Long Reenact Poems
Long Reenact Poems. Below are the most popular long Reenact by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reenact poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
I knew two twenty-somethings who
had been soul mates since age sixteen.
The commonalities that drew
them to each other were quite keen.
They relished great old movies, those
with lively song-and-dance routines.
On weekend nights, they sometimes chose
to join in Fred and Ginger scenes.
Before long, “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 cute young 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
“Singin’ in the Rain,” sung by Gene Kelly (Don)
Kathy, Debbie Reynolds
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.
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.
When God took us out from Egypt, we left in haste,
Not waiting for our flat bread to rise--no time to waste:
No time to contemplate the events of the night;
Just time to leave in a hurry, right after midnight.
No time to count the miracles God had performed
Or to see that to an orderly sequence they'd conformed;
Only the following year could we begin to comprehend
That our Exodus was carefully sequenced--not at all random.
So this is our charge to each and every generation:
To reenact the Exodus of the Jewish Nation.
And each time we relive the drama of Passover Night,
We move one step closer to the Messiah's light.
In haste did we exit Egypt the first Passover Night--
In orderly measure we shall leave the Diaspora when
the Final Redemption shines bright.
(not really, but just wanted
to get your attention.)
Thus "NOT FAKE," but
poetic quasi true anecdote
infused fictionalized
by this ole goat
with prevarication
to enliven of no note
characteristic, and certainly
not worth quote
ting - for any future
reference material, imp poet
tent to sketch a biography
of one otherwise tote
tem mick drab existence,
that happens
moost would vote
as exhibiting blank pages,
which means no ghost
for me life story needed since
no words needing tubby wrote.
thus the crux of foraging
into how the missus
snorts in her sonorous way
the one repetitive sleepy tune,
that doth not
warrant a veejay,
nor and thespian to reenact
a zonked out spouse from
exercising at the
Y.M.C.A. today,
but each increment of time
imposes additional wear
and tear on the body electric,
thus no place...(except...
Swiss Side or
Willoughby), to runaway
from senescence process
so one must savor
to the maximum propinquity
of each moment
analogous as if one received
money for their
existence as being payday
before day of reckoning,
which could occur any
minute, hour, second...
with no noway
opportune time will
provide any leeway,
especially for those
ping folks immediately
at ground zero, where
husband or wife
kept awake from partner
mercilessly growling drones
hell bent on then simply jay
ping, when agent provocateur
awakens only to find
themselves bound and gagged
unable to attend the
Scottish celebration of hogmanay.
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.
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 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.
Have you ever pretended a guy was interesting?
Have you slow danced and let him sniff you up close?
I gives you somewhere to go, if you decide to.
Or given a little kiss—nothing slutty in that.
You know, a 'person' isn’t a good kisser - it takes two.
I’m not talking about me, of course.
There’s a two-way interrogation going on
complete with our own internal narratives
—we reenact it’s rituals in the strangest places
like quiet libraries or the lerch and spin of a dance club
we process by analogy and approximation and it works
until it doesn’t, like cold water poured into a glass.
Then we settle back into the dull rhythms of study
I’m not talking about me, of course.
.
.
Songs for this:
Loveland by The Blenders
Human Nature by Mitchell Brunings