"barometric" poems
This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and ******* lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world?
Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day.
I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:54 AM UTC
Mercury climbs our glass spine’s rise—
Warm droplets tremble as nerves under tongue.
We name our barometric ache—enchantment:
each storm seeded where ******* pool salt rain.
Fingers tracing, exploring, deepening pressure systems
through our kiss. The glass hums.
Lightning fills the cloudless sky.
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 5:52 PM UTC
fresh orange clementines on a
white kitchen counter,
incongruous with a windowed view of
white winter's barometric pressures.
eye illusions,
making no sense,
like me drinking
ice coffee in NYC on
New Year's Eve.
New Years Eve too,
a nonsensical notation,
an illusory line,
imposed upon us by
calendar salesmen and astronomers,
for profit and seals of good timekeeping.
There is no solstice,
no verifiable, demonstrable,
celestial line of demarcation,
just a box on a calendar
of man-made paper,
man-dating
fresh thinking,
de-man-ding,
we gaily clad ourselves
in suits of optimistic armor,
heavy with good cheer,
so much so,
we list to one side
under a burden
of greater expectations
the starting line is
worldwide, continental.
a ball drops
to signal the beginning of a new
human race to
another artifice in future time.
with inebriated staggering starts
over staggered time zones,
thus creating a continuous,
rolling wave-eve of resolutions.
I say to myself,
what the heck,
why not!
if the whole world
must share
but one
global illusion,
this one,
fresh starts of fresh hearts,
is not a bad one,
maybe, perhaps,
as good as it gets?
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
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barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
chocking
but actualising
grasp
..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
so
very
very
present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
(with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
so very
derivative
idiomatic
and *******
asinine.
..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))
See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
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Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
The sweat on my lip
brings this barometric memory
of heat and flesh
to the forefront.
Two fronts,
a Summer monsoon
where pale lightning plays
through reefs of golden cloud
circling an alabaster cliff
humming like live wires
with soft and hard design
with rain and sea spray.
The curve of your back
is a horizon.
The lines carved on your chest
are highways and slipstreams
above which gulls wing and wheel
below which mysteries are concealed.
And I sigh like thunder
to the softness of your storm
and I sigh like thunder,
to your silver screen embrace
I sigh like thunder.
I sigh like thunder.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 12:59 AM UTC
It's hard to know from where you rang out, and how the tone changed from memory to sorrow. Perhaps all those little cuts from the knife of Aristotle came with a price. Or maybe the polygraphic wildlife detected in your letters, enough to stir the inner fabric of my womb, drew out the scent. This is more than obligation, child. This is about the seasons of force or choice. And how the aural disintegrations from your mouth sound so effortlessly submitted and submerged. I fear they've turned to acceptance, their floral remnants as besieged as a Sarajevo Rose. My love for you will never live on the margins. This love is a tree-lined battlement. An endless voyage on the barometric sea.
It's so hard to know from where you rang out. But worse, I suppose, to hear nothing at all. Nothing until ambulance day. And the words a mother should never have to endure.
Jul 3, 2023
Jul 3, 2023 at 11:43 AM UTC
You said this,
that I gave more than you wanted
that I surrounded you,
smothered you with plumped up pillows
and forced you into swaddling clothes,
too tight for a grown man.
You were wrong.
And now I wear bedsocks to stave off a chill that
has nothing to do with barometric pressure,
mocked by a too big duvet in an aftershave scented bed.
I take my usual route and stare at the downturned faces
of busy people who don’t wish to look my way,
no matter, they haven’t realised how special I am.
I’m here to win you back.
I’ll come at you with perfumed cards.
Accost you with sugary tokens.
Stab at you with flowered stems.
Your letterbox is your eyes and ears
and I’m jamming myself into it,
waiting for you to come home.
Dec 19, 2010
Dec 19, 2010 at 12:08 PM UTC
Pigments of light
draw me to the surface as air
rippled against my skin beckons a
new day.
Between us our contorted bodies gather heat as distant drums
plusate
a primal language long forgotten.
As polarised opposites, we are held
by barometric pressures
with only gravity to our name.
Soon we loosen
& like tectonic plates we slowly drift
heedless of the aftermath above ground.
Shiloh Harmitt
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 12:39 PM UTC
The Weather Channel, ubiquitous,
Who among us does not have this app,
On their phone, computer, mobile device
Ready for a quick scan..
Odd topic for an essay,
Strange, that your poetic silence
Should be broken this way,
Then again, you didn't inquire,
Or even notice it had gone missing.
Yet the channel/app of which I write,
Is mobile, and certainly, applies to each of us
But cannot be found on any device but in our hearts..
When we awaken,
The temperature is taken,
A glance upon your visage
Reveals rested or irritable,
Blue clouds or storm warnings,
Better dress appropriately...
But even this is not the forecast
Of which my heart and words speak,,
The whether I need, the thermometer reading,
The barometric pressure that needs knowing,
Measures whether you love me still,
Love me more, love me better,
Than the last poem/day we just wrote/recorded,
Yesterday...
The waters we will yet navigate,
The sky we shall observe,
Cloud shapes to design and designate,
A fortune to prognosticate,
Is the sum of the fortunes/forecasts we create daily.
Our weather is our good fortune,
And strangely the forecast is the same daily,
Whether fair or hurricane,
Whether gladdened or pained,
Our forecast, ours,
Our forecast, unique,
Our forecast, let us record it into reality,
When we awaken entangled,
Looking out the window and envision,
Predicting our life-scape.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC
It’s refreshing to see a breath of fresh air
Out here in this desolate world.
I find it harder and harder to breathe this pollution,
I don’t even have asthma and I’m under attack.
The lights are turned low and I’m starting to feel
All that pressure that movies have branded me with
And I don’t know which girl I should be dancing with
So I never did.
As the disco ball turns, sending squares of light
Over everyones faces, I feel a change.
Something oddly barometric is sending waves into my head,
This doesn’t happen often, it’s so peculiar
That the moment you walk in the doors, your friends
And your loved ones scream for more of your laugh and your
Voice and that smile that cures all diseases and
Gently squeezes and pleases all newcomers, old friends, and
All in between.
Red lipstick parts, shows a pearly white gleam,
My stomach is ready to burst at the seams,
She was made for the 20’s, stuck in 2013,
Finishing sentences, dinners, and drinks,
Movies and beach nights and ice skating rinks.
I’d do anything and everything just to simply
Hold your hand, if only for a minute.
A minute can feel like forever in the right hands.
So why don’t you lend me your right hand,
I’ll guide us both somewhere, nowhere, anywhere,
The where that no one dares to go, the where that
No ordinary people know, the where where all the pretty flowers grow
And I’d pick them all for you.
I’ve always just floated through life, and I passed up
Great memories as I did that but now is the time to
Give up that and make memories that will last
Past forever.
I’ve always sheltered my words to myself, but
Now I can’t stop them from coming.
I’ve always run away from the public’s keen eye but
Now you, you have stopped me from running.
Let’s play a guitar to the beat of our hearts and
Not be afraid to dance in the dark,
See the world from the top of a Ferris Wheel,
Ferris Bueller skips class like my heart skips beat after beat,
I’ll make you pancakes from scratch and nobody
Else is invited to our Breakfast Club.
You wish that you love life was more like a John Hughes flick?
Skip town with our boombox, dance all night to that groove ****
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
One thousand and one
and
falling slowly.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
Joints simply electric.
Aware of every muscle.
Feel heavier today,
Did I wake up on Jupiter?
No, just barometric pressure.
Each step a chore;
Try not to let it show.
My mind compensating,
Trying to ignore what the brain perceives.
By then end of the day I am wasteland.
Existence becomes intolerable.
It's times like these I forget,
That my minds on constant auto pilot.
"It's not pain it's pressure"
"It's all a misfire"
"This isn't real."
Without a rested mind,
I melt, I burn, I'm plagued by electric waves.
Harshly remained of what I daily ignore.
Some days I can't do it,
Today is one.
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
Happiness...A state of mind
Placed opposite to sad,
Degrees of joy and sorrow
That are neither good nor bad.
Your barometric reader
Determined by the day,
The way you play our cards
Or the whim of yae or nay.
Whichever way the meter flows
There is one guarantee,
If you've lived life to it's fullest
Your dying day will set you free!
So fear not for the dark days
They will come and go like rain
Tomorrow's dawn brings sunshine
To evaporate the pain.
Luv to you Nat.
M.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 3:33 PM UTC
Thunder is quaking
My joints are truly aching
An execrable storm is about to break through
The clouds above are
The most velvety and royal blue
With the beauty of the sky
And the bellow of the stormy breeze
My mind is carried back
A time in my life of agitation and unease
My joints deepen in their ache
My brain begins to swell
The barometric pressure increases the stakes
The pain of my past mistakes, I recall well
I know in my heart It's all part of the past
Yet, physical pain holds on tight
And demands to last
I Pray for His power to withstand this pain
The silver lining of this is that
It's all part of His plan
He will give me power to sustain
I can look forward to the future
In His home, I'm invited,
They never have painful rain
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
billowing plumes of combustible grasses
send nuclear clouds into the stratosphere
pillow columns stretch into the ether
and expand against the barometric pressure
of high elevation
sending tendrils of smoke sweeping across the evening sky –
near the fence stands a fireman covered in soot
in one hand a pail of water
with a spout
he looks as calm as if he were heading to the garden
gaily, it swings back and forth on a slight breeze
as the daydreaming fireman stands on the edge
of an inferno –
cars slow and passersby gawk at the spectacle
another season comes to pass
as the grass fields are burned
in the early August sunshine --
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
When streaming rain obscures your window pane
You want to be alone, among your thoughts
And no one knows exactly why that’s so
But yes, you are at peace this afternoon
They say the falling barometric pressure
Makes you sleepy, but the rain knows better
The drowsing rain, it wants to sing to you
And tuck you softly into a dream of love
So close your eyes, and as the little book slips
Onto your lap, the rain sighs with your lips
Apr 7, 2019
Apr 7, 2019 at 3:46 PM UTC
Forget
the balm of barometric exuberance.
This night
no longer young, dissipates.
Recall
a dewy welcome of sun-quaffed green.
Yesterdays
revive severed umbilical dreams.
Peruse
this present but fleeting acumen.
Today
ceases yet emerges again tomorrow.
Ignite
that kindling of autumnal reticence.
Perhaps
genial kindnesses shall spring.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:43 AM UTC