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Nicole Mar 2015
Cold white layers pile over the grey concrete
I did not expect the storm but I
Needed to face the journey
Someday
We knew it could not last forever

And in that moment
An accident in my vision,
Maybe the music screaming into my ear
Distracted me from the obvious truth that lie
Just through the windowpane
Leading to a collision straight into reality

Your words, the concrete divider
That hit hard enough to take deep damage
Yet not hard enough to stop me from moving forward
The unexpected truth that came at the least expected moment
My ignorance overlooked the obvious signs
That i could not stay safe forever
Not at the speed we drove..

My skin hugged my knuckles tightly
Enough to match the descending snow
As I knew from the first swerve
Your first word
That inevitable fate
I surely faced
Death loomed close in my mind

But I drove on
Grabbed the wheel and forced my way through
The place where I felt nearest to the grave
Until I reached a safe enough space to see for myself
Just how much damage I endured

And, like my car,
I am totaled
Broken into pieces that cannot be reframed
Some lost at the point of collision
Others gradually passing over time
And some still holding on

In the eyes of an astonished mechanic
The car shouldn't even start
And according to everyone else
I should be dead
But I'm not

And though neither the car
Or my own life will ever fully
return to their original condition
We still drive on
Moving forward on the unpredictable
Icy
Deadly
Highway of life
I crashed my car on the highway while driving home from my then-girlfriend's town. I realize now that the accident resembles our break up that came a few weeks after. Earth-shattering, unexpected, but noticeable without distractions.
Michael Hoffman Jan 2012
Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.

Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.

Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?

Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.

What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.
India Chilton Apr 2014
We sat in the snow and cracked schemes to soften our mortality, like if when we died the soil grew up and over our bodies to pull them back to her instead of leaving them like shells to fall where the living had dug uninvited into the darkness.
And You
You were just some
sidesteppin passerby

Who took two steps off the sidewalk and one into me

Took a knife to the inside of my skull

Wrote down a life I forgot wasn’t mine

I’ll admit now it had been a long time.
I’d been throwin baseballs of the back porch of my soul

Since the day the monster under my bed grew teeth

Hoping for someone to catch up catch them and catch me too

I’d been running since the day I met God on the banks of a backwards river 

Spinning this world like a record played one too many times

Sk-sk-skipping across all the riffs over which
We used to drift like it wasn’t a sin
Before we slipped into a chemical mist
And the trembling of our fists
Became mixed with the hum of the night
And left us listless
The fog it curled its fingers like a gauze round our bones
it was a soft fear.
It was a soft fear.
Imagine we became all the words we breathed

Out of fairytale pages turned cigarette papers the night you became a constellation

Us, riding a magic carpet woven from strings

Stolen from Fate when she wasn’t looking

I ain’t never been one for shoplifting

But that night we made off like barefoot bandits riding a broken hymn

I, the night dancer and you, the day singer

And we two seeing both sides of the moon

Sing me the song that day sung the first time she realized

That the night was more than a coat her dad told her to wear

Because it was raining

The universe ringing with the words of convenience store philosophers

Things people are too scared to write anywhere but on the walls

Of public bathroom stalls
That night, I realized something.
Our love was an easy veil to wear.
Till forced perspective tugged at the seams of our sobriety
I was never brave enough to break.  
My memory is a womb.
My memory is a womb.
Let it be known that my physical transition fails to interrupt my meditation

Putting your life into revision never called into question my salvation
I’ve never known a dream that did anything but embroider the ether 

The air between us quit smelling like a cinderblock romance

Your hands a kinetic ignition to my saltwater synapses 

Connecting in double-time to the electric current running from your heart to mine

Lift me like a lost key
Triumphant like used furniture
I see you now your hair is long.
Your hair is long
In your left hand is a brick.
In your right, a summer morning I have yet to wake up in.
James Floss Aug 2018
The west coast is ablaze
A conflagration reconfiguration
Efforts heroic as forests fall
And cost of lives lost

Homes no more
Neighborhoods gone
**** and dust
Terrains reframed

The new world:
Fire cyclone zones
Hotter, drier, bigger
The culprit: us
Alyssa Underwood Oct 2022
Brothers and sisters in Christ, would we look at Jesus hanging on the cross in excruciating torment, gasping for every agonizing breath, pierced through, covered in blood and bearing our offenders' sin along with ours, only to say, "It isn't enough! It is NOT finished. There is still more to be accomplished, a greater payment yet to be rendered. You did not complete the work or satisfy the debt!"...?

For here is the thing: if we don't believe that His sacrifice was enough to sufficiently pay the debt for everything they have done to us then how can we ever possibly believe it was enough to pay for all we have done to Him? And if we don't believe that then how can we be saved?

This is certainly not to say that the process of working through all the issues of forgiveness is not an extremely steep and difficult climb or that it does not take time. It is! It does! Sometimes it takes years to reach the top, where we are completely set free from the pain and emotional struggle of it. But the choice to forgive, the decision to actually begin the process and step onto the path is not optional for any true disciple of Jesus Christ, for He has clearly called us all to take up our cross and die daily and to count ourselves dead to sin already. We have been commanded and empowered by Him to forgive, and He Himself will work it fully in and through us if we will only yield to Him.

But when we refuse to forgive, we are only digging through the trash heap and holding ourselves prisoner within it, yet somehow convinced we will find gold there. Do we not understand how ludicrous this is? We are beloved and royal children living as self-defeating street urchins—fists up, ready for a fight and buried up to our necks in a back-alley dumpster looking for rotten scraps. The King is calling, "Come out of there, beloved child! Come home to Me and feast!" But we respond, "No, not yet! There are still more *****, decaying bags in here to scavenge through. I haven't checked that dark, rat-invested corner yet. There may be something good in there for me!" What?! Are we insane? Stop digging, let go of the bag, let Him lift you once and for all out of the dumpster and come home! Realize who you are and Whose you are!

Authentic and heart-changing forgiveness begins when we look honestly and humbly at the offense, call it what it is without minimizing it or making excuses for it, feel the full weight of the painful debt incurred against us by the offender, realize that it is simply not within his power or means to ever sufficiently pay us back in a way that could restore us to wholeness (even if he desperately wanted to), and then look fully to Jesus, trusting Him to bear the entire weight of it for us and to provide complete payment for all of the damages done to us.

It comes when we decide to give the debt 'note' fully over to Him, transferring it to Him, like a mortgage company transferring (for their own protection and profit) a high-risk house note to a different lender and thus releasing the debtor from any further obligation to re-pay us, breaking the chains of our previous expectations off of him and putting them all onto Christ. And when we do, we will find that in the transfer we come out far richer than we were before the offense was even made and the debt ever incurred.

In forgiveness we have to both lay down something and take up something, for our heart refuses to ever walk away with nothing to cling to. We have to hand our offender's heavy debt completely over to the One Who willingly carried it on Himself, along with every one of our own sins and sorrows, all the way to the cross, nailing it there and paying it in full, and then we have to receive afresh the gift of His infinite fullness in exchange.

With every offense (small or great) there arises a subsequent path of forgiveness. The greater the offense, the steeper and longer the climb to get to the end; but the steeper and longer the climb, the more spectacular and rare the views along the way and from the top. Whenever someone hurts us, we can either stay in the barren valley with the offense, miserably imprisoned by it and trying hard to keep our offender chained to it as well, or we can kick loose the chains and set out on the less-traveled mountain trail leading to freedom, healing and rest. The trailhead is the cross, and Jesus is waiting to meet us there. All we have to do is take the first step onto the trail and begin to walk it with Him as our intimate Companion and determine (and keep daily determining) to stay on it as long as it takes and one step at a time with Him as our faithful Guide, for He will certainly lead us all the way to the summit.

And we will certainly need an all-powerful, all-knowing and ever-present Guide on such an adventurous trek, as this trail is ever-winding, full of dangerous switchbacks, difficult ascents and narrow, hidden passes; but the scenery will be breathtaking and the fellowship life-changing. As we travel further and higher our perspective will dramatically change along the way, and the offense back down in the valley will become smaller and smaller in the distance until we can barely make out more than a shadow of it for all of the beauty surrounding and enfolding us. It is not necessarily that the memory of it will ever completely be forgotten so much as it will be brilliantly reframed by an exceedingly better and higher view.

At the end of the trail there lies a secret alpine garden, lush with various kinds of healing fruit that rarely grow ripe on the lower slopes of the mountains and do not grow at all in the valley of unforgiveness. Their taste, fragrance and restorative powers are beyond anything that might be understood or even imagined by those who have never dared nor sensed the need to venture any further than the foothills. Nevertheless, the garden is always open and the fruit readily available to any and all who would choose to make the glorious journey together with their LORD...and none who do will ever be sorry they came.

So why do we so often struggle to do it?

I think when we look honestly and microscopically at hindrances to forgiveness it is idolatry that stands out as the most culpable suspect. For when we forget that everything we need and most desire is found in Christ and that everything we have comes from His loving, wise and faithful hand and then someone else fails to give to us what we are so firmly convinced we need from them or takes from us what we are so sure we require, it is easy to feel justified in withholding from them our complete pardon.

It is idolatry as well which blinds us from seeing how deeply and desperately we ourselves depend on God's mercy. For when anything becomes more important to us than intimacy with Christ, we are quick to overlook our own grievous impediments to that intimacy and therefore quick to overlook Christ's unequivocal command to forgive as we have been forgiven. So then we cannot fairly approach forgiveness without humbly keeping ever before us the awareness of our own stubbornly idolatrous tendencies which seem to be always lurking under every prickly bush.

Another common but still idolatrous stumbling block is our failure to grasp and cherish God's absolute sovereignty over us, which then causes us to unduly credit our offenders with power they do not actually have—the power to ruin our lives—and to mistakenly think that by refusing to forgive we can somehow regain from them the stolen upper hand, either by trying to pay them back with evil or by trying to force them to pay us back with good, emotionally holding them prisoner and refusing to unlock the door until we have sufficiently punished them or until they have sufficiently 'blessed' us. This is a prideful self-worship which pre-supposes that our lives and their avenging are best and most safely kept in the control of our own hands and that we are entitled to more 'good' than God Himself is willing to bestow on us. It is also a dangerous exalting of others which wrongly assumes that they have within themselves the ability to grant us enough 'good' to ever fully settle their deficit account and satisfy our wounded hearts.

When we forget who we are and all we have in Christ, idolatry can also lead us into a more subtle, less honest and in some ways more damaging form of unforgiveness, one that often masquerades convincingly for a time as forgiveness but is far from the real thing. For if our offender himself is the idol whose love and approval we think we cannot live without we may be very quick to make shallow, insincere and enabling offerings to him, trying desperately to quell any conflict and to ingratiate ourselves to him (wanting to retain peace with him at any cost so that we might retain a piece of him and determining to think well of him in the hope that he might think well of us). We will call it forgiveness and think it truly is but wonder why the issue never seems to be quite settled in our heart, why he never seems to be able to meet the standard of the 'high place' on which we have erected him and why we always seem to be trying to charge his offenses against us to everyone else's account.

As long as our 'pardon' is rooted in fear of rejection, resentment and abandonment (or in any other insecure human emotion), it cannot qualify as genuine forgiveness or obedience to Christ and therefore cannot bring any measure of real peace or lasting resolution to our hearts or to the relationship. It will only keep us locked up within our own limited and easily drained ability to love, suffocating both ourself and our offender, causing resentment on both sides and robbing us of the joy of entering into a deeper love that can only come from trusting in and drawing upon the overflowing fountain of Christ's love. True forgiveness will always extend out of that flow of intimacy with Him and out of genuine worship of Him, for we can only walk like Him when we walk closely with Him and crave Him above all else.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Also it should be noted that forgiveness is not the same as reconciliation. Forgiveness of an offender depends only on your relationship with the LORD. But true reconciliation with an offender is very much dependent on their repentance. But whether or not they ever repent, whether or not we ever find true reconciling peace and healing WITH them, we can find peace about them and love them from a distance, as we let Jesus heal us on that journey and fill us with His love, peace and joy.
Onoma Jan 14
there's a hall of mirrors,

that shard configurations of:

Picasso's: '''Mademoiselle".

unstruck poses, pelted by

an apple seed--banging

against glass.

until reframed...unofficially.
Arcassin B May 2017
By Arcassin Burnham

If I was ******* myself like am now ,
She would have been reframed from this some how,
Their minds are gullible like purposely tipped cows,
I got no time for your smart mouth,
Like That they say to me,
I once had chemistry,
With someone into me,
She was a beauty queen,
With some broken dreams,
Momma had stronger genes....
I loved her blue jeans,
The way she treated me.....
Never come back to me,
memories come back to me,

If she's smarter than she was like she is now,
She would never ever come back to this lost town,
So I don't have to hear her lecture when she's not around,
I got no time for your smart mouth,
Like That they say to me,
I once had chemistry,
With someone into me,
She was a beauty queen,
With some broken dreams,
Momma had stronger genes....
I loved her blue jeans,
The way she treated me.....
Never come back to me,
memories come back to me,
Cause I don't got no Time.
©abpoetry2017
http://arcassin.blogspot.com/2017/05/wings-awakening-official.html
Anton Sep 2014
to let me out when I steped in
to break me I'll wait you here inside
to fill me up with your regrets
to free me from this endless stun - run

i want to mend it
i want to find a cure
seize this obsession
depleting me inside when i am with you

it's starts with a mistake
and it has been reframed
we're running in cycles
I can't break it to know that I can feel another life now

If you let me I would step in
To break these chains of past I try
To figure out what you're up to
To free my soul or ruin it down
Arcassin B Nov 2015
by Arcassin Burnham

Sweet Fridays wake the sun again,

The wind takes care of them
that never ends,

The beauty in them reflects the
beauty in you,
and you shall prevail giving them
an awe display,
let them know your name,
all shall unfold and be reframed,
people kept the strain,
this flower bed reminds me of
the war that when an officer holds a
gun up to your face,
sliding a flower into the hole,
and they continue to fire,
makes me really sad and angry at the world,
and what people portrayed it to be in the
end......

/

...Sometimes we gotta pay the price
for the mistakes we've made
the people we've hurt,
the sins we commit,
in the end it doesn't mean ****,
cause we were all born to die,
all to die,
no use of staying alive,
so put the noose around your neck,
and keep hope alive.
Pay up.
Mazen Edlibi Dec 2015
Hello…
It is True that my words voice demanding, but when words fails to translate what their inside their soul and veins, then excuses are sought…
If I gave you my blood, you would feel the heat, the burning, the eager that human’s dictionary won’t capture…
The only misfortune was coming in/at wrong time and wrong state!
“Is there something else, you want?”
I looked at her and my heart wants to shout out and loud, saying to her “ Can’t you see!”, “ Can’t you hear!”, Can’t you Feel!”….
I’m creating “Drama” of its own, “Drama” ruined by human and I’m counted on them and I’m not one of them!....
Everything is Burning…
Everything leading to those states that I’m leaving behind…
“I am …..” ….. I know more than that….
I know every minute what comes when you are around me or not…
I feel the world more when I look at your eyes and they are telling me “I fear what you carry for me?”….
Don’t walk away! When my world is burning…
Don’t Walk away! When my Heart is Yearning…
I feel the silence when created by your words, sending me to the island of answers, where no answers left for me to give it back to you….
After knowing you, silence became my enemy after being my close friend…
In him you live…
In him your words move…
In him your eyes… your hair… your white skin are portrait…
Tell me when we draw the line…
You let everything flying around!
You let colors be seen!
You let love has a taste!
Time has meaning!
Heart has a life!
Sky is holding many words!
Shooting stars are dancing!
Moon is shining…
You let me ”Fly”
To somewhere…
To Some Places were not visited…
To some emotions were not felt before…

You became the theme of undrawn future… The theme of the air I’m breathing… The theme of silence I’m dwelling in…

They saw the other person in me….
They saw the life in me…
They saw the smile you put inside me..

But
They didn’t see “You” …. SSSSHHHH…. It is a Secret!
Your “Genuine” was clear like a sun…
Your “Transparent” was like a shining diamond…
Your “Strength” was felt in your punches…
I know you from your eyes when looking at mine…

What isn’t real?

God created me with full of packages built inside me…
God sent that angle to trigger the treasure box inside me…
God’s well! I can’t help in that!

What is real, is the inhale of real life started with you, stepping in my lonely castle!

You are “Naked”!

My Emotions were embedded in a written word that are given to me by heaven…
Mind and body surrendered to Heart declaring Love being given from the Seven Heaven….

“Naked” from Flesh, but covered with emotions, love and authenticity … Protecting me, taking care of me and easing my falling…

“Naked” from selfish, naked from meaningless, naked from hypocrisy, naked from lust and naked from earthly desires/whims…

I only want “Love”!

“I do feel safe with you”! “I always did”
“How do you know that you miss me?”

When sleeping on cold bed, takes your life and spirit…
When warmth is leaving your bed for ages....
When your speech is about one person, who colored your life…
When people start saying to you “ You look different”…
When you become a poet of every minute of your life…

When the whole world pause for your moment, and nothing else matters…
When your Heart keeps recalling one Face… One Cough… One Skin… One Figure… Who is You!!!

I’ve been “Reframed”  in a way old “State” of an unknown world was shaken and led to unvisited world before…

The “Context”  is New!
The “Sensory” were not belong to me…
I’ve been “NLPed”  in a whole person producing a …..
“ Lover”
It is really painful when you fall in love, and there is no one to receive you... So, you don't know where you fall! I'm thankful to that fall, to the strength I gained out of this experience...
Merry Christmans everyone...Thanks for going through my words, which I use to write and throw them but I said let me share them with those who do care about emotions and feelings even they don't k now you!
Thank you!
Mary Gay Kearns Jan 2019
Where do we meet ?
Can it be said
You have the same words
In your head
Or ideas reframed.
Do your eyes drop tears
And your hands reach out
To touch the soil
Do we ever meet
Different voices in the wind.

Love Mary ***
John McCafferty Oct 2020
Translating emotional state
Takes some discipline and listening
From thoughts to words in place
Don't lose sight of actions in flight

Tame the beast before it feasts
Monkey brain reframed
As allowing a creature out of a cage
isn't necessarily the best way to participate
Elevated above this primate state

Contest shortness of breath in the chest
Slow feelings in controlled action
Pause for a rest and step left in turn
Observe the effects that reflect on you best
To check what you've left
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Pepper Dove Jul 2017
Bright lights may blind me
but it isn’t the light I see
slipped back into time,
you see
it wasn’t the right time for me
Daily pains become mundane
it's the insane reframed
within this window pane
shattered glass that
once reflected my inner mass
scattered on the floor
swept into the past
A different point of view
than you, it isn’t new
it's just a clue to how
the tables turn like pages
even though they’re burnned
like sage is
Just a little freestyle, letting the words flow without over thinking it
Jack Dec 2019
Did you hear their silent whispers?
Of broken cries and moans?
Dead behind the eyes as they walk,
Of all the sadness you have sown,
Leaving them to question the reason,
Your heart is full of villainous treason.

Did you look away as they bled?
From another youthful blade?
Forever questioning the reason why,
The hellish world that you have made,
As the streets turn a crimson red,
‘50,000 more nurses’ is what you said.

Did you taste their scared skin?
As they wept over fresh war wounds?
Children killing themselves for freedom,
Just wanting to write life saving tunes,
But you look at their skin choosing to hate,
Is that what you’re to be remembered for, mate?

Did you touch my screeching wail?
From the sorrow I have regained?
Searching for relief from this solemn pain,
As my selfish loneliness is now reframed,
Now lying on my deathbed I wonder,
How long until I’m called from down under.
i Forgot why I was here
Sad Girl Dec 2022
Neglected
Abandoned
Used
Unamused

Abused
Refused
Recoil
Obtuse

Toil
Recluse

Excuse
After
Excuse

After
Blame
And
Reframed

Misuse
Of my fruits

The truth is plain to see
It’s you, not  me

I expected more
Than to feel like a cheap *****
To be thrown to the floor
Like a rag - nothing more
I’ve been here before
Not much left to explore
Just feelings that I abhor
Feeling low and unadorned
I often feel shame,
I often feel scorned
I told myself I’d stop this
Yet, here I am forlorn
Not to toot my own horn,
But I know I deserve more
After what I have seen here
There’s no reason to Implore

A burning and a yearning
I’ll never collect my earnings
The passion isn’t here
And this fills me with fear
What is coming next,
Will I always be so vexed?
Crying to myself
while they put me on a shelf
Falling to my knees because I’m so eager to please
This is what they see
An opportunity to seize
When I ask for what I want,
nothing more than a sneeze
It’s my fault you won’t love me,
the way that I request
It’s certainly not you,
you’re doing you’re best
Chalk it up to I’m “too loud”
because you can’t find the words- too proud-
If you ask me, it’s a cosmic joke
You came here only to provoke
I suppose it’s just a lesson learned
Embarrassed that I can’t discern  
I learned this lesson once before,
But somehow I’ve forgotten
I’m not sure where to go from here
But I hope it’s where I’ve NOT been.
History repeats in cycles
I have clouded vision
I need to shake you off of me
and get back to my mission
I look for love in all of the wrong places
And become fond of people and their faces
But when they show me the facts
I need to take a few steps back
Try hard not to - too- 2 react
But I’m full of heat and it’s discipline I lack
Your demeanor begs that I cut you slack
When I feel I am being attacked
I don’t know how to remedy this
So I bite back tears as I clench my fists
To you, only your own trauma exists
So I should be more careful when taking these risks
Kurt Philip Behm Jul 2022
I sold my memory
for a present reframed
The past in revision
—the future in shame

(Dreamsleep: July, 2022)
III Jan 2021
What if, beyond the great unknown of death,
there is nothing
but fragments of memories
flickering into place
like a flame just ignited,
memories of all the good times,
all the first kisses
and starry nights,
family gatherings
and the wind dancing through autumn leaves,
all the moments that filled your heart,
and all of those that shattered it just the same,
all the stupid fights
and good jokes
and fruitful meals,
all the common day sights
reframed in to odd familiar beauty
when juxtaposed against an eternal scarcity,
all the long drives,
anxious waits,
and books you never quite did get around to reading,
all the long nights
and early mornings,
all the conversations you'll never forget,
and all the passing words you wish you hadn't,
to each season of your life,
each phase, each desire, every dream,
all the people that molded you,
even the ones that linger in foggy memories now,
what if, when the heart is weak and the body
begins to wither,
when your bones succumb to
to the gravity of existence,
what if this is all there is,
blurring in some melancholic haze,
forever reverberating
against the weightless expanse
of the void always yearning?
Joseph Sinclair Apr 2017
In one of her last few semi-lucid moments
my mother quizzed me.
She gazed at me myopically
and seemed to be asking
herself as much as me.
“Did I really love you?”

It was the first firm indication
of a previously suspected
demonstration of approaching
senile dementia.
There were others,
more mundane,
less cerebral,
mainly related
to her toilet habits.
Clues that were easier to ignore
than to acknowledge.

What did she mean by it?
“Of course you did”
was an instinctive but meaningless response.
She peered at me uncomprehendingly,
as though my reply
bore no relevance to her question.
A question that has haunted me
for over forty years.

But how could I doubt her love?
Had it not been for her concern,
I would have perished ‘neath the surgeon’s knife
on my return from evacuation
in Fakenham.
She never would have dared challenge
a doctor’s diagnosis
on her own behalf.
She was of the generation
and the class
that treated medical practitioners
as gods.
But for an offspring she was quite prepared
to fight both tooth and nail
in some basic, ritualistic simulation
of a jungle tiger’s protective shield
at a perceived  threat to its young.

And later,
when she rushed my sister and myself
into totally unorganised evacuation
to Llanelli in order to escape
the sudden perils of flying bombs and rockets.
How could I ever doubt the love
that she exhibited in my presence
in her debate with the headmaster
of the local Grammar School?
Her insistence that he accept me
despite my lack of Welsh
that would ordinarily be a
basic entry requirement.
Her refusal to accept
the rules and regulations
was a mother I had never seen
nor could I have imagined her
to be capable of
such persistent challenging.

Thus, my mother, tottering on the brink
of what was to be a life-annihilating
dementia, asking me, in a rare, lucid
moment, if she had ever loved me
would seem to be a non-sequitur.
Was it a sudden recognition of
a coldness that she might exhibit
to the world, but which did not reflect
the love that she really felt but
failed to exhibit?
For that matter
was the “me” really me or was it
some other family member with whom
in her later stages of dementia
she confused me.

But it has induced a question
that now I have to pose myself.
The recollection of those many
wonderful experiences
that demonstrate
the lengths to which she was
prepared to go
to defend those values
which she honoured
though rarely overtly.
render the question
meaningless.

Unless, unless it be reframed
into an accusation of my own
failure to recognise
to appreciate
to reveal
the extent of my own feelings.

Perhaps it was I
who should have posed the question:
“Did I really love you?”
Stephen E Yocum Nov 2023
Endings are often sad, we had one yesterday.
He was a proud stocky three-year-old Angus
steer, the last of our small herd, filled out and
contented on augmented buckets of grain to
fatten him up over the last few months and
lessen his lonely estrangement from his
departed or sold off family herd.

All alone in the pasture he would often bellow
mournfully, which he would also do twice a
day to remind us he wanted his grain.

When the box truck pulled in, he trotted to the gate,
curious I suspect. The two men in not so white overalls
stepped down and approached their side of the fence.
One man held something at his side.  The steer raised
his head and ears, stepped back a little, perhaps he
sensed danger, the man raised his rifle from ten feet
away and a shot rang out.

Dead in a heartbeat, the big steer collapsed in the dust.
Deceased before he hit the ground. Yet in his throws of
death his legs thrashed violently in sad reflex. The
accomplice killer opened the gate and cut the beefs
throat to bleed him out and the thrashing soon ceased.

This was mobile butchery, done on the spot, the skilled
butchers knew their grisly tasks and bent to their work.
In about 30 minutes the steer, (we stopped naming our
cattle, all but the mothers, when my grandsons grew old
enough to understand that these animals were meat on
the hoof, not pets and names made the partings harder).
Useful Farm Boy emotional armor I suppose.

In half an hour the two halves of our animal were bleed
out, gutted, skinned, washed, dismembered tagged with
a number and hung up on hooks in the truck, alongside
eight other steers of the day, all on the way to the shop
for further cutting up and packaging. Then placed into
flash freezers. Ready for our family to bring home or to
sell to friends.

Raised without injections or hormones this is healthy
beef, tasty too, but which I reframed from eating some
years ago. Having watched our cattle born and growing,
I became too soft hearted to eat them. Preferring to buy
nameless, faceless meat with no personal history, from
grocery stores in neat little clear plastic wrappings. To
at least avoid some of my old man hypocritical guilt.
So, the barn and pasture are now empty, no more 4-H
animals for the almost grown boys to raise and show,
out of the side gig of beef and pig business. No more
cute baby swine or bovines, no more dung upon my boots.
It was yet another chapter in our book of family life, another
ending. As all things must.
Bodowzski Nov 2023
On the wall of my living room,
Hangs a broken mirror.
The glass shattered into hundreds.
I kept it as a memento,
To remind me of the day my heart broke into that many pieces.
The kaleidoscope of hundreds of sorrowful eyes,
Used to stare forlornly at me,
Giving neither reason, nor hope,
To take the next step. Or breath.

On the wall of my living room,
Hangs a broken mirror.
Still shattered in the hundreds.
Today, it is reflecting dazzling beams of sunlight,
Into what used to be a darkened cube of concrete.
Through the fragmented glass,
I see bits and pieces of me.
But I felt whole. Unbroken.

On the wall of my living room,
Hangs a broken mirror,
But it has been reframed.  
And that put my life into perspectives.
Myriads of eyes with crow's feet and smiles,
Looking back at me,
Telling me I've come a long way.
Next to the mirror,
There is a portrait of us,
Of our very first kiss
After the wedding vows.
Kurt Philip Behm Apr 2019
The Self, Free Will, and Love…
  today’s three illusions of life

Without just one our lives negate,
  a charlatan’s delight

For the Self to Love most Freely,
  this Holy Trinity must preside

What Plato ordained and Kant reframed
  —modern thought tries most to hide

(Villanova Pennsylvania: April, 2019)
ADRIJA Sep 2019
It's where
I made unknowns my own
It's where
I reframed people's mindsets
It's where
Their happiness was mine
It's where
I began a new life
The house where I used to belong

It's where
I used to be sorry even if I was right
It's where
I refused to be in the spotlight
It's where
Floor turned into grounds of cold war
It's where
My name turned into a blame
The house where I used to belong

It's where
I was bound to give away my self respect
It's where
I was in the mouth of suspect
It's where
I turned my back and never came back
It's where
I was forced to leave
The house where I used to belong

It's where
I was never called back
It's where
The door was never left open for me
It's where
I realised I deserved better
It's where
Their address was never again in my letter
It's that house where I used to belong.
Kurt Philip Behm Oct 2019
True palettes of nature,
our souls are reframed by difficult things

The hues growing darker
—forever to color the struggle within

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2019)
Kurt Philip Behm Jan 2022
Tonight, I became my youngest son,
my oldest son now gone
My youth reframed, new joy proclaimed,
a lost returning song

Tonight, I became that little boy,
whose playpen sets me free
All toys reclaimed, no further blame
—to enter joyfully

(The New Room: January, 2022)
Stephen E Yocum Aug 2020
These days everybody is on display,
blogging, texting, tweeting. taking and
posting endless selfies, calling out, "look
at me, LOOK AT ME!"

Humility it seems is an old fashioned thing
of the past, in the now, where humble does
not count for much.

People starting to believe they are the image
in the fake repetitive selfies they take.
Look at me, I matter, LOOK AT ME!

An artist paints or sculps, throws pots of clay.
Shapes silver or gold into beautiful things.
Plays music instruments to perfection, using
hands and soul of creative "artistic" expression.

Perhaps it's because there are billions of us, that
people are so desperate to try and stand out, to
be seen and known for something , anything.

My mother and father were artists of a sort,
moral decent people that got up everyday and
went to work to earn a living, to take care, love
and teach their children right from wrong. Who
never asked for or took help or welfare, paid their
taxes and reframed from hurting anyone. They
enjoyed and reveled in their accomplished peaceful
anonymity, and family, that being all the fame they
needed.

I guess in a way they were "Life Artists". They never
expected or received an award for these humble skills
of being decent people and loving parents, nor did they
care one bit, or miss it. Their reward was in the doing.
"Humility means accepting reality with no attempt to outsmart it."
Author David Richo "Five things we can not change."
Mary Gay Kearns Mar 2019
Where do we meet?
Can it be said
You have the same words
In your head
Or ideas reframed
Do your eyes drop tears
And your hands reach out
To touch the soil
Do we ever meet?
Different voices in the wind.

Love Mary **
Kurt Philip Behm Jun 2023
24 hours
alone with myself
the road goes on and on

24 hours
in my own space
exemption rides along

24 hours
eternity breached
its imagery returns

24 hours
tomorrow today
whose light forever burns

24 hours
becoming undone
the parts fall back in place

24 hours
the wind at my back
withdrawing from the race

24 hours
a voice calls my name
in birth year reverie

24 hours
my soul to reclaim
in what was meant to be

24 hours
Kerouac ******
a false reflection shown

24 hours
each road sign that calls
direction out on loan

24 hours
the moment reframed
once lost but now refound

24 hours
24 lifetimes
—inward outward bound

(Dreamsleep: June, 2023)
It's funny how we can determine our worth through a job
I let mine go
My house has rarely been a home not healthy in its bones
All possessions are damaged goods
I need to let them go
Bit by bit
I throw them away
The letters
The pictures
The memories
Cannot be reframed
Soiled by a house in disrepair
Not sure where I'm going but it's not back there
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2021
From America but not of it
I hear the Asian rains
Seattle ferry boats
Taiwan downbound trains

The Buddha sits in silence
My ankles once were sprained
My hands run through her hair
La Florida regained

Stockholm in the summer
Dublin unrestrained
Angkor Wat at twilight
Tokyo reframed

From Toledo to Toronto
In Seattle good insane
River Eden running
Jesus in my brain

       Tel Aviv aflame

— The End —