Recount Poems

Summer Nights

I recount the nights of faint, distant glows —
the dimmed party lights of summer —
of silenced streaks of fleeing light, tassels of clouds
adorned in fleeting whites,
on the broad balcony of the west, when the
incidents on the large vestibule of the sun sum up
their lives and times on seasons’ palimpsests.
The wild party closes by the stretch of the twenty-first hour.
Darkness, frightened, creeps in with the stealth of a departing thief,
the coyness and diffidence of an undocumented harlot.
Twilight aids the shut eyes of young irreverent bats;
drunk with summer's furiously spouting liquors,
like the denizens of an unclothed city, they fly low,
with gambolling wings, propelled by unseen strands of evening gales,
shadowing briefly the glints of pimping stars eager to witness the next day’s
orgy.

If They Had the Words

If soil could complain-
if air could sign,
if Earth could weep,
and if humanity could truly speak
of what it has done to itself.
 
They would recount quite wounds,
buried in silence,
echoes stifled by times,
memories sealed away,
folded within like secrets-
the world refused to hear.
 
But silence is not peace,
it is a storm held in the lungs,
a scream never given voice.
 
And if one day -
someone dared to listen, truly listen-
To the grief that was never spoken,
they should be overcome by guilt,
They would fall beneath it's weight.The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award

HERE AND NOWHERE

Fold-count-recount and refold the puzzle in my mind- the map in gold dust-whose memories-flying lamps-exploding light bulb chaos-Edison's memory
Everywhere and nowhere-whose is ?The soul of things-intuition from the lining that I do not wear- purified from my bones I was thrown into a bell jar
The lid was closed-the room was folded: The mirror was broken in my mind. Darkness. BLIND SPOT(…)

Rocking strong; its Bundalong'

Though small in size you stood strong' and wise
In your answer to him, of your intended demise!
And that of our fair state.' In our great land.'
For right here i recount of that old 'dingo dan'

He'd paid the blood money, he's bought a plot'
Oh how my blood boils.' And i can tolerate a lot.)
Its plain he had a dirty plan, to  cottaging; that spot; on prime Murray river bank land'

Well it did not come good.' No not at all.!
For a true blue builder,  rejected that call
He came like a demon..yet left like a cur.!
 On that; may freedom loving Aussies all concur!

Keep shunning the dingo.' May  mange be upon him'
I praise our publican, may all blessings be on him.!

The same kind of

The same kind of nights we see the same times a year.
People play people, break their hearts then blame the moon and stars, not the beer and the bars, for all the tears. 

Down the road, round the back. Wake up without recount for who or what was just unluckily near. 
Bruises take a while to disappear.

The same kind of nights we see the same times a year. A sharp dislike is taken for a smile that can soon disappear. 
Eyes shine in sunlight but hide their plight for the night, for the fear, for the tears.

The same kind of eyes seeing for the same kind of minds night after night all through the year. 

The same kind of nights for the same kind of minds for the same kind of tears.

Song of old age

Let me now sing the song of my old age,
All I recount now belongs to the past.
Since the noticed changes are far too vast,
Let this song be sung by a real sage.

This face, now so old, ugly, and wrinkled,
Once shone with a glow, bright and appealing.
Though no longer fine, smooth, and now peeling,
This same old skin was once never crinkled.

These eyes, now drooping, dimmed by poor vision,
Once sparkled with allure and shone pretty.
These hands were once fresh, smooth, and not gritty,
Though now shaky with loss of precision.

The mouth, now sunken and full of gnashers,
Was once bright in the glow of real teeth.
A life once like the vibrance of a wreath
Now whispers in the folds of old tatters.

These feet, worn and cracked, trudging so slowly,
Once romped in the bloom of youthful delight.
Though now calloused and bent, aching each night,
They carried dreams and walked them boldly.

January 1st 2025

January 1st 2025
Miracle man

A hinder look see’s the year 2024 fade from view,
today I contemplate what 2025 might have in store.
I recount unpleasant past days, more than a few,
but now, archived in history, they’re a closed door.

As I pray for improved times to enrich my being,
I’m also asking God to make of me, a better person.
Also to bring world change from what I’m seeing,
knowing each passing year the days will worsen.

Sing Me a Song

Sing me a song of love, my sweet,
I'll wait for you even if there's sleet.

A melodious, joyful song. I really wish,
I'll take you out to dinner, a costly dish.

We'll choose a white, dry, splendid wine,
If your eyes doth sparkle, I'll know you're mine.

I’ll whisper sweet nothings, words of pure love,
And hear your moaning just like a white dove.

And we’ll recount memories of days gone by
Oh, sweetheart, love me tenderly, or I’ll surely die.

So sing me a love song, a ballad of old.
And at the end, I'll give you a ring of gold. 




Just a ditty, for want of better things

Something Oddly Familiar About This Nonsense

“Abe, easy Dee, effigy, eight chives, Jake, ale, Em, 
any hope, peak you, arrest a ewe, feed other ewe”
                                                            ex-wife said

     she certainly SPELT it out!
     he then went on to reCOUNT

“When, too, furry forks, fave socks sieving, eat known tin”

     and there was something oddly familiar about it all
     when ex-husband and ex-wife spoke their nonsense

Shadow vs Self

What makes me not enough?
It seems I make others happy.
Why is the exception myself?
I champion my successes,
I recognize my strengths,
but inadequate I feel.

When the walls whisper
their song of the self,
it’s not a ballad of awe.
I hear a crooning wail
recount my misgivings,
left begging to forget.

As rational as I can be, 
this childish ignorance 
grips me tightly.
Despite being mindful,
I seem incapable
of ceasing these thoughts. 

Life’s many shackles 
bind me to the past,
left to tend to skeletons.
Longing for another chance,
desperate to change fate,
disappointed all the same.

I Can See Beautiful Things Again

I’m Staring blankly out a window
Ask even now, and i can tell you every detail
About the dark atmosphere around,
Fuzzy socks on and drawstrings pulled tight
Counting down the minutes till it strikes ten

In a sketchy motel lobby
Phone to my ear
And my breath slow, cold
I recount to you
How the day has passed

And tell you something
Something so odd
That you can’t quite place
I say
“I can see beautiful things again”

And it's so unconnected
You don’t see much of it
Baby,
You don't know
how much that means to me

Adorable Ewe

The symbol of docility 
In green lands of tranquility. 

There’s more to lamb that meets the eye 
Besides her nature, soft and shy.

Over its tender chops we drool 
But not until we shear the wool.

Then sing along a song to weep 
Over less fortunate black sheep.

Her dignity stripped by the ploy -
The Dame, the Master and the boy. 

Doomed destiny of a poor lamb 
Is far from fairy tale glam. 

Let us salute each tender ewe 
With love and respect overdue. 

As they lull us into our sleep
While we recount them leap by leap.

Reading

I’ve been to a thousand magical places,
With dragons and creatures, wizards and kings.
I’ve seen ten thousand of all different faces,
Met so many friends, done so many things.

I’ve loved so many loves, lived so many lives;
Anything you can think of, I’ve already done.
I’ve mastered skills of magic, bows, and knives.
If it were a competition, I’d have already won.

Through reading, I experience things I never really could.
Through reading, I see, feel, and accomplish amazing deeds.
In books, there is such thrilling beauty, such incredible good.
There is a joy that is felt only by one who reads.

But there are other emotions only readers understand.
There is a pain so deep, you could never know,
That this pain and happiness could go hand-in-hand.
But for a reader, they do; we learned it long ago.

So while I’ve lived and loved so much, 
I’ve died and lost the same amount.
I have to accept I could never really feel his touch,
And I could never really live in the beautiful worlds I recount.

By the light of the laptop

it only takes a crack of light
to write of her, my true delight

to recount the times she was near.
to paint a picture of her, my dear.

to pen poems about so rare a beauty 
seems more a privilege than a duty.

it only takes a crack of light
to write of her, my true delight

©SamHarty

Just Call Me Miracle Man

Just Call Me Miracle Man
By: Miracle Man
January 31st 2024

From life events I’m left scarred and bruised,
so “Tough Old Bird” are words others have used.
Due to circumstances God has seen me through,
I’ve survived each event but I’m far from new.

I’ve forty-eight scars at my last physical count,
most all tell a story that sometimes I recount.
Thankfully, most are in places that go unseen,
and I choose to remember the good times between.


Sometimes pain demands I recall some story,
that I’d sooner forget.
Tom

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