"reopened" poems
New hug of life
New hug of life…
I feel alive…
And my love for me…
Is growing again…
Something happening again…
A precious life coming again…
My wings are spread out again…
New hug of life…
I feel alive…..
I feel like heart is popping out…
feeling like a crazy shout…
My heart is out of fear…
On a path of new dreams
My destination appears…
New hug of life… …
for a sky dive.. .
feeling like a wave alive…
dancing in the sky…
This is my pry…..
I greet my self..
I meet my self…
Cause in my struggle….
I am thrive….
Life is growing on my side…
New hug of life…
I feel alive…
Courage lies within my heart…
My words are enough to spark…
My eyes were searching
.. for the new life…
A precious life.. without strife…
Life embrace me and give me…
New hug of life…
I feel alive…
New life door reopened. …
Too many dreams were broken..
Now its trying to change life again…
Yet how much less it were to gain
My love for me is growing again..
A precious life coming again..
New hug of life..
I feel alive…
And my love for me is growing again..
New hug of life…..
New hug of life….
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 11:08 PM UTC
I don't know much of anything about life or love or the grand "meaning of it all," but this I know: I hate the constraints society places upon us, ropes gathered up to knot relationships, tie them up and place them all in nice neat little packages with a cute presentable bow on top. We're supposedly in the "honeymoon phase" right now and we joke about how we'll know when it's done, when the real stuff has begun. But sir, the way I've spread my scars open, reopened all those old wounds for you to discover, evaluate, and assess, I refuse to believe none of this is the "real" stuff. Sure, maybe one day we'll have an actual, honest-to-goodness argument where our mouths become cannons for the shots we volley back and forth. But I can't believe, stubbornly refuse to even consider there will be a day I'll look into those emerald eyes of yours and not fall utterly in love all over again. I can't imagine a morning of waking up and not being grateful to have you next to me. Maybe love isn't constant perfection, and there's no way that every single day will be a dreamland fantasy, but maybe, just maybe when you've found a forever kind of love there isn't a "honeymoon period" at all. Maybe it just is, and that's enough.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
_...All I remember was
Cancer and my hospital room,
My green gown, my bed,
My white hair and mustache
Until suddenly...
...Reality started to stretch…
…And flatten into a brief euphoric white…
…I felt a cathartic release
As I was encapsulated and bathed
In a glorious sensation…
...I floated for an eternity…
…Until I felt my euphoria lifting…_
…As my eyes reopened
I found myself gazing
Upon a room of tiny lights,
Blue and pink specs
Dotting the inner workings
Of large wall sized machines…
…They lifted me upright
In a gray metal chair
And with sharp robotic groans,
A long arm from the wall
Held up a mirror to my face...
...In the reflection was a young man
I thought I would never see again…
…I had a wife back before,
But now I have a new one
Everybody in my situation,
("Reborns", as they are called)
Has brand new things and people
Filling their lives and concerns
They bring nothing with them
When they make their returns...
…Every morning I wake up
On the west 402nd floor
Of a residential tower
Next to my slim, youthful wife
And the trails of flying cars
That populate our view
From our wall-spanning window
As they soar through the city…
…I was told of technology,
Created and discovered
That could reawaken people
Who, like me, had died
In an earlier era and time…
…It’s strange that my past,
In all its importance and meaning,
Memories, friendships and scenery,
Seems to no longer be of concern,
Now that I have all this…
…I love what was, very dearly,
But the life I live now is for me.
I have new children, knowledge,
Friends and technology…
…I’m quite sure it’s possible
That old family members
That passed before me
Could exist in the same place
That I now live and find myself…
…But I can’t be certain,
Maybe they live further,
Deeper, in an unknown future
That I can’t even comprehend…?
…All I know is that, like me,
They have a new life somewhere
So I’ll do what I tried to do
My first time around…
…I’ll continue to grow and live on
In this new, world-spanning cityscape
Fueled by the love and memory
Of a past life remembered
only by me...
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
recovery is not pretty.
it is not painless or simple or instant.
it is a road littered with backsliding and obstacles and doubt.
a path marred with reopened scars and sleepless nights and feigned smiles.
recovery is rubberbands and ice cubes and pacing and cigarettes.
it is phone calls at 3am when you can barely breathe and all the walls are closing in.
it is screaming at the ones you love because they love you too much to let you break your skin.
it is long sleeves and overly-cautious internet browsing and lots of movies.
it is eating way too much ice cream and taking walks in the middle of the night.
it is hard. recovery is hard. it is messy. it is painful and chaotic. but it is not impossible.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
*After five good years of drought
It rained kisses and warming hugs
After my heart emaciating from rejection
I have experienced a resurrection
She kissed me wholly and deep
She sowed and had to reap
Could not recall the feminine grip
Even how to undo a lady zip
She kissed my upper and lower lip
Then around my body took a trip
Tore my favorite shirt,no time to unbutton
She ate my skin softly hard as a glutton
Not sure it was her mouth on my ***
Cause I couldn't open my eyes as she did it
She passed her soft fingers on my chest
Luckily I hadn't on my fitting vest
Crawled about my belly like a worm
While my ****** heart beat loud as a drum
She said something I didn't hear
Because passion had blocked my ear
She then undid my belt and my trousers
Quicker than all internet browsers
Then...then put the muzzle in her mouth
Was she aware of the bullet, I doubt
She cleared all the rust through the years
While in pleasure I cried happy tears
She knew how to hold the whistle and blow
Between where she knelt down low
Her palm around me was a soft tight glove
Felt she's the one that I deserved
Like a snake she crawled back up
And astride the volcanic plug sat Asap
Not afraid of the sharp edges causing harm
She kissed me violently and hurt my gum
I just couldn't care less at such a moment
Of a soothing ride, a welcome torment
Soon overtaken by my inner animal
I realized I could not take it anymore
And took charge of the walk to heaven
While the clock alarmed, think eleven
She arched tout like a hunters bow
And her eyes brightly seemed to glow
My journey deep was careful and slow
But the return as swift as Pacman's blow
I loved the way she clawed her nails
Into me, she reopened all my wells
I wanted to take her for a longer ride
But the wave of passion killed me,I died
Even when we were done I remained inside
Watching her skin as pale as transfiguration
Out of the joy we had shared, I'm glad
I received my emotional resurrection*
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Enter scene:
A girl sits on a bed in a room.
The room smells like cat **** and Fabuloso
(whatever the name of the yellow scent is).
The black-out curtains are open,
letting the moon shine onto the bottom of the bed.
The lavender fitted sheet has come undone.
The girl hasn't slept in a day.
She hasn't eaten in two days.
There is an empty handle of Jack
that she bought three days ago.
The scabs on her leg were four days old,
But she reopened them three hours ago.
The girl had chestnut hair that flowed,
cascading to the small of her back,
but she cut it herself, drunk in the bathroom.
The girl has chestnut hair that spills
in a mass of tangles to her shaking shoulders,
uneven, moving with her as she readjusts.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
Sages and broomsticks
motherless pearls
Witches that threaten
fatherless girls
Curse of the ages
old grudges remain
A coven of stages
to hide from the rain
The markings of Satan
the touch of the Lord
A death plated sunset
and winner forlorn
The trap now a quandary
and you must break free
As with all soiled laundry
to burn once deceived
The truth is not distant
first word never feigned
The peace that you’re seeking
inside you unclaimed
So let go of the dogma
the medals will melt
New songs of arrival
you’ll write most heartfelt
But the moment is now
and the moment is clear
Once the moment is christened
new joy spins from fear
To those who still threaten
with eternity ******
Say:
“Away with your blasphemy,
stop where you stand
These wings have reopened
my eyes looking in
New life has been gifted
—I’m blessed to begin”
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2014)
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 5:07 PM UTC
I gave a child my name one day;
abandoned her in three short years.
Divorce and dreams pulled me away,
but not without regrets or tears.
A lousy father, that I knew; still
wondered as time wound along
if she remembered as she grew
the man who'd sing her favorite song.
One Saturday, a Facebook friend
request reopened memories past.
Acceptance and a message sent;
a chat precise as cutting glass
more than enough to be convinced
of standing. Not heard one word since.
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 7:57 PM UTC
I spend my life walking through darkness
Seemingly countless years go by as
I never see a hint of light
I begin thinking
Is there anything here?
Am I truly alone in this abyss?
What if there's something,
Hidden, invisible to my eyes?
What if I'm not alone?
"It's all too much
I'm giving up,
This dark is not for me"
These are the thoughts I thought,
The feelings I felt,
Before I saw the door.
Grand, regal, shining bright
The door swung wide, welcoming me
I run towards it, relief and hope filling me once again
I barely get through the door,
When I am cast back out,
And it slams shut again
I am confused,
What happened?
Why did it happen?
What could I have done to avoid this?
I see another door
Simple, wooden, open also
With nowhere else to go, I proceed through this door
It's nice on the other side
A field of green, pleasant music
I feel happy here
A short while later,
I hear a thump
Has the grand door reopened?
I hesitate
I am happy here,
If I head back, what if this door closes?
What if the grand door casts me out again?
Then where shall I go?
I didn't see another door.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 8:44 AM UTC
Last night they checked my garbage can.
It’s a good thing that I have a shredder.
My cell phones records are of interest-
I’ve made calls to known “tea baggers”.
Warrant-less “burglaries” have been made,
then I find my screen door broken.
The I.R.S. just called again
my case has been “ reopened”.
On every airline trip I take
I’m “Caressed “by the T.S.A.
I’m almost ready for a cigarette
after they’ve had their way.
Such harassment is “kinder spiel”
compared to what comes next.
They have a “brain wave” scanner
that can translate thoughts to text.
So I wear a cap of aluminum foil
whenever I’m on American soil.
To protect my ideas before they find them
I always make sure to copyright them.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
The time has come for me to let go. I must close these chapters if I have hope of ever feeling whole again. I will never forget and I will always love, but the time has come. Leaving these chapters open will only haunt me. Time will not change a **** thing and I need to accept that. I find it strange that as I close these chapters, I am opening a chapter that I thought I had closed forever. Silence is painful though and hope is a dangerous thing. This old chapter has been reopened and added to over the past month. These chapters I am closing hold some of my most precious memories and I will carry them with me always. I just cannot keep rereading and waiting for more to be written. It won't. I have one more planned visit...after that I do not know when or if I will be back. If my presence is desired and it is made known to me, I will make every attempt, but it won't be and so I probably won't be either. My love is for always, as is my friendship.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 12:43 AM UTC
she holds my hand in her palm
cradling it gently
as she cleans
the wounds she reopened
again
on my calloused paper skin.
The giver birth
and
the harbinger of my death,
embraces me in crocodile tears.
"Who is she?" I am asked
and in a cracked voice bandaged with promises,
I answer;
"she is my mother."
Jan 28, 2023
Jan 28, 2023 at 1:31 AM UTC
No light penetrates
The overwhelming warning
Of the Heavens,
A warning of brokenness
That cannot be avoided,
A cool quietness smothers the trees,
An eerie implication.
Halted are the simple treks for survival.
Forgotten holes of yesterday reopened.
As the clouds resurrect,
A thankful calm washes away
The fear of the unknown.
Fear comes before growth and
Preparedness need not be remembered.
With the rain comes baptism,
With the storm comes renewal.
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 3:04 AM UTC
And the chapped sun-baked tire
swung on the aged and frail rope attached to the most outright branch
of the sheltersome oak tree by the carved up picnic bench.
Children fought for such a throne on warm summer days,
Not many cared for clawing and snatching in attaining it,
But it was a necessary fight in those days.
Once they sat in their highest place and swung to the skies,
All they could see was the wind-ridden flow of treetops
rustling and swaying, creating nature’s static,
This why they fought,
This is why only the battered
and bruised cooled their cuts with forest breeze.
It broke one day,
after being a shelter in storming youth,
Charles Ferger snapped the rope
on a smooth swing to reach the sky.
They knew the clock was counting down
and no one could see how much time was left,
but they still hated Charles for being the one it broke on.
It wasn’t his fault, and they knew it,
but they had to blame someone.
No one ventured to it for the first few weeks,
The sight of it only reopened healing wounds.
At a certain point, years later, after the kids
had gone to high school, it was fixed.
No one knew who fixed it or when,
since the kids still went out there once in a while
to drink some nights and have campfires,
but they were glad it was fixed,
then news of the resurrection spread.
And on one MLK day,
no one remembers which,
they had a bonfire and swung as high as they could
to christen it back to its precious worn state once more,
fighting over it with the intentional caution they
used to use when wrestling for the uninhibited freedom
that in lay dormant in the crusty black tire swing.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
As I light this cigarette in my mouth,
I inhale the smoke,
like it’s the thing that keeps me alive.
I've gotten worse;
Since you’ve left me standing in the rain.
My scars were reopened.
My lungs were seared with smoke again.
My pillows were blackened from,
the mascara that ran down my face.
he’s just a boy they say.
No,
you don’t ******* understand.
He was the air I breathed.
He was words that I conveyed into poems.
You’ll be okay;
No;
He was the brown eyed boy,
of my dreams.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
• Old dresser drawers reopened
• silly, simple T-shirts back in style
• confusion of how the last 5 years of fashion
• abandoned honesty and compassion, straightforward presentation
• he swims into the swatch
• it fits perfectly, but what to wear with it?
• total mystery; his sleek, **** jeans?
• his soft, comfortable shorts?
• maybe this would be easier if
• he owned less costumes
• silently noting that nudists
• likely feel quite comfortable in T-shirts
• shuddering @ the thought of such vulnerability
• he sorts through another stack
• faded reds dredging long drowned days
• eyes closed, sun bleeding crimson, thoughts lofty
• wondering what the sneakers he used to wear
• really said
• long sigh, less than hopeful
• but these things are cyclical, you know
• what goes, eventually comes
• old pictures always met with "what was I thinking"
• with fashion, you never can be sure, not even later
• besides, one day you'll just wear a suit, so be simple now
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
Sundays--none would see me
at that corner of the distant park
seated on a shaking wooden chair
under the same, bald and desolate tree--
Sundays (provided they don't rain)
I don't listen to the radio or watch TV
a notebook or a volume of Keats on my lap
I'll be alone in my chosen sanctuary-
Sundays (the faithful win me
over-- hearts have to be comforted--verily)
I take leave of wearisome life and society
with only me as company--
Sundays--time for reflection
from banal ties I set myself free
the toxic air of the public-square
I shun away---nature is harmony--
Sundays---age is sober and looks back
without rancour but with tranquillity
there were mistakes, harshness and folly
hidden pages from an old book reopened by memory-
Sundays--one follow another--how many
would (I wonder) still welcome me?
the young have their lush songs to sing
their most treasured dreams are yet to be-
This is Sunday--the sky is blue and pretty
happy kids are at frolic in the inviting green field
life in all its facets I've known and experienced
in this simple poem I've written my life-history.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
Asked me to never leave ,
Said you just wanted love
Your past made it hard to believe
My past had me giving up
I wanted you to see
That you where always enough
So I Reopened my scars
And started to bleed
My past mishaps
The hidden history
Ripping them open
For you, but the world's could see
Still not enough because
Your trauma ran deep
Filled with insecurities down to the core
Your beauty unique and I needed more
The cost to succeed
Is fabled in lore
Wanted to be your Hercules
Struggles I endured
As new scars where taking form
I started feeling weak
Realizing in that moment
To save you would mean loosing me
I start to think
maybe I should walk away
Then your words clearly rang
You asked me to never leave
So your hero I will stay
It took every drop I had
When I had nothing left
you rose like a queen
Filled with my love
You started to leave
In your eyes you conquered the beast
No hero came Your enemy was me
Oct 7, 2024
Oct 7, 2024 at 6:43 AM UTC
I miss the warm tethered entanglement
Of white hot invading veins
And boiling blood slithering
Innocent lust for rage
Driven by underdeveloped
Over stimulated blessings of adolescence.
Age hardens the stone of flesh
Once fluid magma erupting
From volcanoes of mole hills
Turned mountains by the quick tempered.
Spitfire tongue incinerating old walkways
Patience and time cool the ferocity
Burning rivers now gentle streams
Chisling rough roads, eroding paths.
Ancient doors reopened
Ready for the next adventure to take place.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
Blast it!
We've put our eggs
in the wrong basket,
and now Little Liberty has dropped them.
She's dropped them.
She's dropped them!
She certainly did,
She dropped them!
Each egg splits, cracks, breaks,
all despite Liberty's bleeding
colors. Faded, young
hatching prematurely;
before their time.
Liberty heard her love-
boyish ruckus in The Bush.
Hurriedly she did run;
giving all her aide.
Unfortunately, careless Liberty did not see:
All our eggs are handled irresponsibly.
Soon after little Liberty's Bush date,
she saw what she could only surmount to fate:
Poster slapped to said Holy Tree,
plastered with Allah's face.
Hating those jihadist anyway,
Ignorant Liberty unloaded her bounty-
upon the sacred man's face.
It took a while
till Liberty thought,
looking down,
but by then,
we all thought it all too late.
But ,Little Liberty being supreme,
(totally Grade A,)
finally remembered to put the lid down.
Ah, now that should seal our fate,
her reasoning as she bounced and pranced away.
But just before she reached her people,
her sickness burst,
her pride was shook,
she couldn't show her face.
Afraid of what her people might say-
she reopened said lid, state of panic
flipped the basket promptly 'round.
All the little eggs crumbling to the ground.
Babies dispersed;
Children burnt and broken;
not to mention all the vital yolk;
nasty stuff and what a mess-
now onward to face my people.
But all is well;
she gives her spiel
about the alleged evil-doers.
People line-up,
hypnotized-
ready to give their last;
service, duty, and loyalty too
all for Little Miss Liberty.
Quite the siren, ain't she?
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
spread me open and lay me out on your table like a blueprint (I'm just as hard to read)
nail me on the wall like a laminated world map (put pins on all the places you've been)
oil me up like your old, squeaky boxspring mattress (you remember the one)
give me life like the cpr dummy in middle school health class (mouth to mouth, get it?)
tell everyone how beautiful I look like a dead body in an open casket (we all know what you really mean)
wreck me like the abandoned house behind the railroad tracks (what a shame, it has so much historical value)
wrap me up like a reopened wound (oops, my bad)
bite me like the hangnails you get from chewing your fingers (it's a nervous habit)
drill my pieces together like ikea furniture (you might just have to wing it, I lost the instructions a long ******* time ago)
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 7:10 PM UTC
Most of my creativity emerges
from crestfallen summer nights,
where I tear the seams of the scars
that have reopened
after a thoughtless word
after a tasteless comment
after an inconsiderate finger,
jabbing into the insecurities
I imagined myself to bury,
but in reality,
I have not.
Humid,
crestfallen summer nights
encapsulate me,
until the pain numbs
me.
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
My mind is a graveyard.
There is buried
a thousand and one dreams,
one hundred friendships,
countless fantasies,
hidden beneath layers
worn smooth by the years,
marked by fading tombstones reading,
simply,
"memory."
But in the night
comes a character,
cloaked in dark fabric
and protected by solitude,
to wake the dead from their slumber,
to reanimate even
the long deceased,
blood leaking
from reopened wounds.
With blade in hand
the figure marks each memory,
carves into flesh
(living and dead alike)
lines that read out the truth:
"eternity"
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
I remember being young and thinking I would have my life together when I was older.
That I was going to grow up and at some magical point, life would get better. Because I would be an adult and as an adult I would have infinite choices.
Infinite control.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the naivety of children protects them from foresight. They can’t think about the logistics.
Only the beginning and ending of dreams - never flanked with concern of the pathway in between.
Thus, as a child, I thought I would grow up, gain a sense of control, and have it all together. That I would be able to stop my parents from fighting, work a really fun job, and hang out with my brother on weekends. As a child, that’s honestly how I saw the world. I thought that the problems encountered by adults could be easily fixed because they were adults and they had control.
But I was wrong.
Death, among many other things, cannot be fixed.
I think that these beliefs held by children can be so strong that no matter how many adults tell them life is hard, they just can’t believe it. A sense of innocence so dense in nature protects children. They are so dearly sheltered, so entirely shielded from reality, they can’t imagine its entirety.
Five-year-old me knew nothing about this world.
That its entirety is built upon a give and take of growing physically and shrinking mentally and emotionally.
In which biologically, cells are reproducing and hearts are pumping blood but mentally and emotionally things are breaking down and all the time pieces are being stripped away. Pieces that won’t be given back.
Ever.
It’s sort of awful really.
Because nobody realizes until it’s too late. Until you’ve seen so many people break, you start to wonder if you’ve been broken too or if you’re still waiting.
For you tests, your trials, your tribulations.
As we age, we are broken over and over, only to sometimes be rebuilt. Sometimes rebuilt better and sometimes never rebuilt at all; never fixed.
And the worst part is the realization. Looking around and beginning to see the broken bits everybody has hanging by a thread; a quick patch up so they could go to work that day.
But patch ups don't last forever.
And sometimes things break more than once.
Sometimes the same exact wounds are reopened.
And sometimes, once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t be fixed.
Like an outdated piece of technology, that part just isn’t made anymore.
And nobody ever tells you this growing up. They can’t because you’re protected.
So as you go through life, your shield begins to wear and you begin to notice.
And after noticing it, you’re suspect to watch as people break one by one.
And then you’re left to ponder the arrival of your turn.
Or wonder if it’s already happened.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC