"refurnished" poems
I sat in comfort
At the peak of my mountain
I saw everything yet -
I took no part
Roads interwined
New buildings erupted and
Old buildings were torn down or
Refurnished
Why is there constant change?
I could see no imperfections in these creations
But it seems I must be wrong.
I was tempted at times to move from my stupor.
When I witnesses great harm or relief
But my place is among the hidden
I am a shadow in your soul
Feb 17, 2011
Feb 17, 2011 at 10:52 AM UTC
collectively at ease
a fallow mind refurnished
your voice a siren
and mine mortar
for one more broken home
confusion lasts
no monuments to better times
each dream
a squandered luxury
each night
a lifeless play
the moon caresses bloodless cheeks
i sank
you vanished
we collapsed
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 7:13 AM UTC
My heart
Was a humble home
Everything was familiar
Whenever I was down
I would retreat to my home
But then you came
And I refurnished everything
To suit to your needs
We lived happily
For 6 months
Adding new furniture
To our new home
Suddenly
You closed the door
And never returned
I sat at the front door
Waiting for the familiar door bell
But it never came
All that's left of you
Are your footsteps on my heart
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
For five years you were the weight on my shoulders,
the blindfold over my eyes, and the holder of my heart.
Today you are nothing -we are strangers.
Do you ever think about me?
Sometimes I feel like it never happened,
You and I feel like a distant dream.
I don't think I ever truly knew you.
I can't even imagine a time with you anymore;
it all seems like a figment of my imagination.
The day we ran all the way to the restaurant in the pouring rain,
just to find out they were closed.
The day I leaned on your shoulder,
and we fogged up your father's car windows.
The day you held me for the first time.
It all seems like some faint memory of an old movie.
Remember the story of the bird we created?
How we spoke vicariously through the innocent bird
hiding under the tree to shelter itself from the storm?
I don't quite remember anything
except it was significant at one point.
*I used to remember it so vividly.
Our memories are fading.
Does that scare you?
I'm not sure how I feel about it.*
This may be a different story,
but I feel like I was a bird,
and you were a birdhouse with the door locked,
I'm glad I eventually found the strength to fly away.
Do you ever run your fingers over the scratches I left,
or have you refurnished over them?
So why do I tell you I miss you,
when I feel nothing at all?
And why does it hurt
when you don't respond?
(NJ2015) (All Rights Reserved)
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 8:45 PM UTC
The year I pen this is two thousand and sixteen.
I sit in a kitchen that badly needs to be refurnished as I drink a whiskey on the rocks. (Always drink Jameson)
I sit here in the summer heat, enjoying this moment ( which if I'm being honest is rare because usually I'm not a fan of the heat) but today for some reason I'm having thoughts of San Francisco- the beat poets, Hunter Thompson, Oakland California right next door and the Black Panther movement of the sixties..California has always been a place for artists and what some would call the "Freak culture." I myself just know it as "home."
The sparks you could strike seem to have been reduced to small trashcan fires and bonfires on the beach, the love and hate seem to have created a haze of digital indifference. The power of the state seems to have shifted, yet days like these- these hot summer days that turn into beautiful warm summer nights...one can almost understand what it's like to be cast into those golden hills that run through the state.
A place for poets and musicians, a place for artists and life changes, a state that can and will eat you alive and spit you out without care for you after.
The spoils are all around if you're brave enough, clever enough, and just dumb enough to take a risk. We're not talking Vegas risk, we're talking every stone is make or break and if you slip and fall into the river, you'll be bashed against the rocks and your crippled, broken body will be tossed aside.
Yet moments like this- these golden afternoons, the charm of the state is revealed, the beauty and innocent side is shown, the sweet, loving, warm side of California shines through.
The old heads are still in a park chasing the dream of the beaten system, while the twenty-something tech heads bask in the future start-up possibility that this state brings.
One day when the water level rises, when it takes back everything and the Golden Gate sinks, there will be those who will make one last effort to preserve the Californian style...we're sitting on a land of dreams, broken,shattered and new, we're sitting on a land made of gold and dirt.
I think that's the irony and it sums up this- The prize is there, it's under the skin, under the dirt, under the trash, it's gold, pure, raw, ever staying gold.
But only for those with a strong enough will to keep digging.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
Home is where the heart is
And you've given it to me
I hope you stay here for the rest of your life
I hope we can decorate it together
I hope we can paint it with the colour of our love
My heart before was an unfurnished room...
...damaged and desolated
Cracks on the walls
A leaky ceiling
Broken mirrors
Faulty lights
But then you came and renovated and refurnished it in the most beautiful manner imaginable
Honestly it looks great now
And the view from the verandah is fantastic...
I love you
I treasure you
I cherish every moment spent with you
With you by my side...
...everyday is a festival
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC