"reenter" poems
I don’t believe in goodbyes
I believe in hellos, smiles, and questioning whys
Goodbyes are an end, a final, a limit
Goodbyes are terminus
An eradication
I believe there is no proper end
We are cemented within a cycle
A continuum
A never-ending relationship with the world
A flowing river out of your control
Goodbyes imply permanence
A life that never changes
A dormancy
But Reality has it
You cannot fully control your goodbyes
A person can reenter your life and leave
Over and over and over
Then maybe goodbyes don’t even exist
People can exist in our memories
A perpetual reminder
A video stuck on replay
A beautiful hazy dream
I don’t believe in goodbyes
I believe in hellos, smiles, and questioning whys
If people continue to touch our lives
Leaving a lasting impact
A reason why
Then maybe goodbyes don’t even really exist
Because there is no such thing as a goodbye
Because there is no end to relationships
Because there is no end to memories
Because there is no end to love
Because there is no end to the feeling you have
We are cemented within a cycle
A continuum
And this is why I don’t believe in goodbyes
I believe in hellos, smiles, and questioning whys
Let’s embrace the idea
Yet see its amusing foolishness
Because maybe goodbyes don’t even exist
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 4:12 PM UTC
With a blistered heart
From unnumbered breaks,
A cloud of unshed tears
From untold betrayals,
I reenter the world
After an eternity or more
Of self imposed asylum
From a world of superficial bliss.
A world unchanged!
A cruel untended garden
Of deceptive beauty
And unkind thorny roses.
Lovelorn shadows,
Masquerading venomous claws
With beauteous flamboyance
And undesirable attraction.
Lethargic feelings,
Dousing my desires
With drowsing memoirs
Of countless emotional abuse,
Causing momentary spasms
In cerebral regions
Parading nocuous images
In the plenitude of projected beauty.
Scarred beyond immediate cure,
I recede from said world-
Too adverse for tender hearts
Back to hibernating moods
To nurse evergreen cuts
Cuts so deep, so lethal
Only the indolent strides of time
Can attempt to stitch!
Awaiting prophetic moments
Moments with mirage qualities
When in-love I can fall again
When a damsel I can trust again
When my heart can beat again
For one with pure intentions
Not putrefied by Hollywood mentors
*But virtuous in biblical ways*...
© Raphael Uzor
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
We stopped in the
whispy city,
the hippy boy and me.
We thought of the
good times and bad,
and encouraged our minds
to be free.
We came upon a drifter
a ***** old man and
his wife.
We never felt the distance,
though imagined their life
without strife.
But where can we be
today
alone in our world
side by side.
We thought about
loving good times
so great and yet
we cried.
Reenter the crispy-
like city,
snow covered,
serene & oblique.
We wandered around
with no purpose,
an oasis that just
sprung a leak.
And who never fought
the war,
the angular, meaningless
scourge.
We found all the cities
amuck,
and all we could sing
was good luck.
So who never sang
the song,
that glorious, soulful
olio.
Just me and that young
hippy boy,
while nobody else
really cared.
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 6:51 PM UTC
for SJR
who lets me borrow his voices, a good man, asks for nothing in return
and therefore, is given all I got...
~~
“She's as sweet as tupelo honey
She's an angel of the first degree
She's as sweet as tupelo honey
Just like the honey, baby, from the bee
She's my baby, you know she's alright.....“
Van Morrison
~~~~~~<<<<<>>>>>~~~~~~~~~
*old folk listen to old folk
and rock,
stung and sprung
from Pandora's box
someday
maybe,
you'll understand,
certain phrases,
from certain phases,
first tasted at a flavored oxygen bar
where youth drank,
worshipped and adored
and when those certain
word combinations reenter,
slipping in from unawares,
recalling easy the first time
you tasted with your ears,
Tupelo Honey
but what you remember is
that differentiating phrase
and
what you believed,
what you needed,
why you existed,
all because there was a new knowing*,
that
an angel of the first degree,
was out there waiting for you...
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
It's loud.
Violet, Blue, and Green lights
scatter across the floor,
across a canvas of house music,
echoing back into itself.
She crawls towards me,
wearing only poorly inked tattoos
and the lights that kiss us all.
I touch myself,
wishing it was her.
- I leave the room,
the music fading away,
like retreating from
sound-carrying-birds -
The smoke that comes from the cigarette
forms a skeletal web, reaching for the moon.
With rain slapping the dark brick walls,
hugging and creating an alley reminiscent
of a salivating, crooked-cement mouth,
I stand drenched in silver forgotten.
I drop the cigarette in a petrol-colored puddle,
watching it sink, become hard to distinguish,
and fade away.
- I reenter the room,
the song has changed
and is more mechanical. -
It's loud.
The lights are now
Bubblegum, Aqua, and Tangerine.
She lays supine, watching dollars
drift down, slowly, almost frozen.
Then the splitting of the air.
Fat-Man's body does a half-spin
as I lodge a bullet into his obese shoulder.
The music still blares, almost meaning more, now.
Regrouping himself, Fat-Man is weaponized,
drawing a greasy, inky blaster, desperate to spit.
A supernova erupts and quickly disappears--
like the aftermath of blowing birthday candles--
as his black speckled, crewcut scalp peels back,
letting fragments of chalky skull and pink penne
***** out of his square, boxed head.
Blood appears black under these lights
and instantly whips across
Samantha's still supine body.
The remaining people in the room
scatter like light exposed roaches.
Haunted, she is a toppled statue.
My steps move with the rhythm of the song.
Fat-Man's leather jacket
holds more meat than some mouths.
I plant my hand inside all pockets, find $6,480
in greasy, bloodier-than-usual presidents,
and move towards her, with the music.
Crouching beside her, I wipe the blood.
I clean her pale, tense torso
and help her up.
On two painted feet, she looks detached.
Silence exists, now, despite the music,
while she studies me with the same brown eyes.
Her lips quiver, she remembers
and wraps me with much thinner arms
that used to exist in nothing but memory.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
You are the middle of August,
the product of a seasoned summer right before the cold returns.
You are the last chapter of everyone's favorite book:
a hesitant read for fear of an ending, yet all too inviting.
You are the sound of a soft rain's patter against the window
on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
You are the familiar smell of a mother's home-cooked meal.
You are the purples and pinks in the sunset
and you are the reflection of colors on the water.
You are sleeping in until 3pm with nowhere to be.
You are the grin on a middle-schooler's face
when the girl at the dance says yes.
You are the first glass of water to a hangover.
You are the dream that disappointed minds
try to reenter when they awaken.
You are the feeling of freshly cut grass on bare feet.
You are the feel-better kiss
for every cut, scrape, bruise, or bump.
You are the excitement in a child’s eyes on Christmas morning.
You are the first ray of light to peak
from behind the clouds every morning.
You are the feeling of new socks.
You are looking at the moon
when you can swear he’s looking back.
You are the glow from the top of the lighthouse,
guiding sailors home from sea.
You are a memorable conversation with a stranger on the bus,
haunting and ending far too soon.
You are hiding out in a tree after dinner,
imagining belonging to the branches deriving from its core.
You are the joyful “God bless you”
proclaimed by a man on the corner asking for a dollar.
You are a hand to hold when sidewalks are slippery.
You are the warm voice emanating from the warm smile
on a frore wintry night.
You are the comfort of “goodnight”
from a lover’s lips just inches away.
You are the loyalty of a dog when his soldier returns home.
You are the fireflies in a mason jar,
flashing light through a dark room.
You are the best line in the song on repeat.
You are the laugh lines that years of smiles
sketched into the face of an old man.
You are every last bit of good and pure and magic in the world.
And you don’t even know it.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 9:09 PM UTC
-----------I weave my grand mother's spirit to life--------
when I paint with my words what she dreamed
in her life. My grandmother's kimono sat in the dark never
worn; so needs a dusting--I lift it up into this light to be
seen, to be heard, to be felt, fabric of loving heart
dreams to be. It's not perfectly shaped or tattered or torn,
rather fermented beyond her time to take form. My
Grandma loved to eat her white rice she ate thirty
seven million grains of rice by the time she reached her
104-- Born on a sugarcane plant'tion on the coast of
Oahu, a child in the tropics then a teen in Japan. Her
family returned to their roots to learn, & grow, reenter the
cultural force. She discovered her new talent as
------------------------------
K I M O N O
A R T I S T
------------------------------
Kikuyo Yamamoto became
liberated as an artist and then
her life changed as her family
demanded she leave her position
and marry away to a Japanese man
who lives in California (my Grand
father). The matchmaker said it
would work really well....She
endured life as an American farm
wife, then life in Japanese intern-
ment camps. Five children, nine
grandchildren...Dear Grandmother
I know you had lots to surrender-
I honor your life as mother,
grandmother, and artist --I
wove this poem in the form
of a kimono for you May your
spirit rest in peace. I love you.
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 2:42 AM UTC
so i started this new hobby,
where i try to erase "bitter" out of every dictionary i
find, but sometimes it doesn't always disappear and it
sits there with eraser shavings in different shades of gray
like the collection of Polaroids i keep safe in my desk drawer.
in this occasion i will just take my handy - dandy sharpie
to color it in to leave it up to the imagination
or trial and error, like new cleaning products for the women
who are dissatisfied with being homebodies, but
i'm telling them not to be bitter, not to be this six letter word
because
28,835 days is an awful long time to carry
such an empty suitcase,
and if some of you don't understand that number,
an average woman's life expectancy is 79 years of age,
so i hope i calculated that correctly because i'm not so good at
math,
but i'm not saying all of us are average,
since sometimes we break too soon and the bitter takes
over the sweet like the winter takes over the fall, and
sometimes we are so free it gives us a few more days to really
feel alive.
i just don't want to be bitter, because the dictionary is filled with
so many other words like laugh and lust and flesh and
warmth.
so i think this book can do without just one word.
i guess i'm just a dreamer,
i've always wanted to fly to the moon
and swim with jellyfish,
just to say i never was stung by the globes
of the water but someone always told me
to tread lightly,
like there was broken glasses that
could get me anytime, but
that didn't stop the birds from flights or
landings as electricity pushed through their legs and
the weather never stopped the wars we
all soon forgot about.
we are forgetful people, misplacing our keys
and hearts in the rooms where we felt the most in.
so when i go about my business (and the times
could go slow), i will reenter each
book to find each word
that could
someday
somehow
direct me to "i'm sorry."
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 9:28 AM UTC
I feel like a scooby doo trying to figure out tomorrow ,
I should have known, living like I owned this world,
Just to find out this life is borrowed,
A game of jeaopardy
what your worth's worth? and whats your wager?
Some say they never asked to be put here?
So why they up come out of labor?
Questions marks
and questionable thoughts...
Like if that past is behind why does it often revisit?
Like exes who hit the exit just to reenter like they never existed?
Life likes to play and we part of the game..
Before my past passes away,
I'll probably die the day before tomorrow come,
everyday im indulged in something new from something old
I guess his story a history to learn from,
Life...
Shoes tied just in case I trip,
and if so Ill file a case judge it tried to throw me off a cliff,
I hope life get a life sentence for the scantrons its put me through,
Just to test of how much of it I can hang on too,
The unknowns to make known..
I feel like a problem solver with handful of all the questions
that's ironically still starving,
creating my own answers,
We are artist to sculpt our own living
I'll use my paint brush to the carving.
-Shahrukh Zamir
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 7:55 AM UTC
A pest festers underneath the
gravel. Groups sequestered
From Two separate, yet identical
Lines. One was aborted for similar
Linear tendencies as the other
Was not treasonous, by our
Standards; but four fathers
May have thought otherwise.
Unless the sequestered reenter
This sector, the vacuumed vector
Of two lines will seamlessly fill
Our needs of technology. But, only
To hone drones in a land where
"Shalom" is only welcoming in
Specific zones. Only if the isolated
We're the ones creating mandates.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC
I don't usually get stolen by temptation like this
But I would do anything to be devoured by this feeling
From the cover alone.. your every word overflows into my heart
Oh the Intrigue
I just want to know more than what your surface reveals
Oh, how I know your story will be riveting and passionate
The colors, they tell me
And gossip your characters into my ear
The feats they're capable of
And the depths your philosophy stem from
I'd like to write them unto my wrists
And preach to everyone I pass the journeys you took me on
Oh, dear if you dare to open yourself unto me
I will not resist falling deeper into you
Your pages are limited
So whilst you have me.. while I'm within your folds
Envelop me into your narratives
And I will follow you on any journeys you seek
Don't get me wrong.. I don't usually lose sleep over something like this
But the lies and tales you tell me
Make me want to see this through to the end
And I desire not to be caught
Whilst I rummage through the exposed chapters of your epics sagas
Of our epic sagas
Not until .. When the last page turns
Before the cover lands.
Don't let the fall be final and resolute
Allow me to mark the ends of your pages
So once more we can return to our favorite climaxes
To be reminded of how far we'd come
And reenter your world that I invaded and built a castle in
Though the criminal I am
Do with my demise and pieces what you will
But don't forget my dedication to dictating your testaments
Don't get me wrong - it's not that I'm sacrificing myself for your story
It's just that
Your penmanship is better than mine
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 9:34 PM UTC
*The long ago
memories persist
stories of war
back then
reenter today..
for a few
their immersion
brought glimpses
of more..
but stories persist..
Those life endings
ordered and angered..
new remembering
brings fresh pain..
a rejection decided
brought a lifetime
burden of guilt..
a lost limb then
anchored renewal
for others today..
We need ask
on this
day of memories
that all suffering
long and brief
heavy and light
be Sighted anew
accepted at last
sharp edges of
welcome Light...*
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
& after six years
put the same people
in the same room
and nothing will have changed
you reenter
and all of that growth is gone
for a moment, all progression
dissipated
by their presence alone
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
we walk along the edge,
bodies lay, scattered, mangled,
leaves.
we notice tire marks in the mud,
the rains last week weeped on this scene.
the concrete feels meek,
ready to bust. feet upon its back
too much. the scores of energy
pulsing up naturally relax its stance.
the plants find single slits of space
and reach for the sun.
the land prepared to bake in the sun
with bodies of friends, slowly breaking
down. life released into the air.
we breath it in as we approach the mesquite.
we knew from glances ahead
her home was raided.
we come to find the ground shaken,
dug up, ripped with a force to ****
she is gone and her team of nourishing cousin
are too.
none survived the pillage of the
big white truck.
bodies, leaves, roots, blood of kin
poured into her skin, charging now.
the final message is,
rebirth! alive!
my eyes fill, my heart sighs.
the dark skies claim their victory.
the black fate of new.
all must return to her womb
and live again. i return to her womb
to live again.
we say prayers over our friends
and celebrate the time they had.
days before we were working with them,
right here, amongst living, breathing
beings of the light.
we harvested,
stored bits of their coding.
hoping their roots survive the assault.
in the city, we live cloudy visions,
manicured horizon, the eye shines
bright away from the skyline.
that night eye is watchful and we see
the life walk alongside.
we see the stars slowly twisting clockwise,
we know all the vibrations have been here,
before and will always prosper.
we reenter and the movements get
harder to see.
soon the night lights are on,
we are defecating in our water
and mass murdering healing beings.
and yet they still believe in us.
still grow for our shot at life.
at the very least,
they died knowing my children and i.
they died knowing they were seen and
recognized.
and the block moves on swiftly.
we end our survey and we see
survivors! a small patch of community.
the roots all sing and stretch to
send these beings energy,
love,
attention.
look, a new bud is forming.
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 7:13 PM UTC
White is for rice and brides - ready to commit.
White’s for ghosts and clouds or even carnations
but it should never, ever, be used for privilege
or worse yet, as poetic inspiration.
I’ve been waiting for the urge to write
while facing an ugly screen of white.
Waiting for the vowels to fall into place,
for words to congeal and finally displace
the awful, foreboding, blank white space.
Learning is our struggle, our crown of thorns.
The more we study and prepare for fall,
the more excited I get to reenter those halls.
34 days until classes start. For fall weather,
and the bee hum of crowded life in the dorms.
My roommates and I are like a single, nameless thing
- an emolument that happens to have 6 heads.
We’ve beaten the freshman “imposter syndrome,”
and we’re ready to bring sophomore year home -
together - no muss, no fuss - I love that for us.
Jul 28, 2022
Jul 28, 2022 at 12:49 PM UTC
To all those who reach this earth decomposing,
May you reenter this planet with vivacity
Run free with the sparkle of life.
I hunger to hunger as deep as you
To never cease
To have a penetrable mind
To understand the curves of my body do not restrict my movement
I will move past the bend in my spine
The arch of my foot
The joints in my arms
I will run faster than my legs can carry me
To the army of open arms,
You spread harmony among the masses
We are equal in your eyes
I will become instinct and reaction
I will be the flight to your fight
You have given us wings.
To you who have returned against “never”
May you prosper on this ancient land you’ve left
You beacon of hope to those of us with forgotten dreams
And broken promises
You are the exception, and therefore the healer
May we hold on to the hope this brings us
May we too break rules and skew pattern.
Thank you, you the soldiers of woe
Clearing the path of the heavy weights on our souls
The sickness before the health
And the parting do us death
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 3:41 AM UTC
stepping onto the E train
where it's so claustrophobic
you might as well cut out your lungs
and die
that would be a bit dramatic
though not as much as the pain
bottled up in the eyes
which want to cry but can't
looking through you not at you
just don't take it personally
walking along 3rd avenue
where cars colonize the street
like it's a newly found kingdom
labeling yourself a New Yorker is a title
not yet earned
since you still check Google Maps sometimes
why bother getting lunch two blocks down
at some unheard of but kinda cool pizza place
when there's a Chipotle right here
and Nintendo World is a few blocks away
and Midtown Comics is right around the corner
there's magic to this
setting your search on Tinder to one mile away
where your options are as endless as your "swipe lefts"
wondering if the next one is the one
it could be, couldn't it?
work ends and you reenter the flux of people
moving so fast it's like they're running away
maybe it's getting Happy Hour drinks
or simply going home
there's less summer every day
only a little bit of sunlight at the end
not much but something to cherish
the ******** about it being hot
will soon be the ******** about it being cold
seeing yourself march through a labyrinth of strangers
going here to there
sometimes with life scaring you
moving into territory without open arms
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 1:34 PM UTC
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared!—
Two tweakers, a rat, and a Jellicle cat
Have all built their nests in my beard."
There was an Old Man of Connecticut,
Who possessed an innate sense of etiquette;
He'd lay down the fork to the left of the spork,
That mannerly man of Connecticut.
There was an Old Man from Earth's center,
Who left it and couldn't reënter;
He crawled out a hole like a man who's a mole,
And lost his way back to the center.
There was an Old Person of Skye,
Who spent his days wondering, "Why?"
When they asked, "What's the word?" he replied, "Haven't heard,"
That discouraged Old Person of Skye.
There was an Old Man of Seattle,
Who had an attraction to cattle;
Considering bovine anatomy _so_ fine,
He prodded the cows of Seattle.
There once was from Thessaloniki
A man who was geeky and greeky;
An avid fanatic of things democratic,
He voted in Thessaloniki.
There was an Old Person of Perth,
Who buried his gold in the Earth
And then plum forgot whereat was the spot,
That forgetful Old Person of Perth.
There was a Young Man of the South,
Who mouthwashed with whiskey his mouth;
He spoke with a drawl, saying yes'm and y'all,
That drawling Young Man of the South.
There was a Young Person of Boston,
Who wandered around and got lost in
The Chinatown section with a raging ********
That poked out an eyeball in Boston.
There was an Old Person named Lear,
Who surely was scroobious and queer;
He sat rather fat, and Old Foss was his cat,
And he couldn't abide ginger beer.
Mar 24, 2025
Mar 24, 2025 at 5:00 PM UTC
The sweaty ghost opt to reenter from behind vapor walls creaking back cross forgotten boards
Mesmerized by the fireflies licking the jar dusting magic onto Hendrix sparking guitar
Best continue not a care while drifting thru your sound coma blank eyes straight through ya
So the sun pulls up outa blackened ground every day another city offers a profound sigh
To never rise in the light disrobes each spectre for descent towards its own dusty puddles goodbye
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 9:29 PM UTC
i met love in the 4th grade.
he was a transfer student and
he didn't speak much.
love had a little sister who would check
on him during lunch breaks.
love smiled when we played games
after school with our friends.
love gave the best hugs.
love left at the end of the year without a goodbye only to reenter 7 years later with the same boyish smile, carefree attitude and a confession that created a small room in my heart complete with an armchair, afghan and a small ottoman.
love lit up my world with his words, his smile and his spirit.
love took me back to a time of innocence and trust.
when love left again, he didn't tell me he was moving out.
love set fire to the room, the memories, and all the promises love made.
love gave me reason not to trust anyone for a while as love was already months into an affair with his new love.
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 6:35 PM UTC
"Just to wake up is to make a separate peace."
They come and go, each
the same and different.
The night of
tempestuous dreams
opens to a morning
of vague dread.
Ghosts have tracked you
into the waking world:
old lovers, dead friends,
battles fought and lost
a grinning death's head.
You must recover
your center,
find the unwobbling
pivot of existence,
the still point
to calm the monkey mind
and allow you
to reenter the world
of phenomena.
Go to your pillow and sit.
Just breathe, just breathe.
Just be here now.
Let the hyenas of night
slink back to their lairs.
Somewhere, she is warm
and lovely. You feel
her soothing warmth
from a far away land.
Distance is only illusion,
Maya barking in your
trembling mind, but you
never really are alone.
Don't think; thought
will not suffice.
Only sit and breathe,
only sit and be.
The night terrors
retreat into the darkness.
It is light now and
you are still alive.
That is something
to be grateful for,
breath is a living gift.
Sitting there quietly,
the earth stops spinning;
the new day awakens
in the remains of your heart.
You get up, still broken
but better, and walk off
into what some mistakenly
call reality to meet
whatever must be and,
perhaps, even to smile.
~mce
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
In this dim night
before the dawn of All Saints,
no need to take fright
of the spirits you acquaint —
for they are merely the ones who went on before.
Beloved dead whom we miss
reenter the world of the quick
and blow us a kiss
with a treat but no trick —
as we celebrate their return from the dark shore.
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 10:59 AM UTC
She was ****** and bruised
Life beat her soul out of her
She was suffocating in a sea doubt
I didn't hesitate
I rushed into action
Removed the blood and iced her bruises
Filled her soul with laughter and joy
Pushed her to keep moving forward
Now she found a man off a dating app
She has now disappeared from my life
She ran away with a military man
Oh how I fear she will reenter my life
Broken and destroyed
For I believe they are moving way too fast
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 10:53 PM UTC
Suffering returns with a vengeance,
Causing pain that inflicts wounds.
The injury puts us on the sideline,
Interrupting stability by tearing balance.
Now that harmony is broken,
A new mission must start to reenter the game.
A quest to restore steadiness must persist,
Or else we will forever sit on the bench.
Because of our determination to rise from agony,
We tend to find a way to run normally on the field.
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 8:00 AM UTC