Best Reconstructing Poems
Jesus is the Master Potter
By Franklin Price
09/14/2023
Jesus, is the master potter
We, the followers His Clay
He molds us into shining lamps
Reconstructing day by day
He lays His hands upon us
Kneads and shapes us 'til we're done
He is the Master Potter
Who recreates us, He's the one
As cracks appear, remolds us,
Provides our structure with relief
Then fuels us, and lights us
To be His lamps that shine belief
He trims our wicks when needed
To even light the darkest hour
Leading others to salvation
His lamp has given us that power
He adds a globe of glass or crystal
To let the light burn in the wind
To guide lost souls to heaven
For since the garden, all have sinned
He cleans our globes when they have darkened
And our lamps are not as bright
And we doubt that we are able
To shine out believing light
If Jesus had not died for us
On that cross upon the hill
Would be no need to have our lamps
For other's nights, our lights, to fill
Nature and Nature fight,
To switch off the light.
And to grab the right,
that loosens us at night.
People say it's not good,
since it grabs our food.
For so it should,
Be called Hudhud.
A day for destructing,
a decade for reconstructing.
With such power of its Incoming,
And an obstacle for Outgoing.
Bye bye Hudhud,
Never again say you could.
I am reading
"Democracy in Black"
by Eddie S. Glaude, Jr.
but continue reconstructing this title
"Hypocrisy in Only White."
Because
when I let my memory
look back to my own self-interests in history
as archaeological digging and prying and discovery,
adventure and curiosity
of my internal ecological development,
I reweave back
through still on-going matriarchal lines
that include,
are shared with,
anyone capable of reading
and comprehending
these words of regenerating memory.
Back
to darker
denser
richer genes and memes
of cooperative to still thrive today,
saving competitions for survival moments.
Back to
better to prey together
side by side
as neanderthal brothers and sisters
than to grow predative
against each other.
This Golden Rule
of dark Afro-Eurasian
equatorial resonant depth
of historical origin
in normative play
at least until we substitute capitalism's
supremacist agendas
for rationalism's ego-ecocentric
reweaving memory
of this original Earth Mom
magical and mysterious
then worshiped and danced
ritualed and cooperative ownership co-governing,
then more modern radical eccentricities
forgetting our shared matriarchal
regenetic
memory of dualdark
hypocrisies of merely white inferiority
complexes
disease
dissonance
despair of remaining fully
who we together are,
where we have been
predating history
where we could return
each morning
with greatest polyphonic joy.
To paraphrase David Holmgren
(Permaculture, p. 113)
Containers were one essential organic innovation
necessary for this cooperative agrarian revolution.
Opportunities to refill organically produced bodies
are enormous
transitioning into recycling energy descent
for shared cooperative memory.
Reimaging full organic containers
is far better than sending us
away and down and out for recycling.
Most official ecopolitical waste reduction strategies
place little emphasis
on organic reuse refilling re-educating
deep ecologically learning containers,
or confuse WinWin refueling,
reweaving,
with capitalism's WinLose recycling,
switching productive containers
into merely consuming eventual empties,
bleached-out white-washed faded hypocrisies
of purest supremacy against nothing
deeply densely
richly resonantly valued.
career path change
reconstructing future
self's realm of reality
by way of altering
present life path
reshaping the course
of inaction into action
not allowing path to remain the same
not allowing the current self to sabotage the future self
altering the space time continuum
creating an alternate future reality
Feedback,
A poet strive for perfection
Someday his work will become a worldly reflection
Of whom he is
With each line he procrastinate,
With each verse,
Reaction, pro action and anticipation
To the point
Of debating or reconstructing his latest
Despite receiving favorable reviews
Should I read it out loud?
Or should I let it simmer
And invited samplers to sample my work
Too many mind and voices
Can be influential
Unlike a Sunday buffet his poem
Is not the main course?
His work is his ode
So he becomes a prolific composer.
Author note:
To be or not to be this is the question
obliquely opaque
opaque – soft light sifts through stained drape
filtered through muted sunshine’s dancing shape
trapped within dim confines - dust covered trust
love’s charred remains - victim of unbridled lust
awakening to darkness – blinding brightness
stumbling sightless through outdated rightness
alone with thinking’s disconnected fears
seekers reconstructing new frontiers
layering more dust upon the Grail
adrift amid the thoughts they never sail
searching without - for that within
saddled with past - and future sin
oblique – soft angle breaking stride
questioning the truths - that “must abide”
within the hearts and souls - of all but one
awakened to the truth - that there are none
8/27/2015
“Let us cross the river and rest in the shade of trees”
Converse like gentlemen, with our bayonets at ease
We were once brothers, declaring independence for these lands
Now we murder one another, for the right to shackle two hands
Where were the voices, emancipating your values from skin
Taking the glory from generals, immortalized by crimson sin
Lives were railroaded, as Kansas bled into a Missouri stream
Bodies buried in the compromise, of a transcontinental dream
Was it a War of Secession, or a rebellion of recourse
Fire-eaters scorching, an abolitionist’s civil discourse
600,000 lost, tangled in the matted wool of the rancid free
One Bloody Shirt cleansed, by Sherman’s March to the Sea
Do you still hear their viscid screams, clinging to the charred air
Mottled faces crying, broken by artillery soaked fields of despair
Gettysburg shook, as corpses crumbled under death’s rolling gait
The tide had turned, but war only recognizes one ephemeral state
I have heard of leaders, speaking on the residue of tyranny’s grave
Reconstructing a widow's faith, eulogizing the sacrifice of the brave
So why do we proudly remember, how you outmaneuvered harm
Stonewalling the Constitution, before sadly losing your "right arm"
**NOTE** The first line of the poem is a quote from Confederate General
Thomas "Stonewall" Jackson, as he lay dying from a mortal wound at the battle
of Chancellorsville. Upon learning of his greatest commander's death, General
Robert E. Lee somberly responded that it was as if he lost his "right arm".
Is there any kind of person who is perfect, an example?
Someone that helps every single day should be ample,
Although could even that one be considered perfect?
People aren't perfect, so that's what you would expect.
Status and position, you can be born into it, or find it,
The appearance you have doesn't matter, don't mind it,
Or else you'll find yourself in a precarious predicament.
Knowing what to do is starting to become omnipotent
With professors, doctors, priests, soldiers, and bankers.
Because they have their skin emblazoned with anchors,
Anchors to the soul, body and mind, or the literal form.
Fact is, people have to hide their anchors, it's 'the norm'.
Lets say a qualified person is reconstructing your heart,
Would you really care if their skin were covered in art?
What about serving in the war, rolling up their sleeves,
To reveal more sleeves, and everyone tattooed leaves.
I am a poet, an artist, a writer
A lover of humanity
This poem I write is about the Grenfell tower story.
Kensington,Kensington
What have you done
Blood stains and tears are scrolled upon your veins.
For a dollar , a pound or two
You brought plastic instead of foam
You thought their would never burn.
Kensington,Kensington
Hypocrites and thieves
You brought these souls to their knees.
Twenty seven storeys
One hundred and twenty flats
Six hundred souls were all entrapped.
Kensington,Kensington
While you were sleeping
These souls were heating.
Higher and higher the flames kept on rising
Hotter and hotter their became
Calling out all in vain.
God how I wished it had rain
Kensington,Kensington
Look at your streets.
These souls you see is because of your greed
Kensington,Kensington
Stop your lies.
It's time you open your eyes
These crimes of yours is what you have reap
There are souls unaccounted for on Latimer street.
Numbers are increasing, mothers are still weeping
Kensington, Kensington you need to restore
Crowds are escalating.
Questions asked , answers concealed
Kensington, Kensington I fear
Your unanswered questions
May provoked a political war.
Five million why not a billion
You spend this much on nuclear wars
Kensington, Kensington the public needs answers.
Families are in despair
There cannot be repaired
Kensington,Kensington you need to start reconstructing.
These souls are everywhere
Mourning and anguish
Anger and fear won't disappear.
Kensington,Kensington the dead is knocking
Their ashes are spread everywhere
Soon their will be demanding.
False promises slow response
Will only awake the sleeping
Kensington,Kensington the dead needs to be resting.
Scintillating muse providing inspiration
Jettisoning convention for innovation
Scuttling old patterns without expiation
Countermanding discourse with new creation
Alternating rhythms for lofty oration
Imbuing myths with crafty animation
Ennobling verse with majestic simulation
Abridging meter with stimulating catechization
Utilizing parody to intensify gratification
Brandishing riddles with crafty illusion
Burnishing irony in stunning profusion
Instilling prose with deeper alliteration
Suddenly, faltering in my bridled station
Confronted by seamless repetition
Disrobed of all callous pretension
Jaundiced at my mindless ambition
Reconsidered sages merited position
Re-read Homer, Virgil with more appreciation
Studying Shakespeare became new avocation
Bequeathing to the ancient bards greater approbation
when her shadow cracked
fragments entered her mind
shards of false gold
pierced façade and persona
left her in pieces
splintered images and illusions
the mask had been held tight
a rope strangled the puppet
clown’s grimace incised
by strings of attachment
and forced assimilation
a mirage in the making
projection of fake courage
pied piper tune on the march
dissonant shrieking contour
silhouette of crushed empty words
with no choice left
she picked up the pieces
and timid surface tension
adhered to the task
of reconstructing a narrative
without othering
gendering
ab-normalising all rupture
when she looked at the mosaic
the patchwork montage
appeared more sustainable
self-sufficient and rewarding
as the sum of all parts
had been hidden in a whole
where the light needed to fill
crevices and fissures
and she began to accept
time lines and gaps
which assembled
the shape of outlines
of necessary change
12th August 2021
The battles that I
endure are seemingly
imaginary
to the worlds eye
but when you you
finally see
get a glimpse
a first sight
you would see the
things I battle
when my mind is not
right
How do you explain
that you have
searched to find
refuge
though the places
you have searched
have left you more
lost than before
I have looked
through God, music
and meditation
The answer seems to
be a magical Doctor
with a miracle
medication
I feel as though I
am just waiting to
catch my break
I drop my lives
mirror in
overwhelming
anticipation
for the broken
pieces to appear
So I can attempt at
reconstructing my
jigsawed life
Back to what I
remember
The only fear I have
is as mirror drops
the pieces just
vanish
nothing left
an empty canvass.
I'll only be here periodically
because I quit my job at the WTC.
I went up to the boss and asked for my money.
I just no longer could handle any of this controversy
which will only promote more future disharmony,
plus I can't relate to my co workers cerebrally.
Every day I am surrounded with stupidity.
Time to get out before stupidity rubs off on me.
Working at the World Trade Center obviously
was very trying for me anyway emotionally.
Everyday
I felt like I was on my way
to work in a mass cemetery
where thousands of my loved ones were taken from me.
Reconstructing the World Trade Center unfortunately
is the only game in town left for one in the construction industry.
What can I say? Yours Truly must eat,
so once again
I'm earning a living
as an interstate trailer driver driving cross country.
Could one of you out there do me a favor please?
Someone
get a gun
and please shoot me.
I've spent a life time
basking in the shadows of turpitude
finding warmth in the coolness of night
where feeling sorry for myself
became the deterrent from my own absurdities
I searched for strength amongst the struggle
and saught relief through self mutilation
but all I found were broken images
of what I've dreamt myself to be
So I surrendered my life
wiped my eyes
cleaned up my arms
and began reconstructing my structure
I no longer seek shelter in solacement
and the chains that once bound me
no longer tie me into darkness
'for you've been defeated
and I've been forgiven
and with the quater mark
of my life vastly approaching
I will compliment my saviours success
by living!
Silently singing sacred songs…
Reverent resolve repairs reconstructing;
Beliefs beyond blocking barriers…
Carrying Christ Consciousness;
Learning loving living longing…
Focused freedoms fragrance…