"reversal" poems
#*Lord Jesus, Plower of my heart,
though the darkness descends around me
and heavy moods fall over me,
though the warm feelings of intimacy begin to fade
and encroaching melancholy threatens to set in
like a cold reversal of the winds,
still I will rejoice in Your presence with me,
for You are causing me to press beyond—
beyond the delightful sense of You
and into the delightful assurance of You.
If I know nothing else, I know that You are here,
You are faithful and You love me.
So I will keep clinging to that
when everything else seems to slip
like dust through my fingers
and all hope of good things
in this life grows dim.
I will cling to the promise
that You are clinging to me,
that You’ve got me no matter what,
that You are never leaving or letting go.
For You are the unchanging I AM
in my ever-changing circumstances,
through my ever-shifting emotions,
over my ever-shaking life
and around my ever-feeble heart.
Here is my hand, Lord Jesus.
I put it safely in Yours and trust You
to lead me through this dark night.
Work Your holy, harrowing fingers
deep into the soil of my heart
until every idol is uprooted,
every stone removed
and every broken place restored.
Thank You, Jesus.
I love You.*#
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
Gendering Woman *******
Beautiful, anatomical part // Ugly, anatomical part
Natural, pleasurable // Burdensome, loathsome
Female Symbolic // Femme Symbolic
MALIGNANT HEALTHY
fearful, tearful, wretched // joyful, hopeful, euphoric,
bereft, wept, grieving // embryonic, rapt, relieving
leaving, loss // believing, gain
m a y b e - d e a t h r e - b i r t h
BI-LATERAL
MASTECTOMIES
Operating Theatre
SURGEON ANAESTHETIST
cleaning/ cutting/ knife/ scalpel // doping/ unconscious/ airway
blood / tissue // hypotension
loss/ damage // shock
drains // sinus rhythm
stitches // pain deadening
tight binding // reversal drugs
POST-OPERATIVE
a l i v e a w a k e
draining, bound & stitched draining, bound & stitched
DRAINED
~ UNBOUND
-- UNSTITCHED –
Empty chest Flat Chest
FREEDOM from Disease FREEDOM from Dis-ease
© M.L.Emmett
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
PARNELL'S FUNERAL
UNDER the Great Comedian's tomb the crowd.
A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown
About the sky; where that is clear of cloud
Brightness remains; a brighter star shoots down;
What shudders run through all that animal blood?
What is this sacrifice? Can someone there
Recall the Cretan barb that pierced a star?
Rich foliage that the starlight glittered through,
A frenzied crowd, and where the branches sprang
A beautiful seated boy; a sacred bow;
A woman, and an arrow on a string;
A pierced boy, image of a star laid low.
That woman, the Great Mother imaging,
Cut out his heart. Some master of design
Stamped boy and tree upon Sicilian coin.
An age is the reversal of an age:
When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone,
We lived like men that watch a painted stage.
What matter for the scene, the scene once gone:
It had not touched our lives. But popular rage,
Hysterica passio dragged this quarry down.
None shared our guilt; nor did we play a part
Upon a painted stage when we devoured his heart.
Come, fix upon me that accusing eye.
I thirst for accusation. All that was sung.
All that was said in Ireland is a lie
Bred out of the c-ontagion of the throng,
Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
Leave nothing but the nothingS that belong
To this bare soul, let all men judge that can
Whether it be an animal or a man.
The rest I pass, one sentence I unsay.
Had de Valera eaten parnell's heart
No loose-lipped demagogue had won the day.
No civil rancour torn the land apart.
Had Cosgrave eaten parnell's heart, the land's
Imagination had been satisfied,
Or lacking that, government in such hands.
O'Higgins its sole statesman had not died.
Had even O'Duffy -- but I name no more --
Their school a crowd, his master solitude;
Through Jonathan Swift's clark grove he passed, and there
plucked bitter wisdom that enriched his blood.
7.7k
This isn't him,
This can't be the face he's left here,
This isn't the face he's used to seeing,
Solidified in the mirror.
It can't be the current one,
Or even close,
It's not at all how he recalls from the ponds he's known.
Not the one admired,
On crystal clear days,
Or the one sang with,
Through some humming nights.
Maybe his memory is just fogged up,
Maybe this reflection is just blurry from the showers,
They'd have burned others skin.
Still this can't be the face.
Not with the potholes for eyes,
Waning moons for lips,
And cliches for brains.
Or maybe things,
Maybe they do just change,
Maybe sometimes somethings sink in the earthquakes,
And are never swam in again.
Maybe sometimes there's no hope for reversal, redemption,
Or some rectifying light to right what's left,
Only hope in surviving the new.
I guess that's all there ever was.
If only he had it sooner,
He would have thrived in the old world,
Found melodies in the days and more mirror-less memories for the nights.
Only then could things be better off,
Different.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 5:27 PM UTC
I don't ask your permission
to make a fool of myself,
tell you publicly
what my near, dear ones
have almost no clue
my mental torment,
headache-constant,
imperial and impervious
poetry, pills, therapy,
caring words
don't pay my kind of bills
a man has a job.
Feed you family.
Protect and serve.
do it well,
there is no acceptable excuse.
none.
was supposed to be easing on down,
slipping under.
come so far, my soul is old.
my tired is w/o definition.
the legs, knotted shoulders,
body aging faster than I can write.
the doctors only give me
if's and unless's,
contingencies in order
to die a little slower
warped, reversal of causality,
the older I get,
the more mouths to feed.
tough, this unexpected situation,
a nine lives time survivor,
do it again?
defraud myself,
living like I can afford
to write,
with courageous reckless abandon,
when earnest is deadly
and Lady Luck gave me the finger.
simply amazing.
eyes, constantly tearing,
nobody notices.
Do not ! Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
this well, just got dregs left,
drudgery ain't potable, or even
worth drinking.
need nothing,
for myself, need nothing.
not one object on this planet
want to posses or be possessed by.
Monday wrestle with strife,
star in my reality show once again.
now, deny reality.
Do not!
Like this poem,
don't.
hate weak,
been strong so long.
my voice is stilled,
it's poverty exposed,
ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
hush me not, for tis true,
write on for an audience of one,
on but one subject,
a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered,
after decades of trying.
poverty exposed,
a life unmasked
for what it is worth,
or not.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the contents pour out like
spaghetti confetti.
Tommy, Elizabeth's boyfriend, rode his ocean blue Huffy, until the tread on his tires grew bald and until the grips were blanketed by dead skin. Looking for her, panoramic views of the horizon leapt beside him. Silhouettes of his legs, churned and kissed the orange and caramel dusk. With every tear in his hamstrings and calves, the **** in his sky grew and swallowed the memory of Elizabeth Mendenhall, Honor Student.
Margot, Elizabeth's twelve year-old sister, was an idealistic soul. Taking a Sharpie, she wrote on her sister's wall, "Liz, there is no death greater than the loss of self, and no life greater than one where we continuously search for what self is." Margot struggled with concentrating and frying eggs - but focused on the sunflower garden, dangerously and perfectly.
Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.
She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."
The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.
Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
I've kept this pain away.
Held it at bay,
since the day
of Your
unwanted
touch.
Now You are old.
I take care,
as this is My loving
duty. Reversal of
roles.
Time has stilled
the tremors
of angst.
Turmoil and
discomfort.
Yet, when bothered,
Your harsh tones
enter My body
and heart,
unwanted.
Perturbation
with words,
accusations that
I was the
troubled one...
Grown Woman
that I am,
I find myself
11 years old
once again
Copyright © 2016. Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
What is wrong with using "not"?
It is a negative to an eloquent adjective, verb or noun.
Simply the opposite state of being; which one should NOT frown
For programmers, "not" is a logical complement,
which helps us filter-out things we do NOT want.
And is used sparsely and NOT to flaunt
By simply twisting our thought at 180-degrees,
it's used to portray an abrupt reversal image in our mind.
A quick look at a mirror, and NOT you will find.
Affix a k-, yet "knot" still sounds the same
but it will help keep our things secure.
From our pretzels, shoes and the ribbon-wrapped gifts we procure.
Add an s-, and the children will be amused;
defiance is in its nature, is it NOT?
That is, to disgust their friends with each others snot.
So, to be or NOT to be.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
Oft repeated feelings
Carrying the burden
Of yesteryear
Sits heavy on the heart
Moments, once true and fancy
Gave immense pleasure
Turn against you
Leaving you aside
Dreams become nightmares
Halls of fame
Bring you much ignominy
Sudden reversal of fortune
Can become your nemesis
Carrying the memories
Deep within the confines
Of the once happy heart
Rusted and tired
It still beats with anticipation
Of a reconciliation
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 8:22 AM UTC
So there we were.
You like it, you want it.
You've got to say you'll wear it.
You've got to swear you'll live it
and then I can be you.
So here we are.
There's good news
and there's bad news.
I can breathe
and you can walk in my shoes.
So everything you ever wished for
is now all yours forever.
Poetry by Kaydee
Nov 25, 2018
Nov 25, 2018 at 4:13 PM UTC
Eventually Rising
Like all the Rest
I'm tired
Alone with everyone else
Although this misery
is like water on my Soul umbrella
I can hear the sound of victory
careening beyond oppression like Ella
There is something more
there is a force
ebbing and waxing the hour
of the instant and within it
a porous
Avenue for Advancement for
All, and One!
The buzzards may circle
pecking order, and peace
Only the rancor resource the feast
Why does conservation fail,
nature of the beast
or shale we sell
Gears without the grease
Landlopers versus Land Merchants
and
Machines versus human beings
and
Change versus Stay the Same
and
Monopoly
and
Monotony
and
Unipolarity
and
Is ... IS
it
All worth bile?
Did you learn Private Pyle!?
Yes Sir, General Science!
Sure!
Can't breathe a heartbeat
can't take a stand from a seat
and when the end is near
I promise you has no fear
Glass Rock and Stone!
Sure!
may hold money but not a home
Mother and Father Earth is our biome
billionaires and paupers rot together
yet alone!
Break
Who beholds the opulent eye?
Tell me who makes it out alive?
Believers in death will die
Those who weary tarry on
All the rest
eventually rise
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 7:51 PM UTC
I am victim only to constant distractions,
restrictions, prescriptions, vicarious factors,
as various factions of elitism prescribe defeat
to the common man; the hard working talented
beaten upon by the self driven commerce land.
Businessmen, crooks, warlords and bankers;
victory purports itself the higher moral ground.
******* the world, lie on the crimson sand.
The brevity of riches in led laden ditches,
trenches v armistice; one man’s control over
cadets and lieutenants. Equality it seems
is general ignorance, propose roll reversal
and receive corporal punishment. Capital
interests will be met with bursaries, bail
out the banks and return to your knees,
put out your hands and beg for your feed.
If the top three percent own more wealth
than the lower half put together while
politicians claim to be fair-weather,
conclude that sincerities amiss, that
your representatives are on the pay roll
of profit driven lobbyists. Career crazed fat-cats
couldn’t care less if you're in tattered garments
or there’s a hole in your dress, their polished
boots carry them from vault to vault
while we fill another with oil-baron asphalt.
As social repression pushes populations
science progresses, enabling armed forces
to kettle us, cut us off and circle on horses.
Power-shifts across the globe become jaded
by investment with private militias and fascist
supremacists seizing resources from war
torn villages to fund their crude sourced
morality, migrants and refugee families
are vilified by ignorance forged in cynicism
caused by the inequality of education.
Here lie the symptoms of infinite regression,
hold mirror to gene-pool as it replicates
the same flawed equation, as populations
expire and conspire so does the problem.
Bombing a country without repercussions,
is as likely as a breaking the waters surface
without sending ripples to the adjacent atoms.
These are the dark ages of social stagnation.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 11:00 AM UTC
remembering
memorial day just days away
now a special celebration
drenched from over-soul pondering
greeting emerson this eve
his 209th year
poor richards
a place for welcoming
many memories disjoined
all gleaned from our
decades of living
a seeming descent
as we spoke and we
listened
antique autos remembered
youthful power and speed
swimwear two-piece and worn
shock and awe
by our nun
a dog shady by name
departure left questions
of lingering life
youthful dark deeds
some expressed some
in silence remained
memories with colors
some of an evil hue
deceased birds and a snake
regret and sorrow
thickening memories
some weighing still
then a reversal
recent memory brought forth
an injured slight bird
poor richards
again our place of recall
a hummingbird wounded
a new life endangered
dim prospects trapped
our darkened concern
clumsy intention then
unexpectedly blessed
a young woman appeared
joining intention with
her joyful acceptance
a bird found home
revival and rest
this memory of rescue
brought spirits ascending
with the bird our recovery
celebration resumed
glasses now lifted
new beginning
emerson 209 soon
("We sink to rise." RWE)
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
I stand before the sea
and it rolls and rolls in its green blood
saying, "Do not give up one god
for I have a handful."
The trade winds blew
in their twelve-fingered reversal
and I simply stood on the beach
while the ocean made a cross of salt
and hung up its drowned
and they cried Deo Deo.
The ocean offered them up in the vein of its might.
I wanted to share this
but I stood alone like a pink scarecrow.
The ocean steamed in and out,
the ocean gasped upon the shore
but I could not define her,
I could not name her mood, her locked-up faces.
Far off she rolled and rolled
like a woman in labor
and I thought of those who had crossed her,
in antiquity, in nautical trade, in slavery, in war.
