Short Rewrites Poems

The poet's dilemma,
is not just find
the correct rhyme ...
Yes, it is not writing.
poetry...!
Writes and then rips,
Redoes and rips again ...
Rewrites and is not satisfied ......
What an agony ...!...

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Watching the summers final shoot
Seaside vewing my scenes blotted
Lines taking an exhausted breath...
Thinking in a sigh tis vacation time
Eight months and rewrites; telefax
Over budget; signing notes a photo....

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When I think back on all the times that were
—and weren’t

My mind rewrites the answers to the questions
—never asked

To set the time that’s left on fire
—in joyful hope

To rhyme the final ending line
—with one last wish

(Bryn Mawr College: January, 2020)...

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Our past is a highway
Flush with mile markers
That measure life travels,
Some unworthy of remembrance;

As life's pages systematically turn
The future becomes liquidated
And past increases;

Nothing is ever purged
And remains our DNA
Unless repelled by memory;
Or God rewrites your past....

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I shun the words you long to hear,
my heart and spirit cry

The votive candle burning down,
its flame a dimming lie

My pen to struggle against your will,
and scribe the message owned

That blood has drafted and pain rewrites
—not borrowed nor then loaned

(Valley Forge: January, 2021)...

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Rain-steps publish worms,
wriggles scribe themselves.
The thrown thud of a newspaper
punctuates the wet and written.
Sparrows scrawl and scrabble,
foraging starlings attack the earth
sounds squirm up,
muddy scripts are picked at, edited
a door slams,
the ground rewrites itself....

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My imagination plays
I lie around watching
Not caring though
Not terribly concerned

Not rushing anything
Letting my muse Trixie have her way
I do not involve myself
Until the rewrites anyway

She is yelling at imagination now
Using her drill sergeant voice
Making it give her one hundred percent
I turn over and go back to sleep...

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rain brings worms
worms scribe themselves on the mud
a boy throws
the thud of a newspaper
sparrows fly up

later
foraging starlings attack the earth

sounds wriggle up

a muddy script is edited

a door slams
the ground rewrites itself

sparrows return
muddle small puddles

the mud opens tiny wet mouths
sparrows cock their heads

lost for words...

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He beguiled me
 with his smile.........

Meanwhile:

Its a struggle to write;
inspite on my mind
 being all uptight
and alight 
with excitement
It's a plight
frought with
delight
when applied 
to provide sight 
that ignites 
being psyched 
to new heights
and reunites
rewrites 
priced into bytes
dispite 
providing a guide
to decide 
and set aside
my writing style......

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I may lay down on a bed of hay
With open eyes so I might stay
In amongst the moving stars
Living 'n living the dream that’s ours

I could sail on a moon lit sea
With open eyes so I might be
With the words of telling stars
Reliving, reliving, the dream that’s ours

Who rewrites the sky each night
And make it so that I might
Live again my days with you 
Through the stars of each night’s view...

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in the bayou state full of race 
lies a culture with no face 

colored fear and hatred paints 
graffiti minds new orleans saints 

mandela effect effects the mass 
while garbage minds are filled with trash   

a paradox rewrites the past  
as stupidity aligns to last 

the epox of a spiritual endeavor?
perhaps not maybe never 

the learning curve now has twist
ignorance is much more bliss...

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I am the tempest and the calm,
a hymn sung by fractured stars.
In my chaos lies creation,
a cosmos birthed in broken jars.

The universe whispers my name in riddles,
a melody only the wild can hear.
Each step I take rewrites the heavens,
turning despair into something clear.

They call it madness—this divine frenzy,
but I call it freedom wrapped in fire.
To dance on the edge of eternity’s void
and make it the heart of my desire....

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Id love to write a poem that rewrites history
that unlocks consciousness 
that speaks from an universal experience 
that feels the rage of love 
and the longing of lost 

Id love to write a poem that doesnt do anything 
that lingers in between “ahead of its time” and a “classic”
it hangs on the dusty shelf, misunderstood or untouched 
it locks in on the misfortunate muses and never expels a rhythm or rhyme

Id love to write a poem that reads itself 
...

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Night rewrites day, transforms the blues
with ink-wash, urges me to forget 

grapples, tasks, drudgery,  
hard surfaces and hardened people as all things 

soften, lighten, blur— even gravity pulls less 
as if the world’s core has pardoned the hefty afternoon.
  
Sheets pouch this body, pillows 
accept every sigh.  Sleep is a leave-taking,

a poetic restoration of sense and mindfulness.
Faultless, this need to submit, this appeal to let go.  Just let it go....

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Love performs 
everything it preaches.
Love reforms
everyone it reaches.
Love transforms
everything it touches.

Love rewrites
sour and sweet stories.
Love ignites
golden gain and glories. 
Love unites
moments and memories.

Love commands
respect and responsibility.
Love understands
the heartbeat of humanity.
Love stands
in prosperity and in adversity.

Love sings
a priceless and perfect part.
Love springs
from a honourable heart.
Love brings
joy and make pains depart....

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