"renames" poems
yes, i have other things to hold me together.
like poems that are dripping with you, and a small, shy cat who was once a stray like myself.
along with a ghostly stoner boy, who renames the colors of the rainbow and who speaks nonsense phrases, even when he's sober.
and a candle-flame girl who is covered in scars and who hides her pain in too-big hoodies, who hugs too tight and bleeds too easily and who doesn't know what a mistake falling for me will turn out to be, who draws me pictures and writes me love notes and cries into the night because she can tell that i ache for you still.
yes, you smartmouthed fool, i have other things to hold me together. but none of them are you.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC
*New colors embrace the memory of life’s soil
while looking at promises
that rush through our veins.
A tune is heard from our hearts'
circling places in time
where our eyes become the surface
of our souls,
greeting what we see floating
on the winds
of change.
Clearly visible as separate bodies
held on a spun web
of gypsy invitation,
why then do we only remember
the perfect peace
of how our minds meet.
You touch each breath I draw in
as if hunting down my despair
until it becomes as smoke
with leaving feet.
Before the stars were chiseled into an age
that held us captive,
sleep was where the light of the moon
played innocently.
Father Fate swirls, renames himself
with each breath I take,
keeping time for the promises
of true love
that still sing out
to you and me.*
Nov 6, 2011
Nov 6, 2011 at 9:54 PM UTC
let hands speak what mouths
cannot prattle
let eyes dream what sleep
renames with its tranquility
let love undo what
hate has wreaked and
let fingers saunter infinite
strides when feet sojourn
let this quiet bellow
a hundredfold of sound
and let soul dance when
we have departed,
enisled here underneath the
brow of a terminal day,
its numeral tasks unfold
in the night full of silences
and let the world feel the cold
of brookwater when we cannot swim—
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Water, it spreads so thin
That the fish have nowhere to swim
Sunshine, it tries
To disguise
Renames it, calls it a cloud
Let the fish flop
From side to side
The current time
It brings the tide
Here it comes, spreading death
Flowing by happiness
This dam is damaged
This dam is breaking
A crack is forming
And it is splitting two sides; their bond will be removed
As the current pushes through
Intently pointed dancer’s feet
Navigate a path
Hips paint a melody
Two eyes they meet
Two eyes alike
Four eyes, they hide
Currents behind
This dam is damaged
This dam is breaking
A crack is forming
And it is splitting two sides; their bond will be removed
As the current pushes through
Push
Push on me
Push on you
Push on me
Push on through
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 12:58 AM UTC
[Brecht: ice | water | steam]
I. To Thaw
an uncompromising war against emotion
and its content is of total
concession
closer to the body in fervid heat
you are a patron of this commerce
after you a water-lasting event:
your fluidity that deflects an accepted mass as if sacrificial
on a venue or a passage fitting the body
II. To Consume
and when you cut through with infinite fatigue
you are proximal to an agape jar housed
the question how vast and accurate the detainment and the quench thereafter
how when a flood renames
a corner and turns number to record of wreckage
making a memory innumerable
III. To Dissipate
is initiative when anterior and disparate
cannot be held and accounted for in
an erroneous register whelms in hems right shut
passing through an interstice your affinity to console
and when in a flash of a scene
unfound
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 3:03 AM UTC
listing, lilting reveries
for ghosts of the chrysanthemums,
you listen, tucked between my knees,
for crying out as autumn comes,
then breathe the bottled air
while lying silent in the pasture
as the sun that rises slow,
renounced as Master,
dries the aster.
steady, subtle change renames
the song we'd often sung
which, ravaged, new and agèd,
saps the honey from my lungs.
to lie in leaves and rapture
turns my bones Parisian plaster:
crack my ribs and what is there
is yours to capture.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 10:04 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Bubba is waiting
He’s anticipating
And salivating
Soon he’ll be mating
A blond with blue eyes
Who’s in for a surprise
When he stops to realize
He’s not one of the guys
And once he gets there
Just to be fair
I hope he’s aware
Bubba might share
And no one will care
Wherever he beds
His friends the Skinheads
Will be giving him meds
Betting tails or heads
They’ll have quite a hoot
In and out his **** shoot
With no ****** to boot
And his tears will be moot
Once Bubba tames him
And renames him
Then properly claims him
No one’s gonna blame him
For being a trick
Forced to wear lipstick
And **** *****
The small and the thicks
And he better not bite
Or try to fight
He’ll be quite a sight
They’ll do him up right
Copyright © 2015, Cedric McClester. All rights reserved.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
There are a hundred ways
To say I wish I could go back,
Or I soaked up growing up like a worried sponge
Or I can still smell the dirt on my jeans
Or I don’t even like baseball, but I love the sound of the metal bat against the ball
Or watermelon slices on summer days taste like presents
Or there was iced tea brewing in the kitchen
Or I thought the lions looked happy in their cages
Or the cherry water ice painted my skin red
Or I had an imaginary friend who taught me loneliness
Or we had water gun fights in the front yard
Or we’d ride our bikes til dusk
Or I thought the older boys in the cul-de-sac were cute
Or I thought the older girls double-dutching were cool
Or the hot plastic of a slide against the back of my legs
Or the timid eyeing of the next rock along the creek to jump to
Or the boom of a grandfather clock chiming
Or I could spend eternity swinging by a rope my poppop tied to a tree
Or my grandmother is a magician
Or I used to believe in magic
Or I still do
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 5:19 PM UTC