"remnant" poems
Drifting back to the ocean
like it never even happened
unraveled dreams washed clean
crystalline renaissance bestowed
by wind mountain spring waters
rising from the heart
of mother earth
A remnant light glows deeply
of one love's untamed wonders
an unfastened feather glides abandoned
rushing waters floating
alighting pilgrim blissfully sails on
stranded without wings
a fallen wild feather free as bird
wanting a place to be let free
Sun in the summer air
wind in buoyant feathered hair
softly dancing upon
wild river restless ripples
to feel the love of holding on
adrift asunder whence it touched on
destiny's far-reaching
journey yonder
holding onto flowing rivers
rolling towards the sea
The incoming tidal waters blossom
surge to greet wind river's gentle saunter
converging slackening passage
salt on feral feathered fragments
arousing currents babbling swirl
imbibed by the impassioned sea
Wild rivers' born intentions
a different kind of drifting passage
to kiss the distant horizon
where the sown sunlight settles
submerged in shoreless ocean waters
to be free all at sea at last
someone you used to know 2017
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
The Affair
I fell in love with childhood,
he wore a red cape
made of polyester plaid,
tiny stitches of lines
circulated around his palm.
He never wore a mask,
his memories wore enough of one,
a fog remnant of a dream,
his home he’d never see again
all along the river, led up to a lake.
It didn’t matter anyway,
a wedge upon two brick walls
was a plaque – or a warning –
a memorial, perhaps, but
all succumbed to his pain,
every inch crumbled to dust.
That’s when I took his childhood away.
I fell in love with memories.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:49 AM UTC
survival of the most dissociative
you don’t need anyone
to make you feel
you can feel all by yourself
you can feel any emotion you want
you have been given the full reportoire
whiteness can give you wealth
can get you ***** and enslaved
whiteness can get you anything
any type of dissociation
legal liberty
dissociative profit
an accumulation of dissociative value
to get this much sugar
dissociative cooperation of whiteness
an empire of dissociative investment
dissociative throne of power
out of control
with the need to control
anger
jealousy
envy
of those who are trying to be human
native
culture
ethnicity
anger and frustration
force and pressure to make dissociate
whiteness breathing together
against
if the cooperation of whiteness catches you
going back to help those
it tried to bury behind
dissociative reality
a desperate reality
that ceases to exist
when the intensity
of the dissociative cooperation
ceases to exist
am I the only one manifesting this honesty
a diagnosis of the diagnosers
intimate communication
tattooing the world forever
undeniable language of change
I gave all the history of dissociation
to the world
exposing abuse that is
the pride of dissociative
white supremacy
we are not the objects
of dissociative value
an association of focus
not cooperating
studying and exposing
resisting dissociation
conflicting value of nativity
accumulative value of resistance
resilience unafraid
unflinching fearless
vulnerable
reincarnating
intimate honesty
lights down low revolution
subtle
in the face of dissociative force
I need my fix of dissociation
please
do it with me
no wait
reinforce resistance
keep it up with breathing
dont conspire dissociation
I am decomposition
so I leave behind
an abrasive language
so abrasive
any remnant
of sensitivity
of dissociation
is drawn in to contemplate
to question its intentions
an exorcism of dissociative whiteness
giving into nativity
self righteousness
desperately competing to dissociate
like whiteness
**** them and you
there is beauty outside of this dissociation
Americanized
the diseased spread
of dissociative *******
dissociative procreation
the evolution of dissociative selection
Darwin’s cousin tortured and destroyed
it is fun and exciting to
denounce dissociation
do it with me
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
Father could reprogram all six billion of us
if He felt the need, anytime
In fact that's exactly what He did
at Babel when our dodgy one-accord
threatened to bring the end nearer
than the six millenniums of earthtime
He'd allocated for us to seek His truth
He even re-wired Balak for a minute
to hear his donkey speak
and think of the Assyrians that fled
when He caused four lepers to sound
like a mighty mercenary army
coming to rescue Jerusalem
YHWH is omnipotent, like it not
The reason He's not 'interfering' right now
is simply because His plan is dead on time
He intends to blow the chaff from His wheat
The true wheat, His remnant that stays faithful
(through Revelations and the mark)
will form a new constitution when Yeshua returns
for a thousand years of peace on earth
You may think "Oh I'll wait and see
if it's true, like, if the two witnesses
really die and then rise again in three days"
Problem with that approach is simple
You could be brainwashed before then
The neurophone is widely used today
Think of 911, why Bush isn't impeached
and read surveillanceissues.com
Those of us who really care
will continue to bug you and **** your spirit
Hopefully you'll make the right choice
and refuse the mark of the beast
Consider these things while there's time
'After me the storm' won't cut it
There are less than three short years to go
* Gen 6:3 And Jehovah said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, in his erring; he is flesh. Yet his days shall be a hundred and twenty years.
The 120 years referred to here in fact represent 120 jubilees, or 6000 years (2000 from Adam to the flood, 2000 from the flood to Yeshua and 2000 from Yeshua till 2017)
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 2:37 AM UTC
The wind whistled a lullaby,
Kissing her goodbye.
As it raced through her forehead,
Before she dropped dead.
The floor had become a crimson pool,
Filled with the last remnant of the fool.
She thought she could tame the beast,
But, instead she became his feast.
It was a silent night,
And while she had put up a brave fight.
But, in the end three bullets made their way,
And they ended her stay.
Now on the floor she lies dead,
Her blood has painted the floor red.
We watch in horror, as numb as ice.
While rain pours down our eyes.
Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Art is opinion masquerading as truth.
When I draw a city, I am drawing the city of my dreams, just as the city that is does not exist.
Putting policy into words in the hopes of having yourself heard is not the point of the philosopher,
and should not be the end of the penman.
When I attempt to make the world see, I manufacture my enemy. We should seek instead to illuminate gracefully, to speak the words beyond the void of flesh, and to touch emotions that swim with depth
It will get us nowhere to make art political, of which it is propaganda and employed many an artist in the past;
whose dreams of good deeds became hung in a museum for all the wrong reasons, leaving a remnant of an unforseen circumstance hanging dry on an empty tour-guide phonecall
Descriptive yet lies
Argue the dialectic of truth than the present purfume of lies that is fumigated from the salivary discharge of a cetaceous yearning of ********** of thought, that leftover dream of God
That all things should be the same, that all minds should think that way-- if they were, we'd be done with the experiment.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
And after that I am still a hollow where the
fairies hide from darkness and poisons. I
am still growing flowers out of my womb
and that is why they stink like ************
And after that your disbelief kills all my
sparky pixies and after that I cannot be
anything more than a hollow hollow. But
yeah I am still growing flowers out of my
wound and that is why I scream and cry
when you touch them.
And after that the stillness of the air inside
me and the remnant echo of morning songs
attract the darkness to come. And after that
I think she may feel lonely so I invite
poisons to also come along.
And after that I am still growing flowers
out of the wound on my womb. They still
stink like ************ and after that
vomitting feels like womanhood thing. And
after that my flowers are still immortal and
that is why sometimes you see blood clot
floating around the moon.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 2:33 PM UTC
*Breathe the bright moments in life
and hold them nearby.
Let them go gently as you would
release a butterfly.
Let love come to you
as a soft summer breeze.
Let it find you in a quiet moment
under a shade of trees.
Love will return in perfect passion.
Grasp passion with both hands
and hold onto it
until you have wrung
all the heat from it
you can.
Then release it as a sigh
of contentment.
Savor the perfect moment in life
but dwell in every remnant.
Life, love, passion & contentment
come to us all, friend ...
but they stay with those
who appreciate them.*
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC
I remember the restaurant,
The one Grandpa
Had brought us to –
Window panes in patriotism
And pancakes atop, “America,”
The world revolved,
“America,”
And how we’d made it
“Home” –
So came the syrup, destiny
And fervor caked powder plate.
He knew of my toil, ills, and tolls
Pandered atop horizons
Hindered Mao and red
As we sat near dawn over coffee
And something south of
Conspiracy – opposite my dream
And collusion to **** said
Destiny,
But it was still, “his
America,” not mine and he’d
Sleep when I wouldn’t.
So it pained me, resonant a twitch
Within this small inch of
Remnant family, to tell him,
“We’re going back,
We’re leaving tomorrow,”
And, “I don’t know when I’ll be
Home,” gramps,
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be home,”
And he’d say prior ever’d silent –
“Good luck sleeping on that one,
Son,” I just know he would.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Trash can, wastebasket;
the place we throw it all away.
Used tissues--soggy mascara, dried *****
or the babies that would never be,
and the heaps of food waste, human waste.
Wasted human.
Why do we take ourselves and the people we used to love,
toss people and our person deep within a hole of shame,
darkness, misery, guilt, worry, frustration, fear?
If someone only said to you, or to me, when we dig deep
into the ground and find the place no one will find us
or them, the people we are burying--
if they only said,
"You are not trash."
Our emotions refuse to become refuse, the remains of
being unwanted, as we perceive ourselves to be.
But we is just me, and even though I can't hear the voice
I long to hear above my own, the sounds reverberate in my chest,
next to my heart, where I heard them last.
The last time we spoke your fingers did not reach for mine.
Your jeans did not rip in the same one spot.
The dog that I picked that you picked after you went back,
his tail wagging all the way on the ride back to his new home,
did not kiss my face and my eyes and ears like he loves to do.
Even though you didn't still love me, you did before,
now thrown hastily, yet decidedly in the trash can outside your door.
I dropped off the last remnant of your physical being,
an old rabbit-eared antennae.
I didn't, couldn't look in your trash can,
or stand in the driveway longer than was needed to drop and run
the hell away from crumbling gravel, a window newly aluminum foiled, and the motorcycle kept under surveillance at all times.
I hope he looked on his camera screen and saw walking,
talking, feeling, breathing human trash gliding
down the sidewalk, feet pattering into a jog.
The grass licked my feet and tangled in my toes on the way
to the one place my sighs could sink lower than my feet,
deep into the warm upholstery of my car seat, the grandma car,
the dented, imperfect, but mostly reliable car
away, far away, to a place where someone would look curiously,
pick up the trash, my trash, me, and say,
"It's beautiful."
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 12:04 AM UTC
My dreams
do not come attached to
the ideals of my people
or the sacrifices of another country.
Instead I am poor
and mine are clinging to life
the very idea of existence.
Mundane flashes--
not adventurous endeavors
nor flights around the world
this is what richly folks do.
Simply a mingler
someone whose life
flourishes around the bends
of florescent street lights
and panhandling
nearby a farmers market
just after sunrise.
This remnant is few
as these are neighbors
local countrymen
who stoically face
the world's deviation
and deprivation
from coexisting
by the bonds of
agriculture and personality
even as a beggar
it is but a joyous memento
to a world that
no longer thrives.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC
Each turn of my life
is a play for thrills
remnant of the games
we'd throw our dice:
a couple of chance,
hoping for the jackpot
but settling for change,
living for the spin,
'till it's our role again;
a crap shoot fallen,
two die alone.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
Me,
I feel like ice cream.
I melt at your touch,
loving your great taste.
I drip,
you move too close to me.
You moved close to me a while ago.
You fed my head with strawberries and laid my head beneath the trees.
You saved me from the rippling breeze.
My body you kept so warm.
You were charming.
I was calmed,
after many storms.
The breeze turned into a raging gale,
as on a branch my heart impaled.
You said you loved me.
As we stroked the sapphire dragonfly,
passion before our eyes.
I melted,
a pool of slush.
My heart a remnant,
in a pool of soggy sticky slush.
As a fool,
now I drown.
I drown in the tears of the poetic clown.
(C) Livvi
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
In Stardust,
Is where can hopes be born,
But also, where a star has died, violently, explosively, shining out light so brilliant it would roar if it hit the atmosphere, illuminate it,
It is hot, alike the purgatory with a sweet look to gaze at if you observe the planetary nebulae by a far, far distance of course,
The dreams of the nova remnant, spread across space, left is but a small piece of dense matter, pulsating light cast by it's fast spin,
It is but a pulsar, or rather this old lady could be called one of the many lighthouses of our beloved widely beautiful universe,
Shining brilliantly even after death, isn't that what we all desire ?
If sadness clouds your judgement and you have nowhere to run,
And if you feel lonely in a starlit sky, worrying about the past long gone, losing yourself to your recurring, cruel thoughts,
Just remember, that you too, once were part of a bright, shining star which once too used to brighten up the dark, cold night for one else.
~ Umi
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 6:08 PM UTC
Being wounded deep,
it may leave a blemish
that serves as a reminder
for the times of vulnerability.
*Have you ever wondered why
there’s hardly any remnant left
to remind you of happiness?*
Scars may have been a proof of sadness.
For some, it’s a prompt of pain.
Remember this:
**Your happiness does not need any scarring
but it will always be embedded in your memory.**
Your happiness is intangible
yet it brings a sensation
that can be felt through the heart.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 12:58 PM UTC
This is what animates me
The force to set the motion of my soul
Gears that grind, thoughts that whir, the sustenance of something holy.
I do not think I sprang from Adam’s Rib
I think I must have been struck into the ground like a stone
A thread of lightning from the leaden sky,
And the mechanics that rose after
Demanded fuel, demanded heat
And thus was born in the cooling core of me
This mad desire, this stumbling, ceaseless search
For words to light a fire in my head
For eyes to light a fire in my bones
For some weapon of beauty
Some flaming sword
A tool- nothing more-
To sift among the dust and grit of time
To stoke the embers and evoke a spark
Prodding, prospecting
As for gold
Searching for a remnant which still burns
Softly, feeble, buried but unquenched
I chase the fire
For it must always be:
It cannot die
But cannot be held
It is escaped and never captured,
Only felt and lost, an infinite second-
A running step to overtake itself.
Jan 30, 2018
Jan 30, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******
7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.
An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.
And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.
Disconnected
ear-budded
footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.
Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
rabbit-eared
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Disordered.
Disrespected.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.
Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
you are a celestial body
a natural phenomenon
a beauty hidden so far away
but look closer; you tell a fascinating story in your own way
you are a galaxy
a gravitational system of stars
you emanate light and wake me up from fallacy
you remind me that somethings are bizarre
but thats just how things are meant to be
you emenate light stronger than darkness
because you choose to see the good regardless
just like how we choose to watch a movie so cliché even when we know its going to end in a certain way. just like how we try to stay even when things are not at bay. just like how we try to see the good in every day without worrying about dismay.
you are a galaxy
you have undergone stellar evolution
changes happened and it will always be the reality
you are a galaxy
you are made of stellar fragments
a massive remnant of what was once there to see
you changed over the course of time but what was once there will last for a lifetime. you will always evolve, you get better every time.
you are a galaxy
you have black holes; dark energy
but no let me tell you, you are anything but empty
you are a matter packed in that body
your gravity is so strong i cannot flee
you are so much more than darkness
you are my galaxy.
—g. l
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 3:30 PM UTC
Here’s what a divorce does:
Divorce
Takes a remnant of a family from the house they moved into 10 years before
when their family numbered 6
then added a 7th
Divorce
Takes them from the house where a new daughter came home
a new Marine came home
the first daughter-in-law came home
the first grandchild came home
the newest daughter to be came home
where we battled illness and survived
where we laughed till we cried.
Divorce
Takes them from the house where friends have gathered to celebrate
birthdays
bonfires
a prom
a dinner dance
a wedding.
Divorce
takes one away
puts two in limbo
makes three leave
four-legged family members
who can’t live
where they are going.
Divorce
shatters family
abandons dreams
mutilates memories
condemns the future.
Divorce
only helps the one who wanted it.
4/13/2012
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
Prologue
casual glance at my notifications while driving even though
I’m all ready a bad bad boy, cruising at a sedate,
cruise-controlled 70 mph vs. the bureaucrat bifocals 55,
a remnant regulation of the Eighties,
all the while humming with Gilligan
“a 3 hour tour,
2 passengers set sail that day”
then execute a four lane 180,
gotta get highway sideway grassed ,
cause i’m gassed...
by a Poem Breach
of the poems promised by me,
to write of thee,
you, my best inspiration,
the list grows longer, faster
than the hours provided
pull over fast emergency for my composure breached,
my vision wetted, my eyes hit by an unplanned unexpected,
sudden summer thunderstorm
<•>
The Poem Breach
***once more into the breach thy words breeze through my chest,
like on a flamed stick, night roasting, toasting beach summer marshmallows,
that cut direct to the ineffable sadness that resides resists within,
that sticky, white mess,
a human heart melting
a thank you message that I’ve read before,
many times more than once,
how my unasked poem, a sun unique,
arrived at the
precise time and place,
to lift and even save,
how could I’ve know?
I did not know
but these messages collect on my chest,
unsought words of purple ribbon metal that make a
less burdened cowardly lion,
grown man cry,
do crazy things for it is a possible solution to his
age old quest
Why do I exist, is this my purposed plan, don’t understand, all
but the answer peaked and peaceful accepted in the breach unreasoned,
my port of entry, a gateway to the scales, a bridge it is, over a time-life river styx and unstuck, yet certainly always confused...***
“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.”
thank you so insufficient
Jul 21, 2018
Jul 21, 2018 at 11:56 AM UTC
Although its tough to admit sometimes,
We're all so heavy,
Filled with remnant memories and sentiment.
Weighed down with emotions and oceans,
Like a lighthouse anchored to its land.
Like a mother to her son.
We're all just scarred animals,
scarred and scared to go into the night alone.
I've been heavy for a for a year or two,
I've been trying to blaze a flare,
be that morning window light for you.
I guess I stopped trying to be anything,
I accepted myself in all my simple complexity.
We all want to be perfect,
but none of us know what the hell we're doing.
And what's wrong with that?
It's all we can do.
Try, experiment, guess and live.
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
ECG
They showed the broken rhythm of my heart
With inky ripples traced in peaks and troughs
The night when sudden life was torn apart
Left echoes like a dry persistant cough
This paper trail more signature of self
Than any scribbled scrawl of given names
More indication of my vital health
Than any poet’s talk of light or flames
My quick survival charted there as fact.
“And here, you see a murmured aftershock”
The remnant spider scribe of heart attack
My ailing pulse, my brittle ticking tock
Once took a moment’s beat to catch its breath
And left me reeling at the edge of death.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 3:07 AM UTC
I am a piece of glass.
a glass that has been shattered time and time again,
losing a piece of me with every new bash/
a remnant of what I once was.
If you try to put me back together, the world will never look the same,
for
I
am
shattered.
If you try to put me back together,
you need to remember that I am a broken piece of glass,
you will hurt yourself if you hold me in your hand,
and then I will hurt you more.
Don't hold too tight,
but don't let go.
Looking at the world through me may be hard.
I have fallen so many times that I am mere piece of myself now.
Me as your lens of the world would be small and stained.
But then again, I can show you the world.
If you try to find yourself in me,
you need remember
that I am not a mirror,
but a hollow thing where you can never be reflected.
It's a lonely existence.
I am a barrier yet I am a transporter.
You will never know
I am transparent.
If you want to find inside, you can see right through me.
But do not be deceived, for I am empty.
But with all this,
I am a piece of glass.
I am fragile;
I can be broken,
so please handle with care.
Aug 5, 2022
Aug 5, 2022 at 9:42 PM UTC
Winter snow, crispy leaves in fall
It's you it's him but none are my business
Love , hate and remorse
Weeks, months and years
Irretrievable moments we own
The syllables in my throat
The words dangling by my lips
Wind of fall, twirling leaves
The thoughts dancing as we stroll down the road
Spring blossom, lingering cold and chunky coat
Remnant snow, rosy glow and kids on the Mall
You are my most ridiculous romance
Love, hate and remorse .
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC