"retied" poems
The Kitten from under the chair
Thank God for the day the drug bust took place
The Sting was set up and the early morning began
Kicking down the door yelling and seeing their face
As the task force entered weapons raised, the victim ran
The sounds of cyiruns from police cars gather, road blocks in place
I wonder that day who of us would go home that night, or that man
weapons drawn and hostage began, police cars every where during the chase
After it was over hostage was released, victim in cuffs arrested were pleased.
Task force enter the building of **** , under the chair was a kitten that was left.
She was so tiny frail and shaken, eyes of fright the kitten was taken
I took her home gave her milk,wrapped her in a blanket ,laid her to rest
Tiny frighten little kitten, She inhaled so much **** sickly and shaken.
I adopted her and gave her a name and so much love I felt.
Her nane is penny and I made sure I would adopt her before she was taken
The kitten from under the chair
She's 18 years old now and has epileptic seizures treated with Phenobarbital and loving care
Oh how I love the kitten from under the chair that has given me so much love
I'm retied and so is she we both love each other til the years set us free.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 7:40 AM UTC
When I was but a shadow,
You saw through my disguise.
You saw my mind,
Looked past the blight,
You held me close,
Untied this rope,
And retied into a neat red bow:
Uniting mind, body and soul.
Jul 9, 2022
Jul 9, 2022 at 7:50 PM UTC
They sat in his closet,
His shoes.
In the comfortable dark.
They seemed like him;
Well worn, and content.
I looked them over
Believing they were homelike,
Believing they were soft,
Unlike the hard soles I wear;
The small and binding ones
That sometimes give blisters,
Making me feel that his shoes
Would be much nicer to wear.
"Try them", he said,
And he handed them to me;
So I put them on.
And they didn't seem so bad.
"Walk in them", he then said.
And once I'd walked a mile, or so,
I felt the pebbles that had migrated
into the tears that I hadn't seen before,
I felt the roughness of the tread,
already exhausted from endless journeys;
I bent to disentangle the laces,
frayed from having been tied,
and retied.
My feet hurt.
I put on my own shoes.
They felt different.
They suited me more;
with new-found room to grow.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
The old bench creaked underneath her as she sat down, pulling a cigarette from behind her ear and lighting it. She looked aged, although she wasn't more than twenty-two. Beneath her thin legs, the bench felt like the sandpaper carpet she had sat on for hours in astonished silence. Her eyes shut tightly, trying not to envision that room, trying not remember the sound of heart beating angrily.
Muffled screams that, if they weren't absorbed into his unyielding hand, would have filled the house and escaped the windows with anguish. Thrashing, thirty-seven minutes of useless thrashing against rough arms and legs, their massive power pinning her to the mattress. Crying. More thrashing. More attempted screaming. Thirty-seven minutes of the kind of fear that paralyzes a person. He removed his hand from its cover over mouth and stood. The room remained dark until he reached the door, one long, violent arm reaching back to flick the lights on, then the door was shut. Footsteps descending the staircase, a mockingly gentle shutting of the front door, then the house was still.
Her hands shook with anxiety, panic tracing every fiber of her being. She could remember only the white room with coarse carpet and a single queen-sized mattress. Nothing else. She recalled how the mint green sheet looked so new, but there was no blanket, how the spider she saw tiptoeing on the walls didn't frighten her like it usually would, how the light on the ceiling shone too brightly.
Forcing her eyes open, she escaped the room and returned to the present. The cigarette she forgot to smoke was burning filter, so she stubbed it out on the faded, wooden bench, retied the white apron around her waist and slipped in through the back door of her mama's restaurant. The fear slowly subsided as she talked to faceless customers, building in the back of her mind until it decided to return again.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
That child isn't real
It's just a doll in the corner
The porcelain catching dust
While its eyes roll back inside its head
The curls of plastic hair lie limp
And the bow in her hair has come untied
The child can't hear me
Or the shouting in the next room
It won't feel the shudder of doors
Slamming in my face
Reverberating through this cave of a house
It won't hear me wail in the night
The child can't see me
Or the mascara running down my cheeks
It can't see you turn your back
And leave me to my sorrows
Wallowing in the empty rooms of this dark shell
The child can't speak
She can't tell me what she's seen
She can't tell me what to do
Now that I'm abandoned in this wasteland
She can't tell me who she is
But I know she'll keep my secrets
The child can't move
From that spot she found in the corner
The cobwebs bind her limbs
And she is lifeless, stuck
The mirrors in this house are all shattered
And every window has been boarded up
All but those staring glass eyes of hers
That child isn't real
It's just a doll in the corner
Its porcelain is catching dust
While its eyes roll back inside its head
The curls of plastic hair lie limp
But I've retied the bow in her hair
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
In a still boat on a calm sea,
A kite flying high above me.
In a summer breeze the kite will lift
Causing the boat to drift.
This is life as I know it, a life to be lived,
My eternal quest to taste fulfilment
At the very least self forgiveness.
It's an easy concept
When you know who you are,
I can soar like a comet, I can shoot like a star.
But let the clouds be your ceiling,
Try to suppress those niggling feelings,
Avoid soaring away on some pointless notion,
Return to the comfort of that still ocean.
Return to the craft, to that life saving raft.
Safe. Calm. Normal
In a still boat on a calm sea
An anchor weighs heavy
In the depths below me.
In an insular place,
In the darkness of night
The chain of the anchor
Pulls heavy and tight.
This is death as I see it.
This is anti-flight.
As I am dragged to the morbid bed,
Nowhere to hide from the fearful dread,
The black ink ocean floods my head
And I writhe and I wriggle
Until the chain, through rot and rust
Crumbles and, like I, falls to dust.
Free, I swim towards the boat.
I float to the surface.
I climb on the vessel, I take in the light,
I bathe in the glory of a no win fight,
Re-chained to the anchor, retied to the kite,
Momentarily
Safe. Calm. Normal.
Momentarily
Kind of alright
Copyright Marc Hawkins 2015
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 2:01 AM UTC
The sun beats down
the waves make a laughing sound
my buddy sits, picking at a backlash
its a dollar a fish, and I'm taking his cash
As I catch bass on every other cast
he sighs loudly, still on his ***
I tell him to cut it and just restring
he says but I just put line on this **** thing
The wind cools the dripping sweat
while he is sitting there, I say hand me the net
as I boat another big fish
he looks for a Genie to make his wish
I look at his knees, they are glowing beet red
I am glad I put sunscreen on my face and head
he goes to stand, finally retied
he moans loudly, his knees are fried
Too late now, to apply lotion
tomorrow in jeans, he wont enjoy any motion
as the denim, rubs the blisters more raw
and I give him the total, from the fish that I caught
See I caught bass, the number twenty three
while he was backlashed or stuck in a tree
He finally did manage to catch some
but too little to late the damage was done
He hands me a twenty
I go to slap a knee
his fist comes up and waves at me
then his middle finger is finally set free
I say when are we fishing again
tomorrow evening he says with a grin
See no matter how good, or bad the bite is
its always better than work, taking care of the biz
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC