"redrawn" poems
EVERY LITTLE FISH CAN SWIM
1893
saw the beginning of me.
I was born
in a railway carriage
between somewhere
and somewhere else
in an Europe that
would change with the map
the lines redrawn
by War
some unpronouncable
European nowhere.
A barrel *****
was playing a tune that
would soon be forgotten
on the station platform
when Mamma and I
arrived
at our final destination
the train breathing like a dragon.
Its whistle
cutting through time.
Later I would remember
a little wooden acorn
at the end of a string on the blind
tapping against the window
as if it were admonishing
the dawn demanding
entrance to
the room when I was three and
pulling the blind up and then
pulling the blind down.
"Shadow people"
thrown against the wall
would not survive
a morning.
All night they chattered
amongst themselves
prowling the room
that was holding me.
Debating whether to
eat me now or later.
"Beings" merely made from
the edge of a wardrobe or
a chest of drawers
the brass **** at the end of
my bed where clothes
thrown over a chair
made them come alive
I believe
in them until
I was nearly seven.
Too scared to ***
in the porcelain ***
wetting the bed
to the anger of Mama.
And now 1963
will more than likely see
the end of me
as I am
and the mind
that created who I was
offers me these
fragments of insignificance
that amount
to being a life.
I laugh as Noël
Coward warbles
in his shellac'd world
forever singing
"But I can't do anything at all
but just love you!"
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:57 AM UTC
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
He's been through this before
Writer's block
No, not that
But the feeling of it
Applied to life
As a whole
All's dank near the dream
The dream
That which we all have
Dreams of our lives
Dreams of our lies
As we abandon all good and evil
In our search for stability
What we seek
shining nameless
walking out of the world
we chase it
visualize it
black on glowing grey
the green light deferred for a grey one
It walks, then runs.
From these dreams
the witness
turns aside
constantly
throughout his life
the witness runs
the distance grows
the impossibility is perceptible
We know what is happening
We are all witnesses
yet we do not know the solution
so we watch on
the arid climate of our world scorched by our own infallibility
our race
the one we share as inhabitants of this earth
the one drawn as a cartoon image of itself
drawn in its own image
redrawn, modernized
The traveller waits on the shores of our beach
He beckons to the shadows in the distance
He calls out, warmly
like a father to his son
He calls once more
He calls no more
The traveller waits
I wish to call out to the traveller
I wish to exclaim
'disguise not your battered soul'
I wish to comfort
But I cannot
I am in the distance
My limbs will not carry me in that direction
I am in the distance
amongst a flock of martyred guns
in our digital world, a blank text box is a blank page.
we need not think about what we will write
we need not think.
yet we are human.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:46 PM UTC
My Poet:
*tho evening draws nigh,
on this our wedding day,
the stars, guardians of our canopy,
reminder twinkle it can never be
fully complete, for you always make
a moment in time for me,
today we wait, synchronizing seconds
until both pronounce,
I do
let my hands,
in my tenderest embracing grasp,
perforce, when I hold you face,
still cannot hold your entirety,
for you always make and leave a space
for me to seal our universe
today, you need me to fill you,
so together, ever forward,
we will define and explore
the edges of our redrawn,
now, single unified line,
our ever expanding contiguous boundary
our blood is not commingled
but when our bodies unified,
the physics of our conjoining,
illustrates that those in our
surround of time and space,
in the aura we create,
not so very great,
and yet our oneness
'tis a shining upon the countenance of our place,
a luminous emittance upon this earth
when you write your poetry,
it always finishes with me,
I am the native child of thy words,
I am the filament webbing
illuminating the spaces between each line
but more than this,
I am your beginning,
you are my destination,
together we make,
The End
they ask me to vow,
demand I swear, make promises,
certify, preserve, record and store
the solemnity of this marriage born,
in ledgers of the city,
before an invisible god
I eschew all this
for nothing in life
ever guaranteed by words secured,
but this I know true*
My Poet:
*what I shall give to you,
and you to us,
cannot be spoke,
the words, not yet,
have we originated
for each day
will we compose anew,
each day, shall be
a new combination
under new stars,
our canopy unfolded,
our joining sanctified,
by the simple truth of us*
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
scupper the dawn
with curtains redrawn
a self made mourning
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 11:28 PM UTC
subtle distortion
cloudy perception
hazy apprehension
figment of the imagination
fragmented realities
redrawn by consciousness
staged fantasies
drowned by emotions
reality slipping
deteriorating
bit by bit, darkening
details unraveling
slowly spiraling
a world in the making
eyes affixed
a world rendered
by a troubled mind
delusions unfold
illusions, manifold
ecstatic visions
tangible realities
world full of mysteries
crafted by miseries
and then there is me
left to wander
in a new world
that i crafted
that i masterminded
i know it is
not real
i keep telling myself
nothing's real
i keep persuading myself
it's not real
snap out of it
get out of there
before it's too late
wake up from the trance
but for once
it felt so real
so so real
just to let it all go
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:49 PM UTC
Your hand brushed over mine, I blushed a bit,
Smiling, you curled your fingers between mine,
Dare I say that you were a blessing? Devine,
doesn't even begin to describe it,
if love bugs exist it's clear i've been bit
My soul grows weary as I write this line
I'm not going to pretend that I'm fine
You ripped me apart, turned my life to ****
I try to pretend but I've been redrawn.
Breaking away from my old habits is
hard when you were my redemption, my dawn,
my morning light, I can try to push on
but I can't hear one more "I'm not even his
anymore, why does he care?" I'm gone.
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC
I've heard Gaia
terra firma too
clay, dust, and loam
dirt, ground, and zoo
Names don't really matter
she'll be here, when we're gone
maybe, a little flatter
features now, redrawn
The world, as realty
was never really owned
holding deeds and properties
and places, some call home
When Gods and demons blink
they don't wonder why, or when
no reason to ponder, or even think
mankind, could ever win
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
These Lines:
etched and edged,
well-distinct and ill-defining,
clarifying and disguising,
multifarious characters,
multivariate natures.
nefarious and courageous.
thickened thinnings,
straightforward curvings,
appointed and unanointed,
given, taken, and then
redrawn, misshapen.
both boundary and limitations,
goal reached, unending destinations,
a human's realm of indefinite definitions,
These Lines:
mappings of his domain,
recordings of his failings.
my great divide,
testimonies to my endings,
visual markers of
virtuous past successes,
virtual future failures invadings.
How can they be both simultaneous?
These Lines:
double etched and sword edged,
outbound-triumphant, defending,
inbound-plaintive, wailing,
both an indefensible and defensive blade,
cutting, both ways.
*PostScript:
The twenty eight of the month of Feb-rue-ary,
clear enough ending to the muddiest, contrary,
turgid month of the ifs of a man's life.*
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
there was a desperate plea
from his television face
which is drawn for maximum sorrow
and moderate crowd appeal
i'm sure they had it all on paper somewhere in LA
under the guise of a eight by ten portrait in words
of mad king george
he wanted to be a better man
but his desperate plea went unanswered
by everyone but some little kid in a cowboy outfit
carrying his six shooter and a plastic pony
guess you take whatever salvation gets dealt you way
so the last we saw of him that day
he was sitting on the floor
doing a sock puppet show for the masses
on the dangers of being the king of england
without a crown
she called him a looser
but i asked her to put aide such notions
who better to get acquainted with the heights
than somebody who has fallen to the depths
his blues are tried and true
he wont try and double deal
be trying to hard to prove that he never should have left
and the kid with the plastic pony
turned out to be the next president
cause he knows what horse to back
plastic ponys and kings are all the same anyway
his television face finally got redrawn
for a more sympathetic crowd approval
and soon he will be a celebrated name once again
while id prefer to jut slip back into obscurity
if i could just have a girl to love
and roof over my aching head
but time will tell
cause mad king george is long since
retired to miami
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
Morning.
Temporary ceasefire with insomnia,
Marked by cheerful birds.
Morning.
Start of hostilities with drowsiness,
Combating alertness ceaselessly.
Morning.
Opening salvo with heavy caffeine support,
Awakening the senses with hot beverages.
Morning.
Food, an uncertain ally.
Alertness or comas—it’s sometimes close.
Morning.
Battle lines redrawn,
But war continues perpetually.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 6:33 AM UTC
Waiting at a café table
You walk in and I’m disabled
Seeing for the first time
The blue-green-grey of those troubled eyes
Lost in the limelight
Where I found you, saw you,
Knew you in this new space,
Feeling this strange rhyme,
Waiting at an intersection of
Strung out weathered hope
The silence lengthens, the stare deepens
Casting what I knew into distant realms,
Reworking the good and
Finding those lines redrawn
I no longer anticipate, but wait
For those answers only you can give,
Those I was never able to predict.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 6:07 PM UTC
Watch along the horizon line
Past the trees and you will find
Through the skies being installed
Every high and every fall
Cloaked until again recalled
Nature once again redrawn
Clear for all who look to see
Our collective mother’s ECG
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 10:37 AM UTC
The curtains were drawn;
The lights had been dimmed;
The seats sat empty.
Ever since the gavel struck the end,
the stage had remained silent.
The seasons passed with action played backstage.
I had begun to linger by the stage door;
Glancing at those passing by; wondering…dreaming.
Then I saw her…then I saw…her.
After so long playing to a deserted house;
Stage fright…but an invitation sent nonetheless.
A ticket for the best seat in the house was hers;
third-row center.
The house lights dimmed, the curtain rose,
The stage was ablaze once again.
Her heart, soul, mind, and strength
Tempered by the hellish fires of life’s testing;
Coalesced into an energy that pierced deep into my being.
Enlivened by this vital force
The action was vibrant as never before,
And as Scene One was coming to a close I glanced offstage,
But her seat was empty; the house was vacant once again.
As the lights dimmed I sank to my knees;
my mind awash with questions.
Before the story had even begun to unfold she was gone.
My unveiled heart, my naked soul laid open…but still empty.
The curtains have been redrawn; the stage has been struck.
Backstage again, yet not alone.
Her image, her touch, her memory branded on my mind.
Alive for an instant…truly alive;
I had hoped for a longer run;
season after season…but the moment was extraordinary.
I cannot forget
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:28 PM UTC
Perchance it loves me too?
<>
Vicki and patty m.
<>
no one loves the same,
the moon, or me,
or you two too,
exactly exact,
or, especially
each other
every stream of light refracts differentiation,
rays scattered and triggering you-know-what
it is never by
perchance,
always by
first glance
rays that are moon ordained,
plotting paths on the river and bay
that check my souls consternation
asking me nightly,
come walk on water,
come to visit me,
when I am a verdant blue
once upon a time,
the moon would come to me
by early afternoon, so had a
doubleheader of celestial admirable
moon,
for its plotting morning carryovers
going all the way occasionally
to afternoon sunlight,
as if it is like love
that passes
through a checkpoint,
saying, see!
a safe transition
to the east/west passageway
of your humanity heavenly inclusive
I’ve loved creatures,
human and even better than them,
feminine and masculine,
never made any difference,
for it was never a competition
my whole soul went wet,
Olson,
from then till now,
when the love word escaped
my lips, troublemakers, happily,
the misery it provided was ecstasy,
made the poem solutions even better
but by now, august August,
woe within me, strong the sadness,
the end of summer chilling forces,
makes sure the dividing line
is redrawn and love and moonlight,
once inseparable,
are again fully distinct and
perchance,
come September
hopefully I’l forget and I won’t remember
all the rest,
just the best of the best of
you two poets scheming,
how to enlighten the world
with blue moon words
2:16pm,Sunday August 25
2019
Aug 25, 2019
Aug 25, 2019 at 2:29 PM UTC
Humanity is losing touch.
Humanity is gone.
This world is cruel, oh so much,
I wish it'd be redrawn.
Today, my life in ruins,
It crashes over stones
From my dam, removed by sins
Taken on by me alone.
As the water quickly sweeps
Past all I ever gained,
Wiping all I won for keeps;
Leaving the land worn and stained.
All is lost and forgot,
Now laying in a pool of rubble;
Leaving that for which I fought.
Guessing this world to be trouble.
And yet, can it be?
The water slowing to a trot?
Is there someone here for me?
Or am I truly left to rot?
A soft warmth enveloping
as they whispered my name,
my heartbeat wasn't dropping,
nor does it stay the same.
As the flow is cut,
I find the perfect place
to be, from the world, shut.
And know nothing, but that face.
Mar 2, 2011
Mar 2, 2011 at 5:52 PM UTC
Time is no longer a concept of meaning
The changing of the days is no more measured than accepted
Life moves only in particles
Watching them come together
Formulating perfect moments
Snapshots of happiness
There is no impatience in watching honey
As it trickles smoothly from spoon
It is the beauty in co-existence
Physically trapped and spiritually free
Emotions in the wind, far travelled to a lovers arms
Five minutes can see more change than five years
Polaroid development with the history already etched under skin
It is the scent relaxing on skin that never fades
The changing face that is never unfamiliar
The silence between songs as the jukebox rotates to the next record
Undeniably slow, yet breathlessly impelling
Defined by beat
Like heart beat
I am a golden game clock
Planned to precision
Pressed to freeze
In moments of thought where time has no existence
No right to dictate
Freedom to fly in fantasy
This is where we meet
As falling letters floating in the breeze
How long we have fell, is not of importance
Not when we create the sentences in love of which we speak in gesture
Our calligraphy changes the landscape
Redrawn in no time, yet with all the time to share
We shall always watch the same skyline
Read the same meaning in Verse
Live together under the dust covers of historical literature
Lost in an animated culture
And forever freeze time in the wait
That those seconds of joy turn the timer,
Awaiting the change.
For the change is coming
It is on the horizon
Even though we are yet to see a new dawn beginning
One day, we shall allow time to fulfil its purpose
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
sometimes things glow a little,
most often when I’m not looking
like little holes poked in my head,
little circles of sunlight shining in a dark place
you let me grasp at you because you are my reality
you hang me around your neck
and many days I would call myself a noose
but you still look at me like I grace your head
and your heart
and the space in between
I’m so heavy, I’m so much,
so much,
so much,
too much.
yet, you carry me.
you hold my cold hands
and kiss them like they don’t break you every night
I want to hold your head in both of my hands
kiss your forehead
your nose
your cheeks
your lips.
let me love your humanity gently.
I see where the outline of your heart is slightly off,
I see where something was erased
and redrawn just a little differently
I see where experience tinged the world for you
and sometimes I just want to take permanent marker
and write
I LOVE YOUR SWEETNESS, I LOVE YOUR IMPERFECTION
on your heart
so many times that
maybe
you start to think that love is a good thing,
that you are a good thing,
a blessing and a pleasure.
I will kiss your knuckles even when you turn them blue and purple.
I am not here to fade away.
I am so tired
and you feel like
the most beautiful, peaceful, permanence.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
Padded with armor layered in sheaves and shingles,
Birds and squirrels from their nests taking turns at the watch,
The forest is a war camp, trunks trained and battle-ready,
Each tree a man-of-war prepared to stand the test of time.
Havoc! Storm-born gods smite the wood from behind the rainclouds’ clamor,
Rivers of lightning indiscriminate scourge the arboreal assembly,
Ravaging the haughty hawthorn and the arrogant alder,
The angry glow of fires countless rages on and on.
Yet when calm again prevails, amidst the muddy charcoal stumps,
Before the smoke is finished seething, fire-weed irascible shoots forth,
For the forest knows no maps, has no borders to be redrawn,
Ever rebuilding, ever unyielding, bastions of bark that shan’t admit defeat.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
I have been redrawn
My old rendition replaced
With bright new colors and shades
Beneath the veneer
Traces and rough outlines
My foundation sketched in time
The graphite, my blood
It was poured onto the page
Many times it was erased
Unsure who I was
Sketched again and again
Eraser shavings of shame
I was blind to see
These sketches were exactly
who I needed to be
Before I could paint
I needed a rough outline
Before I could find my place
And when I did
The shame was swept away
The brush swiftly hit the page
No longer a sketch
But a beautiful display
Of bright new colors and shades
I have been redrawn
My old rendition replaced
By a colorful bouquet
And there’s still room for change
Mar 9, 2025
Mar 9, 2025 at 1:12 PM UTC
The war
The war
It’s always the war
Determines how the map
Gets redrawn
By the board
So reform it all
Storm the hall
Normalize gore
And procure its
Pervasive
Inflation’s
Reward
Mar 11, 2023
Mar 11, 2023 at 4:52 PM UTC
Made with fading ink, she was so delicate she
Played upon the page, ink was all I could see
Pretty delicate lines were etched but there was
Pity in these fragile lines I etched then paused.
I was falling in love with this woman on a page,
Cry as I might she was locked in a pencilled cage
So many imprints were erased redrawn within her
Flow she was all beauty became a confused blur.
Fingers shook not wanting to ruin this moment, it
Lingers in my heart, this picture I do wishfully knit.
Above I hover of her features, but she is static, still
Doves are etched on my heart but are silently fanatic.
Not able to lift a pencil she has captivated me I am
Fraught with delusions of love inanimate, I am her lamb.
Caught in her smuggled eyes where tears have descended
Thought is my savours as I realise and erase her it is ended.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 3:15 PM UTC
I've been rewound to return
Remind me why I relearn
The same lessons
And they pass so vividly
Into invisibility
Invincibility found in your love
Makes me feel so dumb
Because in the end it's all pointless
And everything points to this
I'm realigned, I'm redrawn
I'm called into play a pawn
In a cosmic game of chess
When I aspire to be a king
It's easy when you've found your queen
But I feel like I'm letting her down
When I'm not even on the board
I'm the clown, the jester
Silently playing the professor
Trying to teach the crowd who's the real leader
But I just become the world eater
A made up monster
A mountain to stir
A man to burn in a blur
With anger from where he came from
I just want to give her everything
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
*With a plug of morning chew I pulled ever closer
into the thick forested narrows
Dawn fishing along a foggy riverbank
Snapping Shoals turned off the think tank ,
made a mans mind draw blanks
Singing waters drew a quick smile ,
I've returned here quite often from many
a mile with rod and reel , with a wounded
soul seeking my creators control
Walking away reborn
With open wounds sewn
My path redrawn* ...
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 5:21 PM UTC