2015 Redux

I have a tradition. No, let’s call it a neurotic rite.

Every year, at the end of the year’s catalogue, I like to cut up all my poems into pieces (not literally, of course) and create new poems of them. This effort marks my third full attempt to make a rag doll of my work, all torn up and stitched back together.

Wishing you all the best holiday and thank you for reading, following and liking my poetry this year. Enjoy.

I.

Hold out
your open palm, and
help me capture old
meteorites.

II.

I promise to be
yours and yours only
and find the poetry in
every bitter purple
pill.

III.

Currents talk to me in
tones they’ve never been skilled enough
to take;

of interlocked fingers
and youth’s
elixirs, but this
year, I promised you
the optimist.

Still, civil
wars brew

inside my soul, between sixty
second
serendipity and the slums

love is raised,

on battlefields pieced together
using
hills that would never be
the same going back
to mediocrity

(grand
theft autonomy).

A constantly
rehabilitated
consensus when
Sunday
breakfast is all we can
agree on;

wounds opened just to prove
some petty wisdom.

IV.

Got a feeling we could
watch our lives on
reel and never
feel the
medication working.

All evolution’s
wording
in capsule form,

a warmth mistaken
for moral centre.

(Collapse, the most
endearing concept.)

But I want to tell you
we’ll be neck and
neck
mostly,

with a madness in the
knees for knives.

We’re suddenly alive,

and need you to
make a science of
our sound.

V.

I woke to
a riot,

reversal’s
five seven fives;

I don’t need the highs I let
myself humanize,

an atlas I’ve felt all
alone in travelling,
mathematically

infatuated with

fairy tales I’d
hoped to
carry all
my days.

Too old to
roll the die and walk away,
a bravery I did not realize
held sway
awakens.

So let’s take this metaphor (we’ll
call it a broom)
and sweep away
these neighbourhoods of
naysayers
and mannequin
raids.

We’ll make love the guide and
not the gun,
the mother of young muses

(FREE VERSE REVOLUTION).

We’ll hold hands
with someone hopeful,
become their
anecdotal
breath.

An illness that
starts in the eyes and
falls down the
breast

and the
rest, you’ll come to
attest,

is history.

VI.

Remove the crown from my
queen and you’ll find her
a commoner;
family honour eschewed,
but my queen she’ll always be.

VII.

All in the world that
gives broken wings a
touch of flight;

an avalanche of
rocks in
jagged fonts kick like
a kiss to
my jawline,

bestowing true bite.

Moon over my odyssey,
for sunshine dichotomies never rinsed me with
their light.

I am a child of night.

So long as silence
howls I am its owl;
C-minor in a
killing spree
of precious rites.

VIII.

I’m the story of
an earthquake,
a few decades of
patchwork
delivered late,

the
last
standing
tower of
sand castles’ decay.

Gluttony
to frugal tastes but
my heart sits in
your
embrace.

Creature dancing
round a flame,
not a poet but
a patient saint’s
soliloquy

when all
prose has skedaddled off
to Rapture.

IX.

The allure of your best finds
perfection in
your verse;

builds a church
upon your shortfalls
but rather than
crusade,
invites
failure in.

It forgives old flaws, gives
every new success
short pause,

a nod to what you’ve been
becoming what
you’re meant

to be.

Hold out your open
palm,

and catch
a meteorite with
me.

Even if it doesn’t show tonight,
that’s what you
always are

to me.

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2 thoughts on “2015 Redux

  1. Love this and the idea of it. I’m new to wordpress and loving all these ideas. I’m not going to lie, i think i may have a slight addiction to writing, to poetry and to wordpress. Looking forward to reading more of your work

    Liked by 1 person

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