I wondered how she had borne those bulwarks.
She should be entered skin to skin,
and put on like one's first or last cloth,
envered like kneeling your way into church,
descending into that ascension,
though she be slick as olive oil,
as she climbs each wave like an embezzler of white.
The big deep knows the law as it wears its gray hat,
though the ocean comes in its destiny,
with its one hundred lips,
and in moonlight she comes in her ******
flashing ******* made of milk-water,
flashing buttocks made of unkillable lust,
and at night when you enter her
you shine like a neon soprano.
I am that clumsy human
on the shore
loving you, coming, coming,
going,
and wish to put my thumb on you
like The Song of Solomon.
2k
I don't believe at 1st love sight,
and so I fell at second sight. -_-
But why is it at New Year's strike,
I greet you dear and felt so none?
I deemed this heart as dead so once,
I felt so tired of losing heart.
I spent those years on a neverland,
where your single word could make my life
But now it seems that it's just a dream
that fades away in a single snap.
Now, I'm scared that my heart is dead
Feel again, then fade again??
This is a cycle I need to end
the deceit of love my heart so makes.
I'm the culprit, I'm not sane
Stay away cause I might tame
You know, it takes 2 years. . .
2years, of a reversal's piece. .
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
This year,
although I know
that you're keen
to set up that nativity scene,
I'm advocating an alternative means,
a change in priorities
for your generosities.
I'm annointing a reversal,
suggesting you parcel
a hamper of staples
and so turn the tables
on advent doors
that ignore the poor.
I'm asking that you choose
to proclaim the good news
beyond the pews,
to pursue a change of people's views
of what they thought they knew this meant.
Yes, let's reverse this advent
and make something heaven-sent.
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 9:16 AM UTC
**SHE HAD HEARD TOO MANY TIMES
OF HOW SHE SHOULD LIVE IN THE
MOMENT.
WHEN IN FACT,
NOBODY COULD TAKE ENOUGH STEPS
BACK TO SEE THAT SHE WAS DEAD
INSIDE.**
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
an impurity
inherent or invasive,
identity, purpose, all unresolved,
substantive, long-lived, minute sized,
flexible, formed, yet more,
clearly shapelessly, so well visible
we'll disguise it
to survive it
without passport, an émigré
illegally legal border invasive,
but somehow more knowledgable
of the unmapped byways within,
more than me - how can that be?
never motionless, indeed,
always hurried, even when energy gathering,
despite it's detailed timetable,
detailing plentiful stops and
interminable unexplained
screeching wailings,
it has no smooth gliding,
nor rumbling grumbling halting,
to a final destination imprinted
this impurity,
a beheaded brainy horseman
searching for what,
I'm not permissioned,
unquenchable questioning,
all I am allowed is
sensory
surceasingly, unseasonably seeking
the undresser,
the verisign
of veritas
eyes mirrored reversal internal,
you can't understand why finishing
this poem is so hard
because you don't want to
confess this
impious impurity,
no étranger, it is but
copious insecurity,
of the all of you,
the ecstasy of
the rushing,
the upsetting,
universal unique to us, you,
unholy, ecclesiastical, catholic,
that impurity is just
the heart pumping the
mottled blood of
life coursing through your words
and out your fingertips,
onto those
stained drumsticks
used
to play the keyboard alphabet
about an
out-of-tempo
impure ecstasy
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
We weren't merely talking business;
her eyes said something else,
I strained my ears.Listened.
Soliloquy.Whispers.Fluttering eyes.
("Need to bring her around and sign the contract")
She is silent, eyes on papers
"wind on the waters..................
rustle of the leaves" mind sings,
I got it now, no doubt, we are attracted!
i am now a man with a heart that sizzles,
"she is of course a cut above the rest,
a fine mind, amazing number cruncher,
not to forget that pert posterior,
she makes me melt, I cannot be a hard nut"
my thought train stops to her whistle,
a lovely smile, as if to say
"Things would start to move
between us, when this is over"
A man and a woman,
both, business intentions, in mind's focus,
when together such a long time could
decide upon a course of action,
but i hear a buzz in my ears--
we seem to sway in a charged atmosphere
all i could think is this; "our business
doesn't reach anywhere.."
When--
every obstacle fell and crashed,
relaxing **** sniffing each other, like dogs,
in the cozy confines, of her hotel suite,
she said, the reason for the obstacles,
was pretension-
she had the need to feel in total control,
(till attraction, made the difference)
"Man and woman role reversal"
"I understand" I said.Executive privilege;
she is the senior and she deserved to feel good!
decorum in business deals must be kept.
We reversed roles
and felt more elated (we thought)
too little to do
when you properly decide, to divide responsibilities
(even in bed)
The deal was done,
she put her seal,
and outside the protocol,
a parting kiss and an invite:
Is it to be Venice?
( or Brazil?)
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
I
Under the Great Comedian's tomb the crowd.
A bundle of tempestuous cloud is blown
About the sky; where that is clear of cloud
Brightness remains; a brighter star shoots down;
What shudders run through all that animal blood?
What is this sacrifice? Can someone there
Recall the Cretan barb that pierced a star?
Rich foliage that the starlight glittered through,
A frenzied crowd, and where the branches sprang
A beautiful seated boy; a sacred bow;
A woman, and an arrow on a string;
A pierced boy, image of a star laid low.
That woman, the Great Mother imaging,
Cut out his heart. Some master of design
Stamped boy and tree upon Sicilian coin.
An age is the reversal of an age:
When strangers murdered Emmet, Fitzgerald, Tone,
We lived like men that watch a painted stage.
What matter for the scene, the scene once gone:
It had not touched our lives. But popular rage,
Hysterica passio dragged this quarry down.
None shared our guilt; nor did we play a part
Upon a painted stage when we devoured his heart.
Come, fix upon me that accusing eye.
I thirst for accusation. All that was sung.
All that was said in Ireland is a lie
Bred out of the c-ontagion of the throng,
Saving the rhyme rats hear before they die.
Leave nothing but the nothingS that belong
To this bare soul, let all men judge that can
Whether it be an animal or a man.
II
The rest I pass, one sentence I unsay.
Had de Valera eaten parnell's heart
No loose-lipped demagogue had won the day.
No civil rancour torn the land apart.
Had Cosgrave eaten parnell's heart, the land's
Imagination had been satisfied,
Or lacking that, government in such hands.
O'Higgins its sole statesman had not died.
Had even O'Duffy--but I name no more--
Their school a crowd, his master solitude;
Through Jonathan Swift's clark grove he passed, and there
plucked bitter wisdom that enriched his blood.
1.7k
Accidental introduction
Slow destruction
Deceptive beauty
Slow destruction
Accidental introduction
An invasive species
Not something with which to be reckoned
It can not be reversed
Not something with which to be reckoned
An invasive species
Superficial beauty
Brief Enjoyment
Ruinous existence
Brief Enjoyment
Superficial beauty
Tendrils of beauty
Tendrils of expiry
Self contradictory by definition
Tendrils of expiry
Tendrils of beauty
Taking everything needed for continuance of self
Removing what is needed for existence of everything else
Choking a red-faced, forlorn life
Removing what is needed for existence of everything else
Taking everything needed for continuance of self
There is no escape
The reach has extended too far for reversal
All that is left is acceptance of destruction
The reach has extended too far for reversal
There is no escape
There is no escape
Oct 8, 2011
Oct 8, 2011 at 5:03 PM UTC
You call it how you see it
And I can’t say I blame you
You put me in a state of disorder
So of course, chaos ensued
Now everything is warped, distorted, upside-down
An unnatural wrongness in vice
Imbalance of the gunas
Delusion has its price
I find myself guilty of
Sleeping during the vibrant sun,
Blind faith, self-destruction
And ultimate non-conformity
But I never meant to act unreligious
Never meant to cause disharmony
Never meant to act with self-praise
Never meant to act immorally
Contrary to the laws of the planet,
I embrace self-rejection
But should this terrible reversal of order
Be considered evil?
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 10:47 AM UTC
It was as common as grey slacks on a pensioner
Though smelled much, much better,
The shampoo she used, that is.
Used in abundance my numerous others,
But
None did justice as she.
Tempting chocolate tendrils skirting down
Colliding with shoulder and nape of her milky, silky neck.
I have kissed her there,
Nuzzled,
Suckled and slept.
Blanketed by her scented threads of security.
A sort of role reversal.
The supposing weak protect the strong as they sleep
And dream of where they are.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
You are a monsoon
A reversal of the seasonal winds
Familiar
and unpredictable
and hot
I'm not prepared for you, not ready
You move too fast
Slow it down
Maybe I could teach you how?
But I reside in a very shallow sea
I’m not alone here though
And then I don't feel so bad
We want each other in two different ways
The distinctions are clear to me
Not as much to you
Assumptions can’t be made this early on
And we won’t exist long enough to possess any unit of measure
You and I are just a fleeting moment in time
A blip
But within that second we were great
And you showed me a glimmer of life
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC