Boil Over Poems | Examples

No matter, no different

It's all about to come to fruition
 to seath up and boil over in volume and commission 
The intention of the off hand is to present the will of the common 
driving down to the bottom with no cause to empty the plenty free you see.
I cast no spell to either side tho I hide behind honorable walls ready to peak around the side and utter my righteous mantra.
I might just have fun with the sincerity of others who are afraid of what they are told to be afraid of.
With love so right it's wrong to know when "no" means more to you than to them requiem this intent to stint the stench sent by the unrepentant to persistent intent.
I bask in the glory filled fortified facts that we stack high abroad to attack when everyone is watching. 
Desencly watching with no way of knowing where you're going.
If they're told to hate do they know when to cease?
To release all bindings and so called findings of convenient facts
That stack on there mind so high they can't see over their own failure 
To see that their freedom has been redefined for their confinement.

Stole From US

In the twelth hour
We're pursuing generational wealth
From a generation who stole
Everything from us

The clock ticks closer to doom
But we're no closer to finding our own reality
When dreams are nightmares
Fueled by foreign wars

I thought it was all wack
But I held everything back
Taking the back seat
To let others drive the car

And as we fly off the bridge
I have to ask myself how I even got here
Because my hope is drowning
In a dead sea of blood and oil

I'm tired of sitting and crying
Listening to cowards who aren't fighting
But put our soldiers on the streets
As they parade their new yachts

You sold your children's future
For foreign investment that didn't manifest
And as infrastructure begins to break down
See the reality of a dying empire

This land was not made for you and me
And the melting pot is beginning to boil over
But sadly we're caught in the crossfire
Of a media fueled race war

Because to divide is to conquer
And maybe I'm a victim of the game
When I point fingers and attribute blame
Because I'm clearly guilty too

Plaything of Time

I live like a cancer - quick, unplanned growth unheeding of greater designs.
I devour information like a starving wolf - never sated, never tasting the goodness I consume.
I throw myself into activities under exhausting self-compulsion. I should ... so I do ... so I'll die ...
I create in a fit of madness, barely finishing one draft before my mind races to the next.
I busy myself and flood my ears with music.
I let my seething mind boil over without restraint.
I do what I can to escape thinking of you - O Time.

Scythe-wielding Saturn, most ancient of fears.
First to murder his father, only to taste the same fate.
Do I fear death so much?
I don't know ...
But I quail at the shortness of life.
There's so very much I want to do ...
And surely it's better to do much, right?
Especially when we're not sure whether all we do is right.
How can we love what we fear? What we dread? 
Time, O Time ... Time ... Time .... Time .....


16 October 2023

Death In a Lunch Hour

he entered the room as if rice was about to boil over, 
seeing faces of those he didn't recognise look as though
they were reading the last line of a book they never read 
before, staggered, asymmetrically pensive in times during
coffee servings and bites from donuts, but, given that it 
was only midday, the flavour of the waitresses grumbled
in overlapping office lunch hours. little did our hero, who
entered with arched cat-back whiteness, know, his un-
expected audience, delivering blank verse in motor-
cycle and side-car loads, were systematically only there
to make up the numbers, merely propping up the inward
burst of off the street heart attacks, the last hope of ever
thwarted reasoning and too the waitresses were cardboard.

Rolling

Being this stillness within a whirling brain,
detached, as thoughts boil over,
watching from a 10 mile high view.

All these years chasing ghosts;
they’re all living with me now,
because that's what ghosts do
when you kill them.

I was aghast of myself,
dark times loading bullets behind closed eyes,
believing I would be always buried alive.

Resurrection is for the catatonic,
me, I got hit between the eyes,
sucker punched.
Life and death came together
in a field of non-existence,
and yet only there
did consciousness bloom.

Could be I’m just a clearer sky,
one still rolling over graveyards
where all the spent volcanoes
simmer on -
nevertheless still rolling.

Across Realms

Across Realms

Across vast realms
Where clouds collide
Like scarred chariots
In rush hour traffic
Storms boil over
Fed by fiery wombs of dawn’s inferno 
With flames of sunrise fire,  
As thrashing rain
Plants rainbow seeds
In metaphoric soils
To harvest far flung sunbows 
From cerulean fields.

Sun and storm wedded
Hopefulness 
Whispers 
A haunting covenant
Drenched by hues of hope 
Shielded by the sun.

Binding misty edges
Of edgeless domains
Revelations 
In beatific splendor soar
Kaleidoscopic pergolas 
Highlight sky bound wings
Tinted by ethereal arches 
When shimmering puddles
Unfold across Heaven’s doorstep
Across realms 
Bathed in mystic grandeur.

5-2-23
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh

Theme Chosen:  Across Realms

A Lynching For Santa

Santa went out last night dressed as the Grinch. 
Partied too much got into a tight pinch. 
Woke with aching hangover.
Mrs. Santa, boil-over, 
Bells ringing, threaten with deer's reins to lynch.

11/13/2022

A Fun Holiday Limerick Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin

Poetry Soup Goulash

My love for all on Poetry Soup
like a tasty broth group.

Cook and stir

* 2 pounds lean Lebanon ground
in Dutch oven over medium-high heat,
breaking the Lebanon meat up as it cooks,
until all is no longer pink and has
started to brown, about 10 minutes.

Stir in the

* 2 Canada onions, chopped
* 3 United Kingdom garlic cloves, chopped
and cook for another 1o minutes

Stir in

* 3 cups Africa water  
* 2 (15 ounce) United States cans tomato sauce
* 2 (14.5 ounce) cans India diced tomatoes
* 3 tablespoons Isle Of Man soy sauce
* 2 tablespoons dried Italian herb seasoning
* 3 Philippines bay leaves
* 1 tablespoon seasoned Bangladesh salt, or to taste
and bring to a boil over medium heat.

Stir 

* 2 cups uncooked elbow Australia macaroni,
cover, and simmer over low heat until the pasta is tender,
about 25 minutes, stirring occasionally.

Poets with golden ink and pens
that make us move forward as friends
with inspiration, kindness, and honesty,
encouragement and compliments.
A small act of caring, which has the potential
to turn a life around.

I thank each and everyone of you far and near.


3/14/2022

I Am Rage

I have become rage 
Consumed, my angry heart beats black
Was it ever any other color?
I can't remember now

To hate with a passion
More than I have ever loved
Burning hot and violent
Eroding what pleasures remain

I will turn sand into glass
I will boil the seas
The air will crackle with fire
And so shall the trees

Gods wrath squeezed tight
Balled up in a fist
It will break and boil over
Released, its container couldn't fit

And onto the world it burns, as I have
Until the pressure fades
And the balance is made
I am seething
I am rage

Hangover the Morning After the Night Before

Santa went out last night dressed as mutton.
Partied too much; was a real butt   on.
Woke with aching hangover.
Mrs. Santa, boil-over,
Threaten to punch in his bellybutton.

You need to deliver the children's toys.
Or you'll ruin the joy for girls and boys.
Sleigh and reindeer are roundup,
Leave Before children wake-up.
Santa mumbled, stop making so much noise.

Feeling awful, asked, give me till sixer.
Mrs. Santa did mix an elixir.
Santa drank till he tossed up
His cookies and liquor sup.
Weak with sore belly, sobered up quicker.


12/7/2020

Him and Her

Their simmering passion boil over
Their love, a fading ember
Fully resurrected


Date written and posted: 04/14/2019

Broken Noodles

She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile. 
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy. 
All of it would never fit in the pot.
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce. 
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian

The Boxer

Never underestimate this opponent,
While he's busy rolling up his sleeves.
Though he looks like he isn't focused,
Soon you'll be falling to your knees. 

I've watched him from a vague distance,
He visualizes every single, lethal blow.
In his mind's eye he quietly meditates,
Carefully strategizing how this fight'll go.

Like a pot about to boil over,
The rage deep inside him slowly grows.
He witnessed so much through horrific scenes,
A well kept secret no outsider knows. 

He constantly replays this life's traumatic moments,
Holding back the painfully silent tears.
He'll never open up, to publically display,
Haunting memories inflicted over the years.

Although his mind and views are tainted,
Because of the situations beyond his control.
The Boxer's indestructible spirit is mighty,
Protecting his heart and shielding his soul.

Afternoon Brew

It brews

With the first arc of the sunlight
That lifts the sweltering night

It brews

Without a single cloud to offer comfort
The thick still air 
Only grows heavier
A weight you can see on the leaves of the trees
As they fold to the oppression
Hot like a wet tea bag
A solid mass you can feel on your skin
Pressing on lungs   scrounging for oxygen

It brews

Quietly
Patiently

Come afternoon
The mercury   peaks
Clouds out of nowhere 
Swiftly boil over
Liquid silver turns to slate
As a wall of wind slams into the city
With rain pounding in waves
Hailstones thrashing
And lightening bolts flashing
The trees are left praying on their knees

A moment of relief
And then it is gone

The clouds clearing out like a shift change

Sun back on duty
In a matter of minutes the streets are dry
And the air is again steeped

It is as if nothing happened
Save a few fallen trees





Composed for Brenda Chiri's
Describe a thunderstorm without the sense of sound.

The Exorcism of Gbad Pt 1

Sometimes I still feel like a child
Crying and scared, sucking back snot in bed
Suffering in silence, alone in the dark
Begging and pleading, I was just dead
So many memories repressed, suppressed
Trying, always trying, another try
No one to listen, for who would believe
A child wanted to die
My reality was beyond my thought skill set
Couldn't comprehend or understand why
I wanted to fly, just fly I can never forget
How I felt how I did, I was a kid, why try?
But the pain was full grown, 
So I hid what was felt
Leaving the pain unknown
It was so hard, I would pray to God
"Please end this misery i'm in"
Only to awaken in morning, last night was forlorning
Maybe I should just do myself in
But forever the coward, I trudged on
Battling forces I can't control
The black hole in my heart became darker
An inevitable fight for my soul
Was about to become a reality
No one saw the storm that was approaching
The rage was about to brew, and boil over
The dark cloud began rapidly encroaching.....

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