"reframe" poems
The poor keep moving
as if relocation
could reframe the algebra.
They cannot see that repetition
traces patterns
in their life.
New beginnings become as hopeless
as stale finales
of debt and desperation.
Wishful thinking makes for certainties
gambling against the odds
of possibilities.
Whispered prayers and incantations
leaves no space
for reason’s compass to steady and settle.
If they stood still and mapped the moment
both sides of the equation
would simplify
and they might construct
a new geometry
of anger.
© M.L.Emmett
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
2011:
Here and there, you called my name
For this is what you christened me
“Maple is a hurricane.”
Here and there you called my name.
Face to face, you’ll ascertain
That this is not the truth, you’ll see
I’m not a ******* hurricane
For this is what you christened me.
2015:
Hear, and where you called my name –
Abyss is what you christened me.
Oh, “Maple is a hurricane!”
Said puppeteer’s overt reframe.
Braced and faced, they’ll ascertain
That this just YOUR truth – decreed
You sought a ******* hurricane
**Within YOURSELF; yet, christened ME.**
HURRICANE MEDUSA, *******
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC
Better natured today than yesterday,
smelling less like cigarettes and more
like laundry detergent, you sit across
from your therapist at the bar and
ask for one more boilermaker.
You say, How do you desire what you already possess?
And your therapist says, Don't go down that drunk.
That's a bad drunk.
You're in a floral print A-line dress, one
you bought from your sister-in-law.
She's doing one of those multilevel marketing things
and though her Facebook posts make you want
to suicide yourself, she's happy and independent
and at home with her kids. Despite these lukewarm
feelings, you harbor some resentment as you finger
and thumb a seam that's already coming undone.
Sloane. Your husband keeps mentioning a woman
at the office named Sloane. You're at the bar,
almost alone, and promised yourself
you wouldn't think about Sloane. But here you are.
Sloane in a pencil skirt and stockings. Sloane
with a fresh ****** energy, the kind you can't
seem to summon, and you wonder why ***
is such an important thing. It's so brief,
forgettable, full of abject compromise.
*** is an inherently violent act, don't you think?
You say to the therapist.
If your therapist hears you, he doesn't respond.
You don't repeat the question.
You watch yourself broadcast on the TV above the bar.
They're commenting on your hair and your arms
and going on and on about your likability.
Your therapist changes the mood. It's 6:30.
He gives the place a nighttime feel.
He kills a row of lights and turns on the
colored bulbs, the blues and greens.
The TV is turned down. The music is turned up.
This is what you've been waiting for, the lights, the music.
There's an hour before anyone really shows up. You can
close your eyes and drift.
Two or three drinks pass. A couple walks in.
You have your therapist put in for an Uber.
Maybe I've been asking the question the wrong way, you say.
Oh yeah? the therapist says.
Yeah. Maybe the question should be reversed.
Maybe the question should be
how do you remain desirable to the objects you possess?
That seems like a lot of work. Seems like you'd have no
sense of self. You'd always be bending.
I've been a plus one for a long time.
You say bending. But I wouldn't be
doing anything new. I already do all these things.
But I see them as a compromise. I'm just trying
to reframe, you know?
Why? your therapist asks.
You open your mouth and find no words. You smile. You say you've had too much. You're rambling. You're sorry. You better go.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 12:15 PM UTC
"good luck," they think it means.
brides, grooms, hell, even the kids in the club.
and the notion that the phrase comes with the
shattering of glass under a custom print napkin--
just wrong.
it's important to be mindful of what mazel tov means in
that moment, sure, but it's also
important to be mindful of what mazel tov
means in the everyday. the ritual.
see, mazel tov means "what good fortune."
and I know, I know, sounds pretty
**** close to "good luck."
but think about the glass.
all these tiny pieces to pick up
and you say, "good luck."
have fun picking up the shards.
don't cut your finger.
saying "good luck" in that moment
makes you an *** but "what good fortune"
sounds like you got something up your sleeve.
and you should. in this life, always. always
a few tricks. you know when I was little,
my mother asked me what I wanted to be
when I grew up and I told her, I said,
"I want to be a magician."
her response, "you can't do both."
she's right. that's no profession for an adult,
but you can be an adult and a
magician on the side, as a hobby,
that's alright.
wait.
what was I talking about?
magicians, magicians, oh. tricks.
how else are you going to get by?
mazel tov is a mind trick.
see, we say "what good fortune"
when the glass breaks to reframe the
situation. what's your reaction
to that sound? your ears perk up--
if ears can actually do that, I don't know--
the hairs on your neck stand up.
I guess they can't really stand in the conventional
sense, but, well, you feel the space of a room.
and after that beautiful sound, and I mean beautiful,
you are forced to take everything else into account.
you don't want anything else to break. what matters most,
you know? that's why we say "what good fortune."
I'm delighted to know something as worthless
as glass has broken. because now I'm more
careful with what's valuable to me. right?
you spill soda on a cloth seat in your new car.
mazel tov.
now you don't have to be paranoid
every time your nephew climbs in with an Icee.
it's material crap. just crap. you're alive.
you've got a car. be thankful for what you have.
reframe, you know?
your girlfriend, your wife leaves you for a
former high school quarterback turned
owner of a lawn service company.
another casualty of the sweaty, lemonade-fueled fantasy.
once again, mazel tov.
you are so lucky you didn't spend the rest
of your life with her. the glass shattered.
it's a beautiful sound.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
There is a lifetime to hold this woe,
To process and reframe,
But never let go
And I'll visit whatever vestiges I've left,
Because you still hold my heart,
An inconceivable theft
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC
.
Meet me for a pint after work.
Take me through the days, weeks, or months
We've neglected ourselves -
Overworked and inebriated respectively.
You've never been without a job -
But don't neglect a word.
Take utmost care through the moments
That define your time: The trials, troubles,
And metamorphic events which reframe
Your view of the world, or your relationship with it.
Tell me about the ones who make it easy.
We'll allow time for the detail.
Your moments constitute a vicarious roadmap;
A means to improve my world.
In return I can offer up a Dublin dinner:
The best advice I've never followed,
My sincere admiration,
And a proper pint of Guinness.
.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC
i want to be someone who helps.
i want to be someone who hears.
i don't want to be who harms.
i don't want to be one who haunts.
i want to be one with open hands.
i want to be one with open heart
Apr 6, 2023
Apr 6, 2023 at 9:04 PM UTC
four sleeps
four more sleeps
and then that day arrives
the day
if you are not careful
that reminds you
of all you are not
you are not a mother
nor a sister
nor an aunt
you do not have family
you can go and visit
when you wake
on that day
there is no laughter echoing
nor paper ripping
as presents are opened
before the kettle has boiled
instead
your house
echoes with emptiness
you will eat your turkey and trimmings alone
no debate about who sits where at the table
nor fights for supremacy of the remote control
please
do not be sad for me
reframe your matrix
the way I do
my heart beats with the gift of life
my memory is filled
with the richness of days gone by
and each moment I breathe
the only moment any of us has
is filled with belief and shaped by joy
I am not a mother
nor a sister
nor an aunt
I do not have family
I can go and visit
I will eat alone on Christmas Day
but what I am is me
and for that I am blessed
as you are for being you
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 5:19 AM UTC
lifeguards, free life vests, at least 15 lifeguards, always holding red flotation devices
always on the watch, telling little children to get out of the deep end
to give a rest break, a child looked faint, one guard approached, nothing
forever on the watch, no one gets hurt, required swim breaks,
guarding, guarding, keeping everyone so safe
I wondered how anyone could even cough water down the wrong pipe
here in this fully, totally, completely covered and safe lake and beach
waiting for an outdoor rinse, the screams of terror of a small child and tears
and then whack, whack, whack, and the crying increased and it took me
awhile to adjust, to reframe, that this, a deliberate endangerment, an infliction
of pain, could happen here, in a place so absolutely and intensely safe
but there is was again, the sound of striking and crying and harsh words in Spanish
and I gazed at the lifguards wetting down the sand where they had to walk to cool it
a lifeguard with that perfect surfer boy look, like the ones I grew up with
but again, the striking sound, in the relative darkness of the men's room
and a man followed by a tearful toddler emerged
the man looked like he's just performed a self satisfying act and the boy
followed him like a dog and I realize that
we as children are dogs, little animals who are abused
and follow our attackers home and live with them in order to survive
the man carried no obvious weapon, but I knew what he'd done
to be that two year old child, unable to soothe oneself, in a dark, strange room
with a man towering over him, inflicting pain for some trifle
I wondered what to do, but they walked by and dissapeared into the crowds of
picnics and music and the safe beach, with the lifeguards standing, always holding
their red flotation devices, all eyes staring at the water, the beach
it now did not look so safe at all
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
I've painted over this canvas one too many times.
I'm running out of colors, I'm running out of ryhmes.
My brush is losing bristles, my hands are losing faith.
This wooden frame is shattered, splitting at the seams.
I don't know if I'll ever, reframe all my dreams.
In my mind they scatter, haunt me like a wraith.
I've painted over this canvas one too many times.
I'm running out of colors, I'm running out of ryhmes.
The paint layers are cracking, my heart is turned to stone.
That heavy burden peeling, again I'm all alone.
Nov 26, 2023
Nov 26, 2023 at 9:13 PM UTC
It hurts so deep
The pain is no relief
From the feeling of being an outcast
And lost
And losing yourself more than what you ought
To find yourself skirting around in the distance
Never the object of embrace
Just disgrace in this case
Cards were stacked against you in a way
In such a way
Where there was no way out
Just deeper in it the pain deepened
Feeling lost and hopeless
Holding on till another weekend.
And the week starts again
The weak go on in pain
Refrain to reframe the reality
You’re so lost
You become the lost cause
There is no congeniality.
It wasn’t your fault for being born with no spoons silver or forks too
It wasn’t you who chose the broke life it was chosen for you
It wasn’t fair then
It isn’t alright now
It’s easy to forget but harder to move on
Easy to live in denial with rosy glasses on
Take it off for it is…
Always harder to move on.
Sep 12, 2024
Sep 12, 2024 at 1:10 AM UTC
a foreboding
photograph
startles to memory
our war's beginning..
this named entanglement
darkened and dampened
the frivolity
the expected brevity
of our war with ourselves..
a blood soaked becoming
of machinery and death..
the foreground a
cannon on wheels
replicated in the distance
and we assume
again and again..
these engines of conflict
dominate a distant
'tho insistent background..
the sun's
fiery reflection on
an expectant treeline..
coupled with sky
turbulent and echoing
the cannon's
forthright entrance
with purpose unmasked..
this our battle of
separation for reunion
a Manassas pattern
oft repeated through
all of these
our rebirthing years..
flanking and horses
surprise encircling
a wall of stone..
agony and sorrow
the fever of war..
all to reframe
then to restate
our collective.. sacred
I Am...
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 1:30 AM UTC
These familiar streets used to bring solace.
You see, this used to be a blank canvas but I've painted myself onto it and people are starting to notice.
Looking out from my seat all I see are ghosts of what I've done lining the streets.
And it's a scene I wish I could reframe
But this,
This is a problem I just can't tame.
Maybe I'll change my name
Then plan a party with no invitations and wonder why nobody came.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 11:29 AM UTC
Yes,
this is another poem
about ****
Sorry,
I know you’re
exhausted from
hearing them.
Sorry,
I know it makes you uncomfortable.
****
There I
go apologizing again.
Ok. Reframe.
Start over. Own it.
This is a poem
about **** and you better
******* listen.
Ok too harsh,
too harsh.
They’re not gonna listen now.
Again.
Ok, uhh...
personal story.
One time my
best friend and I
were ***** by the same
person.
Ok wait, no...
too personal.
They’ll just pity me,
instead of seeing the
larger issue.
Ok, I think I finally got it.
To give you an idea
of the numbers,
all of my friends and I
have been victims
of ****** assault.
Great, perfect,
not too personal,
we can talk about it in the abstract
like nothing terrible
happened to me,
specifically.
That’s it. That’s it.
That’s how we can talk about.
Depersonalized,
Submerging our feelings
with facts.
Statistics are our best friend.
So here it goes:
Did you know false reports of ****** assault are
rare, ranging from 2 to 10%
of all reported ****** assaults.
That the percentage
I just quoted was
from a study that
collected data over 10 years
from reports on a college campus,
after determining in a meta-analysis of 20
other studies on false reporting that the
FBI data used was "unreliable."
Conversely, about 63% of
****** assaults go unreported.
Wouldn't it make sense
to air on the side of
believing women
then? As opposed to
casually
insinuating they could
have ulterior motives
reporting ****** assault,
political or otherwise.
That isn't an argument.
That is fear talking.
That is guilt talking.
That isn’t us having a conversation –
that’s just you blabbering illogically,
crippled by the fear you’ll be next.
You are wrong.
You are wrong!
Your arguments are baseless.
You are completely ignoring the facts.
There is no evidence.
You need to stop talking,
and politely listen.
Because you have a lot to learn.
And while we are not obligated,
many of us are willing to teach you:
The only ulterior motive women
have 'outing' people,
for a CRIME
they committed,
the only benefit,
is to make sure the person responsible
doesn't **** someone else.
And you not believing us,
you chastising us,
you rolling your eyes,
you silencing us,
lets that person walk free.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 12:47 AM UTC
Eight years ago, foggily I awoke from a 40-day deep, deep deep, sleep,
Seven times I've donned the sackcloth, which may continue seventy times seven in acceptance of my new reality.
Six years of gratitude redirected my heavy heart and thoughts, reframing and good perspective keep --
Five rehabilitation programs, cross-country, helped regain vital functionality, to commence:
Four years of post-graduate study in counselling and chaplaincy, processing grief, re-skilling, and growing more confidently,
despite my
Three-second memory retention, slowly but surely, my amazing brain rewired grey space. My
Two eyes, after several surgeries, still view life in fragments, hoping to be restored by the
One Almighty God, who has blessed me with life, I stand in awe of His grace.
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 9:55 PM UTC
My lungs are deep & shallow,
My breathing still can’t follow.
My heart cracks in mysterious rows,
My eyes sees all but they definitely aren’t hollow.
As they fall off one by one, another is built in its place,
Except this heart is made out of steel, as my eyes are filled with your face,
and my mind but a name only my soul can reframe,
That you might be one of my other lost lace that’s the color of a red string that was once lost in all my daydreams.
Nov 4, 2021
Nov 4, 2021 at 4:32 AM UTC
The implosion of myself
Saturday nights reading *crime and
Punishment*
The whispering moans issued the streets
no way out
Dumb cries arose from behind the walls of
the alleys
Don't justified
My literature
or even
The loneliness that
I feel in my chest.
All this
Just helps me to believe
That
Nothing matters
Until you
Reframe
The
Nothing.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 3:46 PM UTC
Put together words that paint pictures. Till I regain a sense of peace, until then let the ink from my pen hitcha. I’m here to redesign structures, reframe pictures. Rename fixtures. When I die they’ll say I brang scriptures, No false profit. Just problems I attempt to fix before some one else get too. If you don’t heal or harm they forget you. Your name Seven Socrates? The Name Fit you."
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Why is it called chaos game
when all we do seems to reframe
the thoughts we've had before?
If half of x constitutes y
and if, therefore, the sky is blue
then let me show you
something else:
a little girl that sits and dwells
on a green field
plays with a game of marbles.
After each cast
she looks and pins
a little leaf of grass
into the ground.
She plays her game
until the sun goes down
and, tired now, she rises
looks again -
begins to frown at what unfolds
before her eyes;
the leaves of grass
have formed a shape
that, in the gloomy light,
resembles much a pyramid
with lion head, a human body,
and a riding knight who clutches
a fleur-de-lis-
*Reaching down the giant girl
picks from my hand the gift
that I for her have brought
into this world, for her to drift
however far she dares
to go.*
And chances are that,
in this chaos,
in this chaotic game,
this lily is the only thing that we both see
and thus the only thing that is worth looking at;
Thus, my equation ends,
having used up all xes
and all whys-
exhausted from such high amount
of unpredicted turning points-
And no one tries
to sit her down to talk.
And so the girl continues;
and she keeps on to walk
in purple fields,
with lilies in her hair,
forever drifting,
planting her faithful seeds.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
#
*This... or that..
the pull of this world
and its long supply
of disappointment, is strong
I shall Reframe my Journey
almost continually
There is a swirl.. a rising
line, taut..
before limply settling
back down onto the water
There are moments in time
that live forever
There is a time within
those moments;
I never truly had
the chance to live*
There is a Journey to reframe
*I will find my life again,
somewhere
Buried deep
within that framework*
#
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 9:23 PM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
My desire,
Is hellish fire,
A Fresh teenage body such as myself,
Am I a liar or deceiver,
Would you believe her,
In sickness and health,
My thoughts and frames are calibrated,
See through the windows of her soul
I didn't have to love it,
Was frustrated,
But I reframe from that
And just let everyone and everything go,
To get one more night of love making and
Kissing soft throats,
I would love her with all my heart,
But most of it is decayed,
But sometimes for romance , you go
For what you know,
Touch of her hair,
Smiles that glare brightly,
When she needs her superman,
Instead I'll be there knightly.
Get it.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
What stories?
People tell a story and think that makes it universal law:
makes the story real and reality only a dream.
This is what ego-driven people do:
why one day they say one thing
and another day they say something new.
Are times hard? We can say this.
We can say times are joyful, too.
We can say whatever we like.
We can reframe a genocidal land grab
as a freedom chasing dream.
We can be real, too.
We can see what we’ve got
here and now.
And we can love each other
despite the stuff that doesn’t line up.
We can acknowledge and affirm
and set intention
that this that we see right here
will not be our road again.
Jan 18, 2022
Jan 18, 2022 at 11:25 AM UTC
Heavy bearing the day in the city of distress,
getting back to my place, in my head there's a mess,
tough to go to sleep, so I stick to my flask,
close up a rizla and take care of my skunk.
Every one racing up - for their personal clap-clap,
running through busy streets with no time to ghasp,
pale and invisible - modern day ghost.
City of kebabs vs beans on toast.
Sunshine's not much more than a shadow from the past,
people puking on toga on a late night bus,
need the medicine - to stop living in a rush,
in this massive brain-washing our life's running past.
I remember the food, I remember the taste,
I remember the beach and I wanna reframe,
I remember the nature, I'm afraid I'll forget,
I remember my life but there's no time for that.
---
9-to-5 ghospel, first-world rap, call it that,
blues for who's got answers, money for the rich ****
I've no real complain, but it rains over my reason,
living in the city that's got only one season.
I need clearing up, fresh air from this prison,
needa breath something that don't smell like poison,
needa look outside at the end of the day,
and know that there is something beyond the grey.
Been staring for hours at an off-licence shelf,
browsing for nothing, maybe looking for myself,
lobotomised by the lifeless lights,
the only noise: the cars outside.
Nothing and everything - just floating around
a party on a boat, a rave underground,
the late night workers, the drop of a pound,
every night is the longest, every day passes by.
Lot of money goes wasted but nothing to buy,
This city is the woman that I'll never betray.
This city commands, you shut up and obey.
This city is the white, the black and the grey.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
Dont wait tommorow for what can be said today.
Ripples in the water.
Cast from stone so easily fade away.
The difference in a day plays apon your face.
Regret tangles the most simple questions.
All to often we mask the stubborn actions
and pass them off as fate.
How could I ever let you slip away.
Burns a heart only to freeze over.
The road is never a clear direction.
A cold night a lovers embrace like a
blanket gives a false a sense of protection.
Now I hold a memeory not a friend.
We cant mask the distance.
So how can we continue to pretend.
Old love letters a window to a moment in time.
Tears flow freely in the confines of my emptyness.
In the illusion when I knew you as mine.
Sweet kisses are wasted apon the bitter soul.
Times fragments splintter to all but
vanish from sight.
It's a struggle to live in the moment when
you cant even get ast a single night.
Tommorow I wont let it repeat today.
No longer will I settle to simply exist.
Watching lines once strong as they fade away.
Sometimes the best canvas should stay blank.
Colored by hopes not strokes of pain.
More words are needed to exist with
my deepest emotions in silent reframe.
May 2, 2010
May 2, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
Clingering pain
Wrappering blame
Failanguishing again
In this memoryless game
Testful domain
Obstahazards the same
Channel it Jane
Moveswitch & Reframe
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 12:44 AM UTC