett
Give me Gerald May
Give me M Scott Peck
Give me Pia Mellody
Give me Dante
Give me Jane Kenyon
Give me the Marquis de Sade
Give me Dostoyevsky
and that should just about do it.
Within these names exist
enough controversy,
enough conflicting views
on life, on love, on God,
enough heresy,
enough truth,
enough lies,
enough knowledge,
enough beauty
to keep me waging wars
inside my head until the day I die.
Give me back my wars.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
The small warfield of myriad battles
few were triumphant, a lot were fatal
burdened with despair, fidgeted and unrest
once there dreams were sought to nest
home for love, passion and reform
gloomy it turned, after the storm
beating up being weary and worn
bear the freight of promises torn
one half of mine through thick and thin
confidant of every defeat and win
the secrets that it kept within
throbbing inside like spiny whin
reconvening the shreds of heart
razed by one and was torn apart
still it is ready to be my friend
pledged to never leave me in end
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 9:07 PM UTC
endless drip-drop-plopping pling-pop puddles pooling over
their self-constructed boundaries,
spilling into rainbow chem-drip paintings on the darkened pavement,
melting into unseen hues of wetness.
the super-saturated ground continues to collect the leaking of the sky,
compiling samples of the potions spilling from clouds who gathered too much magic to hold onto by themselves.
bustling busy-bodies cower under fabric roofs,
only to be barraged by rising tidal waves rolling at their feet,
sneaky splattering from dirt sick of being stomped upon.
under the cover of brick and mortar
searching eyes are stuck staring out blurred window-panes,
hypnotized by the water-works and
feeling nostalgia for a time when they lived under the sea,
evolutionary longing for ancestral roots that escape understanding.
entranced by the suspended flight and splendid crash landing of
parachute droplets sent through a long descent as singular entities
to dissolve back into a homogenous being at the end of the journey -
separating and reconvening, reforming and dissipating.
drip-drop drip-drop all the same,
everything as everything else under the guise of arbitrary names,
dripping-drop plopping in watery refrain,
I am the same as you are the same as we are the same as the drip-dropping rain.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Please God
Don't make me prove I can live without her
I'm tired of plot twists
Of separation and reconvening
I couldn't make sense
Out of losing her
This love is immune to lies
I don't ask myself where life will take me
Anymore
I just want to know if she'll be there.
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC