Tambourine tears fall with such grace
They actually make music on my face
A festival of salt on blackened skin
Pickled smile teasing the audience again
Bitterness is an acquired fruit
After fasting, it is at least something…to eat
A means of consuming protein…the meat
Of getting back to business and reconstructing
Changes shuttle as seasons flavor the wind
Like melting snow
The saltiness gives way to new perspective
Like lemonade from lemons
Tambourine tears begin to sing
Of jaded joy
Of laughter after loss
Of love and light again
Jesus is the Master Potter
By Franklin Price
09/14/2023
Jesus, is the master potter
We, the followers His Clay
He molds us into shining lamps
Reconstructing day by day
He lays His hands upon us
Kneads and shapes us 'til we're done
He is the Master Potter
Who recreates us, He's the one
As cracks appear, remolds us,
Provides our structure with relief
Then fuels us, and lights us
To be His lamps that shine belief
He trims our wicks when needed
To even light the darkest hour
Leading others to salvation
His lamp has given us that power
He adds a globe of glass or crystal
To let the light burn in the wind
To guide lost souls to heaven
For since the garden, all have sinned
He cleans our globes when they have darkened
And our lamps are not as bright
And we doubt that we are able
To shine out believing light
If Jesus had not died for us
On that cross upon the hill
Would be no need to have our lamps
For other's nights, our lights, to fill
Time reconstructing the construction
cell by cell eroding,
trying to remember something
something beyond my grasp,
There is a vagueness
a shaft of light
Through a darkened door.
a transient brilliance
that fails to illuminate.
a truth that i once carried
lightly on my back
something essential has gone
As if its floating out there
among the stars.
when her shadow cracked
fragments entered her mind
shards of false gold
pierced façade and persona
left her in pieces
splintered images and illusions
the mask had been held tight
a rope strangled the puppet
clown’s grimace incised
by strings of attachment
and forced assimilation
a mirage in the making
projection of fake courage
pied piper tune on the march
dissonant shrieking contour
silhouette of crushed empty words
with no choice left
she picked up the pieces
and timid surface tension
adhered to the task
of reconstructing a narrative
without othering
gendering
ab-normalising all rupture
when she looked at the mosaic
the patchwork montage
appeared more sustainable
self-sufficient and rewarding
as the sum of all parts
had been hidden in a whole
where the light needed to fill
crevices and fissures
and she began to accept
time lines and gaps
which assembled
the shape of outlines
of necessary change
12th August 2021
Fragile
She's quite brittle
Please, handle her with care
Lest she drops and shatters like glass
She's one of a kind; one in a million
There is no reconstructing her
She's emotionally
Destructible
Fragile
Date written and posted: 10/13/2018
career path change
reconstructing future
self's realm of reality
by way of altering
present life path
reshaping the course
of inaction into action
not allowing path to remain the same
not allowing the current self to sabotage the future self
altering the space time continuum
creating an alternate future reality
Staring up at a S T A T I C sky,
Searching through clouds of
F R A G M E N T E D thoughts.
The M E M O R Y of your voice,
hums like a long forgotten
D I A L-U P-E A R W O R M.
lost in the depths
Of a 16-bit W A S T E-B I N,
reconstructing C O R R U P T E D passions
Lost in layers of,
D I G I T A L-S N O W.
Slowly, slowly but surely
this day is swirling down the drain
Tempers are flaring, orders are dastardly; being lashed out
Obnoxious, oblivious, overwhelming stupidity
How much more is the margin pushed before it becomes enough
Society is taking a step back, a step back from progression
Obsession, controlling of time
writing takes care of the problem though others arise
Revising, reconstructing, reiterating
so redundant, repetitive, annoyance
When will everything finally cease
when will everything finally cease, dissipate...
Fuse with the wind, take the shape of an inanimate object
and fly, float away into the nothing
or like a perfect paper plane
signed with grief in the misty rain
as if to say come back another day
Is there any kind of person who is perfect, an example?
Someone that helps every single day should be ample,
Although could even that one be considered perfect?
People aren't perfect, so that's what you would expect.
Status and position, you can be born into it, or find it,
The appearance you have doesn't matter, don't mind it,
Or else you'll find yourself in a precarious predicament.
Knowing what to do is starting to become omnipotent
With professors, doctors, priests, soldiers, and bankers.
Because they have their skin emblazoned with anchors,
Anchors to the soul, body and mind, or the literal form.
Fact is, people have to hide their anchors, it's 'the norm'.
Lets say a qualified person is reconstructing your heart,
Would you really care if their skin were covered in art?
What about serving in the war, rolling up their sleeves,
To reveal more sleeves, and everyone tattooed leaves.
Weeks pass
and words cannot help but fail me.
The expression of the season
whimpers quietly on the sideline.
Waiting, wishing hoping and searching exasperate the mind
as nothing appears to raise my spirit.
A period of nothing but empty loneliness recalling years
when you were here sharing, celebrating the joy.
We are so deafened by the season
and in its brief life, relive memories of the heart.
Memories that tend to fade like the words,
reconstructing poorly what was us.
Come back to me
enlighten all we shared.
Return to me again
with the words and the love,
the dreams and the happiness, the life
that was us.
obliquely opaque
opaque – soft light sifts through stained drape
filtered through muted sunshine’s dancing shape
trapped within dim confines - dust covered trust
love’s charred remains - victim of unbridled lust
awakening to darkness – blinding brightness
stumbling sightless through outdated rightness
alone with thinking’s disconnected fears
seekers reconstructing new frontiers
layering more dust upon the Grail
adrift amid the thoughts they never sail
searching without - for that within
saddled with past - and future sin
oblique – soft angle breaking stride
questioning the truths - that “must abide”
within the hearts and souls - of all but one
awakened to the truth - that there are none
8/27/2015
Reconstructing me -
Scattered by life's challenges -
Still waiting for you,
On the same bench of that park
Where we spent a life..
(C) Anindya Mohan Tagore (Bobby)
Nature and Nature fight,
To switch off the light.
And to grab the right,
that loosens us at night.
People say it's not good,
since it grabs our food.
For so it should,
Be called Hudhud.
A day for destructing,
a decade for reconstructing.
With such power of its Incoming,
And an obstacle for Outgoing.
Bye bye Hudhud,
Never again say you could.
The battles that I
endure are seemingly
imaginary
to the worlds eye
but when you you
finally see
get a glimpse
a first sight
you would see the
things I battle
when my mind is not
right
How do you explain
that you have
searched to find
refuge
though the places
you have searched
have left you more
lost than before
I have looked
through God, music
and meditation
The answer seems to
be a magical Doctor
with a miracle
medication
I feel as though I
am just waiting to
catch my break
I drop my lives
mirror in
overwhelming
anticipation
for the broken
pieces to appear
So I can attempt at
reconstructing my
jigsawed life
Back to what I
remember
The only fear I have
is as mirror drops
the pieces just
vanish
nothing left
an empty canvass.
Feedback,
A poet strive for perfection
Someday his work will become a worldly reflection
Of whom he is
With each line he procrastinate,
With each verse,
Reaction, pro action and anticipation
To the point
Of debating or reconstructing his latest
Despite receiving favorable reviews
Should I read it out loud?
Or should I let it simmer
And invited samplers to sample my work
Too many mind and voices
Can be influential
Unlike a Sunday buffet his poem
Is not the main course?
His work is his ode
So he becomes a prolific composer.
Author note:
To be or not to be this is the question
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