"fireplaces" 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
What if there's a door that's always sitting there.
The surface is bare.
And it carries a mysterious air.
No matter what people do to the door that just sits there.
The next morning the door is always repaired.
Something so curious like the door.
Everyone finds it a bore.
After all it's just a boring old door.
After seeing the damage disappear you would think people would write lore.
But the door isn't interesting, the door is a bore.
The door's been places.
The door has guarded libraries full of bookcases.
The door has seen everything from schools to fireplaces.
Whenever the place, the door has been goes away,
the door is always there insistent to stay.
But eventually the door gets found and gets transported away.
The door doesn't change.
The door is always a door but no one thinks it's strange.
But the door moves from place to place.
No one knows where or which door frame the door will choose as a base.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC
Spark kissed tinder
burst into flames
As men gathered in tight knots
Stitched up a street riot
Wood warmed and glowed
Militant revolution minds
The embers hummed with ashes
As city streets burned
Tyres and tubes were rolled
home brew guzzled
Fuelled the fires further
more streets burned
Water cannons hissed
As men aflame with anger
Lit fireplaces up alleyways
With burning brain torches
Taking the political fireplaces
To the palace of no return.
As soon as the government
Dissolved into a carpet bombing
puddle
The big bear
licked its paws.
Author Notes
The Revolution continues after a lapse of two months. Most politics start around a fireplace fuelled by alcohol and hate. Once lit the fireplace chatter
moves into the street and spread rapidly.
The Bear anticipates a breakdown of law and order and amasses its troops along the border.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
It's not just to rain or to snow anytime ........... Rains and snows are Winter's ............................. Winter is consisting of special feelings and emotions Around fireplaces ,stoves,and any kind of enjoy those Wintry nights anytime,anywhere,and everywhere .............. That pretty season is unique in everything it contains Even those hard times we face during storms and blizzards ... Writing poems about Winter elevates any poet's Feelings and emotions anytime .................... To be in that wonderful Winter means To be in a special beauty of nature itself ........................ Winter dances greatly and wonderfully with its tools To tell us that it loves to hug and to embrace everyone of you .... _______________________________________________________________Winter's profile - عن الشتاء
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
Those sleepless summer nights
Sweat pouring from every crack
In thinly layered sunburnt skins
It was all panties-on-the-floor
Blood-on-the-sheets
And *******
Living out highschool fantasies
Like the cool kids
Life before 22 was all a dream
Of midsummer swelter and
Salt water
In the mind of the dog
Chained up in the universe's yard
Tethered to the ether world
Racing rabbits through space
While I was turned into an ***
Staring at the mirror
And my expressionless face
*This must be how cancer feels
Growing increasingly smaller
In a world where cabinets
And aspirations grow increasingly taller
She met the devil
For coffee on diagnosis day
But the deal they made didn't take
Her hair fell out
And her body atrophied anyway
She found herself
Floating far far away
Her blood coagulating like
A broken thermometer
Of mercury*
Salvador Dali painted this fall
The house of salvatore
Minds gone to roost under warm eaves
Staring fireplaces
Hungry couches and singing windows
It's all ******* drooping like clocks
And derailing thoughts
The local biddies
Cluck their tongues
At the absurdity of infinity
And the girl in Ace Hardware
Buying shoepolish to hide her tan lines
Yawns, as her boyfriend feels her up
*Meanwhile I collapse
Like a house of cards with a flick of the wrist
Thinking about life's mathematical beauty*
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 6:11 PM UTC
“Cold snowflakes upon my arm
the winter shine peeking through a crack in the blinds
a breeze of ice engulfing the room through a window left ajar
a land covered in a shiny white blanket.”
Winter has come. Cue the thick padded coats and the parkas of every color of the rainbow! Behold the sleds and skis and the beautiful Siberian huskies who pull them. Await the closing of schools and the temperature drops, keeping people in and making children everywhere euphoric as ever. The time has come for skating upon rivers of ice, and joyous dinners in warm wooly sweaters as families gather around to indulge in the tastiest of food. Fireplaces shall again be lit in all households of old, and stockings hung up early in preparation for Christmas. Happy smiles all around, engaging in snowball fights and the building of snowmen.
Ah but winter is as winter does. As numbers reach the negatives, heaters are turned up to the warmest possible, insulating the beings in a home and using electricity. What about those without a home? Those who are confined to the streets of the city, waiting for the cold to eat their bodies up and leave them in a state of rigidity? They are left to waste. Left to succumb to the bitterness of winter, with no sustenance whatsoever or any form of water to soothe their burning throats. The cold will conceal them in a cover of white death, a prison of snow. And in the early mornings of every winter-filled day, a machine is sent out to collect the bodies of those who have been imprisoned by the winter. The one operating the machine weeps silent tears for these ice prisoners before bringing their poor souls elsewhere.
Winter is two-faced, and she is both beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night.
(lunarlullubies)
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
Ex's
I am a part of all of them
even the ones I hate.
Maybe especially the ones I hate.
They are transferred paint
after the fender ******
at the unfortunate intersection
of fate and bad timing.
Not enough damage to make a difference.
Not even enough impression that
you care to be bothered changing your schedule
to repair it.
But every time you leave the house,
and on every lap around the chariot,
you see a trespassing color screaming
of either their bad decision.........or yours.
Sometimes it seems there are more accidents
than pleasant Sunday drives.
I suppose most encounters must be accidents
until we find the uncluttered road to our destiny.
L.E. was life shift
and napkins.
I didn't even know I needed napkins
when I had paper towels in the house.
I Jones for napkins these days.
D.B. was college
and fashion.
Shiny shoes moved her to the soul of my feet.
Now Kiwi polish
smells like foreplay to me.
N.R. was forbidden
and my piano teacher.
I hated practice, she loved to kiss
The oral exam was one of my best finals.
I like tests more than most people today.
J.T. was a cougar
and Tchaikovsky connoisseur.
Maturity was uncovered, along with adult lessons
about carpet knap and fireplaces.
I am Pavlov's dog in the strings of Symphony #6.
L.J. was adventure
and abandon.
She is a grassy carpet over a live train tunnel
in a memory I should regret, but don't.
She is the crossbeam in my permanent smile.
I am an estrogen inspired creation
finding purpose in soft fleshy motivation.
I am who I am
because of their compunctions and compulsions.
They scraped off on me
in the kamikaze journey to fight loneliness.
But in the dive I learned -
grace is humbling when you don't deserve it,
toilet paper has a perfect delivery direction,
I get the right side of the bed,
you shouldn't say anything
you don't want to hear again,
it's my job to take out the trash,
shutting your mouth sooner than you think
is almost always the better choice,
you can never have enough closet space,
and some experiences are so good
that you should never try to repeat them again.
She may be gone forever.
And we may not be able to have
a decent conversation for the rest of our lives.
But God knows
I'll always have napkins.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
The scent of your cologne and incense
always linger behind,
Attaching themselves to me in a cruel reminder
Of just how much I love the smell that is you.
Deep and woody,
It brings memories of fireplaces,
Winter nights,
And spiced chai.
Ski lodges,
Knit hats,
And gloved hands two sizes bigger,
Still holding on for dear life.
Cuddling under hand-made blankets
Sharing laughs,
Secrets,
Kisses.
Even if I don't have you I will always have your scent,
And the places it takes me are better than the places I have been.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 11:04 PM UTC
Green and White
Shining so bright.
Cascades of culture,
Blowing in the summer breeze
As canvas blows from sails
And seagulls squawk at the docks.
Small town comfort
In the mist of a harsh winter.
Fireplaces roar like lions,
As the town is enlighten by the tree.
As the auburn colors appear,
In a painted autumn,
Buildings of years past stand tall,
With a hundred years of memories.
When daffodils sprout,
And spring arrives,
The graves of the ancestors past,
Become full of flowers.
For even back then,
Green and White,
Would shine so bright.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
Copper moons
In the month of June
Can set the mood
Like fireplaces
In December
The embers rise
Like the passion
Of a mad man
Madly in love
The contrast
Of the dark sky
In the background
Can’t last
Long enough
The beauty portrayed
Was made
For portrait
My poor traits
Are accepted
Like eclectic
Decisions
Like when the sun
Decides to be
Ecliptic
I’ll hide today
But in the morrow
I’ll shine
In a way
So my rays
Can raise
And leave you blinded
By arrays
Most guys shy away
From showing emotions
Exposing too much
Leaves them naked
I’m not ashamed
If you see
What should be seen
In
Private
It’ll only make you
Want me more
What’s in store
Is pain
Hidden in pleasure
To please
Is the least
I can do
To make up
For the
“Leave”
That comes
Thereafter
You come faster
Than seconds can count
Almost
As if we
Been away longer
Than years can count
The amount
Needed for this
Leap of faith
Could mount mountains
As I maintain
What’s needed to stay
In the position
Remain uplifted
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Hidden stigmatas fall from your heaven
Solidly landing as a pathway to your righteousness
Running from your broken land
Broken lamp
To provide you with silver thread no more
Centuries of torment squeal under burnt rubber
And mudslides turn to avalanches
Room for the becoming
Pens leak ink over new white blouses
Draped over chairs like makeshift tents
Next to fireplaces to read
Seclusion from enormous intruders like yourself
Dusty pills litter the night table
Subtle reminders of doom once left
Left to chance
Echoing clacks as ***** scatter everywhere
Across the green felt next to the portrait
Covered by the heavy burgundy velvet drape
Whose eyes are blind to your savage beauty
You put the bell in the jar and cried out lonesome
Too many times before
You tried to pick some mushrooms
But it’s harder than you thought.
Feb 7, 2010
Feb 7, 2010 at 4:00 PM UTC
Jasmine rice and green tea
Sambuca and coffee
Cigarettes and ***
Whiskey and scary movies
Cigars and wine
Lap dances and nature walks
Tattoos and Vanilla lips
Ripped jeans and strawberries
Summer nights and smeared lipstick
Strong arms and weak hearts
Tall legs and short tempers
Cappuccino and thick tummies
Piercings and snow storms
Hot chocolate and fireplaces
Sweat pants and afternoon naps
Early mornings with no where to go
Boys and girls who kiss super slow
Conversations that give you butterflies
Staying in bed all day
Crying for hours
Feeling your collar bones
Watching scars fade away
Skinny dipping
Stretching
Laughing
Falling in love
Or out of hate
With yourself
Or anyone else
And
Ya know
People are always ******* tripping over ****
If all else fails, at least look for that
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
I feel
someone
tossed
me down
a
neverending
dark
hole
had
doors
lead
to
rooms
decorated
with
heartbreak
and
dispair
rooms
have
windows
though
*****
from
neglect
of
age
an’
cobbwebs
peeking
through
weakened
cracking
broken glass
window
eyes
saw
only
grave
storms
stones
and
rain
desolation
oh and
pain
clouds
frown
as
the wind
blows
cold
eyes
see
black and white
The
soul
absorbs
*****
truth
darkened
rooms
reveal
emptiness
filled
with
lies
no
space inside
for
another
box
of tears
stacked
floor
to ceiling
why
no stairs
fireplaces
no
longer
hold
flames.
rocking chair
too
weak
for
comfort.
sofa
stuffed
with
screaming
memories
of
life
before
the push
mirrors cry
for
the
girl
trapped within
rooms
of
dust.
in
the
hole.
I was pushed…..
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 8:18 AM UTC
on a slow night
in march- an
oil slick of a night,
the stars are dying quietly,
and the moon is subtly
watching the show.
there are unloved cats,
that once moved like nylon
and smiled into fireplaces,
crawling the perimeters of my thin
walls, as I sit dead center,
in a room that I cannot
call my own; where
the paint sticks to my
creations
and my words are swallowed
by empty wine bottles
and empty smiles set into
gilded jawbones.
and somewhere, somebody
just dropped dead in their kitchen,
while most people are
sleeping, or
chasing sleep, or
making love to their
plastic wives in a cold bed.
and somewhere, is
nowhere
to me.
i am ******* in air
and hoping for zyklon b,
grasping for keys that once
opened doors, but now,
i cannot cross the threshold,
anyways.
i am tripping over old knives
in the floorboards
and scolding my wide eyes
for their blindness.
i resign myself
to my decisions, because
there is nothing else
nothing else I can do.
i will rise in the morning,
cast aside the sun,
and hope that someday,
sutures will take hold
and i will see the ocean again.
Jun 8, 2012
Jun 8, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
My childhood
was stubbing toes on pool railings
while trying not to drown
four foot tall, six feet under.
I sat by houseplants
on cold tile.
I lost my teeth to salt water taffy.
My parakeet was named
after a character on Full House
who had frizzy hair
and did not have her mama either.
One day,
she broke her beak.
It was my fault, I brought the
blood to my face as I would salve
to apologize
but it was far too late.
Daddy set her free while I slept.
I would rush to the
school supply aisle in Kroger
for pens and pencils
and bought Barbie dolls to glide
against the bayou’s surface.
Later, Katrina came
to sink everything I ever touched.
I thought
about the black men and their
saxophones downtown
how I wanted to replace the reeds
so badly
to hear New Orleans jazz
one final time before we moved.
The whole time
my sister was made of sage.
My brother slept on my Powerpuff
Girl sheets so often that
I kept my ******* in another room.
And I thought that
mothers came from fireplaces
because mine
hid her liquor in there sometimes.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
*did you buy all of this on credit
and can you do without
going to ceremonies for awhile
look what higher learning
and empty rituals have given you
a distrust for humanity
and all that's truly valuable
are you a nihilist or a solipsist
what a life to be so twisted
like an elliptical esophagus
so strange the way we spell things
what would we do without
spellcheck or a dictionary these days
is a thesaurus a dinosaur or a literary device
the swelling went down
right in time for your dialectical revival
while didactic strange attractors are strangely repellent
selective attackers leave your marriages despondent
disparaged orthodontists leave fluids on your face
still you wipe your chin with sandpaper
and leave greasy finger stains in their place
fluoride is a bargain complete with its own argument
and quite often batteries are not included
but that doesn’t mean you’ll never use them
for what's a *** toy to do
if its lacking its adjacent latex compartments
or if you're really just not in the mood
i guess this human body will have to do
grooving to the music is all about our choosing to
becoming outdated or faded like a tax evader
these equations are meaningless
when you are fermented with libations
if you drink more amber liquid would you be negated
relevant for a moment and then
just as quickly discarded as a piece of paper
the receipts we diligently saved
are just as well used to light your fireplaces*
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 12:49 PM UTC
listen, its like this:
say you live in a cold house
you have a fireplace
when the closeness of the air
starts to crystallize your capillaries
you can go out in the yard
fetch some firewood
and providing you have sulfur flint or friction
burn the fuel for warmth
whenever you may feel
that to ward off slowing blood
you'd like to light a fire
then the fireplaces remains
an outlet for your blaze
and i will be the fuel
when i am plentiful
but here you are kneeling
twisting match heads by the wood
contemplating flame
when you turn to the pine and complain
how come you never get cold?
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 1:59 AM UTC
"He can't walk, he's on decline."
I was briefed as I clocked in.
an anxious robotic voice says
You have clocked in at 9:40pm
"When I get back from vacation He'll be dead"
I stand awkwardly at the landline phone and stare at him.
between us is the Clients bedroom doorway
The Client is asleep.
"When did he go to bed?," I say after a silence.
"Oh about a minute ago"
Breathing becomes fast and heavy from inside the room.
"I think it's a good time for you to go now"
I say, "It was nice to meet you."
"I'll be relieving you tomorrow morning at 8:30"
He leaves,
There is nothing relieving about this man
eager to back into each parking space
Lusting for his vacation in California
Caring for this helpless old man when I leave.
Architecture rivets as he walks down the hallway.
footsteps echo off the empty fireplaces and yellow wallpaper
no tumbleweed in the darkness outside
only snow wet and black tar.
as he looks in the mirror his wax smile fades into his hairline
I shiver in the recliner at my journal.
I look at the man sleeping past the doorway.
This is my job now.
That man is my future
Destined for a Hospice Heart
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
For I am exploding,
With bliss
In a reproductive ****
Sending my offspring
On the winds
Life taking hold
everywhere I go.
Burning.
Taking a moment of silence,
For dear Gaia
For giving me this time,
For all that made life possible,
For this burning to be alive.
For not being the cousins
in the woodstoves
fireplaces,
Slaves
which just got a taste,
burned and died.
For the match lights
Short life
Shorter than a candle light.
For who and where I am,
connected to the stars
who devour and mother all of our lives
Breathing
Inhaling
Exhaling
Consuming
Evacuating
Reproducing
Exploding
Imploding
Struggling to survive.
For all fire,
All life
through out the universe,
For all who will become
a dead silent
Unmoving
Cold
Cold
Cold
ember.
I pray,
Amen.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
I am Marhteena
I come from a small village in southern Cameroon where people use kerosene lamps at night and store drinking water in large aluminium pots.
where neighbors share kitchen utensils on a daily basis and eat from the same bowls of soup with one another.
where children go to the streams in the morning to fetch some water for cooking and rake the woods for some firewood.
where women go to their farms to plant corn, yams and vegetables while the men tap fresh palm wine and tend the goats and pigs.
where children play under the scorching sun and eat roasted grasshoppers for lunch.
where children make their own toys from rafiagrass and abandoned wires
where children climb trees and hunt birds with their catapults
where children go fishing with small bowls and learn how to swim by themselves
where children sat around fireplaces at night to tell folktales and ancient stories
I am Marhteena, i come from a very small clan but these experiences have shaped me into who i am today
I AM PROUDLY AFRICAN!!!
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
Sweater sleeves dangling past your cold fingertips;
leaves drifting soundlessly to your feet.
The air is so cool and crisp and it feels so clean
and fresh against your skin and in your lungs.
You can feel the past slipping away,
making way for the new and exciting things the autumn season brings you.
Long, intellectual, enlightening conversations
that happen in the coziest of places with the friendliest of people.
Warm coffees and teas drank next to equally as
warm fireplaces and comforters.
Ginger and spice scenting every home you enter.
Wishes being made and promises being kept.
Walking hand in hand with the love of your life,
wearing jackets and mittens and knowing that everything is finally alright.
Nose kisses and long hugs to chase away the cold.
I wouldn't call is autumn so much as the one time of year you ever feel at home.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
running through grass as high as your calf muscles
you gasp for breath,
it fogs out in front of you as you pant;
its a cold night,
one where smart sensible people are indoors and covered,
huddled before fireplaces,
or cuddling up to someone.
lost in a field,
you look around,
its too dark to see far but the moon is out
because the fog is illuminant and pale everywhere you look.
there's an imposing figure,
you feel it getting closer,
hot breath near your right shoulder,
you shudder and try and **** away.
only to feel something cold.
a freezing breath on the opposite side of you,
it hugs you as you struggle.
too cold,
too cold you think,
too bitterly cold.
pushing off it your hand reaches something that bites with cold,
you pull away quickly and turn. as you turn around there's black.
you wonder where the moon went because the fog was white before.
no, now there's only black, yet glancing up you definitely see stars.
what's going on?
why is this happening?
you trip,
but its not the grass you trip over its nothing,
there is nothing there.
nothing imposing.
nothing.
why did you trip you wonder.
then you realize you didn't just trip you fell.
you just reached the next level.
something hits you hard as hot and cold figures cover you.
screaming and gasping you're being burnt and frozen.
you can struggle all you want,
but below there's only blackness,
and above,
hot and cold burn you slowly.
dirt shoved in your mouth,
gaged and held.
there is no escaping.
whatever it is.
it will burn your skin then freeze your heart and mind.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 7:05 AM UTC
Some of us are quiet lovers
Preferring warmth under covers
Fireplaces, fur, and hugs
Drinking from hot chocolate mugs
Some are wild and full of heat
Racing, sweating, never neat
Lively in activity
But hardly ever meant to be
Other still are calm and pure
Always in their love secure
Sitting at a breakfast nook
Reading papers or a book
Some are of romantic bent
But they have horrid temperament
Often weeping or a sigh
Lamenting as the love slips by
I prefer the honest lover
The kind that loves you like no other
An honest love that never ends
These best lovers are also friends
Oct 18, 2011
Oct 18, 2011 at 1:23 PM UTC
I used to hate the color orange,
But when we pop mandarins into our mouths between Creamsicle-sweet kisses I feel as if I’m being transported to a different dimension where we’re the only two in existence.
You’re the sunlight that hits the earth at 6pm, making everything seem as if it’s warm and glowing.
Every time I see a candle flame flicker I can’t help but think of you who exudes the same ambiance of alleviation that the walls of my childhood home once did.
If sunrise and sunset were to be combined, they still wouldn't compare to the magnetizing brilliance of your aura.
You emulate autumnal earth tones and crackling wood in brick fireplaces, echoing your heartbeat and bringing about a sense of raw intimacy shared between two.
I trace my fingertips down your spine, reflecting upon the likeness between you and the sun,
And I wonder why no one ever named a color after you.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
Naked you
Unclothed
Derobed
Disdressed
Addressed with my heart on
My sleeve
Who needs these
Rags anyway
In a way
Your vision is X-ray
You see what lies beneath
Regardless
Of white tees
You sensed
My heartbeats
Like artichokes
Underground
Knowing my heart’ll choke
If you’re not around
The seed
Grows
Into the giving tree
That relives
Incarnation
Like bouquet’s of carnations
That die
On dining room tables
Relived
Reloved
In living room sessions
Deflowered in front
Of fireplaces
The heat of the moments’
Enough to slow time
So the most
Can be made of
With nothing to be mad of
Because
Nothings on
Accept us
Our body
Of lies
Is useless when our bodies lie
Together
Love letters
Aren’t needed
Because we let us
Become
Intermixed
With our mixed feelings
Yet
Our intent
Is known
When together
We’ll let our
Differences go
And show
Nothing
But ourselves
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 7:39 AM UTC