"kettled" poems
Running amok black bellies of hail-clouds
divest their hard cargo
on near-ready harvest and thunder claps
in spiteful applause.
Scudding sails of racing white galleons
arrive to the rescue
and change weather's position as quiet
breaches gale's disorder.
Setting the sun throws magenta feathers
across dark horizon
and to settle the issue parades jade tints
as the landscape transforms.
Waiting small boats plod homewards in
fish-laden formation
while wives run to stoke hot-kettled fires
of ready bath water.
Lighting a pathway half-moon winks as
heavier catches in
hauled nets silver the harbour and men
start night's final performance.
Sating hunger with coming and going
sow-and-reap women know
the meaning of sharing male labour in
scaling and salting chores.
Fisher-folks' world begins and ends
with the vagaries and quirks of weather.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC
Got an idea for a pretty poem?
Hold that thought
while Yung Joc finishes plz.
In the barnyard
in the suburbs
Blacktop recess was the best recess
cos we were kettled together
90s nostalgia is limited to lame t.v shows
why don't no one talk about the wet overcast no more?
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 3:31 AM UTC
On days where salty tears lick my cheeks,
or they hide just behind the cages of my eyelids,
I feel full, not hollow.
Preferable, perhaps, to the emptiness found
in staring blankly at life and seeing
the still run down like paint and the moving brake like cars
all around, helpless to stop it
as a mind crumbles into broken acceptance.
But a cup can only hold so much.
A *** can rumble angrily on the stove for only
so long before its contents spill out,
slipping and darkening down the sides
before dying away against the heat below.
Sure, we're contained, maybe like tea kettles. But
all of us have holes that whistle,
a call to what stirs inside, and I
am no different.
Every day,
my small heart shivers and shakes,
petrified by even the idea of my own steam escaping.
It rattles at the threat of an exponential scream
of evaporated failures and aborted thought
wrapping itself around my tongue and teeth
before spilling out to float in the present air,
only to hang itself
like a fog over everyone's perceptions.
I guess that's the difference between us and tea kettles,
or cups or pots.
Water moves forever in its cycle,
falling down as rain, or snow, or sleet, or hail, or
rising up into the air to mesh with it seamlessly,
adapting beautifully to the pressures of its natural peers.
But water is not sentient. It does not remember its past,
does not consider its present or future.
Water speaks a language of unquestioned togetherness and
a blissful absence of mind.
Maybe our folly is memory.
Our puffs of commentary marinate on the brains of others,
and, maybe for the worse,
ourselves.
They float around in a haze of the brain,
eroding at our integrities,
some fogs never cycling out until we rattle
for the last time.
Unlike steam, unlike water, we ponder our past forms
and our personal sins sometimes forever
until we sizzle against time's heat,
burning out at the mercy of nature
and our own kettled minds.
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 8:18 PM UTC
the first time i choked on tear-gas,
we were standing in the heart of the Empire.
the scent of capsaicin still smarted
as we fished our medic bags for water-bottles
to flush our comrades’ eyes. we did not weep
for the revolt. we were at peace even as we knew,
beyond a shadow of a doubt,
we were ******
the black bloc, three thousand strong,
had raged through the streets of D.C.
overturning dumpsters, torching limos,
taking hammers and crowbars
to Bank of America windows
with gleeful abandon, a sense of endless,
militant joy. it would be
anarchy or annihilation.
the spontaneous insurrection
of the antifascist demonstration
was an inferno hotter than the dumpster-fires
we’d left like signal-flares in our wake.
for a moment, there, we could feel
the ******** quaking as our feet
shook the Earth, stepping
in-and-out of Lovecraftian shadows,
eldritch horrors of doom gloating over us.
but we’d been kettled,
cordoned by cops in riot gear,
cut-off from all possible routes of escape.
faceless phantoms clutching cudgels
to bludgeon our conflagration
into submission. and then
the call came. “this way! this way!
we found an exit!”
immediately, the cops swarmed in,
their momentarily vindictive arrogance
shattered by the freedom that rang
like church-bells in a half-a-hundred voices.
“this way! this way! we found an exit!”
motorcycles turned down the alleyway,
sirens screaming, echoing off the tenement halls
and only one of us possessed the sense to intervene.
for a moment, she stood alone.
a single figure, holding up her hands
and shaking her head, refusing to let
the ******** advance. but courage
is infectious. a moment later,
another joined her, then another,
until all of a sudden a half-a-dozen
of us stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shouting,
“no pasaran! you shall not pass!”
we waited for the billy-clubs to rain
hell upon our shoulders, but still
we remained steadfast, anchored
by the weight of our conviction
and the hope that even if we fell
the rest of the bloc would escape
to wreak havoc another day.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
(Secret lovers) By meself.. secret devotions, titled emotion sweeps the dusted lands.. Secrets turned to openness,false lovers have strong demands. Fashion glasses and technology to hide the child inner face, the inner place is no longer in their hearts, yet their pocket books. Unswept crannies and nooks to unmask young romancers graves, where if you turn the page your conquest would not be seen..Two lovers one dream can they entrust all to eachother, sister and brother how thyselves you soon forgot.. The kettled *** boils to free those worldly slaves, where none behave. For god calls us all to an enlightening where the invitings for you and me not them..Forget your soo called friends for they make you stools of what was, all because fake words turned reality..For they believe as they please, their hearts are lusted, theyve spoiled their seed.. Open your eyes new age 60s generation, where **** and *********** are now your wicked god..You fashionistas you comfortable slobs...How lost you have become in fornications, where the world is your heaven, your divided nations are bound to fall sometime soon....
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:43 PM UTC
Im losing myself... into the thin,
Im choosing myself…can't be near him,
im gonna fall and get buried in a bottomless hole -
he's gonna push me in,
with his truth gem…with his open kettled whims.
what he's got is no sin,
he's gonna take me into that ******* wind.
I'm losing it again
im not gonna win…
if he says no, then I'll be safe again.
the sun is coming.
swim…just swim
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 5:34 PM UTC
on Stage
a peacock of makeup
the comedian
bating thunderous uproar
knighting fury
turning humour over the belfries
of the overcharged assemblage
he fouls with them
utilizing his vile material
putting together ideas that no brain wants scribe
visuals
you create yourself
(but
your twist at his bidding)
you become broken down and ******
applied apart by his gagging speech
and his splintering costumes of mood
the comedian builds from this
until rage
and ruptures of relief
integrate...
a berserk laughter is result
kettled in the mob reaction
a collective convulsion
a need
more than a mirth
japes dressed in death
have foraged a credible rebirth
his soldiers attired
he has seized his corps of souls
his Mad recruits of Chaos
the comedian pulls out a plastic toy Sabre
and directs the revulsion
(the Grand Prank)
in a charge against
the wealthy neighbours
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 11:41 AM UTC
Welcome to the house of the insomniac-ee
where we bake our poultry by the clock's stroke of three.
See you might think it's a metaphor
and golly gosh that'd be better, More
the chicken locked and kettled, ******
for finger lickin,
Plath to stickin',
oven stricken' spree.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 3:00 AM UTC