"reprinted" poems
In my mind, I raced against time
I smoked peyote with the Apache
I chased Kangaroos
Through the bush with the Aborigine
All the while
...I searched for the power within me
In my mind, I outpaced time
I drew cave art with the Neanderthal
I climbed to the top of the mountain with the Sherpa
I hunted seal out on the frozen tundra with the Inuit
All the while
...I searched for the power within me
In my mind, I eclipsed time
I wrote poetry while under the tutelage of Langston Hughes
And I created visual greatness while apprentice to Gordon Parks
I even stood on the wall with Che' Guevara, like a Sentry standing watch
All the while
...I continued searching for the power within me
In my mind, I turned to face time
I wrote an addendum to the Emancipation Proclamation
And I saw the ugly truths
Of freedom's farcical Declaration
All the while
...I continued searching for the power within me
In my mind, I embraced time
I sought to free my nation from the pandemic perils of *******
And I prayed that we Americans would be free of
The snares of racial and economic divide that still has us chained
I did this while searching for truth, in this, our most tenuous hour
...then empyreally, God reached for me, touching me, and I finally found my power
* Reprinted from 'Exegesis a Decade of Poetry by Mekael'
© July 14, 2009 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Dawn and I dawn my caftan
With pen in hand
I close my eyes
And start crafting
I put on my djellabah
Which begets my lojong
...and soon
I begin to float
Like paint, ink blankets
The sheets of my Bengali jute
...and soon
I begin to coast
In this moment
I exist happily
Outside of all I know
About me
* Reprinted from 'My Hajj A Collection of Poems by Mekael'
© September 16, 2011 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Arrogantly
We fight over
…pieces of the earth
Ravenously
As if driven by
…blood thirst
We beasts, we stir
We **** we pillage
…her aquifer
We dishonor creation
When we act like
…we weren't born from her
* Reprinted from 'My Hajj A Collection of Poems by Mekael'
© September 16, 2011 by Mekael Shane
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC
For the Chipmunk in My Yard
By Robert Gibb
I think he knows I’m alive, having come down
The three steps of the back porch
And given me a good once over. All afternoon
He’s been moving back and forth,
Gathering odd bits of walnut shells and twigs,
While all about him the great fields tumble
To the blades of the thresher. He’s lucky
To be where he is, wild with all that happens.
He’s lucky he’s not one of the shadows
Living in the blond heart of the wheat.
This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires
Of starlight, he’ll curl among their roots,
Wanting nothing but the slow burn of matter
On which he fastens like a small, brown flame.
From What the Heart Can Bear by Robert Gibb. Poem copyright ©2009 by Robert Gibb. Reprinted by permission of the author and Autumn House Press.
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Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 10:27 AM UTC
Growing up in a small town,
we didn't notice
the background figures of our lives,
gray men, gnarled women,
dropping from us silently
like straightpins to a dressmaker's floor.
The old did not die
but simply vanished
like discs of snow on our tongues.
We knew nothing then of nothingness
or pain or loss—
our days filled with open fields,
football,
turtles and cows.
One day we noticed
Death has a musty breath,
that some we loved
died dreadfully,
that dying
sometimes takes time.
Now, standing in a supermarket line
or easing out of a parking lot,
we realize
we've become the hazy backgrounds
of younger lives.
How long has it been,
we ask no one in particular,
since we've seen a turtle
or a cow?
"Straightpins" by Jo McDougall, from Satisfied with Havoc. © Autumn House Press, 2004. Reprinted with permission.
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
Her lips were like makeshift
Velvet candy,
Her eyes gleaming green
Like a cat's,
Slits of gray and chocolate
Rounding her iris and
Hair made of fire and sun
Alike,
She was a book that could
Chill your soul with the gaze
That warmed your thoughts,
A book whose edges were frayed
And cover was worn,
But oh, how her words dripped
Heavy with ink and passion
As though she had been reprinted.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC
anywhere u go
its about what u do
who u know
what u have
take a piece
and one for the road
take and take
is all we do
judged like a book
every single day
in one glance
no second thoughts
hardcover hollywood
special editions
and just for dummies rule
those text book kings
and things of the past
replaced by
sefl-help gurus
with a thirst for power
history books burn
and dictionaries die
bibles and korans
wage war for deeds
written in oil
more precious than blood
lawbooks lie
with family trees
while notebooks fill
with pointless lives
but my story is written
with my sweat
and tears
filled with pages and pages
of love and fears
i dont need to be
hardcovered
reprinted
bound up
and edited
forget the colors
and the revamped image
no motion pictures
just a story
on my shelf
the last of them all
the Paperback Boy.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 10:47 AM UTC
Souls sold for
Antiquated crude
As bitter enemies crossed over
Frozen tundra and vast deserts to duel
Quietly does the Dark Wraith of death
Sweep across the blood soaked terrain
And the Angel of Mercy does the like
To ease our fallen soldiers' pains
America's nefarious war in Iraq has been for naught
Many young lives were
Recklessly packaged for this reckoning
Packaged, parceled, and bought
I've often wondered
If the dead would
Protest against the government's lies
If they could
So many lives extinguished on both sides
They breathe no more
Doomed to the cold cauldrons of their eternal sepulchers
By the wicked Gods of war
* Reprinted from 'Exegesis a Decade of Poetry by Mekael'
© July 14, 2009 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:27 PM UTC
Tribal beats are sounding
Inside my head; echoing and pounding
Demanding that I come home
But which way do I go
How do I leave this waste filled battle zone
I am like you
Traversing through the detritus alone
Tribal beats are sounding
Inside my heart; resonating and pounding
Demanding that I come home
But which way do I go
I'm waiting out in the dark alone
Hoping that the Angels will release me
So that I can find my way home peacefully
* Reprinted from 'The Road to Damascus Poems by Mekael'
© November 3, 2008 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
We float
Through purple-velvet skies
Out where black holes are born
And the Milky Way lies
We fly
Through purple-hazed skies
Out where nebulae fade
And an apricot sun spies
We coast
Through purple-blue skies
Out where the platinum moon sits
And supernovas explode as we sail by
* Reprinted from 'Love Letters the Select Collection by Mekael'
© July 29,2009 by Mekael
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:25 PM UTC
My big sisters made every mistake in the book
A big book
I know
because it was like a manuel that I received at birth
Slid under our doorways
They gave out copies
They reprinted chapters
They drew out maps
They sketched out the details
We flipped through the pages
Turning each lesson
******* earing the good ones
Like the time my sisters got so mad they kicked in the door
Or the time my sister tried a creaky houses old pipes
Leaning over
"It won't flush"
Swoosh a wave of water
Or the lesson about heartbreak
Reminding my brother Joel and I
to look with our eyes closed
But hearts open
Because they said that's how you know the difference
And don't settle down to quickly
They whispered between hallways and bed sheets
Because marriage is forever
And people aren't gaurenteed
My sisters authored pages and pages
Roads leading to roads to new roads
And the book grew older
The book came out!
This time celebrating parenting
Remember to lock the front door
Because that toddler with the wild red hair will
try to
Houdini escape everytime
Or sometimes softer
Remember that this life is yours
And you are steered by your choices
Said the sister with the bright blue
Eyes
And midnight colored hair
And she said sometimes
You will have to trade in your ballet slippers
For bare feet
Just so you can truly have your feet on the ground
And listen said the other
Sometimes resolving and letting go
Is easier than holding onto tightly
As she shows us her bruises.
And be yourself Lael
And don't try to hard Joel
Because the boy with broken heart can't be fixed
And the girls with the wild sides can't be tamed
And make sure you both stand tall
But not looking down
Look straight ahead at the horizon
Because we've already done it like that
And the sun will always guide you back to blue skies.
And I if it doesn't they said
We sure as hell will.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
Lovely is she
Who came
And rescued me
She courageously
Showed me her heart
It, with its tracery of scars
And though the hurt she bears is profound
It has never stopped her
From looking to the stars
* Reprinted from 'Love Letters the Select Collection by Mekael'
© July 29, 2009 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
Perhaps
One day
My son will ask
'Dad, why do you climb? '
Smiling
I'll reply
I climb
So you can fly
* Reprinted from 'Simian Soul Poems by Mekael'
© July 21, 2010 by Mekael Shane
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
Each night I stalk
In measured steps
...on the widow's walk
Hoping that I'll draw nigh
The apportioned thread
...of the soul I bought
* Reprinted from
'Tomorrow Today Poems by Mekael'
© January 1, 2014 by Mekael Shane
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC
Who is she
To clothe herself
…with light
And wear it, as if it were a garment
Who is she
To make the Angels sing
…with joy
And melody, synthed in perfect harmony
Who is she
To make me believe
…in things
I feel, but cannot see
Who is she
To open up and separate the skies
…to part deep, ancient waters
As if she's the myth alive
* Reprinted from 'Tomorrow Today Poems by Mekael'
© January 1, 2014 Mekael Shane
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 12:05 AM UTC
The beauty of people,
Like the beauty of books,
Has many different forms.
Young and fresh,
Old and well kept,
Weathered many storms...
The beauty of youth
Gets noticed more
Like a brand new books
Fresh from the store
With plot lines that remain
Secret and sweet mystery
But of course they lack
Weighted words and history
Old and taken care of
Just a little frayed
It's in great shape for it's age,
But still, it's going gray
People will admire it
For how it holds itself
But it may be missing out
Just sitting on it's shelf
Then there's books
With covers stained
Dog-eared pages
In some pain
These may be my favorite
I read them by the stack
You know they've seen the world
They've been there and back.
Maybe they'll be rebound
Reprinted on fresh trees
But for now they are content
To give us torn out pages
And fill us with their memories.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber ******* or a rubber crotch,
Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand
To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed
To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit——
Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.
Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that?
Naked as paper to start
But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk, talk.
It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.
Sylvia Plath, "The Applicant" from The Collected Poems. Copyright © 2008 by Sylvia Plath. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
Source: The Collected Poems (Faber and Faber, 1989)
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Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
If we die
For less than,
Our humanity.
We aren't worth
The flesh were printed on.
Worthless copies of nothingness.
That are reprinted in vain.
Let our humanity be the virtue,
That we live for.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 4:31 PM UTC
The humdrumness of happily ever after,
Dull, like grains of sand.
Like waves, ever perpetual,
Ever repeated,
Ever reprinted.
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC