Versions Poems

Modern day versions of lynching

They kept finding different ways to lynch us

Oh we're still spectacles 
They just watch from their smartphones
Watching as we struggle
Watching us be tackled
They don't see us as victims 
Just waiting for a pundit 
To say we deserve it

Let's not forget about the 13th ammendment
Instead of being slaves they just entered our names in the system
As an excuse to reduce us to numbers
Instead of being slaves we were just labelled as criminals
Technically 'slavery' was abolished 
So instead of being whipped 
We were punished 
With imprisonment 
They just found a loophole
A different form of control 

Don't get me started on the education system 
A place where our history is hidden
A place of division 
And preferential treatment 
Of a certain race of students 
They do it just enough
To remind us of our place in this institution 
A constant reminder of how we will never fit in
All because our skin which triggers their racism

If you think racism has ended
Then you're choosing ignorance 
You need to be educated 
But us black people won't do it

The Versions That Haunt Me

I have too many regrets
they bloom like tumors
in the soft tissue of memory,
each one pulsing with
what I should have said
before silence set in
like rigor mortis.

I swallowed whole versions of myself
the reckless, the brave,
the boy who ran
before the door slammed shut.

Now I speak in echoes
of things I almost did.
I wear lives
that were never mine
borrowed skin
stitched with trembling hands.

Time doesn’t pass.
It repeats.
A loop of almosts,
a static scream
beneath my breath.

I reach for moments
already burning.
Beg the past
to hold still
while I cut it open
and try to crawl inside.

But every thread frays.
Every version unravels.
Every choice I didn’t make
drags a knife
through the one that did.

And what’s left?

This composite ghost.
This broken archive.
This aching
palimpsest of a person
who once believed
he had time.

Versions

Sorted in a cult, the moment you open your eyes
one of the many things you don’t choose 
inclusion is what each one tries,
by learning the culture, customs and taboos. 
 
Grow up with each other together
 a while later, the innocence fades.
When each one finds themselves better
downhill humanity cascades. 
 
They shout slogans and create unrest. 
Bigoted minds an empty heads.
Only thought incepted the best,
to create disruption and hate that spreads. 
 
Some minds are easier to influence
usually ones who don’t use their own.
When religions at core have no difference
each one sees, what versions they are shown. 
 
If only ,humanity was often preached 
And being religious meant being spiritual more. 
We would keep at bay, evils that lurched 
And create a world better than before.

2 Versions of Criminal Reform

V1.

                  County jail-revolving door-your home



                                      V2.

                              Criminal reform 
                            is a revolving door 
                         between the county jail
                              and your home

Versions of Hand Me Downs

there are no virgins

despite popular belief

always a pleasure

Versions

The version you had of me 
Never existed 
Just an illusion 
You created.

The story never ends
I exist in different shades
Hidden behind masks
Or wearing tinted glasses.

Mind games
Spells  to entice 
Cards played right
A hidden fire ignites.

Versions of Me

In that very moment
When it matters the most
It’s vital that I own it
Yet when my wisdom ghosts 

It turns me to a liar
Though I never meant to be
I try and calm the fire
But all arson points to me

I’m flustered and confused 
By those who sing my praises
They assure me, I’m not bruised
But my wounds appear in phases

There’s no telling when I’ll soar
Or when I’ll make you proud
I may just hit the floor
If the voices get too loud

It cannot be predicted
Which version will appear
Or which will be evicted
I represent whoever’s here

Versions

why is it that i am
            left  f o r s a k e n-
fear has buried me
  in an abandoned forest
of barren trees

            each leaf that
has fallen upon the 
  infertile ground, 
shows how  l o n e l y
            i truly am

a vestige of hope in visceral veins



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12.11.19
-luloo

Burdened Versions

You were love’s surprise versed in romantic delight.
Your love secured me cuddled and rapport entwined
each time our hearts took time to flesh comfort align.
I felt our lives were meant to fast coupledom attach
in our own signature dressed, love expressed indicators.

Then, time witnessed and felt our adhesiveness contort
from the soul corrosion you brought and skewed forth 
to seal us in burdened versions of darkened emotions.
I live suspended between a confused sphere retreat
and a subconscious residence in Neverland’s release.

Two Versions of Tiredness

(V1)            She mastered fatigue   like a bible that hadn't opened for awhile


  (V2)            Like a bible that hadn't opened for awhile   she mastered fatigue

Versions

Time moves fast
First to last
A strange cast


From deep core
So much more
How time spores


Poise knows change
Odd and strange
In swift range


Start clear poise
Wit owns choice
In brief voice


Style knows cheer
That lives here
With you dear


Night and day
Come what may
Love does pay


Stretch your pace
Seize wise grace
Love lights face


In due time
Verse holds rhymes
As act mimes


On the road
Bear each load
As truth goads




Leon Enriquez
25 June 2018
Hamlet Place, ACT

Isaac Albeniz's Asturias, Three Versions, Three Instruments

Isaac Albéniz's Asturias, Three Versions, Three Instruments

		I

By Andres SEGOVIA, guitar, 2006

Man lopes up mast-pole
Man lopes up mast-pole
Man lopes up mast-pole
   
And finds no maiden fair
Who mimes his Asturian air


		II

By Andronicus, piano version

Man bikes up mountain
Man bikes up mountain
Man bikes up mountain

And espies masts far from there
Biscay Basques back with wares rare


		III

By Florin Croitoru, violin-solo

Man runs up belfry
Man runs up belfry
Man runs up belfry

To count sinners in every square
Come to keep their bosoms bare


© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2018

Versions

The day you died, I was fully grown
A proud parent, with children of my own

All of me lost you, all of me cry
But 5 year old me, keeps asking "why"

That sweet little girl, you tucked in every night

That six year old, you taught to ride a bike

That eleven year old, you waved off to camp

That excited fourteen year old, getting dressed for the dance

That sixteen year old, that just learned to drive

That twenty year old, who lost her first child

The mother version of me is terrified
That you are not by my side

The grown me hurts, with nowhere to hide                                                     
It's not just me who lost you, but every girl I am inside

Two Versions of Still

1.
I miss you still, 
all’s hurt and weeping, shrouding orb and stars,
while nourishments a pot of poisoned love
that in my desperation I consume
cold on the ash of angers fiery words.
 1.
 I sift and rake love’s cinders so to find
some fragments to construct a fragile chain
to fasten me to you and you to love,
treat tender, lead me into warmth from chill,
I love you still                      
2
FULL RHYME VERSION
I miss you still
all’s hurt and weep as I the past distill,
while nourishments a pot of poisoned love
that I consume and never can tire of 
cold on the ash of angers fiery words.

That ash I sift and rake for I am spurred
to make from fragments there a fragile chain
that fastens us once more in love’s domain.
Treat tender dear, come into warmth from chill,
                                                    I love you still.

Versions

...inspired by 'A Soldier of the Great War'
   by Mark Helprin

 
The old man stumbles, the young man 
swaggers with assurance. 
Stars of grace and suns of perfect 
promise point to journeys yet uncharted 
on their pathways to fulfillment.

The old man dreams of childhood, 
cherished memories and golden opportunities. 
The young man yearns for sexual expression.

Companions, self-possessed, growing 
in respect for their astonishments and fears. 
The old man a philosopher, 
a master of life's unpredictabilities; 
the young man just a neophyte, 
the world at his behest.

Together, yet alone, storied travelers 
with different versions of the universe.

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