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Mike Bergeron Sep 2012
There was a house fire on my street last night …well… not exactly my street, but on a little, sketchy, dead-end strip of asphalt, sidewalks, weeds, and garbage that juts into my block two houses down. It was on that street. Rosewood Court, population: 12, adjusted population: 11, characterized by anonymity and boarded windows, peppered with the swift movements of fat street rats. I’ve never been that close to a real, high-energy, make-sure-to-spray-down-your-roof-with-a-hose-so-it-doesn’t-catch­ fire before. It was the least of my expectations for the evening, though I didn’t expect a crate of Peruvian bananas to fall off a cargo plane either, punching through the ceiling, littering the parking lot with damaged fruit and shingles, tearing paintings and shelves and studs from the third floor walls, and crashing into our kitchen, shattering dishes and cabinets and appliances. Since that never happened, and since neither the former nor the latter situation even crossed my mind, I’ll stick with “least of my expectations,” and bundle up with it inside that inadequate phrase whatever else may have happened that I wouldn’t have expected.



I had been reading in my living room, absently petting the long calico fur of my roommate’s cat Dory. She’s in heat, and does her best to make sure everyone knows it, parading around, *** in the air, an opera of low trilling and loud meows and deep purring. As a consequence of a steady tide of feline hormones, she’s been excessively good humored, showering me with affection, instead of her usual indifference, punctuated by occasional, self-serving shin rubs when she’s hungry. I saw the lights before I heard the trucks or the shouts of firemen or the panicked wail of sirens, spitting their warning into the night in A or A minor, but probably neither, I’m no musician. Besides, Congratulations was playing loud, flowing through the speakers in the corners of the room, connected to the record player via the receiver with the broken volume control, travelling as excited electrons down stretches of wire that are, realistically, too short, and always pull out. The song was filling the space between the speakers and the space between my ears with musings on Brian Eno, so the auditory signal that should have informed me of the trouble that was afoot was blocked out. I saw the lights, the alternating reds and whites that filled my living room, drawing shifting patterns on my walls, ceiling, floor, furniture, and shelves of books, dragging me towards the door leading outside, through the cluttered bike room, past the sleeping, black lump of oblivious fur that is usually my boisterous male kitten, and out into the bedlam I  had previously been ignorant to. I could see the smoke, it was white then gray then white, all the while lending an acrid taste to the air, but I couldn’t see where it was issuing from. The wind was blowing the smoke toward my apartment, away from Empire Mills. I tried to count the firetrucks, but there were so many. I counted six on Wilmarth Ave, one of which was the awkward-looking, heavy-duty special hazards truck. In my part of the city, the post-industrial third-wave ***** river valley, you never know if the grease fire that started with homefries in a frying pan in an old woman’s kitchen will escalate into a full-blown mill fire, the century-old wood floors so saturated with oil and kerosene and ****** and manufacturing chemicals and ghosts and god knows what other flammable **** that it lights up like a fifth of July leftover sparkler, burning and melting the hand of the community that fed it for so many decades, leaving scars that are displayed on the local news for a week and are forgotten in a few years’ time.



The night was windy, and the day had been dry, so precautions were abundant, and I counted two more trucks on Fones Ave. One had the biggest ladder I’ve ever seen. It was parked on the corner of Fones and Wilmarth, directly across from the entrance into the forgotten dead-end where the forgotten house was burning, and the ladder was lifting into the air. By now my two roommates had come outside too, to stand on our rickety, wooden staircase, and Jeff said he could see flames in the windows of one of the three abandoned houses on Rosewood, through the third floor holes where windows once were, where boards of plywood were deemed unnecessary.



“Ay! Daddy!”



My neighbor John called up to us. He serves as the eyes and ears and certainly the mouth of our block, always in everyone’s business, without being too intrusive, always aware of what’s going down and who’s involved. He proceeded to tell us the lowdown on the blaze as far as he knew it, that there were two more firetrucks and an ambulance down Rosewood, that the front and back doors to the house were blocked by something from inside, that those somethings were very heavy, that someone was screaming inside, that the fire was growing.



Val had gone inside to get his jacket, because despite the floodlights from the trucks imitating sunlight, the wind and the low temperature and the thought of a person burning alive made the night chilly. Val thought we should go around the block, to see if we could get a better view, to satisfy our congenital need to witness disaster, to see the passenger car flip over the Jersey barrier, to watch the videos of Jihadist beheadings, to stand in line to look at painted corpses in velvet, underlit parlors, and sit in silence while their family members cry. We walked down the stairs, into full floodlight, and there were first responders and police and fully equipped firefighters moving in all directions. We watched two firemen attempting to open an old, rusty fire hydrant, and it could’ve been inexperience, the stress of the situation, the condition of the hydrant, or just poor luck, but rather than opening as it was supposed to the hydrant burst open, sending the cap flying into the side of a firetruck, the water crashing into the younger of the two men’s face and torso, knocking him back on his ***. While he coughed out surprised air and water and a flood of expletives, his partner got the situation under control and got the hose attached. We turned and walked away from the fire, and as we approached the turn we’d take to cut through the rundown parking lot that would bring us to the other side of the block, two firemen hurried past, one leading the other, carrying between them a stretcher full of machines for monitoring and a shitload of wires and tubing. It was the stiff board-like kind, with handles on each end, the kind of stretcher you might expect to see circus clowns carry out, when it’s time to save their fallen, pie-faced cohort. I wondered why they were using this archaic form of patient transportation, and not one of the padded, electrical ones on wheels. We pushed past the crowd that had begun forming, walked past the Laundromat, the 7Eleven, the carwash, and took a left onto the street on the other side of the parking lot, parallel to Wilmarth. There were several older men standing on the sidewalk, facing the fire, hands either in pockets or bringing a cigarette to and from a frowning mouth. They were standing in the ideal place to witness the action, with an unobstructed view of the top two floors of the burning house, its upper windows glowing orange with internal light and vomiting putrid smoke.  We could taste the burning wires, the rugs, the insulation, the asbestos, the black mold, the trash, and the smell was so strong I had to cover my mouth with my shirt, though it provided little relief. We said hello, they grunted the same, and we all stood, watching, thinking about what we were seeing, not wanting to see what we were thinking.

Two firefighters were on the roof by this point, they were yelling to each other and to the others on the ground, but we couldn’t hear what they were saying because of the sirens from all the emergency vehicles that were arriving.  It seemed to me they sent every firetruck in the city, as well as more than a dozen police cars and a slew of ambulances, all of them arriving from every direction. I guess they expected the fire to get really out of hand, but we could already see the orange glow withdrawing into the dark of the house, steam and smoke rippling out of the stretched, wooden mouths of the rotted window frames. In a gruff, habitual smoker’s voice, we heard

                                      “Chopper called the fire depahtment

We was over at the vet’s home

                He says he saw flames in the windas

                                                                                                                                                We all thought he was shittin’ us

We couldn’t see nothin’.”

A man between fifty-five to sixty-five years old was speaking, no hair on his shiny, tanned head, old tattoos etched in bluish gray on his hands, arms, and neck, menthol smoke rising from between timeworn fingers. He brought the cigarette to his lips, drew a hearty chest full of smoke, and as he let it out he repeated

                                                “Yea, chopper called em’

Says he saw flames.”

The men on the roof were just silhouettes, backlit by the dazzling brightness of the lights on the other side.  The figure to the left of the roof pulled something large up into view, and we knew instantly by the cord pull and the sound that it was a chainsaw. He began cutting directly into the roof. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, wondered if he was scared of falling into the fire, assumed he probably was, but had at least done this before, tried to figure out if he was doing it to gain entry or release pressure or whatever. The man to the right was hacking away at the roof with an axe. It was surreal to watch, to see two men transformed from public servants into fingers of destruction, the pinkie and ring finger fighting the powerful thumb of the controlled chemical reaction eating the air below them, to watch the dark figures shrouded in ethereal light and smoke and sawdust and what must’ve been unbearable heat from below, to be viewing everything with my own home, my belongings, still visible, to know it could easily have gone up in flames as well.

I should’ve brought my jacket. I remember complaining about it, about how the wind was passing through my skin like a window screen, chilling my blood, in sharp contrast to the heat that was morphing and rippling the air above the house as it disappeared as smoke and gas up into the atmosphere from the inside out.

Ten minutes later, or maybe five, or maybe one, the men on the roof were still working diligently cutting and chopping, but we could no longer see any signs of flames, and there were figures moving around in the house, visible in the windows of the upper floors, despite the smoke. Figuring the action must be reaching its end, we decided to walk back to our apartment. We saw Ken’s brown pickup truck parked next to the Laundromat, unable to reach our parking lot due to all the emergency vehicles and people clogging our street. We came around the corner and saw the other two members of the Infamous Summers standing next to our building with the rest of the crowd that had gathered. Dosin told us the fire was out, and that they had pulled someone from inside the gutted house, but no ambulance had left yet, and his normally smiling face was flat and somber, and the beaten guitar case slung over his shoulder, and his messed up hair, and the red in his cheeks from the cold air, and the way he was moving rocks around with the toe of his shoe made him look like a lost child, chasing a dream far from home but finding a nightmare in its place, instead of the professional who never loses his cool or his direction.

The crowd all began talking at once, so I turned around, towards the dead end and the group of firefighters and EMTs that were emerging. Their faces were stoic, not a single expression on all but one of those faces, a young EMT, probably a Basic, or a Cardiac, or neither, but no older than twenty, who was silently weeping, the tears cutting tracks through the soot on his cheeks, his eyes empty of emotion, his lips drawn tight and still. Four of them were each holding a corner of the maroon stretcher that took two to carry when I first saw it, full of equipment. They did not rush, they did not appear to be tending to a person barely holding onto life, they were just carrying the weight. As they got close gasps and cries of horror or disgust or both issued from the crowd, some turned away, some expressions didn’t change, some eyes closed and others stayed fixed on what they came to see. One woman vomited, right there on the sidewalk, splashing the shoes of those near her with the partially digested remains of her EBT dinner. I felt my own stomach start to turn, but I didn’t look away. I couldn’t.

                                                                                It was like I was seven again,

                                in the alleyway running along the side of the junior high school I lived near and would eventually attend,

looking in silent horror at what three eighth graders from my neighborhood were doing.

It was about eight in the evening of a rainy,

late summer day,

and I was walking home with my older brother,

cutting through the alley like we always did.

The three older boys were standing over a small dog,

a terrier of some sort.

They had duct taped its mouth shut and its legs together,

but we could still hear its terrified whines through its clenched teeth.

One of the boys had cut off the dog’s tail.

He had it in one hand,

and was still holding the pocket knife in the other.

None of them were smiling,

or talking,

nor did they take notice of Andrew and I.

There was a garden bag standing up next to them that looked pretty full,

and there was a small pile of leaves on the ground next to it.

In slow motion I watched,

horrified,

as one of the boys,

Brian Jones-Hartlett,

picked up the shaking animal,

put it in the bag,

covered it with the leaves from the ground,

and with wide,

shining eyes,

set the bag

on fire

with a long-necked

candle

lighter.

It was too much for me then. I couldn’t control my nausea. I threw up and sat down while my head swam.

I couldn’t understand. I forgot my brother and the fact that he was older, that he should stop this,

Stop them,

There’s a dog in there,

You’re older, I’m sick,

Why can’t I stop them?

It was like
Staff Sgt. Joseph D'Augustine
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blessed
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
April 4, 2012

1.

in a far off province of
God forsaken Helmand,
our dear son Joey
met his untimely end

an explosive crack
a most terrible sound
felled a beloved Jersey son
to the cold cruel ground

working the live wires
of a well placed IED
a deathly burst killed him
it was awful to see  

Staff Sgt. Joseph D’Augustine
in solemn duty fell
fellow brothers in arms
will forever reverently tell

of courage and character
of a dear fallen friend
and how the valiant warrior
met with death at his end

for he was always faithful
to his beloved corps
comrades couldn't ask
a valiant marine for more


2.

details of his death
are not the real story
selflessness and bravery
are but part of his glory

is it brash to
question why he fell?
in a useless bitter war
an embroiled senseless hell

a generation mustered
to fight in the war on terror
serving four tours of duty
in a lost decade of errors

two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq
could a nation ask a man for more?
for he was always faithful to the call
upholding pledges he hath sworn

3.

the burden of war
to a  few confined
it rarely crosses
an American’s mind

incessant war machine
drones on apace
the horror of conflict
so cleverly displaced

with afternoon baseball
and super bowl parties
big disco paychecks
and other selfish priorities

pay hollow tribute
to dear weary troops
when valor is mentioned
we gather in groups

we’ll raise the flag
sing stirring anthems
than its back to the party
pay it no more attention

self styled patriots
wave handfuls of flags
but ask them to contribute
the zeal soon lags

its left to the few
to shoulder burdens of many
fairness is lost
its a democratic calamity

four tours in a decade
an inhumane task
burdens require sharing
its only fair to ask

Joey was always faithful
to the task at hand
willing to step forward
to serve his homeland


4.

in the wake of 9/11
a nation deeply shaken
young patriots stirred
liberty’s call not forsaken

a call to serve answered
to quell the rise of terror
a clear clarion alarm
marks the nature of the era

Joey boldly came forward
to train and learn
the art of warriors
his bright patriotism burned

deployed to Afghanistan
to capture Osama
routing the Taliban
without much problem

but a pacified Afghan
not enough for Bush
he invaded Iraq
another military push

we rolled into Baghdad
adorned with victors garlands
Saddam’s statue toppled
our troops were honored

deposing a dictators
soon turned to occupation
a ****** mission transformed
to build the Iraqi and Afghan nations

once honored liberators
now a conquering force
bestriding broken nations
on a civil war course

military industrialists
stood to profit most
sweet protracted conflict
record earnings to boast

lives bartered for lucre
a region held hostage
the conflict deepened
hostilities hardened

America dipped into
a great recession
the war machine
bled money and
kept on ticking

scooping up contracts
rewarding investors
the dividends of war
heaven sent treasure

continuation of hostilities
preys on a nation's youth
as casualties mount
ill portents forsoothed

a fraction of citizens
bare heartaches of war
gulping measures of despair
to guard a nations door

a nation always faithful
to the holy pursuit of profit
a highest citizens calling
put money into your pocket


5.

our beloved Jersey son
gave a full measure of devotion
in dress blues they shipped him
back across the ocean

on the Dover tarmac
they received his remains
for a last ride northward
to his hometown terrain

repatriated body
bereft of soul saluted
solemn escort knelt
hearts trembled, tears muted

a hearse for a gallant man
flanked by state troop cruisers
to escort the funeral train
assure an honored movement

one last trip up
old thunder road
the storied highway
Joey often trod

the last detail legged up 17
reverent firefighters saluted  
from overpasses
to honor  the woeful scene

as the motorcade passed
the Garden State Malls
frenzied consumers
failed to notice at all

busy window shoppers
didn't to turn an eye
as Joey rolled home
to the sweet by and by

vets interred at the
Old Paramus Church
gently stirred in their graves
reasons for war they search

Channel 12 Chopper
circled its eye in the sky
televised the sad parade
captured many teary eyes

the early spring blooms
colorful petals displayed
maples and forsythias
a royal carpet laid

spring remains always faithful
as the new season turns
offer sunshine and glory
as our sinking hearts burn

6.

motorcycle escort
northbound lane clear
rolling homeward
Waldwick was near

leaves exploding
green shoots budding
****** white maple blooms
natures accolades stunning

the oaks yet bare
just waking from slumber
winters death passing
a sad day put asunder

the motorcade passed
Joey’s home on Prospect Ave
few  envision lifes endings
this woefully sad

red chevy pickup idles
in hoop crowned driveway
never to drain jumpers again
departed children can’t play

the eye in the sky
framed neighbors in mourning
welcoming back a fallen hero
unsettled emotions dawning

neighbors waved Old Glory
from painted stoops and curbs
unsure how this tragedy
visits this blessed suburb

green grass of home
always flush with spirit
tears welled in the eyes
most difficult to bear it

last cruise of the town
sad neighbors stand witness
paying final due respects
and ponder from a distance

what purpose is served
by this man’s passing?
the dead cannot speak
rationale is for the living

the terrible herse
death circles our town
moves through our day
hope of spring drowned

murderer of sunshine
killer of young flowers
budding trees breaking
our hearts an ashen pallor

we remember the beauty
of Joey’s stout face
as it looked on your finest day
exuding pure honor and grace

old vets gather
donning caps and pins
boasting semper fi jackets
jutting tear dripping chins

shaking hands, giving hugs
bearing tattered banners
the hearse ambles onward
we head home in solemn manner

good folks are always faithful
where beloved ones grew
the death of our children
we sadly cannot undo


7.

the bells of St. Lukes
called out from the sky
platoons of limping vets
marched in with pride

pomp and circumstance
requisite dress blues
family, friends, townsfolk
overflowed the pews

doleful bells resound
tolling a mournful reckon
the cost of war mounts
a family’s loss beckons

the casualties of war
falls upon a nation's youth
a seasons page not  turned
a flowing wound not soothed

the wistful cornet calling
floats on the fluted air
the bereaved ***** gently sounds
a congregations somber despair

an unsettling dirge
the parish grows uneasy
nationalist bravado wanes
in the forlorn sanctuary

both church and flag
draped in colors of war
mock stain glass windows
communicants adore

is it a betrayal of the flag
to offer enemies
psalms of reconciliation?
where does true loyalty lay
with God or a warring nation?

