"recount" poems
*Climbing on the bus
Not looking forward to this trip
But it meant so much to her
And how could I predict
That it would be her last hurrah
Before she passed away
Just one year ago marks
The anniversary of that day
It was an annual trip, with her twin
They took to different cities
With a group of old church folks
They called themselves
“The Traveling Gypsies”
As it turned out to be
My last fond memory
Of my mother and her twin
Before they were stripped
Of all their memories
Alzheimer’s was their reward
They gave it quite a fight
Bed ridden in their final days
Until they saw the light
Who's to say how it will end
Or where that place will be
A gutter in the streets of life
Or home where it should be
So as I sit and contemplate
These moments I recount
I think about the road ahead
And how I’ll make it count*
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 8:35 AM UTC
*break
astonishment at perception
of
a third-world child making it
up that totem-pole
amidst paltry conditions
even
beyond the half-way mark*
1.
a standing man
in silent message
and the woman in red
with thin-sling shoulder-bag
holding lipstick, weekly-ticket and purse
oh, how she frightens honchos out their skull
draped round her sister's head
shroud eternal
coughing
sore
2.
grannies recount lively griot-tales
where hope is never barren
young boys play in swamped dirt-trails
drawing absent father-figures in the sand
the wind has carried them off to mines
deep in the crust of earth's ire
adolescent future sits on labour-farms
where keen spirit is dulled with worthless hops
keeps the sly farmer happy
and he tells them the fruit is free
yet they've already paid for it
manifold
when she reaches twenty
she will have at least two kids
whose lives lie in the granny's luxury
while she runs off to the golden city-lites
to jump through higher hoops
for ****** spoils
all cheapened by long-term neglect
3.
there lies hope
unlost
in every girl-child
who goes to school
who finds encouragement
from words kindly given
if but from a stranger
*no hand-me-outs
no forlorn begging*
she...
the empowered mother of boys
will
help them to grow
into young men
of such sensibility
as to keep their hands
to deeds of honour
who, in turn
become fine fathers to daughters
they love and cherish
raise to be
luminary
*each step up
from that totem-pole
such a steep climb
strengthens invisible wings
and unworldly rewards
and when final rung is reached
heralds
untainted take-offffffff*......
S T, 27 aug
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 11:01 AM UTC
I am still
In deep thought-
Wondering, how easy I’ve let you slipped
From my hands
And from my heart
--
Let’s take a step back
And recount the moments
Recollect the memories
Reminisce the good old days
And reassess this overnight decision I’ve impulsively taken
Let’s take a few more steps back
And remember the first time I met you
Back in high school
The first time I said hi
And thought you were cute
You were a plethora of my firsts
The first boy bestfriend I’ve ever had
The first boy to ever ask me out on dates
The first boy to talk to me on a daily basis
The first boy I ever liked…. Who actually liked me back
Undoubtedly,
You were my first love
I thought I loved you like I’d never love anyone else
I told you everything
Wrecked these walls I’ve sheltered from for so long
Just to hand you this little fragile heart of mine
Through the cracked linoleum and the broken glass windows
I gave you a golden ticket and an aerial view
To my world
And after two years,
In the end,
You did decide to return the favour
You trusted me enough
To let me enter this mystical world of yours
These two dimensions you seem to always get lost in
Those two roads diverged in a wood
That you can never seem to wrap your head around
and choose
As I write this,
I start to realise why and how I stopped loving you
I think I got tired
Of trying to pull you up
As you let yourself drown in the seas
of your undecided thoughts
I stopped loving you
The moment you say “I’m going to change”
But the next day you woke up
You put on the same old clothes
You took the same route
To the place that led you exactly back to where you once were
I got sick of
Saying the same things
Over and over again
Asking you to change
Only to expect nothing in return
Truth be told
As similar as we are as people
We live in worlds too distant apart
Your world is too foreign for me, too fast and scary
Whereas my world is too small and tightly guarded, all child’s play
As much as I’d want to love you
I can’t seem to do so
And if I could, I'd say this a million times to you
I truly am sorry.
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
Tears,
Words,
Stories,
Memories;
Sometimes--
They run from my eyes,
And down my cheeks,
And off my chin,
And fall on their face.
On the cold
Cement.
Their story Over,
But not Forgotten.
They tell tales
A Broken
Can't speak.
Stories no one should recount.
More powerful than laughter;
Stronger than steel.
Not everything is ever as it seems.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
In all, without morals, the concept of happiness would be indifference of stale misery. Spinning all in the concept of life in circle, for morals go in a straight line and never need to recount the same point of what you already know of happiness. For you have all the time in search for more.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 5:13 AM UTC
Dear Lord, let me recount to Thee
Some of the great things thou hast done
For me, even me
Thy little one.
It was not I that cared for Thee,--
But Thou didst set Thy heart upon
Me, even me
Thy little one.
And therefore was it sweet to Thee
To leave Thy Majesty and Throne,
And grow like me
A Little One,
A swaddled Baby on the knee
Of a dear Mother of Thine own,
Quite weak like me
Thy little one.
Thou didst assume my misery,
And reap the harvest I had sown,
Comforting me
Thy little one.
Jerusalem and Galilee,--
Thy love embraced not those alone,
But also me
Thy little one.
Thy unblemished Body on the Tree
Was bared and broken to atone
For me, for me
Thy little one.
Thou lovedst me upon the Tree,--
Still me, hid by the ponderous stone,--
Me always,--me
Thy little one.
And love of me arose with Thee
When death and hell lay overthrown:
Thou lovedst me
Thy little one.
And love of me went up with Thee
To sit upon Thy Father's Throne:
Thou lovest me
Thy little one.
Lord, as Thou me, so would I Thee
Love in pure love's communion,
For Thou lov'st me
Thy little one:
Which love of me brings back with Thee
To Judgment when the Trump is blown,
Still loving me
Thy little one.
3.4k
I could never finish writing off your name, with your strawberry scent vibrating towards mine and your hooded eyes that covers the wrinkles and your cheek dampens when you crook a smile, I could never stop writing you.
Maybe I was just drawing a thin line with heaven and a tightrope with my eyes close and hell bent towards the unending loophole of my forsaking fantasies, I guess I might stay here. There was something about you that I cannot forsake nor repaint with foreign colors and another texture — you were as a majestic being in my lucid dream.
That even though I cannot recount my fingers one or two or five or ten, I can picture the deepening hole of your dimples whenever you give the world another unbreathable cheeky beam and I sulk here, waiting for another neon glow of that majestic world in my dreamlike prophetic future.
Something told me it was you. As I bear witness another beauty in the realm of my alternative home, maybe then, peering at the sky while I was on a tightrope is worth every penny of sleep and drowsiness gulping another 90's wine.
May 10, 2022
May 10, 2022 at 5:29 AM UTC
*Ladies & Gentlemen, behold!
Listen to the story I have to share.
A fantasy from future.*
Someday in Future
Setting: The underground metro train
Characters: She & me
Me: Now our stop is at the end, darling.
She: I'd just relax until we reach then, dear.
Me: How're you going to do that, standing?
She: I've my personal pillar to hold on to for relaxing, you know - I don't fear...
Me: ...and that is me?
She: Yes & no!
I look clueless and she lets out a laughter barely audible to others in the metro train.
She: You yourself are not the pillar but you've the pillar!
I blush big time and turn tomato-red, her delicately-soft hands come pull my cheeks and by now I am able to duly respond as the man.
Me: Oh I see! So madam is in a good mood to flirt. Good-good, even I was starting to get bored hearing only to the harsh sound of the metro train on the track, let us recollect the previous night.
She: Sure, you bear the onus of starting the account and I'll recount the ending as we reach home.
Me: Alright then, here we go.
Low voices
Me: Darling I started it all,
I came from the showers,
I carried a seductive grin,
As I moved forwards,
You started to fall,
Not caring where you fell towards.
And you fell in my arms,
I held you softly as my baby,
As you're precious to me like one.
I then lifted you in my arms,
You had a soft glowing smile on your lips.
Then I laid you on the bed,
You appeared like Aphrodite.
The white gown was off in a jiffy,
You looked at my towel's knot,
And you undid it the next.
She: As the pillar was unveiled,
I hoisted myself on it,
And we came together.
Me: Now the station seems closer, let us conclude our recounting Friday night. (Looking at my watch)
She: Yes, we have a night every other night. (Winks)
Me: I love you, honey! (I smile)
She: Not more than me! (Her smile is more brilliant)
By now the train approaches our stop and we are smiling as we dismount the train.
On our minds for a sleepless Saturday night we are hatching a beautiful plan.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 2:16 AM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
I would offer you the best sensations, shivers down your spine
Ecstasy thrown, mind blown, you begging to be mine
Stroke my ego and I might just stroke your skin
Your body a new world, where should I begin
Your face on mine, my hand now held just below your wrist
Now Ill start with your lips because I simply can not resist
The scrumptious shade of strawberry and the tastes even better
In my mouth your tongue had sung and left me even wetter
A calm that makes me no longer wanting to give up and give in
A kiss that I want to build a house on and with you live in
My hands hold your cheek
As I stare up at you rather meek
Then trace the lines on your face and run my fingers through your hair
Nihilistic
Pessimistic
Altruistic
We would make quite the pair
Around your lovely locks tightens my grip as I pull back slightly
biting on your lip, your hands gripping my hips so tightly
I would smile with a silent confidence
As you recount how long you've imagined this
Your imagination may not have prepared you, albeit wondrous and vast
To feel better than you've ever felt, just know that it cant last
I would offer you the best sensations, shivers down your spine
Ecstasy thrown, mind blown, you begging to be mine
you chuckled and told me a body like mine should come with a warning label
Your eyes hungry devouring me from across the dinner table
The long lost longing, the build up, the intense temptation
Your mind reeling from a new glorious sensation
Nothing could have gotten you ready for what you'd feel with me
Better than you've ever felt, so visceral and free
I'm as persuasive as I am perverse
A mind I'm sure you'd love to traverse
I would offer you the best sensations, shivers down your spine
Ecstasy thrown, mind blown, you begging to be mine.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:09 PM UTC
I’m aware that you decided to forget me.
I can see it’s your intent to shut me out.
It’s an ugly wall to right,
Bricks all leapt up overnight,
And the mortar’s wet with words you won’t recount.
I won’t need to see your charming lines of orchards,
For there’s rot that festers in forbidden fruit.
I won’t care if they’re all gone,
For the seasons move me on,
And no longer is the aim worth the pursuit.
Ah, I see the raging worms that have consumed you.
I’ll acknowledge that you took a mighty fall.
Yet, you’re the only one to blame,
And now you can’t control your shame,
Which explains the buried evidence and all.
On my part, I shall recount the days of summer,
For I no longer must work to sweep your name.
No more lusting; that’s all over,
Though your act’s no longer covert!
No, I’ll keep my juicy stories just the same!
So here lies the final chapter of our friendship.
For my life, I can’t tell why it comes to this.
Take the lies that you hold dear,
And your careless, cheating fear;
I shall skin what’s left, and fashion cloaks of bliss.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
Oh Bard, wielding a tool mighty and spiky
Mightier than either the sword or rod,
You reign as monarch in fancy’s domain
Sketching life in all variety and mode
Which with pain and strife fraught
Or bright with gaiety and grace
In finer yarn than the gossamer thread
On a fabric of words in befitting verse
You steal away from the noisy crowd
Into the stillness of the cloistered cell
To dwell with Fancy’s mystic charms
Weaving downy dreams at will
You recount forgotten tales of yore
Of ****** battles won and lost,
Of lovers united, amour defiled,
Conjuring memories from abysmal past
You hearken to the moans of lovelorn souls
And sing of beauty in ditties fine
Triggering sparks into flames grow
In umpteen hearts that pine and whine
Babbling with the brook rushing swift,
Racing with the deer loping past,
You wander into mysterious woods
Where flowers, their richest odors cast
Your ears intent on the song of birds
That comes floating from the far off groves
And the whir of cicadas on the bark of trees
Breaking the calm of twilight eves
Alone you saunter the stretching strands,
Watching virulent breakers in fury heave
Often your heart dancing with the tide
And swinging with the rhythm of rising wave
You feast on the gleam of the auburn sun
And the speckled blue of the infinite skies
Watching the day dying in flame
And the night in a diadem of stars vies
All that’s lovesome meets your eyes
And commune to you in profuse delight
Which you turn into rhyme and rhythm
For the whole of mankind to devour and digest
From your harp flow symphonies sweet
Songs of longing, love and lust
Of idyllic happiness, peace and bliss,
Fuelling hearts with vigorous zest
Though outlawed by the great sage of Greece,
Branding the poet, aberrant and a fool
Oft beneath the façade of his wayward thoughts,
Lie heaps of wisdom for the discerning soul.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 6:01 AM UTC
If trees could speak,
What would they say?
Could they recount the tales
Of all who crashed
Under their boughs?
Do they keep a list—
Even make it a game—
Of how many cars pass
Per day, per week, per decade?
Do they remember
Each fallen brethren,
Move to catch them
When they fall?
Do they have rivalries
About the biggest size
Or the best patch of soil
Or the most growing seeds—
Or are they past all that
And the weeping willows
Took it upon themselves
To weep for us humans
Who distinguish between
Small insignificances?
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 11:33 PM UTC
Those memorable days have long been forgotten
Haunting those stairways, we climb
Convincing wondrous places of mystery again
To stare into the ribbons of time
Yesterday’s chapters of dreamy faraway passages
Leading to rooms filled with slivers of light
Dance nimbly across pages of spatial vantages
Disappearing on the edges of night
A rumbling of recollection drifts into our flesh
Striking chords of chronicled accounts
Felt in the heartbeat of time we have meshed
Into our souls for a reminiscent recount
Forgotten no longer, remembered once more
Heartwood regaining its core
Blooming within those stairways, we store
Those memories, of days of yore
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 8:25 PM UTC
*Scars on the skin always have stories to tell,
adventures to recount,
tales to convey.
It's the unseen scars on the heart
that have nothing to say.
Except rest deep within and confess
loves that have only been repaid with
pain.*
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re drunk
i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain
this half a heart becomes a whole
whether or not you know it
out here i am never alone
spent most of my life
in places like these
and i’m always looking for more
recount the gossamer threads
because i love those words
and the nonsense means nothing
but i love nothing
it feels like home
there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re sober
it’s not the alcohol that makes the scene
it’s the scene that makes the alcohol
obsolete
i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i drink
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i breathe
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i believe
in those gossamer threads
fire and stars
alcoholic words
i love nothing
it feels like home
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
Home that's where I go
To recalibrate
To recoup lost energies
To recount all those tales
That filtered in so much lies
To the sea by the shore
Traipsing on the sand
Salty air clears the head
Of false thoughts lingering near
On the bed under clean sheets
Looking at excel worksheets
Joggling figures in thousands and millions
Trying to close in all the gaps
All but creative accounting lies
With books under wraps is hidden more lies
Officers here to uncover gave up their find
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
There are times where I don't have to
carefully construct metaphorical honey glaze
I can just slide my mottled skin from out
of this tagged and tattered shell
and say, "I'm just as thirsty as any of you"
These strange dichotomies, of shyness and openness
hatred of self, and longing to lift the self up to heights
craving peace, yet seeking disorder
If my cells could vote
there would be a recount
and then another
and another
another
perpetually cyclical self-realization.
Such a frustrating way to absorb you,
through the intuitive tunnels
clogged with judgmental plaque
and grimy windows
that only allow flushes of dusty yellow
to emit.
Loneliness bites, yet I seek the wisdom
only blessed by meditation
and introspective psychedelic meanderings.
Lovers split your ribs, yet my eyes quest
endlessly for you.
These strange dichotomies,
pepper and salt my atrophic throat
until I entertain a curious gaze instead.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
That smile will be with me forever
on the day it all went wrong
the two of us trying to be clever
our journey was too long
deciding to take a different trail
thus must recount the tale!
That smile will be with me forever!
Desperate to try and save our marriage
after both drifting apart
had we passed that irreversible stage
our love was there a start
yet the tension high I drove to fast
and our destinations cast!
That smile will be with me forever!
Into a tree we rammed I was powerless
to avoid the collision
the anger had created this foolishness
shaping the final decision
my side undamaged just shaken
realising I was mistaken!
That smile will be with me forever!
Why had I been such a stubborn man
had shock awoken me
you the only one in my earthly plan
at first what I did not see
there hurt with that angelic smile
how bad I was in denial!
That smile will be with me forever!
Somehow got a signal to call assistance
talking more than before
why now could we seem to be consistent
doing my best to reassure
that any problems we would transform
our love overcame any storm!
That smile will be with me forever!
As the rescue team arrived we tenderly kissed
such a magical moment
how such tenderness for so long I had missed
she had been sent to me
that smile I shall never forget or guilt fade
too late true feelings displayed!
She died from her injuries soon after!
that smile will remain with me forever!
The Foureyed Poet.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
if i were to bread my tongue
with rocoto and cornmeal
and twist to reach the andean soil
my tastebuds long for so many nights
out of the year
olfaction and your left-sinus blockage
would stay cradled
in broken-baguette bread-crust baskets,
a trebuchet's missile,
naïve to the horn of the world,
and brittled to a carcinogenic crisp
caped in my earthenblood geysers
en el humo, en la tierra del fuego
in(fierno)
i recount by the tally marks of black felt
resorted to in the puddling of spilt tea,
(like broken china, you never missed
a beat to correct potential error
and my memory),
i count them to remember
the epiphanies standing over a red faucet
a gallon water jug, whistling snail-trickle,
wishing away the cracks in the grout
or the grout itself,
wishing away the cracks in the pottery
or porcelain facade of which
you're so fond and grace with singing cuticles
the fingers of a pianist
lacking the wherewithal
and solid brick gall
to answer the ivory's summons
i am not a piece of clay,
i respond poorly to your sculpture of my surface,
covered in oxides and baked in
hell's oven, your mountain fire
scathes me as it does cedar resin
and i am similarly embittered,
pooling sap & draining smoke
in the embers and dead charcoal
of your embrace
avant le corps, sans l'âme
sans le corps, avant l'âme
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
The inevitable will wait
I will remain whole as I greet,
as I recount my days away,
as the road to home shortens,
as I sit through dinner.
It wont hit me until I'm alone.
My teeth brushed,
good nights are said,
and covers pulled.
That's when it will strike.
When I realize just how large my bed has grown,
or perhaps I've gotten smaller?
Did I drink a rabbit's potion unknowingly?
Maybe I left a limb with you,
and these phantom pains settle in late.
On the verge of sleep
when we are too tired to fight of the gravity of reality.
An ache resides somewhere in me;
my arms to hold you
my legs to tangle in yours
my lips to kiss you
my heart I've gifted to you.
My blood lacks its motivation in my veins
and therefore, so do I.
Cocooned in my comforter
but to no avail.
These pillows do not hold the warmth of skin
and do not have arms to hug back.
I have grown used to your lullaby,
heart beats sang me to perfect sleep.
Now only stillness and the sound of a busy world
ignoring this pain that I silently bear.
May 27, 2012
May 27, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC
Edited by Maple, because mine was a rant nobody but she was supposed to indulge. Hahaha. See. I wasn't intending on trending.
I knew a wretched person once. And then. She died.
Now. Condoning death is the fastest method for becoming THE social pariah - for future reference.
But my god. I hated her. I really did. Not simply me; most of our peers felt similar. At least, they did till it was no longer appropriate.
See. Morgan was a ruthless psychopath.
And then she was dead.
Now. As a stranger, if you were to lurk her Facadebook, you'd think she'd been some ethereal messiah. Her web page is now trampled with laments. Kinda like the stampede that killed Mufasa. Her present facadebook now marks a day the devil became synonymous with our homegirl, Momma Teresa.
In what world, right?
The details of the fatality remain insane. Ranging from Ketamine to ****** But I won't illustrate them. Go see it yourself - on Doctor ******* Phil.
And they call me crazy.
Anyways.
I'm sorry, but she was a maniacal parasite with love like shrapnel. She destroyed her lovers, her family, her arsenal of friends by habit. And she did this for fun. So, again, I'm sorry. Sorry I am hardly sorry she died.
That's a lie, though. I'm not sorry at all.
Karma is candy. I'm happy she's gone. Never again to crumple and crush her loved ones to mush as mere eggs to her morning omelette.
And our world is a happier place.
Sue me.
for whatever reason this will not publish or save this particular recount
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
I hate to say this, but I miss you
On days when I’m angry at you
I recount every memory of you
I miss you on the saddest days and even the most delightful ones
I hate to say this, but I love you
I’ve loved your fairly flaws and even resented myself for loving you
I loved you from the very beginning, I bet I’d do till the end
I love you like molt to holes
I guess, I love every curve of you
Permit me to say this, but I hate you
I hate the way you make me smile
How you get to my skin
I hate how your voice brightens up my day
I hate the ease I feel when talking to you in distress
I hate how I feel when you call me nick names
Gosh! I love them all!
I guess, I called for a white lie
I miss you as my person
I miss the fact that it was just the two of us
I hate I have to share you…
Not you, but the concept of you
I guess I hate myself more for harboring these thoughts I do
But in the end, all these conflicting emotions…
I just miss you.
@Bellah
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 3:12 AM UTC