Best Unheated Poems

(Dedicated to all those who have died alone.)


They cannot fit, they cannot go along,
and the reasons are wide: pride, fear,
even love never tempered by time,
illness of the  heart or mind, or simply
bad, bad luck: life throws them away
until they throw life away....

She was one...

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When that storm arrived,
the entire congregation 
in genuflection 
knelt before 
Her poetic prayers,
they saw themselves shining,
eventually, in Her reflection 

scandalously quiet 
like perculating thunder, 
their minds cracking open,
their whole chicken little sky 
falling closer ever inward 
whipping sharp luminescent veins, 
a lightening of sorts, on...

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Snow falls on the brittle leaves of birch trees,
their branches miraculously overlooked by the December wind.
It makes a sound like the marching feet of scary Germans rushing through Poland.

Snow, mixed with freezing rain, 
falls hard on the roof of an unheated barracks in Auschwitz,
filled with...

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a parody on song "Winter Wonderland"- inspired by my winter alone in an 
unheated house.

"Come away, I am threadbare
Snow is falling....
Where there' be hair..

A cold-as_sed dam_  night
It's really a fright
Walkin' in my winter underwear..

Butt-cheeks gleaming
Through the holes, near the seaming
A nasty cold a_s,
My skin...

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I cherish memories of those long ago mornings,
awakening in an unheated attic room to mingled aromas- 
sweet hickory smoke escaping the old wood cook stove,
bacon frying, coffee perking, and biscuits baking.

Outside, a stark landscape in black and white,
whipped by howling wind, that seeking entry, 
would...

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Once manifested on the 
heel of Adagio in G major,
balancés and assemblés from 
the back hand. Baryshnikov told
me to flatten my stomach, so I 
repressed the urge to
breathe; suffocation is
incandescence by the barre.

Then I looked in the mirror and the 
mirror glared back in contempt-...

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Growing through the thorns; strong;
Calling out for help when the days seem long.
When it’s realized that lifes not a breeze,
That only where you go-is what one sees.
Then the hills don’t seem so steep,
The weak aren’t only the ones who weep.
Listen close with ears ready,
Not all...

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FOG   HORN   ON   THE   NEVA

Fog horn on the far off  Neva  dock
A  canal  bridge to open and  unlock:
Today I heard  its  sound 
Unmistakable  note found
Implanted down in my head,...

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Arrogance is the belittlement, empty lie... the stinking meat-pie-left-unheated and alone in the 
practical-wisdom-of-the-stove. The sometimes deadly and ambitious-quest for an-easier-day-
runaway-out-of-control-street-car-broken down mind trap-flimsy cardboard shelter of the-
ages,

opportunistic,

like the sea gulls singing-sailing along riding away between-the very-weight of-bullets-in-lieu 
of-the sting... raving against the raging winds.


Such...

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We need orphanages.
So abandoned children can be cared for,
receive three hot meals a day, be helped
with their homework. 


We need orphanages to be 
Quiet places where children can think.
Away from loud angry music
And loud angry adults who abandon them
in spirit, and attitude way before they
are...

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"Yes... !" "Kill them with the virtues of kindness my father always used to say... !""

"Arrogance is the belittlement - empty lie; the stinking Meat Pie left unheated and alone in the practical wisdom of the Stove." "The sometimes deadly and ambitious quest for an...

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one winter night,
I guess about 2 years ago
in my old unheated home,
which I have since sadly left,
I must tell you a remarkable story
about an attempted theft

about 4 or so in the morning
I was upstairs in my bedroom
reading in bed, in but my underpants
insomnia a plague,...

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"Where in any and all other governments has this principal, its own, been abandoned... ?" 
"The end of this writing right here; right-now-below, being the fruit of its neglect."

"Yes I feel today arrogance is the stinking meat pie left alone unheated in the practical-
wisdom of-the-stove......

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Laying on the floor beneath the window,
staring up at the painted plaster,
little cracks run 
through the goosebumps in the paint.

I can read where the wall is hollow
where it is brick,
by running the tips of my nails across its gibberish braille.
In certain spots, the paint is...

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The Truth Speaker.
The voice that speaks in the silence of my unheated room,
frost smoke in morning light and ice crystals of judgment 
that lacks passion, and logic too has the seed of insanity,
the lunatic is so clear that his view infects his psychiatrist.
the voice within...

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