"rephrased" poems
My teacher once asked
a short simple question.
She had asked,
"What do you want to be?"
Raised arms answered her query.
Open palms each belonging to excitable children.
Wide little eyes looked up at her.
Hands began to flail in the air...
Ever so hopeful of being chosen.
So that they could voice their aspirations.
So that they could begin to share.
One by one,
they each was given the opportunity.
Turn by turn,
boastful were some
while others spoke quiet and shyly.
Then the teacher stopped short.
Not before expressing her delight.
She was in awe of such young minds...
Having had such great wings
to eventually take flight.
Then she explained...
What she had initially meant.
Confused looks all around including me.
She rephrased the question,
*"What kind of person...
Do you want to be?"*
There was silence.
No arms shot up to meet the subject.
I don't recall having raised mine,
but I remember telling the teacher...
An answer (I was confident), she wouldn't expect.
I stood at my desk,
proud and tall...
And told the teacher
that I wished to be a person...
Well loved by all.
She smiled and I did too.
I felt it was a good answer.
She nodded to signal for me to take my seat again.
She paused before speaking,
and not a moment later.
She said,
*"That would be nice.
To be loved by all.
But that's close to impossible.
A big wish for someone so small."*
I had heard her words clearly...
However I didn't understand.
My brows furrowed...
And I was deep in thought...
Still I couldn't comprehend.
28 years later...
Here I sit,
looking back to that time in the past.
How time flies...
It simply ticked away...
All too fast.
Till just then I was still that boy...
Who tried hard to please.
I wanted to prove that it wasn't impossible.
You can be loved by everyone,
and you can do it with ease.
But now I have learnt.
Now I have found meaning
and understanding in my teacher's wisdom.
It took me a while but...
I know now...
That wishes and reality don't work in tandem.
You can choose to care and love,
everyone you see.
But to expect everyone to love you the same...
Is sheer
impossibility.
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 9:12 AM UTC
“A groan of tedium escapes me, startling the fearful
Is this a test? It has to be, otherwise I can't go on.
Haven't written a word in three and a half years.
Time to take the broom out to this shallow grave”
Middlesteps
~~~~(|)~~~~
For
deep is the fear, coated in thickening veneer
of might-be-bravery,
the weight, Oh, the weight!
of that writing utensil that both
bears and bares all,
an uncomfortable unconscious,
uncontrollable surrender
that sweeps down upon us,
when first we seek the unwieldy unwinding
of our proactive fist of a first step,
the unclenching, the open face palm,
seeing our lifeline’s revelation, the shame,
the lines we thought that faded away,
upended, open ended, that the worst
un-finishing, but here I am, my taking, the
baby steps of Middlesteps,
only looking
back to forwards for permission,
a new looking inward
forward!
we confesses, beg for our own forgiveness
for ourselves, the years of summary silence ,
at last!
unveiled and unbound, this first step stinks of
tremors, poems never writ up, but on our mouths
and fingertips yet memorized as IF they were bespoke
this return,
“startling the fearful,”
a provocation to the mirrored images
caked on my disheartened body,
goes lightly noticed, but not by me!
daily, I ask the bay and the sky, the animals,
the query lives in almost each of my scripts,
Where is Shelter?
today the answer is not an apparition,
but the question is rephrased,
not where! but when
the answer is now apparent,
for the seed planted, this is for you,
watering the seed, feeding the shoot,
that I know too well,
for asked and I answer,
everyday…
Sep 24, 2023
Sep 24, 2023 at 11:53 AM UTC
Someone asked me once,
“What is your Prince Charming like?”
I said I didn't know him,
So they rephrased, “What would he be like?”
I answered the question truthfully,
Yet they think me cynical and hopeless.
This the case may be,
But I like to think that I’m just me.
This is what I’d said:
First of all, Prince Charming wouldn't be a prince.
He’d be an everyday guy, living day to day,
Searching for meaning, for someone to stay.
He’d be kind and smart and more outgoing than me,
But he’d listen and understand,
That sometimes I’m human and am afraid -
That I’ll lose my faith in love even though I've prayed.
He’ll have kind brown eyes that are down-to-earth.
He’ll share his secrets and savor mine.
When I’m down, he’ll lift me up high
And will make me smile when I cry.
He’ll hold me tight and squeeze away my pain,
He'll know to stay when I need him,
And that sometimes I like to be alone,
Yet he’ll show me all I've never known.
But, I finished, Prince Charming doesn’t exist,
And I’ve seen enough heart breaks to know,
That our Charmings aren’t what they seem
And that he’s really just the things of dreams.
Jan 11, 2013
Jan 11, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
the pompous one
with her comments
as she slithers by
with
the rudest
of dogs
the confident family;
confident
to a fault
sitting too close
and talking
too loud
the hypocrite
complaining
of the mess
and leaving behind
a scavenger's
detritus
the insecure sage
a font of knowledge
based on
hearsay
and opinion
with only
a pinch
of fact
the innocently gormless
with no thought
for sense
or logic
common or otherwise
but only
for the now
and
the immediate
these are
the passengers
on the
carousel
of frustrations
for today;
replayed
rephrased
resurrected
over
and over
i think
so little
of them
yet
i'm unable
to stop myself
thinking
about them
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 8:54 AM UTC
She is scared by the
long slow dwindling of
the heart's manouevres
towards the end of the night,
or of life.
So she tugs on its clammy fingers
tries to get it to waltz again.
I tell her:"Live with me between
a name and anonymity."
I say nothing.
There's no foyer in a one-room kitchenette,
but I stand in the foyer anyways,
holding half a poem -
or half a person.
And tilting at windmills.
She is a page and then some
a rough border - shaggy corners.
Glue chafing from the binding.
And maybe she is older than me.
But nobody ever learned to hunt
by watching vegetables being chopped,
and we both agree that since we're
pledging allegiance, we can put our hands
anywhere, right? I just haven't
mentioned which country.
The point is this:
Tomorrow is a mystery creature,and I refuse to guess
whether it wears fur or feathers.
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC
Each drop of rain is a single truth,
constantly recycled and rephrased.
There is as much truth as there is water,
***** water being unclear truths.
Those who drown in oceans are overwhelmed by truth,
those who stay away are comforted on their solid lies.
Those who think happiness is sunshine
are clouded by bright rays of blinding lies.
Truth is the rain that you dance in,
walk in, slosh in, as you let it seep into your skin.
To dance in the rain is to bathe in truth,
perhaps not comprehending, but at the least, accepting.
Truth, like water, is essential for life.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 10:42 PM UTC
My body is a beach house
And by the study room
with the view of the sea,
There is a coffee table.
All mornings have been made here.
It's a tiny piece of furniture that makes a huge part of life.
The match to the candle, and lighter to the veld fire.
There are doodles engraved on it.
They look like they could mean something,
Like how we are told not to recognize color but they turn around and tell us to tick in boxes.
Like how I'm a holy heathen who listens to the likes of Hopsin and Tech N9ne,
Like how I believe slavery is still alive but simply rephrased and concealed.
But then again, they are just doodles, who cares what they mean.
They smell the like the sunrise and bacon
Like broken hearts and virginities .
Like a shower washing off the previous night.
Like the disappointment my parents will feel when they find out who I really am.
A little girl angry at religion,
Angry at them for forcing it on me,
A little girl, angry at life.
Despite the meaninglessness of this old scared coffee table, the devil and the angel in me sit in loving peace sipping this deadly caffeine.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 9:16 AM UTC
I was allowed to visit back home
whenever he wanted me to
adoption’s only condition
agreed to by Mama Julia
when I was about seven years old
Father and my older sister Coring
arrived unannounced
traveling in a boat he made himself
bringing gifts of large dried fish
small salted fish
green edible seaweed called, “latu”
and ceramic pots made by Mother
Father had never been to Carigara
but found the house with no trouble
everyone knew the Tranis
they directed him to the big house
called, “Tiha”
three stories
a tiled terracotta roof
coconut trees
sweet, fragrant yellow bananas
Mama Julia was away in Manila
old folks hesitated in her absence
fearing Father might keep me
they asked that he leave my older sister
to ensure my return
Father agreed
a very old friend accompanied Father
to sell her handmade pottery
very friendly
with messy white hair
and only one front tooth
her name was Reyang
they spent the night at Tiha
planning to leave early with me
but Apoy Reyang got drunk
from the tuba* Father brought
she went out into the street
walking and talking to herself
my friends told me later they liked the old lady
speaking wildly like a witch
we feared stories of bad witches
who snatched little kids
but no one ever actually saw one
so they were glad to see
a real live old witch
who wasn’t scary at all
they thought she was my grandma
actually envying me
for the nice witch in my family
Father built a mast in the middle of his banca
outriggers on both sides
were made of bamboo poles
lashed together with rope
sailing back to Guintarcan
he brought food to snack on
when wind stirred
Father raised sail
to make the boat go faster
when it was calm
he wrapped the sail on the mast
and used the paddle
I liked it when Father asked me
to hold something for him
but he spoke in a Samar dialect
when he realized I couldn’t understand him
he rephrased it the Carigara way
a perfect day
sea was calm
sky cloudless
I reached down to feel the cool, clear water
rush against my open hand
when the boat was moving faster
increased pressure on my palm was pleasing
I was happy and excited for the chance
to visit with family
but this adventure’s biggest thrill was simply:
my Father came for me
*coconut wine
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
I could write about anything
and no one would stop and think.
Everything's been said before.
Rephrased and repositioned
to the point of impotency.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:07 AM UTC
i killed a spider
a few hours ago.
its body is still on
the wall next to where
i sleep.
all day was dark,
lying in bed
like a corpse.
gastroenteritis;
the stomach flu.
revival and rounds,
the kitchen, saltines.
"those items that are
no longer useful must
be exhumed."
refrigerator grave
cannot help but
remind me of my
sickness and how
you could have rephrased.
sometimes i wish
i could understand
you better than i do.
but then i realize it's
what makes our relationship.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
today, i will wake up and think of you. the first thing will be about how your eyes had the color of all the storms that left this year. next will be your hair, in flaming red, as if to make up for all the colors your heart has been drained of for loving me. then, i will think of the way i wrote you poems amid writer’s block; every line, a compulsion, an obsession of i love you's rephrased. i will think of the feel of your skin, cold, but burning, like mercury fires crashing to the poles.
then, i will remember the chipped nails and back scratches and the heat of the whiskey, rushing from your mouth to mine. i will remember october and her rooftop letters we sealed with the skyline's silhouette. i will remember how they have become a foliage of words i refused to stop writing — and words you refused to read. i will remember how we wished to be paper cranes flung to the sun, how i have become icarus incarnate, falling, and crashing back to the earth. today, i will wake up and remember how loving you became my flight and my downfall. i will let the pain eat me up, rip my lungs, one flashback at a time. i will let the pain break me and break me and break me until there's nothing left to break.
and then one day, i will wake up darling, without sleeping next to make-believe alternate endings, without addressing you in apostrophes, and without the storms tailored to be metaphors for you. one day, i will wake up without wondering if you were ever hurt the way i was. i will wake up without thinking of you. i will wake up without the slightest traces of pain.
and then i will let you go.
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 9:56 AM UTC
there are little things you don’t notice in your every day life.
when you hold someones hand, do you link your pinkie with their forefinger like i do? I tend to always want to be on someones right side, out of comfort. i realize that the question “how are you feeling” is completely overwhelming and should at best be rephrased. showers fix everything…. almost everything. if you breath deep enough you could cause more problems or you could get rid of them, choose wisely. socks are hugs for your feet and should be appreciated. especially when your begging for them to give you more medication or something to make you sleep so that just for a while you don’t have to feel it and you don’t have to face it and it doesn’t have to be real but they won’t because they don’t understand. they don’t feel it. they don’t link their pinkies with someone forefinger when they hold hands and they don’t stand on the right side of someone out of comfort and they don’t believe showers fix everything but they back up deep breaths even though it can cause more problems.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
I wanted to rip your name off my tongue, it no longer tasted sweet. It was expired and replenishable to another girl rain-checked in line. I didn’t fight back, I let them claim their prize. Every girl needs a you in their life, a man to flood her thoughts every second of everyday, a man to teach them that loving someone who doesn’t love them back is painfully repulsive. It had to be real? because who could love someone, and keep loving them without being loved back? Me. It hurt too much to be anything else… it burned my heart to see you love someone else who wasn’t me. It made me braver, it made me stronger, it made me realize that sometimes love is letting go, yet your heart is wanting to be stitched back up. The choice was once mine, before losing became my loss, I was there, but then I was forgotten, only to be rephrased of who I was to you
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 12:25 PM UTC
It's true though.
Any happiness you felt began with you first.
You didn't wait, you rephrased it as a smile.
Straightforward really.
You felt a way because my passion could never justify.
Only reinforce what you felt to begin with.
You felt a way because you respect yourself to be yourself.
The emotional boundaries of your well being.
Thus I awaited your permission before taking the first step.
Initially paraphrasing your smile.
The importance of being treated the way I'd like to be treated.
Holding your stare to create a sense of security.
A safety that went without ill-intention.
Not because you fill your jeans or the fact that your well put together.
What's meant to be is what's meant to be.
What's the rush.
Although true, you felt a way because I never crossed any of your boundaries.
A generational gap between "hey lets chill." and "I'd love to take you out."
The honesty of eyebrows highlighting life goals in full view of the sun.
Fully dressed.
Well groomed.
While the sky attends it's breakfast.
Reservation in the clouds.
The embodiment of grace
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
I find faults in my own actions,
I try, but I’m miles away from perfection.
Although it seems to be a fictional word,
After so long, it still has so many definitions.
As ages pass, they’re reworded, rephrased; but
Time seems so irrelevant to me,
Just a useless measurement of our life.
With no actual control, it rules us.
I find no safe state of mind
As I sink into my own misery.
I’m drowning in my own sorrow...
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
Hospital beds
My hands are shaking I'm looking for something solid to grip on to before I wither away into the hands of doctors, narcotics and with everything in me I am trying to hold onto this because I don't want to be taken away from you, not now or ever.
I am afraid
Scared shitless : rephrased
Shaking hands don't take me away from my safe haven , rather put me next to her bed , I promise I'll lay peacefully and not giving anyone any trouble.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
(20 minute poetry)
A suicidal tendency, a
complexity that overrides
a Central link deficiency or is it me that reads too much philosophy?
I have toyed with the idea of what it is and why we're here, but the answers still elude me.
To consider one is clued in yet haven't got a clue of how it all begins to fit in is in my opinion a failure, if that is so and I think it could be where on Earth does that leave (poor) me?
Back to suicide the option that one takes when there's no option and that bothers me immensely.
And if complexity's the key to this life where will we all be when the systematic dismantling of everything that makes it tick, every ill that makes us sick is taken from us?
Will it and the dichotomy be rephrased put in a dictionary, will the wood become the trees that we don't see?
Thus, the observation from the observation tower tells nothing of the awful power of what the mind can do when it is bored.
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 9:54 PM UTC
The history of my heart is written in rhymes.
The flow and meter of good and bad times,
All contained within the pages of a book,
Very few will ever earn a look.
My deepest secrets set in ink,
The blue lined page my only shrink.
My sins are masked hyberbole,
What they are, I'll never say.
When I have a space to fill,
Or the need to record my newest ****
I begin again upon new page,
My alter ego, the sinning sage.
When I bear your transgressions,
I write them down as your confessions,
I rhyme the ways that you have wronged me,
Predicting what you will never be.
When my heart is under fire,
Or when it screams a new desire,
It all goes down in neat, narrow scrawl,
More impatient and vengeful than King Saul.
Whatever I feel, whatever I think,
It all goes down in this black, shiny ink.
Mind to pen to paper without delay,
I truly know no other way.
The story of my life is written in rhymes.
Pages filled with rephrased crimes.
Trapped between covers of a book,
The place where few shall ever look.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:19 AM UTC
The stories always tell us
That "within darkness
There is always a glimmer of
Hope."
Had they treaded the depths
Of her cold, broken heart,
Maybe they would have rephrased that.
As dramatic as a teenager
In a sitcom romance,
She swore to never love,
For the fear of pain
Was much greater than the joys of
Temporary
Contentment.
She never would have guessed that
One person would destroy her way of life.
As carefree as a small puppy,
And as loving,
He walked in and...
Slung a monkey at her head.
It wasn't love at first sight.
But it was life changing.
Slowly he gained her trust.
She laughed more than she should have.
Her once sturdy guard was
Crumbling.
He worked away at the walls,
The webs,
The hate,
The fear.
He brought his light into her world.
He showed her what happens
When you take a
Risk.
The glimmer inside her was still
Small,
Fragile,
Close to extinction.
But his light fed her soul,
And healed her wounded heart.
He loved her,
Scars and all.
And she was enamored
With his gentle sweetness.
Together they created a glow
So strong and powerful,
No one dared
Stand
In
Their
Way.
There are cracks.
And dark nights.
But that glimmer has never been in danger
Of going out
Again.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC