"replayed" poems
~a question of a thousand dreams~^
“Where are you going now my love? Where will you be tomorrow? Will you bring me happiness? Will you bring me sorrow? All the questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see”
this one composes itself
for all dreams go unremembered
the first, the thousandth, the every in between,
erased by the push button of opening eyes
but dreams come, marching in, saints mining the raw materiel
the quartermaster has stored, awaiting requisition by an
unarmed unnamed corp, witnessed but never seen
these dreams wisped soft willow budded, tempting taunting,
leaving nothing but unanswered questions that colored come
in black and white
elementary clues,
a pillow indentation,
single hair that stretches
across the sea between two pillows that is blonde or red
but
certainly unmine,
dregs of soured sentiment linger like the
aftertaste of too many coffees and stainless steel beers
heated summers breezes give no succor or relief,
and the rain following gives no pleasure,
for now you are hot and soaked,
but somewhere in there a dream is part replayed,
and eyes widening in major league surprise,
the question acknowledged, the dreams quest hinted
she has gone, neither happiness or sorrow will she
provide on the morrow, no toweling of your wet hair fair,
and you awake sweat besotted, it is not rain, just pain,
and it is only one dream a thousand times repeated
and what you do and what you see
is the abraded night ahead, and
you bitter laugh, for there is no more other than to think,
the question answered, and you beg relief by
uttering
“perchance to dream”
3:49 pm
see the notes!!
someone accuses me of Plagiarism
because I did not acknowledge that the quote in marks and Italics was from a famous song written 39 years ago
so here is my response to
“just saying”
congratulations on ******* me off
and yes I agree, you do not know the rules
“#1: Quotation Marks Are for Quoting People—Verbatim
Perhaps it should go without saying, but quotation marks are for quoting people. Quoting doesn’t mean summarizing or paraphrasing; it means repeating exactly what someone said. If you put double quotes around a phrase, your reader will often assume that someone, somewhere, said that exact phrase or sentence.“
http://thevisualcommunicationguy.com/2013/09/11/10-things-you-really-need-to-know-about-quotation-marks/
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:59 PM UTC
The introvert smirked to himself,
the extrovert winked,
The introvert blinked and turned his face,
The extrovert pursued the look,
and the introvert blushed and left the room.
The extrovert shrugged and broke his stare,
The extrovert forgot that he was ever there,
But the introvert never forgot, ingrained in his mind was the extroverts face,
The extrovert saw many people that day, too many people to recall by name,
The extrovert forgot his wink,
The introvert replayed his blink,
For many days the introvert hid,
The extrovert lived,
And both were content,
The introvert who sat alone,
The extrovert who broke the silence,
The introvert who raised his hand,
The extrovert who listened,
We learn our greatest lessons from living at a distance.
Nov 16, 2016
Nov 16, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
Whispered body types
replayed melted melodies
Do you feel the jive above your head?
Stick, stick our toes
Where was that porcelain face in that cup, so bitter?
Trick them with polished giggles,
I know you.
Little, Insignificant, give me your
bones to crush and huff.
Forgive me. Not.
Candid rush of paint
retake, retake, retake.
That girl should have been a
reindeer, she's road ****
We are soft grunge.
Play it by fear.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
I never suspected I had OCD
Until I replayed your voicemail
On the answering machine
A total of twelve times
Every evening
Just to hear your voice again
Or until I opened your dresser drawer
Thirty times
Before I went to bed
Just so I could smell
Your leftover scent
Wafting into the air
Or until I rearranged my shoes
In the closet four times
Before I left the house
Because you hated tripping over them
On your way out
But I knew I didn't have OCD
When I finally locked the door
And turned off the light
And made the bed on your side
For the very last time.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly
his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,
searching revisionary pathways
directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait,
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
in him,
my own histories,
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication
this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others
but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers
<•>
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
remember that time
laying in your bed
back when you we both thought we knew
and you stroked my stomach and kissed my hearts
variously placed of course
cleavage. stomach. hips. sleeve.
lustful sweet **** me now"
boundries not crossed but completely jumped
eh, **** it.
but for now... your hands?
here...
and there.
remember that time...
you smiled and i laughed
made the moment
...laughter.
"ahh **** ****
it was just a dream.
snap. back to the percieved
whats the point if i'm going to remember every smile,
moan and laugh
replayed...
over and over...
****
i'm fertile and *****
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 11:51 AM UTC
"I know it's cliche, but-"
You may stop right there
As, yes, cliches exist
And nobody cares
But life is cliche
We're all just living jokes
With stories told and lived
Since millennias ago.
Be as cliche as you wish,
You can't change what's done
And the way you express it
Or the need to tell someone
Wear your cliche with pride
Because, years before you, another did not
And it tore them inside
And now, in the earth, their body rots.
"I'm in so much pain, but none of it's physical
And god, that's so ******* cliche,"
But it's the only description you know
Your played out storyline's seen better days.
Because it's such a played out, worn out cliche
But it's unique because you hurt in your own way
And lord knows we're all dealing with the same thing
Living a cliche and fighting for something to change.
You smile, you laugh; you hurt, you cry
And I promise you another in the past
Laughed and cried at the exact same time
Right up until the day they died.
Because you may be something special
But don't ever think you're something new
You're life's been lived, been replayed
By hundreds, maybe thousands, before you.
So, yes, it's going to be a cliche.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
Your always playing the victim or guilt tripping me.
With eyes wide open, tell me what you see.......
The dark green forest falls quiet in the blackest night.
With a fresh, bleak snow hiding a monster out of my sight.
Down the path and out through the thistles
Escaping "it's" lungs pierce the night sky like a whistle.
Suffocating with fear, now I know that I'm done
Before the battle begins, "it" thinks the battle won.
I'm in shock on the ground and can't move not one little bit.
My head in my hands, falling down, not wanting to quit.
"It's" eyes are my death and "It's" thoughts are of pain
The storm clouds approaching, but it's not going to rain.
The distance between us nearly closes right in
Now, the true test is here, terror right under the skin.
"It's" voice is demonic and sounds of my demise.
Just the sight of "it" and I start praying for a painless goodbye.
I run and I run, but no chance, I will make it
So stygian now that I'm bleeding, falling into a steep pit.
Pitch-black of all hollows, reaching for the next mental wall.
My legs are all bruised up and wrist broken from the fall.
My screams are like razors that cut through the air
As I jump like a rabbit and out where it is clear.
The insects are buzzing to warn me to stop soon.
A symphony of the night just humming it's' tune.
And here is where I left you, as I stand toe to toe.
I told you before I just want you to go.
You have no goodness inside, just a monster, you've made.
The battle within your own mind will, again, be replayed.
As you turn and walk away, I wipe away a fresh teardrop
You've hurt me all that I can allow and now you must stop.
Master manipulator and thief, you've stolen my heart.
You showed me I was strong that day , now I can have a fresh start.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
Gone forever is the moment we are living.
Never to be replayed quite the same.
Moments can flick by or keep giving.
Some perplexingly special like the way I feel, thinking your name.
A moment “liked” is a moment worth sharing.
Putting it out there.
Knowing you're all caring.
In the end it was all worth while.
I'd swipe a thousand moments.
If each of them had your smile.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Above my home where the dark clouds
curl into the sky clinging for a home to
rest their sleepy depiction, shadowed
trees hum sweet lullabies, lonely leaves
breathe in the sad song of fallen dimensions,
letting its lifeless view roll upon their frame,
the chilled breeze sailing in the skyline,
as I scramble my way out of a filthy dumpster,
a mountain of disintegrating mess covering
my broken body, hovering flies surrounding
sticky strips of spaghetti, moldy mashed potatoes,
and moldy chicken *** pies, while my mind sunk
into traveled thoughts, bruised hands pressed against
the creases in my forehead, allowing my existence
to feel the stranded scars streaming in various mazes,
dull eyes flushed with a burning disorder, aching cheeks
and chests nestled in darkening chamber corners, buried
hips and thighs uprooting in somber blades of grass,
thorned, torn, and destroyed in different worlds. As I stood
on the slippery pavement staring at the ruffled scenery
in my sight, spinning streetlights thickening into slouched
positions, screaming sidewalks spilling sadness and madness
in the drenched air, razor-edged buildings inching into crushed
centimeters, jumbled meters, ****** yards. I replayed the sober
images in my head, the way my young brown-skinned mom said
I would never amount to anything, how I could hear the raged
noun ****** sift into the distance, its flaming mechanics
accelerating into screeching sounds, the way she hurled
her fists at my smashed face, every vibrant language
breaking apart, slamming shut into closed infinites,
snagged contractions and gerunds diverging into
shuddering double spaced negatives, the way she threw
my lingering body inside the trash dumpster, her sharp
scarlet words, You are no son of mine, ricocheting off
savage surfaces, sparking my soul in a calamity
of choking diction.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
I watch myself
watch myself
watching their dance,
my action is actioned
by panel and plan
Significant thought
to trivial task,
I find myself missing
that which I've hatched
Impromptu I can do,
in scrutinies stare,
replayed ad infinitum
pretend I don't care
When waiting has waited
and I dare to break free,
will the watcher be waiting
or will I be free?
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
I was sitting in the chat, with big dumb Mike
he showed us his mask, it was a terrible site
Boston Chickie was quiet and subdued
, Shelby, Cindy, Katie, Rachel, kind of set the mood
Ciggy came into the chat with his well well well
And Steve replayed to Ciggy you look like you are from hell
Raven had beautiful eyes and lips of wonder
Wolf Bracker was downing the sauce like a pirate in plunder
Tucker zone he was there as well
and Romeo, Ken, Robert and Al we all came out of our shell
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
Love Always
the tunnel
the end of it all
bursting through like shrapnel
the city lights singing the perfect song
as the wind snaps along
Love Always
the Glory Days
and the songs that capture them
and the stages that make them
and the plays on the field
that will be played and replayed for a lifetime
Love Always
the island of misfit toys
where bubbles cause as much awe
as the eighth that inspired them
from the Big Boy to the eighteenth green
you will all make my typewriter
Love Always
the holidays
the people around the table and the t.v.
too stubborn to speak their cares
both the M * A * S * H episodes
and the long rides home
Love Always
the books
the books and the characters and the morals
and the books
and the teachers that shared them
we accept the love we think we deserve
Love Always
Charlie
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
he is home
he came
from siam yonder
shouts from the ground floor
heralded his return
smile escaped from my static face
call out
his name
thunder, rain
dark face
swivels to the left
five foot ten rises up from the plastic chair as dark as him
i
expect a hug
but lo
i am not a child, not anymore
a protocol of high fives replayed
and the traffic of words return to the highway of arsenal, chelsea, man city
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
Reflections of my self, my being, my person, my soul,
Forever replayed, reshown, redone, reinacted
For the fact is
The strength that settles in my palms is ignited by the ignorance of man.
Oh man oh man how corrupt and vile does your mind be
Calculating and engineering plans and strategies
That will never leave your mind,
Free
To be or not to be
A mockerey
Of your confused biology, which hysterically
Questions your existence.
A gift so great,
Yet bronzed with your persistence to query the beauty I have given you,
Which is life!
Behind every man is a woman who loves and sacrifices their own needs and Necessities for happiness,
Clarity and justice.
A dancing cherubim dancing elegantly like a warm summer ray from your childhood Window.
Revitilises,
Re-energises,
Re-grows,
The root of your soul
As if the buds of may.
Honey toned, chocolate foamed
Milky light,
All pleasures for your delight.
Spread on to one body of immaculate perfection
Formed from Aphrodite's tears.
But the woman,
The woman possesses such omnipotent spiritual clasp on nature
That if she was to know,
Overstand
Or
Even accept a miniscule quantity of this knowledge
Then-man-would-be-woman.
To trap and encase a man like a rodent
Is to burn a ring of fire around his finger that leads life to his heart,
Where it beats impatiently to the tune of the womans song.
Skin soft, eyes lost
Sight of who I am,
Many different descriptions -although similar- still not the same,
But am I really to blame?
For the insecurities that you have belittled on me.
For my hair is long,
Then short,
Then short,
Then none.
My skin dark,
Then light,
Then light,
But not right
A constant fight,
A battle to aim for the right kind of existence but even still
I Exist!
And realise whatever you insist, still
I Exist,
Which is that gift that i hold in my being here,
Looking there
At my elegant stare,,
Which i dare
To offend the image, which you have sought to be womanly.
No longer do I fear my image
As it is a powerful icon of modern day life
To withstand the turbulent stresses and grind of strife
To help a man.
To have.
A happy.
WIFE!
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:34 PM UTC
Never have I wanted to use your body like a piano until now,
play it vigorously until it breaks.
I don't know many chords
but the effort could be beautiful.
I could become devoted to your keys,
your sounds,
the difference between your sharps and flats.
I've learned to take pride in simplicity,
like three notes coming together to sing your moan.
Was it the right keys or an accident?
I've heard symphonies made out of you,
but i am still unaware of how to make you play for me.
My hands aren't big enough to play you properly,
there is always one key missing.
No matter how carefully i play,
I find it difficult to produce the same melody twice.
You were never meant to be replayed.
Instead, you are captured in one vast fleeting moment
praying to be heard by the ears of the restless
in hopes of making them complete once more.
But how can you yearn for the wholeness of others
if you will not fill me up first.
I long to fill this room with your music,
I want to hear you just one last time.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
It was an unexpected travesty
While I sipped on my Paris tea
Black and swirling in the creamy cup
The melancholy inside wasn’t made up
The touches shared never to be replayed
A pen left wordless on the splotched page
The story of us dwindled and ended
I’ll yearn the soul I lost and befriended
It stains the wanderings in my heart
Restless longing never to depart
Will she look at you the way I did too
Or with her smile is your gaze anew
Amongst any spoken tendril I have to say
You’ll ignore it regardless, keep it at bay
No matter wherever I beg and try
Forever I’ll be pinned as the bad guy
Your friends affirm it without any doubt
The words you spill attract gallons of clout
And even with a vine of knowledge to prove
They’d pry and spy ‘til nothing’s left to prune
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 11:14 PM UTC
At 8:30 this morning I was still hopeful. I still had a chance. It was possible. It was mine.
An hour later "We regret to inform you..."
An hour later it was over. the 4 months of waiting for absolutely nothing was over. "Excellent pool of candidates..."
I wondered if that made me less excellent. "highly competitive and qualified..."
Was I not qualified? I replayed my application over and over in my head and it sounded like it was mine.
"Oh, it was national" says my father.
Maybe I'm only qualified when it comes to Wisconsin, because the same thing happened to me at Regionals... Somewhere in America there is someone better equipped for your dream.
"We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavors"
Well, what if I have no luck left? What if I'm not excellent enough?
What if I'm not qualified enough?
What if I'm not deserving enough?
Then I look over my Journalism application. 120 spots.
120 qualified people out of a pool of who knows how many.
My morning made me feel unqualified as if there was a slim chance I could possibly obtain anything I truly wanted.
Then there's Beyonce and Jay-Z tickets everyone is raving about, but I'm in a stand still because I have **** I need to do. I have dreams that money actually can buy. So while everyone is raving about concert tickets,
I'm at a standstill wondering how in the hell will I afford to make my dreams come true when Beyonce could've made them happen 100 times over and then some...
Feeling unlucky, unwealthy, and under qualified
Then a friend tells me "cast your anxiety upon the lord"
Deep breath in.
Exhale. Something greater is coming my way.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
Dandelion kisses
Blown away by the wind.
The feathery seeds left me;
In which way have I sinned?
I don't deserve these broken shards
Embedded in my heart.
Was it truly a lie when you told me
"'Till death do us part"?
I feel most betrayed because
I'm lying to myself.
Are they just mere myths of inexistent
Romance like the Elf on the Shelf?
I write from inexperience;
I call them 'true lies'.
I've never a dandelion kiss,
Just slight contact of the eyes.
There are no cuts in my heart,
Just plain jealousy.
My pure white wedding was only
A dream replayed endlessly.
So I'll tell you this:
They say that writing is expressive;
But though my words are dishonest
I have to say, they're quite impressive.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
Two linked sugars make up a disaccharide. And that's
what we are. Simple, plain
table sugar, dully passed back
and forth to sweeten our taste.
Sometimes I'll accidentally switch
the shakers for breakfast, hand
you the salt, and you hand
me a spice so harsh that
my tongue curls at the unexpected switch.
I do not prefer the boring, plain
predictable exchange of taste
I followed for so many years back.
So I turn my back
to you, hold up my hand
as a shield of what you would say next. "Have you lost your taste,"
you say, anger overshadowing your faded love, "that
I've grown plain
to you?" I knew then to make the switch
into freedom from the same scene replayed. I get up and turn the light switch
off and leave you in the dark. "When you get back
from work," I say to the plain
dining room, "you will find this ring off my hand."
I can barely see your eyes glowing in the only source of morning light. "That's
absurd," you exclaim. "All because of how I want my cereal to taste?"
I shake my head. "It's not the physical taste. It's the taste
of you that makes me want to switch
out of this marriage. You aren't giving me what I want, and that
is my reason to back
out of this. You offered your hand
to hold mine, to support me, but it's all so plain."
I continue, "And isn't it plain
to see that my taste
in relationships lack passion? I give out my hand
to anything that flicks the switch
of love. You give me the nudge to turn it back
off." With that
I exit the house and try to restore my taste the way I had it back
to my actual preferences. I switch from the plain
safety and run with the risk that I never had at hand.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
I wanna be all tangled in with you tonight.
All legs and arms and lips, tangled.
Heart strings, mirth and eyes locked.
Tangled.
Days unfolding and replayed in pillow talk.
Tangled-
Fingers into one another's,
in the hair,- hair tangled too, yet
In all these tangled knots
We twist and pull- tangled.
Gets tighter, closer and impossible.
Tangled,
We will never be undone.
Tangled.
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
For sustenance we trudge on
Just to sustain
This callus equilibrium of fragile crystals
swaying in the wind, falling constantly
Employing the cleverest techniques of fleeting upward momentum
Short-lived displays of affection bleeding the small offering received at birth
endlessly replayed to our children's eyes
Despondent indentured servants scribbling through skin and tendons
Just to feed their families the rice they can no longer grow
And sending these fairy tales to the rosy-cheeked offspring of their oppressor's store bought dreams
To keep the oppression alive .
To operate at peak efficiency.
To transfer honest muscle through wire mesh.
And fatten.
And enfeeble
Enforce the prerequisites to match the scale's testimony.
Testify! Oh, Lord. We thank you for this meal stolen from our inferiors.
Please Please Please.
We demand pleasure. IT IS REQUIRED.
For if we feel sadness, then we have failed.
And we'll lay down what we don't have space in our engorged bellies for.
It will be placed, with all due honors, to our greatest shrine.
Where we are honest with our real Mother.
Where the proud, twicely worn, footwear of our warrior-spiritless cows rests
Where erections limp as collapsed towers, respected by false jihads, sleep.
Where dream's plastic refusal composts never; nourishing nothing.
Where potential is pure impotence.
The bed we all share.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
Free Flying above
the clouds
Soaring above the Earth and through the stars.
Past all of the known planets
Those out of our galaxy
The new planets I view
The new and hotter suns I see
Blaze more energies to fill the empty regions
of my mind
called "mystery."
Fuel my spirit and make it run harder
To new found inhabitants and their newer worlds.
Astral planes of spirit that don't require a vessel
or star ship to hold in or hold back
the soul that travels as it's own transport
Faster than any "law of physics"
Realer than the factual brought in by third party satellites.
I gather more and more brighter and true information
Later to bring such forth in my grounded and non-traveling form
Waiting to share my results to those who don't limit their beliefs
to any said "rule" or "fenced in logic formula"
I ride the waves to the calling gates of astral transport
As my soul escapes my heavy and limited physical self
Late in the night
The recordings of fact stored in the logics of my soul
Are vivid and ready to be replayed
to share such gifts of learning to those eager to believe in it's payload
and form.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
You know the way I took it,
At the break of dawn
You know how I slid from your window sill,
Like the gold flakes from my fingernails,
Fandango in the bluing sky
You knew when you awoke,
Rubbing cobwebs from your cracks
When you looked to see it gone,
The gun into your mind
Surely someone clever as you,
Would never let it sit
For a replayed taboo like me,
To steal it as you slept
Your periscope eyes have found me,
Hurdling from the howling woods,
Deep with festers
From your pets
You, you scrawny herbivore
While I eat carnage
Tangy and red
You, it seems, possess some bravery
When you shot those mind bullets
Pushing through my back
But you missed, my dear
You missed
Or was it just your intent
To slash
And torment
Instead?
But you missed, my dear
You missed
--Lily
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
The way to the city
on both sides of the street
was discretely displayed
then replayed
as recollections of the mundane
inequitable and respectable
a ubiquitous ritual
with screams of laughter
cries from shouting houses
and grimacing faces.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 2:55 AM UTC