Small note on revisiting poetry

I've tried to revisit and revise some of the older poems I wrote.
The problem lies in the feeling I suppose.
I no longer feel what they are, or what they're about.
I can logically say what they are, and what they're about,
but I realize after just how much I don't connect with them.
It is rare where I "judge" a poem to be worth revisiting,
and I suppose it can only be so when I grow fond of the poem
and what it means to me. With my current inept (although improving) ability
for poetry, I will be unlikely to revisit old poems, choosing instead to
abandon them altogether, and move on learning from the mistakes I made.

In essence, I drain myself of all the muck and try to chug out something better.
No sense in polishing muck, unless you want to keep it.

Abrupt

You can have the satisfaction you crave,
that hungering need for fulfillment
that unquenchable bite in your throat.

What you learn will be silk against neck,
drink rolling down a baron stomach,
the simple "pop" of bubble wrap.

Bite into an orange peel
the bitter will satisfy more than this.

Unpoetic poetic philosophy

Pessimism
is the heart
of reflection.

Optimism
is the heart
of identity.

Uncertainty
is the heart
of intelligence.

Purpose
is the heart,
of the heart.

I love you

I love you
like my dog that had to be put down
when he tore into my arm.

Like my old favorite song
that I listened to over and over
until the melody staled.
The lyrics, I now forget.

Like snowfall in spring
after a long, cold winter
after a short, hot summer.

Like that one dog movie,
the one that brought me to tears
and got me so worked up
that I could never watch it again.

Like a bitter medicine
that I had to swallow,
the one that made me better,
the one I hope to never drink again.

Comfort

I sit atop the wind
in black spaces
among ruined valleys
that I built.
The wind licks my face,
teases my senses
for something more.

It pulls me to a direction,
in the pitch of dark
the anticipation nips at my neck,
the dread tears into my guts,
and the uncertainty fashions me a joug.

It is made just for me,
so warm, so comforting.

Stitches

Your love was the thread
stitched into my heart.
A string came loose
and you pulled on it
until it tightened and ripped.
The etch remains, a scar.

Bitter Medicine

Sink into me
like a vaccine,
the way you make me sick
so I learn to feel better.

Forward

The lazy dreams that time doth swallow,
with every breath, seconds die.
Each time that lingers borrows forth
moments thus forever lost.

Restrained to keep on moving forward,
compelled to be forever vain.
No measure, nor book, nor rule unspoken
that guides the course of untrodden ways.

Thus every second of every minute
of every hour of every day
of every week of every month
of every year passes away.
But right this moment, this moment lives,
no, not that one, but this one now.
All you can do: do what you will
for the past, is not to drown.

Villanelle

Rise

Rise, it's no longer time to bow your head,
Do not lose yourself in what's now shattered,
Build monuments atop that which is dead.

If willows burn, there place a flowerbed.
Weep not long for the ashes that scattered.
Rise, it's no longer time to bow your head.

From bleeding corpse, the earth and small are fed.
From death to life, its cold image flattered.
Build monuments atop that which is dead.

Leave weakness behind, build strength in its stead.
Resign not to remain stale and battered.
Rise, it's no longer time to bow your head.

Atop ruined civilizations, new ones bred,
Then build upon the feats the old had gathered.
Build monuments on atop that which is dead.

Let mourning come then pass, and tears be shed,
Then do not linger on what once mattered.
Rise, it's no longer time to bow your head,
Build monuments atop that which is dead.

An Easter Sonnet

He died to resurrect and born anew,
a deed that is not so easily wrought.
In audience of five hundred, not so few,
and even more were the lives he had bought.
Through toil and pain and sacrifice and love,
on the holy cross he laid all our sin.
On blessed day rained mercy from above,
and washed away were the crimes that had been.

So many years later we now celebrate
the great miracle of our savior's rise,
and child's need for shenanigans we sate
with chocolates and colored things for their eyes.

May memory of his rise never faint
through a bunny and eggs colored with paint.