"stoking" poems
~*for M. both
a living one, and
imagined, too*~
10/5/25
just woke up and began to work;
the muses are cofuse-ed
they think when head hits pillow.
it is there then the~moment to
refill my head
with verses glorious, alas, alack,
into the sub-subconscious furnace they go
to melt, meld or even die
iron of ironies; 90% of these words,
were adrift in my head when I
to bed, "for to be repaired" last night, and
only came to be recalled @ 2:34 am
when them muses and you guru,
woke me to 'get outta bed', and you
who
bids me sleep,
this clashing arousal,
starts engine's cylinders to begin
live~composing, stoking and stroking,
to awake, create, reassemble and uncover
the poetic notions trans~versing my head
one-day, someday they will depart,
for cleaner, greener Champs-Élysées,
where reborn poets speak all languages
with equal fluency, eagerly awaiting
my spouting in Hindi (already ✅), in
Hebrew and any/all dialecticals this
god earth
ever mothered
And there you have it, my FPOTD, dear m.,
SUNday 10/5 & writ in the city where I am alive
in the Den of Writing, where the muses
like to hang out with their old companion,
until such time they will come to inhabit
a younger, well rested, equally restless,
a not-my-mine mind
<nml>
Oct 5, 2025
Oct 5, 2025 at 3:08 AM UTC
you are the center, the sun in the sky
warming, lighting, guiding those below
you are the core, the hub in the wheel
forming, maintaining, strengthening the circle
you are the earth, the bedrock beneath
supporting, stabilizing, reinforcing our lives
you are the reason for our being, our births, our lives
nurturing, nourishing, caring for our hopes, our dreams
you gather, sort the fruits, roots harvested from the land
tending, stoking, reviving embers smothering in the hearth
your strength transcends your body, your mind, your heart
from the first child, to the last, your love, affection is forever
you cradle, caress, kiss, comforting the child
reassuring, protecting, shooing monsters away
you are the strong, tough, steady woman in our lives
fierceness of a lioness, tender as a kitten, loving her child
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
#
*Souls embroidered with sweet sighs of passion
Musing of nights in lace & white satin
On a vista of flesh, flushed with desire
Riding the flames on a passage of fire
The beating of drums, commanding the night
To the rhythm of hearts, passion ignites
Wrapped in immortal flames of the sun
Burning together, two become one
Flesh upon flesh, a spirited dance
Welded by whispers of love, of romance
Temperatures rise in a fever of lust
Stoking the flames, ****** after ******
Riding the swell, in a race to the shore
Try to repress, but needing it more
Virtue be ****** in the rage of desire
Flames rise in hunger, higher n' higher
Charging the crest, temperance slips
Drawing the reins in a white knuckle grip
Crashing of waves unleashes the flood
Quaking the heart, and searing the blood
Spewing of flames in the crash of the tide
In a warm sheen of sweat, fervor subsides
Energy spent in the throes of release
Collapsing together, the story complete*
#
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
He tittered and cackled
At the refugee plight,
Revelled in innocents
Running for life.
Spends his eternity
Stoking flames,
Mixing ashes
Through worldly pains.
Each closing border
A fire's refrain.
Then humanity stood up,
Spoke up, rose up
To feed and clothe
The homeless hordes:
Lucifer wept
Over our good world.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
We can only afford to contain our fires
Turning to... Soothsaying waters
Soothsaying rain, empty out your bottles
Irrigate from our heart puddles
Let flow into a singular well
An oasis where our hearts would kiss and silently tell
Submerge us as one being
The water milling and licking
Kissing our warm skins
Wash away as it purges and cleans
Cleansing waters, wash and give birth
Rid of the sadness to reveal the earth
Of this earth, you and I are one
Looking up to idolise the same sun
Wedged between... This expanse of redundant land
Pining for the mixing of our sands
We... We are made of the same
Earth, dirt and gravel placed in different games
Bearing similar stones that beat
Beating away the seconds that flit
Earth biding time... Stay on ground
Let wind take your souls to realms unbound
Casting our souls into the wind
Carved hearts on flags we pinned
Kites of love set to catch the air
Wind be kind... Carry us easy with care
Gift us your gentle airy fingers
As you would the sails of hopeful seafarers
Together we would dance and billow
Frolic upon your light feathered pillow
Ride the wind, on wings that never tire
Tiny bites that keep us afire
Never needing a flint to set alive the flame
Stoking the fire that burns on the same
Rhymes and reasons be our fuel
Combat logic and sense in a cerebral duel
Fight in our eyes, subdued are the blazes
Embers dormant behind glassy tearful gazes
Spark them to life with passionate heat
Fan them to rage till the time our hearts meet
But still... We must contain our fires
With nothing but soothsaying waters
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
Graceful sweet scent, upon the evergreen
The solitary life it must endure
Illusive, two seasons hidden between
A weathered, wounded heart it can not cure
For it is secret love that it desires
Passion brewing from a single, sole bud
Inside embers, burning, stoking the fires
Restless, the absence of peace, boiled blood
Under the dim light it will not be fazed
Lone in serenity, tranquil, it thrives
An alluring site one has ever gazed
Be still, in refuge and strength, it survives
It’s time, let go of the gem so comely,
Single, white harmony for my lovely
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 3:00 AM UTC
This Distant Light
by Walid Khazindar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bitterly cold,
winter clings to the naked trees.
If only you would free
the bright sparrows
from your fingertips
and release a smile―that shy, tentative smile―
from the imprisoned anguish I see.
Sing! Can we not sing
as if we were warm, hand-in-hand,
sheltered by shade from a sweltering sun?
Can you not always remain this way,
stoking the fire: more beautiful than expected, in reverie?
Darkness increases and we must remain vigilant
since this distant light is our sole consolation ...
this imperiled flame, which from the beginning
has constantly flickered,
in danger of going out.
Come to me, closer and closer.
I don't want to be able to tell my hand from yours.
And let's stay awake, lest the snow smother us.
Walid Khazindar was born in Gaza City. He is considered to be one of the very best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997. Keywords/Tags: Arabic, translation, Arab, Palestine, Palestinian, Gaza, distant, light, flame, fire, autumn, winter, trees, birds, sparrows, fingertips, smile, sing, shade, sun, fire, darkness, hand, hands, snow
May 29, 2020
May 29, 2020 at 4:24 AM UTC
tempest aroused weather throws a crink in the atmospheric pressure,
sun lazy long weekend planned rejuvenation, disrupted,
all day rain and wind gusts
that whitecap/kneecap
the river-fed bay forcing a
couch-curling up, a doozey dozy,
cozy writable assessment, a
tempting
answered with
positivity
close your eyes and all that can be felt
is memorized by your
forefinger cells,
a stroking upward gesture,
your stroking. your finger.
the children you have brought
into this difficult place
and a woman’s face as she rests uneasy and needs calming
but the memory of your own cheek as a living fired thing
being stroked is a gone,
because it was not frequent enough,
is longer than long past than what matters now
my pointer finger remembers though
pointer finger points at my chest
stoking, pushing,
what does your artistic heart remember?
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 8:53 PM UTC
From beyond the clouds,
cavalier and unattached,
sneaking past the yawn of temple bell
woken up from sleep,
trespasses a doomed note
pitched like flight of a falcon
fresh from its swoop on prey,
strumming on the discord in a lonely heart,
stoking once more
the hunger and anger of
an eternal yearning...
...Ah! My ears. They pick up the cruel flute. Here it comes, to ladle my pain. Not again. Not again.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:08 PM UTC
in the icy swirl
of deep-inhale
I reach down inside
to darkest
heated flesh-fabric
removing the clothing
of my soul,
feeling the layers
slowly undone
the flay
of my own fleece
the peeling
of my own pelt
penetrating
through tissue,
a journey to the
deep heart of me,
cut in one clean move
and yet, like a miracle
there is
no pain
just magnet-connect
beyond the cusp
of words
that curl from our
tongues
rising up in
latticed affirmations
a cleansing in frost
a constant, aquamarine renewal
and there is no past
no future
just this prism
of crystal liquid jewels
flowing in
gentle,
cellular music
straight into the strands
of our veins
and I miss you
like you have gone
on the long winter hunt
my longing splayed out
like an animal skin on
four poles
its tendons stretched
beyond measure
yet holding fast
with a roof over my head,
I acknowledge
my restlessness
I am my own
hunter-forager,
both searching and found,
gathering up bits
of velocity
stroking the ribbons
of passion
stoking the fires of my
heart and hearth
protecting what is us
like a lioness
for we are overflowing
with both strength
and tenderness
our own bones
ingredients of the wild soup
of our feral union
of our constant rebirth
our very dna
weaving itself
like heartstrings
in the rush
of
time
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 6:35 PM UTC
She applied the latest fashion tips to her lips
and put on the newest dress to cover the mess.
I held her as she swayed in front of the mirror.
"I want to get away from here," she cooes in my ear.
It rains ridicule as she tries to be classic cool;
storms that brew from within-
and there's no way of knowing how it'll begin.
She'll say that she's a succubus
but I promise that she's a star and thus
destined to implode but shine beautiful before death.
And I await to be burnt by her deathly breath.
She says that she feels detached,
I read the message that has hatched
from ten eggs thrown from a wrist.
Her lips are mine but all I do is miss.
Her lips aren't mine and all I do is this.
I **** time with new noise and old sights.
She asks if I'll be home tonight
and I wish I could because I'd clearly sway thee,
macabre debutante lover baby.
Her name is Tricia and as I whisper,
her cheeks blush.
"Don't break hearts or mine too much."
I could say the say the same for you, my Josh.
Couldn't we all break broken signs
with the love we reallign?
I tantalize her lullabies with eager hands
and lethargic eyes.
I shoulder her and press her near,
and kiss her from neck to each ear.
She slides hands and traces each crease.
She runs her hands as soft as fleece.
My hands hide in her underwear
and she says,
"How did you remove all of my air?"
She fixes her hands and grabs my base,
I kiss each corner of her face.
Stroking, stoking my desire,
I ask her to lay naked by the fire.
I disrobe and throw each cloth on ground.
Tricia takes off her bra and there is no sound.
Her ******* make me eagersome
and, suddenly, I'm no longer numb .
I tell her that if it doesn't feel right
that we don't have to make love tonight.
She walks and her feet kiss the tile.
She says she wants to stay for a while.
We get lost in blanket and the cloth is soft,
as we move from the fire to a loft.
I tell her that her lips are silk,
her chest plays songs,
and her taste is milk.
Her feet appear behind my head,
and she bites her lip until I feel dead.
I place my hand between her thighs
and listen to each moan and sigh.
I hear her shudder as I break her soil
and I feel my body start to boil,
as I push in and kiss her nose.
She throws back her head
as her mouth can't close.
I wake up and she's next to me.
I kiss her forehead to thank for harmony.
I pick her up and let her bloom in my arms like a flower.
And then I walk her to the shower.
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
i.
Pink doesn’t play into it, that delicate
petal of perfume & flower stuff.
She abhors it.
Red suits her better.
Red for Fridays & red for Aries.
Red for the blood her dagger could draw.
Her seal of wax is no
rosebud adhered to
fine paper.
Warrior, she escaped its letter.
With Roman candles & Roman sandals,
sword, wand & chariot,
defender of her Eden.
Seashells are her votive gifts, the
stars of her Atlantic.
It is within her reign of Camelot.
At the edge of the Earth,
her kingdom dreams.
ii.
Blue maid
a curious ***** in her armour.
But she wouldn’t flinch
if an army of soldiers came crashing in.
They are hunting the witch.
A woman can never have such power.
It is reserved for the patriarchy
to wield at will.
Up it goes.
They can ***** steeples with it.
They are stoking the fires & sharpening
the axe with it.
But threats of torture
don’t make her beg, plead or recant.
She is guilty of nothing.
Even broken on the Catherine Wheel,
Athena still keeps her
bow & quiver intact.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC
God is spoken
From a potent Thing
we smoking Trees
Gaia birthed the bloom
breathed the boom
in the canopies,
In the wind flew the bees
and grew the pleasantries
Prana pushing
thunder through
sQuishing lemon trees
like a hundred new
Whisps of mists
and heavy deeds
Sit with honeydew
The gist of this
the lemon breeze
(We) Going tunnel view
Fits and Shakes,
seeking remedies
digging under you
Might be
dicking under you
Might be
Torn asunder true
Pirate borne to plunder you....
Sweat means gold,
what's been found
with lemon -ease?
I've been told
What in our eyes
is what we ever see's
7 seas,
more like 7 deeds,
filled with deadly feeds
Demons like to pleade
with ready rease,
Virus, the life that
spread disease
(it alters our sense
and what we please)
~Ahem,
***no te comas
la verdad
del diablo,***
today to trust
Might feel bad, but
none brought low
There's an easy in
WE Strong Standin',
N0ne brought low
and now we win
amen, a man
none start south
Its begun...
Light as
Potent as my prayers
**** the make-believe
***I can't wear it, ah
Dark is
Ever reaching
What do you receive?
***What you carrying hah?
Balance
(Is) an even preaching :
What we choose to be
***I can bear it ; hah
Come and help me unweave
those who have been so deceived
Those stuck in in the mud of ...
sputtering " how can it be ?"
**** the you or me, mentality
When Neurons Fire free
and Serotonins drained in me
You Might find Saraswati
sweetly swathing me
In glowing rivers,
poured off the moon
With Omens looming soon
With Omens looming soon
I been choking on my doom.
Dreaming
with Both eyes open
and a heart awoken ,
poorly stoking gloom
Too blind to see hope
but stoked, still
mocking roving
Vroom : im off to tokin soon.
Sh!t this blunt be totaled soon
I Might be total loon
an inverted magic man
who most often enwomb
those caught on the moon
Those stuck in the tune
For those who hear
this earworm, this tea room sloom.
This is for Those muted in zoom:
I've found traction in heaps
Breaking as hard and often
As the risen yeast
When you pass on the least
My Passion is to find
the passion of peace
its Stuck In the grasp
Fashioned with the sap
of my last energies...
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 12:27 AM UTC
Concinnity of rapid motion in balance and proportion,
round the ballroom, like the synchronized frequency
of vibration in a crystal quartz. Whirling contortion
of bodies embraced in movement's revealing intimacy.
They are partners. They are dancers. They are lovers
wantonly stoking libido's hot glowing embers;
promenade affirming keen awareness to the vigors
of the steps, footfalls and technique of its pretenders.
Gown and tux attired, passionate accessories to the cult;
merengue, fox-trot, rhumba, abandonment's fertility rites
to gods and goddesses, danced with such elegant result,
they are immortalized in time --- divine service to the night.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 7:46 PM UTC
I felt like a backpacker that night.
I think it was the katydids.
At home it’s the frogs,
all shouting over each other, but somehow
finding a rhythm.
But here,
a pulse presses into me in my sleep
and I roll over to face the seething embers.
I know I’ve drawn things out with X,
but this is what narcissism means to me:
stoking the embers each time.
Tonight I am a backpacker
on the west side of a mountain.
Having slept through the sunset,
now I’m lying awake—
sleepless and small—
as ants find their way across my skin.
If they’re not sleeping, they must be working—
long jaunts between brief naps—
while the queen sleeps.
When I’m home,
I’ll close my windows and,
drown these embers in dry reds—
shiraz and merlot—
and sleep like the queen for once.
Dec 19, 2015
Dec 19, 2015 at 5:53 PM UTC
the curling smoke
from warming fires
rise into the slate
gray sky of the
Beqaa Valley
sheaves of
rising prayers
expire in twisted plumes
dissipating into the
gloom of an ever
looming winter
overcast
refugees from
the Arab Spring's
uncivil wars
gather for warmth
around waning embers,
smoldering in the underbelly
of the lowliest bottom of rusted
steel drums, tended
with scavenged debris
some thought better
suited to fortify the
faltering hovels of
last resort
the fires
join us in
communal rings
straining the
tenuous links of
brotherhood, the
politics of men
assiduously tear
asunder
we count ourselves
among the fortunate,
blessed exiles recused
from the acrimony
of desecrated cities,
welcoming the
residencies of
bewailing lullabies
of colic infants, the
searing hunger of
stunted children and the
incomprehensible babble
the elderly eloquently
speak in tongues
of a desperate
exasperation
our nagging impotence
swaddle us in ambivalent
inabilities to master circumstances
profanely denigrating our humanity
privation is
our daily bread
the bitter manna
feasting on the
animosity the banquet
of rancor generously
prepares for
peace starved
pilgrims
in these
refugee camps
the cold cuts deeper
hunger pangs
grow sharper
our blighted dignity,
vanished livelihoods,
and the presence of
recently interred
loved ones trudge
through our mean
encampment as
fully enfranchised
citizens in our
distressed
kingdom
what was lost can
never be recovered
our homeland leveled
yet doors still stand open
silently pleading all
to cross a new
threshold
the full restoration
of our hope,
the reconstitution
of our flagging
humanity, the
spark of the
holy spirit
willfully uniting us
in the salvation
of reconciliation
is nigh
we are
the divine children
stoking the embers
tending the fire
that light pathways
through the cold
darkness of a
broken world
Oh come
Emmanuel,
dwell among us
Oh come
Emmanuel
ransom once
again the
poor captives
of Israel….
Selah
Music Selection:
L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg
Veni Veni Emmanuel
Everywhere
Christmas
2013
jbm
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
One click, two clicks as they are locked within the chamber.
Trapped within themselves, stoking coals red hot with anger.
Because...
Kindness is a trinket, and people value it as much.
An ornament worth a look, but seldom worth a touch.
And now...
Sitting in this chamber, who I am remains unseen.
I could not cut enough to show what lies beneath.
And still...
I am who I am, and this world will not change me.
I will be who I am, this pain will not derange me.
And I wish...
I wish that all they saw was the color of my soul.
I wish my story mattered to them a bit more.
But now...
One click, two clicks with a hollow point in the chamber.
Freedom from myself, soaking walls blood red with anger.
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 5:38 PM UTC
Sparkling gusts of silver wind
drive howling through the vale,
the skies are grey and somber
and the air grows foul and stale.
The barren trees stretch overhead,
guarding dark and light
against the winter nightmares,
and the dangers of the night.
The people huddle closely,
stoking fires to keep them warm,
as the snowflakes fall in silence
for a coming winter storm.
Thier frozen hands, thier tired eyes
remember ice and snow,
instead of grass and sunshine
when all things start to grow;
the laughing steps of children,
the hills that called and bade,
the dancing windy flowers
in a thousand different shades.
There in the long cold shadows,
a solemn vow is made-
that green grass will soon awaken,
and offer boughy shade.
For winter's time is ending,
the sounds of life, more than words;
when the piping call of feathers
in the branches high were heard.
Listen now, sad people;
all is not so dark-
the summer's breath's returning,
in the humble voice of larks.
So do not fear the weeks ahead,
the long, capricious cold-
for we are made a promise,
from days long dead and old.
Ice will give way to water,
and water will give us Spring;
Soon, it will be naught but mem'ries
as we celebrate new things.
So, cheer your hearts, my sisters-
soon dark will become light-
Our hearts will ease, our peace be real,
we will be alright.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
*eyeball too big
or
dream too big?*
That **** alice-door is too tiny
Just enough to peep through
One mere eyeball
And espy the jolly life of dreams
Yet barely enough for a hand to reach through
let alone fingertips to taste …
Cruelty is…midday heart-brake too big
Reality makes sure to stick it in deep
Its harsh voice stoking…stoking
Gleeful gives the dreamer an artful kick
*maybe moment has dawned
to reduce that ambitious dream-reel
perhaps too big…on the teasing life-wheel
oh, drat! no biggie…
may well just trash every heart’s desire
let go of hope and let drown*
*no…forget it, Fate
I shan’t, no.
come…..
come onnnnnnnnnnnn, then….!
hey, come and drag me by my ****** heels
with my face in the gutter!*
(I am WAITING...)
S T, 15 August 2013
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 6:33 AM UTC
while age is only a number,
experience is a set of volumes.
you, thanks to time and genetics,
have overflowing shelves.
you've done it all.
a house of your own.
a car of your own.
a cat.
a rose garden.
(are you gay?)
nieces, nephews.
unfixed income.
"making it."
how can i be so proud of you?
it's hardly been 4 months
since
i ran into you in the doorway
of the bar
trying to make my exit unnoticed
as i had avoided you not one hour before.
knowing one of us would have to say "hi" first.
but that was then.
now is this.
this
this
this dull glow
that never leaves my heart.
someone's always stoking the fire.
your shift starts
now.
Jun 12, 2012
Jun 12, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
#
The Life-giving embers..
stoking the hearth-fire, heart
in you that had nearly gone out,
is nothing less that the deep
gentle, Loving-kindness
of the Wellspring's warm flow.
Love feels, more than it sees..
but when one truly sees, beautiful girl--
as you so well at times know..
the view is utterly breathtaking.
You are learning how
to breathe the beautiful, free air.
Grace does that.
***You are the most incredible of spokespersons, love...
Your very voice-tones..***
#
Dec 17, 2021
Dec 17, 2021 at 12:27 AM UTC
Burning
The fire is glowing set against the chill of autumn’s night wind the chimney discharges the inner being of
The wood truly the spirit of the wood rises ghostly it breaks out of the chimney and is welcomed by the
Wayward wind lessoned of its density but an exchange occurred for its value memories it took while the
Elderly mother set close for its comfort and warmth as the shadows played on her face of age it told
Many stories of struggle and triumph father earned the money by back breaking work in a dark coal
Mine mother took it thanked the good lord then raised it to masterful heights with skill and cooking
Lessons learned from her mother time draws definitive measures in each life now having reached a
Seasoned long life milestone her tender heart was the capstone walls and windows a sturdy life looking
Like beams as the shadows of the fire danced on the wall below what mellow note it struck and she it’s
Center piece buy the night with her humility and genteel ways the rush of power still evident in her frail
Frame life glowing in the midst of the fire’s own showing strength her wisdom the families guide hard to
Believe that a personality so affable and giving could coil as steel if the need arose pushed to a point but
No further you don’t raise a family and see them succeed without having a store house of individualism
In reserve now all that shows on the service is a profound goodness displayed in weak frailty the body
Slows its tempered power subsides but within the spirit still can be counted on for feats and exploits as
The demand calls for them even a fire dies down but all it needs is the stoking some of the wood has
Been turned from the flame within short time it will roar with new glory old age isn’t a total defeat
You can change the pace and years of experience will give control with less effort the fire plays on
Mother’s breath softens as she drifts in dreams to grand times when all was collectively connected
Honor and glory told over successive years now they are harbored and restored to a degree by the
burning
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 1:59 PM UTC
♀ ♀ ♀
Hey you! In the vagina-hat,
frumpy feminist dressed in pink;
we men (what do you make of that)
would love to know just what you think.
We've heard of "ass-hats", anyway.
But we can see the other side:
it's orificial bombs away
as bridegrooms now behold the bride.
Gynecology on parade:
how weird. You think it makes your point?
It's more a vaginal charade,
and promises to disappoint.
You say your cap evokes your *****
feline foolishness, I say.
It's cat in bag when fems get fussy
showing patriarchs the way.
Show us yours and we'll show our own.
Well actually, it's kind of cold
to whip it out right here downtown...
We'll grant you this: you chicks are bold.
Your choice-aborted progeny,
disposed of in the clinic's trash,
might blame you for misogyny—
though spared the curse of diaper rash.
We'll keep abreast of all you do,
chanting, marching, fists in air...
yet still, you seem a silly crew
aflush with zeal (and ***** hair).
But must it always come to this:
biology devoid of God ?
Exteriorizing, hit and miss,
the secrets of your aging ***
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 9:42 AM UTC