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Nat Lipstadt Dec 2015
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
# but not tonight, as I am
unbelievably,
upgraded!
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
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
The cold is playing gently
With the hairs on my head,
Letting me know that it is coming
For me and everything I've built.
I am starting to empty,
Becoming a glass waiting to be filled
With anything, anything.
Just keep the emptiness away.
I've been here before,
empty and cold,
When I was lost and he left me
To find my way on my own.
What a time that was,
Filling myself with anything
and everything.
What a person I became,
nothing like the person I was
Or wanted to be.
How far I've come,
How much I have to lose,
When the cold emptiness comes for me.

I don't know how
To save myself.
I don't know how
To keep warm.

I'm so tired of sitting in fireplaces,
Trying to avoid the inevitable.
Kat Aug 2018
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.
L A Lamb Sep 2014
(written 3-18-2014)



I just needed something different, something to think about: an alternative night, a different scene with new environmental stimuli. It’s true that if the stimulus is unchanging we will adapt, but for me, I live best being able to react to different things. Yesterday was fun for that reason.



I was going to drive, but then Alistair said Yarab was going out too and he offered to drive. I considered the gas money and how I would prefer to drink and not worry about driving, so I agreed. At this point, you and I were in amidst a discussion regarding me coming over too late– or not at all– and I was in a particular mood where I didn’t want to think about the relationship strain. I knew I was causing it, but it was nothing new, and nothing bad. I just wanted to actually see my brother since I was so suffocated and domesticated. I wanted a night away from Giovanni’s room, which made me feel like your little housewife, your obedient certainty assigned love.



Why did we stay so ignorant when we started with uncertainty? It was a beautiful stage of development, a coming-of-age stage of accepting my sexuality and exploring sensuality. We we drunk college girls, amateur philosophers and ****-smokers, confused about the world but idealizing a better world. That was the ideal of us. The truth was too tragic, but we endured it for so long that for one night I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to get away. I didn’t want to think about you. So I didn’t. It was inconsiderate of me to consider you worrying and upset, but at this point I wanted to enjoy myself and have fun with my brother when I figured you’d be sad and disappointed no matter what happened, so I may as well enjoy myself. I thought hard about it, but decided since it was Alistair’s birthday, I didn’t have work until 6:00 p.m. the next day, and yes, it was St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to go out and celebrate. Sorry you didn’t want to come.



In the car, Alistair packed the bowl. They were smoking it on the way up and I declined but instead had a cigarette. Yarab said he was working with an artist who made glass pieces resembling scary, mystical-like creatures, and the bowl Alistair packed was one of them. It was mostly blue, and the front of it was a head where the **** would go into the top of the head. It had wide eyes, a big, sorcerer-like nose and big, scary-looking teeth. “Trippy, right? The line is called Enoch based off the book of Enoch in the Bible—which is actually removed in most but still a part of Russian Orthodox.” They packed it twice throughout the ride and I sat in the back, smoked my cigarette and thought about you and the night before me.



We were going to Harrington’s Irish Pub but it was packed (naturally), so we tried Cadillac Ranch (the bar was full there too), so we finally decided on Public House. We each had 3 Washington Apple’s between beers and conversations before getting food. I had two Yuenglings, Alistair had a Yuengling, three Irish Stouts and Yarab drank 3 Stellas. Alistair and I split nachos and a hummus plate. I’d never been there before, and I appreciated the upscale environment compared to cramped and loud local bars I was used to. It was quiet enough that we could talk and hold conversations, and our bartender, Sarah, was pretty, friendly and attentive. I thought about my restaurant experience and briefly thought about her and her life.



My favorite part of the night was when we were at Public House. The conversations were just interesting; they talked about Putin, Ukraine and Russia and how “of course the U.S. wouldn’t let part of the country join into Russia” and the proposal would be rejected by the UN; we talked about birdhouses and fireplaces and utilizing space in people’s yards, so that if the world changed for the worse and we needed to survive we would be able to; we talked about being arrested; we talked about the Zionists and the fake group of evil Northern European people who migrated and were rejected by both Islam and Christianity, so they essentially took over Judaism—and how the conflict between Israel and Palestine is a struggle for power with the Zionists and U.S.; all of this was relevant to our talk about how we don’t live in a Democracy but a Corporatocracy, and the world is determined by whoever has the most money and power.



Yarab talked about tolerance for other cultures and intolerance, telling us about the other day when his stepfather was at their house going over notes with a woman from Sudan. She and her company wanted to use a product (he was a rocket-scientist and worked on a greener product in 1967 which weapons would have less of an environmentally hazardous effect) of his, but before going over the professional aspects he basically insulted her culture and country, criticizing how wrong they were. Yarab said he was in the kitchen getting water and had to leave because he couldn’t help but laugh, saying how his step-father was brilliant but very opinionated and could be rude. “He’s a buddhist-atheist,” he said, and I thought of us chanting. I brought up Niechren Buddhism and the lotus sutra, expressing how nice it made me feel after. He said any way to get peace is a good one, but atheists shouldn’t be ignorant when talking about their non-beliefs because that’s just as bad as religious people talking about their beliefs. Alistair commended him on never forcing his beliefs on Alistair, and I asked what he thought of God.



He described himself as polytheistic, saying that there wasn’t just one god but many, and because of how everything in the universe connects and resembles each other there must be something to cause it, because it can’t be explained. I thought about the mystery of life and how it’s developmental to wonder about it, and felt secure in the fluidity of my beliefs which has a general principle, that life may not be a coincidence but it is comprised with a series of coincidences and connect factors which cannot always be explained or determined, but rather appreciated and analyzed to create a memorable life in which existence is valued. I didn’t ask further about his gods, but I figured the idea he held was similar to the atheistic view Alistair held and the scientific-spirituality I held as well.



It was interesting talking to another person about it besides Alistair, and the discussion changed and added to the one we had the night before, when Alistair and I were drinking ***** with ginger ale (while I tinted with green food dye). I’ve always appreciated drunk talks with Alistair because they were some of the most real conversations I had. I brought up the hour-long documentary “Obey” and confessed my frustrations about the consumerist-capitalistic society we live in, where it’s nearly impossible to change the system as we’re being monitored. Big Brother is among us, I noted, and I praised George Orwell as a prophet and how we are living in 1984 even though so many people fail to realize it and don’t care or consider the bigger consequences of it. There was something so mystical in our depressing little talk, and I felt empowered to reexamine my life and work towards something with meaning.



While maybe more spiritual than existential, I knew Yarab could understand these ideas and provide even more insight to the social issues which confined us, the same ones we were so immersed in. We toasted to Alistair’s birthday; we toasted to being Arab; we toasted to Franklin Lamb; we toasted to Palestine; we toasted to peace.



Alistair was in the bathroom and I asked Yarab whether it was possible to live outside Capitalism without rejecting social conventions, being isolated and living off the Earth away from society. He replied it was very hard not to feed into the system, and explained how even he felt like a hypocrite for living in the U.S. and being American when his family and people were in Syria enduring the hardship of resources, lack of employment and political regimes. He explained that it was necessary to be a part of the system but not buy into it, to use the system and eventually work towards changing it. “Like Robin Hood,” he said. I told him it was hard because it seemed so easy to get ****** into it, and he said work towards what you believe in. “You’ll have a clear conscience.”



Alistair came back from the bathroom, and he talked about going to Lebanon toward the end of summer. “I could study Arabic at AUB,” and I supported his idea. Yarab chimed in that he deeply respected my father because of his work. “He actually cares about what’s happening and he speaks from the heart.” I was proud of my father for his work, despite everything else, and thought it interesting that the one Syrian we happen to encounter in our small town was immersed in politics and actively followed my father.



“You should take over what your dad is doing,” Yarab said to Alistair, and Alistair agreed it would be a good thing to do. Alistair mentioned Fatima Hajj and my time learning about Palestinians and spent in refugee camps. “She died a week after Louisa interviewed her.” “Three days,” I corrected him, and I felt my insides turn as we reminisced on my accomplishments. Almost two years had passed, and I made no progress on my activism, besides an article. Two weeks was not enough to change the world, although from my feedback it was clear I had inspired many.



I told them both how I felt so stagnant and unintelligent, boring and unproductive regarding any progress of working towards something of importance.”Do what you can while you’re able. Even if you don’t see it grow, you can still plant the seeds. You can be a sheep or you can be a Lamb.” I was grateful that my brother had a friend who could think about the world in a way differently than the normal crowd of friends he had who just focused on losing themselves in substances with no thought of life beyond their boring little lives.



Alistair suggested I visit Beirut for a month to see visit Dad, make connections and see what else was happening in Lebanon, Syria and throughout the Middle-East, and my heart sank with nostalgia and the prospect of a dream. I could see us going to Lebanon, and if I went I would feel inflated with purpose, the way I felt when I went before, the way I felt I could change the world. Yarab agreed with Alistair and supported my journalistic endeavors, while Alistair mentioned Mediciens sans Frontiers. “I don’t know if I’d be able to,” and I thought about you, Camino and Arizona. I thought about ASU and AUB. “Rachel would understand if you went for a month right?” I didn’t want to listen what I knew would follow.

After finishing our food we went outside to smoke. Alistair drank his beer, I chugged mine and Yarab left more than half of his second Stella. “I have to drive,” so Alistair picked it up and emptied the cup in two stealthy gulps.We went back to the garage and the plan was to drive back to a house party in Accokeek. I didn’t know Elton, or what to expect, but from the company I knew they kept in Accokeek, I expected a drastic change in environment from the bar talk with two like-minded Arabs.



Alistair packed the bowl again, and I was offered to smoke but again declined. “We stopped smoking.” “Rachel smoked with me while she was waiting for you to get off work one day.” “What? Recently?” “Yeah, like two to three weeks ago or something. I was in disbelief. “Are you serious? We were stopping together! She didn’t even tell me!” I was angry, and resented feeling like a fool, believing that we made a decision together—only to discover my efforts were stronger than hers. “Don’t ask her about it though.”



“No! I’m going to. Here I am, not doing anything and she does it? Doesn’t tell me about it?? It’s not that she did it but she didn’t even tell me. Typical *****. We talked about it since and she just chose not to bring it up? And she’s here accusing me of things when I’m not doing anything wrong?”



“She’s probably projecting her guilt on you.” I thought about other times I didn’t know about something and remembered finding out and feeling so stupid. “Do you want some?” “Maybe I will.. but no. Not right now.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.



But I did. I asked you and we texted about it, and in the car I felt annoyed and unincluded, rejecting the **** that was offered to me. By the time we got to the house, I left my phone in the car. I was there to spend time with my brother, not get into a text fight over something that didn’t matter anyway. We went inside and I didn’t recognize everyone. I suspected I was the youngest, and I couldn’t help but observe I was the thinnest girl. People were playing beer pong and sitting at a table. Someone offered me a beer. I sat down on a couch. Alistair was getting hugs from girls and handshakes and fist-bumps from guys, and I made brief introductions with no real effort of talking to anyone. There weren’t many seats, and the most comfortable couches were facing the television where rap videos were playing. I hadn’t heard any off the songs that were on the playlist, and felt uncomfortable by the blatant sexuality and objectification of girls in the videos. The drunk girls were dancing to the music and singing along with the degrading, raunchy lyrics. “Can we smoke?”



I hesitated and held the bowl in my hand, staring at the green. I thought about putting it down. “I haven’t smoked in two months and twenty-one days,” I vocalized, and some guy (who didn’t smoked) responded “but who’s counting?” “Come on Weezee,” and after further hesitation I decided it was nothing new, and nothing bad would happen as a result. I brought the piece to my lips, lowered the lighter and inhaled. It was smooth, and I held it in my lungs for several seconds before slowly exhaling. I couldn’t feel it at first. It was passed around, and I took another hit. I thought about what you might be thinking about me, but pushed the thought from my mind. A guy made brief eye contact with me, and something about him seemed familiar. He had a beard and was wearing a hat, and I thought it was impossible I could know him. The other person who lived there asked if we could smoke in the room because the guy who asked me who was counting, and others, didn’t smoke. So we went. I hit the bowl once more and as we were standing I felt the high come to me, the surreal feeling of being and experiencing. In the room was myself, Alistair, Yarab, a guy with a ‘fro, Elton and the guy with the hat and beard. Someone packed the **** and handed it to me, but I refused; I was pressured and still refused. “I haven’t done this in a while, so no, I’m fine, and I’ve been drinking.” I think some were taken aback by how adamant I was not to push my limit, because it was so clear many people there viewed partying as pushing the limit.



Alistair introduced me to the guy with the beard and the hat as Mat, who worked at Chevy’s and now McCormicks, and I instantly recognized him. “Oh hey!” I said and hugged him, and he said “I thought you looked familiar. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been pretty good,” and I explained to Alistair that he worked with Alex at Bonefish Grill and was our server when we went in to her work once, years ago. They continued to smoke and I stood among them, half paying attention to conversation and half thinking about anything and everything else. There was a familiarity being among these people I’d never met, and the surrounding of burnouts. I wondered if everyone there was a server and that was all they did. I told Mat I worked at Buffalo Wild Wings as a server, my first serving job, yeah I like it okay, I guess, and he told me he knew Alistair through McCormicks. “I’m serving there too,” and I wondered how many restaurants he’d been through so far.



He told me he graduated from tech school and I congratulated him and asked, “which one?”, where he replied Lincoln Tech. I wasn’t surprised it was that type, and I told him I graduated from Salisbury with a degree in Psychology, which he congratulated me for. I felt it necessary to disclose I was taking the GRE in May and imply that, yes, while I am serving in Waldorf and my college degree doesn’t give me much to do in this area, I am going back to school and I am going to do more than stay around serving, like you. I was reminded of a poem I wrote and th
Marsha Lenihan once wrote, "People with BPD are like people with third degree burns all over their body, lacking emotional skin, they feel agony at the slightest touch or movement."

I used to cry when I said goodbye to my father after our weekly Tuesday night dinners
I'd play out games of Go fish and Rummy like there was no winner, but I was victorious next
to my daddy.  
His eyes still crinkle in the corners and his smell will always be long car rides with blankets, books on tape, and a wide range of conversations even though he was always late
But I'd weep like he actually just dropped dead every Tuesday night because I was petrified

My small but portly frame would crumple and I would mumble the worries I was too scared to say
I was afraid I'd see my daddy for the last time that day
I thought I had asthma because I was always fat and sometimes choked on the air in my lungs as if it was strangling me but I had my first panic attack in grade three

I was sitting in Mrs. Arlotta's classroom ladida
just like any other story about a schoolday when I was punched in the stomach
with a fist of "I miss my ******* dad"
there was this bully beating the **** out of me with no prologues warning
Just to remind me Despair
is not some abandoned pit people place their pity into
Despair, can be like an earwig, you use hope like tissues to squash out intrusion
but earwigs are smart, experts at delusion
earwigs know where to hide until you go to sleep

Every other weekend I used to sleep at my dads house with his british girlfriend
and his lovely cats and soothing hot tub
and his british girlfriend
and the fireplaces and the tribal music
and the british girlfriend
and the beautiful homemade pond and the greenhouse
and the british girlfriend

I liked roasting marshamallows until their crisp outer layer began to bubble but not for too long for if they fell in the fire there was trouble
Bort are you seriously letting the girl eat sweets tonight, god knows she doesn't need them

I liked riding my bike through Elizabeth park their flower garden was absolutley breathtaking
"you know Haley if you got off your *** more often moving your legs wouldn't be such a chore"

And I loved dinners with freshly picked herbs and seasonal tablecloths tucked in the curbs
"go ahead, have another helping, you're just like your mother, disgusting"

Well Karen I hope I'm like her and I hope she's disgusting
I hope she tasted disgusting on the leftover edges of my fathers lips
when you two were thrusting, could you also taste the hasty goodbyes he tossed like
rubber ducks to a family
waiting in line for him to come home
and waiting and waiting for him to never ******* come home

I loved my dad.
yes despair was everywhere but seeing my dad was like finding religion
if a child could comprehend the task of going to church

Christine Ann Lawson once wrote, " The borderling queen expreiances what therapists call oral greediness.  the desperate hunger of the borderline queen is a kin to the behavior of an infant who had gone too long between feedings.  Starved, frustrated, and beyond the ability to calm or sooth herself, she grabs, flails, wails until the last ****** is planted securely and perhaps too deeply in her mouth.  She coughs, gags, chokes, spits eyeing the elusive breast like a wolf guarding her food.  Similarily, the queen holds onto what is hers taking more than she could use, in case it might be taken away prematurely."

Did my eyes taste sour when you few times you kissed my lids goodnight maybe that's why there wasn't one ******* hour without a glass of wine, another beet, hide your shots of tequila behind the birthday cards I made you.

There was an ache of despair that you wouldn't always be there that when you decided you wanted to participate it was way past the expiration date
I said goodbye to my dad after dinner last night without a second look back, I forgot he could be dead when I was blowing lines to stay alive

Experts say a key symptom of borderling is chronic emptiness
Maybe if things had been different dad, I wouldn't be such a ******* mess
and you would have to pay Connecticutcare less.
like a fireplace she gave me a spark, knowing I needed the light.  

Starting as just a ember, I soon became Bright, It was to Her, in which I surrendered.

she watched me patiently, despite the pain on which I brought her, because of the choices I made,  I should have been stronger.  she is always forgiving, and always understanding, no matter who you are, She thought my old activites, where quite bizzare.

I was wreckless, selfish on how I act, She said that  "it was responsibiliy  that I had  lacked". I gave her arrogance, I gave her attitude, I made her worry, she laughed and joked on how this would be a journey.

She looks for answers she could not find above, she give me hope, she gives me meaning, She is Love.

By now I've began to notice, with a small diagnosis, that she begins to cave, because she is human to, she became emotions slave.

I was not the reason, for I know her inside and out, I was by her side, without a doubt.

Wanting to give back that spark she gave me oh so long ago,

I reach out to her, trying to feed her dying flame, It was the constant barrage of feelings that where to blame.

So I sit here trying to rekindle her heart, but with the current obstacles, we slowly drifted apart.
Mohammad Skati Jan 2015
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
Holly Salvatore Sep 2013
Those sleepless summer nights
Sweat pouring from every crack
In thinly layered sunburnt skins
It was all *******-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
So I've basically been losing my mind and the only thing I can compare it to is surrealism. Which incidentally I have always enjoyed and I usually paint in a similar style, but I don't like living it.
Matthew Nov 2019
like peach orchids standing passionately tall.
in cheery red poppy fields.
their rosy hues complementing their persuasive rumba.
bathed in perpendicular sunlight.

the parallel candle ends burning a waxy river.
a rainbow of cliche parasol drips dripping.
off tear drop stems thumping thrashing.
the peat moss growth of loneliness.

liberating a kissing pilotlight. 
drowning in aching elongated heart shapes.
reaching with brisk shores to
re-unite seductive continental drift.

damming all turbulent ocean currents. flowing through the darkest wayward days.
from the bare skin walked beaches.
impacted by grainlets of golden sands grinding.
crystallizing the depths of picaresque affections.

our bodies emotional obsessions.
tied to mutualism symbiotic entangled nature.
we plant loving lips in a blizzardery electric snow.
roasting fireplaces dreams.
addy r Dec 2013
“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)
drumhound Oct 2013
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.
SJ Stine Oct 2010
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.
Becca Apr 2014
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.
Marieta Maglas Aug 2013
The castle kitchens had big fireplaces, where the oxen and the meat
Were roasted on spits. The cookies were baking, roasting by using the heat.
The pantries were hung with birds, swans, pigeons, rabbits, mutton, ducks,
Venison and wild boar. Suddenly, the spring life became a luminous flux.

Everywhere on the tables, there were berries, nuts, and other fruits.
In the rooms, there were pottery, glass, fabrics, jackets, dress coats,  
Sweaters, bodices, pants, petticoats, silk, music, joy, pewter utensils,
Jewelry, purses, shoes, hats, ties, powders and eyebrow pencils.

‘The guests will arrive and the food is not ready, yet’, whispered Pauline.
'You can hurry a little’, said Frieda, ‘Guess, who's coming!’ ‘The queen!'
Anne tasted all the fresh food and drinks and found them well prepared.
'After you finish, open the windows, because the rooms are not aired.'

Queen hurried away, leaving behind a whiff of perfume and stress.
'Do you see her through the window? ‘What a splendid wedding dress!'
"Jezebel is beautiful. I heard that the marriage can change the doom.'
'Yes, the bad fortune of the bride can bring a bad fate for the groom.'
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

(At the monastery, Clara and Mary were preparing their luggage to go to the wedding.)

'I'm talking about this false teaching, which left me confused’, said Mary.
'No one is sinless perfect', said Clara, ‘we’re God's children. Be wary!'
'She hates her sisters; she walks in the darkness, while being so blind.'
'But God is Light, and the prayers have the power to change her mind.'

'She's not truly in fellowship with God, because she can't love her sister,
But I can't compare her with Surah, who is a real incurable blister.'
'Surah hates her sisters, she's a murderer, and doesn't need eternal life.
She's an ignorant, she needs power, and she lives only her life of strife.'

‘Is it true that whatever we ask, we receive from Him, because we fight
To keep His commandments, while doing what is pleasing in His sight?'
'It's true.' ', I asked Him to save my niece, but I didn't receive any response.'
'You must teach Surah how to love, and she will destroy her magic sconce.'

(It was three o’clock in the morning, and Surah entered the passage of the cave.
She entered the castle, and climbed up the stairs to be in the room of the tower.
There, she put two goblets on the table containing a beverage used to induce a coma.
After that, she came down from the tower to enter the Jezebel’s room.)

'How is my sweet niece, who will be a bride?' ‘I’m a little scared.'
'Every bride is scared knowing that her feelings in bed must be shared.'
"How was your first moment in bed?' 'Well, I started with a little kiss;
I gave it to the loveliness I was wallowing in. I felt the radiance of bliss.
(Surah smiled being a little tender while looking at her niece.)

‘Let me show you my wedding gift. Let’s go into the tower to see it.'
'This is a joke!' Surah took her hand. 'I have the key.' 'Does this key fit?
My mom can hear us, and you know that you're not allowed to enter here.'
'She cannot wake up early in this morning. Did you forget that I'm a seer?'

(Surah and Jezebel climbed up the stairs of the tower. They entered the room of the tower. Jezebel sat on a chair to marvel at the beauty of the altar and at the golden spindle. Surah took out a medallion from her pocket and put it into the Jezebel's hands. The medallion had two miniature portraits. One of them was the portrait of Frederick, and the other one was the portrait of a very beautiful woman.)

'I want you to know that this portrait belonged to his former dead fiancée.
He had abandoned her for another one. His love was only a flight of fancy.'
'Give me something to drink, my dear aunt, I really don't feel quite well!'
"Sure', said Surah giving her to drink the beverage having an interesting smell.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i used to be, what you might call husband material, and i stress that i used to be; i can count the number of girlfriends i had with one hand, no relationship lasting long enough to celebrate anniversaries.

i moved up in life, i'm still drinking
a £10.80 bottle of scot club whiskey,
but the mixer has been upgraded from
a £0.17 bottle of coca cola to a £0.55
bottle... and noticeable differences,
waking up with a hangover i used to
drink up the leftover mixer in the afternoon
(obviously the mix to get rid of insomnia
is really effective - naproxen is a more
effective version of paracetamol;
and in relation to the poem
*rock bottom england
, everyone's
abusing antibiotics these days,
people are making viruses cleverer,
all this darwinism against theology
has made us teach darwinism to viruses,
one cough, one sneeze and you're dead),
so yeah, conjunction usage like a comedian
on a stage, you never know what you're
going to say next, a bit like an r.e.m.
gimmick salute to nirvana, about
how many times you can say yeah in a song
(man on the moon, smells like teen spirit,
indeed i'm in that age bracket if you're asking,
i know more about steve tyler than swift tailor),
anyway... what was i saying?
oh yeah, the £0.17 bottle of coca cola is
over-fizzy, they jazzed things up with excess gas,
too much carbon dioxide,
it's too acidic,
i know because yesterday i bought
a bottle of pepsi, drank it today
and i didn't get heartburn... well, serves you
right for buying the cheap **** i thought,
so i upgraded to the £0.55 bottle
and guess what... no excess fizz!
but that's how it goes, the best albums
to listen to when walking in english suburbia
are burial's untrue album,
very experimental dub-step that's not really
about dabbling in a pigeon or chicken strut,
i.e. no "drop" that's a signature of drum & bass...
and susumu yokota's grinning cat,
both albums work perfectly with the illumination
on suburban streets of essex
(oh look, urbanity - consciousness -
suburbia - subconsciousness -
the countryside - the unconscious);
so the talk in the supermarket was
a guy stacking freezer products damning it
all with, quote: 'money is the vilest of evils
of this world',
true that i said out-loud walking back to
the automated cashiers with another £1.50
bottle of amstel beer...
england was playing the Netherlands
and was winning one nil,
a bad joke about the flatlands
and how the dutch were good when
johan cruyff played, getting to the final
in 1974 losing to west germany,
and how the germans cheated playing
in unplayable circumstances with poland
in a bog rather than a pitch, the rain man,
the swift polish players were no match
on a dry pitch, with the german heavy cavalry;
so then on the walk i peer into this one house,
a massive blue aquarium in it,
Poseidon's wallet... and i thought...
was i rich enough to own a house,
or if i were to be like a moralising Confucius,
teacher of humanity, i'd replace all
modern fireplaces that televisions are,
and install aquariums in every household.
Joseph Childress May 2014
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
Molly Morgan Feb 2010
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.
Morgan Jun 2013
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
Cali Jun 2012
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.
Verdae Geissler Sep 2012
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…..
hkr Mar 2014
we grew up together:
postcards for parents
and cigarettes
for fireplaces
we were best friends.

year twelve
//september//||||
“welcome back, boys and girls.”
knees together. shoulders back. chins up.
welcome back, she means, to the routine of
eight am target practice,
courtesy of the handbook.
they get to dolly first
“immaculate as always, dolores. how is your father?”
then hermia
“i see you failed to purchase proper burgundy over the summer”
i hold my breath
“mary dear, my how you’ve grown”
and let it out as they move onto
“good heavens, alice, put on some clothes.”
she rolls her eyes.

in the bathroom i tie my shoes
to a soundtrack of gagging
and spray perfume down the toilet
when she’s finished.

she locks our pinkies
like we’re back in year nine
don’t tell dolly

//october//||||
the lower the sun sets
the more we’re in dolly’s room

she brews coffee in her contraband *** --
she won’t smoke with us, but coffee
is worth breaking rules for --
and tucks us into her bed
to tell us fairytales

yet somehow, it always ends up being hers

she talks about him
like prince charming
like he doesn’t have
a face of zits and
a weird haircut
like she can see
a future in him

alice gags under the covers
this time not out of self-hate
but disgust
and dolly laughs like a grown up
you’ll understand one day.

she does a little spin into her bathroom
to fix her makeup; “seeing him later”
and alice whispers
“if she weren’t dolly
i’d swear she was on the hard stuff”
i find myself trying to remember what it’s like
to be so happy
i could pass a drug test.

//november//|||
we’re smoking by the pier when it happens
with some sad boys
hermia seduced for cigarettes

she smokes the prettiest
and we’re convinced she doesn’t swallow
but a cigarette is a cigarette

alice always smokes like its her last
and i guess the boys like the way
she lights theirs for them

i’m not much of a smoker
but a boy from alice’s algebra class --
math for future ivy dropouts, as she likes to call it --
lights one for me anyway
and tells me his name
but both are forgotten within minutes

partially due
to my adhd [diagnosed by alice]
and partially due
to the security guard that rounds the corner
algebra snuffs our cigs and alice’s clan snuffs theirs,
but hermia isn’t so lucky
after a streaking incident last year
she’s been convinced they’re out to get her
and i guess she was right.
we offer her the coffee ***
as a goodbye present
but she pierces our ears instead --
what she promised to do for christmas --
and tells us where she hid
her lighter.


//december//|||
it’s just alice and i over break
since dolly has family
that actually comes home for holidays

i get a card from my parents
and alice doesn’t get anything
but when we walk into town
she treats herself to some hair dye
after all, it’s a five-fingered sale

my heart doesn’t beat in my chest
when we pass the security cameras
but i find myself wishing it did
wishing i remembered
guilt

an hour later
alice rinses the dye out
and emerges from the shower
the stretch marks on her legs
reminding me why
i let myself go numb

//january//|||
it’s new years and
we’re in somebody’s dorm room
watching fireworks on tv

everyone’s paired up;
dolly with her prince
alice with the same dude
hermia slept with,
rubber in his pockets
and me
with the sad boy from the pier
laying in the dark

he smells like the boy i lost it to
and i want to be sick
but when he kisses me at 12
i let him

some ******* pulls out a sparkler
i hear the fire alarm
then suddenly we’re drenched and
screaming, wet rats in the street

they call roll
no dolly
no prince

we wait for her in her room
alice falls asleep
until she comes in sobbing
a mess of
it was perfect
until the fire alarm went off

and
they’re shipping me out tomorrow
and, the quietest
he says there’s no point
in long distance.


//february//||
there’s snow up to the windowpanes
and everybody’s depressed
alice stays in my room
and they let her
knowing she has a history
when it comes to february’s

i.e. if they make her get out of bed
she’ll call her father

nobody has to know
that she lost her phone
in the snow last week
or that
even if she hadn’t
he hasn’t picked up
in months.




she likes to talk to boys instead
when she’s lucid
she brushes her hair
and opens the window
and hollers back at them
when they whistle

nobody has to know
she’s wearing her pajamas.

//march//||
when the sun comes out, so does she
“i’m going for a walk”
she says, in her pajamas
she borrows my phone to make a call

but that’s the morning
and soon it’s noon
and i wonder
how long one phone call
could possibly take?

when she isn’t back by dark
the school’s 911 call
only takes a second.

//april//|
they find her  body
at the bottom of the lake.

//may//|
“and what legacy have you given back
to the academy?”
i put on my graduation cap
and wonder
if the cigarettes
the sparklers
and *****
in the bathrooms
aren’t quite enough.
Sarina Jul 2013
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.
Trevor Lamberty May 2013
As far back as I can remember
I wanted to be a
Paleontologist
Someone who looks at the old, decayed
Bones of creatures that never asked for
Love.
I wanted to be someone who dug through
Inches, feet, yards, miles of dirt
For a charred fragment of bone
that was so far away from
Home that the only
Contact it could make with its family
Was through the wires of the
Telephone
I wanted to be someone
Important.
Then that phase passed.

Later on, I wanted to be a writer,
Because there’s something about
Creation that’s so spontaneous
That it can lift souls higher
Make hearts lighter
If you do it right.
I wanted to write an expansion of
Cliché in such a grandiose way
That could make everything
Seem
Just right for some night when
That rush of creativity spills through
My fingertips
Like water dripping from the stalactites of
A cognitive cave of irrelevance
I just wanted to write.

Well, then that phase passed
And I wanted to be a doctor
Because there was something about
The cure that kept me up at night
Wondering how innocent and pure
That baby’s face is as his mother is
Carted down the hall on a gurney,
Who barely lived to see thirty years
On Earth
Whose constant fear of
“How will they survive”
sat on the first tear she cried
When her doctor diagnosed her.
That woman who had so much time ahead of her
But whose debilitating cancer always kept her from
Home.  
So much so that “home” became an
I.V. bag and a hospital bed.  
So much so that
“Home” went from fireplaces and kittens
To MRI machines and seven minutes
To live,
So much so that “home” became a myth.

And there are a lot of myths
Today.
There are myths today so farfetched and
Filled with hate, like
“It’s a choice, the one with whom you
fornicate” and
“It’s not that you’re a bad person, it’s that you’re
a disgrace, but I’m not trying to discriminate against
you.”
And they say these things with such distaste that they
Forget those with whom they’re supposed to relate
And love.

But now, love has become something
Blurred
Something obscured by religious fanatics and
Old, dusty books
Something regulated by governments and
Followed blindly by people at the risk of being
Burned, something
We’re afraid of.
Love.
The most toxic word
In the English language.
The word that makes and breaks
Empires, the word that lights
Fires in the hearts of men and women
In the most remote places,
The word that connects hearts
Instead of faces,
That fills a thousand vases
On the altars of every church
That allows people to
Love someone for who they
Are, and as each heart races they
Find the real meaning of  
Love.

Because here’s the thing.
“There is no love without hate”
Now that’s one of the few things
You can appreciate,
Your right to hate
Please.
Don’t feed me that line.
Because we both know that,
When you’re older,
You’re just gonna end up
Crying in the corner
Like the spoiled little
Brat you’ve always been,
Like that boulder of hate
Was never lifted off your
Shoulder
And why should it?

So let it fall.
Let yourself give in to
The pressure
Of defeat,
Like that dinosaur
That only wanted
Something to eat
But instead was
Cheated out of every
Chance it had to live.
Feel it burning
Deep inside you
All that hate
Yearning to get out
Let it consume you.

Maybe someday,
Someone will dig up your
Bones.  
Maybe someday, someone will
Remember you.  And
Maybe they will label you.
By your species.
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
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?
Sjr1000 Oct 2015
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.
It has been another year of forest fires, acting like no others in past history. Fire is a force of nature with no mercy,terrifying, more powerful than fragile humans, it also has all of the characteristics of life, perhaps the real alien life form.
"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
Martina Ngose Jan 2015
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!!!
Jayme M Yaroch Oct 2011
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
I think this is the final product.  I hope it makes sense!
maybella snow Oct 2013
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.
sorry idk what this is but its depression i guess idk
lulu Aug 2016
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.
** Write a poem inspired by autumn. What does it smell like? What does it feel like? What does it sound like? What does it look like? What does it mean to you? Send them to me! I would love to read them!!! **
Joseph Childress Feb 2014
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

— The End —