"redraft" poems
*The ones thought lost never go away
find in you a place anchor and stay
on a rainy evening such as this
they come to your mind plant there a wish.
The girl you loved but never got to tie
you thought you lost when the years went by
comes back to you with the dust laden ring
her finger still unwarm on this rainy evening.
As the rain pours in the streetlight's glow
you regret if only you hadn't let her go
wish her to come back by a magic happening
redraft torn pages on this rainy evening.
Your side of the window can't rub off the cold
of the void in you left for her face never old
you madly ask could give anything to find
if on this rainy evening you come once in her mind.*
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
Hearts are not constant,
They each have many shades,
Their colour depends not on themselves,
But the light shining on them.
In the light they radiate beauty,
Each hue complimenting the other,
But in shade they lose focus,
And at night they are lost completely.
But Hearts are not black,
They only appear dark,
Nor are they red,
As even the most loving know hate.
Instead they span a spectrum,
Each unique,
But made of the same,
Primary emotions.
Hearts are pastels,
When touched they merge,
Blending towards each other,
Bridging the gap.
Although they cannot always fuse completely,
There will always be enough different colours,
For hearts to find companionship,
And trust, if not love.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 12:04 PM UTC
Everyday is a rewrite, the opportunity to redraft the first verse. My purple high-tops strike the sidewalk as I converse in morse code.
Regrets?
Just a few thoughts can lead us astray.
Today I'm the poem walking upon a blank slate, re-painting the canvas within...
A Mediterranean heat warms my back.
Her laughter still echoes, another reminder of those sun-drenched days.
Mountain tops, snow covered...
A mountain-biker with the funky frame, the picnic bench, the poems.
Walking, wandering, contemplating the first draft.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
10 little fingers, 9 little toes
Due to the topple of that Calor gas bottle
But still he took his first unsteady stumble
Between the sofa and the coffee table
And should have been grateful
For the outstretched hand that took the brunt
Of the sharp corner and the hot spill
But oblivious he bounced back
Right into a job with his mate’s dad down the garage,
Where he delved into the grease and spanners
That formed the bread and butter of a living wage.
And when the car fell on his toe that wasn’t there
He stumbled on without a care
Unstoppable, ready for the next obstacle,
And applied to the navy for a crazy venture round the world
Or he would have had the medical not red lined his missing digit
And said he wasn’t fit for the pitch and heave of a naval ship
Or so the story went as he took his grandkids
Hand in hand along Camber Sands,
With a wiggle of his nine hairy toes, raising familiar giggles
and the redraft:
10 little fingers, 9 little toes
Due to the topple of that Calor gas bottle
But still he took his first unsteady stumble
Between the sofa and the coffee table
And might have been grateful for the outstretched hand
That softened the corner and the hot spill
But oblivious he bounced back
Right into a job with his mate’s dad down the garage,
Where he delved into the grease and spanners,
The bread and butter of a living wage.
And when the car fell on his toe that wasn’t there
He stumbled on unstoppable, ready for the next obstacle,
And applied to the navy for worldwide venture
Or would have had the medical not red lined his missing digit
Cos he wasn’t fit for the pitch and heave of a naval ship
Or so the story went as he took his grandkids
Hand in hand along Camber Sands,
With a wiggle of his nine hairy toes,
Raising familiar giggles
May 3, 2023
May 3, 2023 at 4:05 PM UTC
If life is a book, then these words that I’ve written
Of dreams and of wishes and of places I’ve visited
Mean nothing when there is no reason for living
So I’ll scatter the pages, indecipherable now
Stand by and watch as the clouds cry down
The ink sliding past, creating blurred lines
Until totally clean is this story of mine
I will start over new, an attempt to cheat time
I’ll rewrite the past, sketch new storylines
A careful redraft, but I’ll make sure this time
That instead of hers, you are mine.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 9:47 PM UTC
I wrote a poem once
it reminded me of a scalding hot shower
that drives into my back.
Like when the water seeps under my shower cap
and I know it's not supposed to but I think it feels good.
When the drain clogs up and the ideas pool around my feet
I wonder if I should redraft like when i reshave my legs
because I missed a spot.
But life isn't a do-over and
I have razor burn.
And I'm afraid the glass will fog up and cover my face
and maybe I just wish the stupid timer would go off
and just turn out the lights.
Sep 21, 2013
Sep 21, 2013 at 12:15 AM UTC
The music plays on but the band has all gone and I'm sat here in the back row writing the new manifesto.
They're laughing at us while shafting us and drafting us into some warm sense of well being,
and all we are seeing are the rosy red cheeks of those Whitehall antiques who are selling us all for a song.
So,
say so long and goodbye while they cry all the way to their pay day in Haiti,not Southsea 'cause that's for the likes of you and of me,where poverty's not viewed as some incurable disease and while those ******** eat peas with their forks we're eating bread with no butter,cash talks and it tells me,'have me to be free'.
Well.
whip me quite soundly there's riches around me and it looks like they found me,washed up and spent,
but I'm intent on my due and so I stand in the queue,
I guess this is someone's largesse but I don't really care and I don't want to share but I will and until I'm the one with gold by the ton and a castle made from diamonds and cream,
I shall dream,eating peas with a fork and with a plum in my mouth I can talk la di dah,giving it big with a blah ****** blah in a big yankee car which will guzzle the gas and again I won't care
because, I'll have the ***** like they have in big halls where they dance with the debs and say ******** to the plebs and give them no cake and shall laugh like a madman until my sides ache,
then I'll shaft and redraft the new manifesto release all my guilts and away I will go with the men from the ministry who will in the end,come
to love and to mimic me and with no demands for no tax I shall sit and relax in the warm glow of the feeling that all I am feeling is the feeling I'd get from getting better and reeling from this realisation while the whole ****** nation is down on its knees
I'll thank God for the fork and the peas.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC
You redraft and repaint the memories
To fit the person you once knew
It’s still to painful to admit the truth
They never loved. They just ****** with you.
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:58 AM UTC
It is a wonderland
of wondering eyes.
Strange people
walk on the red tile floor
to explore
the doors
to artists’ perceptions
and projected expressions.
White furry feet,
following first
my eyes find falling fury
like a solar explosion
of violent ginger on yellow orange.
Then slightly concealed
I see a surreal reflection of religious will,
as a beautiful female body
lay limp, ready to be baptized
by the appropriated
white guy version of Jesus.
My favorite thus far
is green vertigo
a swirling portal of
multi-colored abstraction
guarded by ruby tinted sentinels
on either side.
Further down the rabbit hole
me and Alice go
to white rabbit dress
by Felicia Olin.
Till, ticking clocks
cannot delay
and I must redraft
this poem about
the art on display,
and save the rest
for another day.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
In
a
poets mind
Contrasting
matters
collide
with
a
poets heart
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 10:01 PM UTC
My bones don't fit anymore
My hair grows heavy
Bearing down on my neck
Like a vice.
My fingers curl white tight
And my stomach roars with wings
While my ears are consumed in flame.
But my feet continue their reckless shuffle
To a song known only to them
And perhaps to my lips
But they remain stubbornly dumb.
REDRAFT:
My bones don't fit anymore
My hair infuriates
Growing wild with rebellion
My eyes fill at the slightest provocation
While my ears are consumed in flame.
My fingers curl white tight
And my stomach roars with wings seeking flight.
But my feet continue their reckless shuffle
To a song known only to them
And perhaps to my lips
But they remain stubbornly dumb.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC