Short Recreates Poems

The universe conspires...
     nature weaves wefts
      poetry recreates
     the seasons of beauty...

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Once a smile installs
Again in your once sad face
Recreates a place
Like a heavenly surround
Bringing back the desired peace...

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the allure of the sea
    divulged to me
  a whitecap's primeval roar
    waves gently lapping the shore

  come ye, landlubber
    her hidden bosom awaits
  swirling waters' pleasures
    nature's womb recreates...

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As I sleep inner peace
Before I die
I shall cry
In my eye a tear
In my mind fear
While my soul awakening
My spirit not sleep it's wakes
Asit recreates inner peace
hush!!
quietly no longer seeks
It speaks
inner peace

4/16/19...

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He spins,
and with his arms,
his sides,
are breaking walls,
and barriers,
solid change
becoming fluid
and drink:
100 proof alcohol,
for the wet hot head,
having tasted love the night before,
recreates in the next day,
and the next,
in addiction....

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When troubles and turmoil lay their grip on me,
Solace is found in a simpler time and place.  
In my mind or person, it is where I flee;
Recalling Grandpa’s tractor and Grandma’s face.
Across spring-fed brook, past a massive oak tree; 
Tall pines encircle and hide my hilltop space.
Nature soothes and recreates me to my core.
Friends’ strife fades here, too; I’ve saved spots for more.


2/1/19...

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Hiden scent shy itself walk through its destiny
Escaped  in nighmare blushing  love in lace
In turn of affection known love of dance 
All gather in future to present in past fire to survive.

Deserted note lost in dreaming in tidel sense
Spelled its name liar being happy with rejoice
Recall to reclaim to be loved as  child in denial 
Love  its scene given boundary of retrospect
Claim its sense of search recreates its  dignity...

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Those that I now love
are the dead who yet live on.

They are no longer memories,
but dwell under the rib cage
of this world.
Their lungs breathe in and out
magnifying every iota of creation
into a universe unto itself.

These are the hidden wombs
of all births.
Love is in them,
not as a past or future wave,
nor in any hand-me-down ocean,
but as an ever cresting Now.

Such a breath continually recreates
what the God seed has planted just once.
...

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Steely needles stab and scratch at solid rock
Over and again – etching there her lines and curves. 
Painting his love and despair onto the cold unfeeling stones,
Hoping for release – finding little; for peace – finding none.
In six-fold color, he recreates in profile her wan visage: 
Ever poised on the precipice, the sick child awaiting death.

Poem based on Edvard Munch’s The Sick Child I (Lithograph, 1896)...

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