"recounting" poems
She looks in the mirror
At the age on her face
"I wonder what he thinks
of me this way?"
She considers her weight
and the pores on her skin
She thinks out loud
"I don't deserve him."
She picks apart
the woman he loves
Separating her worth
from all that she does
He looks in her eyes
and caresses her face
He sees it glowing with love
and full of grace
The lines on her face
he views with pride
Recounting the victories
each time they've been tried
The weight that she carries
is that of a mom
Nothing's too heavy
She just marches on
These bodies will perish
and mirrors offer no truth
True love abides
beyond the corridors of youth
No, she doesn't deserve me
Perhaps God can see
Conceivably, one day
I'll be as worthy as she
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
In the smoke and haze
I could lie for days
Bound by dreams
Of vivacious scenes
A matriarchal mistress
From Sacher-Madoche novella
Gleaming eyes; a cruel smile
Courtesy could not last for a mile
Spank and strike,
Dearest love and goddess
Do not shirk from such duty
****** and tantalising
Bask in decadent moonlight
By the wisp of cold wind
Cure your sadism
And sate your masochism
Within piquant smell of leather
Find your balance
Between lust and love
Dealt with swift blows so keen and easy
All whilst recounting your ****** burden
Unto lovely Aphrodite
She is taken with vile passion
And laden with fur and velvet
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
Chivalry is dead
This I was taught at age eight
While sitting at my poorly organized desk in the third grade
Still believing cooties were being bred in the boys around me
The death of chivalry was not hard to fathom
Chivalry is dead
When we were young
Listening to the stories of old maids
Recounting tales of bitter divorce
In between addition problems
Making sure no one saw us counting on our fingers
Chivalry is dead
We thought
But what was it anyway?
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
Show me
true beauty
how waves
break the shore
into individual grains
yet each contains
the whole
crystalline universe
reflecting light
renouncing midnight
Leave me not
upon the sand
barefoot and stripped
recounting sins
to the weary wind
return my heart
to loving grace
salt-scrubbed chambers
cleansed of hate
tenderly reborn
let love
rise from this
arid ground
clear water drawn
from a deeper well
with cupped hands
tend the seeds
so we may eat
of the bounty
that rightfully belongs
to no one
Jan 31, 2017
Jan 31, 2017 at 9:59 AM UTC
The plump moon lights up my room.
My mind is now a flat graph
no desire no lust no dream
the cold winds from the rumbling sea
make no dent on me
I look at my palms
and see the cracked floor
gnarled roots of mangrove on the wall
blend seamlessly with all I have
like once I had her in this room
love together
taking wingless flight to the moon
but now I more like sitting here
prospecting no words to rhyme
not angered at the blankness
for in this vacuous moonlight
I wait without a hope of gain
without a despair of loss
unconstrained for time
contoured by fireflies
alone
recounting a new beginning
from the end.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 11:00 AM UTC
Emotions heavy on the mind of this warrior tonight.though he will try to sleep he will not rest tonight. The battle of yesterday on his mind. Recounting the actions recalling the slain, seeing his pain a tear from his dear lay on his shoulder in vain. For the warrior so strong by day had crumbled at night. All the feats he had obtained they all seemed to be in vain. While they lay there she whispered, why must you cry, why do you hurt, why do you never fall asleep is it I? Am I the reason you cry? Am I the reason you hurt? Can you not see that when you hurt it hurts me? The warrior looking up at what seemed to be the sky, looking right through her and her deep blue eyes. It is not you although your actions be in vain. The tears you stream like mine they to are the same. You cry for understanding while I cry because I know. You want to know why the tears run down my face it's because I fight. No one should be forced to take another mans life. I cry for the time I will not return home, for when this warrior will walk alone. Holding her he says this again. Now sleep my sweet, don't fret on the worries of my night. By daybreak everything will be alright. Just listen and trust me and the warrior bid her goodnight.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
Veasna Ta Kvak recording
playback
over Chinatown cafe again
while recounting recent events
to journal pages
muddled from frequent
exchanges bag to bag
(Been to Taipei airport, Bali, Vancouver, most
recently)
blind fate
blind fate
shower me with Indian daisies
and photographs of Railway
New Delhi!
Hanoi Old Quarter/
Vietnam monsoon/
evening on balcony/
Darjeeling water boiled
and filtered anti-malaria
golden drink for honeylungs and
spring-soul morningtide
under moonlight canopy
of Avalokiteśvara
the fruitful
Bodhisattva!
English lessons
and future
hourless
comely chimera
in sleep phenomenon
Benares phantasmagoria YELLOW
(near Mata Anandamai Ghat)
speaking to Aghori
prophecy
Kala Bhairava
FIERCE ILLUSORY APOCALYPSE FAMILIAR
WHERE IS YOUR NOOSE?
the Ganges is full of lice and flowers
candlewax melted into holy water
sickness
equal to
harmony & jubilant
eyeclose and mouthcurl.
The future mysteries in
Mexico City poorboy
$2 mystic orb jade green
reflective underneath
dirt now in North American
bottom white four floor house
basement suite coffee table.
Visions indivisible
from the Viridian roundly haze
but surefire in their accuracy
I'm absolute
and universally formed
for the next few cacophonous
decades!
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:47 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
watery eyes squinting against
the pink glamor of the setting sun,
casting marvelous streaks
of cherry cream soda foam
radiating from the heartfelt
warmth
dusk settling, a quiet raven
swinging in the swaying trees
and a fence line lining
the edge of evergreen forests
a white picket fence
cluttered with the ghosts
of memories
a pair of binoculars
held by a silent girl
olive and freckled
of the shower of tear drops
which cascaded from those nights
of aching compassion
facing the other side
solitude presence of one
walked of a thousand steps
back splayed by the salty foams
spat by the restlessness of the sea
an umbrella clasped in his grip
the rain drizzled, throwing
the pink sunsets into arrays
of sweet, sweet melodies
the girl of binocular
and boy of umbrella
a picket fence in between
a relief from destiny,
a rain check into reality
figures of speech echoing
slurring syllables
recounting marbles
that used to roll off
from their laughters
on lovely nights
a girl of binoculars
and boy of umbrellas
dreamt of once a meeting
of one such like this
the raven cries
fear not, deal not
what has there
to be done
when the pink
ceases to refill
your sweet dreams
and the girl smiled
the boy climbed over
the white picket fence
and held her hand,
holding the umbrella
to keep their warmth
sheltered deep within
the girl picked her binoculars
held it close to her pretty cheeks
above her lips,
navigating sights
knowing their memories
will far exceed than that
of the white picket fence
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 11:00 PM UTC
I spent Thanksgiving
this year
not in the blue-collar comfort
of my aunt’s house,
nestled somewhere
within a well-buried suburb
of a quaint, but un-noteworthy neighborhood
with walls decorated with Budweiser signs
juxtaposed against portraits of the ****** Mary,
where a football announcer’s voice plays like
conservative talk radio
in the background.
Instead, to save the labor
of my weary immigrant grandmother,
we dressed in Sunday best
and drove ourselves in
three well-packed mini vans
to some elegant hotel restaurant,
ideal for people-watching
from the gaudy, art-deco staircase
while pretending to be in the Great Gatsby.
It didn’t feel natural, though,
that beside a modest turkey breast
with cranberry dressing, sat a beautiful
cut of prime rib, carefully ladled
with truffle au juis–
nor beside a humble dollop
of mashed potatoes and gravy,
should there be salmon to die for,
and berries slathered with brie.
The food I nibbled
with bites of nervous guilt,
as the impeccably dressed waiter
exhaustedly refilled our water glasses,
nodding his head reflexively
to my mouse squeaks of “thank you’s”
What monsters are we,
letting these people work on Thanksgiving Day?
Grandma said, calmly, that some people
are just happy to be paid,
recounting
her impoverished childhood
in war-torn Germany—
that to simply muffle
the aggressive rumbling
of a days-empty stomach,
she and her brother
would ****** a handful of
potatoes from a government farm,
not many, but just enough
as she grimaced
at the ever-so-slight mealiness
of her rosemary-infused pork chop—
the woman who couldn’t afford ham
until she became a citizen.
We nodded quietly and
swallowed our privileged guilt,
washed down with
politely cut bites
of perfectly cooked salmon.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
###
the buzzing in your limbs when you lie on them for too long
is the buzzing in my head
the static in my mind that makes
the world
s p
n i
in deadly motion;
as rivers run from my eyes
tear-soaked tissues clenched in my smothering grasp
lungs
c
o
l
l
a
p
s
i
n
g
inwards
while the world spins around me
threatening to spin me into infinite inexistence by breaking me
into an infinite number of slivered
p
i
e
c
e
s --
for i am too smothered by the world
and it is not the first time today
i couldn't breathe.
###
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
my god, you embody admirable beauty
you replenish all the good when my world is crashing
with waves so persistent these rocks must remember
the importance they leave when the tide begins to fall
i'm dying to know, has this sand always been so white?
i find peace in the piles my car is collecting
i beam at the worlds these rocks are collecting
communal homes, no fighting; just beauty
my pale limbs get lost in sand so white
shortly revealing themselves as waves come crashing
sometimes i stand on that rugged pier and i fall
awaiting the swallow of the sea, forgetting what i shouldn't remember
here, the wind is always changing, it will never remember
these impeding worries I've been collecting
it may not be strong enough to catch my fall
but it floods my lungs with beauty
for a moment i feel this high is crashing
a seagull grooms his messy feathers, searching for the white
i tell the gull he's beautiful, despite his lack of white
he distracts me from what i shouldn't remember
in taking flight, i envy his crashing
colliding with the water at such height, i grasp the shells I've been collecting
i notice the tide receding from its path, revealing more beauty
tripping over sand, i race to the pier for one last fall
i attempt to leave but the oceans current begs for another fall
the powdery sand on shore grabs me by the ankles and i'm glowing white
i am flattered by this playful behavior, i'm grateful for its beauty
with you, my dear, my peace of mind is all you must remember
rest assured i will never abandon the memories we are collecting
for it is you, i run to when my world is crashing
i swiftly dodge the sudden rain so violently crashing
in a dreamy state, i observe the drops as they fall
still, my shoes are soaked from where water insisted on collecting
in my rear view i see the sand converts to mud and is no longer white
it doesn't matter though, its not the way i'll remember
a storm could never retract genuine beauty
recounting the days moments, drenched in beauty, i feel my body crashing
time is limited when trying to remember as my eyelids fall
white sand is all i see and i'm buried beneath the pillows I've been collecting
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 1:36 AM UTC
Thou Lil' Nightingale,
Heed my heart.
Hope I, sound not desperate.
O, tend to my wounds;
Wish I, thine hand be held.
Implore I, soothe my pain;
Two ears that hark!
Recounting, recounting;
Thy mouth, speak of stories.
I wilt vow to always remember you;
I wilt vow to always love you;
Swear no love but yours wilt do.
If I wert your Nightingale,
O'er these mountains, I would fly.
I would find you, I would find you.
Nightingale, Nightingale;
Fair and Tender;
I wish thou be Nightingale to my Heart.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 6:51 AM UTC
I didn't hold tendons between my fingers like
street boys on rain city rooftops,
crumpling their futures up to smash into shredded jeans,
shredded hearts,
some wrappers escaping, flying over this city
as our neglectful witnesses.
Their hands were broken bottles. The black top
made my guts look like escaping snakes,
my eyes hoping to be Medusa.
Fictionalizing gets me through most things.
Sometimes pain tastes like metal, sometimes like cherries.
I stare at the sideways sunset, a wrapper spit up
and drying out, a pipe dream promise;
reviewing my time strips as if they'd had a spelling change,
recounting every drop of blood word and smile.
Sometimes I forget that I'm real.
Sometimes I'm not.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Staying alone means talking with the self
Staying alone means reviewing the past
Staying alone means scanning the identity
Staying alone means recounting the plummet of felony
Staying alone means recovering the stolen glee
Staying alone means invigorating yesterday
Staying alone means get ready for tomorrow!
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC
A stone monolith sits in the middle of a frozen field. It has seen many a eon, many civilizations fall and rise, many many years in it's cold position. Its face once that of a mighty god or a worshiped king, is all that remains. It's chiseled grimace forever juxtaposed on its stony countenance. Throughout its still existence, this grimace never disappears. All times will this grimace will endure.
The snow falls down over its impenetrable skull. It bears no notice, only surreal patience, as it slowly awaits oblivion. Oblivion! All its thoughtless mind are set on it, forever counting the days it does not know with numbers it does not know. There is no comfort here. All is frozen, all is cold. It had never chosen to lay here, yet lay here it must.
Eternally till it is dust, it is counting with numbers it does not know the days it does not know. It reminiscences on past events it witnessed, but does not recall. The wars, the disasters and the plagues.... It has bared through all with the same grimace as the creatures subjected to the horrors kneeled before it in reverence, offering it sacrifices and soul. It towered above these pitiful creatures, it watched with eyes that do not see as they trembled in its wake, following orders it did not speak. Ignoring prayers it did not hear.
So obediently did these creatures obey what it did not say! Dutifully did they destroy their own and all around them. Faithfully did they create this ****** field of barren nothingness, thee circumspect watchers of the monolith's will. An empty scourge to what once was. Beautiful landscapes of yesteryear now turned from sprawling green to turn into frozen ash, forever recounting the final moments of misery on this lifeless realm, a misery that surrounded the monolith in its final days. Consistently reflecting off of its stone grimace before it all faded away with the last life.
As the eternal years past and the amaranthine smog lies overhead, the monolith sits in the middle of a frozen field. There is no comfort here. The snow has turned to thermonuclear ash years ago. All is frozen, all is cold. It had never chosen to lay here, yet lay here it must.
Quietly it does. Frozen in place, in a frozen field where nothing grows. The strong face of monolith is all that remains. The face surveys the empty landscape before it forevermore.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
Have you ever wanted someone to beg for you?
To push against you and plead to feel you ?
To tell you how theyve ached for you .. All... Day ..long.
I need that .
Begging and baring teeth ,
Crazed without my fingertips.
I want him pacing , anxiously awaiting my return, where i can remind him again why im worth waiting for .
I want him up all night counting and recounting the 100 different ways i drive him crazy , a constant game of teasing and rewards.
I want my name to give him goosebumps, closing his eyes and hearing how it sounds rolling off his tongue.....
I want him crazy about me .
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
forced to wake up
do things for others that I don't want to
not obliged to, feel condemned to.
another persons mistake and I'm pushed to my knees
with a hand slapping at my face trying to get me to eat
out of the other one:
dog food.
of course I can always leave
not that the important ones will chase after me
they'll lay on rooftops to get closer to the stars
enjoy the silence,
the freedom, they had not to shake themselves
it's not an earthquake of a morning
it's slower than a sunrise
perhaps no sleep has been.
night's enchantment has caressed you
softly.
ideas curl around your restless mind,
eyes piercing morning's pallet
with all it has to bare before it's been sought out by others.
dreaming
I am
lost in thought
a parallel universe of myself
this is where beautiful thoughts bury themselves
so as to later reveal what I need
to say or to do next
I am
healing
a force
grows stronger when impatient
insistent and intrusive
my love
is
blind
my love
is
weary
my love
is
endless
it
expands
my love reaches to the tips of your fingers
which scream for embrace
and release.
you want to write
you write
I want to read
I read
no such thing!
procrastination has the gravitational force of an addiction
I'm breeding consequence through my actions
focused on expression
feeling, it's all I can
empathy shocks me
until the lightning rays melt my heart
and my mind becomes somewhat of a battle ground for healing
one hole repaired is another dug
a filling is digested to a semi-satisfactory state
a poison is a temporary cure
continue to feed me
the poison
I'd rather feast on my own self
than grovel for what
evil offers.
again
my love is blind
my love is torture
my love is peace
if I let it be
my love is curious
my love is hiding
my love is wishful
cautious
frightened
yanked
crushed
held
my love is you
my love is the moon
my love is wondering
and wonderful
wants attention.
I want to give my love
without
rejection.
my love is loved.
take it,
you can keep it for as long as you want.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
We built cathedrals on street corners
under heavy orange lights
cascading down our faces.
I loved your imperfections:
a narrow, twisted spine,
a long, indented nose
and a shrill voice slicing through
the midnight summer wind.
I'd love you forever
in the sagging bench
on your thin front porch,
where I'd spend eternity
tracing outlines of silhouetted trees
covering soft, flaring streetlights.
We burned through hours
recounting the wounds from our past.
Every kiss was a lightning bolt,
and cracked like raging thunder.
We felt a violent forgiveness
exploding like stars in the pits of our chest.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
We have a checkered past
I call it a story,
Inevitability,
Or something beautiful
I don’t see it with your cold hazel eyes
I don’t dissect it into painful little bits
Trying to discern cause of death
As we’re lying entwined on a cold autopsy table
Before our heart beats have even had the chance to stop racing
I don’t believe it’s avoiding failure if we never try
I never have
You read our history like a eulogy
Citing each fight as a mortal wound
Recounting the tales
Over a mahogany coffin
Holding onto your love
Was like listening to a coroner’s report
Each “I love you” was a doctor, calling it
Was a DNR order
You are ready to dress in black
And call in a headstone engraving
With past tense dates
To bury everything
And just call it a mistake you had to make
But I am not an obituary
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
I watched my very own
Charles Bukowski
eat a tangerine outside of
the arthouse
where we were reading.
His name is not really Bukowski,
but he has told tales in the same
vein as the Laureate of Drunkards
for longer than I have been alive.
I have listened to that same back alley
patois,
and barroom wisdom for long
enough that I feel a certain level
of comfort in calling the old gizzard
this municipality's own
Charles Bukowski.
The grizzled old poet
is telling wanton tales
of love and honeydew.
He goes on and on,
recounting the times
that he's drunk
strong potato liquor
with Bengal tigers
in the backseats
of roaring taxis
on his way to parties
hosted by zebras and
gazelles.
We each light a cigarette,
pausing to smoke for a while.
Seeking to continue
the conversation with
my salty comrade,
yet knowing my own
stories cannot compete,
I surge onward nonetheless.
His interruptions jam my
traffic before I can even make
it onto the onramp of his
particular, peculiar highway.
His mouth is already working,
though his tangerine consumed.
He's chewing his next story into
digestible, deliverable bits.
And, now he's chewing the rind.
His mouth,
his words,
his life,
and my own for all of it,
is full of
zest.
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2017
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 7:52 PM UTC
I remember asking my dad,
“How many stars are in the sky,”
and he said something like,
“Way too many to count.”
But I’ve counted.
And after recounting
and recounting
and scribbling in my notebook
under my fathers flashlight
I can tell you that there is
indeed a number.
And to this day I prefer
reading the stars over anything.
They’re the oldest book ever written.
Space: the oldest canvas to be sewn
and the cosmos the paint of Picasso.
Each spec is its own character
each pair a set of eyes
where I can lose myself in their gaze.
A celestial connect the dots
where I collect the pictures
and pick out my favorite spots.
But when my son
is old enough to ask,
“How many stars are in the sky?”
I’ll just hand him a notebook
and tell him to read what he sees.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
My fingers trails around the edge
Once familiar but not forgotten
Rush of adrenaline pumps through my veins
As i pick up this wood filled lead
Not recounting the memories once felt
I took out my heart
Dusting off what remains
Only this the best I could scribble with
*Is this all a dream
That you've been lingering...
Illuminating,
Showering love in my realm with colorful rainbows
And you...
I'm still loving you
Just let this be a secret only for you
When my heart stops and no longer beating
It goes the same to this poem I'm writing
But that its not the slightest meaning
I hope you'll keep continue on dreaming
And you...
I'm still loving you
Just let this be a sweet dream for me and you
I've created love in the realm of dreams
Freezing your memories with snow white as cream
I'll always be by your side guiding
Forever for you...
I...
I promise...*
©2014 Maman Screams
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC