"heaters" poems
Showers make me wet
Shoes get me going
Heaters make everything hotter
And as soon as you've left
Everything is right
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
What music
slowly covers
the background-
of twelve cylinder
nostalgia
and new age
conformity?
Blends with
the whispers
of the breeze
and the
child's laughter?
Where are we
now that
the Greasers
run the town?
Their style,
their swag,
so appealing.
What comes
if it when,
the canine
shivers
and the
heaters are loaded?
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 8:51 PM UTC
I want summer like I want you, constantly. I’m tired of cold that snatches my breath and hope. I want the trees to regain their decency and cover their bare limbs. Wearing the greenest fullest blouses. I want the grass to grow. Thunder to roll and rain to fall. I want fat drops to bounce of the pavement, to wash my face and hair.
I want the sun to bath my skin in beauty, making it glow with warmth. I want dresses and shorts and skirts. I want brown legs and flip-flops. I want turquoise pools and florescent swimsuits.
I’m sick of cold fingers and toes. I’m tired of heaters and blankets. I want to roll down the windows. I want sweat on my back and only sheets on my bed. I’d love warm nights, drinking sweet tea, and making love beneath the stars. I wish for glowing street lights and lake nights. I want to sit in the windows of cars at sonic.
I want barbeque sunflower seeds and the fourth of July.
I want field parties with only beer and red bull, and only bonfires to see by. I want fireflies and chigger bites. Lemonade out of mason jars.
I miss cotton, and sandals. I miss volleyball, ***** feet, and ponytails. But what I miss most about summer is freedom. Those summer night driving under an endless sky of stars.
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
Her timid, inexperienced hands
Young, unsure and insecure
Didn't understand
The power in her touch soothed his soul.
She had no idea she was the chosen one
As an evolved woman in her 40s
She now understands that
Her hands felt like heaters when they touched his soul.
Penetrating his skin
Skin smooth like silk
Passion hot like fire
The majestic curve of her hips
The fullness of her *******
The softness of her lips
Had a hypnotic effect
Shaking this very powerful man
To his very core.
To see your soul's mirror reflection
In another being
Was completely unnerving
The vicious battle of wills and ego
That later ensued
Was simply a defense mechanism
For the both of them
This level of intimacy
Felt like a personal invasion
What felt like an attempt
Of mind and body control
Or strategic manipulation
Was truly the essence
Of old familiar souls
Reconnecting with each other
This unbridled passion
Was electrifying
Every nerve was a live wire
Intensity so strong it was alarming
******** full body electrocutions
Powerfully addictive
Never underestimate the significance
Of the soul tie
For as ancient energies exchange
Souls intertwine
This is an unbreakable bond
Stronger than betrayal, conflict or estrangement
Its unforgettable
Holding this queen to your chest
Without uttering a single word
She was "home"
Only the two of you
share this special space
With the ability to speak to
each others thoughts
And feel the others' soul cries
You are deeply connected
You are not alone
So in the next lifetime
Be brave enough
To trust each other.
Respect this bond as something far more than simple lust
May we seize the opportunity
And learn, build and grow together
May next journey not be so lonely
Marred with confusion, insecurities
Ego and self doubt
May we find comfort
In our shared heartache
Of the loss of our earthly mothers
We will forever be connected spiritually
Throughout the passage of time
And the rest of eternity
Until we meet again.
© 2017
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 4:01 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
gardening time is here time to get the seed
clean up all the borders pulling out the ****
time to the get compost so the plants will grow
put them in the greenhouse till they begin to show
keep them nice warm turn the heaters on
then put them in the garden when all the frost as gone
time to mow the lawn cut it nice and neat
then sit down and relax on the garden seat
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
It was a highway that brought me here
Stuffed into a expensive car with four adults and good music
We drove for what seemed hours
Arriving on the slick, black streets of the Emerald City
Down a rabbit hole of old cars and termite ridden stairs
Past an old couch and a stray cat
Into a cold room with heaters stacked and jumbled
Full of pianos and good and beer
People I've known for twelve years
And people I've met only once
People I don't know
Different skins, of their own, of animals
Frizzy and cropped hair, wine and mason jar glasses
Walls painted silver, gleaming under forty year old lamps
Mismatched furniture and occupants alike
Sirens singing in the background
Children running through the foreground
Old friends and a blind man with a big dog
Visual artists and IRS agents
Musicians and carpenters
Mechanical engineers
Cobbled together around and old fireplace and a rosewood piano
Sharing stories and songs, sons and daughters
Tales from the road, and wedding pictures
I sat on an orange pleather couch in the makeshift kitchen
Watching theses people's children play with bionicles and dolls
Reading books and drawing on walls
Playing drums and answering calls
Fighting for bathroom stall
These are my people
I know them all
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 1:43 AM UTC
Phonecalls
Late nights
Your voice
Taxi drives.
Cocktails
Beers
Apartment heaters
Christmas cheer.
I'm
F
A
L
L
I
N
G
too fast
too hard
for you.
I CAN'T
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
FRIDAY
1:00 – 3:30
I swept the packing area.
Three neat piles of duct tape,
plastic wrap, saw dust, dumped
into a trashcan. Made
another mess while packing
toys into boxes for the
community’s Angel Tree.
MONDAY
11:15 - 12:45
A self-proclaimed alcoholic
asked me for a cigarette. He
preached to me with an unsteady
tongue and hollow eyes. I met a case
worker named Maria and alphabetized
children’s names and Christmas wishes.
2:30 - 4:30
Stapled $7.00 price tags
to shirt collars, pants pockets,
working alongside a man
who served ten years in
prison. He finished loading
a shopping cart and I pushed
the items into the store.
I put cracked ceramic plates,
dusty books, and twisted wire
roosters onto an empty shelf.
TUESDAY
2:30 – 3:30
Maria turned the wish forms
into Captain Smith. I went
to the Captain’s office and
entered Christmas wishes
into a database. Captain Smith
tapped her fingers on the desk,
hummed along to her Christian
radio station and talked about
the importance of volunteers.
3:45 – 5:00
The yard on the east side
of the store needed to be
cleaned. Plastic wrap blown
into the barbed wire fence
surrounding broken computers,
archaic metal heaters, and
miscellaneous types of scrap.
After we loaded the trailer
I swept the packing area
and smoked a cigarette.
WEDNESDAY
11:15 – 1:30
I finished entering the
forms into Captain
Smith’s computer
while she was out
at lunch. I walked around
outside but I didn’t find
the drunk. Captain
Smith signed my
completion of volunteer
service sheet and joked,
“I guess we won’t be
seeing you again.”
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 6:41 PM UTC
Step one is waking up
and writing about your day.
I want to talk about language,
your mothers cheapest wine and worst blueberry jam
staining all your best clothes with verses.
Vignettes appearing all over
the rented tuxedo from the wedding.
Dark ink and oil separates in a margarita glass
soaking into the cuts on your dry lips,
dusting your hair and the spaces
between each individual vertebrae.
Syllables dripping from the tip of your nose
and fingernails
leave novels on the linoleum and
books of sentence fragments on the hardwood.
Poets bleed into cracks on fine china
pooling into poems.
Space heaters emit quotes from dead people
I sign each word when
the analogue clock ticks,
each poem adding another minute to the day.
I’m always hoping I can squeeze in a few more hours
so I can watch the ****** orange sky
with grass in my shirt,
the Pixies mumbling in the background
leaving lyrics trapped in my teeth.
Anthologies of letters
between man and his dog
hidden onomatopoeias in every backyard.
I'll write you 364 days of the year
too many paragraphs to fill the barbecue.
Burn through pages with paper matches
making enough poems to last a decade.
Transfer phrases into the soles of my shoes,
I want to walk on water,
the "W" curled up beside my baby toe.
Every inch of the fabric we call skin,
stamps and ink pads,
turn everything to poetry.
Despite seas of fog
where breathing stops the words
from forming in your throat,
the only way to express is by experience
and frantic fountain pens.
Smoke on the balcony
writes starry sonnets about the girl in your bed
lining the waxing moon with poetry,
a **** homage to Shakespeare himself.
Serendipity;
finding something good without looking for it.
A feeling I have encountered
keeping my breathing sporadic,
rarely setting me on fire.
Living Chinese finger traps
burning blue poems on my palms
splotching the back of my neck
licking up my thigh and hips.
Let me throw away my common sense,
the final step of becoming a poet.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC
Your hands are trembling touches, shaky decisions, and warm wishes
Your lips like soft pillows, unrelenting waves, and firm beliefs
Your mouth like home, like hungry minds, like silent promises
Your shoulders like stability
Your chest like my hiding place
Your back like protection, like a shield, like my security
Your arms like a seatbelt, like heaters, like my comfort
Words like sugar
Eyes like oceans
Hair like down
Voice like honey
Dégagé
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
She was an excited little thing
Always running around you
couldn't miss her. She would
Sneeze and the fire brigade would
come and douse her out she
Was a **little fire *******
She was always full of flare
The ones she shot in to the air,
Children loved her displays,
As they would shoot upon the
Heavens and explode into a
Million stars for moments the
sky was alive with fire.
She lit the heaters of the towns
Folk, to keep them warm in winter.
But she was so alone the last of
The little missus, who's flame
Always burnt brighter.
"Little miss fire hazard" grew majestic
And loved by towns folk and those
Lucky enough too meet her, but she
Passed as all things do, but too this
Day a flame still burns bright never
Does it flicker, it burns bright forever
More as generation down the line, the
Towns folk remember and miss her.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
No one can love you the way that I do.
I can,
Decipher the codes on your finger nails
Never painted
Because you can be beautiful without it.
I can,
Make you laugh
When you’re too close to crying
And you have no energy left
To lift you back up.
I can make heaters out of my hands
When you are cold,
And lyrics out of my love
Because no one can love
You the way that I do.
I can make you feel comfortable enough
Until you realize
That you should’ve felt insecure.
I can, give you promises
That will cut parts of my heart
And I will keep them
Because I like my new heart
Even better that way;
I can talk to you.
I can talk to you.
I can talk to you until we run out of water
And fresh juice
To nourish our mouths
And even then, I would still have more to give,
I can talk to you
At midnights and early mornings
Until our eyes
Are but seeds
Watered by the burning droplets of rain
Over the oceans of emotion over flowing between us.
I can listen to you,
I can hear your words
Like your heart was tapping
On my inner soul
And my heart opens the door
And tells you
“I know what you mean”
I can listen,
To the silence in your eyes
As they speak to me
I can listen,
To the depth of your soul
I can listen to that burning fire of yours.
That vividness.
That rage.
That triumph
That fervor
That love
That pride,
That vulnerability,
That, and all that aside
No one can love you
The way that I do.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:13 PM UTC
The flame
In his chest
The same
To the rest
But twisted
As he was
Blessed
But gifted
With inferiority
And was horribly
Conflicted
Of the message
He was meshing
With the decrepit
Feeling
Of his fleeting
Half stepping
To the
Recollections
Of his blessings
That he was tempted
To dissect
From the crowd
Inflicted
Despite the
Shroud
Of clouded
Bouts
Torn from
The panicked ****
Of the phobias
He knew they were scared of
And glared
Right through them
Before he opened up
His coat
And started shooting
Proving
Others wise
In the silent
Reprise
Of 45's
And nines
He smiled
In the exile
Of fear
Escaping
Through
The fading
Lights
Of dying eyes
In the wild
Surmise
That with each
Trigger squeeze
Eased him
Into shame
As he
Aimed
To please
For the release
Of lives
Crawling
For the
Finished
Lines
And in gorgazmic
Slitherings
He delivered
The final blows
With power ups
And scores
Progressing
The killing
As he reloads
With shrilling
Grins
And stints
Of compassion
Fashioning
The rationed
Satisfaction
He received
From the screaming
Mothers and babies
Brothers and maybes
Splattering
On the plastic trees
Of escalators
And skeezes
That laid shuttering
Headless
Upon the exits
Of his
Insurrected mind
And he was just fine
With dying
In kind
And he was just fine
Shining from
The shrine
Of Santa
In a sonata
Of solidarity
To the led
Soldering morals
In a story
Of victory
And of
Personal glory
For the lords
Of defeat
Seething
In the completeness
Of a defeatist
As he stuck
The heaters
In his mouth
And was out
Without
One doubt
As to what
Nothing
Means
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 5:38 PM UTC
all grown up and here i am
a child again
you've taken me back to the easiness
of jokes and meaningless words and smiles
that mean nothing more than happiness
childish tunes of light footsteps
and heavy touch of hand on hand
and cold air burning cheeks bright red
and heaters bringing out the best in our ability
to just lie still and complain
about things we know don't matter, and besides
with you, it's all a joke, it's all a game
and yet there's a seriousness to the smile in your eyes
that pins my chest to yours
and my mind to your words
and it's this combination that keeps me here
after hours, after the walls have been emptied of echoes
and the windows are darkened by cold and near-midnight
with you, growing older and younger
and happier
simple words come to mind
so here they are
let's keep growing together
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
Enough of the hard gripped madness
Enough of the glass shattering sadness
Enough are the words on the page
Form forgets itself when aroused elsewhere
There was no magic in our glare
Simple pure planned demi-god like Hate
Worms were the things that made our love fall apart
The fire wheeling magician with pockets of loose change
We were nothing but fragments in our game all the same
Off and away these words ridicule the minds that read them
Shining truth as if they were just seated at the most beautiful booth
To hear the pleasantries of the mass is being hooked like a great bass
Sin eaters like the fire eaters both with broken heaters
Earrings that swing from side to vicisous side
Good and bad too preach on ears that don't know to delete
Another misfortune in time that never stands still
Ill to the will who low and behold takes the little blue pill
There is a faint mournful morning dust on mine window sill
Panic stricken I started thinkin' of the way out of this mess
But to my surprise and of course my first instinctful guess
I turned out to be the one at the party without a dress
Corn mocks itself telling the mirror its too fat
You've killed us all and yet your so small
Granting itself permission to never again enter the mall
Fiend friend better send
All their money off and away
For the mighty bill is here to the blank end
Let by gone's be by gones
Until the bones begin to break
And there ain't a trace of the song
Notes of noting that leave nothing in my ears
I listen to them all
But hear nothing
Has the sight went away with the sighing of the day?
Am I so lost
I can't see the falling summer frost?
Cornered in the market of a fresh bakers reality
The bread has been rising
I'm afraid it won't be able to stop
Off to the ridicule to put myself though medical school
The shimmering metallic utensils
Have never laid so deathly still
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 10:03 PM UTC
You’re silent.
You’re embryos of animals
You’re charged weapons
You’re creatures sitting in the ark
You’re TVs
You’re a guide of metro
You’re passengers without weapons
You’re fallen lustres
You’re heaters
You’re toys
Mom loudly cried
She ran and hugged the policeman
At the window of a shop
The policeman, who killed a child yesterday
Mom cried loudly
She ran and hugged , in the corner of street
Next to the church,
Padre, in the front of vulcanization
Who ***** a girl in the corner of street yesterday, next to a church.
Mom is shouting
She ran and hugged the politician on pavilion
The politician, who sold motherland of others.
Mom was screaming and ran to shop
And bought *****
Mom drank *****
And whole night she looked alike a wistit
You’re silent.
You’re embryos of animals
You’re charged weapons
You’re creatures sitting in the ark
You’re TVs
You’re a guide of metro
You’re passengers without weapons
You’re fallen lustres
You’re heaters
You’re toys
You’re the mom , who hugged a guilty policeman with happiness/
And then in the corner of street, next to the church,
In the front of vulcanization, hugged a villain padre and a traitor politician standing in a pavilion.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
Two Anna's hummingbirds, dance at the door
under the pane, in a mid-morning pour
whispering winds, voices through chimes
a whimsical picture, woven in rhyme
Perched on a limb (just a few yards back)
a pileated pecker, with breast of black!
foraging sparrows, partners in crime
picking out seeds from conical pine
A weighted blanket, and dark roasted brew
sipped on a rocker, with the daily news
the stream keeper watching, fluttering high
dipping and darting, at (wild) passers-by
Baseboard heaters, comfort the room
four months to go, to the April bloom!
the afternoon passes, in dense gray fog
a sliver of sunshine, catches a log
Into the evening, a soft glowing light
gusts on the water, gulls take flight
crows at a distance, nestled in trees
branches swaying, to a south-east breeze
Patterns of nature, the rhythm runs deep
“those rich forest gems, to the soul they will creep”
an archway to heaven, with guiding raccoons
look over yonder…the quiet tan moon!
Jan 25, 2020
Jan 25, 2020 at 6:15 PM UTC
Technology in upheaval my beer is full.
*** fills my mind with pheromones while half my hand goes limp.
I can’t feel, and nobody can feel me.
This perplexing relationship is mute resting in a lull.
I go away soon. My brain sees the afternoon and never more sooner do I go lunar.
It’s a language fight, who has the right, I might, with delight I entice the ever bloated fat cat with money scats coming from three throngs of bludgeoning
It’s turning into a symphony you seeing me, me seeing me, you seeing you, you blowing who. ******* the dmca from the caves of *** filled futures of virus infected tri-elected future tumor leaders.
**** the breeders! Heaters is what I have, ******* for the slave pit to go desolate into it, feeling the kit in it my slit, that which you lick. I hit and quit with quite the light of resolution and destitution upon your innovations of new year munitions.
It’s a ******* mind game, stop asking and stop doing the same.You have it [answers] in your hearts.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
The day breaks and the morning comes alive
The down and outs leave their luxurious trappings
The shop doorways are hosed down
The rush hour rushes by
Shop girls display tomorrow's must haves
Perfume lingers over the first hit of coffee
Gossip travels at high speed
Numb minding work begins
Old lady fidgets with new generation card
The war was easier she sighs
Kids try to sell you tomorrows version of yesterday's wheel
No catch up it seems in the technological world
Only the race to the bottom
Traders popping uppers invent the ten day week
Live for today, dollar tomorrow
Gold and sharp suits can’t hide the body crumbling
Clinics battery charge the fading hopefuls
New lease of life, the temporary meltdown
One born every minute
Evening drinks ***** the day from hell
Home time sets tomorrow's doom alarm
The night people emerge
Shop doorway heaters blowing, provide luxury
Last weeks paper catches his eye
He immediately goes to stocks and shares
Things are looking great
Just as he predicted
The twenty four year old drifts off to sleep, smiling thoughts of yesteryear
Those were the days
Those were the days.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 4:58 PM UTC
in this crazed business of flighty gods and flitty humans,
this trove of love need,
this two way street for persons blind in one eye
thus they can see you,
the one who loves them
only when they squint real hard,
well it is a far better thing
to be next them,
to be seen and be seeing
than have the
ceiling be your horizon,
a pillow oscar-acting as a long lost love,
cold sheets and space heaters each losing the battle,
for when the moment occurs that
loving usurps loneliness
even for a moment’s moment,
it is a far better thing you do
than you have ever done before
8:41pm
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 8:51 PM UTC
Our reflections on a brass doorknob .
A skeleton key would slowly turn each tumbler ..
Dusty pinewood flooring , antique trinkets ..
Propane space heaters and fresh coffee balm private , erstwhile collective memories . A matriarchs kitchen , well water aroma and cross stitched towels , her flour tinged cotton apron , cast iron skillets and brass tea kettle with porcelain service ushers spirited times of conviviality over a simple oak dining room table ..
Hand made breakfast nook curtains , the majesty of tall Water Oaks
with foraging bantam hens and roosters ..
Dirt roads would tell of visitors long before they ever arrived ,
fishing for shell crackers at the old bridge with cane poles and and dough ***** , leftovers from cat head biscuits at breakfast ...
Pecans and crabapples fed young anglers on shady Summer afternoons . Feeding tall grass to black angus and hereford cattle through barbed wire fence , collecting afternoon eggs and walking the furrows at Dusk ,
days I'll never forget ..
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
I envy modern arts
****** pigmented *******
Watching blue waves of smoke roll off the heaters blow
As I kiss you with my stale beer breath.
We are humans. Hydrogen and bonded.
By each moment.
Even as I chase you down for one last cigarette,
Vietnam is running out.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
My songs can make you cry
Take you by surprise at the same time
Can make you dry your eyes with the same rhyme
Now what your seeing is a genius at work
Which to me isn't work
So its easy to misinterpret it at first
Cause when I speak its tongue and cheek
I'd yank my ******* teeth
Before I'd ever bite my tongue
I'd slice my gums!
Get struck by ******* lightning twice at once!
And die and come back as Vanilla Ice's son
And walk around the rest of my life
Spit on, and kicked and hit with ****
Every time I sung
Like R. Kelly as soon as Bump & Grind comes on
More pain inside of my brain
Than the eyes of a little girl
Inside of a plane
Aimed at the world trade
Standing on Ronnie's grave
Screaming at the sky
Till clouds gather,
It's Clyde Mathers and Bonnie Jade
And that's pretty much the jist of it
Parents are ****** but the kids love it
Nine millimetre heaters stashed with two-seaters with meat cleavers
I don't blame you I wouldn't let Hailie listen to me neither
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC