Best Reenact Poems
The sun opens her eyes behind a roseate veil,
her aubade harmonizing with Argus-eyed blackbirds
as it rises to a crescendo, staring in her husband’s
cratered eyes, ready to relieve him of his watch over the
world’s children so he can attend to their parents —
that is, the cosmic bodies that collided to create them; the
sacred alchemy.
He lifts her honey veil; a goodnight kiss he hopes to reenact
eternally, the aeons circling anniversaries as if liesegang
rings. She looks back, her flint knife eyes flashing violently.
“This fierce face is a facade,” he thinks, seeing her tremulous
expression, lips quivering in anticipation; a holy seduction
— that is, the ancient and sui generis matrimonio of
gods.
morning sun, a newborn babe,
exhales her first breath each dawn in mist
daybreak’s kiss
straddles the North Carolina and Tennessee line
Cherokee Nation’s last reservation
remains within a hazy, vaporous veil
nearly two centuries crept past
since 14,000 ill and hungry Cherokees
trekked the Trail of Tears
moving westward wearily
to sparse lands that precluded hunting, farming
by President Jackson’s ignoble decree
many perished along the trail
sacrificed to a selfish quest for gold
travelers still witness indomitable spirits
rising to life each night
as mist fades with setting sun
accusations of injustice
echo through the Smoky Mountains
to the tempo of tribal drums
Native Americans
reenact futile but peaceful efforts
to keep their homes
to remain one nation
to survive
to thrive
as ancestors did
scent of death ascends from sacred grounds
woodlands that have forever lost their greenery
now just cloudy scenery
peaks that resurrect dreary history
“reservation,” a trifling gesture
from a selfish territorial invader
speak to the spirits at sunset
beckon them to keep their honorable legacy alive
then feel damp anguish in foggy daybreak
souls returning to the forest floor
only to resurrect again
when darkness drapes the mountains once more
the curse
the shame
Smoky Mountains
Cherokee birthright denied
*Written August 20, 2014
In my hometown of Hillsboro
A humble, small suburb
There stood a church that was more humble still
In that cozy congregation
We'd teach and learn the Word
And try each day to do the Father's will
But our little congregation
Each year at Christmastime
Would execute a miraculous feat!
The whole town would come out in droves
To view what we'd present
A Christmas pageant right next to the street!
The first vignette was of a home
A modern family
Telling of that first Christmas long ago
The next scene showed the palaces
Of Herod on his throne
When his grim proclaimation he bestowed
Each onlooker could walk or drive
From scene to sacred scene
But either way, observers saw the worth
For every stop would reenact
The story of God's love
From Herod to the blessed Savior's birth
The community seemed hungry
To hear the wondrous news
Of the Messiah, born to die for us
And like them, we were richly blessed
To share with all who came
The spectacle-- a Journey Through Christmas!
*This is a true story that I've presented in poetry form for Carolyn Devonshire's "Christmas
in Your Town" Contest
Every night since you've gone
I sleep on both sides of the bed
as if to reenact
sleeping with you...
If I switch sides
quickly enough I feel the warmth
from my own body
as if you were beside me...
Back and forth wrapped around
my body pillow as if it were you
I hear myself breathing
in my pillow in my own ear...
Perhaps my sin was falling for you
so quickly my fantasy lover
then again would you want a man
who sleeps with himself to keep warm...
I need you like salt
storing you in my body
to taste the salt of your skin
sweating you when passion overwhelms me...
~ ~ ~ ~
Sending the tending to an unfriended ending,
yet somehow suspending from rending a newly offending recommending.
Logotype monotype linotype,
overripe stereotype,
teletyped an unripe heliotype.
Guttersnipe snipe,
stipe snipe ripe,
a wipe type a tripe,
unleash a withering hype.
Dip snip,
nip lip,
slip skip,
rip the apple pip
over a battleship Chip.
Clip,
airstrip,
blip,
scrip,
gyp,
flip,
dip.
Unsip, blue clip,
A warship, weathering stick.
To miche an itch,
to stitch a witch.
Rich a quitch,
Hitch a flitch.
Gabrilowitsch,
the grand son of a *****!
Pitched a ditch to flitch a niche.
Made a rich hitch lich.
The Thia tie thy tried to untie an unshy,
Spied a sny sty,
He ascribed a bribe tribe,
to dib drib, lib and sib.
A death pale,
dwaled and engrailed,
enjailed and bewailed.
The cocktale turned into a,
ginger ale stale.
A hobnail.
A pale kale.
The whale waled
a veil of wail.
The stale air,
railed the quailing sale.
Dipped the snip,
to pip the tip,
and baled the avail,
to the flailed snail.
Attract extract reenact,
saddle backed and subtracted,
the tact the pact
an unmistakable fact.
Swag the unsage,
the wage of the tutelage.
A coffee break
a bit of a cornflake
cupcaked the cake of the devil's flake.
Draked the fake fruitcake,
and hake the jake on the mellow lake.
Mistake the overtake.
A pancake sheik,
cried spake of a toothache.
Ack Ack!
Back, Bootblack Jack.
Pack the Pontiac rack,
sack the Hackensack,
hijack the leatherback.
Offtrack the outback,
rack the sack,
smack the stack,
stickleback the tictack track,
to the umiak Union Jack.
Twack the whack yak sack,
A mystical one eyed zodiac.
Bready a speedy,
deedy the weedy,
Reedy to leedy.
Unheedy indeedy.
Leda, Vida, Theda.
Sketched an etch,
itched a hatch.
So speechless,
breathless,
toothless.
The socialist,
the communist,
the theorist
the terrorist.
Bedded the bedding
in a dreadful beheading.
Weeded the weed,
leading the lead,
tended the teed.
The ready read,
the reedy reeded.
The seedy seeded.
The end is Ending.
Christmas Traditions
By Dane Smith-Johnsen
It was the Day after Thanksgiving and every store in town.
Had planned to opened wide its doors before daylight could be found.
It was an outlandish sight to see people sleep overnight.
Shoppers camping on sidewalks people waiting in the moonlight.
The Christmas shopping season was formally set in motion!
Hustling, bustling, getting, and grabbing: bikes, pipes, and lotion.
TVs, wreaths, computers, briefs, trees, ties, anything money buys.
Some starry-eyed children sway singing with Santa beneath skies.
Meanwhile, Jesus Christ, the nativity, and live manger scenes
Attempt to teach people what the Christmas season really means.
A few carolers come singing along their neighborhood streets.
And the folks that they sing too, with big smiles, surprise them with treats.
A God loving soul amid the clamorous celebrations,
Gathers his family, to make costumes and preparations.
Mary, Joseph, Jesus, shepherds, and the three Kings with gifts, myrrh.
Reverently, they reenact our blessed Savior's Holy birth.
This poem was written for Carolyn Devonshire's Christmas in Your Town contest.
Poetic form: A narrative written in couplets.
My autopsy room is a confessional,
where killers in absentia divulge
their sins through bodies
rigid and frigid, mutilated and mute.
Graffiti of abrasions, contusions and lacerations
reenact without deceit or reservations
a catalogue of perversions and violations.
Rage, hatred, greed, jealousy, sickness
explode and leave behind vandalized anatomies,
a *********** of naked emotions
in the topography of vacated husks.
Silently, they talk.
With my eyes, I listen.
They confide in me about themselves too,
these chatty cadavers,
about their public faces and private hell.
Tattoos speak of loves and obsessions,
silicone breasts betray insecurities,
medications reveal internal insurgencies,
needle marks give away muffled screams,
cirrhosis lets on alcoholic dreams.
A hundred foibles preserved by the
candor of rigor mortis,
each corpse an abridged,
unfinished biography.
By the end of their final confessions, the departed
have parted with their burdens of secrets.
In death much more than in life,
there is honesty.
Still, I take comfort in the lies of the living.
Was it a mocha latte or a moch frap ?
My mind escapes me at the moment
I can nor grasp nor reenact the events that play in my late memory
Was it you screaming or me leaving that played the biggest part
I cannot recall
But it is said if you love it you must let it depart
I hold it less at my heart and more as a monkey on my back
I think more so.....
Never mind, forget it, I'll never get that memory back
Long as the Great Wall of China or short as a life span
excuse my inner thoughts Im just babbling
Guess I'm going through a life transe
Reached the panicle of an older state;
faced body rugged, as stone or slate;
I must reiterate, I am not old, but great;
I'm imparting of an older state;
A family that no longer calls;
An aged person whom new crawls;
Though, they sometimes may fall;
you won't find me shopping at the malls;
I am imparting of an older state;
It's about to rise;
You have to get to where I'm at;
you have to live life close to reenact;
I am not just an artifact, in fact;
I am part of an older state;
I know the beginning all ends;
I live now for God He's my true and only Friend;
Fifty is the new teen;
Sixty is the between;
Seventy most never reach;
Eighty is close to heaven's gate;
I'm not old but just wait;
age but a number, a member, I'm in fact an older state;
Call me Elder, Senior call me old;
]When time is done my stories told;
No illnesses, No arthritis, Alzheimer's;
Neither money gold nor diamonds;
Flight of stairs, bronze, golden, grey white hairs;
Multiply wrinkles on the left right corners of both my eyes;
I'll be the one singing my grandchildren's lullabies;
Once left my foot toward the skies in youth;
Now can hardly walk crow the street but in truth;
the youth have strength in part;
But aged are my spirit, soul, mind and heart;
I am a senior to those under me in age;
but I am not too old and not too frail;
For I am full grown matured and great;
I'm in fact an older state, it's about to rise;
you have to live life close to reenact;
I am not just a n artifact, in fact;
I am part of an...
OLDER STATE
(by James E. Lee Sr. from 'Intergenerational Poetry Slam "Elders Track" University of Nebraska Omaha Poetry to Bridge the Generation Contest'
(c)2014
I know I have a special purpose for my life,
I'm just struggling to answer
One question, what's my calling?
I don't know.
God I'm struggling I don't know what to do
What is it that I want to do?
I thought I knew at one point, but that plan didn't go
Like driving in a car but the air won't flow.
I know I'm your beloved son
And in me is whom you are well pleased
But sometimes I feel lost
Without a guide to point me down the right path.
Help me to see who it is I'm called be,
Who am I supposed to lead?
I don't have any answers
I pray you speak to me.
Help me hear what it is you want from me
As I begin to cry, I wish I could wipe my eyes
But tears still continue to fall from my eyes.
No matter how much I try my cheeks will never be dry
God I don't what am I supposed to do?
Pray and wait for you
I remember a few weeks back, my friend sent me a text
Saying she supports and believes in my dreams,
My parents said the same thing
So I know I'm loved and supported
By love from up above
Open my ear God I need to hear from you
What it is that I'm called to do?
Show others the light of Christ
How can I do that, when I don't even know your calling for my life?
I feel like I'm letting everyone down
I have no answers.
I want to make an impact but can't reenact my old plan
I accept that I need help, God reveal your plan.
I put my life in your hands
Please show me your perfect plan
And I will be the best me that I can
I give you full control,
Help me get my life under control.
I know I'll find my place you always make a way
No matter what path I take you will make everything okay
I have chosen to follow only in your ways
And read your word for the rest of my days.
I'm not in this on my own there's no way,
I can't make it traveling my own way
I need help, I need advice.
I know you'll never leave my side
No need for me to duck and hide.
You're glued to me, more like me to you
After all, everything I will ever need is found in you.
My old nature has been tossed out,
I'm a new man with a new plan
Reequipped and reset
Now I'm ready for the next step.
Get a vision, create a path,
Time for me to get my life back on track.
I know I have a special calling on my life
To share the light of Jesus Christ
What's your calling for my life?
I don't know what's my calling?
History museums
Never seem to let me down,
No matter what the country
Or the city or the town.
From homes and music of the past
To cars and toys and fashion,
It's fun to reenact those times
Once lived with so much passion.
In Minnesota, an exhibit
Geared to World War II,
Had so much I remembered,
Though my birth was not yet due:
Soda fountains, pay phones
With those rotary-type dials,
Movies made in black and white
And cars in retro styles.
Pepsodent commercials,
Alfred Hitchcock, Humphrey, Clark,
Betty Boop and Girl Scout badges -
Memories did spark.
A history museum
Brings us back to where we were
Or where we might have been
To watch those happenings occur.
Cupid's arrow has pierced my being,
Is this a dream that I am seeing?
She is everything I've ever asked for,
A magical gift from a far away shore.
My body lay here bound by the devil,
However the spirit of David no evil can level.
I will do everything to transcend this curse,
And by God's grace I will one day help carry her purse.
Rachel is worth every step of this quest,
For she is among the best of the best.
Flawlessly beautiful inside and out,
To the point where I just have to shout.
I love you with all of my heart!
Now to beat these monsters we will have to be smart!
Let our eyes lock together and light up this room!
Illuminating what was once filled with gloom!
We're old lovers and that much I know,
So let us go and reenact what is a timeless show.
I will find you in this life or the next,
Whether or not I ever receive a single text.
I know I have yet to see you in person or hear you speak,
However when I type to you and look at your pictures my knees get so weak.
One day we will finally meet,
And the ground will quake beneath our very feet.
Until then I will get no sleep,
Even if I count a million sheep.
The reality of it is that I am with you already,
So please be calm and please be steady.
I rise,
with cock and crow.
I sense,
the Who, the How.
I move,
from Intent to Act.
I gauge and guess -
overthinking here,
underthinking there.
I weigh and wonder -
overworrying fear,
wonder syncing here.
I react or respond -
overshooting now,
then undershooting.
I finish, a fallow field
long afore the sun
winks past out past
the Last Edge there.
I fall back, where
earlier I'd rose.
No closer to wise
though closer to worn.
The Fall of Man
is his rise and rise.
His meeting of the day
with the unlearnéd mind
and a flesh vessel which
could seem stoic but
really rather is a stubborn
thing.
This rote rising,
the start of Falling.
This same work I do
not for man, but for woman.
And most happ'ly so.
The chance to rise not
for self. The chance not to
reenact with cock and crow
the (daily) Fall of Man.
But rather, instead, perchance
to dream, to rise
to Sense (of)
to Move (with)
to Guess (at)
to Respond (to)
a Woman.
Yes, rather than
the Fall of Man.
Might I rise to
Fall for a
Woman.
I rise,
with cock and crow.
I sense,
the Who, the How.
I move,
from Intent to Act.
I gauge and guess -
overthinking here,
underthinking there.
I weigh and wonder -
overworrying fear,
wonder syncing here.
I react or respond -
overshooting now,
then undershooting.
I finish, a fallow field
long afore the sun
winks past out past
the Last Edge there.
I fall back, where
earlier I'd rose.
No closer to wise
though closer to worn.
The Fall of Man
is his rise and rise.
His meeting of the day
with the unlearnéd mind
and a flesh vessel which
could seem stoic but
really rather is a stubborn
thing.
This rote rising,
the start of Falling.
This same work I do
not for man, but for woman.
And most happ'ly so.
The chance to rise not
for self. The chance not to
reenact with cock and crow
the (daily) Fall of Man.
But rather, instead, perchance
to dream, to rise
to Sense (of)
to Move (with)
to Guess (at)
to Respond (to)
a Woman.
Yes, rather than
the Fall of Man.
Might I rise to
Fall for a
Woman.
I knew two twenty-somethings who
had been soul mates since age sixteen.
One commonality that drew
them to each other was a keen
enjoyment of old movies, those
with lively song-and-dance routines.
On weekend nights they sometimes chose
a Fred and Ginger* film with scenes
that thrilled, but Singin’ in the Rain,
became top choice. One time when they
were watching—Don’t think I‘m insane
when I tell what transpired that day!
As unpredicted raindrops fell
and matched those on the tv screen,
the loving couple could not quell
the urge to reenact the scene.
Outside, quite wet, they’d morphed into
the movie’s Don and Kathy.** While
they sang and danced, they bid adieu
reality in their own style!
*Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—iconic dance team of the
1930’s and 1940’s who starred in ten movies during this time
**roles played by Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in this movie (1952)
entered in Brenda Chiri's Tell Me a Story Contest on October 23, 2018
Note: I posted this poem earlier, messed it up, had to repost!
Entered in Brian Strand's Contest 512 on October 31, 2018