"rememberings" poems
On the stage
under the lights
in front of the auditorium seats
a
Sneering, jeering, laughing
audience at
one on the stage
The spinning shimmering
hologram
of
all my fears
reluctance
guard rails
concrete barriers
perpetrators
and
victims too
rememberings
and
anticipation
stood
Connected to me
by
a long tether
And
along that tether
my
power flowed
away from me
Into the performing
Mannequin
on
that stage.
Who was the puppet master?
In a moment of freedom
or was it just pique
with my golden scissors
the
tether was
cut.
The shimmering stood
for a moment on stage
the crowd became silent
and
looked away.
In my moment
of release
I wished it well
compassion and peace
and
I was finally free.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 9:03 AM UTC
It was on a Tuesday—
empty-handed tree branches cringing beneath the
heaviness of a premature spring wind, and trying (failing) to
sprout fistfuls of leaf-paper poetry—proof to the world (and to themselves)
of something to say.
It was the season of in-between
and she was a letter scrawled by rememberings (and regrets),
unread and tucked into the envelope of an apathetic world. A girl
(a woman) left to linger and to steep in tea cups full of the steaming winter
and of loneliness.
And she walked through leftover
currents of wilted autumn leaves, now crumpled and disposed
onto the floor of a wintery Tuesday like (insufficient) pages, never to
be read. They lifted in the breeze to watch her and without really wanting to,
she understood.
For she was cringing, too,
beneath the (too-bright) light of a February sun that demanded
competence. She searched for it with frantic hands and found only
fistfuls of afraid and pockets full of words collected on heart-floors like
wilted autumn leaves.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
I'm sinking deeper in between
Falling into spaces within
My heart's beating
Filling in vessels
That was left abandon during the fractions
My mind's leaking
Pleasant sweet memories
You've left embedded
When you created stars while I was dreaming
Each time when you forsake me
Disappearing swiftly
Into the nights leaving only rememberings
My heart is searching
For every time
When the night skies reigns
Only the moon and the stars
Can they explain
THE MOON
You are my moon
And I am the night
Showering you love always
While you light up my sight
Your silent sacrifices always goes
Unheard
Selfishly enduring rays from the morning light
Burns
For I'll understand
When night falls and you leave me
Dancing alone with the stars
I'm thinking
THE STARS
You are my stars
Drawn so perfectly in my sky
You twinkled and danced to the firelight
Reminding me throughout
My night
Why should I still reign
When my moon is nowhere out of sight
For the moon needs her space
To heal from the morning light rays
Soon she will resurface
Promising a smile on her face
I'm missing
For your stars is still here
Dearly my heart hold on to your memories
For I will patiently wait for the moon
You should know that you're worthy
So come what may
Even the morning light rays
I'll still hold on to my words
Even if I'm left here to hurt
@2014 Maman Screams
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
Line them up like candle sticks
There, in every empty frame
Quiet, aligned, they greet me home
No two ones the same.
I came in from the bitterness
They fought their way on through
Blades and pines, the wilderness
More lines, yes, they speak too.
Are they notes of senselessness
That speak of wintry boyish grief?
Clearly, when the tears are long
The lead is ever brief.
I came to cry the voiceless song
Of terrors vague, but bleak
To beat my breast in poems plain
Intended hugeness, meek.
Dusted ‘long the desk far edge
The shavings are as ****** things
The grey won’t bulk, only defend
Both placate my rememberings.
Get these bards out from my head
The depth into, foolishly repenned
Confirmed in life as substanceless
--One to the window again.
Failed pillars of the balm I sought
Look there! The thoughts I had to lame
Cut from sweet youth, dumb and aloud
Deaths all lying silent, in vain.
Those faint shades of negate-gone
Drop down from the general tear
Left to cradle th’abundant soul
In silent tongues, songs left to bear.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
Her fingertips tease the seams of the tattered trunk,
Like a recovered remnant of the Titanic,
Rotting velvet lid cap,
Torn paper liner,
Tilting, listless shelves.
The scent of two centuries of existing
Slowly seeping into her sympathetic senses,
The smell sparking a myriad of imaginings;
Like a menagerie of nostalgic rememberings
A kaleidoscope of irreconcilable memories,
The trunk tells many bold and treacherous tales;
She lets the stories play out in her mind
As she runs her hands across the cracked leather,
Visualizing the hand driven rivets of the trim,
Fingers stopping ever so slightly to pause on the cool steel,
The circular clasps and the rusty, broken locks.
She suddenly smells the salty sea air of the helm of a steam ship,
She sees a silk handkerchief with a lipstick print,
Seductively scented with her own blend of oil of lilac and rose water,
Quietly clutched with subconscious desperation
In the front pants pocket of his threadbare blue jeans.
A bouquet of flower wilts in a vase,
It adds a semblance of mourning
To amplify the loneliness of the scene,
The candles and the curtains drawn low in her cold, dreary cabin
She leans, shuddering, crying over the side of the trunk,
Red rouge making red rivers of silent tears
That run rampant down trembling, rose coloured cheeks,
She lifts the tin of his aftershave,
Breathes him in one more time before going to bed.
The gentle rocking of the ships stern lulls her to sleep.
And with a sigh,
The girl is sleeping too,
A gentle smile playing on her lips,
Her limp wrist still reaching for another story from the magic steam trunk that lies open
In the barest corner of her room.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Oh those dixie paper cup
Forgotten childhood love
Dead dead heart
Dead dead soul above
Wake up deary, now
Story book picture bow
A great job done
Illegal fun
Before word gets out
Someone said wake up
Someone said get out
Mirror dreams and fever parts
Damp rememberings
Softly summer breeze
With lilac smell
Feeding bees
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
in my new existence, I seem to be seeing the world differently
I have rememberings of a time that no longer are there
that part of life changed at some point
do I want to know when that was
do I want to move on with the existing reality
I need to not forget
I need to stay with eyes wide shut
taking in all that is new, with the memories of forgotten eternities
allowing myself to welcome in the freshness of new routes
Brian Hill - 2020 # 251
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 9:00 AM UTC
This is what it means to be out to sea
If you fall in she will eat you
And she'll spit you back out as driftwood and pebbles
To make sure you know
That nothing can live without eating the dead
New willows sprout from decayed redwood trees
And if you fall down the ground here will eat you
And spit you back out as a fern or a bloom
Of lilies or mushrooms
This is what it means to be with me
If you fall in, I will eat you
And we will die our deaths, little and sweet
And no one here is sorry
And no one here writes poetry
Poetry is for ghosts
It is a trick of the light, the grey chatter of rain
Blooming magnolias and mist in the morning
It is the salt smooth smell of wood tossed to shore
And the way everything here feels just a little bit more
So I fall into my head, and spit me back out in strange rememberings
I drag up old lovers, plant words in their chests
They are my stories, my little deaths
The carious peat from which I grow
And no one here is sorry, for I know
That this is what it means
To be out to sea
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 2:54 PM UTC
He lies atop her in the darkness
Passion leaves them beautiful, breathless
A bead of sweat falls from his brow
Following the curve of her arm
Reflecting the light from down the hall
The sparkling droplet catches her eye, she sighs
Bodies entwined, a Lord & his Lady,
Rememberings of a shakespearean dream
Timeless sonnets spun from a golden spire
Their love is a requiem to other worlds
A lost age, all but forgotten
The blood roils in her veins, curling her toes
She meets his gaze and feels her pulse begin to rise
A smile playing on her lips, hand caressing his cheek,
Enflamed by the magic of their desire
They fly on waxen wings
Ever closer toward the heat
Unfettered by proximity
Two hearts make one
Bright and burning like the Sun
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
The raining brings rememberings
of different beds in different rooms
of hard floors and soft arms
of cold nights but warm hands
The pattering against the swish of tents
and slanted, slated roofs
and slipping down windows
and tips of noses
The feeling of raining
of Warm and of Safe
The raining brings rememberings
and coldness and pain
It will never be the same again.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 7:19 PM UTC
She falls in and out time
Flys about like the winged feet of Mercury
Riding upon the flickering flame of consciousness
Navigates the chattering currents of light
She buckles down, leans into the wind
Only to finds herself host to a house full of ghosts
She dines with them,
Pours another glass of wine with them
All the while she feels the undeniable weight of their chains
Through their hollow smiles, she sees them crying,
Yet she says nothing...
For she cannot help but to relate.
All she can do now is laugh
At the absurdity of her quiet, casual observations
For time reveals that there really are
No greater demons
Than the ones that reside
Within the sum of her own reflection.
She dresses herself for the evening ahead,
Once again, she'll be attending the annual masquerade ball.
Everyone there wears a disguise of his own design,
Yet rarely is it one of his own choosing.
So today she won't be at the mercy of some unseen spectral stylist.
Today she takes a watchful eye,
And faces the shelf of faces herself.
Careful not to choose a mask that is too gaudy,
Nor too wild, nor too frighteningly cruel.
Because she already knows that nobody can leave the party until after midnight anyhow...
So she might as well dance.
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 1:31 AM UTC
I can see my life flash before my eyes
It is little more than a construction of an ordinary sentence
It rings in my ears as satisfying and fulfilling for my time here
When I try to peer into the future
I see nothing
I see nothing but her
The pencil shavings of tangible ideas
Of possible memories of us
Nothing can be discerned but the radiance of her grin in the foreground
Nothing more than her warm touch in the cold space
Nothing more than her bright eyes in a dark room
She can tell me to walk to the ends of the earth with her and I'd follow
As long as she leads with her hand in mine
But I'm concerned.
For the memories that are in my mind are not real
They are sketches I have drawn with my fingertips
And not my hands
I feel the strands of a bow that I unsure how to tie together
Feelings come easily but words don't
How do I describe how far these faux rememberings go?
How do I say I can see a memory of rings and champagne
With the blurriness of the others
And the worried expressions after a long day
Where the last wink of light
Betrays my eyes that are blinking with tears
I see a smile and crescent fingertips
The rest fades
But as my life flashes before my eyes
It no longer seems fulfilling
Even with its clarity
I am lost without the warm touch and bright eyes
And the future feels so uncertain
Without that tangible feeling
And the glint of a million memories that do not even exist
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 11:14 PM UTC
O meet me through the times
When leaving is evident
See the sun, setting its rays far beyond east
And love is blooming in air, inside dead feel of a body
Like a flowing stream, that has no start no end
Likewise my heart beaming tonight, with your love , in ur love
Seek pleasure through my ways, seeking the pain i felt in ur rememberings,
Ull never see parting of clouds or rain or breeze
In ur heart, from my soul, and ; this is my light
A light to the solemn heart of mine
Propelling me towards thr heaven of skies!!
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC