"rediscovery" poems
In the place where the moon meets broken shadows, it begins with the swelling of my eyes
Tears roll across the scars, that no one else can see
A phantom’s curse
Only this place can release my from this dystopian enchantment
The sweet smell alone entangles me with feelings of safety and wonder
For a reality flooded with forest flowers and a throbbing wind
It teases my subconsciousness, it trickles down to my soul
Like a an agonizing murmur
The hypnotic web forms
In this quiet place clouds hurry across confusing shadows
Shivering in the delicious sunlight
My immaculate hour of rediscovery begins…
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC
When our tears are dry on the shore
And the fishermen carry their nets home
And the sea gulls return to bird island
And the laughter of the children recedes
At night
There shall still linger here the communion we
Forged
The feast of oneness which we partook of
There shall still be the eternal gate-men
Who will close the cemetery door
And send the late mourners away
It cannot be music we heard that night
That still lingers in the chambers of memory
It is the new chorus of our forgotten comrades
And the hallelujahs of our second selves
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
Trains at the bottom of the garden
metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam
huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal
some compact with tanks affixed
others larger, more grand
pulling colour matched tenders
sometimes bearing shields and names
beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City'
mostly black, some rusty
deep reds or greens
with contrasting lines edged in gold
Once one came in matt pink
and I wondered why it didn't gleam
like the others, perhaps pink
was a colour not to be given
it's equal due with other
less feminine shades
it had to be denied vibrancy
yet I loved the pink one best
later I learned somehow
that the colour was that
of the primer used
to inhibit the rust
and my pink engine
was just an unfinished paint job
pressed into service
prematurely to give cover
for another that was broken
I wrote down the numbers regardless
it was a ritual that one performed
though I didn't understand why
yet it was exciting
to record a new one
that hadn't passed before
Behind the business end
came carriages laden heavy
with the visitors of summer
come to fill our beaches
and our town with their loudness
their raucous laughter
with strange accents
brummie, scouse, mancunian
faces pressed against glass
expectant, excited, impatient
almost there now
anxious that this last delay
pass quickly and the half mile
remaining be completed
We would lurk beneath the bridge
like adopted troll children
it was cool there in the summer heat
darting out from behind pillars
or in my case watchfully, cautiously
edging my way forward
to place pennies on the track
or sometimes nails
then to retrieve them
flattened, thinned, squashed
once the train had passed
sometimes we'd wait hours
or so it seemed
sometimes no train would come
and we would trail home
for tea and bath and bed
leaving our offerings
to the gods of the rail
for rediscovery and inspection
the following day.
Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
In urgent call.
The door opens by elegant wrist.
Her lashes close.
Soft beads of water fresh out the shower.
Made glorious, covering me.
Her scent the tip of my nose.
Every wrong made right.
Sweetened cocoa butter, the hint of mango.
Artesian painting reflects us.
Offering safe passage from tongue to lips.
Open, the taste of delicate skin.
The fragrance of all I'd need.
Seasoned by discovery.
The rediscovery of thought.
The towel drops.
Every breath a caress from which we grew.
A flower in bloom, ripe in unification.
Well soaked in eternal ache.
The artesian painting retouched by desire.
Consistently in the utmost obligation.
Undressed,
The passage of me to you
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
Walked out the door,
into the God abandoned day,
night took his toll,
brought his longtime friend,
the rain.
Please, don't follow me.
I'm not mad for the reasons you thought.
I'm not sad for the season I lost.
It's the lessons you didn't mean, but taught.
Please, don't follow me.
Your words are meaning less and less to me.
Walked past my car,
stopped at Vista,
bought a pack,
watched the water war,
spat smoke, in my soaked coat, under an awning,
a teenage couple, tense as matchsticks, walked past,
staring with unknown, undeserved prejudice.
Please, don't follow me.
It isn't about emotional depths or rediscovery.
It isn't about finding happiness or inspiring sorrow.
It's the fact that my mistakes led me to you.
Please, don't follow me.
You aren't ready to help me.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 9:10 PM UTC
A pool with no walls in
An ocean with no souls
Has no choice.
Fate is the tyrant,
The trident even Poseidon controls not.
You cannot drown if you’ve never breathed air.
“Be no one like everyone,”
She laughs, “Equality 7-2521.”
My mouth remains frozen in the frown,
Brows furrowed down.
Disgusted by sheep, I never wear wool.
The fibers stick, **** suffocate,
Even when dry.
No one else minds it. In fact,
They say “baa” and wear the same masks.
“Bah,” I mutter into ripples.
Witness myself in reflection, introspection,
Retrospection: the id is omniscient;
Individuals are conventional, rarely exceptional;
Explanations are like Time,
They wound and heal.
Truth is disposable, honesty opposable.
Disillusionment is discovery,
Disgusting, discarding, disregarding,
Disblahblahbinizing.
Splash the water, pause the thought process.
Steal fate’s trident, bend it
Into a bubble wand.
When dawn dawns,
Daintily dip the stick in.
A big, blue bubble is born
With each breath, with each blow.
I enter the bubble, in peaceful pace,
Gently lay down,
Knees kiss my face.
Sigh with relief, rebirth, rediscovery.
The ultimate revolution ending
In victory,
In magnificent realizations,
In my last gasp.
Feb 13, 2010
Feb 13, 2010 at 8:59 PM UTC
Choosing Pi
Three Spoonfuls of Vain
Point
One pint of cut Veins
Four years of Blood
One teaspoon of the never ending Flood
Five gallons of Depression
Nine ounces of Aggression
Two pounds of Solitary
Six months of Treachery
Five meters of Rope
Three minutes of Hope
Five Moments of Silence
Eight centimeters of air
Nine moments of much needed care
Seven seconds of Suspense
Infinite eternal rest
Three spoonfuls of recovery
Point
One pinch of rediscovery
Four cups of another path
One lifetime of choices
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
Baby, I miss your smiles,
I love my laughter even more.
Baby, I miss your voice,
I enjoy my silence even more.
Baby, I miss your eyes,
I nourish my health even more.
Baby, I miss your heart,
I listen to my heartbeats even more.
Baby, I miss losing myself in you,
But yes, I have found myself again.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 12:39 AM UTC
~
the language of love,
it has no equivalence,
we speak what we hope,
we seek what we love;
vacillating? perhaps,
but there is no ambivalence.
lovers whisper, lovers shout;
alternating between holding it in,
or getting the words out.
whether sweet words of friendship,
or letting the heart go,
each tells a tale, a heartbeat,
one the spirit only knows.
is it the “shemomedjamo” of Georgia,
the “overindulgence that
cannot stop this appetite;”
or “lagom” of the Swedes,
who speak of moderation?
where what i have and what i see,
is perfect, just right!
the words, “koi no yokan,”
from the culture of the east,
Japanese speak of the instant of knowing
a love that’s “meant to be.”
there is “mamihlapinatapai,”
used by those at the tip,
of Tierra del Fuego’s windswept cliffs,
a lover’s wish they can’t set free;
further north Brazilians speak,
of “cafune,” the sweet tugging
at her long and flowing hair;
a love that reaches,
strokes, so tenderly.
the Thai use “greng-jai,”
for love that defers...
and to sacrifice refers;
the French have “retrouvailles,”
a love that sparks rediscovery,
where distance knows no separation;
“onsra,” is a love
soon to be a thing of the past;
used in Burma and India when spoken of
a love that cannot last.
the “saudade,” of the Portuguese,
of love that can no longer be,
though it may have been consuming,
is now but bittersweet.
and then... there is Arabic’s “tuqburni,”
a love that says so gently
“without you i am dying!”
each, it has no English equivalent
yet somehow we manage...
we find our true love,
in relationships, in marriage,
for love is a catholic language;
even when there are no words,
where touch, where tender looks,
translations of the unheard thoughts;
where pillows hold the notes of longing,
empty bars and stanzas filled;
oh love, oh boundless one,
under steeples pledge your troth,
to death’s door you take your oath,
to forever sing your universal song!
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 1:28 AM UTC
Sixty Eight years of age
and he texts her puppy love
msgs six time a day,
in between phone calls.
long ago lovers,
high school, I think,
Facebook stumbled upon,
and the inky surprise,
that they have relearned to be,
a new shade of
a true blue tint of
the word,
devoted.
mushy is the heart that goes
soft to hard to soft,
soft by innocence, then
Pharaoh hardened by life, then,
softened by reflection,
mushyed by wisdom,
that came costly.
when relearning
the side effects of
discovering the words
that were left unsaid,
or even better,
spoke this time with
better understanding,
greater appreciation.
Now so better
After Aging Aching
in an oak cask
of finally, filly fully
fermented love.
I don't need inspiration
to clap for you,
but your confidence un-betrayed,
name omitted,
as one grandfather tips his hat to another,
all he can smiling say,
God ****
romantic rediscovery at 68,
I suspect is even better than the
first fumbled go around.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
The first mile you walk with a person
is for friendship.
Small blisters and cramped toes --
why don't you try walking in heels?
Didn't think so...
The second mile we walk
is for love.
Now the bleeding starts --
little drops, here and there,
never enough to ****
The third mile my grandparents walk
is for rediscovery.
They're used to the shoes by now --
the "You like pie?" moments;
the little things that make them remember.
The fourth mile we all will walk
is for mourning.
Learning to live without --
blood trailing behind you,
yet the march must continue.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 8:27 PM UTC
My words have been stolen
as I put my heart upon the shelf
quivering in it's sudden new position
cold and vulnerable
outside of it's bone prison
which gave airs of security, protection
what a mistake, that.
The daggers ****** between
proving the weak points of the
flesh to be real
and not phantoms.
After a long talk
we both decided it would
be safer on the altar.
It seems my argument
made sense
since my heart agreed
wholly and without reservation.
In the night we have long
conversations
my heart and I
calling to me from it's new
residence
asking when it can come home again
weary of the cold
and trembling when a stranger
walks too closely by
I reassure - even when they peer
closely at the jumble around you
you remain invisible
my voodoo is that strong
It agrees with a wet, thumping sigh
wistful and nostalgic
for the incessant whispering
of the Siamese twins
named, unoriginally, the Lungs.
It wonders what treasures
the gurgling idiot stomach
is dissolving today without judgment
(unless, of course, the stomach is throwing a tantrum
and decides to toss everything back out.)
I understand
these are the musings of an *****
misplaced
who misses home and forgets
the pain which drove it away.
If only my brain would forget
that old library
huge and dusty as a mausoleum
never throws anything out
just shelves it and adds it's placement
in the card catalogue
(If only it would upgrade - cross-referencing and rediscovery
would be easier.)
However, the librarian holds grudges
when the heart has been
played with too roughly
and keeps the pain files on her desk
constantly rifled through and
shuffled, reshuffled, shuffled again
"One day I'll have enough to write a book"
she mumbles over the complaints
of my heart as it bleats and moans
about it's new home
She doesn't hear it - it's too far away
from the Central Nervous System
for the message to be transmitted
in the proper form.
When she remembers
that ole librarian of my brain
where the heart has gone
she stops to listen
and in anger over it's pathetic pleas
she cries
"We have not learned
So you cannot return
If I did as you request
We would take back up the quest
And we all know...
He -
He -
He... "
She breaks down in literary sobs
reminding the heart of
the nature of it's exile
and why
it's truly
for
the best.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 8:55 PM UTC
I want to continually reward myself
with new experiences,
wake up each morning to sounds
of birds chirping at dawn,
and rise to liberate my own inner warrior.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 11:27 AM UTC
create with no shame
create with no measuring stick
use only this:
everything that is done well
is good art
explore and excavate forms,
churn the ether
within you is the sleeping artist,
tap yourself awake,
yet be silent,
be intimate,
with the unconscious plateaus
with in you
be intimate
with the making
and the doing,
the fertility
of creating
you will require silence
to allow for reflection,
communication
Childbirth is noisy, messy,
Birthing art is different
understand your language,
mine it, taste it,
it is your play dough
avoid the chronic,
habit is slavery
collaborate for
there in nothing new
under the sun,
but the constant rediscovery
of the old
in new forms
when ideas are exchanged,
every partnership is a solo
Experience anew,
Each time,
Say:
This is my first time,
This is my first work
I do not need your validation.
I validate myself
and in doing so,
who else
comes along
for the ride
on our tide?
create with no shame
create with no measuring stick
only this:
everything that is done well
is good art
Be Fertile and Radiate
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 12:18 AM UTC
how nice would it be
to
rediscover you
while you
rediscover me
you talked about
it
rediscovering love
while we
rediscover us
I laugh because
I
rediscovered you
while you
lost yourself
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC
Are you prepared or even aware that you have witnessed the very beginning of the slow unwinding of me? You’re looking at me like nobody else and witnessing first hand my rediscovery and simplification. Complex structures have failed me I am searching for my foundations. Releasing all hesitations and irrational reservations I have chosen the middle path never the path of least resistance.
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
Torn this way and that
Not knowing which way to go,
Having no way back
To that connection so strong,
For courage to fail in those crucial seconds.
How to live in that fine balance of scales,
Never too far one way and not the other.
Sticking to the center to avoid any mishap.
How can I live like that?
None of which is me?
How could I have gone so far astray?
I need to rediscover my identity
To enable me to break free to the surface,
And draw in the fresh air of life -
To find out who and where I'm supposed to be.
This stagnation has to go
For me the rediscover myself complete.
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC
Let me be a child once more
as I uncoil this scratchy length of rope
and fashion it into the likeness of a lasso
that ensnares the necks of imaginary villains.
Allow me this one moment
of childhood as I scale this tree
reliving dusty memories
of skinned palms
and bad falls
placed in family storage.
Can we play make believe,
perched atop this mossy branch;
legs swinging beneath us?
I want to pretend
this is an execution.
It’s a struggle to fit the
loop over my head then
tighten the knot near my pulse.
I tie off the other end
***** black toothed smiles
grinning underneath my nails.
Do you have any last words?
Yes, but they will be written
and safety pinned to my shirt.
Deep breaths, steady nerves, steely guts.
The familiar lurch in my stomach
from free fall rises in my diaphragm.
A snap, an involuntary spasm
and then the rediscovery
of blissful, childish ignorance.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:09 AM UTC
Pulling me back
in the arms of Mr. November
Time moves unfamiliar
But still I am
Longing for the known
thinking of fall cold
every corner there I was
unfamiliar
The melody moves unfamiliar
strange comfort in delight
of nostalgic rediscovery
But unstill I am
Unrelenting release
naive meanderings
Through the fall
into spring
but still I am
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
You have since forgotten the stale aroma of old books, how they once stretched your afternoons into nights that ended in the final flutters of heavy eyelids and young hearts beating with flustered adrenaline.
An eternity has separated your fingertips from the edges of creased paper memories that have since faded into faint flickers of yesterdays, wilted and tarnished like the handles of childhood bicycles left out in the rain.
The thrill of disappearing into the spines of stories where your name could be whisked away into the summer wind and forgotten, every mistake ever committed melting within the spaces of all of the words you were once too afraid to write yourself.
Chasing thrills was only ever appropriate for the innocent.
And you remember being young—living without thinking twice about the hands of the clock and their lonely waltz, never worrying about crossing off monotonous boxes on the calendar and or where tomorrow would begin. Instead, you’d just wake, wiping away the hazy violet sleep from your eyes, your little fingers sounding out the words existing upon unfamiliar pages you were still too small to understand.
But now you do. You are full of understanding. The way time slips through bigger hands that have grown strong and calloused with the weight of your own troubles, how you have learned that trying to catch it after the fall is equivalent to waiting for yesterdays to come knocking at your front porch. The way days never return home, never send you letters, never call first.
Comfort sleeps in the knowledge of temporary. Time is fleeting. Perhaps love is too, but you are still too soft to know this yet. Still too eager to be left out in the rain.
And when you finally curl up with a stack of paperback nostalgia, you are greeted with neglected lives and heroes that exist far beyond the ones you have broken yourself to be saved by.
***You have been busy chasing thrills this entire time.
You have only ever been innocent.***
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 10:04 PM UTC
Approaching a clearing in the mind,
Open and vulnerable to the elements
Alone and free, experimentation is a natural path
Burdens lift from shoulders, floating overhead
Paper crumpled in the hands of divinity
Blown away on the whispered promises of better things to come
Sanctity swells around the feet like a fog
Wandering through fallen leaves, memories discarded with no value
Rustles roll to thunderous applause
Eyes open, head tilts to the heavens
View unadulterated, comprehension unhindered
Empty sky, so simple now
Peace sinks heavy through constricted nerves,
An old home, vacant for so long
Senses overwhelmed, must pause for reflection
Past plugged into socket stars,
Space seems less distant now,
A dashboard of cause and effect
Eyes adjust, nature's palette returns again,
Forest thickens, clearing closing in
Experience a buried fossil, waiting rediscovery
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 4:30 AM UTC
i want to talk about pain and confusion and heartache, you know the kind where it sinks and even hurts in your stomach, and i want to talk about dropping bombs and all these songs that keep my boots on. (the heavy kind of boots) i want to talk about icky thump and neutral milk hotel and m.ward, rediscovery, warped vinyls like bowls, useless bowls. i want to talk about how any strength of feeling was stolen from me, and i want to create without fear. i want to let go i want a picnic and i want to day dream about listening to music while laying and wasting summer days to come and the subsequent nights that will burn my brain with memories and thoughts like my tattered quilt.
i want to, but i don't
i want to but it would just be white noise
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 4:08 PM UTC
A long while ago
Perhaps a year
I wrote a poem
About a beau
And now,
He's back
And better than the last time, I can tell
And in my heart he shall be allowed
He says all these great things
True to himself
He says he's changed
But how deep are these springs?
I am willing to give him another try
And I try to glaze over any doubts I possess
I urge to reach the sky
Touch the clouds with your hand in mine
I know we can
Will you be great with me?
And if all falls back to Earth,
I promise to always care
And attempt to do good by others.
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
I'll tell you a tale of two parts that were one
A sentient energy. A choice to become
Something more, for a moment, by splitting apart.
Each piece gained 6 senses… A body… A heart.
The lure of experience, of the human condition
Rediscovery of self; the noblest mission
But there was a catch! They must choose to forget
The oneness they once knew, A gamble... And yet
The choice to be human, to experience the mother
Until they would once again Find one another
Was filled with such promise, and freedom and choice
Joy, Love and friendship… all things to rejoice
Millennia had passed, through life and rebirth,
a thousand incarnations, Returned to the Earth.
They grew through the ages, knowing not their true goal
to find what they gave up, to become again whole
These fractured pieces, though complete on their own
Had within them a sense that, despite how they'd grown
Through epochs and lifetimes, Experiences true
One journey remained, each had to pursue
And then came that day, this last iteration
Through whispers cosmic, And familiar vibration
Two self-aware humans, A meeting by chance,
Saw their reflection in a momentary glance
There in that moment, they sensed the archaic
Connection to source; Universal mosaic
Their gaze pierced the veil of their lifetimes before
To the essence within, the kin at their core
Questions were answered, True purpose revealed
Both part of the same soul that longed to be healed.
Though physical distance would keep them apart,
Each recognised, the telepathy of heart
Knowledge familiar, the quest to be whole
Would drive and inspire them, to unite their one Soul
This lifetime perhaps? They wished it was so.
Certainty elusive; For Neither could know.
The true gift, however, this knowledge would yield
Was awareness itself, In the great cosmic field.
Aware once again of their Soul's counterpart
The sacrifice made, way back at the start
Magnetically drawn, as they always had been,
To reunion of spirit by forces unseen.
Enriched by experiences they'd gained in each round
The goal was now simply; to seek what they'd found
To discover the self. To meet their twin soul
To make, what was fractured, Once again whole
Time was irrelevant. Space mattered not.
Henceforth remembering what once was forgot
The gamble paid off, though the cost it was great.
They would find one another, for this was their fate.
And then when, at last
their moment did come
Imbued with new Love
Their two became one
-- for My Moon
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 4:01 AM UTC