"renovations" poems
We have souls that are plunging off this planet,
in hopes they will be swallowed by the cosmos-
fearing the hurt is never ending,
leads to renovations of existence.
To silence the beating
of a heart,
to end a life.
Morality is stuck behind
the gates of purgatory
& society is too scared of
what will happen
if we use our mouths for
meaningful conversation.
Indeed.
A tourniquet can stop the bleeding,
but can’t do justice for spread of infection,
or the scar serving as a reminder.
People are dying from depression-
faulty chemistry in the brain.
As well as suicide.
It is the crying of phantoms,
never to be heard-
wanting change,
a re-birth,
of the contorted humanity
we proudly call ”life”
Ache that’s carried lifelong,
but never resolved.
Truthfully,
those vague questions
don’t save lives.
Death knows this,
of course.
He is an omniscient force
lingering in the scenery.
Possessing the inability
to tolerate the teasing
and the wagers.
Coming to collect early
because, we’ve begun
to shatter
every fragment
of light
life reflected.
Now,
Darkness makes him feel welcome
and entitled.
KRM
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:41 AM UTC
I knocked on society’s door,
Hollow footsteps through the crevice of civility,
A ***** welcome mat with a broken doorbell;
No visitors wanted who were not invited,
And understanding was buried under the porch.
In Law’s front yard,
picketed with ire and arrayed with disorder,
Olive branches strewn across dry grass,
lay an empty briefcase marked in leather.
Gavel and irony betrayed her whimsically.
Garden beds in front of Understanding;
Plundered of roses and wanton petals.
Bland stems wilted amongst the weeds.
Relinquished of entitlement; water led
Towards apathy and entropy instead.
A house of Perhaps: vacant,
Open front door to empty rooms.
Leased to opportunity but vacated in days,
Renovations procrastinated; mocked by
The neighbor of dismay and wry.
Ignorance paved a new driveway,
The unanimous watch of Lively Cul-de-sac;
Gated community with hopes of manicured
Lawns and pools. Procreated in the minds
Of not wild men, but surveyors.
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
The writer is
bound by the Oedipus
cauldron stewing can't relax
--all women are mine--
but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.
But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
--no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.
Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
--our fathers,
and the void of space,
--our mother's womb.
the writer
was busy staring at the girls that walked by
ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
or they would be.
Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
they walked upon. Our Woodstock
is celebrity interviews,
reservations failing,
political satires--the last ring of change
sold at five cents a word. Period.
the writer
says it understands and writes:
"Sticks shaped from elitism
rare.
Usually a vibe too brittle,
breaking in battle.
The bass thundered robins.
The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
electrifying beat.
The brass was addiction
to the crowd's ears.
All before the elitism was born,
a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."
the writer
knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
"Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
waving his gun on TV?
While listening to the Beatles, you
sit and watch the vagabond cry.
He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
in a metal casket.
We need a new flame. Those watching TV
get your hands out of the basket."
the writer
walks with grandma Alice
by lakes,
thrilling dementia
"Don't tell me what taurine
and caffeine can do to my heart.
I can have alligators in my rib meat
eating away at bone marrow.
High? That's your question?
Hi...I am a float
in a useless pond
bordered by malnourished trees.
By the love of hell you better not
fertilize those ****** trees
because if I die
the alligator of my ribs
will dine and take your ****
girlfriend straight to the vet.
I thank you for asking though."
the writer misses
the syrup in the tree completely
I am not your beatnik
or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
And though I may not mention it,
I need you to remain and sit in place within my life.
I'm home, I don't mind a few renovations but you can't move out.
Change the furniture, change the setting, change the colours of this love, but don't pack up.
Don't relocate, because I can't leave with you, hence I live with you.
Continue to settle, continue to speak your plans to my walls, we'll breathe life into them.
And may the building of this love never feel the clocks run forward.
by Dvniel Jones
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:34 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
Strong is the foundation,
but renovations needed
Signs of wear from past involvements
Darkness settles, absence of power
Then an unexpected luminescence
Out of the fog and into the light
Broken, healing, mending
Like an emotional carpenter,
She begins to repair his wounds
New relationship is formed
But scars from the past causes doubt and fear
Stubbornness, insecurity, irrational immaturity
Relationship agreement null and void
Heart dipped in liquid carbon
Shattered across the slab
Alone again, button of
Self destruct almost activated
But a change is brewing
God is present, never alone
Lessons learned, heart at ease
Sharp is the mind, priorities clear
Calm and peaceful, open heart
Confident, self worth known
Fixer upper upped and fixed?
Only time will tell
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:13 PM UTC
I got tired of being broken,
so I fixed myself
and added a patio.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 6:00 PM UTC
i only find my solace in half rhymes and soft narcotics
and twice-sung dueled harmonics
keep my tongue between my teeth
and keep my dagger in its sheath
and i guess i should have known
not to let my dark be shown
cause he only wants the light
well i suppose it's only right
nothing grows in darkness
nothing grows in darkness
i can only keep myself contained
in tired metaphors and shame
i just wanted him to know
i could love even his shadow
show my hand and call my bluff
let the edges keep their rough
tell me every single story
spitting off each promontory
nothing grows in darkness
nothing grows in darkness
i'm told that every great disaster
is building up my character
i'm told that every great destruction
paves the way for new construction
but i was never one for artifice
i'm a bare ***** tree as stark as this
i thought you were my home but you were termites
leave me alone and go search for your spotlights
nothing grows in darkness
nothing grows in darkness
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
He might be going to another school
**** him, **** the school with an actual application,
He's smarter than me, for sure.
But can't we be together forever?
If I'm going to a good university on a scholarship,
Instead of a ****** cheap college, I'm going to need good grades
Where the **** am I going to get those?
My parents can't afford school funds
They spend ten grand on renovations
But now they don't have anything for our educations
Wow, thanks Mom.
I rubbed globs of Vix into the bridge of my nose this morning
It burns a bit, makes my eyes water
But it feels good
Am I suicidal because of that?
I don't think so, I don't ever want to die
I don't like pain, either, which rules out a lot of suicide methods
Unless you think Vix is super painful. I don't.
But I'm fat, stupid and ******
And if I got a %50 on a math test
The girls in my class talk about it behind my back
And laugh, even wondering
"How did she even get into eighth grade?"
My best friend told me about that, which I'm grateful for,
But I forgot to ask if she'd stood up for me.
I bet she didn't, she probably laughed with them
Because she's got a nice, cozy spot in the Populars.
Who wants to risk that?
I want to find my portable CD player
It's been missing for months,
but I'll just borrow my sisters and go for a walk.
I'll need to put on a shirt first.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
Slumped in the backseat
Feel the light shine and pass across closed eyelids
Electricity sizzlez and pops against brain tissue
I want to end so I can be everything
Help reaches out in the form of tiny eyes and a few off-handed comments
Lets go play outside with masks on
Be careful, after years of work these walls are still fragile
Poision seeps, I left a stain on your bed
We brought reminders of home
Coffee smudged against the tile floor
Renovations needed made
Asleep against the wheel going seventy
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 7:16 PM UTC
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent.
I like that.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 6:54 AM UTC
You have always given me enough space
For my laughter to stretch it's healing bones
I don't have much in the corners where I reside
Besides enough room in this soul of mine
For the both of us to sit and recline
I don't have much space in this beating heart
It's still under repairs and renovations
But I will find a way to stretch it thin
To let it's shadow cast over you
And shield you from the glaring sun
From whatever remains..
Jun 10, 2022
Jun 10, 2022 at 6:31 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Don’t know what to say
Other than fairwell
Death has finally claimed
Another venerable hotel
Where everyone from
Sid Vicious to Dee Dee Ramone
At one time or another stayed
And called it their home
Requiem for the Chelsea
May she rest in peace
Now that all activity inside her
Has finally ceased
Closed for renovations
See we’ve heard that before
The death knell has been tolled
She ain’t coming back no more
Nevermore to open
In its present incarnation
Cos now the Chelsea’s history
Despite the acclamations
What the future holds
Is anybody’s guess
But if I’m forced to take one
I’d say condos at best
The Chelsea was a grand hotel
Back there in the day
Name me one musician
Who didn’t book a stay
The Chelsea was iconic
What else can I say
Except that it’s ironic
That it went down that way
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
The heavens called the ocean to the sky and released bolts of liquid lightning
With the recently renovated target on my heart, it's no surprise one found its way, colliding with my body in a splash of salinity and electric sparks
The collision ignited my every cell, sending everything into overtime
My heart fluttered rapidly, my blinks keeping tempo
Time pasted in a turn of the head, blurring the scenery into a waterlogged painting
The day the heavens called the ocean to the sky, it released liquid toxins.
With the recent renovations, it's no surprise one found its way to the target on my heart with your name scribbled in salty letters across the bullseye
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 11:27 PM UTC
still was the night
as i sat up in your bed
i tried to be different
i spoke less, i wore less,
my voice became like the fog;
broken and unclear,
i tried to be easier
women aren't loved
if they are difficult
i tore down my walls
so you could climb inside
and rattle me to my very core
you tried to make my body home
you broke my ribs
beating
beaten
renovations to this house of cards
empty hallways with no paintings
a stairwell leading nowhere
my mind is gone
it must have disappeared into clouds
emptiness was the fire that followed me
surrounding me when these nights got cold
you smelled like her
warmed by her love
i burned myself staying quiet
burning
smoking
black walls, soot covered
you do not live somewhere
you're not welcome
why do i welcome you
why do you call me home?
i am difficult, uneasy to love,
different, absent, broken down
a pillar holding this home steady
through the dark and broken hallways
i lurked like your lust for her
the easier, faster lover of you
i shouldn't talk so much
but i do;
the fog makes you unable to see
and my fire has burned through your desires
thickened my skin, beaten your castle down
a creaky structure still stands
easy to fall down
hard to redeem
still there
still
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
Elected: naturally sweat swamped vanity trapped cat paw flip flop.
But oil lamps burn for a different view
Vague outlines of where you once were
It's been years now and we've both moved on
You've grown up
I draw a picture of myself as a stick figure with a fat belly
scenes like an adolescent martyred for love.
My emptiness is touched when I think about your reality.
I hold enough space to carry multiple lifetimes of love and heartache.
Emptiness that was once filled could never be filled again
new doors open but renovations are not allowed.
Emptiness is still full of nothing; the sick cling to details and perceived meaning.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 5:54 PM UTC
Yeah , traveling i think is one of the most soul opening , mind fathoming blacksmiths workshop to turn that ore into filigree framework still.
I learnt the art of traveling whilst sitting still this year,
i would say since around june last year - winter forced me into hibernation and several 4 hour meditations forgetting times limitations - but i left to travel in may and since then well , let's just say we've had considerable renovations..
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
the boarded up windows of the hospital
they were making renovations
et moi, et moi, et moi
wanting to see the sky
the night before
a police officer with kind eyes
asking if everything was alright
in the back of an ambulance
having just swallowed the charcoal
et moi, et moi, et moi
nodding a yes
wanting to see the sky
it would be a year till I saw it
sitting in the passenger seat of your car,
Jacques Dutronc playing
et moi, et moi, et moi
wildly singing
only by chance
when the song changed
looking up to see
a yellow sun setting
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 4:20 AM UTC
Misguided with glazed eyes,
they gleam in an effort to encourage impulsiveness.
I no longer have a desire to be the windows inside of you.
Admiring a lavender sky,
sunsets continue to die,
plagued by the thought of
night creeping in again.
I am vulnerable to the pale moonlight.
You once told me, 'There's a cracked home that you carry inside of you.'
No longer am I the thoughts filling your head,
that I'm the cure to your sickness.
Isolated myself in heavy sheets of sadness,
suffocating-
in an uninvited guest room,
just some extra space.
A breeze persistently tugging,
the tattered curtains.
Someday, you'll understand-
I was never your home.
Never becoming a garden,
never a lonesome white gate.
Paint chips from my decaying bones,
from years of damage.
Been here before
a ghost to these creaking stairs.
Fixing everyone else's homes,
a loose floorboard bares secrets,
but I continue to keep things just to have something to hold.
Stairs cave,
with each step I take.
I end
as it begins;
your body becomes an earthquake,
the house crumbles,
words evolve into raspy whispers
Damage has been done,
marks are on the wall,
as demons claw.
They're ripping through your veins
as I feel the foundation in my fingertips.
The walls won't be here tomorrow,
no longer holding everyone's hands,
or breathe through these polluted lungs.
I've begun to feel a need to repent
and with every move I make,
my happiness is spent.
Jul 31, 2017
Jul 31, 2017 at 5:11 PM UTC
Maybe I like house renovations so much because the thought of someone taking disasters and making them beautiful gives me hope that someday someone will do the same for me.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 2:48 AM UTC
For the low low price of just being within' earshot,
the conversation analyst will run a full diagnostic on your conversation.
You know how that perfect comeback
feels, three weeks after
You didn't say it?
In training, representatives for Inbound sales listen to recordings of their own phone calls and critique them like Art majors in a studio class.
Our conversation analyst.
Looks at you like a shoe on the wall.
Unlike the psychology major, the conversation analyst will never share his results.
He'll just judge you.
Silently.
He doesn't speak.
His fourth grade english teacher taught him that the carpenters house is never finished.
She was referring to her husband, the carpenter, not finishing the renovations on their new home, but the conversation analyst heard it as a metaphor, and adopted it as a universal truth.
Much like a painting controls the path your eye travels the canvas, or the scientific process that goes into composing music,
the way you build rapport is one of those things that people don't realize can be an art form until they wittness it professionally.
Our conversation analyst considers himself Socio-passionate.
Which amuses him, when he deducts points from your conversation for not empathizing correctly.
Or not giving effective compliments by asking a relevant question afterwards.
The conversation analyst is not always mute. On special occasions such as first impressions he is a fine conversationalist.
You can meet the conversation analyst for the first time, as many times as you want.
If the carpenters house is never finished.
The conversation analyst
exemplar at listening,
Will never hear you.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 6:26 PM UTC
A restaurant's closing at the corner of Front Street and Central
. . . I've never been,
but I've glimpsed through the windows decor that was sure ornamental.
(Word on the street's that the eats were alright - the plates were too large - but the waitstaff were nice! Patrons, served tiny portions, were alarmed at the price - 'til they drank the last drop of red wine)
The place had a name before this iteration
They called it The Tempest before renovations.
I had been there
- I'd been pleased by the service,
been famished, then satisfied,
and surprised by dessert -
I'd been all kinds of things.
I had been cheesecake and you were crême brulé
and for a moment we shared a plate.
It might have been just the right size,
but I can't quite remember.
Were the waitstaff pleasant? - I desperately hope that I was...
The company was one of a kind.
For whatever reason, The Tempest closed,
and the place that has replaced it has closed,
& who knows what will be on the corner of Front Street and Central next?
all I know is that
all kinds of things
stop being
a piece of cake
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 12:11 PM UTC
the domicile of three generations
not all those labeled grand reside within the walls
the walls so effortlessly visualized within the mind
and within the inner palpation of the body
but a part will forever remain stained
even in new-found renovations
you can be away for a day
or maybe many weeks
but just a new paper on the walls
as you flashback to once dragging fingertips down the lining
of the hallway in which the dimensions are imprinted
a void is created in absence of the tactile sensations
so here I stand on this porch
the edge of my personal universe
an extension of myself built in brick, wood and my own bones
at first woe overtakes and what can be a form of fear
the future disappearance of a home held so dear
comfort resides in my own realizations
when the memories last in my mind
i know to say
home is here
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:13 PM UTC