Best Rewrite Poems
i sit lonely.
the crowded restaurant is thick with sound
i pick away at it
moving back into the stagnant silence
of my own comfort
the air is nasty here
it telepathically abuses my thought patterns
still
a far cry better
the loud hum of food
marching to the vacant crowd
suffocates me
a decorated plate joins my table
strikes a conversation with the cutlery
there is no call from the governor
as i attack my food
fork knife teeth
bites later
a paper plane flies in
a swipe of my plastic
makes quick work of the bill
i exit
seemingly quicker
than human eyes can catch
i hate this part
i parley my way through
too many bodies
all the while staring
at a concrete maze
never making eye contact
with a single soul
i do that
i always do that
keep the entrances of my being
away from those who would stare me down
attempt to engage me in conversation
with a desire to lock eyes
if they looked in they would burn
i’d be held responsible
FINALLY
home
the only environment i feel safe in
my therapist will be proud
almost an hour today
assuming i see her again
i am covered in my own dew
my breathing sporadic
i line up an array of pills like good soldiers
as i continue my attempt
survive another day
it will take hours to regain my sanity
all the while questioning the purpose
why must i assimilate
back into the dungeons
they call society
it behooves me
find one reason
join the rank and file
plug back into a horrendous grid
i had escaped
i
grow
weary
of
my
own
thoughts
ignore my voice
slowly regain my footing
plant roots
hope they’ll take hold
attempt to return
into the vacuum of my existence
i sit lonely.
If you continue to hide
How will they know?
Who you are
What you are
Behind all the guilt
Hidden behind the negative thoughts
A gem
You don’t realise the depth of you
You don’t get the image
God sees when He looks at you
Faults - mistakes all forgotten
Shackles broken long ago
The only prison you are in; is man made
By your hands
By your thoughts
By the misconstrued image you see
In others eyes
Focus on your race
Not those around you
This chapter is for your book
It's your path
©101120141445
Here is the original in quatrain form:
A swan did sail so gracefully
Around a crystal lake
Such whiteness pure I ne'er did see
It almost could be fake
What peaceful calm, what portrait clear
'Tis heav'n on earth I see
If only I could linger here
For all eternity
And here is the rewrite:
A swan sailed about
Gracefully on a clear lake
White plumage shining brightly.
A moment of peace
A crystal portrait of calm
A glimpse of heaven on earth.
If only it could
Remain this way forever
Unbroken by passing time.
“That’s just the way you’re wired”
Sure some settings are predetermined out of the box
But most adapt over time to the environment
Growing up we all adjust to the situation to survive
To try to get our needs met and gain connection
In order to not short circuit
Same wiring extends to adulthood if you let it
Easy to justify “that’s just the way I am”
Using childhood strategies to cope with adult issues
Until your wires cross
The system crashes
You no longer wish to operate this way
Time for a diagnostic check up
Begin by analyzing your internal schematics
Must understand mechanics behind your motherboard
Investigate ingrained patterns of behaviors
Be gentle when digging into deep rooted tendencies
The process will be pain staking
But the payoff will be worth it
You may realize it’s not all hard coded
Don’t have to port over old programming
You can override the system
Have the ability to rewrite your code
It’s ok to shed outdated strategies
Create a test environment to establish new connections
Tip toe along with trial and error to see what works
You have agency to decide how to live your life
Compared to only relying on your old “wiring”
Time for an upgrade
The world is waiting for your Version 2.0
It's imperative to alter the narrative,
so get out a round of ream.
There's a knot in the plot,
a lost theme with out a seam..
You pause and you pivot.
The script leaves you livid,
falling short of your dream.
Stopped, stalled between acts,
little time to retrack,
as your pen is running out of steam.
I walk a field where flowers yield
sweet pollen to the bees;
their fragrance sweet, I feel complete,
and drop down to my knees.
Humbly, I smell what blossoms tell,
whispering discreetly.
The petals kiss my cheek with bliss,
giving blush quite sweetly.
Bees gather round, and now I've found
I must be on my way;
but, keep the stings and gift me wings...
just like those bees at play.
Catie Lindsey 9/10/12
*********************************
Morning Walk
I walk the field where flowers surrender
releasing sweet nectar to hungry bees;
with fragrance so pure my heart does render,
giving way to respectful knees.
Every blossom inflames stale idle air
delivering a scent ever light and rare.
Petals brush my cheeks with delight
as kisses of fresh aroma ignite.
Bees assemble round the colorful bloom
I quickly retreated; gave them some room.
The playful bees can keep their stings
and drink the gift that nature brings.
Caryl Muzzey 2012
Sixth Place Winner ~ “(Re-write One of My Poems)” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Catie Lindsey
Nov. 5, 2012
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Death is but an empty grave,
And the soul dies in that slumber,
Which will rot its bones away.
Death is merely but a passage,
No, the grave is not its goal;
Beyond the boundaries of age
Hearst you true words of the soul.
'Tis enjoyment and 'tis sorrow
That destined is to fill our days
And 'tis true as we grow older
We find us farther from today;
Yet art is long and time is fleeting
And we must wisely choose to change
How we spend our current meeting
While onward march we to the grave
In the world’s broad field of battle,
And torment of impending death
Be not scared, nor be frightened
Rather lift up high your head
Believe in the coming future
Learn from the passing past
Make your living in the present
Leave handprints on many a heart
Lives of great men are all studied
But truly remembered are only those
Who’ve departing left behind them
A bright smile, of love a dose
Memories, that perhaps another
Pushing through the feats of life
A forlorn and shipwrecked lover
Seeing, once more shall fall in love
Let us then be up and doing, persevering
With a goal deep in our hearts and minds
Still achieving, still pursuing, knowing
With love nothing is far behind
And even though one day we surely
Meet our passage through death and grave
We boldly move on forward trusting
We’ve made the best of every day
And behind us that we loved ones leave
To spread the knowledge we’ve acquired
“Of death afraid you shall not be,
And can become all you aspire”
little pig beware the lupine cliques-
that prowl the woods of politics
the scent of money they adore
as all the while they howl for more
yowling from the forest floor
beguiling with their wily tricks
forego the straws and fragile sticks
and build your house of bricks!
Tropical Getaway
Carpooling in the Monday traffic jam,
Wondering what we are and who I am.
Since we’ve already raised a family,
Is there anything left just for you and me?
Seems each day is just like the one before.
So what have we both then been working for?
Too many years lost daily nine to five...
Just making ends meet, barely feeling alive.
Let’s forget about all the noisy mobs,
Boomerang children, and annoying jobs,
Gently swing in a hammock made for two—
And snuggle real close, next to me next to you.
Gotta find us some island Shangri-La—
A quiet sunny spot with no hoopla...
Some lost place where folks could easily hide,
That no one could find in a tourist guide.
(Chorus)
Bamboo torches and starry skies
Would be mirrored in your big brown eyes.
We’d dance away each endless night,
Lost in love, with no dawn in sight.
Wanna find some tropical getaway--
Somewhere untainted where the locals play;
With fishing boats, seafood, and mango trees,
And spicy hot scents carried on the breeze.
Lounging in that tropical paradise,
As windy bonfires spark like fireflies;
We’d watch lovers dance while the steel drums play
Nightly Calypso tunes from dusk till day.
Chorus
Another Monday morning traffic jam,
Wondering what we are and who I am.
So let’s turn around and go book a flight,
escape while we can out into the night
Gotta find that tropical paradise
Where the nights are warm and the folks are nice,
And green birds sing exotic melodies
While monkeys play high in coconut trees
Wanna hold you close on an empty beach,
With a crystal full moon just out of reach.
We could sneak out behind a big sand dune
And celebrate another honeymoon.
Chorus
DECK THE STALLS
Deck the stalls with lots of Friesians
fa la la la la, la la la la
Tis the season to be Freezin
fa la la la la, la la la la
Donned we now our Carhart apparrell
fa la la, fa la la, la la la
Troll the ancient manure wheel barrow
fa la la la la, la la, ha ha!
If it was December and….
If I was an ancient Roman
But I assure you, I am not….
I would be feasting and merrymaking like mad
Celebrating the Festival of Saturn.
Or Saturnalia if you prefer.
As many ancient Romans do.
But alas, I am not Roman, only ancient.
And December is almost three weeks out.
So let me begin this poem again.
Flowers, delicate, serene flowers
Bah-
Give me something with power!
Roar of fighting cats,
An eagle soaring toward prey,
A black cloud of vampire bats!
The happy, tinkling bells
of a winter sleigh,
Nay-
Give me a wolf's prowling howl
A hurricane come to land!
The hyena eating a thing so foul,
Nature in the raw, wholly unplanned!
* Inspired by Poetry Soup's own Ashok Niyogi and his poem ENNUI
Honorable Mention in "My Inspiration" contest by Deborah Guzzi
A. Green
As lovely geisha
That can stop any man
With just one look
And is taught to move
To and fro
With fans n clogs
For all to say ah
My electronic pen as drunk as a blind bat rattles along the virtual pages of my computer trying to make sense of its staggering direction,
Not knowing which word will next come out of its nib, mainly keeping a balance, endeavoring not to topple over, or to make scrawling blotches on its whitened board.
It is interesting that one can surmise the demise of a pen, by checking the balance of ink life that remains. However if the pen is drunk it will display uneven levels of ink life as it rocks and staggers across fallen white leafs destined to change color.
Many a writer has become an idea dwarf. Hence, what is called writer’s block, sets in. I have found myself down that street a few times and have exercised my drunken pen’s syndrome option to its fullest.
Nothing quite like it though, as this form of writing makes no sense to the closed minded reader, but a satisfactory opt out when the writer’s mind is blocked, to resort to using their drunken pen.
This is a rewrite, because I am firing blanks and this says it all.
BORN AGAIN FREAK
Was a virgin
long time
waited until he
pulled back that veil;
He kissed me for the first time.
I, never wanted to be
Handled nor touched,
he being my first,
I became weak, for the musk of him.
Innocence replaced with lust.
Through him, I learned to trust
Yearning to explore;
His chemistry intrigued me.
I loved to cuddle
Under him for the foreplay.
I never wanted to go all the way.
New to womanhood,
A shy delight in watching
him undressed.
I awakened to his flavor
I could relish in his touch,
He brought out that
Streak in me, that freak in me.
A natural ability;
That only he could induce.
He squeezed the juice
From my fruit:
No one else could do it.!
In another place in time
Our signals were aligned;
He then becomes aloof to our truth.
Time passed, I could inhale
No one else, others were never
Fresh, always stale.
I stayed in celibacy
Wrestled with that
Spirit in me.
Nearly twenty years without
Sharing sheets.
I became a ‘’re-virgin, for certain’’.
Repulsed by mankind;
Turned my head away
When people spoke to me.
Repulsed by air stirred by any
Other human beings.
After years, he returned
He found me unchanged
Waiting to inhale,
His fragrant smell.
Soon he settled in, we began
To make me laugh again.
He sighted the truth in my eyes,
I could not hide what was inside.
There was a rumbling within;
My eager freak met
Him tit for tat.
He touched places
And I touched him back.
He awakened, me erotically,
Everything was at stake.
The output and intake.
Holding back nothing.
I am his escalated freak
A Volcano, born from
The abstinence.
I withheld, endured…now
Born again a virgin.
This long-awaited touch;
Created a streak in me.
And only he — could bring
Out that freak in me.
He is my spirituality
I love him religiously.
.... and I be born again.
And all is well.!