"centigrade" poems - Hello Poetry

Time: 7:30 pm Temp.: 68F ~~~ overlooking the runways, festooned by accidental heavenly whimsy, or humanistic whimsical inten-sity, all the the planes and trucks are flashing electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced red and green it is not my holiday, but no matter, like every New Yorker this day, I am happily celebrating its double U, unique, unusual "record breaking warmth" yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of early eve~night, the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde, as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees, on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of December, two nought and fifteen traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself, the maddening crowds gone, now all are among the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith, (I mean my face), the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart city bustle and hustle, the languid atmosphere at the gates, (where seldom is heard an encouraging word)# makes me reconsider the true meaning of the au courant phraseology of this day "record breaking warmth" for there is indeed a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite, chests glowing from fireplaces within, contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart, and I am thinking miracle, about all the human warmth on this celebrated evening, holy night indeed, it is breaking records of recorded human fusion, the united commonality of millions warming his and her stories world-over, that your personal poet is warming to record

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Dec 24, 2015

Dec 24, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

Christmas Eve, 2015, LaGuardia Airport, NYC

Time: 7:30 pm Temp.: 68F ~~~ overlooking the runways, festooned by accidental heavenly whimsy, or humanistic whimsical inten-sity, all the the planes and trucks are flashing electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced red and green it is not my holiday, but no matter, like every New Yorker this day, I am happily celebrating its double U, unique, unusual "record breaking warmth" yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of early eve~night, the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde, as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees, on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of December, two nought and fifteen traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself, the maddening crowds gone, now all are among the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith, (I mean my face), the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart city bustle and hustle, the languid atmosphere at the gates, (where seldom is heard an encouraging word)# makes me reconsider the true meaning of the au courant phraseology of this day "record breaking warmth" for there is indeed a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite, chests glowing from fireplaces within, contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart, and I am thinking miracle, about all the human warmth on this celebrated evening, holy night indeed, it is breaking records of recorded human fusion, the united commonality of millions warming his and her stories world-over, that your personal poet is warming to record

51

It is another Sunday in the winter. I am properly tucked in my quilt. I browse through the top headlines of the hour. It says the temperature outside is two-degree centigrade and I quit all ideas of leaving my quilt. Sundays in winter were my favourite days and letting me play on Sundays my cookies for reading properly for six days. Those Sundays, which seem to be distant memories, are some of my best memories. Saturdays were the days of preparation. Arranging bats, ***** and bicycles, at least, four, deciding time and venue for the action, making strategies to sail us ashore- were some important tasks to be completed before. I used to sleep a bit early after setting up a thousand alarms, in case I missed a few, to ensure I woke up in the morning. and then I would make a few calls to wake up the crew. Though while gearing up, I would move as little as possible my Mom would always wake up and then I had to wear all the clothes ‘cause cold air made you susceptible to sick and sick made you feeble. Before I could leave home, I had to close the door as slowly as possible because I didn't want to wake up Dad for he was predictably unpredictable and it was too risky a gamble. We dared not look into uncles 'n aunties' eyes while asking our friends to come to play for their looks could terrorize anyone. We'd then go to the decided play- ground on the shared bicycles without delay. Quarrels to bat at the top, the endless running around to save a few runs, ‘barking’ on fellow players lest catches they drop, heated discussions on run-outs- these memories still give me goose bumps. The celebrations after winning the matches and blaming each other for losing were the customs of the day and mom made ‘chicken’ and a good after- noon nap - a perfect finish for a day to remember. A lifetime has gone by since we last played together and bade each other goodbye but those memories still lurking somewhere inside our brains adhere us together. I usually do not write about myself or my memories, which makes it special. Those days are some of my best memories. And in a cricket crazy country like ours, many definitely have similar memories. © Devashish Kumar

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Mar 10, 2016

Mar 10, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC

devashish-kumar

Those Sundays in Winter

It is another Sunday in the winter. I am properly tucked in my quilt. I browse through the top headlines of the hour. It says the temperature outside is two-degree centigrade and I quit all ideas of leaving my quilt. Sundays in winter were my favourite days and letting me play on Sundays my cookies for reading properly for six days. Those Sundays, which seem to be distant memories, are some of my best memories. Saturdays were the days of preparation. Arranging bats, ***** and bicycles, at least, four, deciding time and venue for the action, making strategies to sail us ashore- were some important tasks to be completed before. I used to sleep a bit early after setting up a thousand alarms, in case I missed a few, to ensure I woke up in the morning. and then I would make a few calls to wake up the crew. Though while gearing up, I would move as little as possible my Mom would always wake up and then I had to wear all the clothes ‘cause cold air made you susceptible to sick and sick made you feeble. Before I could leave home, I had to close the door as slowly as possible because I didn't want to wake up Dad for he was predictably unpredictable and it was too risky a gamble. We dared not look into uncles 'n aunties' eyes while asking our friends to come to play for their looks could terrorize anyone. We'd then go to the decided play- ground on the shared bicycles without delay. Quarrels to bat at the top, the endless running around to save a few runs, ‘barking’ on fellow players lest catches they drop, heated discussions on run-outs- these memories still give me goose bumps. The celebrations after winning the matches and blaming each other for losing were the customs of the day and mom made ‘chicken’ and a good after- noon nap - a perfect finish for a day to remember. A lifetime has gone by since we last played together and bade each other goodbye but those memories still lurking somewhere inside our brains adhere us together. I usually do not write about myself or my memories, which makes it special. Those days are some of my best memories. And in a cricket crazy country like ours, many definitely have similar memories. © Devashish Kumar

52

No More Sweets I've managed to outdo myself, I've made a failing grade, my sweets no longer thinks of me, its a zero centigrade, sure, I knew what I did was chancy, complete collapse was high, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, is the motto I go by, I still hold the view of high regard, in every single thought, the chance was taken, I was mistaken, in what it was I sought, and now my thoughts blow in the wind, they are torn and scattered, any possibility, of this reconcile gone, as if it really mattered, I will return again someday, my head held high, walking busy streets, until then, I'll mourn in peace, knowing no more Sweets. Gomer LePoet...

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Mar 12, 2010

Mar 12, 2010 at 3:48 AM UTC

david-nelson

No More Sweets

No More Sweets I've managed to outdo myself, I've made a failing grade, my sweets no longer thinks of me, its a zero centigrade, sure, I knew what I did was chancy, complete collapse was high, but nothing ventured, nothing gained, is the motto I go by, I still hold the view of high regard, in every single thought, the chance was taken, I was mistaken, in what it was I sought, and now my thoughts blow in the wind, they are torn and scattered, any possibility, of this reconcile gone, as if it really mattered, I will return again someday, my head held high, walking busy streets, until then, I'll mourn in peace, knowing no more Sweets. Gomer LePoet...

22

bring me to the land of green. green trees green seas green me. brand new, cracking out of my shell with the egg tooth that never quite fell. make me green again please. i've been old too long. what is it like to take in the sun in the mornings where the temperature reads centigrade instead of farenheit? green as the day i was born. green as the sea whose salt air burns me. green as the tree i was hatched in. green as the day the temperature read in centigrade.

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Nov 20, 2011

Nov 20, 2011 at 6:04 PM UTC

andressa-leite

green

bring me to the land of green. green trees green seas green me. brand new, cracking out of my shell with the egg tooth that never quite fell. make me green again please. i've been old too long. what is it like to take in the sun in the mornings where the temperature reads centigrade instead of farenheit? green as the day i was born. green as the sea whose salt air burns me. green as the tree i was hatched in. green as the day the temperature read in centigrade.

22

The pain will never go away Like raindrops on my cheeks Flash flood, into a raging river Rushing off my face; Waterfall, A grief-stricken cascade The pain will never go away Weak with ailing vertigo Swaying back and forth Only to be stationary; Rotting, A slow and steady decay The pain will never go away Raging war, of the internal kind Dolefulness claims it's crown Contentment held captive Like the Seventh Crusade The pain will never go away No light insight, Deep in the woods Like the blackness On a new moon night; Cold One degree centigrade The pain will never go away Hollowed, repleted with agony Gray, A bleakness Never truly described; This The obscureness of dolor's grenade It will never go away

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Dec 20, 2017

Dec 20, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC

MoonsLight

Dolor's Grenade

The pain will never go away Like raindrops on my cheeks Flash flood, into a raging river Rushing off my face; Waterfall, A grief-stricken cascade The pain will never go away Weak with ailing vertigo Swaying back and forth Only to be stationary; Rotting, A slow and steady decay The pain will never go away Raging war, of the internal kind Dolefulness claims it's crown Contentment held captive Like the Seventh Crusade The pain will never go away No light insight, Deep in the woods Like the blackness On a new moon night; Cold One degree centigrade The pain will never go away Hollowed, repleted with agony Gray, A bleakness Never truly described; This The obscureness of dolor's grenade It will never go away

26

i remember someone long ago asked me why i liked to walk on the sidewalk while wearing an armani suit in the 93 degree heat. i told him , that sometimes your style is a just your manner of thinking of things and that oftentimes your confusion is just measurement or volume of what really is upsetting your past self in a dimension of satisfactory fortitude. then he nodded and the next day i saw him in the same armani suit in the 93 degree heat telling all the other people the same thing and they started wearing their own armani suits but it stopped being 93 degrees outside and more like a cool 23 centigrade

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May 31, 2017

May 31, 2017 at 1:45 AM UTC

Embers

23 centigrade

i remember someone long ago asked me why i liked to walk on the sidewalk while wearing an armani suit in the 93 degree heat. i told him , that sometimes your style is a just your manner of thinking of things and that oftentimes your confusion is just measurement or volume of what really is upsetting your past self in a dimension of satisfactory fortitude. then he nodded and the next day i saw him in the same armani suit in the 93 degree heat telling all the other people the same thing and they started wearing their own armani suits but it stopped being 93 degrees outside and more like a cool 23 centigrade

34

Twenty-seven Centigrade, better find a little shade dying in the Sun, turning slightly brown, think I'm too well done that's alright with me, it's time for tea. Eighty-two in Fahrenheit head's getting to be so light floating far away, it's what a Summer day was sent to me for. If I close one eye and I pray, I might conjure up another beautiful day. Mercury, I know that you dream of me, the temperatures rising, it's hardly surprising.

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Apr 11, 2015

Apr 11, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Unending days.

Twenty-seven Centigrade, better find a little shade dying in the Sun, turning slightly brown, think I'm too well done that's alright with me, it's time for tea. Eighty-two in Fahrenheit head's getting to be so light floating far away, it's what a Summer day was sent to me for. If I close one eye and I pray, I might conjure up another beautiful day. Mercury, I know that you dream of me, the temperatures rising, it's hardly surprising.

20

wont get a red cent from me (explained by following words you see) No...not until the bitter cold temperature, sans iron maiden (Polar Vortex) grips Southeastern Montgomery County (Perkiomen Valley) Pennsylvania will this foo fighting goo goo doll, beastie boy - hips stir survivalist wannabe contemplate cracking on the heat, no matter mine lips might turn me, and false teeth chatter (even after taking them out of my mouth) as the mercury dips way below degrees (Centigrade, Fahrenheit, or Kelvin) oh Lord will passing thought eclipse penumbra of mine cerebral cortex reckon eyes, the benefits to future cryogenicists voluntarily becoming (a frozen human Guinea Pig) realize zing molecular biochemical behavior practically comes to a stand still, I surmise, which cessation of ordinary senescence buys time until some future age, when scientists long since didst devise strategies to approach immortality, (viz keeping "live" body electric factory completely preserved), and get wise to hidden secret to exorcize death be not proud, thus putting funeral parlors out of business, which astute morticians who espies the future, and how the quaint practice, asper burial plots (oh...so yesteryear), and dramatically dies down quickly giving rise to the burgeoning enterprise re: bajillion dollar franchise, where death cab for cutie offers ***** prize a coffin (grateful dead set) "feign" to eulogize.

0

Oct 23, 2018

Oct 23, 2018 at 1:40 AM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

PECO (Philadelphia Electric Company)...

wont get a red cent from me (explained by following words you see) No...not until the bitter cold temperature, sans iron maiden (Polar Vortex) grips Southeastern Montgomery County (Perkiomen Valley) Pennsylvania will this foo fighting goo goo doll, beastie boy - hips stir survivalist wannabe contemplate cracking on the heat, no matter mine lips might turn me, and false teeth chatter (even after taking them out of my mouth) as the mercury dips way below degrees (Centigrade, Fahrenheit, or Kelvin) oh Lord will passing thought eclipse penumbra of mine cerebral cortex reckon eyes, the benefits to future cryogenicists voluntarily becoming (a frozen human Guinea Pig) realize zing molecular biochemical behavior practically comes to a stand still, I surmise, which cessation of ordinary senescence buys time until some future age, when scientists long since didst devise strategies to approach immortality, (viz keeping "live" body electric factory completely preserved), and get wise to hidden secret to exorcize death be not proud, thus putting funeral parlors out of business, which astute morticians who espies the future, and how the quaint practice, asper burial plots (oh...so yesteryear), and dramatically dies down quickly giving rise to the burgeoning enterprise re: bajillion dollar franchise, where death cab for cutie offers ***** prize a coffin (grateful dead set) "feign" to eulogize.

59