Long Reanimate Poems
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Into my mind, a muse is wont to slip.
Capriciously she comes to visit me.
She brings exotic wine that I might sip.
I then reanimate with poetry.
She glides on tiny noiseless slippered feet
to catch me unaware by night or day,
and swiftly I imbibe her liquid sweet,
for never do I know how long she’ll stay!
Too well I know before I’ve had my fill,
the drink shall be withdrawn. She’ll leave my head,
and when she’s fled, my brain grows cold and still.
I clutch the verses left me in her stead.
Forevermore, I pray, may I be graced
by her who bears the wine I long to taste.
Honey, I bought a rose for you to prove that all things die
But even in death they live on that's why i bent my knee and smiled
you to remember
happier times
you to remember
happier times
Honey i wrote a note for you to prove I'm still alive
With a polaroid photo to bring memories to light
you to remember
happier times
you to remember
happier times
Honey don't cry
If else then
Live more life than I've lived
Tribute me with acts of true joy that money cannot give
Our laughter filled the air like the rainbows of little kids
Reanimate me through comedy the crucifix of your banes
We sang through our sorrows and laughed through our pains
And if you may remember me in lonesome silence and grief
There's a piece of me I've left in you to treasure and relive
Like recitations
"I need the money honey..."
The allure of mused poems,
No longer visits this nonchalant psyche.
It trickles now, once a roaring torrent
Now a lazy stream
Am like a desultory jaded heaven
Where starry jewels once decked the night,
But are now drossy shadowy blackholes,
And sparks and dreams,
Are ripped in the accretion disc.
No longer avid, but seeking meaning in the mundane.
No longer enraptured by the she said, he said,
And all that jazz, no iota of care; for trifling muses,
Their short goodbyes or critique, no not one,
Their infighting and bad blood, no longer,
No nuts to crack, nor rain to flush, no iota of care.
It was never about who is better,
Neither has it been nor will it ever be,
About any Magnum Opus.
Like doors closing and skies descending,
Each visiting muse devoid of ardor,
Oblivious to the yawning dawn,
Or the scent of sprouting posies.
Jaded, without allure or sheen
And devoid of all its lustre.
Maybe one day soon a spark will reignite
And reanimate this frenetic mused madness
But until then...
I remain adrift in this sea of trivialities,
Worrying about trifling stuff
Like ad blockers and AI opinions
And irked...
By their emasculating knowledge
Poem Of The Week(POTW) -9/15/2024 To 9/21/2024
Moments fly off and leave a trail
behind you like dust clouds.
Most settle somewhere
in the forgotten, become irretrievable,
no longer connected to your life.
Some survive and accumulate
on the sticky frame of what holds
you together, particles which,
by themselves, mean nothing,
but in number become the narrative
of your past.
Some find their way here,
arguing significance, others
bubble up as if defying gravity,
free of purpose, life's loose coin.
You spend much of your time
sorting through the odd collection,
arranging into orders
of magnitude, of pain, or joy
or how much they've shaped
who you are.
In the quiet still of evenings
when you are alone,
they seem to reanimate
and gorge like aphids
on the branches of your life.
Sleep is no refuge. They come back
in dreams dressed in different guises,
playing out the variations on a secret
fear or grind away trying to resolve
something you left
incomplete last week
or a lifetime ago. Each morning
as you come to, they rush in
to reassemble you, adding more,
and at the same time,
letting a little more of you go.
A regal black Prince stood atop a college curb.
Standing majestically at 5'4 however, slightly more than I atop the stone.
He was narrating a past fight he had fought with a tall white antagonist; who was not I for me and the Prince were friends.
I was also of medium stature.
The Prince spoke of how he had been harassed for his race, for his essence.
I listened with keen ears and precision, watching him reanimate his nociceptive experience.
The climax reamed and swung the late summer's night into the early fall.
By no mal intent, the tale became alive for I and the Prince.
I saw the fist of a larger story; propelling perpendicularly towards my face.
As it's arch drew nigh my left arm had risen.
The arm of heart.
Some may call it a flinch, some enguard.
My arm formed a prickle elbow, acting as a makeshift buckler of feeling flesh to block my jaw.
Only to shield the Prince's rage from my mind in the nic of time.
The Prince showed remorse for he did not know the range of his strike, nor his pain.
He meant to only tell the tale.
Yet if his blow had landed, I would have fallen concussed.
As a martial artist of peace, my right hand reached to pat his shoulder, as if to say you are still and always have been my brother.
I then thanked my tempered body for it's reflexes.
It makes one ponder what a flinch may truly be.
Perhaps a reactionary response to danger, to spare our vital organs?
But I say maybe not entirely.
Perhaps it is the body's way of protecting itself from undue pain and its subsequent woes.
To preserve the soul inside the shell.
For higher amities that come to those who seek such elusive resolutions.
Sons and daughters that do will be coronated as heir, to rule the realm of humanity.
Hope
A frail boat our life is in the middle
Of a tempestuous ocean,
An exotic blooming flower,
In an ever-burning desert,
A fruit-bearing tree, rooted,
At the heart of solid rock,
A delicate existence, surviving,
At the top of the Antarctic,
That is why constantly we are searching for:
A calm friendly harbor of understanding
To anchor,
Some precious drops of vivifying water
To quench our thirst,
A few priceless pounds of soil
To plant our hungry roots,
A sparkle of life-giving fire
To reanimate our frozen body,
And surprisingly,
We discover all these treasures
Hidden, in the depths of our indomitable soul,
In the form of ever-living Hope!
© Demetrios Trifaitis
30 November 2012
Memory Moments
Held hands
Made plans
Life goal
Be bold
Life run
No pun
People know
Peep show
Year in
Year out
Century in
Century out
Kiss now
Milk that cow
Day
Night
Monstrous
Fright
Full Moon
Silver Spoon
Freeze
Wait
Now
Reanimate
Free
Verse
-or-
Vers
Libre
Never
Perverse
Not
Zebra
Beer
Glass
Broken
Glass
Idiot
Fool
Nasty
Pool
Polite now
Wonder how
President’s dream
Money scheme
Milky way
Bale hay
Shout out
Never pout
Wonder how
Bless now
Star night
Stage fright
Moose fight
Monster fright
Twilight
All right
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
October 5, 2021 (Short-Line Free Verse)