"backdraft" poems
It’s been said that infatuation makes for a fast spiral down to
sightlessness. But do you say the blind cannot see? I bear no
mind to mere optics for I need not the sense to possess the
sight. I have your radiance with me, branded to the backs of my
lids for I cannot help but have you always until the next time
I look upon you. With a clutch of my hand you have me at
your will. You present this present with your presence and I
shall honor this with my eyes, never to shield whilst I have
you before me. Consumed I become as you lay me down
beneath the leaves. Take all you will from me for I shall
remain exposed to your desires.
My gaze wandered up and found the leaves on fire. There
was no smoke; there was no fear for we had been the fire
all along. The flames of yours and mine together had
consumed the air of our yesterdays, leaving nothing to look
back on and ceasing the urge to look forward; we were here,
existent, ready to ignite once more. This surge required
naught save for the breaths of yours and mine to chance;
your breath compelling this sealed backdraft longing for
indulgence, growing wild with every touch, every scent,
every taste of your delicate tongue as it wrapped in mine.
The embers knew nothing of destruction but rather renewal
of that which I had longed for.
I once believed it foolish to feel the same with another
synchronously. A belief I now find fault in for just as the
two flames who dance incoherently; once they touch they
become unified in their brilliant engagement, creating a
distinct cohesion that most will undoubtedly remain unaware
to. It is that moment, that paradise we search for. A sensation
that last a moment but for those without sight, a single
moment becomes the ultimate reality of eternity; a single slice
in our whole of existence which we stay hungry for. So look
no further for I am close at hand. We have already set this
world ablaze and altered the realm of our tomorrows. It is now,
in this very moment where we shall get a taste of eternity and
there will never be anyone more adequate to share this paradise
with other than that who makes me sightless.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
You speak of change constantly.
Like Flux capacitors are sold in stores.
Trying to mend past and future selves.
Trusting that they might collide on a single scope.
And STOP.
Is this pleasing.
Easing into planned mediocrity.
Dancing to tunes with broken strings.
Laughing at hardship.
Hoping it's seen as resilience.
Then wake to cold sweat in the night.
Running from a dreamscape.
To escape.
But still commemorate thought.
Making the real.
Less.
Than..
...
I step on forgotten land mines.
In my mind.
Creating a backdraft of emotion.
Spent years putting out these flames.
And even longer letting the brush burn.
Is control then the illusion.
Or am I just.
Constantly.
Waking.
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 8:01 PM UTC
A hero is a person who
has simply done as others do
until a certain point in time
when they step over safety's line.
Then they become something more
than a mere human, and have borne
another person's trial and pain
not thinking of their glory, gain.
A hero's the woman who waits and stays
and watches while the others play,
then takes the drinking people home,
wending her way to sleep alone.
A hero's the teen who looks and sees
a child's kite hung in the trees
and climbs farther than he should dare
to show the kid that someone cares.
The mutt who stays by master's side,
Alerting folks with howls and cries.
He may be cold, have to defend,
But he'll stay with his human friend.
The "Boys/Girls in Blue" this word deserve.
They bravely work. Protect and serve.
Dealing with crime and human woes,
They go where others will not go.
A fireman breaks down a door.
There could be backdraft, but does more,
because the baby in the room
will almost surely be consumed.
He's sustained wounds, and badly burnt,
but the little girl survives, unhurt.
The soldier who's sent to block, defend.
His buddy's met a painful end,
but hunkers down, takes back the field.
'Til the end he will not yield.
Jesus left His Father's home,
went to earth to walk alone.
He endured horrid trial and pain,
He took our sin, He took our shame.
The reason why He was so brave?
So that billions would be saved.
There are many more of us
Who do hard work while others fuss.
The single moms and single dads,
Nowadays parents have it bad!
With no fanfare or applause
work long hours on thankless jobs.
They ensure kids do more than eat.
They can be schooled for greater feats.
And if a person takes the time
to bring some light, to let it shine,
to cheer up people down and blue
well, my friend,
that hero's YOU.
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) February 21, 2009
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
I see just a hint of inspiration hanging there
Tantalizing me beyond despair
a vision in the fog
could be a prince, could be a frog
Have I the curiosity to care?
For I'm not sure a poets life's for me
Full of pain, angst and constant agony
Paint my heart upon my sleeve
for the tales that I weave
and publish for the whole world here to see
Could it be though that I suffer for my craft
or has my poetry become my own life raft
am I burned because I write
whether morning noon or night
or am I doomed to be consumed in its backdraft.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 5:14 PM UTC
She said,
"you won't believe what I'm looking right now.
The flames must be fifteen ******* feet above the roof"
And I went outside and I could see the plume of smoke like it was a block up from the house
so I ran back in and got everyone out of the house and we hopped in the car and sped off
toward
the flames
-just like a gruesome car accident-
and when we finally came within a few blocks it looked like the revolution
gone and started without us
people were running and jumping fences
to get closer to it.
So we got out and started running
through back alleys
and back yards
and suddenly, we came around a corner
and there it was.
They said the building was abandoned, that no one had been inside when it started.
It wasn't much of a building now.
It was a skeleton
and the flames were maggots picking it clean.
Inside was like the brightness of the sun
and the fire crews were giving it all the water in the world
to little avail.
Gigantic plumes of tiny embers were jetting from its open ribs into the twilight-
falling all over houses and businesses
and all I could think was
"what if it
doesn't
stop?
What if this is it? and it can't be contained?
and the whole
city
goes down with it?"
We were standing in the middle of a riot ready to happen-
it was like a backdraft-
an explosion minus one ingredient-
a single exhaled breath.
So what if this is it?
What if the end starts right here, right now?
So I began to root for the fire, not the firefighters.
I prayed for it to collapse
and eject all that hot ash over everything
to end us all.
But it didn't.
and after fifteen minutes or so the firefighters were winning.
So we turned on heel
and we hobbled home.
Live to fight another day.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
He Walked through the long corridor
of Green Park tube station.
There was a strong backdraft
that pushed him from behind.
He entered the train heading westbound
to Russel Square, on the Picadilly line.
It was packed with every kind of person
imaginable--the weird, schoolkids,
the bankers, tourists, parents with babies
and then there was her.
She had shoulder-length brown hair.
She was slim, pale and had piercing green eyes.
She was wearing khaki chinos
with a white Ralph Lauren Polo shirt.
A black choker on her neck and holding
a book.
Murakami's 1Q84.
The same book he was reading.
There was a hush in the air
as their look lingered for several seconds.
She looked at him, smiled and lifted
her eyebrows.
He looked at her and said,
"If you can't understand what just happened now
without explanation,
then you won't understand it
with an explanation."
She smiled and remembered the line in the book.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC
Heavy atmosphere
Lapping around my ankles.
Drawing me into its maelstrom.
Into its echo.
Chambers of my heart
Exploding as I try to breathe
Deeper than I should.
I exhale rust.
Heavy flames
All the torrential reigns
Of all hellish nightmares
Siphon off into a furnace of discomfiture.
I lean from your cool hands
To welcome the backdraft.
** Heavy earth**
What if you called me strong?
Would that be an epiphyte
Worthy of me? Nay.
You are more like.
While I, Atlas, hold the
World, spinning
you hold up my universe.
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 24, 2014
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 2:12 AM UTC
Wavering.
Seems to be stuck in the sidecar.
With doubt in in back.
And fear spilling out of every pocket.
Where can anything else fit.
It always seems like the only option is to floor it.
And hope.
The next experience isn't.
A wreckage.
Time seems to slow in this moment.
As if to give you one last replay.
Of what can never change.
Tumbling end.
Over beginning.
Through logic.
And past the last chance.
Lementing choices and decisions.
Hate flowing through burning veins.
Igniting the very air.
Causing a caustic reaction that seems to backdraft the entirety of it all.
Leaving only the ash to tell the tale.
And then there are those who see this very disturbance.
And find something within themselves never before used.
Touched.
Or seen.
And alter the very fabric of repetition.
With nothing more than a smile and.
Willingness.
Fear knot the emotions that entangle others.
For it only takes one to wade through the murky echoes of the past.
To ensure.
That The insanity will recede.
There are no shackles.
Only encumbering thoughts.
The only impass.
Is the very reflection staring back.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
The treasure chest
Her ((Piece De Resistance))
French skills of perseverance
She was a hollow crown of jewels
Not the zircon bright yellow
The darker to see you my dear
near my pillow
That death by chocolate how
she craved those sweets
Graveyard shift current events
Those men dark Batman suits
water skiing and internet surfing
That bat eye batmobile showdown
missile
Cells and locks to open the
gate and keys
A hell of a wish never on
Sunday to ring her bell the Siren
She made their hair home
Sunday dark gravy
Lips were too thin and skully
Was a cycle her lowdown
Shot glass don't touch my Philly
So gravely razor suit and a shave
Her mouth Tornado
But the vivacious Viking
Crypt look hellhole
The gathering dead again
Santa dead pole
couldn't stop bickering
No-one cared to notice her
dreadlocks
"The Cryptocurrency"
what urgency
She was drawn into the
Arsenic and Lace
Viva Las Vegas roll the dice
Cryptic engraved cellar
Like the maestro was playing
his serenade
She-devil Pillar
catching her death of cold
Feeling high winding staircase
Wearing her gown ripped lowdown
Being blown off the town lace
Oh! Fiddlestick with the
***** of light
Breaking free from husbands sight
The rise of the current storms
heads up she drinks Grand
dead Marnier
Took over such a restraint
This wasn't black and gray
spray paint
What a fiercest most recent
ancient current events
Reptilian and it was the
family of witches and covens
Words engraved so cryptically
She was wearing her
snakeskin bag signature
The body of dead sea such rapture
The fire feet stepping over seashells
Takes the hell out of Sahara snakes
She got a backdraft
Black widow of waistlines
13 inches Spyder Graphics
Those shifters and heretics
He was the Rocky face
The shorelines those laugh-lines
Sad clown dark eyes scratched
The cat feline
Her addiction was the guylines
Crypt crooked cop fines
Another startup kit
The dark edgy women her
legs just fit
Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
Sometimes thoughts in my brain
Are like burning buildings
I can feel their heat
From so far away;
Ever-present
I open the door
Hoping to make everything better
The backdraft engulfs me;
Consuming
Then I am nothing
But singed and disfigured;
A monstrosity
Nerves sizzling;
Nerves singing
It's like swallowing fire
What I need to understand
That sometimes I must
Leave things to burn
Until they are no more
Than ashes on the floor;
The best place to grow again
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
Who am I?
Crack of dawn,
fresh spill,
Fifteen demands before coffee?
Who am I?
Sport utility,
Front facing,
Five point harness?
Who am I?
grey roots,
saddlebags
tattered unmentionables?
What is this?
Ground hog week,
triple speak,
automatic deduction?
Whence comes this paper trail?
Condensing us into forms,
Sorting us into audits,
assesing penalties?
What happened to 5am?
Frozen in time?
Slow dawn creeping,
into a still-frame prescience?
What happened to days in bed?
Long hours in my head?
To ideas unfiltered,
and consecrated ground?
What happend to glitter clouds,
And living out loud?
To boundaries shattered,
and reality questioning itself?
Where do I find my heartfire?
Art and desire?
The uncharted,
now the lost...
Where is my life lust?
That signature passion,
for this domestic pursuit?
My sense of adventue?
Why is youth so visceral in its wake?
Am I a hollogram to the present,
that I exist in this backdraft,
of moments passed?
How am I consistent to the deadline,
but find myself so unready?
How is progress such a burden?
Why is nostalgia so heavy?
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:36 AM UTC
Just tell me to leave.
and I will leave behind the promise we signed in blood
in the past, where you left me
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
Ire is in her pupils
Rainbow fire
Breathing in, breathing out
Inspiration expired
She is the furnace driving the choir
Her backdraft jilts the spirit higher
Excuse me...
Exposure makes the humor drier
And the bread stale
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 12:40 PM UTC