"recurrent" poems
Strange malaise,
One I can't place.
Struggling of late.
Discomforting state.
Persistent lethargy.
Sloth-like and heavy.
Burning internals.
Frequent intervals.
No temperature.
No warning lever.
Don't know what's wrong.
Been rather long.
Medicine trough
Can't rid me this cough.
Expulsion so violent,
Incessantly recurrent.
Over a fortnight
This ailment I fight.
Still hasn't eased.
Can't be appeased.
Development is seen.
Now spitting green.
Not just all
That joined this brawl.
It's just the coughing.
No injury I'm suffering,
I haven't bled...
But I see red...
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
****** it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it's time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.
11.4k
In tunnelled darks, pastes of reminisce
Outward disjoint points to irrelevance
Spooned and coned in cold mountaintops
The darks of sorrows and trails of struggles
Persistence patterns of self satire in gloom
Sunken in identity crisis of broad oceans
Stormy seas spotlighted by beatific stars
Trajectory of spilled ice in recurrent motions
A mere past cocooned by fears and tears
Clouded in thoughts that cruise and decline
Greyed white imprinted by sudden sadness
Madness echoes on arched ancient bricks
Checkered maniacs of fulfilled passions
Filed and iced in cased prolific memories
Cascades of sunshine tickles to warmth
Orchards of glow that bloom and grow
Picked, ticked and unpacked from boxes
Attacked, nurtured and stored in bliss
Eventful lessons unfolds in untold augury
A mission as the known permeates and fade
Windowed eyes all line up in parade
Mirrored lights digest the haunted haste
A stranger to self, an ally to another
A dance of bright entwine a twist of blur
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
My New Year’s Eve
was spent
collecting fragmented recollections
to confirm
that my dignity
had truly died.
Soberly,
I perused
the bars and clubs,
and walked aimlessly
up and down crowded streets,
feeling like my life
had somehow
been shifted
into slow motion,
while the rest of the world,
engaging in joyous celebration
and ffestivities,
was knocked out of rhythm
from my existence.
How in the world
could the clock strike midnight?
How could people embrace, and kiss
at the dropping of the ball?
How could they laugh and smiile,
and wish each other a “Happy New Year!”?
More importantly,
how could those god **** traffic lights
have the audacity
to continue changing
from red to ggreen to yellow,
then back to red again.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity had just died.
My dignity was dead.
My dignity was gone.
In the days and weeks
that followed the death of my dignity,
I noticed
that life faded
from colloquial to iconic,
like something mystical,
or an intangible object
of deep longing.
And recurrent images
of those *******
obnoxious traffic lights
insensitively
switching colors
replay in my mind
to remind me
over and over
in the greens (go),
the reds (stop),
and the yellows (be careful),
that my dignity
had died.
Memories
of the ddays
before my dignity had died
run through my mind
like old home movies
with centuries
of black and white film
stuck on repeat,
and slowly fraying,
around the edges,
because of the harsh demands of time.
It is life’s
harsh and cruel irony
that these images,
once my greatest joy,
have now become
inflicters
of the greatest pain
that I
have ever felt.
Like a sound wave
of pain,
so powerful,
that it has silenced
any other pain
that my heart
has ever heard.
So now I know,
it is true
life is a bitch.
The fading
of my dignity
has made me
overly aware
of the earth
turning on its axis.
As spring approached,
for the very first time,
I noticed
the way the flowers
seem reluctant
to bloom,
as if uncertain
of their
welcome invitation.
Such a cruel reality,
that the flowers
would choose
to bloom,
and nature
would choose
to carry on,
slipping
further and further
away from the day
that my dignity died.
And still,
to this day,
those ****
traffic lights
keep switching colors
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 8:32 AM UTC
In a midwinter night’s dream
i found myself lost again,
or was it even this year ?
It may even go back farther
than yesterdays out of reach,
older than an ancient pyramid stone
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
flotsam of the ages adrift,
unknown for more than a thousand years
... waiting for so long to see beyond the bounds
High atop a slippery edge-cliff
i clung ―
Searching for a deeper understanding
of who i am;
Roosting like a starving bird of prey
with a broken wing
born alone ... holding on
With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
Staring way down deep in the pith,
into an internal pitch black abyss,
just begging to see beyond ―
Mindful it's so hard looking
into the eye of a storm
Intimately parsing the recurrent source
of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion, preventing dispersion
of the nimbus cold and dark
In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
emptiness,
A swelling silence what loudly knells,
leeching through a perennial ache
An abating voice within hollers unheard,
invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
relentlessly through the hollow pang;
Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
deep beneath the light
Awakening to realize ― once i was alive
and
i could feel me holding on to you
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
"Nita, what do you NEED ?"
I HATE it when someone asks me that question!
"Nita, What do you need?"
NEED: “require”… “want”… “necessitate”
"What do you need right now. You don't have to do this in isolation."
"What do you need right now? I am not afraid of the little girl."
"What do you need right now? If you need something I am here to listen."
"If you don't think you are safe, then what do you need from me or others or yourself?"
Why does it matter what I "NEED"? Why do you ask me when you are not going to be able to grant that/those "NEED(S)"?
Is my Survivor Fairy Godmother asking you for a list of Nita's NEEDS so she can come wave her magic wand, sing, bippity, boppity, boo...and I'll become an unf@#ked kid?
Well, why didn't you say so!
Here's my list for the Godmother:
I NEED to be 'unf@#ked'. I NEED the voices in my head to stop. I NEEDED my evil father not to touch me. I NEED the flashbacks to stop. I NEED my body not to hurt. I NEED the fear to stop. I NEED for you to be here for me NOW like you WERE then. I NEEDED to be loved by my parents. I NEED someone to teach me what love really is. I NEED someone to show me that trust really does exist in this world. I NEED you to help me at night when I am suicidal and dissociative. I NEED you to be available after 10pm, when the hell started, you know, like you used to be...back when you actually cared about what I NEEDED. I NEED the little girl to stop whining and crying. I NEED to not have physical symptoms that relate to then. I NEED the nightmares to stop. I NEED the constant headaches to stop. I NEED my crohn’s to not be in a constant flare up. I NEED to stop having recurrent UTIs. I NEED the ****** Angry Girl to stop hurting me. I NEED to sleep. I NEED to want to live before I die.
I NEED you to hear me.
What? There is NO Survivor Fairy Godmother? NO magic wand?
I'm shocked! NOT!
I'm guessing that's why she never showed up then, either...I prefer to think that rather than her never answering my cries of: Please make him stop hurting me!
I NEED you to STOP asking me what I NEED Since we both know that those NEEDS will NEVER be my reality, and that it is actually more painful to ask for what you NEED and not get that need met, then it is to keep your NEEDS to yourself. At least that's true for me.
So...unless you have a survivor registry where I can resister for the aforementioned NEEDS, or, perhaps a survivor merit system where I can earn credits to 'buy' the above NEEDS (I'm not afraid of hard work)...then STOP ASKING ME WHAT I NEED!
Because we both know it does not matter what I NEED!
Can't undo what's already been done. We both know that.
What Nita "NEEDS" right now is a bottle of ***** and some cranberry juice…THAT is a NEED I can meet right now!
A TOAST!
Here's to: UNMET NEEDS
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 10:32 PM UTC
recurrent moonlit distractions
captured by words
tied down into morsels;
separated and concealed,
contiguous yet sheer greetings
of each other’s skin
had left wanton burns
and gushing streams
of a brooding lover’s propensity
for unsusceptible matters of the heart.
there, he stood,
on the precipice of tomorrows;
ruminating and scrupulous,
forlorn yet never dithering
over mundane and quintessential quandaries
of the tepid gloss of incertitude
dangling off syllables
dictated by sordid agony.
there, he stood,
in the midst of everything;
from the otiose adoration
poured out of empty caskets
to the lenitive shades of his eyes.
with the ripples of moonlight,
the gestalt of doleful flower-like hearts,
there, she stood,
and waited.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
I'm glad you're my friend
A shoulder to lean
A crutch to stand
A dwelling of respite
And the dawn's first break of light
I hope to give as much as I take
Laugh with you and cherish
To face what comes side by side
To be silent comfortably on those long car rides
I can never be angry at you
No matter my efforts
A smile from you is all it takes
A cure to my recurrent mental aches
In an unfulfilled life, your company is contentful
But
Like a poisonous nightshade blossoms
The fruit of friendship ferments
Forms into an intoxicating sweet wine
Drunk from it, my mind is realigned
I don't want to be friends with you
"Friend" is such an evil word
It brings so much yet restricts all I care for
A false comfort when one longs for more
So perhaps I must go
To some distant desolate escape
To myself, I must be true
I have to save myself from my love for you
I hate that you're my friend
Jun 28, 2022
Jun 28, 2022 at 12:10 PM UTC
I think I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;
And all my pretty follies flung aside
That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,
Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,
Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
I, that had been to you, had you remained,
But one more waking from a recurrent dream,
Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,
And walk your memory’s halls, austere, supreme,
A ghost in marble of a girl you knew
Who would have loved you in a day or two.
2.6k
He squeezed his voice out of the throat
an old Dreadnought guitar
He bared his soul to anyone
who would listen to his psalms;
purging the torn an anxious silence within,
surrendering an unspoken heart in a song
Some days you feel
like you live too long
Watching the recurrent tides
recede and grow low
This life, such an unplanned journey,
given to lose what’s been lost once more
How many times
must a heart be broken?
To realize a heart heavy
won’t stop beating strong
Steal away the broken inside
these flesh forsaken walls;
breathe one’s last bated breath
in the peace of a song
Sometimes life falls
w a a a y y y y short of expectations
Though passing time
may assuage evanescent dreams,
there is a stillness that floods the moment
awakening a motherless child in a soul
Fate befallen a wordless silence
in the aftermath of finally letting go
Fingertips no longer calloused
Dreadnought wood dusty gone cold
Melancholy madness echoes unrequited
A lonely bird without a song ...
*** September 2016 © H. Rivers***
all rights reserved
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
Pixelated bitmap e-mares
Digitized be mementos cached
Her 8 bit vocal vintage freeware
Transfers recurrent electric draughts
The bitrate of virtual seduction
Intrusively hacks my bones
Taste be my lips of data eruption
Elicited from her tone
Physique a stimulating software
Upon my Ethernet she crafts sparks
A gem society deemed quite rare
Though she possessed a vibrant bark
Her bandwith I yearned to fiddle
'Twas encrypted with die-hard lust
She moans in esoteric riddles
Keen I decode them whilst I ******
Pizazz eclipsing our veins
A billion megabytes colliding
Satiated we crash free of rein
Unforeseen servers uniting
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
This poem is featured in the poetry collection “Technicolor” as written by Glenn McCrary
The collection is currently available in paperback and hardcover editions for purchase on Lulu.com
.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 4:09 PM UTC
1471
Their Barricade against the Sky
The martial Trees withdraw
And with a Flag at every turn
Their Armies are no more.
What Russet Halts in Nature’s March
They indicate or cause
An inference of Mexico
Effaces the Surmise—
Recurrent to the After Mind
That Massacre of Air—
The Wound that was not Wound nor Scar
But Holidays of War
2.1k
I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.
2.1k
Everyone's got their own to nurse
Every moment, every day
They lament in the verses of their curse
Daily... More would be incited to join the fray
They want to be seen and heard
They want to be consoled
From the petty absurd
To death's design enrolled
Counting on ready ears
And arms open wide
For me to wipe my tears
And be by their side
But I too, am living my own
I too, bleed my pen dry
I too, feel the misfit of my bones
I too, have my recurrent days to ply
I guess that's just being human
Expecting solace through words of grievance
We try so feebly to share the weight of burden
In the hopes that we'd plot our existence
I understand that the urge is great
So much so that we tend to forget
Others too, have had enough on their own plate
On which we pile our leftovers without regret
I am still here but.. It's time for some quiet
Be all I could be with minimal words said
For right now it's not working, this illusion of an outlet
Because I still see demons when I lay in bed
People can't do much with something so brittle
One could stay afloat if he learns to shout
I wish I could be more to everyone but I know so little...
Of what I feel so much about...
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 9:30 AM UTC
gold
thought
spiral
natural
golden thought cycle
god's natural infinite spiral
eye
burnished gold
tarnish
god's
cyclical thoughts
golden spiral
infinite growing
recurrent cycle
spiraling towards god's golden eye
circling nature's burnished cycle
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
Are you truly that thoughtless?
Or quite simple, just the same?
Can’t you see the blatantly undeniable?
Recurrent actions in centuries passed?
In your hollowed, tenebrous whole
Manifestation of isolation
Is there not a more evident proof
You’re a pillar of others’ melancholy
For your awful reclusion and great lack of communication...
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
the hardest part was starving it
every ideal like springtide flowerets
you turned to archaic grisly gravel
watch them crash through
weathered rooftops
watch them fall
drawing maps with hungry voices
winding staircase. hidden street.
drained from stepping on recurrent
cryptic papers scattered floorboards
no matter how many times they're
cleaned, there they are
bright coral turns vile muddy brown
when it stays in the sun too long
alone, everybody knows that
that's what they thought
beneath a brittle beacon, cloudy day
they'll keep pretending, it'll be okay
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Dreams !!
Tangible Intangible , Day Dreams
Future Dreams ,Beautiful Dreams
A lucid Dream
Nightmares and All .
A dreamer that I am ,
Earned this tag a little too young.
*After grade 10 exams
Had Recurrent Dreams
Of
Either getting late for the Examination Center
Not able to finish the paper
Or plain
Forgetting to revise the right subject before the exam*
This went on for a few days .
Before the Long Vacation finally absorbed all the fear !!
Want to Live Up To My Dream
Of
'Being Honest to my Conscience'
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 4:27 AM UTC
They speak to the madman,
Suppression, subversion, detraction,
A vocabulary of ‘less than’.
They speak to the madman,
To the loveless and the wounded,
The self-doubting ego.
They speak to the madman,
A consort of shadows,
Recurrent with paradox.
_Until...uncertain as to the integrity of my own thoughts,
Understudied by self-censure and distrust,
I pause to listen in silence to the silence which listens back._
Oct 29, 2020
Oct 29, 2020 at 3:39 AM UTC
Broken hearts are taken for granted,
their sunny shapes are torn;
their tiny windows are doomed and forlorn.
Broken hearts are never noticed,
they are no more than abandoned,
they have never existed;
as far as people can recall,
or as long as their sanity allows them to.
their truths are denied,
no attention are they given by their lords.
Broken hearts are injured,
their wounds probably incurable,
their eyes are now full of hate, pain and recurrent danger
that will never be healed.
Broken hearts have been deceived,
tricked, stained, disregarded, and disgraced
without ever being able to be fixed or retuned.
Their minds have been scattered,
their fragile little fingers that feel sore,
and nobody with their vanity will ever know.
Broken hearts feel lonely in their loneliness,
sad in their sadness,
cry in their doom,
weep silently their misery
in the center of their darkening rooms.
Broken hearts are never known,
even when they are truthfully true,
even when they are as subtle as glue,
when they feel that they are nowhere in blue.
But above all,
their honesty is graceful praised,
their patience is sacred graced,
their courage and loyalty regarded embraced.
They were lied to and thrown away,
they were betrayed and laughed at night and day,
they were kicked out and are now withering away.
They have hands that are now crippled,
their eyes have lost their cheerful sight,
their smiles are false and sort of painful.
Their waves are nothing but smoldering red anger
in their murky oceans,
they roll and roll without ever glancing backward,
and soon they forget who they really were
and embarrassed are them,
deciding to turn away and never bother to look back.
Their carols are never sung,
their chords have now flown away,
their melodies have not any single remembrance of themselves.
Broken hearts have desires that are never fulfilled;
destiny that is never reached,
and craves that are never satisfied.
But truly,
their devotion and humility as sacred and holy.
Unfortunately,
everything is just never more than unfair to them
as if they deserve to be humiliated
and for their prides to be consumed
and cruelly torn
into pieces of irreparable tears
when their deserted nights appear
and the massive lies start to bring out their fear
to haunt their very innocence,
their breaths, and flashes of sadness.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
My syndrome is a trigger
My mood swings, the gun
Victim, prey and dear
Is my poor head
Carrying the basket of an emotional rollercoaster
One without all the fun
With recurrent depressive episodes
Haunting day and nights
Visiting me fortnightly
Dragging me to the edge of losing it all
In addition, not a single person around me
Knows how it actually feels to feel this way
My episodes are just a show
They have all watched on repeat
Without knowing and understanding
As a standby on the road
Of my moods dragging me to the abyss
Flashes of anger bursting like crackers
And I cover myself
Sit like a baby protecting myself from the harm
I cause to self
When anger is chasing me
As if we are playing bandhi chain
I, the last person to catch
My mood swings seem this desperate
I lose my calm too often
Find me into a pond of tears
My mind becomes a maze
All the endings closed
I struggle, I shout and cry
Hopelessly!
The window of opportunity
I have to create
Started building a castle of health
Hope in heart
To finish and relax in my castle
One day with peace.
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 3:11 AM UTC
Weep not child,
though thy hopes and great expectations
seem to be shattered by the wretched of the earth
and the recurrent harvest of thorns,
I beseech thee- weep not child;
life hath tossed you away,
feel how lonely it is at the deep end?
you are in the midst of hard times,
perilous, treacherous;
Even as the valiant capitulate and yield
remain a true son of the soil,
till the land
and keep on waiting for the rain,
I beseech thee- weep not child;
The rain will come with the arrow of God,
straight and honest it will lay bare their chambers of secrets, destroy their names and their things;
with all their pride and prejudice,
they will no-longer be at ease,
as their names and things fall apart,
be ready child,
for we will need new names new things,
so weep not child,
this is God's case, no appeal.
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 7:53 AM UTC
jesus came back in 1945 in egypt
with a shepherd
digging the scrolls up:
the nag hammadi library...
the jewish historian josephus wrote
about a false egyptian prophet
~2000 years ago,
dot dot dot...
well... dot dot dot;
counter argument?
in defiance the defence rests its case
with a semi-detached and a roast dinner
every sunday until death do us part.
sorted then!
*** change's a bonus on top of
that balancing act to keep glogotha relevant
in terms of impregnation above the interest
of bethlehem to orientate
east with 3 splinters aimed at gift:
take east and you're looking at a linear
two dimensional realm of preceding allocation...
preceding allocation of the mirage that's
a recurrent but nontheless a receding mark
of served colour...
**** we all missed the 2nd coming in 1945...
the holocaust got the historians clamouring
for the columbus prize - as that famous hip-replacement
for the jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way!
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
*Evergreen soldiers at the whim of Alraus
I've had a recurrent dream of the enlisted warriors
abandoning their post , occupying the fertile grassland
in a chess type move to gain control
Free of shade , of root-bound thirst , of choking
moss gathering unchallenged in overpopulated arbors
A celebration courtesy of the Robin Knights , the Chickadee troubadours ,
the Cardinal gentlemen at the Court of Queen Chestnut
Slash , sugar , loblolly and white oak
Persimmon , hickory , honey locust and dogwood
The myrrh of gardenia , magnolia , honeysuckle and tea rose
Earthen red clay , white sand , black loam and kaolin
Grasshopper cellist , cricket flautist , a chuckling crow with a
Spanish guitar
The toad trombones , a bluebird violin solo , a mockingbird reads
a touching poem that even sways the worker ants into a brief pause
The Old Forest becomes pasture and the grassland young woodland
The dove cue the night , the katydids croon to the moon ,
the bullfrogs 'pooka-dooka' and the lovers swoon* ...
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC