"refresh" poems
They didn't know what Diversity was...
The kids, that is.
Since the kids didn't know it,
the teacher coined it as "“black” visibility".
She wasn't sure if she could make that call
so she nodded her head, looking for approval.
The interviewer asked in what direction did the teacher see Diversity
As if Diversity was a one-way street.
Let me just refresh your memory...
"“black” visibility"
As if decades of progress in the schools were undone,
The kids voted on Performances and Projects for “black” History Month.
How shocking!... Kids of every shape, size, ability and race studying a time in history...
Sounds racist to me.
They wanted a Gospel Choir that is clearly only for “black” students
Because I'm the student Director for the Fordham University's Rhythm of Praise Gospel Chior for the fourth year running...
Maybe I'm missing something...
MAYBE I'm “black”... Maybe if I close my eyes really tight...
Nope, I'm still “white”.
Olive brown perhaps?
Only in the summer.
Anyway, I digress like Sophia Patrilo from the Goldren Girls
Who was Italian by the way.
Just advertising for Diversity.
Let's debate about "Music Debates" for a moment.
Maybe you call it Debates because Hip Hop is debatable, and by the way only for “black” students.
When I could argue for days upon days
About how Reggaeton didn't come from Salsa
but I know **** well that Salsa came first.
The kids wanted to Stomp the Yard and battle it out.
I do believe rap battles take place around the world
And one of the best rappers I know is an English teacher in Harlem
Whose hair is redder than a leprechaun.
Talent Shows that showcase every student's ability
Whether it be singing, dancing, performing their poetry,
But still apparently that's not Diversity.
Neither is an International Day
Where International ways are celebrated.
And finally, a Diversity Day,
That clearly means diversity is separated.
"They wanted a lot of things"
Yeah. They asked for a whole lot... of everything BUT diversity.
That's right, because they don't know what it means
The Kids, that is...
Then tell me please:
Define Diversity.
Is it seeing a “black” horse with “white” stripes
Or a “white” horse with “black” stripes?
Why is it between “black” and “white”?
Why not between “white”, “black” brown, yellow, orange, brick red...
Let's get it out of our head
That teachers can't learn anything from their students,
Because it sounds to me,
Like they had a pretty good start to the meaning of Diversity.
And if it turns out they didn't,
That's what teachers are there for:
Make a **** lesson about it.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
Shiny flask full of fun,
Shall I fill it with whiskey or ***
Wanting only to refresh my day,
Maybe with coconut from Parrot Bay?
After all, it's my best drinking buddy
That always makes me witty and funny
With never a shout, cry or pout,
That is, until the whiskey has run out!
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 11:44 AM UTC
what is a poet
but a stymied wind
stamping the same soil
seen through polished lens
firing the bugle sound
to reach across some
distant mountain pass
not echo the same
ignite fire
stand strong
find north
refresh
for old paths yield
grey packages
more stale
subterfuge
but honed
solidity is found
in structures
built sound
a new song of old notes
rearranged to yield
perspective
deep
Apr 28, 2018
Apr 28, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
You are my
December because you seem to
emanate a golden glow,
quite like of parols swinging from tall streetlamps
December in how you
brush through my hair like a cool, gentle breeze
brought by the northeast wind of
clear blue skies and fair weather.
December also in the way you
wrap your arms around me
tightly, it
reminds me of my favorite warm, woolly sweater that
my dear grandma knitted for me.
You are my
December in how you
light up my eyes like
the Christmas lights that twinkle on the Christmas tree
No, actually, more like the
fireworks that set fire to
the midnight sky on New Year's Eve
December because
you are a great gift
like the secret surprises tucked under the Christmas tree
you are a sweet treat
like a gingerbread coated with colorful sugar,
freshly baked and toasty
you refresh me
like the much needed break that lasts for two weeks
You are my
December because
you leave me melting
like the mini mallows sprinkled
on my hot choco steaming
You are my
December because
I love December
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
On a distant summer
a girl walked four miles
to sell fruits at the haat
and mowed by the May heat
fell asleep on a patch of concrete.
The noon dusts played around her
*sleep little girl rest your feet
the winds will play you a song
refresh you with dreams so sweet
the walk back home won't be long.*
The sun had slid the shadows grown
when opened her dream dazed eyes
there she was at the haat all alone
her fruits in the basket had dried.
She had dreamed a round dime
clutched in her palm
colored gold with her wish
she had slept thru the time
and when the winds calmed
held nothing to buy home a fish.
Time has flown those dusts far away
years have grown her wise
yet when the winds blow lonely in May
her tears she cannot disguise.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
~~~
“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” Henri Bergson
well in that case,
I’m either the most immature teen here,
or Rip Van Winkle
the re-creation process is six, nearly seven,
decades long (you thot days, ha, no way),
can’t recall the last name
I called myself
the delving, the researching, the forgetting,
the fifty first dates of no short term memory,
the checkdown, throwback Thursday of
did I write that?
no recollect, the pretense of
prehensile strength to touch
you and me simultaneously
might, could be true,
if you claim I authored it,
ok with me and all that
life taught me this,
the one who oft hangs around
very young kids
learns a lot,
and soon recognizes
maturity indeed endless
but not senseless
just a poem-of-the-day process
indeed
every sense says the minute difference
between this morning and this approaching midnight,
an opportunity to grow up, stand straighter, uprighter,
write down my failures one more time,
cause that is the sterling hallmark impressed upon
thyself, ourselves,
that is genuine maturity,
the courageous wisdom to start all over again
the clock has transgressed,
moving past
the 12:00am digits,
which for cause
makes me giddy,
it’s permission to write a new one,
of course,
maturely thinking I still got one within,
a newbie, an aged day-old brand new baby,
a poem,
of course
god bless, I’m all grown n’ growled up,
with wisdom to know I don’t got nada,
but own the immature youthful courage of maturity,
to keep on trying, endlessly,
being your obedient-servant
~~~
*p.s. this is kind of love poem of thanksgivings,
a love poem with no misgivings,
a thank you for the fragments of sharing -
hold so dear,
the best reason to mature,
the best reason to change,
the best reason to write
right now, here comes the mojo
my newest oldest friend,
reminding for the last and first time
that I’m all growed,
using the bigliest words I’ve known
to say baby, hey baby,
good night good morning
write us a poem,
a thank you note,
from one who blessedly forgets his name,
day in and year out*
For that guy,
you, that ancient kid,
That poet-in-retrograde
so rewrite the title, a refresh,
are you immature enough to write?
1:12am
~for the crew~
Apr 18, 2019
Apr 18, 2019 at 1:28 AM UTC
i am tired.
not for a lack of rest --
no, i slept quite well last night
and I've had my coffee.
its something deeper, something
inherently present, in the
fibers of my skin,
in my tendons, in my eyes.
i am exhausted,
fatigued by life
by the noise and the silence,
the people, and
the empty rooms,
the light and the dark;
by hope and
despair.
so worn down by the world
that nothing in it can
refresh my mind from the
constant buzzing.
i am tired, and there are not
enough hours in the night
for the type of rest i need.
-U.K. & m.g.
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 1:00 PM UTC
*Blowing eastern winds
refresh the trees and flowers,
hear the breeze, flourish.
rain faced, bright sunshine
enlightens our spirits.
ah, green and nourished*.
.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 3:07 AM UTC
Alone into Rainy, twist a Dai clove, pattering rain, wind lingering foot Yuhuan, lengthy dark gray rain curtain hung plaintive, oblique rain splashes dusty track marks, those rainy season, those day's dependent, those nostalgic every night in this late spring rain, scraping completed my cold lonely, rain turned into a long and narrow alley Resentment, thwarted flows into atria, cool diffuse through the apex. Do not turn around in your mind of the day, I count, chatter thoughts of you, and for your Ai resentment, Acacia entanglement, filled Chu pain, no know what to say, but unfortunately does not help, once the owner of the rain falling, once clouds drifting sea oath, I never touched your warmth, sigh Lane is a rain: Wife - Why shallow edge. (yiwu export)
Came alone intersection, waving a monotonous right hand, held in our left vague shadow, the breakdown of the raindrops bounce dust, Red rain, your shadows, swaying like a willow in the rain erratic, like a hard rain exhibition wings flutter Ling heavy, like rain, pedestrians hurry hurry ...... once Pengguo footprints Bingqing appearance of your hands, had led a faint in the rain blessings Juyi Peng broken tile rain dream, comfort our goodbyes, we pay homage to the past. Acacia is the way the dust, whisk Yang is confusion of resentment, lost pain.
This year's rainy season to refresh my mind, I view Acacia dream dreams, the pain, resentment cut into the rain, stuck into the soil; tears into the hands of deep stone, sank; to have a bunch of rendering painful injury worry text buried in the memory, so that resentment heart of the sea to swim, let the pain out of the bone marrow, dusty track once marks, wound treatment desolate, firmly stand in Kuwata, enterprises no longer envy sea water. (yiwu export agent)
Let love and hate, love and hatred, grace and resentment, thinking and pain in the rainy season falling, drifting in the rainy season. I left alone a pool of water, the flow of soulful call. (Yiwu buying agent)
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
I thought, boldly
That I could see your colours,
Hidden,
Under many layers
I see some azure,
Soft as the sky,
A welcoming, warm pink,
Just as real sunsets
Then some ****** red,
Where it hurts,
And a pitch black
In the shadows of your mind
I am just a fool,
Pretending to understand,
As you continue to refresh,
And brush new paints
Pick the best tones,
Let the canvas flourish,
Blooming like nature,
In all seasons
I just hope
I can see a few of them
A few colours,
That would do
Or maybe,
A bit of you
Oct 13, 2022
Oct 13, 2022 at 3:10 PM UTC
She is like water running through the valley
drifting through the rocks
the rocks make unable to move
unable to grow
unable to flow
Takes away her ability to contribute,
but,
Water is meant to flow to the Ocean,
Not to be contaminated,
By the pollution of your opinion.
She is like water
surrounded by things still finds ways
crashing every barrier comes in her way
She want to rehydrate the minds,
That have been compressed,
That have been dehydrated,
She want to refresh the dry ideology.
She'll nurture the barren land of old thoughts .
Jun 25, 2021
Jun 25, 2021 at 10:01 PM UTC
a silent metronome,
we know exactly when,
when sleep pleads us enter,
and when it bids us adieu,
when we growls for sustenance,
or begs for plenty of the mercy
of emptiness to cleanse our void,
when to compose,
when to repose,
when to dispose,
and when tempos dictate
lay down child,
fallow!
*but its greater feat,
when sounds the bells of alarm,
when need is greatest,
for arms embraces,
wet lips to refresh,
bodies to synapse,
eyes require delight,
when needs be greatest,
for that very first infant step
to what can only be ever felt,
but is otherwise undefinable,*
for another
+to make us complete,
a unity, an,
us+
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 7:21 AM UTC
Your breast ...
is this a breast , Madam ...
or it is a cluster ...
from a bunch of grapes ...
flowing with longing ...
to a mouth ...
that exhausted by thirst ...
longs to it's honey ...
as a bee always longs ...
to get refresh ...
inside the soul ...
from the cluster ...
of this breast ...
your breast sweetheart ...
then she said ...
yes it is ...
it's yours ...
this breast ...
it's a sweet one ...
as an apple swollen ...
drown with beautiful image ...
inside it for you ...
a tasty sweet charm wine ...
for no one created ...
created just for you ...
to enjoy this breast of mine ...
then she said again ...
come for me ...
come to my sweet breast ...
get whatever you pleased ...
from it's wine ...
with a beautiful kisses ...
until you get drunk ...
of my tasty wine ...
and keep all the night do ...
with a lot of kisses ...
it's yours ...
those ******* ...
keep me enjoying ...
your kisses ...
hazem al ...
Jul 20, 2021
Jul 20, 2021 at 12:15 PM UTC
Met a girl on Tinder,
fck it we’re all Winners,
not thirsty but I’m starvin’,
so baby tell me what’s for dinner,
what’s in the oven where’s the lovin’,
give it all to me raw no apologies no filter,
it’s V-Day I’m as depressed as I am on my B-Day,
still giving you raw lines uncut with no filler,
and yeah Love gives life,
but she’s also a killer,
stupid Cupid’s got me dreaming lucid,
still I feel salty as a Biblical pillar,
like Lot’s wife in that one verse,
in Genesis 19,
yeah I guess lots is how much love hurts,
get healed then hurt again,
kinda like my life on Tinder,
swipe left swipe left swipe right,
kinda like Duck Duck Goose or Musical Chairs,
not looking for a lifetime just looking for a night,
a temporary solution to a permanent problem,
some foreign aid in the form of a band-aid on my bleeding heart,
can’t fix the problem but sure can relief the symptoms,
at least for the night when we forget this earth and get lost in the stars,
so I’m searching,
swiping on that Tinder app,
hoping to find true love,
or at least something that resembles that,
because my hearts got some holes,
and I’m hoping someone can fill them,
like my souls got some demons,
and I’m hoping someone can **** them,
what’s happened to society,
and how’d we all get so lonely,
especially in the age of social networking,
everything seems superficial even this poem feels phony,
like when I get liked on Tinder,
and I reply with “We matched want to meet up”,
and I pretend I’m fine with no worries,
when really I’m feeling totally beat up,
Jesus,
don’t know if I can come step back from this ledge,
feeling frozen paralyzed like a bad app,
when you can’t scroll so you just refresh,
and get a whole new lists or prospects,
a whole new set of potential matches,
another chance to build something grand,
out of the burned past and all it’s ashes,
and that’s when,
I come back to the present,
now where were we oh yeah,
it was Valentine’s Day and I was on Tinder again…
Met a girl on Tinder,
fck it we’re all Winners,
not thirsty but I’m starvin’,
so baby tell me what’s for dinner,
what’s in the oven where’s the lovin’,
give it all to me raw no apologies no filter,
it’s V-Day I’m as depressed as I am on my B-Day,
still giving you raw lines uncut with no filler…
∆ LaLux ∆
The New Book Is FREE Here: https://www.scribd.com/document/367036005/The-Sydney-Sessions-12-Steps
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 2:39 PM UTC
My mother never appeared in public
without lipstick. If we were going out,
I’d have to wait by the door until
she painted her lips and turned
from the hallway mirror,
put on her gloves and picked up her purse,
opening the purse to see
if she’d remembered tissues.
After lunch in a restaurant
she might ask,
"Do I need lipstick?"
If I said yes,
she would discretely turn
and refresh her faded lips.
Opening the black and gold canister,
she’d peer in a round compact
as if she were looking into another world.
Then she’d touch her lips to a tissue.
Whenever I went searching
in her coat pocket or purse
for coins or candy
I’d find, crumpled,
those small white tissues
covered with bloodred kisses.
I’d slip them into to my pocket,
along with the stones and feathers
I thought, back then, I’d keep.
4.6k
pour me slowly over ice
hot hands and tender thighs
understanding and rebranding
time is taxing for your love i’m famished
refresh me as you undress me
it is only right
caress me as you undress me
take your time
undress me, slip into my mind
Aug 29, 2023
Aug 29, 2023 at 5:51 AM UTC
~the heart of (the) matter~
~~~~~~
an essential phrase,
that concentrates the
instincts not to sway
away,
be focused
on, by the always present
algorithm of the
essences
but my version preferred
is that
"the heart of matter"
with skill and effort,
one can learn, to shoot
arrows honed to be near
an-almost-bullseye every time
but to understand that
the heart
is matter,
the mother
of our body parts,
the little engine that could,
can and does,
and asks only
refresh it with
fresh blue blood,
every second
(not to much to ask for)
what are/is the sinews of the heart?
what are its secreted corpuscular (1)
composed of?
why words, you silly!
each beat, a letter,
the heart doth register
its creativity incessant,
never ceasing to rest
for composition is its goal,
to sing to write, to weep
from pleasured thoughts
and deepest fright,
and you say you need inspiration?
then listen to your writing vibrations that from thy center
emanate, you who toil laboriously
when all that matters is the matter,
the wonderful matter of
who when where and why
that chatterbox in your body
never ever pauses
***and that is why in the matter of god,
have no doubts
only a god could have conceived
of a world of billions of composers
where each one of us
matters***…
5:19am Wed Sep 10
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:59 AM UTC
Similiter et omnes revereantur Diaconos, ut
mandatum Jesu Christi; et Episcopum, ut Jesum
Christum, existentem filium Patris; Presbyteros
autem, ut concilium Dei et conjunctionem
Apostolorum. Sine his Ecclesia non vocatur; de
quibus suadeo vos sic habeo.
S. Ignatii Ad Trallianos.
And when this epistle is read among you, cause that
it be read also in the church of the Laodiceans.
The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.
Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.
The hippo’s feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.
The ‘potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.
At mating time the hippo’s voice
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.
The hippopotamus’s day
Is passed in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way—
The Church can sleep and feed at once.
I saw the ‘potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels round him sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.
Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.
He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr’d virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.
4.7k
for the 111 yr. old young lady from Mars
<•>
fluids in, fluids out
wake up at midnight, lips, throat, even eyes, California Death Valley parched, white crusted-stuck together,
it takes Poland Spring water from the Northeast to unlock the throat, ****** not sipped, from a plastic gourd the chilling wetness slap to the body and brain screams metaphor, poem in there somewhere,
so what if it's spat-past midnight,
isn't this one of those soul-criticality's,
staying hydrated, (is) disco staying alive
make sense to you?
the older I get, thirstier I am, could be I'm drying/dying out from the inside out,
doctors clueless, but then again they don't reveal all they see out of poetic professional courtesy and they are tired of
yeah yeah yeah,
my professional courtesy answer to their dire warnings repetitious
tonight tho the metaphor runs strong like a mountain stream,
a Mt. Marcy beginning trickle growing into a mighty Hudson,
and the driving urge to drink, simple replenishment, birth fluid
is strong transformed into words
water is words, the water is wide, the poems hydrate what's left on the inside, and the metaphor transforms itself again
water is words, words are water,
the difference huge, the difference minuscule,
both pour, both refresh like a mother's body fluids,
all for one, one for all, and as closing time grows nigh,
staying-hydrated is primate
place a new cold bottle in readiness for my
3 o'clock feeding
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
Look up and breathe it all in
The sky is crying, exploding
with a torrential waterfall.
Inhale natures’ showering
an unblemished symphony
The black cloud’s unavowed weight
lingers invigoratingly overhead
Emotions ebb and flow
with the moment’s
immanent spirit of light;
there is a liberating sensation
that excites anticipation
of the sky’s impending
purposefully fated release ...
Heavens… flood down holy water
in a drenching act of baptism
a merciful drowning in a river
of celestial tears
Dowsing rains wash over
in a cleansing rain
Refresh the dust and ashes
the fallow summer leavings
What once was a blossoming presence,
evolving into a dimming
cold winter reign...
Now all that remains is but
a shadow of what once was;
hearts and bones nearly eroded away
by the years of fallen tears
To rinse away unrequited love’s
stagnant inversion, washing away
the invisible bonds that bind
to the loathsome heavy ball
of an unforgiving chain ...
Know the cleansing rain
is the spirit of love, washing over
a malnourished heart of soul;
exposed and bared naked
to a remiss world
Looking out with thoughtful eyes
into the boundless universe
Never to stop believing
rejuvenating dreams course beyond
this long road
Imagine the storm clouds
parting in the ominous
threatening sky
as an uplifting awakening light
comes shining through;
renewing the promise
that surrendering to love
shall renew purpose
and it feels like rain...
baby can you feel it (?)
December 2012 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved .
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 7:24 PM UTC
You've come so unexpected,
Slipping through the cracks of my heart
and finding your own place in it.
Finding space in the emptiness
and filling it with your own form of love.
But it hurts.
You're the scab to my healing heart that I want to pick.
Refresh the wound that's now become so self inflicted
and continue the cycle of love and loss.
I don't want it to be scarred.
I just want to remain wounded.
But my heart feels your presence.
You've become a long awaited antidote to this emptiness
and I can't get you out.
Slowly,
I'm healing.
But forces will try to tear us apart.
Our Love will be seen not as a work of art
but crafted by the devil.
A spell cast over our eyes
blinding us from the truth that is God.
We will look misguided and lost,
but not all who wander are.
It's the devil who wants to take us away from love.
Remember that.
It's the devil who doesn't want happiness.
You make me feel love.
You make me happy.
You make me want to go to church and be with God.
How could the thing that's supposed to take me away from him
make me want to grow closer?
But it's not you who takes me away.
It's them.
It's the very people who want me most to find God
that push me away from him.
They are my devil.
They throw scripture in our face to tell us we are ******
They cut us with verses to enforce what they believe to be is true.
But they are not alone.
Remember, the devil knows and uses scripture too.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
Daily I open my e-mail
Check my inbox and search horoscope.
There I found new horoscope daily
I read my love horoscope there
which Described Your and My love relation status.
But today when I open my e-mail,check my inbox,search horoscope.
there is no mail related to horoscope.
I become worried about you,little bit despondent for you,disquiet
After waiting for long time.
when I press refresh button
I received a new mail
It is my Horoscope ,I become a happy once again.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
You see this building? I built this building. But nobody knows that I built this building.
I can only assert that I did build this building, and refresh my own memory of building said building.
But at the end of the day, it's just an old building. And ironically enough, I've never stopped building.
There are a few other people who helped build this building. Like myself they can say that they did build this building.
And even if all of our name were there on an engraving, it would never truly be anyone's personal building.
Because we built it for those, so that they could start building. So that they could get going and build their buildings.
Because the framework we built was a structure of learning. And we each taught ourselves through the process of learning.
Jul 15, 2016
Jul 15, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
In my youth I put aside my studies
And I aspired to be a saint.
Living austerely as a mendicant monk,
I wandered here and there for many springs.
Finally I returned home to settle under a craggy peak.
I live peacefully in a grass hut,
Listening to the birds for music.
Clouds are my best neighbors.
Below a pure spring where I refresh body and mind;
Above, towering pines and oaks that provide shade and brushwood.
Free, so free, day after day --
I never want to leave!
3.8k
Pencil ✏ and pen ✒
My Faded lines
My added lines
Ways to decide '
My flows with a ink
As my hand could only
move forward in length but
Could not go back backward height
Direction to illustrate
my path with a stick
Pencil and Pen
Actually actions is so little as
my first name written with
ink and stick of my followers
Saying, am a Pencil and
our lives Is a symbol of pen
I can only destroy my pathway
but cannot change my way's of life
Pencil and Pen
You hast put my love ones
into epic sleep by the Difficult passenage
Like a blade line's through my skin,
even when I choose to Fill my pathway with ink's
I still ran out of source'
Looking for a source to refresh my ways
I think,
Am gone
And another pen could be' my kid ' as he
Count my lines through freedom and unbearable pain
Am a Pencil ✏
Am a Pen ✒
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 7:25 PM UTC