"anthracite" poems
In times gone by, now recondite,
Neanderthal, ***** upright,
spoke softly, tones so lily-white,
and tried to put the world aright.
He taught us how the flame ignites
that wearing furs will warm the nights,
just why the rolling wheel excites,
and how the beveled flint stone bites.
Before the days of dynamite
he fought his foes with spit and spite,
and swung big sticks with all his might,
and rendered death with stones in flight.
Engaged in never-ending fight
(arenas were a global sight)
he forced his forces to unite
to sate his oily appetite.
To quell rude thoughts that may incite
he ruled the realm with fly-by-nights
and culled the winds of words in flight,
and darkened minds to anthracite.
With fairy tales of evil sprites
and how the fist of freedom smites,
he washed the world with flames alight
to vanquish hoards of parasites.
Each dawn the damage brought delight,
the foe was bent, a bit contrite…
yet battled on with no respite
until the dusk and evening light.
Encamped beside the firelight
Neanderthal, that shiny Knight,
awaited morn while sitting tight
assured the end would be alright.
Yes, conquest seemed his sacred right…
Forevermore?… well, no, not quite…
Neanderthal's extinct tonight
and lies beside the Trilobite…
MORAL
The Oreo is round, not bright:
while rolling near the candlelight
at first the searing seemed so slight,
the molten cream an oversight…
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
an anthracite & brown mass undulating seagulls' lost cries
& the summertime fishermen are gone
& you no longer wear that red dress, Carmen
sifting through ***** Sea foam
for periwinkles & pecten raveneli*
no longer barefoot on the Beach
& a child no longer asks for ice cream
the trees, rabid in their colors,
age creeps in with the increasing litter
& the stars shine coldly now
& the wind is picking up
the drifting remains of love
& packing them away
until Christmas
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
422
More Life—went out—when He went
Than Ordinary Breath—
Lit with a finer Phosphor—
Requiring in the Quench—
A Power of Renowned Cold,
The Climate of the Grave
A Temperature just adequate
So Anthracite, to live—
For some—an Ampler Zero—
A Frost more needle keen
Is necessary, to reduce
The Ethiop within.
Others—extinguish easier—
A Gnat’s minutest Fan
Sufficient to obliterate
A Tract of Citizen—
Whose Peat lift—amply vivid—
Ignores the solemn News
That Popocatapel exists—
Or Etna’s Scarlets, Choose—
1.8k
In the year I discovered baseball
I stumbled on my brother's marbles.
I begged Jim out of a few and he
showed me how to make my thumb a trigger.
Soon I was checking out at Woolworths
with my pockets a couple of quarters lighter
but otherwise enriched by
several "purey's", a pair of "cat's eyes",
a largish agate as black as anthracite
and a pull string carry sack.
At home I lined them up in rows
admiring their reflections
on the glass top table.
I held my favorite cat's eye" to the light
(The diadem of my molded treasure trove)
However did that orange swirl get inside?
Whistling through the playground
I joined a group of older kids
haunched around a circle
etched in the summer dust
with marbles clustered in the center.
Not to be left out I said,
"I've got marbles."
Before I had a chance to question why,
My orange diadem was in the center
Then WHACK, another marble sent it
flying out beyond the rim
and the shooter stuffed it in his sack.
I yelled,"Hey, that's my marble"
"Not no more, kid, the game is 'keeps'".
"What's 'keeps' I asked?"
"It means you lose"
and everyone laughed but me.
I scooped up the balance of my treasury
and left the circle quick -
(I dared not show my ***** tears).
So I left the cruelty of that dusty circle
sadder but just a little wiser
and never played for keeps again!
Well, not in marbles anyway.
October, 2013
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:05 PM UTC
From a sugar bowl womb,
came the World's Sweetest Girl--
Me.
I'm like a vision at lake side,
talking rot to the swans--
and oh how I do go
on
and
on.
I am formed of the frilly, the feminine, the fine--
thanks to old Daddy down the anthracite mine.
One step,
two step,
three step, five;
I'm made out of honey from an old bee hive.
Work bee,
fly bee,
sleep bee, then
sink that stinger if he tries it again.
Church on Sunday, Monday do the wash.
See if it sticks or scrubs right off.
Do you think I'm pretty?
Everybody does--
ask around,
ask Alice,
ask sweetly,
ask the swans.
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 4:16 PM UTC
Eyes of anthracite, ignite-
Fuel for my waning spirit
Food for my hungry soul.
Her rays mirrored sunlight,
And I, a humble acolyte:
Happily dirtying myself to worship coal.
The decades of pressure
Stifling in leisure, tiny slivers of pleasure.
Harsh force of demand.
Idle gem, form of a diamond:
Unaware of her own worth.
How often, is ignorance our ruin
And ourselves, our own undoing.
To eat our own words:
How it hurts
Oct 22, 2023
Oct 22, 2023 at 4:36 PM UTC
sometimes I wonder if I have ever really seen your face
there’s nothing left to explain
to this day I don’t know
if you were ever real (there was
nothing to say
maybe I just don’t remember) sometimes
my hands (my lips) still imagine your skin
the plaster of your ceiling hangs like blood clots
in my veins (the color of the walls mutating
before my closed eyes
I have never felt closer to neverland)
I don’t talk about you
I never did
no one has ever looked at me that way again
(maybe it was something about talking
to the other side of the world
that made me into a moment instead of a past)
maybe the thing I’m most sorry for
is that I will never regret you
(your name still tastes like peppermint) it is summer now
and I still remember your hot phantom hands
on my frozen cheeks
(I remember your voice like dragonfly wings)
maybe that’s why when I remember your eyes
my blood is lighter than it has ever been
I can feel your smile like starlight in mine
you breathed into my lungs once
and you have been there ever since
you were not my north star (though maybe I was yours)
you were my ocean (and
to a child’s eye all the stars look the same anyway)
maybe the thing I’m most sorry for
is that I don’t miss you because
after all these years
your anthracite eyes are steam beneath my fingers
(there’s a kind of purity in dirt and
there’s a kind of innocence in you)
after all these years my footprints dot your foreign soil
(there’s a kind of hope in me)
because after all these years of swimming
of air that tasted different with every breath
of eyes blinking against the epileptic cosmos
(stars lips teeth hips)
after all these years of running
it was not even strange to be in love with you
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 9:38 PM UTC
Fires in ditches and fields with
Newspapers, boxes, and dry grass
As our accessible anthracite;
Once smouldering enough on its own feet
To become its own source is when
The limbs were stripped and introduced;
Torn from trees or salvaged from
The outlying waste - they fed the
Crackle - spitting whispering embers skywards.
As children with little sense, our noise
Was all we could offer to appease
Wayward youth's disorder.
The crippled heat was secondary,
But to watch things burn was valuable;
A ring of lives held tenuous.
One thing I came to know
From the nights we gathered in droves is
That within this life of loose bonds and swells
I soak in the hungry gloam.
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Recently,
i've noticed the way the sky dips itself into the trees at sundown
and the way the blue fades in with the anthracite so neatly
but so messily at the same time
and the way the backdrop refuses to be the same every day
because the clouds are always placed in different shapes
unlike the outlook of society
and the orange is then born, like magic as it blankets the earth
born out of red but there's always a bit of mustard to help
not pure blood, have some cheese
but then there's also those splashes of pinky-purple paint
or could it be squash, to help wash down the edam
foods that the popular despise
and it reflects so beautifully against the metallic of life
adding some colour to the regular plastic routine
that i admit to following
but that doesn't mean i don't conspire or want or fantasise or plan
about being the sky at sunset and succeeding, just more humane
i'm just much too cowardly to change
not only at sundown, at the day's end, but at sunrise, the wholly beginning
the sky has a fresh start everyday, a new meaning, a new reason
but i have none now
so, please, whoever controls me, whether it be me or a further omni-
allow to transform and become the early morning sky, or go to sleep and turn into that of the night
because no longer can i sit and watch the stunning backdrops
whilst so many people are falling further
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
I think through exactly nothing.
The nothing of permanent plans.
The crushing ambiance - humming.
The hereafter is held in my hands.
I am anchored in absolute anthracite.
In the travel towards a tame tomorrow.
Surrendered sight. Goodbye. Great night.
But slumber's stare I cannot borrow.
I could feel fresh and rested.
When the sun returns to wealth.
Instead, my mirrored mind is bested.
By none other than itself.
A bucket list - boundless and long.
A billion books for each day.
The distraction of the sterile songs.
All to suspend the swarming sway.
The daylight waits for no creature.
And prepares the slumber song.
But darkness is a wonderful teacher.
I wish this waning clock was wrong.
As long as I have a moving mind.
In the richest and poorest of weather.
A waste in rest I'll invariably find.
In the Neverlanded nether.
When absolutely nothing's wrong.
When Time doesn't spill its touch.
To procrastination, I belong.
Am I asking for too much?
To grow into or fade out of.
The ideal temperature and tuck.
My eyelids cannot shut enough.
Outside the celestial flow, I'm stuck.
What if I never dream again?
Uncertainty honors each night.
What if I just roll around and then,
I am welcomed to morning's light?
What if I've lost the built in will,
To even further bother?
What if no book, no bed, no pill.
Could satisfy rest's hunger?
At best, this future is now failed.
Prevailed pause to a downhill stroll.
Detailed, another mated stale.
Thumb up into the endless scroll.
Roaming legs, wakeful brain.
In this domain, I'm just a guest.
Just close your eyes and try again.
I, alone create this terrible test.
At worst, this is my nightly fate.
Renewed again and again.
Much too little, much too late.
Still, awake, I still remain.
Nothing will solve the stalemate.
Nothing can stifle this absence of thirst.
What a terrible plan to perpetuate.
What a horrible night to have a curse.
But just as I accept my due.
I've somehow ended my eternal night.
My eyes glazed in Sandman glue.
A miraculous recovery of sight.
I awake, escaped from a sleepless doom.
But tonight I suffer the same.
If I do not substitute something soon.
I will only have myself to blame.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
Anthracite
might burn well
but most will never know,
the fires in grates have all burnt low.
We're farming wind and waves,harnessing the nuclear reaction,sadly I find not one ounce of satisfaction in this,
I miss the welcoming glow of red hot flames and the toasting of marshmallows and everybody knows you can toast them on turbines.
I whinge and whine but I'll be fine as soon as I step into line with modern inconveniences.
I am informed by those who know,that the fish with two heads and the greenish glow has nothing to do with you know what and all we're really lacking is a ******* good dose of cracking fracking.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
She often wonders what the past was like.
Did it feel like it looked: black and white?
Nose in a book, anthracite coal strike.
Will she ever know JFK's ghost?
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 7:33 PM UTC
My notebook has a stain
That I placed there.
For I wanted to cover,
The lines where I wrote your name.
It takes up some space,
This anthracite black smudge.
So unlike you,
For there is no more space for you
Here
In the pages of my heart.
I have removed you.
And threw you into the shredder.
So as the ink seeps through,
Making this mark final,
I turn the page
And write anew.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 10:09 PM UTC
has big lumps, i seem to remember.
i have those and small stuff too.
mother had nutty slack, mixed
with water and other stuff to keep
it going.
can you still get that these days, i had best
google, anthracite was good i feel, and those
briquettes that i thought were for
richer folk.
steady fire last eve is still alight this morning.
the joy of a cosy life, one could say
it is a gift, even though i paid
for it.
sbm.
Dec 13, 2014
Dec 13, 2014 at 2:42 AM UTC
Je me regarde
Dans les reflets
Du café corsé
Du petit matin brûlant
J'y vois
Mon visage qui se dissout
En vesou
Et ton sourire-poème qui apparaît
Dans les remous de la tasse
Et qui murmure du fond de sa mer noire:
"Dor, Dor, Dor !"
C'est un dor sonore
Doux et amer
Un dor comme un pélican
Qui plonge au ralenti
De son mancenillier en fleurs
Pour y gober une lame de mer mordorée.
"Dor Dor Dor !"
C'est une mitraillette de sept plumes de coqs de chine
Qui transperce ma dérive de ses plombs et hameçons
Veux-tu donc que je morde,
Scombridé anthropophage,
A l 'appât de houle
De tes vingt brasses de tresse verte ?
Veux-tu que j'amarre
Mes paupières lourdes
Aux crève-coeur de ton misainier
et que j 'ancre mes rêves
Dans les cales d'un port sans relâche ?
"Dor dor dor ! "
Et voilà le marc de café qui tangue
Embarde, cavale
Dans le roulis d'or de ta voile aurique
Dorlote mon gouvernail et me lit
Au fil de mes haut-le-coeur dans la caféière
Qui jouxte le cimetière joyeux
Où flânent les ombres des petites morts
Près du pont au-dessus de la rivière Saison.
"Dor dor dor ! "
.
Faut-il que j 'ouvre dans ton miroir la porte à la douleur ?
Faut-il que je chante joie, plaisir, contentement,
Jouissance et nostalgie, manque et absence ?
Faut-il que je mette dehors la petite cuillère
Et que je me rendorme en buvant comme du petit lait
Cette dor qui perle en riant de tes lèvres-nasses
Assoiffées de café anthracite de soleil noir,
D'ombre de soleil, de souvenir de soleil,
D'espoir de soleil d'or ?
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 2:43 PM UTC
It is decommissioned, off-limits, outright verboten,
Yet is traversed nonetheless,
Its patrons a mix of the pruriently curious,
The thrill-seeker, the merely woebegone.
As they have time on their side,
The hub-bub of school buses and suburban commuters
No concern as they navigate the buckled and broken asphalt
(The conflagration underneath changing the topography
Daily, sometimes even hourly)
They will stop to paint some phrase, some bon mot
On this roadway-cum-canvas:
Mostly the narcissistic monologue we bray at the universe,
The assertion that we were here, are here,
And (though it is plaintive yet unspoken) that we always may be,
Augmented with light hearted double entendres
And grim, hectoring Biblical quotations,
While not far away, the re-directed two lanes of blacktop
Carry onward, indifferently proceeding on its way
Through these stolidly scruffy old anthracite towns,
Their landscapes and the ground beneath them
Quiet as the sepulcher, the vagaries of their fates above the sod,
Stalking them impassively yet implacably.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 3:48 PM UTC