"reflections" poems
Doing a dance,
to wear a mask,
To play a game that you can’t stomach . . .
Just so that the truth doesn’t have to face you,
The way you recoil from reflections of yourself.
You’d forsake your happiness, your health —
You would burn it all.
To do a dance,
To wear a mask
To play a game you’ll always lose.
To look in a mirror . . .
To tell an image, that it’s anything but you.
And it is in that moment, that you'll find
You’ll tell the unfamiliar truth
As you bleed and feed
Your own obliterated youth . . .
To feel, and then
to lose —
Just like the loss you always knew
You would find in disappointment.
Like an unholy anointment
of your least desirable possessions
That retire from the heavens
Back to you.
To betray, and to amuse
Alone.
The ides of irony rejoice!
For they’ve found their lamb... or
their ever-dying muse.
Forsaking life itself, you clamor
To see others just like you.
And maybe, one day, one will choose
the path that you can’t leave,
As it reciprocates to thee —
Two partners in misery, fated to excuse
the waste of each other...
until they find there’s nothing left.
To feel the flame within its breath consumed.
Wearing a mask,
To live a lie,
And die a death,
Whose dance you six-times misstep
And on the seventh, betrays you.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park
combine shavings
in crack rust brown
scissors chips fall
at the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts!)
give thanks
joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle in the fore-wind
ghosts
and goblins
pull on the seeds
wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
a blood rush churns
in the chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound
jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball parks empty
with pennants past
barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch
brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from the timber tops
3 wick candles
grace the dinner place
shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on the shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return ~
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
And no one saw her hurting
They saw glimmering reflections of themselves
Off the broken shards that she was made up of
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 12:39 AM UTC
The beach smells of tranquillity and salty sea air
The rhythm of the waves gently caresses my skin
The horizon seems elusive, a dream always chased
Yet night foreshadows traumas waiting to be let in
Oh where do I begin?
*I love you
I don't wanna be scared of you
I'm waiting in the shoreline
Please don't run away this time*
I'm scared of silent reflections, solemn and reclusive
I float futher from myself with each passing day
I have a note addressed to myself taped to a mirror
I'm scared of reading it aloud and being lead astray
And I have to accept that it's okay
*"I love you
I don't wanna be scared of you
I'm waiting in the shoreline
Please don't run away this time"*
Seashells coated in sand tickle the edge of my ear
The fog carried on the wind sends chills deep inside
The sun will always be there to break the duskiness
Daunting across the sky and waking up the tide
And the breeze slowly sighed
Please don't run away,
don't run away from me
Please don't run away,
don't run away from help
Please don't run away,
don't run away from the sea
Please don't run away,
don't run away from yourself
Angel wings take me further than I've ever gone before
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:29 AM UTC
"So why are you painting a woman in a bottle?"
The challenge. Handling all those quirky reflections and layers of transparency.
"She has phantom arms and legs, what about that?"
Yes, pretty cool. A Vitruvian woman in a bottle.
"I'm looking for Meaning: Don't paintings look under the surface?"
You mean, what does it mean, really mean? It's just a way to test my skill.
"But what are you saying with that?"
It's not feminist nor anti, it's just an exercise. Besides, there's a rope.
"But aren't you, as an artist, exposing reality, presenting emotions and feelings, seeing the soul?"
*I'm not on a soapbox-- I'm testing my skill-- I paint and don't think about it too much. After all, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar' or is it 'just a smoke'? *
"I don't like your message."
*OK, I'll paint you in a bottle...
As a shrunken head.*
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 7:49 AM UTC
I hesitate to show him the truth.
The words I write may never reach his eyes
I am afraid of the torture after rejection.
These feelings cannot be denied,
my poems will never cease to exist
even if i erased these heavy thoughts I typed
burned them alive
the memories of us will float around endlessly
somewhere, out of my reach.
If he sees himself in mirrors
in a monotone and meaningless way
he will not anymore
because reflections of him
lie not only visually in images,
such as projections on clear glass
but in others who admire him too.
We become who we love eventually
Admiration for someone else
makes us melt
covering past pages of who were before.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:26 AM UTC
You used to tell me that beautiful things come from pain and adversity.
Like motherhood, unconditional love, and true stories.
As I stood in the middle of a room painted white,
Staring at the remains of rolling hills burned to black,
I saw you staring back at me.
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Shining against your bones
Velvet black
You’ve changed
And changed and changed
Yet your love still remains
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Whiskers are the needles on a compass
Always pointing to the azure sky
You used to sing when I cried
Rolling your r’s over rrolling hills
A haunting melody startling black birds into the night
Feathered constellations against a sliver moon
And lips pressed to my salty cheeks
You told me that your favorite skin tone was chocolate,
As you laid out in the sun hoping to melt. “A quarter black” is what you say when you want to feel proud,
Even as you tell me stories of how your mother was called negrita,
The girl who stood too dark amongst the crowd.
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Black like the broken wings of mothers before you
Who had hands with scars from cotton seeds
And blue veins like uprooted trees
Stretching all the way to their tired knees
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Speaking in envy of the color gold
Like you are a broken bowl in need of kintsugi
Yet silver snakes still slither
Over the pebbled river beds of your black curls
Dripping down the small of your back
Until they reach the base of your ivory spine
Burnt fields like black panther fur
You criticize your aging beauty
Because you never thought
Cocoa lips and sun spots painted on sculpted clay that never cracks
Could ever look as stunning as it does on you
You told me that it is better to speak my truth then tell pretty lies.
So I told you mine and you cried,
And cried and cried.
But look where we are now,
Standing beside each other with the same eyes,
Just different reflections.
Burnt fields like black panther fur
Tongue like a sword set ablaze
Tempered in pools of milk and honey
Blood red sun grazing the tops of your eyelids
Still reminiscent of those in old photographs
Where you saw the little girl you search for in me
Burnt fields like black panther fur
I am sorry I made you cry
But even when our backs are turned
We are still
Black birds singing in the dead of night
Free
Thank you mama for my broken wings.
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
sages and brethren
gather, and share
and slowly souls
are bared
their tempered voices
and quiet eyes
reserved of judgment
with passing smiles
moments blend
in current trends
opinions wide
and reflections deep
the concepts
and irregularities
once murky
now clear
they prioritize
and familiarize
that staunch resolution
of generation net
will remunerate
and illuminate
through the checkpoints
and formal reviews
through the purple curtains
and open stage
nothing tainted
or bitter
left for taste
cause its they
who’ll plant the seeds
the captains of commerce
healers and jugglers
the coaches and councilors
negotiators and compromisers
the kings and queens
hustlers and hellcats
(who've all found their way!)
let us tip our hats
and salute them*
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
He smiles so bright like he has teeth of gold.
Projecting the reflections of his own inceptions.
I'm done grieving the words that once killed the inner me.
Verbally abusive was the past that didn't last.
He shattered my hope like splintered and shattered glass.
As far as the moon is to the sun is he to me.
I can picture his face but to me he's faceless.
His voice is like the echo of a stranger.
He salts his words with flatter,
it doesn't matter, they are tasteless.
His speech is drenched in hypocritical lyricals.
Transmissions of emphatic subliminals
transformed him into an emotional criminal.
If people would obey the limitations of their naive believes.
Maybe they would know that he calls me once a year...
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 12:39 PM UTC
The table was set.
The morning was fine.
The world lay reflected
in two glasses of wine.
An empty plate
reflected sunshine,
The morning compressed
in two glasses of wine.
What did she see
in undulations of wine?
Were the shapes a portent?
Was there a design?
Were the glasses a mirror
or shadowy sign?
Perhaps they were more
than just glasses of wine.
She and a friend
sat down to dine.
Their reflections drank deeply
from two glasses of wine.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 7:16 PM UTC
" That's just me "
You’ll hear her say
" I am lesser than beautiful "
I refuse to believe that
I am of worth
What exactly am I?
A courageous soul who is unapologetically herself
Well, the truth is
I look in the mirror to only see
My reflections disappoint
No longer can I say that
My beauty radiates from within
now read from bottom to top
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 4:22 AM UTC
It’s a coloured and shaded broad daylight.
Bring me my hourglass, my paintbrush.
Keeping a timepiece, how soon my brush
strokes become finer it is not the task.
Try once more, strike a fine chord in time,
ever ticking but doesn't make a sound!
Let’s read the small prints, the shadow lines
on the pitch of the slit sun shines!
A dark spot in the light, some dotted lines
on a blank paper, however witty you might
describe it, count on the tweeting birds
short and cute, singing in the open air.
Light and dark the two tallies, ins and outs.
The times come and go, flowing fine.
For now, let’s take a look inside.
Tint and shade nor tone them now.
Zoom in and out, just watch them as they are.
This cool sleek shade on the sunny slate
is it a shadow, or some quivering curly hairs
or are these reflections of flocking clouds,
diligent sea eyeing deep down on the ground?
Read the small prints, shadows in the daylight,
before the show is wrapped up.
And down the evening pool, the sun
parts away with the black swan.
May 23, 2017
May 23, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
What is the sky
but a canvas for clouds?
What is a city
but a canvas for crowds?
What is the meadow
so verdant and green
but a canvas for sheep
a pastoral scene?
What is the ocean
with reflections so blue,
than a canvas for sails
as they drift into view?
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 8:19 AM UTC
Their skin is translucent
Veins crawl across their skin like vines
Their builds slim but rippling with muscles
They approach
Their eyes glow red
Color of blood from a beating heart
Pumping pumping pumping
They glow brighter as they spot their prey
Greasy black wings on their backs
Reflections of screaming faces seem to show
Faces of agony and fear
Right before they feed
Angels sent to earth because heaven didn't want them their
The devil takes them in gives them power
Because he was god's favorite and he was an angel once too
Their sent to punish those
Who escaped death and punishment
To get those who deserve it most
People like you
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 6:52 PM UTC
I try to show love,
But people don't see.
I try to be strong,
But I am weak.
I try to be there,
But I fall on the way.
I want to be happy
But inside I am sad.
I want to live,
But inside I feel dead.
I look in the mirror,
But the reflections not me.
I see a face
But know its not mine
I cry to myself,
But know I must stop.
I have so much to live for
But losing is my fear.
I know it will get better,
But I just have to wait.
I know, I know, I know.
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 8:11 PM UTC
I put so much effort into random places,
so much effort into random faces
face it
im faceless
placeless
drifting
shifting
thoughts towards destiny
feeling empty,
wondering whats left in me...?
messages esoteric terrorize my rhetoric
pedestrians staring glaring gazin gotta get a second look
shook
layers shed, fall from those ancient snakes
left for dead
suffocated, stranded
damaged
god ******
this sunless planet is madness
immobilized
try to find sense in a broke world
what are hands without manipulation?
and in life? death is a stipulation
a fools gold is never within grasp
so
clasp delusions Grandiose
with a toast
to sham pain and champagne
emptied grails course through mans veins
oh to see what mirrors saw
would reflections appear at all?
peer into the endless ego
see nothing but self libido
we are all weary travelers,
existences' eternal passengers
remove masks, flasks, end the charade
let serpents slither, and sun bath
away from the shade
embrace the end of nights
push away the start of days
just keep in mind
which way
the pendulum sways
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
*towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer
my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer
‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains
©2016 janetaylor
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
If you are uncomfortable when you look in the mirror,
keep in mind:
We spent thousands of years
trying to convince the earth
she was flat.
We wrote her maps as evidence of the things we saw;
and she believed them.
She cried tsunamis, and had earthquake breakdowns.
Keep in mind: the Sun never gave up hope.
The earth will keep spinning and breathing
the star-dusty space void of encouragement.
Next time you look in the mirror
and second-guess your potential divinity,
remember you will keep shining and living.
Because the Sun is out there
believing in you,
compensating for lack of the human capacity
to treat each other empathically.
You don’t need proof or approval
to be exactly what you are;
Eventually everyone will see
your infinite beauty.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:54 AM UTC
These people in the streets call me from names, blaming me for blasphemy.
I don't blame them for their reflection in the mirror is different from the one that I see.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
euphoric paranoia
accompanies your touch
as you finger your way
under my skin
shadows on the curve
of your neck
jitters of reality
involuntary fantasy
caverns in my body
unrecognizable reflections
disintegrating away
maybe its your love
maybe its ****
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
You'll never know...
When you'll be head over heels
The most enchanting feeling in the world
Your unknown desires, it reveals
A current in you will endlessly twirl
You'll never know...
When happiness fills your heart
Having a precious bundle of joy in your arms
You'll realize in your life, he's the most important part
Not forgetting, he'll make the best morning alarms
You'll never know...
When your heart will be scrunched
Like a ball from a piece of paper
Feels like your chest is being ruthlessly punched
Your skin peeled off with a serrated scraper
You'll never know...
When a friend will turn his back
Whose hand you held, all these years
Intentionally causing an emotional attack
In disbelief, you gather invisible tears
You'll never know...
When you'll be caught in an unexpected plight
Daily reflections occur, due to lack of wisdom
To ease your dark path, you yearn for a ray of light
Nothing much you can do except to crave for freedom
You'll never know...
When the time comes, you might bleed to death
Tears will flow drowning your skin
As you breathe your last breath
You wish you had more time to atone for your sins
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC