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Niyati May 2020
This lockdown has refashioned everything.

Not only our daily work schedules,
But reduction in pollution and demand of fuels.
Yes it made us shut our places to worship.
But has opened a window to evaluate our personal relationships.
Now queues outside restaurants and cinema is absent,
But we have got time to ponder on our future and relishing our present.

This lockdown has refashioned everything.

Definitely you cannot travel and be social,
But this has taught you to go 'Vocal for Local'.
Yes it has hampered the growth rate.
But now we value whatever we have on our plate.
We have been quarantined in our own homes,
But now we know life is more precious than thrones.

This lockdown has refashioned everything.
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Mist
Irrelevant timeless drift moisture in a collate state triggers dispersion of thoughts and intent what to

Pursue an airy void trouble and worry automatically release the hold on the mind and heart to become
One with density and mystery the familiar evaporates it lays thick and low on the country lane just a

Haze a disjointed broken maze comfort it announces in the softest tingled ease touches your cheeks
What pleasing sensation engulfs you the freedom the same way that fire and colored lights hold you

Transfixed childlike wonder to question to ponder the unseen and the unknown without caution the only stumbling will be that of surprise a gentle moist kiss a touch of a cool hand it is time to assemble

In all the places that are at other times forbidden but now all restrictions are lifted those submerged
Weighty thoughts begin to rise they sway with the sweetest rhythms an unheard but felt symphony

Accost your deepest emotions go with the flow release your inhibitions to the undertow take up the
Oars of this imaginary boat paddle out in deep waves add the silver streaks of moonlight you are only

The lightest shadow mix with all of existence restore depleted stores that were wasted and burned up in
The chaos of life you possess powers that run beyond all reason answer this how long are you going to

Last surge with that truth lay down many items inferior to your nature pick up the bright pulsating bars
Of energy drain them then lay them aside march in the heady knowledge an immortal stands here and is

Passing through the shallows of an earthy walk to strands invisible and their treasures are indescribable
They are my inheritance now they too are surrounded by a mist this day I have bridged the gulf and

United the two the secret place of the most high is to be my dwelling place I think I can soldier on until
My change comes and it will but until it does periodically I will come and sojourn in this tapestry of the

Gloaming and be reborn refashioned by truth that destroys all enemies and affords to me victory
Hal Loyd Denton Sep 2012
Irrelevant timeless drift moisture in a collate state triggers dispersion of thoughts and intent what to
Pursue an airy void trouble and worry automatically release the hold on the mind and heart to become
One with density and mystery the familiar evaporates it lays thick and low on the country lane just a
Haze a disjointed broken maze comfort it announces in the softest tingled ease touches your cheeks
What pleasing sensation engulfs you the freedom the same way that fire and colored lights hold you
Transfixed childlike wonder to question to ponder the unseen and the unknown without caution the only stumbling will be that of surprise a gentle moist kiss a touch of a cool hand it is time to assemble
In all the places that are at other times forbidden but now all restrictions are lifted those submerged
Weighty thoughts begin to rise they sway with the sweetest rhythms an unheard but felt symphony
Accost your deepest emotions go with the flow release your inhibitions to the undertow take up the
Oars of this imaginary boat paddle out in deep waves add the silver streaks of moonlight you are only
The lightest shadow mix with all of existence restore depleted stores that were wasted and burned up in
The chaos of life you possess powers that run beyond all reason answer this how long are you going to
Last surge with that truth lay down many items inferior to your nature pick up the bright pulsating bars
Of energy drain them then lay them aside march in the heady knowledge an immortal stands here and is
Passing through the shallows of an earthy walk to strands invisible and their treasures are indescribable
They are my inheritance now they too are surrounded by a mist this day I have bridged the gulf and
United the two the secret place of the most high is to be my dwelling place I think I can soldier on until
My change comes and it will but until it does periodically I will come and sojourn in this tapestry of the
Gloaming and be reborn refashioned by truth that destroys all enemies and affords to me victory
Hal Loyd Denton Dec 2012
Irrelevant timeless drift moisture in a collate state triggers dispersion of thoughts and intent what to
Pursue an airy void trouble and worry automatically release the hold on the mind and heart to become
One with density and mystery the familiar evaporates it lays thick and low on the country lane just a
Haze a disjointed broken maze comfort it announces in the softest tingled ease touches your cheeks
What pleasing sensation engulfs you the freedom the same way that fire and colored lights hold you
Transfixed childlike wonder to question to ponder the unseen and the unknown without caution the only stumbling will be that of surprise a gentle moist kiss a touch of a cool hand it is time to assemble
In all the places that are at other times forbidden but now all restrictions are lifted those submerged
Weighty thoughts begin to rise they sway with the sweetest rhythms an unheard but felt symphony
Accost your deepest emotions go with the flow release your inhibitions to the undertow take up the
Oars of this imaginary boat paddle out in deep waves add the silver streaks of moonlight you are only
The lightest shadow mix with all of existence restore depleted stores that were wasted and burned up in
The chaos of life you possess powers that run beyond all reason answer this how long are you going to
Last surge with that truth lay down many items inferior to your nature pick up the bright pulsating bars
Of energy drain them then lay them aside march in the heady knowledge an immortal stands here and is
Passing through the shallows of an earthy walk to strands invisible and their treasures are indescribable
They are my inheritance now they too are surrounded by a mist this day I have bridged the gulf and
United the two the secret place of the most high is to be my dwelling place I think I can soldier on until
My change comes and it will but until it does periodically I will come and sojourn in this tapestry of the
Gloaming and be reborn refashioned by truth that destroys all enemies and affords to me victory
The beat of the old drums echoes in my ears,
Their sound has been remodeled, refashioned,
Into gun fires and explosions,
A cynical melody,
A symphony of unnerving sound,
The play their tune upon the lives of others,
These warriors play a part of the piece too,
Walking the reddened fields,
I am struck by the sight,
Each marred face and blood soaked body,
As I continue walking on,
Their eyes still intense with their efforts & passion,
To protect their homeland but not in vain,
My searching eyes wonder at how they accomplish such a task,
Of violent brutality and heart shattering pain,
Yet they still manage to have some strength,
Down to even the very last second,
As I walk these hallowed grounds once again,
I am reminded of their selfless act,
That allows me to be standing now,
Where I am.
copyright © Deana Lightner 2009
Tryst Feb 2017
There is a symmetry to war, state
against state, brother against brother,
like Siamese twins joined
headlong, thrashing and flailing
with one impassioned heart
for the right to be.

And still the world turns, and still
the hearts of defeated men beat strong
with savage hopes for a lost generation,
and the hearts of victors, once blinded
by angst and ire, observe the failings
of their triumph, see through old lies
that urged them unto death or death,
and old traditions, caked in blood,
are refashioned and reborn like bell-
bottomed denim, and still the world turns.

How was it, in that desperate hour,
for a man born to cotton fields,
born unto the yoke, born beneath the whip,
born unto the mercy of his masters,
how was it to be borne up to see the white
cotton flag raised in supplication, to see
old masters wavering in ploughed furrows,
like cotton billowed by a Northern squall?

Was there, in that desperate hour, a scream
from the past, "Beware, the Templars!"
as old chains were cast off, and melted
to forge chains anew, and the masters
of old were replaced by new masters
of state, and old fashions like slavery
replaced with chains worn by gangs over
bell-bottomed denim?

As long as men are masters of men,
Man will abuse his fellow man;
Profiteers will sup the fruits
of free labor, honest business
will decline, and prisons burgeon
as the poor become poorer, and
the poorest are inducted into
the perfect symmetry of an
imperfect finite state machine,
until the next uprising.
Madeleine Morris Apr 2016
I told you, I really did. I told you this was exactly what I didn't want to be & maybe thinking like this is just a product of greed but life was real because I was sad & it feels like I'm better but those are just letters on a page in an obituary no one has to write. What's the point in swimming if the water's too shallow? What's the point in living if this mind stays hollow? The rope has been refashioned & the guns been unloaded but that's as far as I can get in being goaded to lead this good life.

I can't even remember what I did this week.

I told you that not wanting to exist was what made it worthwhile & you told me it would be better if I was skillful, half smiled. I live life in the moment but forget it the next, so I'm not sure you were right to say this was for the best. My brain feels superficial, an art piece on the wall, are my only options to feel everything or to feel nothing at all? So yeah, I'm not sad anymore but I did tell you so, & now that I'm happy I'm scared that you'll go.
it's ironic because I'm trying to say that I feel happy now, but this poem is hella depressing
Eva Amelia Apr 2016
Art
Begin.
Ready your work area and clean your surface.
Prime the texture of your canvas:
             Smooth out all those exterior bumps and grooves.
             Always allow time for the last to relax.
Laying your foundation is the subsequent step:
             Be sure to pat a bare layer of skin all about.
             Brighten under those eyes
             before moving forward.
             Once more, allow your layers to relax.
Contour those ****** features to reveal an under-truth,
illuminate curvatures of shadow and light:
             Sweep in, sharpening under those cheekbones.
             Sweep out, lightening the cheeks.
             Sweep up, darkening those temple.
             Sweep underneath, sculpting that jawline.
             Sweep down, deepening the nose.
             Blend, blend, blend.
Redden those cheeks:
             Moderate your quantity,
             balance your quality.
Add a splash of color behind those bright eyes:
             Beige, Corduroy, and Chocolate.
             Again, always blend.
Darken those eyebrows:
             Bend the brow around—
             highlight under that curve!
Line those eyes with coal:
             Carefully curve over those waterlines,
             Steady your hand, do not to smudge.
Curve your brush up, up, up:
             Build those lashes.
             Open those eyes ever wider.
Accentuate those relaxed lips with a pleasant hue.
Before the final step, double-check for any unintentional slip.
Dust with finishing powder before overlaying with a setting spray.
End.

Afterward, review your work:

             First, remember your anticipating canvas, ready to be refashioned.
             Now, appreciate her every extraordinary color and unique curve.
             Finally, admire not just the craft, but also the delicate and dedicated crafting.

This reflection, our masterpiece.
Pearson Bolt Mar 2015
we are what
we pretend to be

caricatures of recycled
images and refashioned
motifs masquerading without
pretense of originality

carbon copies in dazzling relief
spun through cycles of roguish
vogue realities

you are what you Tweet

we've seen enlightenment dawn
and watched god die while
the planet relay-raced about
a decaying sun
drifting
children of the Digital Age

words are less than wind
they are fingertips tapping
luminous screens
spineless
lackluster and vain
beyond belief

we run our mouths
while the world burns
here's more Tinder for
the fire of distraction
GoFundMy upstart disaster

vegan hippie child of nature
punk anarchist activist
academic film enthusiast
novelist critic intellectual
psychologist pathologist anthropologist

will we practice a
discourse on delusion
or find solidarity with Sisyphus?

we are what
we pretend to be
Attributed To Concerned parents
of Traumatized Refugee
Dear Fred and Mary Anne MacLeod Trump...

Posthumous belated tattered letter fragment
recently discovered (liberally sprinkled with
hyperbole (presumed for greater audacious
zealousness), sans accidentally acquired
by yours truly.

Miscellaneous personal item highly valued
when thwarted from auctioneer, whose gently
persuasion collectible merchandise requisitioned,
thence keepsake property perfunctory mandatorily forfeited.

Due compensation from sole male heir (me),
whose long since (resting in eternal
peace) papa suffered degradation,
humiliation and understandable lamentation
as a kid living in Flatbush.

Authorities and expert legal scholars
pieced together what probably comprised
a lengthy epistle rivaling the Epic of
Gilgamesh).

Recollection recounted torturous,
malicious, and flagitious mean spiritedness
visited upon the ambitious, cadaverous, and
timorous body electric high-jinxed introverted male,
whose abstemious, conscientious, and nutritious
dietary regime, could not forestall rigor mortis.

A postscript (purportedly penned prior to
once philosophical pensive poet's papa's passing)
stated that said personage felt bitterness,
disharmonious envious self loathing.

That grownup man known as mine father,
though once upon a time, said recently
anonymous deceased old fogey ironically
registered as an atrocious, cantankerous,
and egregious deplorable high school student.

Also, the author of what constitutes partial
opprobrious litany attests during his
idolatrous, notorious, and semiconscious
Arab zombie school daze.

He ranked as de facto semiprecious,
tremulous and unanimous scapegoat
bullied by a bumptious, callous,
disputatious hippopotamus of a brat
infamous bruiser later in his life to become
forty fifth president of UnIted States.

Though documentation incomplete, the un
named subject referred within torn shred
recovered included signatory couching
ambiguous references to a tenebrous,
unscrupulous, and vicious ******* initials.

Dee Tee quickly intuitively assessed
as one inhumane specimen, whose pugnacious,
pretentious, and pestiferous, persona characterized
impetuous, adulterous apprenticeship appetite
for erecting ******* skyscrapers.

This once pacific pilloried pupil, whose grown
son (myself), now recalls father's misty eyed
anecdotes dripping with acrimonious, curmudgeonly
grouchy, grizzly and crotchety old sorries,
viz refashioned abominable kamikaze
psychological sorties.

I can vividly recall (how painful unto his old age)
oft daddy's repeated quotidian taunts, whereby
that bad ***, acidulous, avaricious, contemptuous,
enormous, and grievous big boy trumpeting
bruiser exuded devious, heinous, libelous, and
parsimonious tightwad, though born into wealth.
nivek Apr 2016
The robotic politicians voice
coded to denial
by default
the wearing down of hearts and minds
pushing up and out for the fresh air of freedom
held down beneath a numbered existence
the plus or minus of bank accounts
the number of children being born to carry the weight of their elders old age in taxes, and scams of insurance and scams of life chances
and love is denigrated to a wilful back seat driver who no one listens to
not since the sixties did rebellion and creativity have such force for the changing of the bloated politic ruling classes
and poets? Who will listen through headphones refashioned to old fashion and claim it to be uniquely new, and who listens to poetry anyhow, retune the radio, and change the World.
Regina Fable May 2019
I reach back through memory and mortality
To inspire that which I am to become
Exciting the bones of my ancestors
Their feathers of black and red and white
The golden rays of dead and declining stars
Deflecting off the face of the moon
"Is life still real if it echoed?"
"Yeeess," they exhale from eons past.
The first and only answer to an ageless urge
Stretching to me, through me
Filling the unfathomable empty
With intimacy and evidence
New issues to nurture
Most seeds remain in the shadows
Dreaming of a shift in the design
Stardust progressing toward potential
Again and again and again
And again the bond is broken
And refashioned
I am remembered
In unsettled frenzy, my soul awakens
Setting alight my future
Poetic T Jun 2020
I repeated every lesson,
          hearing every drowning
word...

Every syllable that was recast,
       but I never learnt a single...

done over,
                        duplicated..

Reproduced as another version of
              the same verse..


Everything was!
                refashioned,

redone, remade..
   In the fashion of what was before.

But even though I sat in every class..

        I never took a single word in..


The teachers changed, but I remembered
                     that one who made me resit


every lesson....

I cant see anything in this crammed space...

                    But hopefully one day some
one will cover me for a toilet break..

And I'll be peace....


I resit every lesson and still
                      all I see is deathly words..
                                       Never heard,
   but reverberating though hollow bones
to anonymous readers March 6th, 2021
(blustery and chilly Saturday)
reminiscing about mien kampf,
when precious irretrievable youth
frittered away within
emotional wilderness of mine.

Into lonely senescence -
three plus decades already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation, abdication... unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" thumb

of right hand ****** out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home

red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent

deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
(long since razed)
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still one hundred years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland

father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing

heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,

when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature

in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library (Evansburg)

few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest

distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates

into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!

PostScript: I slightly refashioned
above crafted semi fictitious poem
(written scant years ago)
cuz poignant pathos
to plod along boulevard
of broken dreams still persists into present.
to anonymous readers March 22nd, 2022
(blustery and chilly Tuesday)
reminiscing about mein kampf,
when precious irretrievable youth
frittered away within
emotional wilderness of mine.

Into lonely senescence -
more'n three plus decades
plus three extra orbitz
around mister sun already elapsed
trepidation, hesitation, abdication... unbearably
tugging, shouldering,
remonstrating accumulation
of "baggage" nothing
to thumb button nose at

think hitch hiker pose
of right hand ****** out
silently raving, quaking
cursing ultimatum parents
(soffit to fascia in)
saw fit to fashion
and hammer home

red hot poker rage
their singular male offspring
middle child of two sisters,
who long since vacated premises
when both young naifs
prior to attaining age of consent

deploring bing holed up
at 324 Level Road redoubt
(long since razed)
built as summer house
remote from fracas of urban bedlam
still one hundred years since Leipers
bon voyage into netherland

father and mother
imposed swiftly tailored
harried styled tough love
translated meant absolute zero value
toward offspring they begot,
and made quite clear loathing

heaped upon sundered fountainhead
good for nothing son of a...,
he whittled away precious time
reading avast among trove of material
crowdsourcing numerous bookshelves
mostly to impress intellectual visitors,

when in truth middle aged couple
thinly veiled country bumpkins,
donned with "FAKE" literacy
stereotypical "rednecks,"
inexplicably begot wunderkind
agog with inhaling literature

in tandem with liberal
magazines and newspapers
oft times whiled away countless hours
sunup to sundown
sequestered most remote nook
within local library (Evansburg)

few miles walk along country road
served as self taught schooling
since parochial educated regimen
habitually rapped knuckles
courtesy whiplike hickory stick
if pupil evinced slightest

distraction, whence schoolmaster
detected lack of attention
as crotchety curmudgeon
blankly droned monotonously
dull jabbering subjected
stone faced classmates

into instant soporific state
futilely struggling to keep eyelids
slamming shut tight
including yours truly,
who when suddenly awake
realized quite a vivid dream!

PostScript: I slightly
refashioned, repurposed and revised
above crafted semi fictitious poem
(written scant years ago)
cuz poignant pathos
to plod along boulevard
of broken dreams still persists into present.

— The End —