She sat on a chaise longue waiting for the big revelation
after years of therapy she still hadn't healed that part of her
that was unconsciously broken beyond repair;
A lifetime of failed relationships and abandonment
had taught her not to trust her feelings nor her choices.
In this darkened room what did she hope to attain?
a semblance, a re-enactment of her past life, perhaps then
she would finally break the mirror of deceit and discover the truth.
He sat there talking to her softly, guiding her deep into hypnosis
noticing the way she wrung her hands as if trying to endure
Upon deeper inspection, he noticed red marks on her neck
when she told him about the gallows and how she was hung,
from a Dule tree long ago in Great Britain;
Past life regression is not easy, nor is Re-integrative Therapy.
When she opened her eyes he whispered softly,
"Anne, I'm Sorry"
March 9, 2023
When, oh when, when will it end?
The inhumanity that recurs again and again.
Mere mortals true, but true animals too.
Too many with hearts dark, through and through.
History stained with innocent blood drained,
The countless lives lost and nothing gained.
Sad excuses implied are forever justified,
Reasons unreasonable that leaves one mystified.
How long can this last, with such a tragic cast;
The re-enactment of our Medieval past.
On a bitter stage, we witness the rage,
That affects one and all; no matter the age.
The suffering masses and agonized classes,
Unmeasurable grief that nothing surpasses.
Chiseled in stone, the heartbreak alone,
Justice bereft and chilled to the bone.
With limited mind, can we hope to find,
A path that deems all as truly one of a kind.
When, oh when, when my friend,
When will humanity begin and insanity end?
Written By: D. Collins 12/3/21
Brain cells are the cause of the stuff we're in.
Where obvious individuals don't get treatment.
The true instigators are now on the run.
They enticed it to happen and got ghost on their son.
Looking at his parents, Youngblood has been jacked for life.
Two grimey individuals joined as husband and wife.
They're like serial killers, where son puts in the work.
An exact re-enactment of the "Chainsaw Massacre."
The youth didn't know what was being passed to him.
The genes of real monsters we call family and kin.
Brain cells are what causes a person to react.
But, parents are always supposed to have your back.
To encounter you in Cleveland
as if an angel drew my steps
into the intricate re-enactment of
an Amazonian forest
A glass tank with a caption that reads,
"Long- necked South American Turtle"
After intense staring into irridescent shallows
your shape emerges as a living abstract;
a turtle-seemingly carved from an
ancient tree bough,
your long neck, the gnarled branch:
your body an elongated burl
Nearby, a sloth, in an emotion
like sleep, does a slow motion spiral
down a vine clad tree
A creature (my memory refuses to name)
like a crazed artichoke
returns in endless typewriter movements
Eyes glazed, despairing of escape
I am drawn, mesmerized back to the
tank with its oneness of stone and log,
breathing a silent prayer to wonder.
The Colosseum is a Roman work
Capable of seating thousands or more
Used for gladiatorial contests, mock battles
Such action seen in its famous battles
Or re-enactment of a classic work
They have all people shouting loud for more
Fierce lions attacking Christians and more
Imagine such things in life and death battles
Fighting or staying together won't work
All shouting for greater work,more, battles
her phone call had the desired effect.
like always - it drew blood,
the way she dialed into the neglect of
a lifetime was no re-enactment,
it was all fresh, as if it had just happened.
“you never look at it from my point of view,’
she said, hoping silently to break her,
so that nobody won. love can be like that.
it means nothing unless it’s headed
in your direction -
& she, the wounded child,
exacting her revenge, would maintain
the punishment until that time
when her own child stared back
with the same exacting eyes, silently,
asking, where were you, then?
Watching old newsreels sadness washes over me
Highstepping horses, gentle eyes transformed in fear
valiantly charging under men that could not yield
Amid the noise of cannons, over the death-filled battle-field ,
sides flecked with foam, so far from home,
somehow they know how desperate is this final charge
hoofbeats pounding, hearts bursting, falling in their stride
Now the faded image shows a glory past and gone
Yet we must remember them and how their courage shone
Lest we forget the horses, or the majesty of them
In solemn re-enactment we must remember them
And grant a special place in paradise where they can roam.
Written for the Australian war horses that went overseas
and never returned
Some Paradise Where Horses Go Poetry Contest
Michelle Faulkner
Placed 4th.
I see her as the woman on the road,
and in the distance just inside her sight,
one solitary male approaching—that alone,
draws up within her, latent fire
and by its warming she must genuflect
before the altar of desire.
There is a silent passion, holy in its touch,
that sparks connection, unexplained.
There is electric purity within its cloud
that strikes across that narrowing space,
creates magnetic lust in celebration
of the naked thrust oncoming,
finally to close the gap
between her trembling body
and his throbbing heat.
I see divinity in that.
I see the re-enactment of the woman made
to be the glory in that polymorphic act
inspired from pagan dreams of paradise,
gifted yet today
upon the god-blessed whoring saint
called humankind.
~
(Some of you will be offended by this poem,
but I am more convinced than ever that there
are times of affinity between the states of
sexual attraction and holy blessedness)
At night when we lay content
at the conclusion of our day,
wearied from labor
but glad in our endeavors,
I will inevitably say,
something of inconsequence,
while our barrier’s down
to feel your laughter,
slide inside my soul
and curl in my womb.
Our re-enactment of
Loves conception.
The sound of your laughter
echoes in my mind
long days after
our moment of joy repast,
like the trill of a bell
beneath a fairy mound,
who rings in the wonder
an infant’s first cry rebounds.
Tonight I sit here staring at pictures of my kids
Wishing how I could redo the past where
I would have my kids back in my arms again
I remember when my oldest daughter was standing at the door screaming mommy
Please don't leave me here
All I could do was cry
My two youngest ones was a little to young to understand
Ever night I go to bed its like a re enactment
I'm doing everything to get you three home
But all my dad can do is brag on how good you got it
Where your at with your foster mom
Well when he talks about it makes me feel like crap
I was a good mommy
All miss you three so much
Never Forget Mommy Loves you