"infernos" poems
Back in the day,
When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds,
We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood,
For weeks and weeks.
Everyone built towering infernos,
Ready for November Fifth:
Bonfire Night.
Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes,
Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot”
And stood in the street saying
“Penny for the Guy”.
What a night!
Roaring fire on a chill Winter night,
Those flames burning your face.
A World War Three
Of Fireworks:
Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers.
Bangers to scare the girls.
Kids painting pictures in the air
With sparklers.
And best of all,
That yummy gingery Parkin cake:
A taste I cannot put
Into words.
Oh and deep dark
Treacle Toffee,
Jacket potatoes,
Roast chestnuts
And Crunchie-like cinder toffee.
It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire.
Politically correct firework displays
Are more the modern thing.
Seems strange to burn the effigy
Of a man who had the sense
To try to blow parliament up –
Especially a Yorkshire Man.
Ha ha.
But then I read that good
Religious reasons are behind
This bonfire Celebration:
Those flames are orange
After all.
Not wishing to create divisions
Anywhere in the world,
It’s still good to see traditions
Being maintained.
Let those fires and fireworks keep rising,
Constantly emerging from the shadows
Of Halloween.
Paul Butters
© PB 27\10\2018.
Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
White lines on your wrists like lightning scars
The electricity sparking through your veins
Igniting a forest fire on your tongue and infernos in your chest.
You will not submit to them
You are not a controlled flame
There are scars on your wrists and that storm will thunder in your throat
Your blood is on fire and its burning through your skin
You cannot hide in the shadows for you are glowing
Come out and show them who you can be
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
I can see the way you stare at him, Virgo,
the way your eyelashes become batwing shadows
across your flushing cheeks
when he smiles back at you
I can tell how you feel about him, Virgo,
the feeling that sets the cold stars
embellishing the velvet in your eyes
into infernos.
I can only imagine the pain you felt, Virgo,
when he packed you along like a decoration
then left you on the curb like
a Christmas tree in the New Year.
I can understand why you did it, Virgo,
when you stared down the white throat
of the pill bottle at the dim and empty
bottom of its bowels.
I can't blame you for it, dear Virgo,
anymore than I can blame myself.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
**** bomb
monsoon girl
thunder roll with falling arms
the war of hot ****
flicker hive
i take your head while your mouth rims
chatters and wimps
your feet kicking
limbs slant wide
all desperate sliding
my ribs infernos
i'm your
BBQ
your my hot pepper stew
on a killer bed
your soul
eager torn clouds
a dragging nail tongue
sends you alabaster screams
like a winged sun drinking blood
your saliva diamond drool
black braids around ghost throat
a hemophilic dance
your center a wheezing fortress
my foot prints on your face
and
muddy kisses
that cant wait*
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 12:28 PM UTC
Skin like flowing flames
Eyes like infernos
Lips that make you spill every drop of your desires
Soft sharp fingers brushing sins into your soul
A voice like boiling honey
Promises of wild fantasies
Contracts in blood
All tricks of the Devil himself
~S.C. Kelley
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 12:12 AM UTC
Donald Trump's presidency
Is one of the greatest achievements in art I have ever experienced
And Trump is a true artist
He takes words from the page
Like corruption, disenfranchisement, xenophobia
And brings them to life
Highlighting fear and paranoia so clearly
Contrasting the blacks and whites
Emphasizing anger
While reminding us we're mere infants
In the digital age
And warning us of our seniority
And capitalism's
We all like to think life has meaning
Until we hit an animal with our car
Then that's just the way things are
And I'm staring at an absurdist painting
Of a child driving a car
Through a herd of sheep
As I watch a heist film
Where the robbers turn their guns over
To the mentally unstable guy in the group
Trump is a national artist
Placing riots on the map
And drawing infernos on the Internet
His art forces an opinion
Everybody has something to say about him
And it's all true
Even the pages he ripped from his own cabinet
Tried to villainize him in their script
But he was already an anti-hero
The humor is that the mud slung onto him
Is dirt kicked up from his own tires
I guess if you surround yourself with hateful people
You're surrounding yourself with people who probably hate you
Trump's art is deeply conflicting
He reminds me of the people who want me to live in shame
Yet he embodies the individuality that separates me from that shame
His insecurities remind me of myself
High school is the White House in the eyes of a kid
And I had secrets I wanted to share
But felt I couldn't
I learned things
That changed my entire perspective
And didn't think people would understand
Afraid of being assaulted for my indiscretions
I hid behind a boisterous personality
And a nonchalant attitude
Trump's art evokes sympathy and hatred that feels so strong
When he holds a mirror defining our worst qualities
To a man viscerally opposed to his own reflection
The confliction of emotions
Is the hallmark of great art
We are all artists
The lines we write or the strokes we brush
Are in our actions
And Trump's canvas displays
A life filled with accomplishment
Inspiring me to live my own life
But I still wake up in cold sweats
From the American dream
That anybody can be president
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
I love your curvaceous contours, whilst physiological precipitations calmly shoot their nectar across longitudinal and latitudinal expressions of ontology.
How seductive are your displayed features of blatant enticements.
I truly give thanks for your explicit revelations, where blatancy and discretion collide with dialectical icebergs.
So, my friend of uncertain deliberation, put it on the altar of sacrifice where botanical skies of elliptical infernos resound throughout the classical universe.
I love this revealing and scientific corridor of acknowledgement.
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC
Much have been said
About my brother
Flame
How from his hands
Borne both
Creation
And destruction
Songs were sung
About trivial flickers
And infernos legendary
Allow me to say
My piece about
My brother flame
Flame
Words seems lifeless
Next to your colored streaks
Hearths spark
Red
Candles shine
Yellow
Blue
Is the burn from my oven
Life is borne
From your touch
Embers glow at your grasp
Metal refined from your speech
The world itself
Is teeming in life
For the sun
Looks down upon it
In its heart
You
My brother flame
Burn brightest
Fire
Is the element of change
You burn from the tears
Of the oppressed
You blaze from the verses
Of the revolutionary
Artists, lovers, and dreamers
Their eyes burn
With passion
Your disposition
My brother has never been cold
My Sister Wind
You warm her
With your embrace
Shed her chains and give her wings
That she may fly
Full of grace
Brother flame
You are a legend
May bards sing forever
Your songs
How you cradled the Phoenix
In its death
And herald its birth
From the same ashes it came from
How you fled with Prometheus
From Olympus
And sparked the dreams of men
You are a perfect instrument
Of God’s glory and renown
After heaven denied Earth
Rain
Elijah’s offer you consumed
On Horeb
Moses
Have seen you burning
A lonely bush
You’ve shown this lonely shepherd
He was standing on Holy Ground
And on God’s plan
Much have been said
About my brother flame
My piece reveals
Of those I am certain
These three
Life
Passion
Renown
12:27:08.03:23
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
When is it that you give up?
That you let infernos fire devour your strength
That you let delusion's screams chant a lamented melody for you to sleep by
That you let pain kiss your every waking thought goodbye
When is it that you get up to that point?
When you let the palpable tension of fear tighten a noose around your neck
When your mind doesn't register the calls of anguish any more because its numb
When everything around you dulls to a faint buzz, and the colours drain with malady and the light shines with hate
When is it that you shatter?
That the limbs of your body tear to stones,
That the hate which he possesses drowns you into storms
That every tears which falls from your eyes carry an anchor to the deepest pits of ocean
That the simplest motions reduce you to screams and blades
And the only waking thought in your mind is suicide.
When is it that you decide enough is enough?
That you decide you can't do this
You can't try anymore
You can't pretend to be strong
You can't smile anymore
You can't be happy ever again.
That the only thing you want to do now is sleep for eternity...
Should I answer this question?
Should Itell you when specifically you give up?
It's not up to me though.
You don't have to listen to me.
However if you want to know what I think
Then the answer my friends Is
Never
So when is it that you give up? Decide that you can't do this anymore?
Never
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
Already the month
of August 2018,
May never become
a je June'm
(Forget-me-not)
time of year,
especially for nouveau
homeless and,
penniless residents,
(now more like worrier),
who reside in the
(burnt to a crisp)
Golden State where,
towering uncontrollable
wild fire infernos veer
really did tax mental,
physical, and spiritual
oye vey iz mare (to
the bajillion power
of Google Plex) their
heirlooms, mementos,
and trappings of
das kapital lifestyle
went up in smoke,
which tragedy didst seer
the eyes (yes, iz traumatic,
but also the air)
looms with toxic
particulate matter,
though concerned former
propertied owners
(now ashen faced)
as utter grief doth rear
a scorched (bumping) ugly head,
yet the onset of Autumn,
(and the main
purport of this poem)
(oh my dog, that twill be
in approximately three weeks,
when Eastern Orthodox Church
denotes beginning of ecclesiastical
annum mull house
for straight or queer
(these times opening
doors to LGBT, or GLBT
(an initialism that
stands for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, and transgender),
nonetheless history
replete with app pear
chock full of factoids such as:
September (Latin septem,
"seven") with near
exhaustive steeped in
pagan glory of antiquity.
Ancient Roman observances
for September include:
Ludi Romani, originally celebrated
September 12 - September 14,
later extended to
September 5 to September 19.
In 1st century BC, an extra day added
in honor of deified
Julius Caesar on 4 September.
Epulum Jovis held: September 13.
Ludi Triumphales held: September 18–22.
Septimontium celebrated September, and
December 11 on later calendars
September called "harvest month"
in Charlemagne's calendar.
September corresponds partly to
Fructidor and partly to Vendémiaire
of first French republic.
On Usenet, September 1993
(Eternal September) never ended.
September called Herbstmonat,
harvest month, in Switzerland.
The Anglo-Saxons called
month Gerstmonath,
barley month, that crop
then usually harvested.
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
A life is of vigor and flame
No two truly the same
Campfire encircled by stone
Never shall freedom know
Their days are prolonged
But when they are gone
Nothing but nothing remains
Infernos that through forests rage
Leave a burnt blackened stain
A mark left behind
From a life quick to die
Living forever
Deserving the name
Of "Flame"
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 5:30 PM UTC
The irreveracable state of falling moral
Piecing together newspaper dooms dayers
Always curious about generalized detachment
Yet unable to see the forest for the trees
Picket lines are home
Raging infernos of injustice and malcontent
Laying stoically at their doorstep
Wrapped messily in insomniac nightmares at yours
Big, BOLD letters voicing the masses
We are, We are
Oppressed, Depressed, Repressed
No longer though
Passing out the hymnals of our revolution
Unsatisfied but spent
I sit back and enjoy the show
Saturating my senses with the smell of burning GMO fields
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
Now he knows.
She introduced his necklace to inferno.
No shame, she set aflame
Flowers from prom night.
Sifted their sweet ashes into a jar
Maybe even prayed the ashes or the glass they came in would leave a scar
Tied it with a pretty ribbon
(maybe just in metaphor)
Grinned while she envisioned
His defeat from afar
(From here I can hear the smile cross her lips.)
And all this time she said she’s sleep
With the teddybear she gave my name
(Lay awake and wish it was me…please…)
(I often do the same)
Still has the jacket named skillet hanging in her closet
(She could wear it if she’s really cold…)
(She hasn’t lied or lost it)
She still has my purple heart
(She has all of them I’m told)
This...this gives me hope I'm scared to hold.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
Flapping wings of triumph
Through rigid clouds and darkened galaxies
Where raging infernos stir the ***** of the ethereal
It is our desire to float with gusto across the ashes of pain
We have had enough of the searing talons of the vulture
We have had enough of the tumultuous quakes that gulped innocent victims
We have had enough of the political turmoil that claimed lives and maimed hearts
We have had enough of the economic crisis that clogged hoods and hauled hagglers
We have had enough…
Apr 22, 2010
Apr 22, 2010 at 3:03 PM UTC
Half sweat, half sweet, her sea-salt skin,
My sun, my star, my scorpion -
Is tarot-tongued and tiger-tame,
And pink, and pure, and so profane -
A painted, pagan, poetess,
All dizzy depth and paper dress -
And carousels, and cigarettes,
On cloudless skies, her silhouette -
Is scissors through the sundown silk,
She moves like molten mood in milk -
All infernos, and ivory,
And orchids, and obscenity -
And brothels full of butterflies,
She steals the starlight from the skies -
Her whisper makes the world wet,
My ****** velvet, Violet.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 10:17 AM UTC
Alas, this miniscule moment of separation,
Igniting infernos of cardiac anguish,
Coursing silver slivered lightning to the cerebellum,
Shall not, sever the connection of our entanglement.
Entangled like microscopic electrons,
Bound by more than optical illusion,
Our hearts have joined for eternity,
No matter the distance in time or space,
Your heart skips a beat and I lose my breath.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
To gaze on the face of Jesus,
A companion for you and us,
He is our forever friend,
His eternal love transcends,
A blessing that never ends,
Our Lord in no lingo limbo,
He shall survive infernos,
Ignorance ignites bigotry,
Fuelling phobias, no victory,
We could start a new religion,
For all our teeming billions,
Peace on Earth for humans,
For guidance for all of us,
A unique timeless love,
To gaze on the face of Jesus.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 2:38 AM UTC
Come glaze these dark serpentine walls,
With the iridescent kisses of your soul.
My heart is swimming in the calm waters
Of your insatiable mind, my love.
You blaze in the dungeons of my heart
Like a winter wind in a sweltering night
I glide in the blunt blueness of your eyes,
Lost in the translucent clouds of floating melancholy,
I freeze in the stillness of your skin.
The poised moon shies,
Its silver hides in the lining of your
Celestial body. You shine brighter
Than the infernos of passion
You ignite within me.
My limbs are mere meat for foxes and ravens,
As you caress my paralyzed psyche
With your love written in impeccable
Prose. Who are you, calling yourself a
Pariah, travelling with a million stories
Tucked inside the folds of your eye lids?
Come, dip your quill in the very depths
Of my being and weave another symphony.
And maybe, sing to me someday.
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 1:37 PM UTC
Hearts incinerated,
A blistering display of immolation,
As blazing infernos consumed all,
"Arson," they thought,
Brushing through the ashen remains,
Never concluding that
You were the spark
That lit my match
And set this whole world on fire
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 7:55 PM UTC
I knew I was in the burning building with her –
and it was like Limburg, maggoty
but obliged its fortress of a rowboat life.
Without its ice, I am in pine-high, to dull selves
which will later stiff upon these floors.
He was hell. He did this to us.
Not even a masked ****** shown needles
for his dog expression, and I am prodded
rather with teeth than a nose drill.
But she did dissolve before I could have,
must have had thin bones,
of maturity, an osteoporosis ache.
It saved her, perhaps, although she passed:
a kidney stone philosophy book,
these death-doctors will read numb.
I do wonder if it were their hips in fire,
why could they not sit in a mausoleum place.
Just how we did so many instances –
practicing a routine in the bathtub, like knowing.
Had the correct arrangement, too,
I pretended I was in a womb with you.
And mother’s was like that claw-tub so
we, fetus, sensed like castle buffs, carrying
the rings of gold and lockets of princess blood.
Then, she became papier-mâché statues
before a meadow of hell’s dust: I had to kiss
each curve because one ash was not enough.
I knew I was in the burning building with her
when I could not recognize her stumps.
She was an emblem of past upon fair carpet,
or the haze I inhale to shadow –
knowing that he sees our wallpaths and
catches the hum of infernos taking bodies,
then say that he is a monster even more than I.
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 5:30 PM UTC
From the very beginning you’ve had thunder in your mind
and lightning in your heart-you struck with no warning,
Beautiful and awesome and all-consuming.
You stirred up pain like a hurricane,
Short circuiting logic and reason with beauty and fire.
Forest fires often raced through your veins-
Although one could argue for arson,
Boys starting gasoline- soaked infernos that burned bright and died,
Leaving blackened roots behind.
You took the whole world in stride,
Stepping like landslides the earth moved beneath you;
You left victims in your wake,
Shaken and changed by the shape of your feet.
You felt changes like earthquakes.
Buildings shattered with your realizations,
The glass fragmenting into opinions ideas connections that left you shaken.
Your anger erupted like volcanoes-
Emotions bubbling under the surface until they blew sky high,
Magma, hot and molten that spat up and consumed everything in its path.
Depression hit you like a tsunami.
A monumental wave that roared up
And crashed
over everything and everyone that ever loved you.
Then there was drought,
All the distractions died out and your cracks beginning to show,
Widening as you lose yourself in the ebb and flow of compassion.
And your future is as uncertain as a tornado.
It’s up in the air and we don’t know where it’s going to touch down;
Which house it’s going to rip apart next.
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC