Best Re Emerge Poems
A body abandoned
needs to mourns its last breath in death
a heart cast aside
still aches to meet its last beat
and a free spirit yearns for a winged monarch moment
to fly in the spirit of freedom…
opportunity
flares a tongue
snaky and bittersweet.. a flicker
grows flames that twist passion’s kiss with kismet
a chance
to escape on a breath of air
an exhalation;
warm incense offered to vesper -
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
above the hiss of heat
and gasps of air
rushing combustion to a roar
airy mystics spoke in the eerie smoke
w h i s p e r s
urge the purge of perishable pain
unclasping lonely-linger’s grasping fingers
soft-spun knit and purl unravels
as vintage yarn twined with sun and rain unties -
aging rays fail to stave Winter’s grays
and the ethereal thread of an earthly creation
releases its tendril
from the spinning wheel’s weave of circular seasons
from seed to harvest and warmth to chill
vestiges of sisterly hands cup a ceded sigh
chrysalis celebrates destined to re-emerge a butterfly
terminal tremble of a twilight trill is hushed
vulnerability swaddled
cradled by clouds of silver and gold
a mortal’s surrender consummates upon the pyre -
cinders cleansed of tears and cries and vices
but never the dreamy intrinsic colors
of the opal’s unfurling blaze
she ascends
a flash of embers relieved of ash
taking fire to the skies with a tigress torch igniting
molten pools spooning the spine of the western shadow
heralding an awakened afterglow to the afterlife -
lamplight gilds mare’s tails hooking heavens
pathways adrift from the burning thurible
of a trinity on the cusp of rebirth...
incense rises upon a heated atmosphere
riding the riddle of the four winds
beyond realms of soil and salt - reason and logic
yonder the profound truth of the-not-humanly-known
seeing past reflections within mere margins of a mind’s mirror
accepting the enlightening throb of the enigmatic pulse of creation
becoming one with the ultimate mystery
the wish of a scent to slip through the keyhole
fulfilled with exchange of gifts -
the offering of her sunset shroud
for the white mantle of sunrise
As dawn breaks across the rugged land,
vague shapes begin to blurrily appear.
images of mythical creatures now seen
briefly then brushed away they dissolve.
Is it these images that give legends birth?
the tales of Unicorns and dragons?
The stories of three headed beasts
that wander through the mist shrouds?
Pea soup mists that you can almost push aside
abruptly vanishing as the sun burns them off.
Leaving the landscape we all know and accept
yet memories remain of fantastical things.
That re-emerge in our dreams
leaving us with uncertainty and
knowledge deep down within
that mist cloaks and blinds
what lies beyond the veils of time
By the early years of that ancient decade, the 70's,
I'd tired of my obstreperous tomboyish games:
kickball with the neighbor kids, sledding in the winter,
desecrating the peacefulness of our street's grave yard
with our bike races, tag, and hide-n-seek.
And I tired too of the pastimes of my season preferred:
chasing siblings with a hose, giggling and gleeful,
swimming at Weed Park,
and my perpetual swinging through those long, sweet sunshiny days
longed for during classes in my school.
Old friends grew up.
Boredom anon crept upon the remnant of my childhood.
At times - through infancy and beyond -
I'd been beset by a feeling of loss
over something not yet sought.
It was something kin to loneliness, but no. . .not that.
More a sense of gloom - a sorrowing for what?
I still don't really know.
Despite the days of inexplicable forlornness,
I grew more and more cavalier
throughout the days that came
between those odd forlorn days
because my old timidity, in fact, had waned. . .
Another face, fairer, appeared.
It waxed and glowed - assured -
until those “days - in- between”
had finally surpassed the melancholy ones.
I learned to stifle monotony and squelch the blues.
I became a "doer" of too many things to name
as I went gliding through with the Gibbous moon.
Soon enough, a fullness had arrived.
And now it must disseminate.
In the years to come, I'll be wondering this. . .
Will the shining face I show the world wane too,
and will my youth's strange darkness re-emerge,
eclipsing what light remains as I drift,
having come full-cycle,
into my final
crescent phase?
5/21/14
Submitted 3/30/16 to PD's Any Poem # 38 Poetry Contest
Do we have "enough"?
Will silver flakes of winter's blade
cut us down or build us up.
Will our pasts behave like choir boys, stay in time
or re-emerge and scream and sting our eye.
Make us blind to hope and happiness.
Do we have "enough" to pluck the guts
from the chasms of experience.
To fashion buds of love
from the fiery depths of ego's lust.
Have we evolved "enough" to trust again...
when our old gray world blitzes in.
Swinging concrete fists of what's the use and what-ifs.
Fill our starving souls with blackbird piss.
Do we have enough-enough(s) to become an "us"?
His mind is dark,
like a night sky without stars.
Doubt sits upon his shoulders,
poking at his face,
irritating his mind,
interrupting his thoughts,
outrunning his words -
laughing at him hysterically.
Demons slay his self belief,
echoing like mountainous valleys.
Playing with his insecurities.
Manic voices vibrate in a percussion of shrieking,
like jesters juggling with his sanity.
Sweaty palms and heavy feet,
leave his tongue cemented,
like a block of concrete.
Curtains ascend slowly.
Microphone has no mercy.
Silence awaits,
as audience anticipate.
His petrified eyes attempt
to ignore hundreds of faces,
focusing at him.
He fumbles and mumbles
apologises and starts again.
Closes his eyes,
to find his special, sacred place.
His hidden spirit roars, as audience gasp.
His soul rises like king Arthur's sword,
releasing the thunder, trapped inside.
Doubt plummets to the ground.
His words strike like lightening,
defeating demons into silence.
Audience applaud in elation.
For a moment he smiles,
but then doubt and demons re-emerge.
Bullying his self esteem,
murdering his short lived joy.
He sits in silence,
wondering what is the point...
Simple Musing
Silent One
25 July 2020
In a province exploited
by prejudiced seasons,
a minority ebony rose
is taunted by prominent
i v o r y l i l i e s.
Biased blossoms ridiculing
tones of its charcoal petals,
yet blooming in the same
quilt of soil as each other.
Soothing raindrops
never discriminate though,
as scents of petrichor
fuse with floret elegance,
nor does the sun only shine
for the privileged,
as all flora sunbathes in
the passions of its rays,
refreshed by the same
migrating gentle breeze.
Scarlet beetles
munch upon lily leaves,
whilst aphids suck
upon rose sepals.
Creepy crawlies
unconcerned with
a p p e a r a n c e,
massacre and spread
like an epidemic.
Until the arrival of
feathered immigrants,
who feast upon an
assortment of morsels.
In any garden,
birds care not for
whom they sing.
They defecate on all flowers,
aware all will wilt eventually.
Winter frost oppresses
regardless of culture,
so birds flee.
But, when roses crumble,
they re-emerge
fresher and brighter,
as their red thorns remain
protecting their right
to flourish freely under
fresh blue skies..
F O R E V E R
It stood on the top of the hill
dominating all of its surrounds.
Its drawbridge these days lay open
spanning with ease the now dry moat.
Like a fairy tale fortress it had turrets
that soared up high brushing the clouds.
Its four towers majestic as blankly,
they stared, covering all points of the compass.
Slit windows peered out of casements
through walls up to six feet thick.
The massive double oak doors
fifteen feet high and twelve wide
stood thrown open allowing glimpses
of the enormous courtyard beyond.
Battlements led to each round tower
that once housed the nobles.
Old battered forgotten furniture
grandly carved four poster beds.
A sword or two lay scattered
amidst the clutter and bird dropping.
Wide stone staircases meandered
curling round and round the walls.
A gallery or two dotted here and there
perfect hiding places above the hall.
Some for musicians to play unseen
Their notes floating through the air
as below the dancers swept and strutted
as the ladies hooped dresses swirled.
Long tables once laden with food
stood a skiff with broken legs.
Wooden pint tankards higgledy piggledy
strewn about midst wooden platters.
Tattered standards limply lay motionless
against walls dotted with scattered torches.
The Lord of these lands killed in distant lands
leaving an infant son removed to the city
by his grieving mother who sought to forget.
Now ninety years later his grandson views
the devastation of years of neglect and vows
to return the castle to the glory of its heydays.
After three long years of often brutal work
removing shrubbery, moss and decay
Life starts to re-emerge Flags flutter
gaily high up on the battlements.
Chandeliers sparkle and the torches flicker
Tables once more groan with a feast of food
Happy shrieks of laughter fill the grand hall
And one would swear the castle wore a smile,
as children played around the buttress's.
The mining villages of Wales
are steeped in history and tales
of sons and fathers, duty-bound
who earned a pittance underground.
For generations miners toiled
with picks and shovels, faces soiled.
Their throats parched dry and fingers raw,
black gold the aim, etched scars the score.
And mountains whisper tales of men
who failed to re-emerge again.
Or nevermore could breathe with ease;
Sad victims of black lung disease.
In valleys shaped by pride and grit
within the black and hostile pit,
black powder prowled and took its prey
but brotherhood did not give way.
11/11/18
'Black powder poetry contest' : Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
Your Choice (3), sponsored by Brian Strand
Unlike being alone
Celibacy is a choice
A commitment to oneself
Maybe for a lifetime
Maybe for a growth cycle
Celibacy is a desire
a need to focus
to reevaluate
Celibacy is a spiritual journey
concentrating with minimal distraction
time alone to reflect
to hibernate
then re-emerge
cocoon
metamorphize
journey inward
explore the great depths of the self
AP: 3rd place 2021
Stump, stone, cones and mushroom
seeds that drill down to re-emerge
One mushroom's hat has already been seized
- a small piece of the forest's dish
In the blissful play of life
On a trust that falls randomly
With freedom, mystery,
silence and the qualities of silence
... a physical presence
The deepest meaning of life
must be, to seizing the moments
27/07/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
The alarm hits me over the head like a rock
Extra scoop of exhaustion, work-related
Timer says it’s Cranky-Past-Grump O’clock
But fear not, the remedy has percolated
The mind is so thick, chunky, and addled
My thoughts are completely jumbled
The dim world seems so utterly scrambled
Not quite sure what the mouth just mumbled
The glass carafe is impatiently steaming
Very soon there will be no more drooping
In a relative way, I’ll be quite beaming
And shortly thereafter, I know I’ll be…whooping
The heart pumps with the steaming mug
For so many ailments it fills the need
Mind verily hopping on this legal drug
Not sure why anyone bothers with speed
Then a brief time later, the predictable scare
To the throne room, I take hasty flight
Slamming the door to avoid the brown bear
With comforting knowledge I’ll re-emerge light
O! Coffee! Your pleasures not limited to the palate
Nor the great, salutary jolt to the mind
That gentle whack on the head with a mallet
And the large intestine not far behind
While I thrive on that mental clarity,
Look forward to that sublime daily lift
It’s that reassuring sense of regularity
That is the hallowed bean’s greatest gift!
4/11/16
There is a presence to a Sunday morning,
an ease. People waiting on line for their
coffee seem more animated, less agitated,
friendlier….almost chatty. The traffic seems
to get along better too. No schedules demand
cut throat tactics to beat the next red light.
School buses, along with their riders, are
tucked away for the weekend. The hum of
the tires on the pavement seems almost
musical, soothing, in a movingstillness
kind of way. Joggers seem more relaxed,
their dogs less pressured to “get it done”.
Ducks idly talk to their shadows. Church
bells chime more jubilantly echoing over
the breaking day. We sit. Two old men
sipping hot coffee. Reveling in the present,
reminiscing about the past, in no hurry
for the future. An elderly woman ambles
past, smiling at the blowing leaves,
shuffling her feet in mock childhood frolic.
Cyclists relax into a near traffic-less rhythm
of wheels, spokes, gears - grinning into the
chill breeze of November. The firehouse
doors are open, the firefighters resting
between rounds, trucks sitting idle in
the bays, hoses rolled and ready. Two
squirrels play tag in front of a blue house
disappearing into piles of leaves only
to re-emerge atop a fence post. A grey
and white cat lays motionless nearby.
There is no rush to the cadence of the
churchgoers. It appears they may have
already entered into the day’s prayer.
A gentle sense of unanticipated hope
pervades the subtleties of life.
There is a presence to a Sunday morning.
John g. Lawless
11/8/2015
The avalanche crashed an ax from nimbus peaks
these shrouds a pall a maul splitting my shield
this smur slurs my weakened war paint
my skin my beat my breath my breast
gray matter clouds —a pock-marked-psyche wears the ruse of ceruse
cosmos charity clouds once white like daylight once light as sea foam
blown and flown to the expanse of ether airy spirits afloat
now a iron-heart-anvil I’m horizontal
..an empty fossil-frame pressed into earth
these clouds these shrouds upon me
around me about me they cry
my lantern dampened they know why
cataract-clouds dimmed my gaze
they’ve simmered and condensed
they’ve become incensed
they drape me a caterwaul shawl
oh mamma sky your cirrus streams my suckle sweet
nourish my flourish rock me frock me your cumulus crib and fleece
from nest on high fledge me bluebird spry
freckle me starling’s starlight speckle
myself the Milky Way instead of ash-of-flame remains
constellated skin depicts our myth and marrow sagas
my mouth alive with words of the winds
iambic tranquilize of zephyrs sweeping wheat
and lyric wrath of gales aggrieved stripping leaves from trees
with barnstormer speech
cleanse my lens with see-through-rain till wet with reflection
that upends the blur and burr of clouds crashing down
— keep them mamma sky beyond where they belong
so I may return and re-emerge — reimagined
I do not, amongst the dregs of my cups,
Consider you worthy to be the theme
For my untutored scribblings.
There, Madame, there: I put you
In your place, amongst the detritus
Of my life, the forgotten effigies of life,
As she should be lived.
Yet, you do not acquiesce to my intentions,
And re-emerge into my consciousness
To disturb and argue for attention and
Writings.
I am weak, and accede to your importuning
With versification to placate your demands,
To show my love.
Fat cat fat cat
Living a life of ease
The high rise apartment
Luxurious indeed
Fat cat fat cat
Always dreamed of a better way
Where he could be pampered
Baths, endless food, a comfortable bed to stretch and lay
Fat cat fat cat
Living out his dreams
But in those quite moments
The meaning of life brings unease
Fat cat fat cat
Through the window birds flying stir an urge
An uncomfortable awareness
Instinctual drives re-emerge
Fat cat fat cat
A flawed misguided destiny
It’s hard to see life’s value
When all you’re seeking is the cheese
Fat cat fat cat
Troubled by the fact
The life that he desired
Is now time he can never get back
Fat cat fact cat
The life of ease perhaps a disease
The purpose in life
The struggle – brings growth to all living things
Fat cat fat cat
Surrenders - sleeps and eats all day and night
Miserable in his comfort
Watching others live out their life