afterall this is a sanctuary
where peace and harmony reigns
are we not called to beat swords
into ploughshares as the highest
calling of our Lord?

we are always faithful
to the pathways to war
when the practice of peace
is what we should adore

8.

coughing and whispers
incessant low murmur
a baby cries out
we sit and remember

the crucifers process
in solemnity to greet
subtle ***** notes salute
a coffin draped in Old Glory sheets

the beloved child welcomed
to his eternal repose
priests splash holy water
within the sacred dome

an amazing grace revealed
lifted by marine pallbearers
dearly departed body presented
gently placed at the altar

a grief struck sister
lovingly eulogizes
recalls tonka trucks,
GI Joe’s and cool transformers

a punch in the nose
an approaching wedding
beckoning Eastertide
vacation plans left begging

my second grade class sent
Christmas cookies and cards
to dear Joey and warrior friends
he said it warmed stark winter hearts

he was raised in this church
taught trust and reconciliation
the comfort of the Lords peace
may it surely go with him

for he was always faithful
to sisters, family and faith
his resurrection service
imbues sacredness
to this space

9.

sharp in dress blues
Eddie T USMC Gunny
big 50 caliber smile
offers his eulogy

Bada Bing Jersey Humvee
we called him Joey Calzones
good mood, loved sausages
he tickled the funny bone

always willing to sacrifice
loved the Patriots Tom Brady
a women dominated household
gave him a way with the ladies

his calling explosive ordinances
he said he was livin the dream
March 6th last time we met
knocking frost off cold ones
man whatta scream

a gallant marine,
beloved brother,
a sure friend
he was always faithful
I’m deeply wounded
by his untimely end


10.

the gospel read
the homily offered
Ecclesiastes wisdom
a time for everything
proffered

God never turns
an eye from the beloved
though seasons change
we are not forsaken
never unloved

as loss arrives
surely grief grows
turn away not
wisdom knows

in resignation
love lay dead
diligent intention
banishes dread

our rekindled hope
we rend and sow
our beloved Joey
knew this was so

our favorite son’s
example taught us
now rises on eagle’s wings
to claim his divine justice

Jesus faithfully tramped
the path to an awful death
Joey too fought the good fight
a warrior now gratefully at rest

The Lord holds him close
to the ***** of sure love
a cantors beatific voice incants
Joey’s spirit that forever enchants

The Lord is always faithful
to the bereaved and  beloved
no one ever forsaken
all unconditionally loved

11.

the Holy Eucharistic cup
affirms everlasting giving
tasted to nourish evermore
a libation for the living

singing the Beatitudes
praising peace makers
mercy filled voice and song  
pallbearers lift Joey’s coffin

off to seek his final peace
an earthly occupation ended
he’ll suffer worldly hate no more
down the aisle his coffin wended

the family closely followed
a mother haltingly sobbing
faithful marines came forth
to steady her wobbling

there is no sudden waking
from this terrible dream
the pungent incense rose
to the chapels sacred beams

the stained glass murals depict
the passion of Jesus’s story
illuming a consuming sorrow
in all its grace filled glory

the ***** of death slinks on again
we search for consolation
the recompense of honor blest
leaves a hollow heart wanting
no answers offered to quell the dark
of these terrible life’s moments
only the desperate need to hold onto
beleaguered treasure that sustains us

for we are always faithful
to the things we know
always faithful to the
things we refuse to let go

12.

the color guard and funeral detail
assembled in front of St. Luke’s
the cemetery right next door
the procession a short troop

the living will stumble through
the darkness of separation
seeking elusive answers
of poignant uncertainty;
all gave some, Joey gave all
nothing more required for his
journey through eternity

Joey will always be with us
his stories forever retold
as long as the machinery of
great nations engage
the gears of wasteful war

Joey’s spirit lives
in a peoples desire
for freedom, only if
our hope of peace
is greater than the
need for conflict

Joey’s lifes work
is sure to bear fruit
if those remaining
fight the good fight
by taking up the
task to protect and
expand the values
of liberty we
hold most dear

like our good
friend Jesus
Joey wears a crown
bejeweled with
a ring of thorns
hoisted on a
terrible cross
the sweet
incense of you
meets our nose
we inhale your
earthly presence
beholding beautifully
adorned crucifix,
a reminder of
unjust persecution
and a perfect
resurrection
yet this wretched
coffin remains

pledging allegiance
we rationalize our
stories, articulating
our small parts
in  heroic sagas,
reciting myths of
ourselves, recording
the grim history of
a young marine
surrounded by
a smart color guard,
feasting on todays
eucharist, this
days sweet taste
of  the daily bread
of human sorrow

The priest finishes
his graveside
commendation
of Joey D

Taps conclude
a wind rises
crows take flight
winging over
a stand of budding
Sugar Maples
exploding in white
blooms, reveling
in the glorious
sunshine of this
magnificent day

St. Luke’s stairway to
God Country and Home
smiling portrait of you
forever young

we surround your grave
to bless the earth
you've returned home
to your place of birth

our flowing pride
and salty tears bless
the anointed ground
that you loved best

a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blest
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest

for he was always faithful
to the blessed land
forever at peace
in the soils sure hands

Charles Ives
The Unanswered Question

Oakland
11/10/13
jbm
Crucifix Feb 2015
Why are my heroes less real than yours? I'm so **** sick of that stupid cliche "cops and soldiers, and firefighters up up and away." None of them were there for me in any way.
I don't give a crap if you won't follow or if I never see a "like" or a "favorite" again.
God almighty couldn't stop my pen.
So why are my heroes less real then yours?
Isn't god just as real as mine?
So shut the hell up and get back in line.
you know who was there the day I couldn't stand.
Not your heroes playing wars in the sand.
Not your cops, who were off killing kids.
No fire here, turn a deaf ear.
The ones who were there for me on that day. Was a hero in red with horns on his head. A man all in black who dressed like a bat. A solider that stood for what a nation aspires. And a immigrant from who knows where.
They taught me my morals from birth this I swear. They taught me right. They taught me wrong. I don't give a **** if you think I'm wrong.
I will write comics as bright as the sun. I will save worlds with words. I won't apologise, don't insult the fire in my eyes.
I've never questioned to what you aspired. I never met your heroes before but I respect the story's of yours in the war. Of cops who helped kids who didn't have a dime, of firefighters saving people in time.
so leave mine alone they saved plenty they have. Even if its only the life of a depressed lonely lad.
Never underestimate the power of words and story's. They tell us more than you think.
Scarlet McCall Sep 2016
[These are quotes taken from a New York Magazine article around 10 years ago. They are all from firefighters]

"doing funerals....getting the bunting, hanging the bunting...step by step...

When it became a myth, the whole event...

people were terrified, crapping their pants...a woman in the lobby...no legs...her face...like someone took it off with a saw.

Why did I survive?

...None of 'em were ever found. Not even a tool.

I didn't see victims. They were dust... When the wind blew, you couldn't grab them.

long spears of glass...Huge panels turned into shards...a piece of window, a small piece....It's right here in my hands now.

...can't look at a plane landing"
Not long after Sept. 11 I was getting stopped by tourists on the subway asking for directions to "Ground Zero." I was incredulous. I avoided the area until it was cleaned up. Now of course it is a memorial and an ongoing construction/development area.
Asonna Dec 2019
I love a sunburnt country,
but now the land's ablaze.
the oxygen we breathe has turned to dust
yet our request for help is denied.
I love a sunburnt country,
but there's not much left to last.

Firefighters aren't getting paid,
Neither are their bills.
yet our leader claims we're all fine
but he can afford to jet away.

The wildlife is damaged.
Koalas are losing homes.
much like the population
as the fires rip through their walls.

I love my sunburnt country,
but this has gone on too long.
while it's nice you're in hawaii Mr. Morrison,
everyone else is left to stand alone..
louis rams Jan 2014
She became a firefighter at a very young age
Passed with flying colors at every stage
Determined to follow the footsteps of her family
That is the dream that she did see.
She built up her body like any man
But had the gentlest hands.
The kindest heart that anyone would know
And that was something that she did show.
She would put the person on her back
Looking forward and would never slack
Her goal was to save all the lives she can
That was her goal, that was her plan.
And every time she looked at her children
As a mother would often do- and see the pride in their eyes
And in the faces of the lives she saved and prevented
Them from going to an early grave.
Then she would know that the choice she made
To be a firefighter would take her spirits so much higher.
So to the firefighters I salute you one and all
So stand proud, stand tall.
thinklef Sep 2013
It's 3am,
The alarm never stops,
Red lights flashing so bright,
Another call to duty,
Driving on the highway smokes and flames reaching the sky,
I can feel the vibration & voices from distances screaming aloud for help,

My heart bleeds for these souls,
Only few might live to see the night,
Racing up the stairway,
My faith is unknown to me,
As long as my flesh & blood brings hope to man,
death I'm not scared of,


Tears highly undeniable,
As i watch these souls pass out in my very own eyes,
So scary,scary scary I say,
If this was a movie I'd fast forward,
Little are we paid,
running into burning buildings
While others run out,

I have got a family also,
My little daughter must be awake anticipating my arrival,
Dad promised he was gonna be home early,
Pick up,pick up the cellphone,
Baby if I don't make it,
Read this at night,
I will be by your side,
even when my shadow isn't visible,


The fire is becoming intense,
hell is not a place to be,
i can barely breath,
Hope when I'm gone my name will be among the great heroes of time?
I Hope the rescued will value their life ,
Knowing I traded mine for theirs?

Paradise i pray for,
Enough of the blazing fire.
Booooooom.
Firefighters go through a lot, yet we consider dem as ordinary people..#RESPECT ....
Jasmine Flower Oct 2014
September 1st, 2001.
I woke up to that same annoying alarm clock, 7:03 AM
Morning shower, morning coffee, morning breakfast –
I changed the calendar but I dropped the tack to hold it up.

September 2nd.
I’m thinking about October,
All the trees ablaze with orange and red, pumpkin pie in the season, cinnamon tingling in the air.
The new Spirit Halloween store opened up around the block. Superhero costumes are pretty cool.

September 3rd.
My mom takes me out to dinner because it’s Monday.

September 4th.
Routine

September 5th.
Routine

September 6th
In calculus, 11 is my favorite number.

September 7th.
Routine

September 8th.
Routine

September 9th.
My routine staccato.
Taxis responds after 3 calls,
My favorite professor gave me a hard time,
I wanna go home.
After the hustle of ants we call people,
loud street venders,
that creepy guy on the street corner,
NO, I do not want to try your new raspberry cheesecake Jack In The Box, I just wanna get my **** food and go home.
I arrive and melt into my sofa, falling asleep to the news.

September 10th.
No alarm clocks.
In the evening, my mom and I go out to dinner because today is Monday.
Red Lobster has the BEST seafood and while we’re eating,
she complains about the air conditioning in her new work place.
She works for some business in the twin towers.

September 11th, 2001
Instead of the alarm, sirens wake me.
I find the tack to hold up my calendar. – It’s Tuesday.
My feet, cold and lifeless, wander around the house until they trip over the scent of smoke.
Those sirens must’ve stopped nearby.
My mom is at work.
I want to get some air,
so I grab the keys off my splintered champagne desk,
****** them into ignition,
fingers wrapping around cruise control,
shifting into reverse,
the monotone GPS lady telling me to turn left.

The smoke is denser.
I follow her voice: turn right.
The smoke is solid.
Keep straight.
The smoke is suffocating.
In 3 hundred feet, turn left
The smoke is the sky –
Charlie Chapman gray.

My mom was at work.
Around me were firetrucks sparking with blinding flashes that screamed the word “emergency.”
My mom was at work.
The sight ahead was morbid. Unnerving. Disastrous.
It was like Halloween, except there were no superhero costumes, only firefighters and policemen.
My mom was at work.
The tower had holes punctured into their glass windows,
Smoke rising like leaves stemming out of the stump of skyscraper.
My mom was at work.
People like ants, fleeing, scattering, put on the mask of apocalyptic expression.
The throaty yells of “it was a plane” stuffed my eardrums
It was a plane, they said, it was a plane.
This was not routine.
My mom was at work.
The alarm woke me up.
I had my morning coffee.
It took all the synapses in my brain to deny what was right in front of me.
My senses detected telephone signals exploding with,
"I’m fine honey, don’t worry,”
Airlines confused and cramming.

I parked my car in overwhelming paralysis.
Above me, a screech of a whistle filled what was left of the air,
Followed by a boom that replicated my heart.
Frozen. Milliseconds frozen.
The plane was flying too low
WHAT HAPPENED?
There were people in those towers,
Everything was an epiphany --
Marriages, birthdays, fathers, sons, mothers, daughters,
Now cadaverous bodies antigravitating in rubble of boring office walls, family pictures.
Death in one swift move of terror.

My mom was at work.
We went to dinner yesterday.
My mom was at work.
The seafood tasted amazing.
My mom was at work.
She complained about the air conditioning.
My mom was at work.
She got a new job in the twin towers.
The twin towers are ablaze
The twin towers are spilling orange and red
They are sending ashes tingling through the air
This was not the October I asked for.
I longed for September 1st
I dropped the tack to hold up my calendar.

It’s Wednesday.
September 12th, 2001.
I did not sleep.
The news kept me awake, kept saying terrorist attack, terrorist attack, identified bodies, many mourning.
Because of their god, they lessened faith in mine.
This was the closest the public eye were to see a warzone-
Text messages cluttered with sympathy.
My routine changed for the rest of my life.

10 years later
Alarm clocks ringing, 7:03AM I stay in bed.
It’s Monday. I do not go out to dinner.
Instead, I drive 5 miles out to the cemetery.
People are still ants, pushing and shoving to where they need to go, they walk as if they had forgotten.
I no longer crave the red and orange of fall, cinnamon is foreign to my senses.
I hate the number 11 because it’s etched on your gravestone.
Your gravestone – gray and dense like the smoke
I wish they were not a constant reminder of the future I live in, but you don’t.
Today, there are no exclaiming yells of people or screeching whistles of planes.
Today there is only silence.

There is only silence.
Haylin Nov 2018
If you think it's tough being a firefighter,
try being a firefighter's wife.

And if you think it's hard being a firefighter's wife,
try being a firefighters daughter
My dad is a firefighter. I used to sit at the door waiting for him. I always made sure he came home. I would not sleep till I knew he was safe
Robert Watson Apr 2021
I long for solitude;
The day's barking tyrants
Drained my reservoir.

Thirsty for life,
I search for my oasis
On life's arid expanses.

I witness the crucifixion;
I watch firefighters burn books;
I can't resist the sirens' call.

The ionizing words mutate me;
I read, and I'm pierced.
The tyrant's visage, shattered.
Try to spot the allusions!
LA burns, smoke blackens sky,
people flee and abandon cars,
90 and 100 mile an hour winds
feed and fan the flames, people
losing everything, even being
rich, or famous cannot save their
big homes and life's possessions.
Someplace in that expanding,
raging inferno my son, an Oregon
Fire Chief leads 300 Firefighters
and their 75 engines and water tenders
over 900 miles south into the fire storm.
Along with firefighters from other
states. Mutual support needed & rendered.

One of my son's firemen is his own son,
and my 21year old rookie grandson
with a little over one year on the job.
His seasoned father has fought many
battles with all kinds of fires, he set to
retire in May after 30 years on the job.
He has seen it all, with never a scratch
or a "singe", but my grandson has never
experienced anything of this magnitude,
being one of a 4-man truck crew battling
side by side in the belly of a raging beast.

All these 30 years I've worried for my son's
safety, now it starts anew, for our boy barely
a man that now walks in his father's shoes.

I will not sleep well until they are all
home safely. I grieve for the victims
of this awful tragedy.
When others run away from fires,
or danger these rare breeds run
towards them, firefighters and
police unselfish public servants.
And we would all be in deep
Doodoo without them.
Jay Sep 2013
They wonder why teenagers often seem to lose hope
When they shove the idea of perfection down our throats
As we get the idea that in order to be somebody we need to grow up
Because we're too young to know how to fall in love
And we're too young to know how to handle our stuff
Because our hormones control us
The therapists are asking
What in your past affects what's happening?
But it's honestly not the past, just the here and now
Seeing even the brightest of smiles turn into frowns
Taking blades to our wrists when the sun goes down
All we're told to look for is the inevitable doom
Someone tell heaven to make room
We're sending up some new angels soon
Parents are wondering how they made so many mistakes
Promising they'll do whatever it takes
But life isnt that easy, you can't heal bullet wounds with scotch tape
So if you happen to be looking for a quicker fix
This isn't it
This numbness won't be healed with your first aide kit
It's going to take more than a sorry toned in the voice of *******
Someone call the surgeons, see if they heal broken hearts
See if they mend broken families that tear us apart
Someone call the firefighters,
See if they can put out the fire
The one that burns every night
The one that scorches demons into the frames of your mind
Telling you it's okay to drag that blade
I still have my scars
But they don't come from exposed body parts
They don't come from bruises, blackened by poor excuses
And also literal ones. Ask me why I seem so far
From your reality
You don't seem like you understand me
But I guess I'm just another "Teen"
But that's what you can't see
People and animals aren't meant to be classified
Someone's fur may be softer than mine
Jealousy comes from dark parts of our minds
Bringing hate that erupts from volcanoes frozen in time
I figure you might understand if it rhymes
Because the liquor has burned holes into your mind
You've created this poorly formed shrine
Directed toward false Gods, burning your throat like wine
And I'm standing in the middle of WW3 today
It's me against my demons and they're on their way
Scream into my ears until I become deaf
And all I hear is your words telling me to crave death
But it isn't like depression is something you can play with
Does it count if sometimes my feelings shift
Is it okay if my numbness comes more often than yours
Or if my blade is hurting less than yours
If pain isn't what I crave, it's really love
Give me something to love without forcing barrels of guns
Into the mouths of innocent children in the hands of innocent killers
We're staring into the soulless eyes of the gravediggers
My graveyard shift isn't up yet
If you think this is a suicide note you're so very wrong
I just want to let you know what's going on
My head is a labyrinth and I continue to get lost
But I made it myself.
Yet at what cost?
saranade Sep 2017
Preoccupation with making something permanent
A feeling of expectation
incorporation of a certain situation
or habitation into life, for good
It makes me freak out.
Desire,
for a certain thing to happen
fear of that something actually happening
Or that it's something that might be permanent.
Worry,
the attempt to find certainty
the desire to control things.
Control you, controlling me
I'm afraid you'll find my black
It will come back again.
It's like an arc weld done incorrectly
Eventually it will start to bleed
And fall apart.
But I dreamt about welding and you welding me
into something permanent
something desirable
something non-penetrable.
You had me molded against the truck and...
I don't know who you are, but you put your fire in me
So deeply it burns.
A fire that firefighters can't dissolve
Doctors can't resolve.
You're in me,
and I love you.
I had a dream, or was it reality.
JC Lucas Feb 2014
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.
Olivia Kent Jan 2014
Strike a light.
Simple.
Imagine.
Should the great fire of London become again lit?
History.
Ablaze.
In the blink of an eye all gone.
Smouldering remnants.
All Britain’s yesterday’s destroyed.
Gone in a puff of green smoke.
A world of tourism gone in a flash.
Powers that be, think of the cash!
Loyal fire people out on strike.
Spent as matches, if you like!

Even the great fires of anywhere.
Firefighters all out on strike.
Support these souls of bravery.
Stand side by side in strength.
Stand in solidarity.
Far and wide.
Our nation great
No choices left.
Loss of life.
Our nation maybe falls again
(c) Livvi
This poem is in support of the brave fire service,
Particularly the U.K, but also worldwide.
kristine marie Jun 2013
They say that fire and ice don’t mix;
“They are opposites, two different sides of the spectrum,”
But I guess no one ever thought of them as anything more than elements.

When you burn, the fire sears your skin,
melts, stripping new layer after new layer,
Until nothing but ash remains.

That’s if the burn continues.
if you sit in the fire, you’ll char to a fine dust.
You’ll sprinkle by when the wind picks up,
floating and floating until you find a nice place to rest.
If you run from the flames licking at your feet,
your burns get a little treat - some ice water,
some aloe, more ice water, and a bandage.
No little solid squares pressed to your wounds;
After all, they say that fire and ice don’t mix -
Hold ice on your burn for too long,
and your burn will only worsen.

I burned myself with fire.
I sought solace with ice.
My first degrees turned to seconds,
and seconds into thirds;
Ice burned me, with her cool exterior,
her icy heart.

And I kept her there, pressed to my wound,
cooling my skin,
and burning within.

Let’s call her the Ice Queen,
the crystal clear little gem that I press
So tight against my skin.
Those green eyes and her devilish grin,
I’m sure she had the power to lure anyone in.
And it was me that she chose,
already down and wounded.
She picked up my pieces and mended them together,
She iced my burns, she sewed me together.

I thought I knew who I was before I met her.
Even in pieces, I was sure that my life
was put-together.
The picture perfect model child,
until small events led to big encounters,
and higher falls and harder drops.
I shattered when I fell, but I still felt
like I was put-together
Until the Ice Queen came with
her lace and leather, her tattoos
and Newports, her tights and her boots.
She found me there, mere shards of broken memories
that dripped with tears; she sewed me together,
Maybe synchronized me to her weather.

Now, excuse me if I sound brash,
but I fall at the Ice Queen’s every batting lash.
I embraced her with open arms,
My burning skin and her cooling touch,
and sought help from a body of ice.

It’s a funny thing about fire,
The way that it sometimes soothes
and other times hurts.
A wick to a flame releases a
Heavenly scent;
Gasoline to a flame sets
a house, a car, a building,
all aflame.

And when all goes up in flames,
even firefighters struggle to
Put it out; like it’s really so
hard to wrestle with what
Spews from the Devil’s mouth.

They’d never throw ice into the
Mouth of a flame. No huge cubes
Dto try and tame the flame.
Reason why is simple, easy, matter of fact;
Ice melts in heat, and flames pack quite a singe.

So what happens next,
When fire and ice intertwine?
They maintain their solidity just
As long as they can sustain.

It isn’t very long before the flame is left
in vain.
written in april 2013. 1/3 of a series.
fire fire
there's a fire
a fire burning
with a fierce ire

flames are racing and raging
through office blocks and houses
they burn with utter insolence

firefighters are called
to arms everyday
to put out fires
with foam and water spray
they'll quell the dragon's
all consuming breath

firefighters are those
terrific guys and gals
who serve their communities well
they risk life and limb
to douse an inferno's
torrid hell

fire fire
triple 0
a red truck's
siren bellows
To-day, 4/05/2014 is International Firefighters Day
Ken Pepiton Sep 2020
Proof, tongues spark fires.
As I burn in indignant
rage of uselessness.

But if I could I would make all houses fireproof.

Fireproof,
my house could be buried.
It would be fire proof, but I can not pay to do the job.

I can imagine it done.
I can imagine living in a mound I paid to have made,
I can imagine finding funding in a lottery ticket that blows by.

In my chthonic dwelling place,
I might imagine forging peace from scorn,
I might imagine shaping forms for horns and bells,
I might imagine making hate bow before darkening my door.

Fireproof,
in California, in 2020,
in the September like none can remember. listen:

Some say san'ana win's be blown in spite,
of all them prayers and they prayers,

Peacemaker sorts, say, not t'night.
Wounded warriors wisht redemption, gimme one mo' shot,
I got t'tell, t'*** outa hell. f'free, {humming birds were singing}

yeah, free, for the troof.
seekt 'n' found,
settled down, watch 2020 vision in 1963 mind,
at the Stardust Drive-In, on Route 66.

Kids, I cannot lie, I was a liar by trade and inclination,
so I do know how, and why, liars prosper.

I lack the knack.

I suspect Plato had this problem.
Nobody will believe me if I say I know this, but
IF
I were to say Socrates says he thinks this
or that,
I could talk to myself for hours, if I were Socrates
and Plato…
I could carry on trial-tri-tryag'in-a-logs,
make a joining thing
attack a subconning science, see a mental canker worm,

at the core,
lusting for more. And swallow.
--
Try the brandy, we perfected the tekhne, in 1263,
the very essence of a satisfied mind,
we captured in patient perfection.

Faster fasting, 2020, see, you ask me, I say, go slow --

look around,
some things happening here, there, where my words
are where you are,

and that's
kinda kool.
We come up to the Kool taste, all
gnostalgic gnshit.

Why so serious, seriously, if Schiller says, to this day,
our kind are at our peak in states of whole
heart and mind harmonized play.

Nobody blows my horn, see,
I move the needles, shhh
sing a song sung in pines,

say, sighing, I know, softer, I know
softer, still, I know

I heard
Little Boy Blue, come
blow your horn… yeah, pretty sure…

The brandy, right. I knew some things changed.

Fireproofing plan, began to take shape
and was buried in
details,

yes,{yes, yes} the rub, the scratch on the glass,
rough diamonds
find that act
vibratorily
such a rush, ping, the sing, ting - tones spiders feel,
while kiting over grand granite domes
protruding from Baja to Reno, and beyond.
--
A wise man built his house on this rock,
and I bought it, on credit, by God,
I declare I am no man's slave,
I owe no man, but to be a true and noble friend at all times.

Naturally, of course, in the flow of all things,
as AI has guessed it might look
from a distance, we see

we are a very tiny bit
of everything at once.

What I think I am matters, just exactly that much.

-- and on earth, in reality,
I thank God Almighty
and the best of luck, for firefighter types of minds and bodies.
Wishes work, I believe in the overall goodness of intention. Hate is so distracting from hope and better effort, invested in the future, from now.
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
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A Sep 2015
It was a year and eleven days before my birthday
When the event occurred

The date was 9/11
And people all over called it.

Twin buildings fell
In New York, it was sad
Everyone watched and everyone mourned

The second shot heard around the world
A whole planet cried
For the ones that it lost

School was off
Jobs were too
But the firefighters worked
As well as the policemen

On the day 9/11 in 2001
The whole world cried
People sang for those who died
We'll never forget the dreadful day
The day the Twin Towers went away.
People were saved
And lived to tell the tale
And those who retell it today
Know it all too well

The Twin Towers crashed
And the Twin Towers burned
And everyone saw
And everyone learned
We'll never get over
The day in September
All we do is remember
Remember.
mûre May 2013
the hardest surgery is the one you perform on yourself.
Steady?
Ready?
No anesthesia but a chuckle of nervous humor
the first incision across your heart.


When you finish (many months later)
you put the scalpel down, wave weakly
to the clapping colleagues hugging each other in disbelief
from the observatory, sterile and eager
you give them a wan grin
and hope they've watched closely
so that now they know how...
how to do this.

At twenty-something, I was taught by Fear
who said nothing matters
and then at twenty-something-else I was taught by Faith
who said anything matters
And she wasn't the Sunday kind of Faith that you find
clasped between your palms, clasped like you're afraid
that if you let go the Faith will just tumble out and break.
No, she was the Faith that was bigger than God and so intimate
that sometimes I was the Faith, sometimes you were the Faith,
and sometimes the Faith was me.
So really, Faith doesn't have a name.
But Faith and Fear, they both breathe, they're each lung
and when I fill one, the other billows, after all
you need two to breathe.

And so then I, feeling bold, learned about Bravery.
I had heard about it in newspapers and history book indexes
and in our local volunteer firefighters.
Wondered if I could buy it.
Wondered how much it goes for.
But I couldn't find Brave until the moment I gave up on it
and said, ***** it, I'm so scared but I don't care anymore,
I'll just do it, Brave be ******.  
And surely enough, it was hiding beneath the tremors.
So really, Brave was the Siamese twin of I'll Just Do It.
which, by the way, wasn't in the glossary of this or any history book.

Everything changes, you know?
I'm changing, you're changing.
Oh, it storms me like the sea!
I secretly raise my glass to stasis, my faraway frenemy.
Don't tell the other Sagittarians, they'd exile me surely.
Change, letting go of my old faces
feels too close to dying,
feels too close to leaving you behind.

And I'm not ready to leave you behind.

Oh the West, keep your Mountains.
If only for a little longer.

I've excised my soul again and again
transplanted and sutured
but there's just no time.

Even with these visions from under the knife-
there's just no time to heal
before I'm laid on the table again.

Faith hold me-
Fear teach me
so I can...


Steady.

Please- stay with me.

*Ready?
Arfah Afaqi Zia Sep 2015
The raging flame,
That leaves behind havoc,
The deceased have all the prayers from us,
People that expired were a lot,
The forest summoned the firefighters,
Asking them to help the people in need.
The flames could be diminished,
But the gas cylinder caused destruction,
So many bodies,
So many coffins,
So many people crying for justice.
This was not but an accident,
An evil man was behind this,
It was a game,
To make these innocent people pay !
Just a poem i wrote. Its not a true story, just a scenario of a situation that you face daily.
David Nelson Aug 2011
Big *****  

AC/DC sang about these items of bounce
shooting them through baskets weaved
game winning corner kicks keeper couldn't pounce
stories of bravery not all believed

soldiers on the front and city cops too
firefighters saving lives and endangering their own
the size of the owner means little it's true
in the side pocket pressure of feeling alone

heroes and villains alike need at least one
95 mph fast one you try to hit with a stick
even sea lions and seals use them for fun
it makes me laugh to see them do a trick

admitting you were wrong can take a large pair
painful thought to see how far you can kick instead
through the distant goal posts of life if you dare
served with sauce and pasta and slice of garlic bread

you can club them with a driver if you like
or seek your destiny looking thru crystal deep inside
but guys hate when they slip while riding a bike
by showing yours you won't lose your pride

   Gomer LePoet....
idk Jan 2019
i played
with dolls as a
kid to learn what it
was like to be perfect
and to live a
perfect
life.
you
know, dolls
did not teach me
to hate my body
the people that made them
did. my dolls were secret agents
teachers, scientists and
firefighters.
but the
people
that
made them
shaped them into
stereotypical perfection
leading me to believe, that
you had to be perfect to achieve your
dreams. this was so ingrained within
me what when i was older, dolls were no
longer toys of my imagination, instead they were models to look just like, because
in my mind, nobody who ever looked like me would be made by a doll company, because they make perfect people and only perfect people were allowed to follow their dreams. only perfect people were allowed to do perfect things.
inspired by “needle”
by Hg
An ode to appreciation
______________
Each day, our men and women in law enforcement gear up.
They prepare for the day ahead
But how can they know
What the day might bring?
And as they get ready for their day,
They must mentally prepare for the emotional warfare they will once again face.
They prepare to say that final goodbye to their families, should the day turn into their last.
Each officer faces these fears.
They face death, harm, disrespect, and threats, but yet they keep coming back.
On the news, we only see the negative side of law enforcement,
And yet, we do not acknowledge the good things officers do for us citizens every day.
Appreciation has turned to become socially unacceptable.
Is it just me that see’s something wrong here?
They gear up for us.
For our country.
For our people.
For our families.
They train for disasters, for tragedies.
They were there for 9/11
They did what they had to do.
We thanked them then.
But where are we now?
Where do our respects lie?
They give their life, they give their time
But yet, they are not recognized for giving their lives.
Recently, my family visited the Aurora Police Department’s memorial for the officers that had fallen in the line of duty.
The area was empty.
No one was there.
It was like I could hear their voices in the wind.
Like the feeling of an unexpected guest.
I felt as if it was my duty as a citizen to read their story, which had been put on the wall with honor.
I wish I could personally thank all the men and women who had given their lives for our country.
I wish I could convey my gratitude.
But the truth is, they’ve past on.
And the sad part is, people have forgotten their names.
True, its hard to account for every single person in Colorado who had given their lives,
But was there even any attempt from us citizens?
Did you know that approximately 270 officers have fallen in the line of duty in Colorado alone?
69 of those 270 officers were from our very own Denver.
That leaves 201 other officers from various parts of Colorado.
Denver’s fallen officers have contributed approximately 25% of fallen officers in Colorado.
  Most names of Denver’s fallen officers will not be recognized.
But, I feel I should thank them anyway.
Thank you, Celena Hollis.
Thank you, David Roberts.
Thank you, Donald Young.
Thank you Dennis Licata.
These four gave their lives to Denver citizens in the last decade.
These four heroes gave their life so we could feel safe at night.
So we could live in peace, and in happiness
If it is a crime to be grateful,
Then call me guilty.  
These people are not just ordinary.
They gave their lives for you and me.
They sacrificed their life, for us to see
That we matter.
I don’t believe they do their job for the paycheck,
I believe they do it so our town does not become a wreck.
More and more, disrespect becomes common.
And somehow, more and more officers fall.
More officers don’t live to tell the story.
That’s heartbreaking.
Call me delusional.
But I believe in change
Because
Appreciation can go a long way.
This generation is losing respect.
It’s losing morality.
But it can all change.
It can change before our generation crashes.
It must change.
Please take these words and make something out of them.
Please make these words hold meaning.
I can’t be the only one to want these people to live.
To come home another day.
Thank you, to the men and women in service who may be here today.
Thank you to the military, To law enforcement, To medical EMTs, To our firefighters,
And to everyone here who cares about the wellbeing of this country.
Thank you.
just to say thank you
XnwxrMxlik Jan 2020
2k19 month of September
Alarmed an international terror
Climate change, change in weather
Drought across the nation
Turned into fire Strom centre
5 months from now
We can still witness the ember
Smoke, ashes from bushfire
Travelled thousands of acres

This inferno had us surrender
We lost a million of species endangered
And pushed many near extinction
Humans were no exception
32 were lost in this render
People lost their land of ancestors
Houses which were a place of
Laughter, revitalization and relaxation
Now are nothing but melted shelters

Firefighters to social writers
All jumped to help out the situation
From taking control over fire
To spread awareness
Seeking for helpers
Nature finally blessed us
It rained and things got under control
Before fire would swallow everything
And melt us...
People of Australia stay strong we all are with you...
The Jolteon Dec 2014
In the dead of night
What do you find
When you slip outside
Your regular mind
Instead of drifting
Off to sleep
Take a walk
On down the street
What you find
May be a surprise
A whole family huddled
Under the nearest highrise
People just like
You and me
Except with no home
Stuck on the street
The politicians pass over
The firefighters scream by
The business execs don’t see
But the child asks why
Why is the house empty
With a man outside
Why is he a ghost
If he is alive
Prabhu Iyer Dec 2013
Night, the oldest of mysteries
settles, spreading like hunger.
A pall of mist
shrouding over the world.

Siren sounds and firefighters,
drunken brawls, and
receding beats.

Eyes of wonder asleep,
emerging out of
the network of shadows
growing creeper-like.

Stray nuggets of light
also reach the eyes shut
in meditation.

Furtive shadows of passion,
elsewhere. Muffled joys;
Shades of bottle-grey.

Cricket-song. Ululations
faint.  Raspy owl-calls,
intermittent.

In the deep, secret
rites of initiation.

Somewhere in the far
highlands
the stars and
the broken moon peep in.

Old song on a highway truck.
Little lamps adorning the hills,
courtyards in the distance.
Wandering thoughts on disparate events in the span of a night...

Still developing this piece, more abstractions needed...
Five months for a teenage brain is a lifetime to be with someone...add ten more days and that's how long i got to keep you. This isn't second grade you don't get a trophy for merely breathing and that's all i was doing. Breathing you in every second i got until we stopped seeing each other outside of school. I thought i was oxygen deprived but i was only deprived of you. Fought against my gut feeling that i could not keep my promise of forever. I wanted to burn the memories we had in picture frames. To shatter them like i shattered us. I cant walk past you with out the little pieces of my heart aching. I may have been the little spoon but i had the entire world at my fingertips when you were by my side.
The day it officially ended we said We'd keep in touch. That We'd be best of friends but now we don't even say hello. Bad habits have been restarted and **** the nicotine high is so lovely when i think about you..i forget. The head rush and the burn in my throat i think the firefighters told me i had too much smoke in my lungs for it to be just from a fire. So when they took me to the hospital to try and clear my airway not realizing it was the hospital i asked for my one call. And it was to you but i think i had too much nicotine in my ******* veins pumping straight to my brain that i didnt realize when you answered id be ripping off the scabs that were helping you heal
I still miss you...i dont think thats ever gonna change. Weve both moved on now. But my addiction to nicotine is at an all time high
authentic Dec 2014
Water is a transparent fluid from which the world streams, lakes, oceans, and rain and is the major constituent of the fluids of living things
Water gives our lungs the moisture we need to breathe.
Water, therefore, is breath to life.
You cannot have too much of it.
Drinking too much water too quickly can lead to water intoxication water intoxication occurs when water dilutes the sodium level in the bloodstream and causes and an imbalance of water in the brain.
Although, you need it to survive.
People can survive no longer than 8 to 10 days without water
When our cells are starved for water, they become parched, dry and more vulnerable to attack by viruses.
Water is colorless, odorless, tasteless, and kills uncounted thousands of people every year.
Water constitutes, regulates, flows through, cleanses and helps nourish every single part of your body. But the wrong kind of water -- with inorganic minerals, chemicals and other contaminants -- can pollute, clog up and turn to stone in every part of your body.
3.4 million people die each year from water related disease
That is equivalent to almost the entire city of Los Angeles.
I think water is all around us in metaphoric ways
For instance, water damage to a cell phone, computer, a book, or an entire city.
Water creeps into places where it is not supposed to be, where it is not meant to be and destroys things.
Suddenly, your screen goes white, words are smudged, people's belongings and treasures are ruined.
Water breaks things.
Water is a lot like pain.
It creeps into our life like a serpent in tall grass and fractures things that were once in perfect condition.
But the miraculous thing about it, although it is a demon, we need it to live.
Without pain we would not know pure joy.
How can you appreciate stepping to the sunlight if you have never experienced the shade.
Water is a lot like people.
70% is a person is water.
31% of our bones are made up of water.
Only 1% of the world's water is drinkable.
Some contain toxins that can be fatal to the human body.
Not every person may be able to quench your thirst.
When they leave they many leave you dehydrated and dizzy.
Not every person is drinkable.
Some people carry demons that they will introduce you to and you cannot rip them off.
These demons are not in relativity to the band-aids in your childhood.
People can cause damage like no other.
Some say that loneliness is killer.
Isn’t funny to think that the one thing you need most can leave you with more scars than you had in the first place.
Water is a lot like love.
Something we crave when the exhaustion from all of our day's work gets too heavy.
Without love we feel empty
When the body gets dehydrated it has already lost over 1% of its water
When we thirst for attention it's as if we lose an inch of security
Love is unlocking the door and flooding
Love causes destruction
But love is at the absolute brink of all things desired
Love is different temperatures
Love can boil, love can freeze, love can be just right
Love can be the one thing at the end of the day that refreshes the mind
Water is used frequently by firefighters to extinguish fires helicopters sometimes drop large amounts of water on wildfires or bushfires to stop the fire from spreading and limit the damage that it can cause
Love is the antidote to pain and the virus itself
Love is limiting damage
Love can calm the wildest fire set in someone's soul using only words
Water is such a generic liquid
Water is the only thing that hold each of us together
So when you reach the end of your journey
Remember water and all of its different forms
Remember the invigorating taste
Remember the abuse
Remember the revival
Remember it all
Because it is all there
**We simply do not look close enough
I was burning my walls
when freedom had called
but not long after
did those firefighters have it stalled.

It was hard to fight back
when the flames died down
the walls grew back
and I fell down -

But what they still couldn't dim
was the fire I had
burning within.
No one can extinguish your inner flame!
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
That day stands sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.

They held a picnic benefit
Each year on public land
For the Widows and the Orphans
Of the firefighters clan
.
All gladly paid to enter
and bought chance books besides.
The old men brought their families
The young men brought their brides.

Bouncing on the rides and slides
erected for them here-
The children had the best of times
as their mothers hovered near.

The men were cooking barbecue,
Tossing footballs, drinking beers
You'd recognize their names-
because you hear them once a year.

The day was nearly cloudless
Seldom was the sky so blue.
Who knew so many would be lost
before that week was through.

Within two days too many here
were cut down in their prime.
Betrayed by poor equipment-
They could not escape in time.

But I, permitted to grow old,
remain to testify
about the courage of my friends-.
so that their memory never dies.

That day is sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.
09-09-11    The scene is the Fireman's benefit picnic for Widows and Orphans which was held that year in a public park on Staten Island. I attended with my family because we have firemen in our family By noon on Tuesday 9-1-01  over 200 of the people we were with  that day were dead.
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
English is 100 100 strong powers. Construction and design of buildings. Music, pop music, pop music [you] Head Office of the Council of Europe on Friday, many men and women. 500 Eric was born in red and red prostitution in Kenya and the United States. Search engines were found in local offices in the Arctic. Canada, Australia, Australia, USA, Canada, Middle East and Justin, USA, USA, Canada, Australia, Ireland and four countries. Canada, Mexico, network. $200 million in troops, English spokesman for Angle Tong. Another method was the Consultant's Club Club. Before the pistachio arrived very new. John Armstrong received the lowest price as well as new apprentices, young women and healthy vacations. In fact, 100 British search engines, music, dogs and cats and the second volume of 100 volumes have to be registered on the other, Japan, Kenya, the Middle East and other countries. USA, Canada, Australia, Australia, Ireland, Switzerland, Canada, Mexico, Mexico and desserts. Thomas was born in Kenya and the United States and the horse was far away from the boat. Working with the leaders of the United States and Japan, Kenya, the Middle East and Justin V. Nicholas Copernicus, who are firefighters. Georgia, USA, England and Germany. The transformation of green acid was converted by England into four cities. Apparently between play, dance and children. The Domeše war and the bemetewek'ewi beach-blood, but no coup and UK did not need and nobody was born and was not created. Come here. No, you are not asking for the oath. And he said, "Well, I'm crazy about details in this section, it means nothing and milk." The construction of old buildings, such as buildings and smokers, is all main building after the design of the old design, the stage and the Gothic buildings as well as the musician of Jahof, Pop Music [of] the Council of Europe on Friday, many men and women Kekkeki 500 HANDS Baths It was published in search engines in search engines as well as in the Red, Arctic and Red Office in the Arctic and in the USA in Japan, Kenya, the Middle East and China, Switzerland Douglas, Georgia, USA, 2, 9, USA, Canada, Australia, Australia, Ireland and the four countries Canada, Mexico, Mexico and a $ 200 million center for competitive competition Another morning, a center, another club club, drinking and drinking water consultants, lovers and teens tested healthy children , Marriage, prostitution and wit and the only problem with aggressive English is 100 100 powers. Construction and design of buildings and buildings. Music, pop music, pop music [black] The head office of the Council of Europe on Friday, many men and women. 500 Eric was born in Red and Red prostitution in Kenya and the United States. Search engines were found in local offices in the Arctic. Canada, Australia, Australia, USA, Canada, Middle East and Justin, USA, USA, Canada, Australia, Ireland and four countries. Canada, Mexico, network. $ 200 million with soldiers, English spokesman Angle Tong. Another method was the Advisory Club, Club. Before the pistachio reaches to very new. John Armstrong had the cheapest price as well as new prostitutes, young girls and a healthy vocation. In fact, 100 clean UK search and research machines, music, dogs and cats and the second (4) volume of 100 volumes each on the other side, Japan, Kenya, the Middle East and others must be registered. USA, Canada, Australia, Australia, Ireland, Switzerland, Canada, Mexico, Mexico and Mexican prostitutes. Thomas was born in Kenya and in the United States the horse was far away from the boat. Collaboration with US and Japanese leaders, Kenya, the Middle East and Justin V. and Nicholas Copernicus, who are firefighters. Georgia, USA, England and Germany. The transformation of green acid was converted from England, Australia into four cities. Probably between play, dance and children. Domeše war and bemetewek'ewi beach blood, but not coupon and Britain, there was no need, and nobody was born and was not created. Come here. No, you do not ask for the oath. And he said, "Well, I'm going crazy over details in this section, it means nothing and milk." The construction of old buildings, such as buildings and smokers, are all main building after the draft of the old design, the lament and the Gothic buildings and the Jakoff's Hotel music, pop music [black] Council of Europe headquarters on Friday, many men and women Kekkeki Baths 500 OLD It was published in search engines in search engines as well as in red, red and Red Office in the Arctic and the USA in Japan, Kenya, the Middle East and China, Switzerland Douglas, Georgia, USA, 2, 9, USA, Canada, Australia, Australia, Ireland and the four countries Canada, Mexico, Tex-Mex
allison joy Jun 2014
the day i get an invitation to your wedding and it tells me to wear white, i'll wear black, and when you ask me why i'll tell you that i feel like i'm attending my own funeral.

i'll sit there and wonder if you ever hear the sound of broken promises resounding like church bells at a wedding for people that weren't meant to be?

when you're standing at the altar saying vows they'll sound like death threats to my ears. you'll look at me and mouth the words "im sorry" like pulled back triggers on a gun.

i'll remember i was bulletproof until your eyes looked at mine, and then i became the biggest target in the room, and this is why you'll always be a lesson in broken hearts.

i loved you like a forest fire that was out of control, like there were a million firefighters trying to put out the spark we had and someone just kept adding fuel to the fire.

i tried so hard to conceal my butterflies like lighters , unaware that you'd already stolen them from my pockets and extinguished any idea that things could've ever been different between us.

now i understand i was just a broken metaphor to you and it makes me mad that i used to spend most of my time of daydreaming that maybe i'd be the person you spend your last breath saying "i love you" to.

when its asked if anyone has any objections i'll smile and say, "i loved him to," and just like you did, i'll walk away.
olivia Jun 2023
when the fire blows up, and the smoke engulfs the home we once knew
is it a sign for me to start running?
i bit too ******* the bullets as i waited
six months flew by, now i'm stuck staring at this view

frozen, anxious, twice as vengeful when you left me
"is it time to call mom now?" I asked you
but you smiled a maniacal smile as the flames spread from where you left the matches burning
i wish i knew better than to trust you to guard it

smoke and ash are all that's left of the home we took 20 years to build
i tell you "there's no closure when our doors are flimsy clothes from your soiled dresser"
clothes that were worn by people you said were just friends
and still, you never showed any guilt

i shake my head and play off these misfortunes as if they're a dream
as i fail and blame you for starting it
as i curse you for burning a fragile house to the ground
as if it wasn't the same house you lived in

the firefighters come and you tell the same sob story
i'll side with the truth and resentment, they'll keep me company as you bury me
remember this as the day when you burned out the good years
and the betrayal of your only family.
Mybadbrainday Apr 2016
We are firefighters you and I.
Fighting back a blind hot fire. 
You, because of our impossible situation and the Other.
Me, because of my impossible situation and your Other.
I'm trying to keep my fire low and starving, or only a faint glow even,
but a whiff of air is enough,
enough to set my whole existence on fire.
Lay homes in ashes if not drowned or extinguished.

I'm grateful...

you keep your fanning breath of air
a swift tickling breeze for my sake.
Keeping your flare out of my flammable hair

but God, I want to burn so badly
I want to flame high, white and hot.
Not allowed to do that though....sadly...

I want to explode in a firestorm.
Consume everything in my way.
not listen to what they'd say
Turn everything into sorrow and ashes.
Let my heated tongues of flame lick you,
until you too is burnt to pieces.
Burnt pieces of charcoals
that I'd keep  in my heated heart.

A charred smoking reminder
of how devastating this fire of our love is.
How ugly to all that is beautiful and true.
Once letting my fire burn free there is no taming it,
no pardon, no wit

So, thank you my love!

For not fanning this fire
with more than
your flammable existence
It is oxygen enough.
I've lost all resistance.

So, thank you my love!

For not doing it my way.
Not letting me lay
my world in ached ruins.

It doesn't seem fair,
but let me slowly suffocate,
Turn your love into hate
make me choke and gasp for air.
A faint flickering flame
Pitiful and tame
As my fireman, put it out while you still can...
Nah, this doesn't come out right, but still needs out...
Jill Aug 2024
Another ordinary day
A damsel wakes with father fear
Reluctantly pulls blanket back  
As thoughts of resting disappear

From messages left unreturned
A growing feeling to embark
So, to his door set off to seek
Her unresponsive patriarch

Our damsel finds the bolted door
On floating breeze, smoke scent conveyed
The clock ticked quicker, locked without
Prompt call for hasty rescue aid

Blazed into action in a flash
—our scorching young protagonist
His searing skills foundation-forged
To save an injured arsonist

Our hero spots a bold ingress
An aperture at altitude
And meanwhile spies a driver’s card
—appearing strangely barbecued

Attention-torch on task-at-hand
On bended knee to deftly bring
—our damsel up, with strapping arm  
To reach the lofty opening

Our star-struck damsel, hero-held
Enchanted by his smouldering gaze
Wonders on what might have been
If meet-cute happened other-ways

Then slipping lithely window-wise
She drops inside the residence
Let hero in, then victim search
While mental-logging evidence

Sticky hi-***** rest in pairs
—their bottles languish laterally
Permeating smoky trace
Each clue arranged unnaturally

Recalls the messes passed outside
The slumber-tilted char-filled grate
Suggests a rather vigoured dance
With lumbering unsteady mate

And there our wounded, mattress-bound
Though coverlet obscures him still
His body marred in major part
From falling on his lighted grill

That solo night with drinks for two
—set grill for dreamy warmth, and then
Was flame-kissed in his doomed attempt
To bring his lost love back again

The sloshing, dulling, drink-fired trance
All woozy, stumbly, bonfire-played
He scrambled indoors, mattress-jelled
No manner for alerting aid

The damsel-daughter rescue-wrapped
Her father truly bottle-broke
As panic builds, all hero dreams
Well vanished in a puff of smoke

First thoughts occur, ‘If only aid
—had come before to stay this fate’
The thought reply, ‘But even so,
before this fire, was still too late’

Stuck helpless in her helping role
As supine father gurney-glides
Recalls the times and times before
The medically supported rides

The bottle holds a fire-fuel
That firefighters can’t suppress
A complex, clawing, crawling pain
That leaks into a shared distress

Constant, judgeless, shame-free love
The only hope to smother flames
A blanket of persistent souls
To search for joy when none remains

Without these tools for fire fight
The flames repeated encore flare
So, we are left ‘if only’ bound
       Our loved ones to another round
       That crackling roar the only sound
All fire-kissed and blanket bare
©2024
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
Does it matter how the flames began
to creep about and up the stairs?
A mansion on the Waterfront
with seven people sleeping there.
A scaffold on the Second floor
signified that restoration had begun.
An Ember carelessly discarded
burst forth to threaten both old and young.
When firefighters approached the scene
They saw the mother attempt to save
her children on the second floor.
but tongues of fire drove her away.
Her contractor had likewise tried
to save the girls who slept upstairs.
He had two nearly in his grasp
when they both panicked and ran away.
The girls’ grandfather came the closest
to saving one granddaughter dear
He brought her to a window seat
and tried to get her in the clear
but choking smoke and his  weakened heart
brought his attempt to end in tears.

A mother weeps, uncomprehending,
as water hoses douse the flames.
Both her parents and her children dead,
and her home a smoking, ruined frame..

Sophocles, the attic poet
called man a thing of “breath and shadow “.
Too long a life can be a curse
A life too short, a cause for sorrow
This poem is based on the tragic fire on the waterfront in Stamford Connecticut. In the early morning hours of 12/25/11 flames engulfed a Victorian mansion killing the owner's parents and her three little girls ages 7,7, and 10. The mother and her contractor who was staying at the mansion during renovations were the only survivors. An ember, discarded from the fireplace, is believed to have ignited the old wood structure.

— The End —