"remodeled" poems
in complete melodies
the frequencies i hear
can not be contained by anything
love is drifting through the hills
and you are home to its trills
she dreams of light, the fire bright
and full of crystal skulls and eyeballs
dozens of monuments are built
just to mark the moments
when we could have said i'm sorry
merge with the mountains
find the source of fountains
shine the diamond compass
if that's what you are really here for
broken dams are our business
feed the swans their luminescent lunch-boxes
duck for cover, its a wonder that we are all together here
that's clearly redundant
the tendency to dream
is the most important human faculty
its a tragedy that the lack of nuclear power
showers the atomic world in rainbows
as forlorn teenagers in the ice-age of America
govern our equipment from their parent's basements
and carouse with comfort upon chairs, cushions and couches
a million times the victory
a million miles of rope to weave
a million are the paths to god
and a million more are the souls
who've learned to cope with tragedy
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
i am furniture remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your television set
i am electromagnetic static
within the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she wrote
i am a silent p
i am a violet apogee
i am a cosmic minority
i am a message in your tea leaves
but if you stand too long in my shoes
you’ll likely drown in solitude
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 2:34 PM UTC
OLD HOUSE
They retain precious memories,
intimate feelings of inhabitants
passing through its sagging doors.
Romantic are seekers of forgotten times
memories encased in hard wood floors;
as lath plastered walls ooze remnants of a
history while we; when inclined listen.
We don't go very often, to abandon houses,
perhaps on a dare, or at Halloween.
Are we passed enjoying extremes into this
another world, musty energy a curious child.
That was the yesterday
which now waits behind
musty, dusty, derelict halls.
I stand I stand at paint chipped banister,
a faded worn carpet once carried dancing feet,
children playing before they sleep. The
broken coat tree on the floor.
From the third floor murmuring,
a wind storm jars
loose fears, of time
once lost to dreams.
Echos billow from
each room, curtains hanging
yellowed by a sun where
dancing light through holes in damask lace.
Mice gremlin's artful droppings,
tracks of nature on dirt strewn floor.
Broken shards from window
panes, confetti after New Years day.
Branches scratched
etched paths, tracks like graffiti
on sill its unread words, a glif
eerily cast shadows trigger echos from the past.
Jagged memories protrude from every corner
mixing with new, enriching our fantasies
bringing us closer renewed;
these musty memories long forgotten.
Like waves rushing back;
flooding a mind like broken
dikes they crash into our world,
Rembrandt's paintings on canvas fading.
Silent footsteps outside a door,
we hear laughter from bedroom walls;
a smell a whiff of hot butter *** silent
conversation coming our way.
Old Doc Masters listened at my chest, as
I read all by candle light, Sherlock detective stories
or the Tell Tale Heart of Poe or
Othello; all masters in the past.
A Grandfather clock
stands silent, keeping time,
lost its tick yet still striking,
it stands tall, upon a clueless floor.
Knowledge lost to a past
in a house so worn,
births, deaths, wars, wrapped
forgotten, encased by neglect,
I visited a house besotted,
neglected waiting to be
remodeled into another century
moving it to present times.
Ajerry
Archival Jan 5, 2011
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:46 PM UTC
i come cherishing and bearing gifts
figures of speech are my playthings
like furniture i am remodeled daily
and intuitively placed around your home
the finer things in life are free
so see me there upon your TV screen
i am electromagnetic static
that illuminates your blankets
and i am the black and white of advertisements
i am figures of forgotten speech
so record the unwatched programs
in your mind’s virtual memory
the hard drive of work and play
creates hundreds of new retirees each day
hundreds of haunted expatriates
knuckle-headed people
that couldn't tread lightly
even if they wanted to
so will you please untie me
and remove these binds and chains
it's time to free the lover from the psyche
for that is all she ever wrote
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
A warm hand pressed up against cool glass
Making a hot handprint appear.
The maker of the print lifted their hand
To study the unique swirls and whirls they left.
There is no pattern to the lines that created the handprint.
No precise angle of arches,
Nor perfect precision of patterns.
The transparent window displayed the differences,
Unique to only one person.
Sculpted at birth and remodeled over the years.
Recoding every hardship experienced by the hands.
Each line, arch and swirl different from one another,
All part of a life.
Each hand telling a different story,
Each story created by a different hand.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements
Honeycomb
...the remnants
Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
________________
This-- chair
is his
I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....
I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--
Paradise is Lost....
_______________
This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared
Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...
Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine
quaking quiet in her corner
Aunt Nell,
as blind as ******** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale
Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
*“If people bring so much courage
to this world the world has to ****
them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every
one and afterward many are*
strong at the broken places."
A Farewell to Arms,
Ernest Hemingway
<>
struggling with so much,
then this scripture of writing sent
by some unfamiliar, a providential
provider; and I am realized, this man
is broken in ways you have no idea,
can~not comp~re~hend
understanding floods, healing
required, for I too have been killed,
my trust and beliefs, trashed,
too many fools who think that
moral equivalence is a thing,
that the unspeakable is justified,
hatred makes me so broke so low,
how,
justification is not justice,
nor an excuse to do whatever
cross the street, and believe,
that drivers will honor a red,
a stop sign, but plenty think
this don’t apply to me, not me
getting on the back of a line
is for fools, people who cannot answer
the arrogant question of the insistent
“Do You Know Who I am?”
I know who I am, yet the ponderance
of evidence says that is not enough,
I
am insufficient,
I am less
than human,
I am
undeserving,
because of my
ancestry
And I will spare you the precise definitions of these statements,
for it should be unnecessary, you should be nodding in agreement, clear eyed understanding, intuitive, in your own broken bones felt!
But,
my bones are broken, and the healing needs a source, a “see here”
directive, explain me how my insane madness is not a proper
responsa to the
weight of hate
my eyes see, seen,
and that my own
eyes
are not lying,
but believed.
but intuitively understood
that my broken bones can be
healed, each in their own way,
so I will retire, perhaps return
when, even if not fully recovered,
sufficient to care enough,
ready to be rebroken, again,
for this! this! is my
true poetic ancestry
thousands of years have not broken us,
and never will, for it is not fear that will
prevent our resurrection, for we immunized,
for what unimaginable have we not known, and yet recovered,
this,
I believe,
my healing will be quiet, solitary, removed
from the distractive noises of invective infecting,
but I will be present,
for my children, and my children’s children will
look to this ancestor and learn that his blood
and bones deeds them the self-healing properties
that always has and always will defeat those
who seek to destroy your future
1) the DNA of your ancestry
inherited inherent in your bone marrow
and bone tissue is continuously remodeled
through the concerted actions of bone marrow cells
2) Stem cells in your red bone marrow
(hematopoietic stem cells) create red and
white blood cells and platelets, all of which
are components of your whole blood.
so here is our truth:
when,
***The world breaks every
one and afterward many are
strong at the broken places!***
our whole blood will replenish us
Nov 17, 2023
Nov 17, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
The foretold episode is ripe
And the childless dawn is now flowering,
The awesome parrots of Africa
Have began swimming in the heavens
And singing the verses of the paraded bees,
For the warrior of South Africa
Has ultimately impregnated the Godsbaa
Without violating her divine virginity,
The black star arouse from Ghana,
Journeyed gorgeously through Zimbabwe
And has decisively descended on South Africa,
Bu this is just the divine seed
Yet to grow into a full black African moon,
For the black star of the black man
Is the religious light yet to radiate on
The colourless naivete of mankind,
Ah, the premise behind this
Exhibition makes a perfect sense,
We did begin it all,
Pilgrimage through it all
And shall end it all,
For the wreckage of
Humanity flies with time
And the megapower status
Of the African is a fact of life,
Today, a new voice has been
Added to the joy of the black women,
Causing the dry bamboo flutes to buzz
With the pantaloons of the ancestors,
Adorn our emerald embryonic pride with
The ambrosial smiles charms of the sunrise,
For he pelts of the peerless mid-night
Has been remodeled with our dark gore.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
I Jammed the pain inside, to wait for the defects to reside. Today strays and wanders away until it's stuffed down inside the void of discomfort. Let's roll our imagination onto light able paper, light it, and watch it burn..
See because that's what addiction does. It overrides your body latching on your inner artistry for its fuel. Pretty soon you become a machine, something mindless. Fasten your seatbelt because your on auto-pilot.
Now the transactions of your body really start to inaugurate. Your internals no longer has what it takes to fight, to resist, so now come the alterations.The tips of your fingers go hand in hand with the tip of your tongue. How your saliva's lust for substance dismantles the chemical compounds. Your taste buds loving that all too familiar feeling. Your greed full blood consuming every inch of it. As the destruction slowly trickles down your throat your anxious. Then the finale comes, the moment you've been waiting patiently for the manipulation and overhaul of your brain and your reality remodeled, your home.
In those seconds pain is never an option, never a thought. Your lost out at sea. But that's all it really is, seconds, minutes, sometimes hours, just a little more time to stick the dysphoria on the back burner. When in truth you've just deepened the scar and exposed it to infections. When it's gone your left with broken thoughts that feel unrepairable.
Addiction doesn't just come from pre-packaged materials, they come from every entity you wish that blocks the truth out. They come from unfulfillment , pain, and soak themselves until you are left with no control. You have to fight, fight for your life. Face the music
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
I remodeled my home,
By ridding it of old furniture made of
Dark and malice thoughts,
And redecorated with thoughts of joy and inspiration.
I decorated the empty ceilings
With a full moon and some shining stars,
I took down the drapery that once covered the windows, and watched From my living room as the new dawn embraced the sunshine.
In my garden, I built a house for the melodious birds to warble their Songs, and constructed a temple for prayer from my tears and sorrows.
I planted an olive tree in memory of innocent souls, and decorated it with Some tulips, roses, and jasmine flowers for the anthem of love!
Hussein Dekmak
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
We all want to change
Looking on our world so high
We know it's there to be remodeled
And we can.
Peace. Each. Understand.
Is the food to our feelings,
But tools are the torch
To show us the way.
Love, it's bright,
Truth, it's right,
We, don't fight,
But to some, their candle is the gunpowder flash.
Try to build a house and the land must be squashed,
Try to write a poem and ink must be spilled,
Try to say a cliché and eggs must be broken,
But try to build a better world with bullets then people will suffer.
I don't want your world
You, out there who cannot read this,
I don't want to be in a place
Where learning means knowing
That men could be outside the door
Ready to stop your new world
Ready to make mistakes,
Ready to not care.
I'll light a candle for you
Because I wish
It could have been your illumination
Rather than the shared,
Gunpowder flash
Of those mistaken.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
The beat of the old drums echoes in my ears,
Their sound has been remodeled, refashioned,
Into gun fires and explosions,
A cynical melody,
A symphony of unnerving sound,
The play their tune upon the lives of others,
These warriors play a part of the piece too,
Walking the reddened fields,
I am struck by the sight,
Each marred face and blood soaked body,
As I continue walking on,
Their eyes still intense with their efforts & passion,
To protect their homeland but not in vain,
My searching eyes wonder at how they accomplish such a task,
Of violent brutality and heart shattering pain,
Yet they still manage to have some strength,
Down to even the very last second,
As I walk these hallowed grounds once again,
I am reminded of their selfless act,
That allows me to be standing now,
Where I am.
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 5:48 AM UTC
That house holds memories
It reminds me of meeting you
Days spent fixing what was broken
Hands kept busy with so much to do
The messages you left for me
All the smiles I found that year
Your kindness taught many lessons
I learned that love was nothing to fear
The house still sits alone these days
But what happened in it will never die
I grew up the year we remodeled it
The year you gave me a reason to try.
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 12:09 PM UTC
There is no longer any excuse.
In fact, there hasn’t been for a
very long time.
We have seen bloodshed
on soil around the world.
Over one million lives,
in the name of
freedom,
democracy,
capitalism,
& I can’t quite recall the others
at the moment.
We have connected
through time and space.
We heard and we watched
Bell & Lindbergh
Ford & Armstrong
Gates & Jobs
transform the very fabric of our realities,
uncovering expanding realms
of possibility.
We have healed and protected
our fragile bodies.
Decades ago,
Mr. Salk became part of evening
prayers.
We began having less babies,
and we marveled for 112 days
at the beating of the first
artificial heart.
Wondering or not
whether new bionic inclinations
had affected our humanity.
We have evolved
collective creeds
through unexpected revolutionaries
and in spite of dragging feet.
While AFL & CIO
became household names,
Ms. Anthony and Dr. King
made us cry
and shake
and question
our very foundations.
And yet,
after 165 years of change,
I say, with a heavy heart,
and millions of people,
and billions of dollars,
and a dream,
that the 1850’s schoolhouse
has been only
feebly & perfunctorily
remodeled.
From their graves,
Mr. Mann & Mr. Dewey ask,
“What will it take?”
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 3:01 PM UTC
A construed connection
The dampness of my soul
Glistening on his declared, steady skin
Repelling my dripping grasp
My slippery infection
Now, somehow
slithering to a ripe apifany
An intricate abnormality
That is me
A remodeled intellect, grasping for fresh ventilation
Panting in all the raw air
My quivering inhales, so pathetic
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 7:37 PM UTC
I opened the door to love
The front door of my heart
You came in and measured rooms
Remodeled in all it's parts
And before I could say I knew it
You had rearranged my life to suit
Then you began to moan and complain
That my heart was way to small
So you began to shop around
And found a complex next door to the mall
Forgetting all those vows of I'll do it
My life like a revolving door you went through it
You left leaving the front door open
But you shut off all my lights
Now I hear your searching again
Your talk of true love , I scoff
Maybe it's on a secluded island
One with a two story loft
so be it . . .
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
Have you seen ___?
She asks early in the morning when I'm tired and upset
have music blasting through my ear drums so I can stand to exist in this place
On our break, she re-appears, to deliver a package, some materials to help you
I am with you, still, we are work aquaintances, and I see you already have a lover here
A former baseball mom who has remodeled herself, at her new job
pretending husband and children don't exist as she seeks you out, hair done perfectly
dressed to accencuate the ******* and behind, sits so close, has promoted you in her department
to the position of soul mate
And when I flirted a little with you about going together to a fundraiser
you resisted, and now I know why, because you already have a date
and now I know why she tried to be assigned to our work group
when she is really in another because you are there, and you are her light
and my former married flame saw this,
and after the meeting, he ran, as if stung by a bee
to his new work flame, by her side
not alone, and I've finally forsaken him
and he may fire me, or not, but the ring on his finger still isn't there
for her to see, and she needs him, for her own career rehabilitation
Just watch, I am told. Just watch since you are really not my type and
that is what discerning women do, who don't get swept off their feet by
posssessive and abusive men...and I won't go there again even though
I was defenseless then...given my background and insecurities
but stronger now and men near us nibble juicy meat off ribs
and talk about them, as we sit together, ****** tension still a bit there
even though it's fairly casual "It's so tender and moist, so soft, tender, but a good chew"
and I can't help but smile thinking that these heterosexual men are describing what
they most love, and at then end there is only a hard bone left
which should be of interest to me, except that is not enough since
there is little feeling in me to receive its pleasures, and that is just a compromise of nature
And I tell you I adore you, which is a complete tongue in cheek exxageration
but to get through your thick skin it is a plea for you to stop teasing and judging me
and let us just be friends who are nice to each other
and wander away
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 1:40 PM UTC
My pen has no eraser
its end inks over my soft skin
etching errors over the places I've been
inscribing the essence of the sins I've sinned
My poems saved me
like tattoos that allow me to
explode poetry into the external
to be remade, remodeled
like a sprinkle of ink syllables
creative release in the form of an ink fit.
I'd leave it if I could, I'd want to and I would.
But simply I can't stand and that's the stance I’ll take.
And its how I get by day after day .
my poems save me.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 1:13 PM UTC
I couldn't see anyone
I couldn't touch anything. I tried to reach the bottom, but it just wasn't there. There wasn't a kelp forest, the Empire state building would have really only stood one and a half of what they said was going to be three or four times what it was. There weren't any smoke vents or even hot springs. It was like looking for Earth from space but looking the other way.
Saturday, December 27th we drove three blocks in your car, with a dummy in the backseat rocking ready-to-wear. You asked if we should put her back inside of your room, but after I taught you to fill your tires between 3.5-4 psi, $1.50 later we realized we didn't even want to begin to try.
Shocked
that I took the Blue Line and even
transferred to a bus.
All along I would have taken any L
if I thought it would have
brought us more love.
Two hours later the devil is riding me, and I'm carrying a sickle blade at my hip. A simple gift for a single father who unexpectedly remodeled where I live.
Deep black and blue. Descending into the bathykolpian abyss. Five small black plastic garbage bags filled with 8-year old kid.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
for all the things labeled
in the exterior mirages
of turpentine reeking layers
worn lavishly by red lipstick
and silver tailored suits,
light illuminating marble counter tops
dusted by the next-thousand-block immigrant
the mother of four beautiful children
she clashes with the detriment of money
which filters back to champagne of that red lipstick,
the silver tailored suit a million floors above
encased within their own skeleton
they peel their skin so not to feel a thing
stuffed in a daycare tabooed because of its door handle
touched by mothers working wage to meet end's meet
children skipping their shoes
on the stains of the concrete underneath their feet
and not realizing a thing
the mother bustles through
alone but surrounded by grease
seething into the cracks of her heels
while her children grows by the tick
into the template configured by society
the smear of red lipstick
the wrinkle in the silver tailored suit
the system of trickle down economy
have gone down the throats of so many lives
as a diluted joker waving a flag sewn with white
this age of decadence
chooses to blind its kin
reality has been remodeled
into a Hollywood basement
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC
Her laughter resonated
for only a moment
Then it lingered
releasing all tension
As if life in me detonated
in a glimpse of a moment
As it hindered
every little expression
Afraid to be too cheesy
All the poetry stayed inside
The touch of her cheeks so squeezy
The euphoria in me I couldn't hide
Couldn't make a single blink
Every ability of mine she defied
My weakness is this I think
When charm and bliss collide
As the laughter started to fade
The spark didn't last
The sun turned slowly to shade
and the void in me grew fast
Slave to a laughter to end my agony
Soaked in anxiety, deprived of rest
I'll defy myself despite my atony
Bring back that laughter, my ultimate quest
It was a hideous day when i saw her frown
Maiming my strength, twisting me around
Someone had just broken her heart
Remodeled her face, that piece of art
I got her flowers
of all sorts of colors
Tried a few pokes
Threw a few jokes
My neck bent down
But her frown never bent
But the next day she rose like a cedar tree
She became the hero I couldn't be
Flew her way up to happiness' peaks
I stood up as she lifted my soul
Reborn from those round cheeks
with soft lips and bright eyes at each pole
And I waited...
I waited not for too long
Till her laughter resonated
for only a moment
Then it lingered
releasing all tension
Then life in me detonated
in a glimpse of a moment
As it hindered
Every possible expression
~Epic Monkey
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 1:48 PM UTC
My pen has no eraser
its end inks over my soft skin
etching errors over the places I've been
inscribing the essence of the sins I've sinned
My poems saved me
like tattoos that allow me to
explode poetry into the external
to be remade, remodeled
like a sprinkle of ink syllables
creative release in the form of an ink fit.
I'd leave it if I could, I'd want to and I would.
But simply I can't stand and that's the stance I’ll take.
And its how I get by day after day .
my poems save me.
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 11:01 PM UTC
In the back of Mama's closet
before it was remodeled
were those pictures
from a hundred years ago
with smiling faces that I didn't know
that had some how been so important
before i was even thought of.
That weird wood thing
with those shapes I didn't understand
and the funny hair and costumes
and the timeless faces that never change.
But none of it was frozen
because each has a memory
and a story
to be told
and heard
and thought about
by a little girl.
A fairy tale set on the plains
of sweet sisters
and laughter
and silly things that I hoped I would see one day.
Oh I found many friends
many "sisters" you could say
who made me into a lady
the woman I barely recognize.
But I sat with bated breath for years
waiting for my time to come
for that real life fairy tale to begin.
So I could live out those pictures too.
I always knew I would wear letters
and bows
and a big bright smile
because of those pictures in the closet.
But I didn't know
that I would be dreaming
about telling my little girl
the very same tale I heard
once upon a time.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
she remembered
she had a dream
or was it a thought
it can be hard
to distinguish
the goings on
in the mind
everything can
seem so real
the bipolar pendulum
swings between
perfection and
destruction
her room is
always being
remodeled
trying to be
the first to discover
the myth named
balance
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 10:43 PM UTC
"MONSTER"
THEY screamed
Imposter
IT seems
Hypocrite
Imposed to the prose
Of Spirit
Perception remodeled
Former regime is toppled
Peaceful surrender of madness
To and fro
The weight of the world
"Let go"
He whispers gently
From black to red to white
Give up the fight
Victorious me
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
My isolated life is
Full of formulated strife
I'm trying to reach a limit
But my mind is paralyzed
I'm drowning in an ocean
And I don't know how dive
Waves of sadness pushing me away
Into nothingness and emptiness
Never been held in anyone's arms
Never been loved so it's hard to move on
Falling asleep everyday
And waking up to see the world die
That's not why I switch on the tele
The only reason I still live
Is because I got lucky
So in a parallel universe
I'm the one behind the story
I'm feeling like a prisoner
With four walls, one ceiling and one floor
Remodeled as a dice.
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 3:08 AM UTC