Best Convection Poems
I am blessed, I am loved
His grace and mercy upon my life
Is greater than the universe’s dimension
And all of Earth’s demission and demotion
Won’t keep me from my life devotion
I am blessed yes it’s true
His protection and fortification
Is stronger than the world’s defenses
In all the enemy’s attempts for my distraction
And the corruption disrupting my trail
Can’t obstruct me from my deliverance
I am blessed and adored*
His affection and devotion to me
Extends beyond pacific leans
All deceptions and confusions in my track
Won’t extract me from his Compassion
I am blessed and so are you
His love I am so eager to share
I was extruded to excellence
By my tutor a giant convection
To convey his vast press
Lord, I have been blessed,
Not only was I blessed,
But I have been divinely favored
The humid Hawaiian heat hobbles my head and heart too,
Hitting as the Humvee high-tails past on the highway,
Sweat seeps steadily south from scalp to shoes
Convection current cooking, keep pedaling, pores crying.
Howling Haleakala Headwinds hammer hard,
Freezing face, fingers, and forehead.
Wistfully watching the warm water Westward;
Blasting breeze’s blows batter my body backward.
Soft saline sea spray spritzes the sunbathers
As the surges' steady smashing against the shore
Rhythmically rocks the run-down revelers
to a sweet, sun-kissed, seaside sleep once more.
For Elements Part 2—Wind Contest (First Place)
Sponsored by Brian Davey
Judged 3/29/16
We ask God’s blessings for food we eat;
those who toil to grow it deserve our prayers too.
In 1985, Farm Aid musicians took their beat,
rocking in donations for those who grew
in debt, not just crops, as mortgages came due.
Mellencamp cried out, “97 families lost 97 farms!”
Just the local tally of the Reagan years' unprecedented foreclosures
that threatened the nation’s bread baskets, sending out alarms.
Farmers’ financial disclosures
were bloodied by high-risk exposures.
We ate the fruit, but cursed the price.
Bounty still filled the market’s produce section,
even as running a farm became a roll of the dice.
A Kansas tornado would have had less convection
than growers who were denied debt protection.
Bailout money was tossed to the auto maker,
where corporate jet vacations sparked ire.
But farmer suicides climbed, blood on each acre.
A national famine might have transpired
if to save farmers, rock musicians had not conspired.
Inspired by John Mellencamp’s Farm Aid song “Rain on the Scarecrow.” An Indiana farm boy, Mellencamp recruited Neil Young and Willie Nelson to organize the first Farm Aid concert in 1985, raising awareness about the loss of family farms. The Farm Aid concerts have remained an annual event over the past 29 years, and as of 2014, the organization has raised over $45 million to help farmers. I chose this song because it demonstrates the social consciousness of rock musicians.
Song is at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joNzRzZhR2Y
*Poem written November 8, 2014 for Kelly's "I Love Rock and Roll Contest.
The day’s hot-the wind like a convection oven
Blows hot air in our faces.
My cap and gown insulates me
Baking me like a potato wrapped in aluminum foil
I desperately fan myself and look around
My eyes search for my peers and see;
The bros that survived school with me;
The others who shouldn't have;
The girls with memories already wet in their eyes;
The people I never met and will never know;
All desperately fanning themselves
In silence and in waiting.
We all are waiting for the same thing-
What's next to come.
For some it will be their names
For another a trip to boot camp
For many including myself- college
A couple can't wait to forget the tortures of high school
And a few will already be planning our high school reunion
because it was the best years of their life.
As I bow my head, not out of sadness,
but out of sheer defeat by the sun,
I scuff up my dress shoes in the clumpy grass of the field-
that just finished another infamous drawn out lacrosse season,
I'll be thinking about the 4 plus years, 8 seasons,
worth of drilling and conditioning I did in that very field and on the surrounding track,
With a flash of ivory across my sweating face
I'll be thinking about
All the nooks and crannies
that I sanctioned for the intimate meetings of my girlfriends
The times caught and not,
All the heartbreaks and rejections,
The friends made, the best friends kept, and the many lost.
The drama, stupidity, and immaturity,
Everything that was and used to be.
And, all this time spent waiting-preparing
for this one moment
You can't help but remember it all
And with one, final sweet goodby-
"NICHOLAS BELLO!"
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrict the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey beckons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
War.
A word of strength and convection
Relation between
The world and passion
The sea bleeds red,
God's new defected creation.
Smoke rises in every direction,
staining blue skies with pale shades of grey;
Molten coals--they deliver convection,
to the meats laid an orderly way,
busily emanating aromatic bouquets.
Termed 'Barbecues' or 'Pickin's--by plain folk,
toiling sunrise till often sunset;
to dispense the real magic in hot smoke,
produced by mere gas or briquette,
and the labors of pure human sweat.
In the end, wafting smoke teases senses,
anticipating succulence traced;
to 'cookouts' that sometimes mend fences,
tween those who oft gather in haste,
for that scent of 'the good life,' in taste!
Beverley is a professional at the Paralympics,
Because she’s been to five of them including Rio,
And in London she made the podium’s antics,
Since she won discus third with a lush glow.
Born the 17th of October 1974 with Cerebral Palsy,
She made the 2000 Sydney Summer Paralympics,
‘Cos back then she was a sprinter of great agility,
Coming 4th in the 100m and 8th in the 200m bricks.
She ran in the T38 class of running and sprinting,
But after these games she also competed in track,
The F37/38 shot put took her, it was challenging,
At the 2005 Worlds she won shot, 100m, 200m tack.
In 2006 at the CP Worlds in Conneticut USA, again
Three golds for the shot put, 100m and 200 metres,
And at the IPC Worlds, Assen, also in 2006’s pen,
Beverly set a shot put WR of a huge 10.57 metres.
At the Commonwealth Games in 2006 in hilly Wales,
She won the only event that she entered, sprinting,
When she took bronze for the 100 metres, T37 pales,
To see her climb the podium, Wales remembering.
Then she dropped running and just focused on track,
To build up her shoulder muscles for a fluent arm action,
So in 2011 at the IPC Worlds in Christchurch, jack,
She threw a discus 30.62 metres for silver convection.
In London she came third with a score of 30.99 metres,
To win a bronze, and in Rio de Janeiro she placed fifth,
“You have to switch…off [the crowd with all your litres],
[and] think [of] what you’ve been doing in training, [sith].”
Brushed with the languorous strokes of sunset
The landscape touched by a sinewy fire,
Breathing beneath the purple haze sky
As electrical dusk tugs molecular wire.
Bats from the caverns jerk black on thermals,
Bouncing their radar off structures and ground,
Charred blots of rag flap through the ether,
Guided in following echoes of sound.
Lights gleaming yellow in dullish convection,
Pale at the windows of ramshackle bars,
Shadows drop slowly in gutters and roadways
Silhouette snowfalls burying cars.
On the spire of the church a weathervane creaks,
Fossilised cockerel of iron and age,
Pointing to something that lay in the distance,
Something to which light could no more engage?
Eventide comes with a lonely delivery,
The cloak of atonement spread onto the day
As the hours that burned fade into the past
And scenes that once anchored have drifted away.
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrict the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey beckons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
Many springs have come and gone,
the city roars and wheezes,
concrete monsters block the prospect
and restrict the balmy breezes.
Summers stifle, streets are steaming,
hydrants bring some small relief,
merchants battle with the street gangs,
struggle on in blind belief.
Canyons strangle, subways throttle,
autumn bleeds in red and gold,
chilly now as winter beckons
with its shroud of killing cold.
Jersey beckons 'cross the river,
yet another frying pan,
in the cauldron of convection,
cradle of the modern man.
It has just begun.
The maps have unraveled in topographic templates, unmarked by geographic spaces.
They’ve been replaced by frequencies emerging from what we once knew as separate places.
For a place is but a point in space, dancing in a coordinated sense of distance:
Between spots upon an image rendered by an observer’s vision.
Now a thought is but a place betwixt the plane of earthly space; of which the spy has had an eye, on the needles threading their lace.
Thoughts are simple physical pulses, exuding pressure upon the no-longer void, of what was once an empty space, now filled with vibrant places.
A net of interconnected pulses precludes the human nature, now stripped of comfort of untouched convection adorned by Internet.
Yes, our thoughts were once unvisited places in the void of space, but now, yet another genocidal Columbus has mapped them and claimed them so.
Watch the eye that seeks treason of such a claim,
For it seeks not to see but to ready arrows with aim.
To interlace the traces of neurons, electrifying the once-ionized air,
Now not by lightning but by heavy metals hovering above your hair.
For the brain and computer are being interlaced with maps made those who make,
An interface of gestalt hives thriving against each other’s shrinking sake.
The next time you seen an ad on Facebook for something you just thought,
Remember that thoughts are now mapped by men with computers’ unknown plot.
Wink. Wink.
Remember to think.
I was one in a large selection
The two of us made a connection
I admit I had a predilection
You and I started out as perfection
Everyday filled with affection
Then came all the little corrections
After your voice made many inflections
So then I made an interjection
That I had began to have some detection
But you told me to stop with my dissection
Saying that it was for my protection
And gave me a lovely future projection
So I believed all of your flexions
Just by the look on your complexion
But still I was filled with some dejection
So after a night of introspection
I knew I could not put up with this rejection
And after a few minutes of reflection
I had several recollections
I could finally see every imperfection
The lies that met at their intersections
I had to have a little inspection
At first I felt some circumspection
So I followed you in your direction
Into town in a different section
Looked in some doors that needed disinfection
Only to find a girl on top of your ********
What I felt come on was an insurrection
My anger swirled around like convection
You pushed her off to make an objection
Don’t bother to make a defection
This relationship has no chance of resurrection.
Rising
on convection currents
let the heat waves take you higher
Sunspots on the eye of reason
bright obsessive radiation,
casting shadows on the desert
rippling on the rolling ocean
rise and fall across the mountains
leaning out against the sunset
burning sails on the horizon,
Solar sailors, lost in love.
Once in time ,a cargo plane was flying
above in the azure blue.
You see the plane was carrying seeds for planting,
or every size ,sort and hue.
When at once,the winds grew rough,
and the sky turned an angry gray.
The little plane was tossed and turned,
like a top at sea this day.
When out of the plane did fall,
not a box or barrel or crate,
but one single pea.
it fell to earth way down below,
faster and faster it sped,
acquiring tremendous velocity.
The pea struck the center of the pond,
with a loud kerplunk.,
sending ripples in every direction.
Small at first ,
then growing in size,
the result of a liquid convection.
Eddies from the plunge ,
disturbed a cattail,
growing at the shore.
The plant whipped back and forth ,
striking a bumblebee.
In a buzzing moment of panic,
it made a beeline for the hive,
and uncertain safety.
The bee in its fright ,
did strike a deer ,in the rear
just there for a drink,
.Of all the indignity,
the deer expressed with a snort,
as it jumped with fire from behind,
its brain didn't think.
The deer ran as if chased ,
by a tormentor,
of which it wished to be free.
It was right then and there,
the road it did cross,
in such a rush ,the car it failed to see.
Screech of the tire ,
swerve of the car,
terrified voice within,
stopped mere inches from hitting a tree.
The smallest thing said in hurt,can cause
great harm.