"revisiting" poems
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden
The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may
The ring of your parents' doorbell
The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back
The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story
The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night
The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades
The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to
Nostalgia
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 7:12 AM UTC
Sometimes the rain falls
as if its penning poetry
to the rhythm of its own music;
a sonic tune of liquid tapestry.
Cleft from a sky immersed
in the scene of a tragedy.
It's tears,
the pitter-patter;
a solemn dance
for all humanity.
An ancient jig this fluid frolic
never tiring of its endless cycle
vesting and revisiting this terra firma
like a lover emasculating the earth
of its desert state,
or adding to its oceans
in a bid to be free.
But you’re here again, I’ve noticed
for even through windows
your music plays a clamorous
and rather brazen beat.
Take my hand, why don’t you?
Come.
Dance with me.
© Qwey.ku
Nov 22, 2016
Nov 22, 2016 at 3:48 AM UTC
Stumbling into ancient scripts, authored a decades plus ago,
ago being a modifier of time quantities, minute or large, unspecific
without an objective adjective additive, that faucets a stream of an interlocutory elocution of a batter of rooted emotional histories,
but not histrionics
fanciful words for dredged up memories, acute, but tarnished,
powered yet worn by a cousin of ago, a/k/a,
age
and yet
renews as of,
at this very second, as if it were a first, a tumult of visions, swelling of remembrances, embodied scars, and I weep anew but not
for me, as much for the resonating simpatico souls with whom
they even now vibrate with resonance of the immediacy of
If not now, When?
Aside: The exterior environment is noisy wet pelting of thunderstorms and ****** sheets of bulleting rain, piercing projectiles, but I am safe in the sunroom, sadly happy my dog is no longer here to shiver and tremble, cuddle and be soothed by steady stroking
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bare twice the
outrageous misfortune
of unbared recollections, twice, or thrice, and I feel myself drowning in revisiting pain, **** **** **** these old poems, not nuggets, but boulders dropping from night skies, shot from a pitching machine, without letup, piercing of agonies that once ago
freshly desecrated and decorated my basic training in humanity.
Enough whining:
*I wrote those poems to
eject out those pains,
and I write this now, once more,
to realize that so so many still face
uncertain and unrelenting similarities,
doing their own sums,
and I wish them easing,
strength to compose and
thereby dispose of
the ineloquent
and eloquent
words of staining suffering*
3:30am
Thur
July 10
2025
Jul 16, 2025
Jul 16, 2025 at 5:39 PM UTC
The tide collects it all by morning;
The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path.
The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away
Before they wiped the sand from their shoes.
Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes
Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem;
An underground microcosm;
A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned.
Memories of those years - although some expired,
The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells,
Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never before understood what I was holding on to.
Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we
Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and
Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop
A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later.
I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and
Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse
Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside -
Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime.
At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl;
The one every boy has or has had that sticks;
Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes
Things simple if only for her complexity;
The one that never fails to bring upon digression when
Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note,
I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man
Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets.
This one doesn't stir the joy of the others.
This one I wish would dissolve;
An ugly, awkward blotch on a childhood.
Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place
Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof.
The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the
Heat of the sun were everything.
The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails
Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory;
A lingering grain or two to drag you back.
I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
You say stroll down memory lane,
I say revisiting the house of horrors.
To you, a simple memory.
To me, my worst nightmare.
It doesn't matter what time of day it is,
I'm still scared out of my mind.
It is currently 2:47 A.M and all I can think of is your smile.
Your straight and partially stained teeth have tainted my mind.
The way your appearance has changed over the years baffles me.
You used to be handsome, strong, and so caring.
Now, you've grown too thin along with your hair.
You went from bad to worse with the substance that took everything from you.
I hear you laugh from the good times we had.
I hear you scream from the bad times we had.
They both echo endlessly through my mind.
Is it bad that I can't tell which one I try to avoid more?
I miss the good times between us.
I used to cherish hearing you say you loved me.
Only because it was such a rare thing.
I can't remember what it sounds like coming from your throat.
What is a child supposed to do without a father?
You were my everything, but it seems I was not yours.
For you, your everything is the thing that'll end you.
I tried to save you but it seems you didn't want to be saved.
I fear that one day I'll forget the thinness of your hair and frame,
Too late for the feeling of your arms during an embrace.
Was it too much for you to hug me.
The eyes that I feared so much are now burned into the back of my mind.
How the whites of your eyes became more yellow each day.
How the once brown eyes are now an ugly greenish blue.
How the skin around them has sunken in.
Was I not enough?
What did I do wrong?
Was I not the daughter you wanted?
What did I do to make you treat me like that?
You act as if I hate you but that's not true.
In fact, it's the opposite, I love you.
I love you more than anything.
That's why I left, I gave up everything for you in hopes you would get better.
I guess it wasn't enough.
Nothing ever was.
Not even my scars.
I'll always love you, but I can't promise that I'll ever call you my dad again.
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
I'm not the best at listening
I'm even worse at talking
Even texting is impossible these days
But poetry comes from my soul
What I fail to express regularly
Flows so easily through this medium
If you feel the same then maybe that's why we do this
It feels like a game
And maybe it appeals to the kids within us
A serious, lighthearted way to communicate
That also pushes us to write more
We were always good at testing each other
As for the memory of pancakes
I remember it a bit differently
You were trying to hold back tears
And I remained passive and cold
It's not a thought I enjoy revisiting
That entire weekend was a challenge
We pushed each other to the edge
Waiting to see who'd fall first
Clearly it was me
I was wrong in so many ways
I know that better than anyone
And maybe I should've waited
I shouldn't have left so long
But I wasn't in bed with another
I was trying to sober up enough to get home safely
Sure it was a bit excessive in time
And I'm sorry I made you wait so long
But I was a drunk mess and I couldn't get home that way
I didn't mean to take advantage of you
I didn't mean to hurt you
Obviously, I did
And still do I'm sure
But those were never my intentions
I do care for you
It's all very complicated and stressful
I wish I could make it easier for us both
But I don't haven't figured out how yet
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 5:35 PM UTC
I’m a Barbie girl
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic! I
feel like plastic,
aiming for an 18-inch waist
because I can afford to throw my internal organs away.
I feel like plastic,
a neck so slender I have to choose
between eating and breathing;
there’s not enough space for two tubes.
I feel like plastic,
a 38-inch bust and
3-times the average amount of forehead.
I feel like plastic,
a size nine shoe squeezed to a three,
spending three to nine avoiding meal time
because my weight-loss book says,
“Don’t eat.”
I’m a Barbie girl,
in a Barbie world.
Life’s fantastic, but I’m
not plastic.
Bile tastes all too organic,
its taste chasing after me
if I exceed my daily nutritional limit of
2,000 calories.
I’m skinny enough that people think I’m healthy.
I’m not skinny enough for people to think I’m unhealthy.
Anorexia is as familiar as the back of my hand,
poised like a gun to the back of my throat,
waiting and ready to blow.
I’m a sixteen-year-old suicide case,
product of the war of production,
wearing battle wounds in the form of uniform lines
across the tops of my thighs.
I’ve been rewriting this poem since its conception.
I feel like the rough draft: concision is key.
(Be smaller.)
I’m trying rewriting,
trying to leave out things that aren’t
important enough, like:
four of my ribs
and my esophagus
and my stomach
and my small intestine.
I’m testing the limits of realism.
But here’s the thing:
I’m a real girl
in a real world.
Life’s not always fantastic,
but I am not plastic.
I am not plastic.
I refuse to be plastic,
aiming for generic weight range
based on content, not scale number.
I refuse to be plastic,
eating and breathing
like both are vital aspects to living.
I refuse to be plastic,
an actual hip-to-bust ratio
for not a thirty-year-old but a teenager.
I refuse to be plastic,
shoe size nine in size nine shoes,
trying to start enjoying mealtimes
because my “weight-loss book”
has been chucked down the chute.
I’m a living girl
in a terrifying world,
trying to remind myself that “Life in Plastic!”
is not fantastic.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
64
Some Rainbow—coming from the Fair!
Some Vision of the World Cashmere—
I confidently see!
Or else a Peacock’s purple Train
Feather by feather—on the plain
Fritters itself away!
The dreamy Butterflies bestir!
Lethargic pools resume the whir
Of last year’s sundered tune!
From some old Fortress on the sun
Baronial Bees—march—one by one—
In murmuring platoon!
The Robins stand as thick today
As flakes of snow stood yesterday—
On fence—and Roof—and Twig!
The Orchis binds her feather on
For her old lover—Don the Sun!
Revisiting the Bog!
Without Commander! Countless! Still!
The Regiments of Wood and Hill
In bright detachment stand!
Behold! Whose Multitudes are these?
The children of whose turbaned seas—
Or what Circassian Land?
2.7k
1167
Alone and in a Circumstance
Reluctant to be told
A spider on my reticence
Assiduously crawled
And so much more at Home than I
Immediately grew
I felt myself a visitor
And hurriedly withdrew
Revisiting my late abode
With articles of claim
I found it quietly assumed
As a Gymnasium
Where Tax asleep and Title off
The inmates of the Air
Perpetual presumption took
As each were special Heir—
If any strike me on the street
I can return the Blow—
If any take my property
According to the Law
The Statute is my Learned friend
But what redress can be
For an offense nor here nor there
So not in Equity—
That Larceny of time and mind
The marrow of the Day
By spider, or forbid it Lord
That I should specify.
2.5k
among the skyscrapers my mind wander
how narrow my sight was
to only surmise what one might feel
realizing there are more to conquer
so i take a step back
revisiting another possible tracks i could take
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 3:20 AM UTC
Reciting your enchanting beauty
My life swifts from river mode to sea
Where it is deeper and yet empty
Which drift/drives my life to agony
The wind of obsessity carries me
To a place I always dreamt to be
Placing my head in your lap I see;
A future where we could be happy
But gradually the dream gets over
As the obsessity wind gets slower
Revisiting the reality again
Introduces me to a familiar pain
The pain is not of losing you
You were not a reward to be won
But since now you're gone
I feel a friend is departing too
With shallow breath and watery eye
Trembling limps and left with a sigh
The heart beneath nearly die
The moment you said, goodbye...
I don't need drugs
To ruin my life
With an emotional outburst
Its hard to survive
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
The past two days were recklessly engorged with alcohol.
Intoxication has become habitual. Each weekend, drowning one's self in an illusion of joy and folly; The jester entertaining not Kings nor Queens, but the **** the weak, to deceive the empty crowd in my mind that I matter to someone. But matter is fleeting and we, myself and the abyss, understand the plight of today; waking up to nothing-- the empty abyss for which I am well acquainted with. Simply put, I am revisiting my old home from a not so distant past. The only difference between then and now is the relentless bottoms of empty glasses and a false sense of security and composure.
Jun 7, 2021
Jun 7, 2021 at 1:38 PM UTC
Muggy murky dawn clogged with gloom the abbey
Where his grampy sleeps ,
Through
the drizzles fizzle
As native orchids embosoms and blossoms in his lost vault.
like a curfew drawn in the church
The pew lost its crowd
With the paws of time.
Lone man sleep
In deep latin chants they petrify you
Before sheol purifies you
And litany literature lecture limbs you
When in overprotected embankments of battlements
They dry their garbs
Where your lore forayed growth
And sweat smeared smelt breathed wealth
Chagrin dreams washed ashore
lay as upon a cold mornings recollection on a tabloids sold column
which drew your freckles bolder
In a savour of remembrance
For your zealous zealots
Who on an another 'all souls day' reoccur revisiting
the truth of their establishment
in prayers
The good Lord adorn you
Let Lekker dreams cradle you
Your consorts concert never consume you
And earth never haunt you
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
falling in love
is a lot like dying slow
you won't realize it until you're ten feet underground
falling in love
is like going to see the sunset
but realizing the sunset lasts only 30 minutes in a day
falling in love
is like going up to the ice cream truck
after chasing it for blocks
and realizing they don't have your favorite flavor
falling in love
is like showing her off
to all your friends like you're back in school
and today's event is show-and-tell
falling in love
is like taking your first puff,
coughing it out
and revisiting it years later
like it never once left your body
falling in love
is seeing role models turn into humans,
and humans into role models.
falling in love
is like witnessing your first car crash
i guess it wasn't as exciting as it felt on tv.
falling in love
is going to your childhood park,
and realizing people never really go to parks anymore.
falling in love is remembering that kid who moved in grade three
who said they'd stay in touch,
but never heard from again.
falling in love is seeing that kid 10 years later
and dreaming of the next 10 years together
falling in love
is seeing them as a reflection of yourself
sprawled over the bed,
and wondering to yourself **** what more could i ask?"
falling in love
is screaming PLEASE I WANT THIS TO LAST
LOVE
is seeing them hunched on a hospital bed,
hearing them say
"what life have we led?"
falling in love
is visiting their grave,
hearts broken and sore,
realizing
i don't want to fall in love
anymore
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
gentle awareness as though you've
framed my heart in roses while I
slept atop the pellows
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
sitting in his invented prison
where misgivings are never forgiven
restricted to only visits from visions
in his dimension of endless renditions
condemned to exist within mental schism
with his stiffest self sentence given
never forgetting misdeeds and decisions
only existing to revisit volitions
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 9:05 PM UTC
For the sake of art or the sake of it
I went back to the seaside
With seagulls screaming in my ears
And a cocktail of cold water and sticky sand
Clutching between my toes
And a boulevard filled with joy
Ecstatic children revisiting the magic
Of blue sea and blue skies
And the beaches are full of women
Hoping the tan will convince their men
To rekindle the spark
Of what was once, and how and when
Holidays like these meant everything to them
While ships pass by like silent witnesses
As time slides and slips away
Sometimes it is truly better on holiday
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 3:21 AM UTC
*The quake of oblivious control,
aimlessly sends me spiraling.
I feel a break in the tumble,
Realizing the forged signatures from
Those who seek calculated risks.
I am only a human,
With this life thrown at me in a hurry.
Stars march & chant.
Revisiting the nights shallow freedom.
Displaying cuts of bleeding light,
A treasure to those who see its dance.
I have come far for a drink,
Of essence.
The book, we share on the darkest gravel,
Having featherweight ambitions.
The mornings betray my dreaming.
My flaws accept the rituals.
Whatever will, I have left,
Becomes a map.
A velvet initiation, to wonder again.
To seek the ways of life,
That many call disappointing,
& Pointless.
For it is I, who sees a ribbon on true beauty.
Each day following a thread to a lake.
Following the sequenced whispers,
Telling me, I am Moonchild,
Giver; of redemption.*
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer.
who is here,
to, expect...
comfortable?
i sacrifice the
aspect of museum,
in order,
to find a second tier
of peace...
within the confines
of cemeteries'
exfoliation
of statues...
weathered,
slightly hidden...
in guise,
of half living, half dead...
yet all the more:
ever watchful,
that persistent...
prosecutor stature...
with death...
the sole "ambiguity"
of a...
jury;
a jury...
with a persona non grata?!
mon deus!
but one answer:
je suis mort!
since?
it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting
museums at this point...
whatever the ancient in modern
terms focus for the pre-Byzantine
marble...
the open air extravaganza
of statues in a Slavic cemetery?
weathered, chiseled by a shyness?
teased out of existence?
primordial in a focus
of being haunted?!
well... museums have nothing to offer,
given this fleshed out
excavation.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
the boat pierced the grey mist
and her eyes were misty
it has taken us twenty years
to be on that green island
to dig up the time
she glowed like a butterfly
and I shivered from her touch
her hand is ripened now
but that time
still hanging in the air
unleashed a wildness
froth from which
spilled into two children
chasing butterflies.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 8:08 AM UTC
All the good memories
Are being washed away
By the ocean waves
Because the thought of your face
Makes my heart break
And I can't stop the streaming tears
I know my choice was right
But I also know that it's killing you
We had so many good times
And now I'm plagued by nightmares
The good thoughts are destroyed
Imploding with the weight of reality
Im so sorry
I'm so sorry
I'm so
Dead inside.
When your entire world comes crashing down
And you just run away from the wreck
Revisiting that graveyard
Plagues your life and soul with undead spirits of what you thought you had
And what you gave up because it wasn't real
All those happy memories
Are now rotting like dead flesh
Because they are a part of me still
But my body is rejecting them
Because they hurt too much to keep alive
My energy is depleting
But I can't let them go just yet
I don't want to forget you.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 1:02 PM UTC
There is
steeped madness
atop mantle piece cliffs
as if
poised,
in reluctant certainty at our hot fate.
Somewhere,
in the steamy depths
of man’s mind, our mind
my mind
stews and perpetuates
fuming intent
eroding at the edges,
of life for what
it is and isn’t
or wont be for
future tenses and a
conceptualizing
intensity in a
place which hasn’t
ever been realized
or
even moved along a
narrow line
of directed discourse,
dictated dialysis:
deviation
from the center-ed
path
of righteous, heavenly
glory
of the gods,
in the clouds,
on the prowl in the wicked black of sneering night.
For Retribution!
For Respiration!
For Residual indications on the slick success of cheering fights.
and on and on
were that they were
forever forward still.
But were still revisiting things
which were never seen
in re-wrought thought
I thought
I saw but not
because seeing isn't believing.
And believing isn’t anything really
but lengthy
listless lists
and heavy
habitual hope.
© 2011
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 11:34 AM UTC
my guard dropped when i fell into your heart
at the heart and crown orange lit bar
its been a minute since i’ve been so inhibited
revisiting the pools of pleasure i used to dip into
wanna get to know exactly what you are into
kisses underneath the full moon?
kisses as Dont Start Believing is chanted through the room
its serendipitous how you are here
perfect timing for my perfect poison
don’t let it be a one night thing
you plus me got to equal something
lets be something
tired of nothings
Jun 11, 2022
Jun 11, 2022 at 2:37 PM UTC
Dear Strawberry,
I first met you years ago,
we were in 5th grade together
and I remember always thinking
you had the prettiest smile.
There was this one time
a friend of ours
(I don't remember who)
told a joke that made you laugh.
I remember immediately thinking
"I wish I'd told that story, I wish
I was the one who made you laugh."
It's been 9 years since
those halcyon days
and I'll always wonder
what would've happened
had I told you how I felt.
Sincerely,
The Boy Who Always Sat
In The Corner Seat
P.S. I still remember walking back from school together.
P.P.S. I'm revisiting this years later and now you're engaged- I don't think I'll ever share this with you but in the event that you do come across it, I wish you nothing but the absolute best. You deserve it.
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 4:21 PM UTC
Give a little bit of my Shangri La
back to me.
Lets recall the 99p Scotch best at JD Weatherspoons,
revisiting Bradford by National Express
because we saw "Bob Sue and Rita too" on Channel 4
and on a whim had to have
B&B; down Manning Lane.
Let's see tea shops show civic pride
serving a strong Bergamont.
No queue jumping,
spitting or cussing in the streets.
Lets not be afraid to care,
and go back to the early 1990s
on the cusp of the Premiership
to see Notts County verses Luton Town.
Their six pointer
with an overturned milk float to presage the desperation
and long before the aerobic internet entertained us.
Funded Public libraries
venturing openings on Sunday's
and thank Steg from
Scorpion records at High Wycombe,
grateful for all those post restantes.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC