"regifted" poems
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho
•
Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children
•
Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says
Nirvana
•
Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims
She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother
•
Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts
•
What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin
Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare
•
What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it
•
So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon
•
You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!
•
Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!
•
Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC
In the midnight of our days
there is no moon
for me to gaze upon
No whispering willows
or symphonies of the night
Just the blaring days sun
blindingly bright
In the midnight of our days,
there is no quiet of the night
The silent hue of stars
no where in sight
The humdrum of the day
becomes wrapped
like a regifted package;
boring and forgotten
passed on
like one moment to the next
In the midnight of our days
I day dream
of chirping crickets
and hooting owls
of whispering willows
and lone wolf howls
In the midnight of our days
I ache for the peacefulness
of the night
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 11:41 AM UTC
There once was a flower,
Things happened too soon
In less than a year,
She would be moved
A positive flower
watered with goop
roots were lifted
heart regifted
parents shifted
a problem...
The roots improperly planted
They grew side ways
They grew upside down
They even grew in the dark
They did not grow like all the others
But they did grow...
Confused
Why do I not smile when they do?
Why am drowning by the water when they grow?
During growth
She lost
And many other things
But most importantly her...
Confused
Did not really know what to do
But grow
She grew
But she could not forgot her roots
The ones that grew in the dark
The ones that tore her apart
There was no undo.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
Jeremiah refused to be rescued in mixed company.
I threw a going away party
in the hopes of his failing resurrection.
Pseudo somber faces filled the kitchen,
made up with pictures of rustic barns
and floral wallpaper;
the heat became too much to bear.
Our friends payed homage,
placing regifted bottles of
coop and kraken
on the mantle,
and wrote letters of congratulations
signing their names backwards
in my guest book.
The day lost its luster
and coffee mugs of champagne
ran empty.
Conversations danced
around truth and honesty
escaped out the window.
I saw a stranger in the corner.
His name tag read Sinner
and his guilt left ink
on his forearms.
I asked him to read my palm
and he confessed how much
he loved wakes.
My laughter shattered the static.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 11:39 PM UTC
How now the vanishing wind…
The days are upon us
last season begins
All words are regifted
and placed into song
As time has now shifted
our last excuse gone
How now the suffering lies…
The light burns immortal
old visions decry
What’s done long behind us
new storms call our name
The clouds mark their entry
—the past left to blame
(Villanova Pennsylvania: August, 2018)
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
I think
of these little children
these weeping angels their
lives stolen from this
earth by a
madman's
bullets and when I think of the
Twenty I think of their families but mostly their
words I just want Christmas I just want to have Christmas
And then I think of their homes each of twenty trees
Sheltering gifts with no owners, sheltering them as if
To protect the memory of the innocents, lonely presents
Can now only shine and glimmer with all their gaudy
Holiday glory but no longer a jolly happy shine now it's
More a glaring harsh shimmer and shine sad, and cheap
Compared to the lives of the little ones these presents may
Be repurposed regifted, or set aside but their original and
True owners shall nevermore know the joy they can bring
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
Trust, the rarest gift of souls-
How can I wrap it once again?
The paper taped and stretched too thin,
Full of tears and revealing holes...
You can't regift this twice, you see?
Trust once earned, abused, declines
The novelty that stood, resigns,
Distrust alone now hinders me.
But what first caused this change in me?
What once was lost to be regifted -
Privilege earned so easily lifted -
And defines the devil - what could it be?
The lastly words that Caesar spoke
(That William wrote so elegantly)
Now stabs my mind consequently-
Betrayal and distrust are now evoked.
Betrayal which started as a lie
To hide and bury a wrongful act
Broke the very soulful pact-
The rarest gift now left awry!
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 1:37 AM UTC
it occurs to me
as for a Saturday sunrise,
I'm awaiting,
witness testifying
to the
glory of the glorious,
which color-selected sky today is
pale young girl
wallpaper pink aglow dominatrixed
it occurs to me
there are probably
Thousands
of us
composing, lyric evolving,
at this exact
same minute
all over the world
see visionary behind the eyelids
scenarios, YouTube videos,
all my own, of
words tumbling,
letters individual
joining up, forming,
breaking bad,
reforming,
until and unto
combinations satisfactory
falling
from the sky
fresh direct into our heads,
the random draw
of what we will
"create"
regifted from the universe
this was my daily selection, bread,
that I did not choose, but make believe,
I did
our only choice,
none
here I am again smiley face,
as it occurs to me,
grinning silly
thinking
I can improve
on sunrises and
poems that arrived
fully formed...
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:33 AM UTC
she was obsessed with this idea of rebirth because she messed up too many times; she believed everyone deserved a Rennaisance, and it was her vision of the circle yeats drew,
and it was for dreamers who squatted in gutters along alleyways hoping to find a muse fallen and buried in the filth;
and it was for realists who really had fallen and buried themselves in filth because their homes were lower than that;
and it was for addicts, who believed they had really been to the moon and conspired against naysayers;
and it was for conspiracists who knew all along the moon simply didn't exist because they had it manufactured in their kitchen;
and it was for sleeping girls with trembling hands who sought out this kitchen in the night whilst everyone merrily slept;
and it was for the sleeping boy who really wasn't asleep but lying naked under sheets and limbs;
and it was for the tangled limbs that still quivered next to him from a dissolved ecstasy, boyish and sad and hungry;
and it was for that hidden starving hunger that still plagued the neighborhood's homes and lingered on doorsteps, begging;
and it was for begging peals of laughter that his mother sent up from the rooftop when the sky went dark and only her kin across town, reeling, beastly, gorgeous, could ever reply;
and it was for unsent replies, for conscripted soldiers, for wars fought by better men and surveyed by lesser;
and it was for less-than-scrupulous masters who hid under their solemn cathedral art that spoke higher than god himself;
and it was for god who left the world to fend under his illusory cloak of stars, so dim it only mocked his fiery wrath beneath;
and it was for that fiery wrath, the kind that incited and ravaged and devastated, merciless with abandon for all of mankind's own misgivings;
and it was those misgivings that had started her renaissance, her quest for glory cores and sovereign minds, for signs and streets and women and colors and light and the end of all suffering;
it was for restart (like a death, but shorter), somewhere between termination and a genesis in vitro (the liminal space found within and without); for her alone, solitary line cleaving the shadowy folds of time, defiant, windswept, miraculous, insignificant glitch through the eternal night; for her, until she commanded time to stop; for her, hungry; for her, powerful; for her, terrified; for her for her and only ever her: the regifted universe.
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 10:11 PM UTC
I was depressed and called it ~lifted~
(still get off on being cryptic)
Did my best to take it back
but found my love had been regifted.
Now, though, surely I have grieved,
I'm done suspending disbelief:
let's put this one to bed
and get some sleep.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
~for Wyett Yocum~
*nowadays, we slice and dice ourselves
by gender, race, and any thin wafer division
by which the human persona can be identified,
as if we were tattooing our ****** identity
on the wrist of your societal recognition scales
all in order to say, Hey!
this is who I am,
this! is why
I am special unique, very very
deserving of your accoladed admiration
so the newly acquired phrase,
there is no brag in that boy
leaps and bounds, coming to rest on my wide eyes white,
now part of my lexicon, there, where my vocabulary stored,
for its very contradictory contrariness
demands the realized anti-hero,
the natural quietude of
the aw shucks, that we used to value, people,
above all
nearing the end of my days, my vast
knowledge of words and people grows smaller
by leaps and bounds, for finer refinement and focus,
vastly diminishes and distinguishes but a handful
of verbal grains, seeds, a few is all that’s needed,
kernels, that when deep planted, well watered,
a gift nurtured by nature’s simplest greater gifts
regifted us human exmplars
there is kind.
there is honor.
there is selflessness, character, service
and a very, very few more.
some new, just today, recently obtained,
the very title of this late night reflection!
a fine spun summary depiction of modesty,
a trait so rare, it’s existence now under appreciated,
and so very hot-not, au courant, fashionable, woks or lit,
hardly deemed valuable in the me-matters age
so crumple up this minor essay, store and stick it
among your mementos, and other keepsakes,
let it not be seen, avoid confusing the young man of whom
it was spoken and herein recorded, but this prize! this poem!
this award without proclamation or gold statuette or degree,
will, a secret well kept, by those who raised him, recognizing,
that their own mirrored imaged is quietly well reflected,
his inherited invaluable, distinguished modesty,
product of his pedigree*
Nov. 10, 2029
12:44am
Nov 10, 2019
Nov 10, 2019 at 1:02 AM UTC
12/20/14
Hatred and Anger
They build up inside,
They bubble and boil
Until they are hard to hide.
Merry Christmas they say
Happy New Year to you
But where is the merry and
Happy I once knew?
Now all the holidays
Are about bigger and better
Now they are crazy
And wilder and wetter.
Buy this gift new
Buy this gift for you
Buy this gift for him
Buy this one, too.
You bought this gift last year
Don't buy it again.
You regifted that one
Don't tell the Johnson's.
Gift cards can be cheezy and
Impersonal.
Handmade cards are much more
Appreciated.
Don't bother my spouse
He can be a louse
Don't bother anyone
In my house.
I'm a b*tch
It's a cinch
As I stitch
And I pinch.
So you won't get me Christmas
Because I'm a b*tch
But when you act like this
You say it's a cinch.
You treat us like dirt.
You harm and you hurt.
Don't care how you get it
Just get what you want.
You give out hatred
But expect love in return
Your world is upside down
No wonder you get burned.
Copyright From A Poet's Heart
Jul 25, 2019
Jul 25, 2019 at 8:15 AM UTC
Loquacious people love to spill
Plump secrets they’re too vain to keep.
To tell tremendous news can reap
Friends whom novelty alone can thrill.
The truth is common property,
And independently abides,
While forgettings are all pseudocides,
And neglectful parents can’t agree.
Whoever lies confers a gift
Devising falsehoods just for you.
Facts thrive where thistles never grew.
Don’t give what anyone can lift.
In legend consumed bread regrows
To feed a nation from one loaf.
Truths regenerate, so any oaf
Can pluck a common, banal rose.
Truth-tellers safely can forget,
Because some checking resupplies.
Not so with lonely, fragile lies,
Whoever lies must ever fret.
Glib, easy tongues who scatter facts
Have given every anyone
A tale regifted they’ve not spun.
Lies are what imagining enacts.
The stringent claim that facts are few
While falsehoods sprout in multitudes
But where the robust truth intrudes
Mendacity’s scorched residue.
The truth is a replenished ore
Dug from an open, shallow mine.
Lies are a moon-grown eglantine
Or stories from a private lore.
Facts are devalued minted lead,
Coins of a debased currency,
But lies are golden filigree
Which melts wherever sunlight’s spread.
Nov 29, 2021
Nov 29, 2021 at 10:16 AM UTC
choking on words you said once
inked a thousand times over
carved out of my flesh
shoved down my smile
"Shut up and swallow. How does it taste?"
in silent repetition of beautiful pages
trading breath for pain
stolen from love regifted
it tastes like I'm dying
still looking for reasons to smile
Jul 12, 2020
Jul 12, 2020 at 4:19 AM UTC
I told myself not to feel
You came out of nowhere, i laughed at the irony of our collision into an awkward yet somehow
fitting setting
You drew me in on every word
every line oozing with sweet sticky promises
Promises that you almost give up on
No one knows
What I want
How I feel
How I view the world
What holds me back
But you…
You ******* got me
Unguarded
Unafraid
To say how I truly feel
Except; when it comes to us
I can still feel your hands on my face
Inky eyes locked with mine
Intertwined, bound, and tied to each other motionless
We could have stayed there
Forever
Yet, we didn’t
Weekends turned every other
Which then became maybes
My body no longer stamped by the passion you left behind
My heart no longer topped off by the hopes of seeing you
No more countdowns
Now I count how long it takes for the next one to break me down
Tearing through my heart like a giant Christmas present that no one ends up needing
Placed in the corner with the others to be regifted
Leaving behind filaments of gift wrap and fancy ribbon, used to hide the well intentioned gift
No one wants the gift of a heart these days
They want houses, cars, well oiled and machine-like bodies that crawl to them, and classy like a
sorority sister at a keg party (who went to Amherst)
The heart is overdone
The passion that at one time exhumed from our bodies was now beginning to fade into a pitch
black abyss
All that is left is a few memories of Saturdays well-spent
Conversations that went on for hours
And a heart that once again,
Has been drained and bled dry to stop the very beating that you caused
All that’s left is an empty shell
One that i’ll pick up, dust off, wash out and pour myself into again…
This one ******* hurts
Jul 2, 2018
Jul 2, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
I gave you a gift-
Truth.
And you regifted it
Into a weapon.
How can you question my actions
When yours throw swords into my chest?
-why can't I just give up?
Feb 25, 2019
Feb 25, 2019 at 8:26 AM UTC
from beneath the layers
of my buried past
you emerged
suddenly
old love, regifted
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 1:59 PM UTC