Best Recoiling Poems
People walk in and out,
Through me, it seems,
My presence barely sensed.
I coil around the pain,
And recoiling I make my way out,
Heaving relief into the dark.
Around me, night crawls about like a baby,
The moon, with arms outstretched,
Cradles me gently, lovingly.
And feeling a large crack in the universe
I am swallowed whole
And taken home.
Cold shower today - (early afternoon)
September eighth two thousand
and nineteen more challenging than June
dog days of summer test tolerance
to feel alive and bark at the moon
hypothetically imagining myself
alone in the (suburban) wilderness
fabricating, envisioning crossing pontoon
bridge while humming nonsense tune.
Jolt to body electric induces zing
unlike missus who cannot wing
subjecting her sensitive skin
versus modest bragging
rights of this faux king
please pas din me boasting,
but perhaps explanation
I shower without hot water
linkedin to aging.
Which (no matter cumulative
chronological orbitz around sun
just a number), the fleeting
passage of years doth stun
more so forces me to assess
mein kampf, retrospective
devoid of nothing merit but pun
hushing disappointment plus
self deprivation of fun.
Alas within narrowly
circumscribed realm stale
stagnation doth prevail,
I easily overwhelm
courtesy panic attacks of this male
bred avoidance behavior
(cue Pavlov's dog) hearty and hale
trained to withdraw
from challenging tasks
markedly pronounced when fail
my middle name,
where besieged psyche doth ail.
Fatherhood, albeit necessitated taking ace
sip of courage, sometimes
adept to chase
fear of unfamiliar, though
never totally erase
sing passive behavior
I attest infrequently to face
anxiety inducing situations
poise zenned clowns
feign amazing grace
me convulsing with intimidation
agitating, flinching, recoiling...
retreating into isolated place
while profuse sweat drips
from every porous space
heart beat does madly race
despite absence of any threat
exhaustion spent without
factual, logical, rational... trace.
Time and again work fraught
self into lather for naught
recurring soap opera taught
me impossible mission
to rinse figurative suds
unlike showering/washing hair,
whereby cleansing wrought.
Darkness settles across the sky,
Bats flitting, begin to fly,
A howling wolf, set apart and aloof,
Eyes from the window cry.
Heroes secure in their proof,
The Vampyer, under castle roof,
Longing for past Love's tender ways,
Recoiling from lance and charger's hoof.
The drooling hound in restless pursuit bays,
The shining glory of all wakened days,
Vlad no longer rules the night or draws a fight,
For his recalcitrant sins, he bloody pays!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The fluorescent buzz hums
like a choir of tired angels.
I hold a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread
and think about miracles~
how mine don’t quite materialize.
My hands, soft from keyboards,
have never split a sea
or pressed into a wound
without recoiling.
I flinch at the sight of blood and
the weight of my own shadow.
The clerk sighs,
counting pennies like regrets.
I want to tell her that
the Kingdom is hers,
but my voice cracks
into something small
and human.
At home, my love
is measured in teaspoons~
just enough to sweeten,
never overflowing.
I keep my rage
neatly folded,
my mercy rationed
like discount wine.
God must get so tired
of my arithmetic.
In war, no glory confides absolutely.
Or is resolute in its righteousness.
Its essence holds no certainties nor goal...nor future.
Clear objectives fade... Justification merely a work in progress.
Clandestine agendas drive enmity across air, sea, sand and meadow.
Misdirected.
Towards an enemy, unseen in tradition and culture.
Unknown, but reassuringly dangerous, a hive, confronting and threatening civilisation...
In the name of humanity...
No epic fanfares grill the blood of Hollywood romanticists,
Corrupted stars play out their scenes alone,
Through haunting canons,
And anthems of resounding calibre,
Without script and with most terrifying action.
Out of depth, out of body, into quagmire.
Confusion, comforted only by sterile demands,
Hollow victories,
Fallen...then...
Turmoil.
Lies perpetuate.
Comrades congratulate. Celebrate!
Lending solace to advocate horror, between initiate and tormented alike.
Through the soft, sweet lulls of passive exchange or the emphatic silence of success,
Numbness cradles contemplation.
Enveloping.
A ritual, deep and staring...a piercing, twisting...
Stark realisation!
Past actions, past faces,
Passed lives...
Humanity.
Recoiling...sickening...putrefying...
Wallowing amongst the ranks of brothers and sisters,
Nourishing avarice,
Dwelling in 'diplomatic' palaces and stately hideaways.
Inflating egos and balances from the dividends of limbs and bowel.
The truth gnawing, knowing and growing....
Overwhelming.
Prolapse of mind.
Prizing an unworthy soul...only to abandon.
repugnant racist republican reviled - rickettsia re:itch ruler.
rapaciously ravaged revered reverential rubric.
radical ruthless renegade rapidly riotously rips rigged ramparts.
refrains retaining remnant redolent regal, resplendent rafters.
riches rudely rupture rooted rectified rights.
ruckus ricochets revenant reign.
ratified rattlebrained rules roil reductionism.
rumbustious rapscallions rollick; render ruinous ramifications.
rusty razor razing revenge rents reprisal.
rabid rectal rictus rotten rebrands re-calibrate.
rambunctious revolutionaries rejoice.
ruffians ride roughshod routing reigning royalty.
reiterate revetting robust recidivist rationality.
ride Rolls Royce relentlessly rendering rock ribbing.
riffraff raconteur raise reactionary response.
revisit rancorous restrictive redlined realigned rightward rivets.
robocop ridiculously rubber-stamped reorganization.
recalcitrant reactors release rapture.
rash Russian roulette reconnaissance raconteurs rack rubles.
red room reflects republican RNA.
rap risible rheumy ratiocinated rug-rats revoke righteous refulgent repertory.
rapier robed robbers ransack reliquary resounding retaliation.
retaliatory redcoat regnum reformation remembered.
Rudy robotically recoiling rapprochement
raison d'être rosily revered rifled relics raffled.
rookie raves ripe rackful rubenesque reliably ranked.
refulgent rotundity requisite requirement re: reappointment.
road-tested, roadworthy redeem reapportion routed role.
reprehensible reassignment rapidly recognizes response.
rife rampage removes respectability - respect.
responsible roused restitution refuted.
risky resultant reconnoitering runaway railroad reverberates rivalry.
reflexive ramrod reaction reconfirms redoubling ridding revitalization.
reconfiguration realpolitik reinstates repudiation
rebooting Roosevelt regime reconsidered.
requisition requires resilient reseeding republic.
regrettable riley roars remorseless ribbing.
rare recount restoring recondite renown reprobate Rapunzel.
Republican representatives rejoice reclaiming reins
registering retarded romantic remains
re: Rastafarian revered reliquary rests!
Trees bending overhead, shadows fully employed
Fish resting 'neath the surface, their camouflage enjoyed
Abundant insects frolicking, diving and skimming the stream
Predators hungrily watching, nature's bountiful cuisine
Anglers stealthily wading, with implements designed
Perilous imposters, dancing on a line
Imitation insects, alluring and derailing
The angler flicks his wrist, often times prevailing
With skill and precision he tosses the bait
Dancing through shadows the imposter skates
Fish exploding in total captivation
Writhing about in lustful aggravation
Recoiling he jerks, prepares for the fight
Adrenaline rushes, as his trophy takes flight
Netting his prize from the crystal clear stream
Reliving a memory of a wintry dream.
an original poem by Daniel Turner
Drawn to his whistling we’d skip along that path,
Locked onto the shed’s old wireless; tinny and taught with his tune,
Dust waiting for our arrival by the door, yet
Now you wouldn’t even know it was there.
The path, long ago an entry point of dreams, no longer leads, but
Follows memories gathering dust with neglect now
Overgrown with the passage of time.
As children we would follow that path
Holding our pop’s crooked hand, a sticky bun in the other
Trying to count the countless bricks, to the end
To the start of grandpa’s ole wooden shed, the door ajar,
Allowing memories; old and new, to come and go as they please.
For amongst the wooden toys and tools and junk that clung to shelves,
Amidst the scent of thinners and birch shavings and oldness
There lived here once in our childhood – these happier simpler times.
Now I stand near the end of adulthood, peering in the window
My reflection recoiling at its image, flinching at the emptiness, the
Dusty hollowness that hangs there, - though
I imagine the laughter, and see our useful little hands
Hammering in time with the wireless, our
Hair and clothes powdered with the dust
Gathered on the filaments of tales past and present.
Those memories now lay in the dust, like
Echoes clinging to a voice, all
The shelves so full of everything, yet they are nothing now
- Gathering dust
Like his stories; buried amongst the particles, that
I now tread upon softly, not wanting the moment to dissolve
Into melancholic motes, as I close my eyes in search of a child,
Hidden in the dusty recesses of my mind.
John Lawless’s poetry contest – ‘Gathering Dust’
28 Feb. 15
Obstructing the Time's line-of-sight recoiling abruptly,
neither a fallen hand-held folder nor a glance stolen away,
counterfeiting emotional disturbance but sounds to mastery,
executive officers waiting for the day-to-day updated reports.
Unloading Time's viscous cycle of exhaust onto the couch,
painless worthy of note-taking task reminder, a lost love,
overcoming the abdominal centre of gravity umbrella to grasp,
night's vivid persons voice of Wisdom to amplify and filter.
An overwhelming notion of the folder, the glance, and the love.
Warm alight from a magic carpet onto the late-hour coffee shop,
hail to the standing floral dress under the glowing streetlights,
our eyes have met in a once upon a whole new world,
love spreading out our hearts to become a giant shimmering star,
entrusting her my hugs and kisses, my love, and my world.
New passion overcoming my insides calling for a cupid's bless,
enough of this game and deftly join me in a dainty dance,
with you my senses return and with you I feel joyously right.
When I saw you over the cotton clouds singing merrily,
out of nowhere getting the courage to crawl kissing you,
rolling your eyes under the skies taken by surprise,
loving me over the sea so let us dance when I count to three,
dazzling on a magic carpet of this mystical whole new world.
Saturday, 6th of February 2010
10:43:26 AM
And ten weeks later
You'd be gone
But your socks
Are still here
You looked so bad when you left
Barefoot without a care,
Solitaire
The blanket you wore
You had sworn you'd tear
Before you'd leave again
All tattered and alone
Without a thought for your own
Pursued by thrushes
And their beautiful song
A gem by it's lonesome
Solitaire
Let well enough alone
The disquieting emotion
Of your isolation
Your unequalled proofs
Of provocations
Considered seperatly
Things are never
Of the same class
Solitaire
No displacement of egos
Along your trail
To go next your steps
No devotee gaining on you
No toting any trappings
And your back subtracted
Into the unsettling downpour
The colors of your cover fading
Solitaire
Bedcloths and linens
Wear dull the drifter
Prompted by airs
And your socks
Are still there
As if an advertisement
For the grandstand
Of your departure
Solitaire
So long to former discourse
Recoiling without answers
According to pattern
No more, the grand tour
For pegs on a board
Extinct and flightless
No long goodby
Forever distracted
Solitaire.
Cul-de-Sac
Quick steps slow to hesitate
The sudden curve of a straight white line
Into the mists of detour
Lined with haunting facades
Of blurred addresses
And faded street signs
Where echoes of curiosity bluster -
Magic or madness -
In proverbs of warning about blind alleys -
Mayhem or mystic -
Bending the lane
Like the nautilus inner ear
A flat arc where light searches
For the sacred
Past faceless abodes lining this curlicue
With a come-on to remain
Yet the heart knows to follow
The flamboyant contours,
Like angel’s wings,
Into the loop – not a dead end
But a recoiling boomerang
Leaving knots of doubt behind
Arms open wide to inquisitive's marathon
Then ride the hairpin rail out of gossamer inkiness
Leaving behind the rags of repetition
Into a rosy borning road.
2-21-23
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Theme chosen – Cul-de-Sac
brrk brrk brrk
buc buc buc burk
nice chicken,
buc buc buc
brk brK BURKuRK
Mean CHICKEN!
The littles pet my mouth
as I say the brrks
Recoiling with delight
when mean chicken
gives them fright.
The Stomach/Depths of the Eye, Translation of Pierre Emmanuel’s Le ventre de l’œil by T. Wignesan
Neither hither nor thither nor space nor time neither
height nor depth
Nothing
Nothing without recoiling fold nothing unheard of
primordial Ahan* in a static state
Abyss resounding in silence Where without echo Alpha’s
latent in Omega
Where ?
Where the open mouth’s stuffed without roof a hole
Without walls nor borders nor substance a gaping hole
Identity without Self no Eye without pupil
Immense Void un-divided neither All nor One
Wind which knows not itself breath not having yet been
born
The Self constricted upon (it)self its entrails spiraling
Blindness of space in no way palpable
* Ahan: no one-to-one equivalent in English; etymologically an ancient French word with several connotations, such as, labour; unbearable pain; cultivable land; harvest, etc. Here, the possible usage could be the intense energy deployed to engender the contrary of a state of nothingness.
(from Anthologie poétique, p. 32; Sophia, O.C. t. II, p. 195)
© T. Wignesan – Pais, October 9, 2014
Where does my conscious go, when demons raise their fiery eyes,
They steal my very soul, killing all which is sanctified,
Engulfed by instant fears, no longer hearing loved ones cries,
The beast within appears, telling me I am justified,
I have already lost, no reprieve from my mortal sin,
All reason now is blocked, as I become the beast within,
No pity can I feel, as I make my grandiose stand,
Yes the horror is real, as I destroy all that I can,
Where do my feelings go, when demons raise their snarling lips,
Bringing an all new low, into my life now torn to bits,
Certain of being right, I flail and thrash as if in fits,
I threaten and I strike, with great fury the demon spits,
Yet I still stand and shout, my ugly hate and derision,
Accusing lies said out loud, revolting words - degradation,
Just look at what I’ve done, I scream my blatant confession,
Ready to blame anyone, for my evil molestation,
Where does my true love go, when demons raise their gruesome head,
Destroying all I know, without slightest hesitation,
There is no where to hide, hideous deeds - infinite dread,
Shame crushes senseless pride, nothing left but devastation,
Recoiling in horror, reality enters the room,
Now begins the torture, judgment of my now mortal soul,
The evil that is me, my conscious has become my tomb,
I look and all I see, marks my spirit and takes its toll,
Where does salvation go, when demons raise their awful screech,
Making damnation grow, as dark shadows envelope me,
How can I persevere, and escape from this demon’s reach,
For he is always near, and may kill eventually,
Cold and chilling insight, I now realize what is at stake,
And the one path which might, protect the ones I truly love,
But how can I just leave, this world I worked so hard to make,
And cause even more grief, for family and God above.
Where does my resolve go, when demons raise their deadly claws,
Tearing at all I know, stealing my conscious care and pride,
I can’t run anymore, all is destroyed everything lost,
Now beaten tired and sore, I’ve lost my path into the light,
Who can I reach out to, when all I love recoil in fear,
Eyes beseech black and blue, where once was love - now only hate,
Yes I know - I’m the cause, the reason for each falling tear,
And while demons give pause, I must face my terrible fate.
Holes in both shirt and shorts
Another man of fancy sorts
Not like any other hanger
Gesturing with his left finger
Enemies recoiling in fear
Realizing their end is near.