Brrrr Thursday
Baby it’s cold outside
Jackets and scarves required

Brrrr Thursday

The air is crisp and clear
The sun is out in it’s full regalia
The city is awake

Brrrr Thursday

The café is almost empty
Too cold to come out
People huddled with their coffee

Brrrr Thursday

Baby it’s cold outside
Hard to go out
Bed sounds nice where it’s warm

Winter is here and
Brrrr Thursday

I'm starting to see things differently

No anger, no sadness, no joy

but rather, a cold feeling, sure, it makes sense

brrrrr

as I lay myself down shivering, shaking

brrrrr

Where'd you go, huh?...

brrrr

Not doing so well

brrrr

Break the ice already. Just shatter it.
Stop doing this, just be real.
The decision in the end does not matter.
This fuckery going on right now though.

brrrr

whatever.

Expect laughter, if you've become what you've despised.

Expect much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much, much laughter.

so cold.
**better start the fire

Biting cold, rain, sleet and snow,
Temperatures very low,
Crunchy grass, freezing mornings,
Roads like glass; weather warnings!
Traffic jams, travel chaos,
Accidents to delay us.
Buses, trains stuck at stations,
Many flight cancellations.

Time for wearing winter gear
When coats and hats reappear,
When gloves and scarves are the norm
Anything to keep us warm!
When crying eyes, runny nose,
Frozen fingers, tingling toes
Are the order of the day;
Hard to keep the cold at bay.

Schools are shut to kids delight,
Can’t make work though try you might.
Home is where most folk are at
Turning up their thermostats
Heating on all night and day,
Kids indoors, not out to play.
Most folk staying in no doubt
Happy they need not go out.

But all do not have such luck
Perhaps a good time to look
In on neighbours the odd day
To make sure they are ok.
Maybe help the homeless too,
Do anything we can do
To ensure we all weather
These Winter storms together.

Perhaps one day you'll write for me
Like in the days of old
You let love go
it will come back
at least that's what I'm told

Perhaps one day I'll be the one
Oh would you be so bold
Just let love go
It will come back
At least that's what I'm told.

Perhaps you just might not return
Is that how it will unfold
I let love go
And it got lost
And now it's freezing cold.

brrrr...


snow-capped mountain
air so crisp
neat lines
nosetip gets sleety touch

warm inside
cosy in here
with memory-touches
of rain

so
here's a clear and crisp dispatch
abiding little dispute -

amidst the falling snow
on coldened hands
and needed fingertips
a brush of temperate smiles
all hid and bundled up
in ready bows
just for you

smile a while
you never know
when the sun may catch your dial

--something about “this is what love feels like”
-- or “this is how love is supposed to feel”
questions; “how do you feel?” and nothing but silence.
cold and old
growing
frozen toes
warm water, you and me, can't wait
always wet, drying
slowly in the night
mildew grows
and we mold more than the
cracks between my bed and the wall.

Talking to you is a cuddle puddle,
a misgiving kiss, a hit hit triple miss
apology, I can't tell you what I think
because they're awful things. And when I say
things so sweet
I feel like you're falling out of love with me.
I'm a vulnerable mess stuck in a guess
and I guess and guess wrong
-there's that word again
wrrrr were brrrr buuurrrrr
your skin is ice, so nice
mine is tucked and full of rice
nothing else but kitchen help
you hold me from behind
won't look me in the eye
thinking of someone else.

Nothing's wrong
(get over it).

I'm checking myself out
like in a grocery store
for the panicked and
newly born, freshly torn
lovers that still don't know much
about each other.

A few conversations held close to heart
easily dissected, something to relate to
when you're feeling lonely, or just drunk
nauseous, leaving early because it's too much
for beginners to start with.
And if you're just beginning
then you better start
learning how to learn.

It's cold, I'm shivering.
My fingers are numb.
Brrrr! I'm trembling.
Can't wait for the Sun!
The heat of her kisses
All over my face.
The warmth of my Mrs.
No one can replace.
When My Summer comes
I know I'll get wet.
It'll drip from my thumbs,
All covered with sweat.

The rays of her fingers
Are just like the Sun.
My senses are tingled;
The Summer is fun.
When My Summer's here,
So hot and so soft,
I wont have a care,
When my clothes are off.
I've waited so long
To dip in the pool.
I can't do it now,
Because it's too cool.

My Summer will place me
In her loving embrace.
And she will take me
To fill in her space.
Convulsions from Sun strokes,
I can't wait to feel!
My Summer don't mind folks
Keeping it real.
When hot *******
Goes in so deep,
******* sensations
Will put us to sleep.

with the most askance inspection
of the most
atomißed of man...

because what does... "fame" look
like in a small town?
i go the shop, the cashier "knows"
me... or at least i have
in possession...
a recognißable face
that can have immediate
impact,
   for whatever the worth
of recognition is worth,
                                   these days...

the nooks & crannies
of cliché tactics...
                  two girls lost in the night,
a stumbling wanderer
picking one of them up
after heaving himself
over
a public park fence...
exposed *****...
14...
         a black cat being cuddled
15 minutes later...
psychotic behavior...
finding the other girl
lying dead-pan face flat
at a bus-stop...
              a phonecall
to one of the girl's father
driving a black cab...
the guys getting home safely,
an IM from one of
the girl's mother: thank you...
the end...

was it necessary of me
write this?
                 don't know...
anything is worth bashing
a blank stare of a page,
intimidating me
to give me prompt...

i can cleave a slice off the meaty
dictum when it comes
to a small town dynamic
compared to biggie big-town
bad boy city...

fame...
          funny...
            i like claustrophobic
"fame"... imbued to a small town
interaction...
   oh sure... there is anonymity
involved...
  but the stage? recurrent...
the audience? non-existent.
the actors?
           blatantly bland
and repeateded beyond
the concerns of: the obvious...
  a granny doing shopping...
goes to the local store...
shops, talks to the cashiers...
returns to her home...
pretends to sleep,
switching on the television,
like...
  counting t.v. personnas...
shadow or shadows...
never mind the fact that she's
wide-awake...
         and there's "fame"...
the **** does fame juice-up-to-forget
about dynamic worth of:
the furthered conversation?
   small town...
yeah... you're famous...
when the supermarket cashiers
"know" your face...
or at least "being" recognißed...
   to have to starve for being
recognißed within the confines
of an anonymous crowd...
              like: being eaten alive
by zombies wishing for hyenas...
sordid crap...
  nothing Dickensian about it...
routine...
                            crisp cut off from
a missing paragraph...
that never was, that never will
be...
                    
modern, fame,
and that hybrid of the c.c.t.v.
mentality...
precursor, status worth,
the pre-aligned
sending of a postcard...
or a letter...
                 like...
'i almost tried to forget minding
my own double' (shadow)...
not that i would ever...
such the nature
of the big big, world...
and such the fate
of the little little, moi...

        big POP and
the little rock...
          one thing to **** against
the wind, one thing alotegether
to **** into a hurricane...
                 glaring
scoops of disgruntled shattering
to attempt to mend...

         fame...
                        famine in the mouths
of others...
   enoughs pigeons reading
to settle on a scoop of dead-beat
and we, have ourselves,
a democratic event!

           just when... god was never
an imaginary "friend",
or some leftover trait
of infantile leftovers...
         before that?
that parasite, is dislodged from
my mind,
excluded from giving me
some, if any, ontological focus...
i want St. Peter's to be toppled
to rubble...
      until then?
  then... who the **** is infantile
and who has me thinking
of a caged canary, to genesis with?!

big city: seeking fame...
little city: fame as the artefact
of familiarity...
some would call: metaphor:
claustrophobia...

            fame is not something
you will find,
beside... the clarity of
what big city provisions
you with...
an anonymous crowd...
no... little town?
fame?
        more like infamy...
oh for sure...
no kafkaesque novel
accomplice to support you...
either.

      nightmare:
anything, anywhere...
as long as it is bland...
    akin to... a supposedly
forgot, addition of,
necessary seasoning,
toying with the basics...
just... as simple as...
salt, pepper, bay leaf...
a whole all spice bud...

should i be seeking fame...
shoot me...
         any if all of...
only the past two years
has the journalist become
the status symbol of
a politician...
       equally not worth
being allowed a democratic
outlet
to begin with...

the day when
the word journalist = politician...
some people might
even suspect me of
amnesia...
  i wish it was amnesia...

             priest? long gone...
but of course
there's the propping
of the theatre...
           to ensure no truth
is left to be investigated...
as long as the murals
      the click-bait...
the mosaic sticks?
  
         as long as
a social contract...
a cordiality is solidified?
                   well!
what is there to complain about?
apart from a few
charlatans?!
   little town
come big city dynamic...
   2 centuries apart,
living, qua: in the same one...
paradox...
          
ever fold and unfold
an umbrella
quickly enough
to imitate the sound
of a crow
fluttering
its wings?
   you know: brrrr...
attempting to shake
off excess water from
the flight tools?
      
i couldn't handle being
boxed into a stereotype...
as i am...
still flirting with
         baron: anonymous;
once born
to be settled into
a grave...
             having to watch
some people agitate
the dead
        with their mea culpas
of... by the grave
a hubris...

           a recant...
the lighted candle...
the memory preserved...

or?
     hell... with the ******
on the conveyor belt...
NEXT!

       in these times...
even ghosts forgot to haunt...
all the schizophrenics are
like: no...
         beyond this world
beings talking to me?
so much... self-assurance...
everyone is taken
to silently gloat
about their telepathic
abilities?

      as old as the Cartesian
trinity... what? telepathy...
res extensa...
     extended thing...
   that's called telepathy...

me?
    i'm still trying to find the sort
of language that would
preserve me,
in continuing to burrow
something, resembling...
part-cipher
   and part-decipher (non-verb)...
all in all...
gesticulating between
overt metaphor,
and conscious of & when
a misnomer was
applied to bypass into
a waterfall, -esque,
                 fluidity of expression.

- this **** is not billboard
material...
what does it matter...
should it matter...
or will it ever matter...
          the grand choir composition:
NEIN...
                  its prime identity
of purpose...
    to never make it as text
worthy of a script
accompanied by canned laughter.

Nanindug ang balahibo
Ni-utog ang atngal
Nikupot ang itlog
Sa katugnaw sa hangin
Sa taas sa buntod, kilid sa bayabayon

Brrrr
It’s cold outside
The sky is gray
With a feeling of rain or snow
People are bundled up
In coats, hats and scarves
Brrrr
It’s cold
At home
People hide under blankets
Seeking any kind of warmth
A fireplace is welcome
For both people and animals
Brrr
It’s cold outside
Winter is on its way
The season is changing
Snow, sleet and cold rain
Get ready

Resting on my cross,
Moss crawling it's way up.
Interrupt, crows break the silence.
Ever since my mouth has become sown shut.

That image of the woman,
Has been stuck inside my head,
Dread, that sudden realization,
Migration impossible I am tied to a cross.

Around me is grain,
Pain of blandest stings my eyes.
Sunrise is coming,
Running to me she smiles.

Fixing my coat she picks at the straw,
Caww caww, she mocks the crows.
Oh that smile warms me,
Please stay here.

All done now she leaves with a hug,
Tug on my cross I want to wrap my arms around her.
Brrrr winter's breeze blows by,
Goodbye sunrise.

Night falls upon my space,
Taste, the crows all swarm me for salty tears,
Years of torture the crows pick me apart,
No heart, no courage, no brain.

Just the pain of the cross.

I can’t sleep
The time ticks
My mind is racing

I can’t make a peep
Headphones on playing Hendrix
I can’t stop pacing

I hear a knock
I open the door
There is no one there

I close and lock
I’m cold to the core
I’m losing my hair

I can’t rest
I can’t stop
I’ve got 3 more hours

Until the day's quest
When I can skip and hop
While I pick some flowers

And I will see her
My sunrise
In the morning

It’s cold; brrrr
To sleep would be wise
But I know I’ll be tossing and turning…
© okpoet

Brrrr  
Baby it’s cold outside
Jackets and scarves required
The air is crisp and clear
The sky is clear
The sun is out in it’s full regalia
The city is awake
Traffic moving
The café is almost empty
Too cold to come out
People huddled with their coffee
The steam offering warmth
Baby it’s cold outside
Hard to go out
Bed sounds nice where it’s warm
Winter is here and
Brrrr Wednesday