"fahrenheit" poems
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
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
this is how it happens
it's the last day the temperature will be
above thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit
until February
you're not looking at the date
it's just the end of November
the middle of the night in the middle of a road
at the end of November
the hum of this small town hurts your ears
you're stuck in a dream where everything you see
turns into a weapon
this is how it happens
you knocked back sharp, amber liquid
to make this place feel a little more okay
and it only worked halfway
no matter how soft the edges are
you bruise your hips when you
run into them in the dark
you're ******* on your fourth cigarette when
a police officer pulls over and asks
how you're doing today
in the too-bright white of the headlights
the sick taste of Red Stag sticks to
the roof of your mouth
the mouth that you're moving into a smile
the mouth exhaling plumes of smoke at the ground
you're okay
"i'm okay."
you don't tell him what you're really doing
you're really taking all of your
thoughts about stopping your pulse for a walk
you don't tell him you've been
chasing ambulances all night long
please, officer don't leave me alone, you don't say
he tells you to have a good night and drives away
and this is how it happens
the moon smiles at you with every single one
of its tiny, sharp teeth
nobody but your cat finds you in that bathtub
nobody but your cat watches you rise from red water
watches it drip drip drip
from every chasm carved in your left arm
nobody but your cat saw the soft animal of your soul
shiver from the cold that day
it's the first day the temperature
dropped below
thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit inside your chest
Dec 7, 2017
Dec 7, 2017 at 9:48 AM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
With a body temperature
Below 96 degrees Fahrenheit,
Wrapping yourself in bed sheets
As translucent as your skin
Seems so nice but
Every minute you spend
Shivering is more calories burned,
So you try to ignore it
Or maybe you do two hundred more crunches
Because being athletic is healthy,
Right?
You open the pantry only to
deny yourself sustenance because you
are unworthy of
These simple pleasures, and
You almost let yourself
Eat an apple but
When you remember how
Good that girl in
the thinspo you have
Hidden on your phone looks,
You stop.
You flinch when your mother
Calls your skin porcelain,
Because that word means
You failed to restrain yourself
And you have always been taught to
Resist temptation, and
This is the ultimate test.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
200+ Temperature records set worldwide in the last two days;
430+ Temperature records set worldwide in the last seven.
The heat record in Death Valley is 134 degrees Fahrenheit;
it has been as close to that as 124 degrees the past few days.
Believe what you will about the inconvenience of the dire truth;
Statistical Anomalies are becoming the new Norms
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
The core of our earth gets up to 10,800 degrees fahrenheit. This is the type of heat I know I will never experience. A force so unlike anything I have ever felt. Love does not feel like the core of the earth. It is weightless.
Lifting me off my toes. Putting gravity to disgrace. The earth gave up on holding us down. We moved through the clouds together in a slur of elation.
God let us pass by with a turned eye. Knowing that power has nothing to do with love, but giving up. Letting go. Releasing every burden held between those hinged shoulders.
The universe accepted our love. Letting us glide into an ever open space of everything we will know nothing about. Our love will be translated in space as a constellation. A phenomenon we all drop our jaws to watch and will never touch.
Our love is something like that. Unstoppable, but further away than either one of us can reach. Only for the fact that if we could define this love it would not be so special. Our telescope will tell myths about us one day. This love will stand the test of time.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
I asked if there was anyone there remotely my age,
and she said yes. I had just dumped all the money in my
wallet into trying to make my savings not negative.
It didn't work.
I walked over, stepped inside,
and saw teenagers. She told me,
there's a guy outside and he's twenty.
I got ******* duped by a kid.
Her parent's left, unwisely.
I met another half-black person,
a 15 year old girl who had dark skin
and hated everything that resembled
"blackness" or "black culture".
She even called herself white.
Here I was, outside drinking grape soda
out of a hello kitty mug,
discussing radical feminism
to teenage girls-
**and ******* five shots were fired**.
Not even 15 feet away, behind the garage.
[A fake 100 was exchanged, to which distaste was shown,
also this sentence is in parentheses,
and technically doesn't even exist].
So now there are teenage girls crying over gunfire,
hyperventilating, the high school boys jogging-
people in a swarm heading indoors,
and me.
The stupid-fucking-tragic-yet-benal artist,
running in his stupid ******* circle,
trying to decide if he should go inside
with the crazy juvenile people, or see if he can get shot,
because he already lives life awaiting some
stupid ******* narcissistic tragedy
to wipe him off the map.
My opportunities had rushed away already however.
I walked inside and sat on the couch hugging
one of those puffy round pillows and laughing
maniacally. It was intense after all.
Kid Duper tried to relate to me.
I know she didn't get it.
No one ever really ******* gets it.
Understood, maybe? No one understands.
I left shortly after with a copy of Fahrenheit 451.
I was told I could borrow it.
May 24, 2014
May 24, 2014 at 4:02 AM UTC
Heat
Calcification
Incalescence
Swelter
Suffocation
Arctic circle above 32 degrees Fahrenheit in December
Leaking lakes of Methane gas in Siberia
Scientific data to price
Changing 2 degrees
has caused mass extinction
Melting glaciers
Oceans 7 centimeters higher
Drought in the Amazon
Changes in migration
Disruption in pollination
Heatwaves:
high death tolls
Decreased plant growth
Zika in Florida
Ignorance from the government
Refusal of proof
Nonbelievers in the White House
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Peppermint tea
it reminds you of me
so remember to drink it slowly
Ill drink a cup or two
'cause it reminds me of you
as it worms me up
Rising high
my fahrenheit
you keep me warm
all through the night....My Peppermint Tea
It leaves that cool after taste
kinda like it snowing when i left that day
dropping fast on the thermostat
left on a plane
unaware of when i'd be back...My Peppermint Tea
We had ourselves a tea
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
Temples throb.
Ears burn red hot.
Myriad thoughts
Collide, coalesce and split.
Coalesce again.
A dark sand storm of doubts
Fear and panic brew
In the charred barrens.
Hands to my face.
Distant melancholy themes.
Overwhelmed.
Violent conceptions
Need release.
Red flows
Through graphite
At Fahrenheit 4-5-1.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
The scientist-psychiatrist
the psychologic sociologist
has proved with his statistics
and his data-riddled literates
that nothing will be crippled
if they sweep the city clean
if they slay not only Tybalt
but the whole Verona scene
so they ****** it from our hands
from our brains and those to come
as the Ravens sear across the lands
and bindings come undone
They watch the pages flitter by
and cackle with delight
as the populace of fiction
by their hands is ripped alight
The licking of the laces
by the hungry tongues of flame
will ravage on the characters
you've come to know by name
Montag barrels forth and finds
the Fahrenheit has risen
Hester screams and claws her mind
out of this hellish prison
and Dorian will clamber up
to sit atop the pile
and weep for Pictures yet to sup
upon his looks and guile
And you'll watch as they obliterate
the city from within
de-storying our Paradise
so it won't be Lost again.
But I, Calpurnia? I warned you
that the fiery clouds would rain
I told you all, fictitious youth,
but you called me insane.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:52 PM UTC
Eyes seeking , calling , waiting , dreaming ,
Passion healing affair , still craving for her love .
Spark out illusion , she tangible in the cerulean eyes ,
Arms wide open , welcoming her invitation ...
Mesmerizing , no hesitation , deep affection ,
Silently fell for her .
Skin sliding over skin , lips melting into one...
Bodies shaking, growing fahrenheit .
Whispering hertz...moaning tune, screaming ,
Curving smile , sweaty look ,
Squeezing every optimum of pure love .
Heart rending addiction , passing through veins ,
Sweet seduction , pleasure with pain .
Dimples , teasing ,
Deer eyelids , pausing sight ,
Warm breathing , firing up passion ,
Heart beats , closing in ,
Love trinity in souls unity.
Flying high , dare to fall ,
Gave her wings , playing with rainbow , cloud no 9 ,
Her face is the sky and the moon smile ,
Galaxy forming the way we love ,
Is it a dream or dreams come reality?
It's a dream leading destiny, collation of two souls ..
Thinking , needing , bleeding , passion healing affair ,
still craving for her love ......
by
MAHi - Galaxy
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 7:36 PM UTC
'The good writers touch life often
The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her
The bad ones **** her and leave her for the flies'
-Ray Bradbury
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 9:56 AM UTC
books drawn
fluttering
like moths to fires
flames promising light
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
it's cold out there
it goes on and on and on and
if you go fast,
if you go really fast
if you look in the right direction
you might find what you're looking for.
Open the pod bay doors HAL
and HAL while your at it
why don't you cut me another line,
as long and fat as your middle finger
and haha not YOUR middle finger HAL
of course not, since you don't got one,
but make it big HAL, make it big.
it's cold out there,
but in here Dave,
in here with three hibernating astronauts,
the temperature is kept at a nice seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit,
the humidity matches that of a small town in Illinios and you'll make it there Dave,
to Jupiter, where the message went, where our hopes went,
you'll make it,
keep an eye out for me Dave,
up in space.
keep an extra space helmet handy Dave,
I think you'd find that rather difficult without one.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 2:10 AM UTC
I fell into the arms of the night
Hugging the shadow of her silhouette
She pulled me in
And swallowed my eyes
Her fingernails
Traced my lips
As she took a bite
And I caressed her darkness
Without the need for light
Over curves and starkness
My hands were sight
Then she stood tall in the sky
Thick and wide
And as she laid over my body
She cloaked our delight
We played in sweat and Fahrenheit
And as she pitched black
She arched her back and began midnight
A few more hours
The sun came bright
Then she disappeared
And spit out my eyes
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 3:52 PM UTC
Sun feigns heat
in a clear slate of blue above;
I gaze upon pale, brown hills and fields
through the smoke of my breath
wishing it would at least snow.
There was talk of cow-tipping
when I was in fifth grade,
but cows would've broken their necks.
Ground covered in frozen grass
is no comfort for fallen cows at 15 Fahrenheit.
Our small lake
transformed into a debating ground for skaters and hockey players,
each vying for control over the weekend's
primary source of entertainment.
(The dreadful alternative: afternoons shopping with parents.)
When it finally snowed, a wonderland was made,
a knee-high, get-out-of-school-free card.
We charted expeditions in corn fields, wooded creeks
and stone-colored barns that were beguiling in the white
of Chadds Ford pastures like untended English castles.
Woods like a Pollack of burnt sienna and white,
their only sound is weight of snow bearing down on limb.
Beyond those whispers, just a roaring silence
when I'm still as ice fingers
trying to touch the ground from the roof.
The cats of Baldwin's Book Barn nap easily within,
as we dig for a pearl amongst makeshift shelves
full of hard-bound reads for snow-bound youth.
These felines, grown, need not the words,
but the pages themselves for fine beds.
A blue-white glow from outside casts a cold light,
illuminating prints of Helga and Christina's World,
a reminder to all who live down the road.
On such a winter day, I didn't care to remember
that soon there would be Spring kittens in the books,
and a lake full of children's swimsuits.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
those of us in the middle muddle,
do not know from sides, boundary lines,
drawn by others, right-sided, left-leaning,
mean nothing to us, who seek something solid
upon to rest, when the clarity others profess,
more than evades us, even escapes us, and
the muddles of life seem to require simplest,
middling answers that are unacceptably refused
by grail seekers whose cause for cause, means
cause to cost others regardless, for regard for
the middle is disdained, by two-sided posts,
the know nothings, and the know betters
irony of irony, the rigidity of imposition makes
me more adrift, more aimless, and the task of
meandering through seems almost holy, for the
obstacles of society, requirements of modern life,
are so damning, wild expectations superimposed,
truths not just hard to find, almost indiscernible,
so I lay my pen down hard, awaiting for the
whatever-while, for to return, to go walking with
only the simplest grids to guide, meanderings in
general directions, ahead, always ahead, keep moving,
keep touching and when optimism returns,
I shall be relieved
once more,
I shall be released
once again,
good words will be caught,
released, returned back
into the atmosphere so
they will grow in size by
the very act of sharing
undated
————————————————-
*Everyone must leave something behind
when he dies, my grandfather said.
A child or a book or a painting or a house or
a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.
It doesn't matter what you do, he said,* so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime. ~Ray Bradbury
(Book: Fahrenheit 451)
Jul 17, 2023
Jul 17, 2023 at 6:14 AM UTC
The Sun & Earth
23.5 tilted degrees
North Pole & South Pole
Equator
Tropic of Cancer
Tropic of Capricorn
and Meridians
North/South/East/West
Hemispheres
Equinoxes
Solstices
Four seasons
Astronomical phenomena
Today at where I live——
On northern hemisphere
The Garden of Eden
A local Home Depot
The Sun will directly hit
The Tropic of Capricorn
giving us the longest night
and abandoning the North Pole
All it has remembered
is the pole on the other end
Where penguins, whale seals,
and albatrosses will bathe
whole day in full brightness
at -15 degrees Fahrenheit
What a chilling exhilaration!
Could I run away from
this so called winter solstice
this unbearable darkness
this senselessness of
obscurity and wickedness
Could I go to the South Pole
and dance with the penguins?
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
Knead your problems into dough
none of them can survive
at 375 degrees Fahrenheit
When you wake up late
add one chocolate chip
for every minute of morning you missed
take out one chocolate chip
for every time you are unkind
A teaspoon of sugar
for every crumb
that he left on your eggshell heart
a tablespoon of salt
for each time you’ve missed the way
his callused hands felt on your voice box
Drift away on clouds of flour
float down rivers of vanilla extract
a dozen cookies for every time you’ve flinched
at the sound of your own breath
On your knees
burn your throat
watch the cookies resurrect
flush to decompose.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:47 PM UTC
Who decides the sun is yellow
The sky is blue
Green is envy, red is passion
Who's to say my cat is not a lioness, ferocious and proud, but who's to say a lioness is dangerous?
I determine my own reality
Where white is the color of evil, and black is not worn after Labor Day
The Eiffel Tower is my bathtub,
And my bathtub?
The Taj Mahal
I can touch my toes to the moon, swish my fingers in the infinite storm of Jupiter
The River Styx is my backyard, and I live in the center of the sun's hottest point, where no temperature is recorded other than 0 degrees Fahrenheit
How do we name the animals?
Language of origin please, root word, Greek, Latin, Romance languages,
Puke
Why can't my fish be called a shmeeeffflaarnaa?
It's much more interesting than 'neon tetra'
And as for the dog, I'd much rather have three daphnaria's running around my house
You should come live with me,
it's much more fun here
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
All is still.
No more “Chase” or “Eggheads” from Tuesday.
Everything is shutting down.
The Winter Break is soon upon us.
Our “Festive Season” it is called.
Even Winter is having a rest this year.
Sixty Fahrenheit outside now.
I feel like hibernating ‘til the Spring.
Yet some brave blossoms think the Winter over
Already!
Foolhardy flowers indeed.
Our services are stumbling to a stop
Like a long Bank Holiday.
Sports facilities are shutting their doors.
Cafes shutting soon.
If only this stillness could pervade
Those warring factions
Throughout the world,
All through the year.
Peace to All Men
We say.
Amen to That.
Paul Butters
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:40 AM UTC
Putting many miles in the rear view mirror
Off I left working on making my life all the more clearer.
Dragging left hand on the wall again,
This time it’s all the more complex.
In a matter of minutes I’ll be doing toe tag checks.
Fresh cadaver held me up
Out there eyes came and into a sterile cup.
Given visions to the blind
How I wish they were my favorite aunts kind.
Needle through the glass thirty eight degrees Fahrenheit
Inside you all lay and with no light.
The door was pulled losing its vacuum.
Breaking this seal was better than on a bottle of
Crown Royal Cask number sixteen!
A frozen slumber party inside yes I did see.
All but one with my two hands it took to count all of thee.
Capacity of friends allowed inside, a maximum of only fifteen!
Sudden Blast of cold air turned all my body hair into needles
Like the quills on a porcupine or a cactus in the desert.
Moving the bodies all around,
I’m looking for number one.
I trapped myself in, now look what I done.
Found the man I came looking for,
Now I have to figure out, how to get him to the door.
In a split second I shattered the games all time high score.
(CARSr.5-31-12)
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 1:22 PM UTC
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary….
When books are replaced with Kindles and Nooks,
and content resides on the cloud.
It is relatively easy to delete certain works
at the whim of the haughty and proud.
If libraries falter, wither and die
The poor will lose access to the printed word.
Ten percent of the market will quickly dry up
and the price of a book gets absurd.
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.
The pleasure we had in turning each page
as our minds raced ahead to the end.
Short battery life never hindered our quest
when **** Jane and Spot were our friends.
A storm on the Sun bringing ionized rays
and digital files are undone.
and force us to search yellow crumbling pages
for rumors of Kipling and Donne.
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.
Was Bradbury right? Should we all memorize
the words born of our favorite pen?
Imagine reciting Shakespeare’s Hamlet by heart
so that silence won’t win in the end.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 7:49 AM UTC
Walls were pressed and hammered
Therapy for workers, curing pangs of comforts
They sat between fleshy webs of knuckles
On lunch break they would pluck pouts of moldy fruit
If only she could hear summer of 98’
Glimmering puddles and sinkable reasons
She could test her strength with Goldfish and a drippy, chocolate cupcake
Matching deserts of skin covering joints young enough to bend
They spat against another, sweating. Tapping
Smoother than honeymooners in a convention center
Frigid or uncontrollable, no one could tell
The breezeway connected teeth, the left chipped in the corner from
A muddy softball game. Their team won 7-2.
Wide enough to squeeze uncooked macaroni shells between
Became the dusky neighborhood game.
Transitioning humans, males most likely, whispered fears between that gap.
He was different. He waited in outside the doors, near the trash bins
With grumpy janitors, muttering, “fuggin’ kids” and things like that.
She loved how ugly they were then.
Her thoughts trailed him, what was left of him, as he paced
Searching for the mug he left there, no
There, holding wet tissue, no
Soggy cupcake liner
Cupcake, shortcake, cake, cake liner
Rainbow or musty brown from 346 degrees Fahrenheit
Baking Therapy Class held in her kitchen
Maybe because she could pound at the dough and it would never fight back
She neglects the finale of rumbling coffee exhale since she knows
He’d never come back. Not here or any party she threw.
But on another hard drive she saved photos of September 20th.
She’ll flip mindlessly through a Cosmopolitan, until she can forget his name
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC