Best Rewrites Poems
Night rewrites day, transforms the blues
with ink-wash, urges me to forget
grapples, tasks, drudgery,
hard surfaces and hardened people as all things
soften, lighten, blur— even gravity pulls less
as if the world’s core has pardoned the hefty afternoon.
Sheets pouch this body, pillows
accept every sigh. Sleep is a leave-taking,
a poetic restoration of sense and mindfulness.
Faultless, this need to submit, this appeal to let go. Just let it go.
Oh, he is but Etok the Shufflebutt!
So cheerful like a morn sun is this man,
whose memory’s like fish, but he’s no nut.
He loves poetry, and he knows what’s what,
cradling your thoughts with his warmth like ocean.
Oh, he is but Etok the Shufflebutt,
who is not known for his infamous strut...
like rooster in a hen house! He’s the one
whose memory’s like fish, but he’s no nut.
He writes and writes, rewrites and rewrites that
oft he forgets, at night, his wife to man.
Oh, he is but Etok the Shufflebutt,
a poe(t) that easily forgets what
he writes, ‘cause he was born to be that man
whose memory’s like fish, but he’s no nut.
Blessed is he, who smiles sweet as a nut,
that he greets you all not with a shotgun.
Oh, he is but Etok the Shufflebutt,
whose memory’s like fish, but he’s no nut!
in the bayou state full of race
lies a culture with no face
colored fear and hatred paints
graffiti minds new orleans saints
mandela effect effects the mass
while garbage minds are filled with trash
a paradox rewrites the past
as stupidity aligns to last
the epox of a spiritual endeavor?
perhaps not maybe never
the learning curve now has twist
ignorance is much more bliss
If I’d picked up a snooker cue, when I picked up a pen;
and then gone on to build a break of eight or nine or ten.
If I had only listened more to those who understand;
who told me not to play the game by using just one hand.
If I’d just watched Big Break much more, instead of writing
rhyme;
and studied Foulds and Knowles instead of Byron all the time.
If I’d just gone and bought more chalk, and even used a tip,
upon my cue, then thought perhaps to practice just a bit.
If I had researched Virgo’s words instead of Wilfred Owen;
and written many papers on ‘Where’s The cue ball going?’
If I had only listened more to whispering Ted Lowe
instead of sometimes listening to Pam Ayres in full flow.
If I had studied Parrot’s wit and Alex Higgins flair.
instead of Larkin, Betjeman, Wordsworth or John Clare.
If only I’d heard Snooker Loopy played a little more,
instead of writing verses that sometimes never rhyme!
If I had just stayed up all night to watch the grinder ‘Cliff’,
and not penned many rewrites of Kipling’s poem ‘If!’
If I’d just seen the final frame in Nineteen Eighty Five,
and had a longer tape cassette which didn’t then rewind.
If I’d thought of a funky name like Jimmy ‘Whirlwind’
White,
or ‘Scarface’ or ‘The Rocket’, one which would excite.
If I had done these things I’ve said, then yes I’m sure, I
know it.
I would have been a snooker star, and not an unknown
poet!
(Based on Rudyard Kipling’s poem ‘If’)
You say you want a revolution?
Just what would that do to our evolution?
Bring change and revelation, what type of a solution
to the foolishness we embrace and true reality ignored pollution?
Take our guns away and the right to bear arms, settle scores
while sending foot soldiers, boots on the ground fighting someone's wars.
Build satellites, drones, bombs and smartphones to do the dirty work
stealing lives of innocence while terrorists survive to hide and lurk.
Protect those who have something to supply like diamonds, gold, oil
while people of a nation slowly die in poverty, starvation and diseased spoils.
Set up funded foundations controlled and contrived by the rich placated
and keep the monies donated for the poor and devastated.
Watch gamers play foolhardy glints of survival hunts and war-craft
never once recognizing the reality exists in the real world daft.
See your children on the tablets and i-phones texting
unawares of human contact. communication, love and touch vexed.
Hide from the gangs and random shootings on the street
bury the innocence stolen from our living free each day fleet.
History rewrites the story every decade, every century, every day
and we the people - seek change, compassion, love and understanding ways.
Peace - never lasts for we are a warring people
restless, unsatisfied, looking for something in the eye of the needle.
You say you want a revolution?
It's already here, wanting absolution.
How did it start?
How will it end?
It is the darkness in the human story from the very beginning of time.
Paint it black written in blood and tears forever flowing in the climb.
My boy and me.
On the bed my pal sat drawing,
My boy,one gem,"it's me time"
I hug him,"why not art making",
Duo get a key job to chime.
Big tax kid,go for nap dreaming,
Up now, sip tea,eat bun,boy mine,
We go for fun,uno shuffling,
Far is the zoo,we jog and mime.
Oh!the joy of fox,cub, stories,
Day is gay,ink in the glories ,
Pet dog in red cap hurries.
Man in his eye,my son Saad,
Fan of non veg,dad is Bernard,
Mom in the gym,for lad it's hard.
Funom Sonnet special rules.
14 lines, all words must contain only three letters or less,
except for rhyme words.
Lines must have 7 or 8 syllabic count
Rhyme Pattern: a-b-a-b-a-b-a-b c-c-c-d -d-d
My first attempt..quite time demanding and brainy.,
quite a few writes and rewrites...had fun.
Thank you.
Contest: The Funom's Sonnet
Sponsor: Funom Makama
16/4/2016
Morning soothes my heart and delights my thoughts
Whispers of a misty moment rights my thoughts
Buttery sunshine bestows joy through my life
As hues of lavender laughter highlights my thoughts
Gentle birds emerge and silence the milky clouds
With silent hope that smiles and invites my thoughts
Butterflies dressed in tangerine dance across my mind
Revealing dreams and passions that excites my thoughts
Lovely roses breathe through sorrows onto yearning souls
Capturing luscious dewdrops which writes my thoughts
Silence paints the dawn's reflection in a peaceful grace
Touching both the heart and soul that sights my thoughts
Moon and stars hide behind the gentle flesh of sun's kindness
Creating waves of abiding love which ignites my thoughts
Melancholy longings leave me feeling blessed with prayers
And praise for the sense of warmth which recites my thoughts
Oceans of heartfelt embraces flow from a McIntosh who loves
With a heart and soul who ponders how love rewrites my thoughts
Sitting by the steps of the old avenue subway
In his ragged long sleeves shirt, he completes my day
In my year long rides, he never missed to say
Words of day to day sunshine ray
He's a man who never begged nor asked for a thing
A day without his radiance is a year without spring
In his shabby gray pants, he ruled the subway like a king
In his time of moon, he sleeps in his chalked-drawn ring
I walked by him, truth be told not just I
We all listened, shared his glee and bid goodbye
A one legged man, who soars so high
Gave everyone a soulful, joyful cry
He is the man many call, the subway sleeper
He reaps you off your sadness, known to others as the reaper
He rewrites our everyday journey; he's quite a fine writer
Come by the old avenue subway, there's a man known as the sweeper.
With shaking hand I write in dimmed light
Strings of words robust burst and slip from my pen
With a grave heart I write
With a frail heart I forgive
It mimicks the sound of life
Of love and such things
Such fragile things which tend to burn in the sunlight
Things that are made all the more deceiving
A heaviness that lasts
That sticks to the ribs and heart now heavy
That rewrites itself till mad
Drawing circles around itself till silly
It punctures and weens
By elastic grip it clings
Turning right what was once impossible, or so it seems
In again, gone till forgotten completely
I rise on unsteady feet
Overseeing all that lies around me in heaps
Careful now not to impose or create hostility
For the hand is sensitive and unreasoning
By strike of silent blow it extends
More willing than most and less willing to forgive
What's scribbled in haste and panic hard to comprehend
Yet to the hand it stands on its own merit
For hope it seeks-
In the words it creates
Like prayers from an incompetent though loving beast
In braille it signs all of its messages plain
For fear that I may shrink
Become pale in its presence
For its divine love I seek
None other than that which the hand so frivilously speaks
From sleep I awake
To pages filled and marked
Dressing myself in them
As if talismans or some form of holy art
To make me, to REmake and refashion me clean
But never doing away completey as so I'll not forget the beginning
With shaking hand I scribble unpredictably
Lacking grace and intelligence and formality
But this is all I know
This pen and its speech
What it feels and the depths from which the words come from
These words, unlike any man, now standing up for me.
Love performs
everything it preaches.
Love reforms
everyone it reaches.
Love transforms
everything it touches.
Love rewrites
sour and sweet stories.
Love ignites
golden gain and glories.
Love unites
moments and memories.
Love commands
respect and responsibility.
Love understands
the heartbeat of humanity.
Love stands
in prosperity and in adversity.
Love sings
a priceless and perfect part.
Love springs
from a honourable heart.
Love brings
joy and make pains depart.
Tears fill our eyes these winter years;
our spring it seems was long ago...
we look ahead with deepened fears.
Tears fill our eyes these winter years
as days fly faster it appears...
not much more time for us to glow.
Tears fill our eyes these winter years;
our spring it seems was long ago.
Our friends lost spouses, one by one;
we once were twelve and now we're eight.
Late seventies rewrites our fun;
our friends lost spouses, one by one.
Alone they're left beneath the sun;
the years ahead, what is their fate.
Our friends lost spouses, one by one.
We once were twelve and now we're eight.
How many more years will there be...
we cannot know, but are we near
the end of time for you and me?
How many more years will there be
just five or ten, fifteen, maybe...
together or alone, my dear?
How many more years will there be
we cannot know, but we are near.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Three Stanzas- Three Only
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Rules: Deep Emotion and Sadness in Poem
Judged: 08/02/2016
~5th Place~
Contest: Any Poem Written In July 2016
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 08/17/2016
The night it seems, a wistful muse
as evening’s peach begins to bruise
with shadows stretched in brooding streams
A wistful muse, the night it seems
A mystic swath, transcending prose
Rewrites the night with grand compose
The Milky Way, a bardic froth
Transcending prose, a mystic swath
A spell is cast, when light has fled
Unwound from angst of unknown thread
Then spun in words of splendor - vast
When light has fled, a spell is cast
Swap Quatrain
14 Jun 2020
O Earth, Sweet Earth, Forgive My Follies
O' earth , earth , sweet earth forgive my follies,
ten thousand days of roaming upon thy bosom
slashing and bruising in wicked deeds;
no foresight in my multitude of transgressions,
so guilty of grief and pain inflicted
in ignorance of thy many desperate needs!
Perhaps a vain wish! Yet my spirit still prays
for a gift, a chance at dearest redemption
granted , sweet solace merciful in the giving;
soft tunes, singing such kindness in song,
Nature's elements dancing with tenderness and
beautiful clouds celebrating all that is living!
Robert Lindley , April 1991
Rewritten from memory. I think fairly close but do know
it is not 100 percent as originally written 23 years ago.
I find it hard to do such rewrites because I always seem
to remember the original version to be much better!
Perhaps just my engaging in wishful thinking.lol
Oh winging Heart on a mission
to the edge of forever,
speed to the beloved with a message of Love.
We look in a different way,
with the Heart do we see,
and in that wondrous seeing,
is the feeling of awes majesty!
Yeah, that's the way to overcome
the 'thought police' inside the head;
doubt is the Heart killer
and so with this pen,
we’ll write our Hearts out again and again,
and if they judge the words we say,
to dash our Dreams in any way,
then we'll write even more to soothe the Soul
for the writing life is our Loving goal!
This triumph of Love carried to our pen
where in our written words Love lives again ...
A writer writes and never stops writing
and rewrites and writes again and again ...
and he never stops writing except to Dream,
perhaps to reach for that Star in that Star crowded Sky
and bring that Star to the end of his Pen
and write like plasma all over again ...
The hourglass of time
As I stare at the forest my eyes fill with tears
The colors are a reminder of the times that have past
The time that can not be reclaimed
The dying leaves are an omen of what is to come
We have but one chance to make our mark
To change a life with the words we write
To help a child enjoy what language can do
The changing of seasons is like an hourglass
There are no do over’s no rewrites
What’s done is done no matter the deed
Don’t let the changing colors of fall depress
But let it be a starting point on a new beginning.