That song sounds so good,
Go back to the beginning,
Reminisce moments of childhood
All while rhythymically dancing.
That story sounds so good,
Go back to the beginning,
Retell how you done all you could
All while laughing while crying.
That speech sounds so good,
Go back to the beginning,
Reenact every word you should
All while proudly standing.
That story sounded so good,
Go back to the beginning,
Recollect all the ways you would
Once again relive everything.
The sun opens her eyes behind a roseate veil,
her aubade harmonizing with Argus-eyed blackbirds
as it rises to a crescendo, staring in her husband’s
cratered eyes, ready to relieve him of his watch over the
world’s children so he can attend to their parents —
that is, the cosmic bodies that collided to create them; the
sacred alchemy.
He lifts her honey veil; a goodnight kiss he hopes to reenact
eternally, the aeons circling anniversaries as if liesegang
rings. She looks back, her flint knife eyes flashing violently.
“This fierce face is a facade,” he thinks, seeing her tremulous
expression, lips quivering in anticipation; a holy seduction
— that is, the ancient and sui generis matrimonio of
gods.
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
horses, lances, arrows, fire
they reenact the war of the roses
the outdoor setting
has been erected next to Costa
outside on the ground
napkins, zarfs and stirrers
and half the audience gets their
medieval caffeine hit
that encourages us to yell and whoo-hoo
and pay attention to history
they encourage us to cheer and boo
and after all these years
with a cappuccino in my hand
i bellow 'long live the king'
and it's socially okay
Having a traumatic history isn't always bad
While you're living it, yes, your agony blinds all the optimism
It closes every gate to keep the buoyancy at bay
The worst feeling is to find yourself being the helpless character of your story
The one you read about in those overwhelming novels and watched on tv
The one you sympathized with and never wanted to reenact in real life
But when everything you dreaded; everything over which you gave your sanguinity benefit of the doubt happens
And it looks certain to prevail over your high spirits
It's time you bid adieu to the naivety and greet a much-needed revelation
You have to welcome the enlightenment with open arms
You have to acknowledge it, accept it, and make it the cornerstone of your future ways
Indeed, once this learning shapes a brand new mindset, you'll be invincible
And, this transformation from feeble to fierce will be an example for many!
Poem
Poet
They don’t always match
It is not exact
I mean, opposites attract
Every brand new batch
Of poems can detract
From the original, not intact
The idea that did hatch
May not become tact
The meaning now abstract
But I guess that is the catch
When you make a pact,
Or rather a devil’s contract
To somehow patch
The little compact
Of inspiration, from which you distract
Yourself from your detach
That cut you off mid act
You try to reenact
And reattach
Disregarding the fact
That you were the one to subtract
Actual creativity to snatch
At the chance to transact
Quality to make an impact
But it all went down the latch
I guess all it did was counteract
Your initial goal, inexact
From the world, you unattach
And live on in redact
With no one to interact
Forever to be a mismatch
Written on December 3, 2020
Trump supporters invade,
The capitol for not getting their way.
Throwing a temper tantrum,
That’s embarrassing and a shame.
Storm D.C. for losing an election,
Yet silent and in black deaths.
We take action to invoke justice,
You throw tantrums after elections.
It’s acceptable for Trump supporters,
To invade and reenact black killings.
We march, hold hands and link arms,
Police arm themselves with guns.
If you can’t see the injustice,
You’re still not hearing the message.
I told you I have a lot to say,
This is only the start of a phase.
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.
I knew two twenty-somethings who
had been soul mates since age sixteen.
One commonality that drew
them to each other was a keen
enjoyment of old movies, those
with lively song-and-dance routines.
On weekend nights they sometimes chose
a Fred and Ginger* film with scenes
that thrilled, but 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 loving 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—iconic dance team of the
1930’s and 1940’s who starred in ten movies during this time
**roles played by Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds in this movie (1952)
entered in Brenda Chiri's Tell Me a Story Contest on October 23, 2018
Note: I posted this poem earlier, messed it up, had to repost!
Entered in Brian Strand's Contest 512 on October 31, 2018
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.
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.
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.
Every night since you've gone
I sleep on both sides of the bed
as if to reenact
sleeping with you...
If I switch sides
quickly enough I feel the warmth
from my own body
as if you were beside me...
Back and forth wrapped around
my body pillow as if it were you
I hear myself breathing
in my pillow in my own ear...
Perhaps my sin was falling for you
so quickly my fantasy lover
then again would you want a man
who sleeps with himself to keep warm...
I need you like salt
storing you in my body
to taste the salt of your skin
sweating you when passion overwhelms me...
~ ~ ~ ~
Was it a mocha latte or a moch frap ?
My mind escapes me at the moment
I can nor grasp nor reenact the events that play in my late memory
Was it you screaming or me leaving that played the biggest part
I cannot recall
But it is said if you love it you must let it depart
I hold it less at my heart and more as a monkey on my back
I think more so.....
Never mind, forget it, I'll never get that memory back
Long as the Great Wall of China or short as a life span
excuse my inner thoughts Im just babbling
Guess I'm going through a life transe
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