"reenacted" poems
He held my hand today in the most delicate way,
as if my fingers resembled flower petals and my
palm reenacted butterfly wings. My hand felt
fragile in his grip, which mimicked my feelings
towards him because his heart did not belong
in the spaces between my touch - his heart
belonged in something as light as air; something
as delicate as cotton. And my heart was tattered
with thorns, assured to shred his into pieces. All
the more treacherous, he traced my fingers be
tween my mittens, and it still felt like fabric -
contrary to your inevitable static. And that is
when I knew that even though he did everything
right, he made it that much worse. As much as he
tried, my frost-coated lips challenged the warmth
in his voice, and it wasn't me he needed. It was I
that needeth not deserve him.
gd
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
i am convinced now that
no passion exists
like that between
a man and his craft.
no love
like the love for solitude,
by which one can enter
a world all his own,
and plunge to its unfathomable depths,
carelessly disregarding his return.
no quest otherwise compares-
oh how could it?
when countless years of history
can never be retold,
never be reenacted
with different players and different settings?
a man plays a role for
a day, a month, a year, a decade,
then withers in the sun, a palm in the desert.
no amount of memories can be remade,
and no amount of care is remembered.
he is destined only to be vessel of loneliness
for others to mistakenly join and unjoin.
but in his craft
a man loses himself.
he has only his love to invest
and only his love to be returned.
when stricken with failure
he selfishly laps it all up,
gathers it close to his heart,
and holds it as treasure, locked and filed.
he searches for the bottom with lighted torch,
the end with relentless fervor,
finds no evil along the way to be a hindrance,
has no expectation dashed and destroyed.
his eagerness for success drives him deeper.
his delusions of grandeur,
perpetually emboldened.
come find me, i am waiting for you
the solitude beckons him into its fissure,
the cleft in the crust of civilization,
indescribable and hardly intelligible to others.
yet its perfection is infinite as the stars are remote.
with enthusiasm does a man pursue that perfection,
does he pray to be with that god,
Lord of his life and Giver of his breath.
he is a post for flags to be hung,
seen only by those who wander the same mountains,
searching for a chasm of their own.
he is unaided in his walk with the stars,
windowless and guided by celestial phosphorescence.
a man needs silence,
darkness beneath his eyelids,
and space in his bed to breathe.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.
“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”
Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.
This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.
Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.
*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA
Musician, author, spokesman, educator
Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto
Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.*
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
I'm not interested
Is that so hard to say?
I'm not interested in you
Those words come out like butter and yet the thing you try and do
Is hold onto to me for later
Put me to the side
There I sit hoping and praying
I'll be the apple of your eye
But you're not interested in me
You know it
You're not interested in me
Let me go so at least if I cry my eyes will finaly see
Are you so selfish to keep me around?
To trod on me and smile
Each time I am your turning point
When you cry tears of crocodiles
Just let me go!
Please!
Just let me go right now!
Tell me to my face that you dislike me! How?
With sincerity!
With bluntness!
With no sugar-coated words!
You've led me on for far too long to the point where it's absurd
Your killing me
You really are
My hopes and dreams compacted
Into the scene you've set for me and constantly reenacted
**** you!
You vile creature!
You deserve not a tear from my eye!
But here I stand with my heart in your hand and knife you put in my side
Oh dear coward
Just say it
Say you're not interested in me
So at least you and I can walk away with some shred of dignity
But you won't
Will you?
You'll keep me safely in a pocket
Not telling me a single thing, putting me in your secondhand locket
Just say it, please
I beg of you
Just for once say it. Please.
Tell me deep down you've always known you're not interested in me...
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 10:29 AM UTC
It was on this day years ago..
That a piece of me began..
lived 30 years of my Exsistance..
before I ever was created..
Learning Lessons that would guide me
making decisions that would mold me..
You straight A! Bowling Queen
You Drama Class, Afro swag
Making memories for bed time stories
Reminding me of my history
The pieces my genes reenacted
that I just couldn't seem to recall
The muse of my creation
she who place life into this world
Strongest thing I've ever seen..
Before I could understand a thing..
Thank you for your amazingness
your gentle heart and friendliness
I would never be a piece of me
If you never were All you could ever be!!
Happy Birthday Momma!!!
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 2:21 PM UTC
Fay sat beside you
on the concrete stairs
of Banks House
looking out
into the Square
where young girls
played skip rope
or boys having toy guns
reenacted WW2
taking no prisoners
firing noisy cap guns
and Fay said
where shall we go?
where do you want to go?
you said
away from the noisy guns
and skip rope games
she replied
and so you both got up
and went out
into the Square
and down the slope
the morning sun
blessing your heads
she in her summery dress
of yellow and orange flowers
white socks and sandals
and you in your grey tee shirt
and jeans and battered
black shoes
and you walked up
Meadow Row
between the houses
on either side until you turned right
by the public house
and onto the bombsite
behind the greengrocer store
and there you both sat
on the remains of a wall
looking around the ruins
and wild flowers
growing between bricks
and broken concrete blocks
and Fay said
I wonder who lived here
when the bombs fell?
what did they feel?
you studied her fair hair
tied in a bow
her blue eyes
scanning the scene
the white and yellow flowers
the weedy green
scared I guess
you said
I would be
she said
my mum said
she hid under
the dining room table
with her niece
where she lived
when the bombs fell
and there was the sound
of bombs falling
and explosions
and bangs
and people calling
and children crying
you said
Fay put her arm
under yours
and squeezed it tight
and lay her head
on your shoulder
and she whispered
I’m glad we
weren’t here then
glad we were born
after the War
me too
you said
and she squeezed
your arm tightly
some more.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 3:10 PM UTC
I could hula hoop for hours
and watch the minutes go by
as I watched your mesmerised eyes
traced my hips, back and forth
I could rewind the mixed tape
I made, twisting the pencil artfully
you waited for our song silently
then the music played for us
I could reach out the window
and turn the speakers the other way
some would say, beneath the screen
we reenacted our own silent dream
I could skip rope, I could jog miles
I could take a joke with a smile
I could pretend we were perfect
on the end of notes so discordant
But now I just lay next to you
and you listen to me breathe
Waiting for the last note to play
but I remember almost everything
I remember I used to hula hoop
and fix all your mixed tapes
I remember all the silent movies
and I remember my mistakes
I wish I could turn back the time
and be as young as you are bold
I wish this time was not so painful
as I wish the pain would just grow old
I want to hula hoop again
In your mind I would be so young
When that mixed tape plays again
I hope it brings you the joy of when
we were young
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
Where I am is somewhere sacred
Where I am is somewhere familiar
Where I am is a place hidden
behind so many recognizable traps
and unmistakable signs
It's a place so predictable
A feeling so sour
So rotten
So old
And I know I'll remember it forever
because I'll always feel the pull
Words are spoken
that are meant to change the course.
Acts reenacted
over sentiments enforced
If love were all to life
then life is mine no more
If wisdom came with age
There'd be nothing left to *****
Offered is a body, emptied
of everything it felt,
Playing one final game
with the meager cards it has been dealt.
A pattern is forming wherein nothing lasts
a hole is growing and consuming all within its path
Whatever I was before
I feel slowly molded anew
Whatever I once hoped for
my dreams now are few
spinning around one desire
one shining, brief embrace -
that lead me to believe in something
that can never be replaced.
All I am is hate.
All I give is pain.
My heart is used to grieving
over nothing
ventured or gained
whatever words i speak
whatever emotions flood my soul
it's nothingness that fills the ears
and mystifies the goal
you won't understand
whoever you are
these words aren't for you
or anyone at all
these words are simply full
of an empty, futile wish
i want to know there's meaning
i want to know there's life
beyond all the pointlessness
beyond the sharpest knife
so say what you will
say nothing at all
say you saw it coming
say you know it all
say you never loved me
say you never will
so that i can let go
and find peace in growing still
there was love, at once
true and false
there was happiness
that belied any loss
The part of me that hopes
The part of me that dies
The part disgusted by my treachery
and pathetic, selfish lies
The part of me that's hurt
The part of me that grows
Won't be satisfied by words alone
Nor his impassioned throes
It's a choice I alone must make
to sever bitter bonds
that hold me to a life so
ignorant, and memories long gone.
The change I could make today
So simple, so I've heard,
requires only mindfulness
and breaking from the herd
To become a ripple in the pond
a leaf
upon the fruited tree
so that when last breath I draw
the farthest thought will be of "me".
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 12:52 PM UTC
studied dispassion,
go about
the roundabout
of practiced ordinary living,
fully aware,
there are no open exits
currently available,
leading back to when,
all exits
led only bright forward
consensual distance
spaces tween
registered vehicles
but no longer
registering bodies,
legally maintained,
by all
outward appearances,
minor kisses
in a habitual habitat,
perfunctory
of the functionary,
"I love you's"
traded before
shutting off the
permanence of the
finale of the
now dimmed bedroom light
diminution
by the minute,
covertly clarifying
the ex-mission critical,
cutthroat ended
by consensual distances,
silent no speaking
empty spaces that
cannot be closed,
or
dispossessed disposed,
the sensual, desensitized
been down this
slow mo lazy path,
to slow ruin
before
the quick road to
The End
the questions
air hung but
unasked,
the words
unspoken,
they,
the ultimate
****** weapons
inevitably found,
getting at long last
a final hearing,
judgement reached
at the
reenacted scene
the finale resting place,
*the grave of spaces,
consensual spaces,
the gulf of no love,*
the pre-partum dénouement
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
*vague thoughts
muddled with desire
surging me into nothing
searching for meaning
in meaningless small talk
desperate for connection
lost, only to be found,
then discarded
what a loss?
all of life's dramas
acted and reenacted,
before last call.
more time to drown
our sorrows away
into oblivion*
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
Words are of no object,
Just like the past does not exist.
And the future
Is not foreseen.
Words have not object.
But to make the world alive,
Words are objects.
The past is reenacted,
The future is predicted.
But these are both lies
And both truths.
To exist is to be present,
To be in the world.
Words are present--
They disappear.
The past happens--
It is forgotten.
The future is coming--
But it always looms above our heads.
To make it exist--or not--
Is to choose your present carefully.
There is no gift exchange.
You-- and the universe-- depend on
Words
Pasts
And
Futures.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
my father holds a cigarette above his head in a hotel shower.
at home,
my mother
puts a clean shirt
on the bed
and jumps
from her death.
the brother
you are most
tired of
taunts
a cat
trapped
in a phone booth.
my son is sick.
the moon landing
was reenacted.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
Yes, he's talking to himself
Like some twisted cave elf
Forgotten from some by gotten year
Numbers never really quite random
But one the level given a handsome
Rambling about some long forgotten year
His days spent in silent concentration
Perhaps the state of a failing Nation
Or perhaps just the constant retro
thought
If he's caught in his own predicament
He'll charm you with heartwarming sentiment
Then look just at the nothingness you got
Ask me how I would know that this is so
With a truthfulness I should know
The stories, the secrets, the day being free
Magic imagined, fairytales reenacted
All my creativity highly interacted
How I know is,
it's me talking to me
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC