"rehashed" poems
Her breath catches. she turns over. it doesn't matter, no matter what she does, she won't sleep. that itch is there.
she lies on the flat of her back, staring at the colours swirling on the ceiling with the shadows dancing with them. she starts thinking about him again. the way his hair curls at the end, the way it moves when the wind blows around, the way his face scrunches up in amusement, the way he holds himself, how he leans in when he speaks, his lips, his face, his eyes...she lets her mind wander...aswell as her hand...
her breath catches again, but for an entirely different reason.
setting a steady pace she drives herself insane, physically with resistance and mentally with reminders of who she can't have.
two years gone and she still can't stop. she loves him. everything about him, the air around him, even. she adores him and it's killing her.
her legs widen to accomadate her rising arousal, a low moan grows in the back of her throat, pushing her forward making her desire vocal, unlike the love that has crushed her heart over and over, again and again, she can't stand it anymore.
her speed increases and she breaks a sweat. she's crying now, thinking about the rehashed fantasy she built in her brain. how she'd loose herself to him, give him eveything, let him take her to places shes never been before. She cries because she knows it'll never be so, all she'll have is her own little bed and her own hand for company, no strong arms to hold her as she falls asleep, no sweet lips to kiss goodnight, no growing passion pushing into her ever so warmly.
suddenly she bucks, screams out in pain and passion, and curls in a ball to live through the aftershocks and the screaming agony her heart holds, she pretends he's holding her and slowly falls asleep.
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 6:04 PM UTC
Thanks for showing me my own reflection, in the water’s mirror
a solid infusion, insurmountable intrusions by authority figures.
Not knowing exactly what to do with these forms,
we usually choose to keep them just the same.
The mind says, some are more important than others,
anyway, some bear fruit and others bear colors.
You must wear warm clothes in the winter
and let the obtuse angles, shatter the unwelcome inclusions
of cold weather; diffusions of rectangular protrusions,
surprise, i am aligned again with spirit;
while you remain hidden, behind that dismal screen;
another abysmal refraction of technology, numbing us daily.
I choose movement; blindly, kindly or spontaneous,
on spindly legs, spiders spin their winding webs.
Self reflective and expecting more from this world,
than just tired images, rehashed so many times
that they are burnt to a crispy death.
Let's respect our relations, and our ancestors,
and no longer shall we need to get lost on our vacations,
but instead find the treasure, that demands our complete attention.
If our lack of respect is a sign of the times,
then our lack of pride is so much more attractive to the divine.
Loopholes everywhere, yet we pretend to get caught in our own webs,
made out of pens and paper; thank you for saving those articles
tossed in wastebaskets, all the empty drawers in offices
are still busy being born; the moment, morning comes around to save them...
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 11:29 AM UTC
Perhaps
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The cohesiveness between us, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Our solemn oaths of faithfulness, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
If something happened that was not to your liking,
the shrinking away that produces silence, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Listen, the sagas of so many years, the promises you made amid time's onslaught,
which you now fail to mention, you may remember, or perhaps not.
These new resentments, those old rehashed complaints,
these lighthearted and displeasing stories, you may remember, or perhaps forgot.
Some seasons ago we shared love and desire, we shared joy ...
That we once were dear friends, you may have, perhaps, forgot.
Now if we come together, by fate or by chance, to express old loyalties ...
Our every shared breath, all our sighs and regrets, you may remember, or perhaps not.
Being
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You are so close to me
that no one else ever can be.
NOTE: There is a legend that the great Urdu poet Mirza Ghalib offered all his diwan (poetry collections) in exchange for this one sher (couplet) by Momin Khan Momin. Does the couplet mean "be as close" or "be, at all"? Does it mean "You are with me in a way that no one else can ever be?" Or does it mean that no one else can ever exist as truly as one's true love? Or does this sher contain an infinite number of elusive meanings, like love itself?
Being (II)
by Momin Khan Momin
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You alone are with me when I am alone.
You are beside me when I am beside myself.
You are as close to me as everyone else is afar.
You are so close to me that no one else ever can be.
Keywords/Tags: Translation, Urdu, Momin Khan Momin, love, close, closeness, unity, farness, afar, memory, remembrance, forgetfulness, remember, forget, forgot, time, silence, mrburdu
May 1, 2020
May 1, 2020 at 5:53 AM UTC
at ease, hideous you
with blood o'prey
dribbling down
your well-crafted
dimples.
eager ears surround,
live to make meaning
off your rehashed
sentiment you *****
from some recent-dead
and righteous boy.
and i admire you.
yes, yes, yes i do.
oh, enemy
playing us all for fools,
eating us all alive,
we townsfolk don't
give you the torch or pitchfork,
just our unending applause.
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 5:17 PM UTC
I'm tired of hearing the same old concept
Rehashed with the back lash of a delayed onset
It's easy to have an opinion when it's been approved by the norm
So gather your sentiments and allow them to form
To the mold cast by a nation fueled with generalization
Is it worth being original with the risk of condemnation?
Occupying the top is the common aim of our generation
Even if we have to surrender, call it moral suffocation
Cuz life is defined by how far we progress
And happiness is measured by the height of our success
So paint on your smile, little artist of conception
Convince yourself that you control your perception
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
Nothing has meaning.
Everything is pointless,
an inane transient cloud.
A single breath of smoke.
Think of all the blood and tears
that you pour into your work.
What do you actually gain
from any of your labouring?
Generations flourish then fade
each one replacing another that passes,
leaving no sign they were ever there,
only the dirt that fell from their feet.
The dawn sun drags itself into the sky
then falls back down as dusk comes,
repeating its dreary cycle over and over
with the same numbing certainty.
The wind gusts towards the south
then changes and rushes north,
mindlessly blowing one way then another,
constant in its confused and erratic pursuits.
Every drop of water ends in the ocean
but the seas are never satiated and so
the rivers and streams keep flowing,
repeating their tedious cycles again.
Every aspect of life inspires apathy
and is filled with indescribable monotony.
Each dull thing bores the eyes blind
and deafens the ears with mundanity.
All that has once been will be again.
Every single thing that takes place
is merely an imitation of another.
There is nothing original on earth.
Some people might claim or insist
that they have something new to offer,
but you can guarantee that all it will be
is a rehashed and repackaged cliché.
All that man achieves will pass away
and the supposedly great things
that will be accomplished in the future,
will also fade into nothingness.
Jul 11, 2016
Jul 11, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC
We don't need
no Bieber Fever
We don't need
no ****** songs
No bad lip syncing
on the dance floor
Barbie dolls in
rubber thongs
All in all it's just more
plastic **** against
the wall
Yes, all in all it's just
more plastic **** against
the wall
We don’t need
no **** from Brittney
We don’t need
her rehashed rhymes
No songs of anguish
from Christina
Washed up waifs
beyond their prime
All in all it's just more
plastic **** against
the wall
Yes, all in all it's just
more plastic **** against
the wall...
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
The winter comes and goes
Lost in summer’s clothes
Leaves fall around me
Random memories
Bloom, then blossom
A bud in disguise
The picture tells a thousand words
You paint each one
Waiting, in hope
But the sun never lies
Cycles of the moon
Wash over your mind
Emotional
Recreational
An endless search
You will never find
Treasure surrounds you
It’s breaking the senses
And into the darkness
Dancing in the dust
Energy rises
Day and night
Feeding the illusion
And so we must…
Pursue the desire
To feel
To become
One with the other
Approaching midnight
But lost in time and space
Under moonlight
I trace a line
Across your face…
We are reflections
Barely grasping
At the youth
Slipping away from our fingers…
A secret wonder
This life is
We don’t know what
It’ll bring us…
So misunderstood
Connecting space
Yet feelings remain
True as blood
I count the times
You ran through my veins
Elements of you
Transcend distance…
And yet here
On this plain
Synchronicity
Seeking Invisibility;
I sense your resistance
Rehashed stories
Former glories
Cycle on
From one moment to the next
Going with the flow…
A lesson learned
You grow
With no rhyme, purpose or reason
Flowering, evergreen, everlasting
Yet standing tall, in your season.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 2:12 PM UTC
the vibrations of silent music
an invisible hug
walking barefoot in the grass
your first breath
Schrodinger's cat rehashed
plants in the wrong habitat
ants crawling up and down your flesh
pins and needles writhing in your stomach
the first sign of spring
being encased in bubble wrap
walking on a cloud in the sky
a new life
until they open the door
and the steel shatters
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
It's the imprint that it makes, really.
There is little relation to
the covenants we have sworn
or the gildings of rehashed
sobriety or leftover temple
bricks, baked clay tablets
on which someone records
these scenes, fragments,
scents, and colors.
How can we reap this Zion?
Can it be gathered as wild
sweet strawberries are,
torn away from their source?
Can it be processed electrically?
Can we make money off it?
If so, how many dinars
would you offer?
One? Two? Perhaps
a discount for quantity?
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
Gavel in hand
and eyes that cast shadows
on my face
Who are you?
The world is full of double standards
unforgiving
holding ever so tightly to
a false image of god
Hateful
Inhumane
Curse you robots accustomed to dogmatic belief
Your counterfiet
Half assed
Rehashed
Evolve already!
my mind trails....
down different paths
curse me
crucify me
I love to love
built to need another
to feel
to think for myself
to love being a women
and the power that comes with it
My conscience
clear
How's yours?
Guilted into life
Worshipping death
**** off the ones that disagree
metaphorically
and play your role "right"
In the big machine
I am more than rust or grease
a lever a pully a tool to please
and the day I die I'll rest with peace
knowing I operate differently
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC
It's been a long while since I've felt a love such as this one
It is something new for me
Because it is with an unexpected someone
It's the person I want to marry
I never thought I could become so attached
And so attracted to someone like this
I am so fortunate to have rehashed
Our Love
When we thought we had failed it
You're so perfect
With your long brown locks of hair
And your deep eyes to match your mind
Your pretty smile leaves a glare
Your love is one of a kind
When we kiss, a shock goes through our bodies
A reaction surges through us
It brings us closer with much ease
Without you, I make a fuss
I wish I could be around you all day
And observe you in your normal state
To see you right now, any price I'd pay
Togetherness is our fate
Your voice is something I long to hear
And your touch is something I yearn to feel
Baby, our love is strong and it's nothing to fear
We know that what we have is real
So let's keep it going
And seize the day, just you and me
Because this thing is only growing
You're my angel, so holy
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
Dapping on the surface
Trailing a wake of
Rehashed hard luck stories
Mis-spent dreams and
Might have beens
Heedless that he is out-depthed
He holds to his line
And works the bar
Tied by a master
Plumage plucked to order
Starling blue, sparrow dun
Two fine threads
Gold and black
Crosswound, tied off
Sealed with honeywax -
Stealthy weapon of deception
He feels the shifting currents
He reads the weather-gauge
Spring tide, autumn flood
Both echo in his veins
Gnarly and half-sodden
The old fly baits his game
Past his best, yes - but
Potent all the same
*The fish are wary
But the fly is patient*
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 8:13 AM UTC
If I were her and she were me,
perhaps nothing would be different
about that time the two of us met.
We would each assume with a touch of pity
that the other was adorably naive
in her opinion of you and her together.
If I were her and she were me,
she would find three strands of my hair tangled in your sheets
and her chest would sting with regret as she hashed and rehashed
every imagined detail that began to crystallize.
If I were her and she were me,
she would not be able to look at you for very long at all
without the consuming thought of
you looking at me (in an identical or different fashion)
bleeding in.
If I were her and she were me,
she would never touch the subject,
never approach it, never cross it;
instead, she would let her heart fill up with you anyway,
and I would be smart.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
I want to write to immortalize my name,
but my heart is poured out on the ground like wax,
So like Jesus and Solomon and some others,
If I'm lucky,
maybe I could immortalize my pain.
It has all been redone, rehashed, rewritten, and reread, (this included)
and like billions of others,
my world revolves around me,
my instinct and my survival,
wedged in my head.
We are all philosophers, scientists and sheep,
from princes to murderers,
from mothers to sailors,
the remembered and forgotten,
the drunks and the tailors-
We're sincerely believing the delusions we keep.
I think some found truth,
and others found lies,
and some found excuses
for the passions of youth.
But I have favourite things that keep me alive,
the songs and the family and friends that help me pass time,
conquering problems and getting things right,
the fragile ecstasy,
the rare intimacy,
touch.
I constantly feel the drain of time running out,
my back is in knots,
I'm tired and in doubt.
I see people I love aging and fading,
and I know we all share it,
our lives are decaying.
My heart has grown hard from the sorrow I've seen,
so many bleeding,
I'm also bleeding.
It's too hard too cry tears for all the begging children I see
they never run out,
we're always needing.
I want to live hope and love in this world,
despite my terminal condition,
my weakness and waywardness,
my incessant betrayal,
there must be some good to flow from this cracked jar.
And I want to walk with you,
none of us are alone here,
this pain belongs to us all.
I will fail from time to time,
in my self-centerdness forget you are mine.
But there will be times when we will touch on eternity.
We will calm the blame with soft whispers of each others names.
We will laugh and clown until our tears have run out.
We will know we belong, pretend that were strong.
In this sense I do live for you, and you for me,
imagine without that what a hell this would be.
And when I die, who knows what will be next?
But I will leave behind some beautiful things.
And if you go before me,
I'll carry you home,
then bury your bones,
then bury your memories inside me
and let them fade with me.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 2:25 PM UTC
Dusk drains your color casting shadows on your face
and your lines seem deeper with a frown much steeper
As sweat swells and expels streaking worry whilst the situation gets bleaker
Like a rock in your sneaker a fret you cant shake
Another night shaped by the unrelenting shame
Enraged by the mishaps and the things that dictate from the past
That you just can't grasp nor seem to mask
The pain only grows and unfolds every time you are asked
As memories flash and leave you abashed
Debilitated yet you still thrash through sleepless nights
for the terrors are rehashed
Suddenly wrongs seem right
Your spite grows despite your mold
Good men break bold
and look for loop holes
At times even justice does not seem justified
and a monster is born behind tired tear filled eyes
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
The right way to assess it
is to say that it isn't broken.
It is not broken but sanded
sanded by the sands of time.
Sanded in a rough manner
By a bad technician with no clue.
Cutting in it here and there
Leaving traces in time.
Some parts have been redone
Rehashed, remade and mapped again.
Some parts were just left
Left as the gaping wounds of time.
I guess the right way to explain
is to say all the normal things happened.
But then there was a bit extra
that nobody asked for.
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 7:25 PM UTC
constantly rehashed
long thread spun out
every chance
chokes
Over
And
Over
Again
rewind button
never sticks
tape
never breaks
lassoed memories
drug in kicking
and screaming
allegations
insinuations
half-truths
blows the lid off
feigned civility
while anger
simmers savagely
under
pursed lips
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
Oh God, it would be great, wouldn't it?
These were your words, not mine.
Sweet poet, speak to me again,
I ache for your words.
Mine are redundant, recycled, rehashed, and replayed.
I ache for you, I ache for the sound you made, in your throat,
As I ****** your finger, and tickled the tip with my tongue.
Sweet poet, speak to me again,
Offer me that finger, and everything you have,
Offer it all to me,
Please, please, please.
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Where oh where
could my little sense of humour
have gone?
Oh where oh where
could it beeee?
Last time I saw it wandering
trying to find a big enough bin
to put my emotional baggage in
Lost among traumatic memories
It didn't enjoy my therapies
Dampened by big pharma remedies
Sedated, it traveled slowly but far
and despite its growing number of scars
Still searched for truth in the bizarre
I've been finding pieces among the trash
Funnier jokes asking to be rehashed
Of times of freedom, a big ol' stash
Where oh where
could my little sense of humour
have gone?
Oh where oh where
could it beeee?
Finally, happy to see me, we embraced all night
I laughed till I cried at it's clever insight
And now humour and I write
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 8:57 PM UTC
i rest my hand lightly on your chest,
the crisp grey blond curls tickle my palm.
this is not invitation, not yet.
but a need to feel your essential substance underneath my fingertips.
i move to rest my head, my ear hovering
near your heart's steadying rhythm.
at counterpoint to the waves on from beach below.
you cup my face in your large carpenter's hands
and draw my head away from your drumbeat's base.
gentle calluses graze my cheeks.
your face, now in my curls inhaling me,
my thoughts, my grace.
we lean, into together emeshed, entwined,
ensnared.
we are our foundation pillars and piers.
we assay each other finding
the potch and opal dross and gold.
we accept the measure, allay the fears.
two seperate. two complete.
bound together.
made one.
intricate in design and blueprint.
layer by layer,
baggage and taught lies are lost,
forgotten and sundered.
we revived hearts atrophied, critical and dead. shifted paradigms, opened heads,
rehashed, reworked, rewired.
reawoke the sleeping giants,
found truth and honesty
and love and grace.
took a liking to this unkown place.
created gardens, from thought, tumbled weeds. we sought and saved and watered wilted needs.
our house, our home now, built strong
and stable.
we lean into together emeshed, entwined, ensnared,
your gentle calluses brush my cheeks,
finding salted water.
your deep rumbling resonance,
mumbles into my curly locks
"you ok babe?"
i turn my face to yours,
seek your eyes, smile and reply
"just thinking beautiful thoughts"
and gift my lips to yours,
lovingly lingeringly,
this, now,
is an invitation.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 9:58 AM UTC
Even glory bears degrees of welcome--
not every wake is left indefinitely.
Try as it may, the ocean cannot
disinherit waves that fail to further
its glory.
Ones own face is too many lives in,
not to appear guilt-ridden.
Mistaken identity is a guarantee--
historicity recycles attributes.
On the otherside of things, one has
enough personal relations to populate
the globe.
Which's why roosters can't unhear
dawns like rehashed blood in tepid
water.
Mar 17, 2025
Mar 17, 2025 at 1:06 AM UTC
What could have been;
What should have been done.
What could have been seen;
What should have been shunned.
I speak to you, my rejected friends.
Take the messages failure sends.
I speak for you, for I feel the sting, too.
Maybe I should take my own advice,
Instead of spilling my guts out to you.
But, failures linger, don’t they?
They stick around like glue,
Make you not want to see the next day.
I grieve with you, my fellow renounced outcasts.
Life sometimes crumbles like houses beneath blasts.
I grieve for my own woeful misadventures,
For all of life’s haunting spectres,
The ghosts of what could have been,
The paradise that won’t let us in.
This one is for us;
All those who failed to get into the Harvards and the Yales,
All of those who wish they’d gotten better grades,
But got burnt out, instead.
All of those who haven’t made it in sports,
But whose dreams were cut short.
All of those who wished to become actors,
But found no supporters nor benefactors.
All of those who wished to chase music,
Those who have talent but couldn’t use it.
All of those who died at sea,
Stranded on a boat, trying to be free.
All of those whose heart was broken,
Whose wounds are always open.
All of those whose ideas were trashed,
Only to then be copied and rehashed.
All of those whose minds were broken,
Who danced with demons and evil unspoken.
All of those who never met their parents,
To whom life was never readily apparent.
All of those who reached for the stars,
But found their arms were too short.
This one is for us.
Stay strong, for these nights can be long.
Sing your song.
PS:
**** whoever said ‘the sky’s the limit’.
Let’s go for ‘above and beyond.’
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 4:35 PM UTC