It’s early July and what’s happening is
The weather’s so hot it will make your hair frizz
And perhaps even ruin that cold champagne fizz
At Taylor and Kelce’s “I do’s.”
Abe Lincoln sits gazing at water, now green,
With algae the worst anybody had seen
And you-know-who claiming his conscience is clean –
It’s vandals that one should accuse.
The National Mall has a Giant State Fair
But somehow the crowds aren’t showing up there.
Performers pulled out, for they’d rather be where
They’re not forced to air you-know-who’s views.
Though the temps may be broiling, an obvious fact,
And the wedding at Madison Square will distract,
The sad truth is the soon-to-be 4th has been stacked
With so much that it’s hard to enthuse.
For our country’s divided on every stage,
Which will make it a challenge for us to engage
And beneath all the fireworks, sorrow and rage
Will infuse all the red, white, and blues.
Horses galloping
in the barren country
long scorched
by conflagrations.
Carbonised bracken
and naked trees cry
gnarled in bewitchment
of incantations concocted
around smoky cauldrons
broiling with the fury
of serpent fangs
and necrotic poisons
that consume
the golden hour
Heaven's artistry in motion.
Dare to dream Ashes nightmares it seems reawoken
Token words spoken after scares & flares teams broken
Dafter peacocking then rocking no blocking just shocking
Mocking laughter of the ghost of Christmas future knocking
Host boast from coast to coast toast as England roast
Boiling..recoiling..toiling & broiling this is our last post
Our iridescent flaming proper copper haired laird
Incandescent flairs no taming his despairs we all shared
Luminescent cares blaming Bazball heirs ill prepared scared
Stoic brawler our defiant mauler on a leaking reeking trawler
Too reliant on our brilliant defiant resilient glowering giant
Big Ben set up camp crippled by his men again & ripples of cramp
Overpowering pain courses through every vein towering skipper & champ
Heart on his sleeve…makes us believe in a reprieve heroic Firestarter
Immensity of intensity.. O Captain my Captain..our smarter martyr
Hakuna metata
In the fields
of broiling air
plump lambs gambol.
The daytime star
smiles and whirs;
a lone tortoise toils
in plodding rhythm.
His docile baritone sings
the timeless chorus
“Hakuna metata!”
to fretting lions
who grapple tousled
and tangled.
They pose with the austere stares of
Loving, friendly ghosts —tall, gaunt and lissome,
With big, rounded head.
Draped in weathered robes of care,
They are the only guardian spirits we see.
They have the calming power,
Where drunken machines run amok
Through broiling engine oils
And reckless crankshafts,
Spitting gas, and brittle axles.
Roads are unpredictable.
In winter they storm with the quiet rage of
Sods, dragging queens and whims . . .
Guide me, O limits of spirits!
Check my fattened excesses for fibrosis.
Darkness thickens —even by feast-time of the sun.
The seething waters took them.
I rage,
rage against the deluge,
an unmoored,
unrestrained rage.
I rage for the innocents,
a rage that drowns all else
except more broiling,
more roiling waves of rage,
an anger that unstrings
the harps of angels.
Rage I now, at the blind horror
of godforsaken moments
that snatch all away
as suddenly as a surging,
untethered,
Texas tsunami.
I rage against
the ever-deceitful aspirations
of peace and calm,
rage utterly
against all heaven-sent calamities,
rage most,
upon
this violent earthbound dream
we have plunged into,
it is a raging river
that will sweep us all away,
even little girls,
all those struggling to still swim
above such raging torrents
only to slip through flailing hands
as hope sinks below
yet more tumultuous waters,
waters which
it has been written,
that Jesus himself
once walked upon.
My drinks enticing and sweet
On a chair in the middle of the street
My little floaters been dinged
Toiling waves the edges singed
The wood alive with roaring flame
Waters pulsing like a broiling brain
The cars flow downriver like syrup
I float on my raft with an empty cup
My chair can't sink among the heat
Since it's not the damn drivers seat
So I travel the world and surf
My cup will never touch any turf
Arms reach out from the ocean waves
They hold tight, the current fails
They want saltless delight im sure
I lift the parasol, sugar is the cure
I reach down and share the fluid
The current takes it, people included
It's no matter, I can surf without it
So I crouch on the boards and sit
Then lie and bask in the sun
And even the hands cant ruin the fun
They still reach and pin me
From below the board they see
Grab my cup and take it
I laugh and spit
I let them take it where it belongs
Bubbling under the wooden walls
And I still have the suns fire
It extinguishes the waters pyre
The lapping waves cant burn
My raft of wood will never turn
Everything is so warm and free
As long as my drink is lifting me
There’s a tugging in my chest
It leads me straight to you
Bubbling, broiling love and luck
Of pink and golden hue
A kind and sweethearted soul
Deserves the world anew
And when she talks, my heart goes light
And face burns red for you
Sweetheart, sweetheart, hug me close
Pull me tight to you
My little blue jay, birdie, love
Fire alarm, love me too
Jigsaw girl was a supreme pleaser.
Her pieces were imperfectly placed by "the others".
Always the first to acknowledge, the last to be noticed.
Nobody cared enough to really get to know her.
One "other" paid her frailties some attention.
Loneliness often jumps at the first glance.
Being stretched like silly putty never really lasts.
She only halfway snapped back long after that.
She withdrew into a coil of broiling silence.
Brass-eyed, always in a full-blown crisis.
Nobody cared enough to toss her a rope.
Today Russia has begun a war broiling in Putin’s sick fantasy
Ukraine people gird themselves for bombs and deaths, many deaths
Can the USA, NATO swoop in and stop the invasion?
Maybe yes maybe no
Humans can fly to the moon and aspire to travel to the stars
but can’t figure out how to feed or stop killing each other
maybe they don’t know how but
it looks like they just don’t give a damn about people
It will be written in the fate of mankind
that mankind did not earn a second chance
as killing of humans and animals continued
appalling acts in the name of selfish egos of men
Who have a rock of grizzle in their chest where a heart should be
convincing themselves a bad idea conceived at night is good however
the reality of an ill thought out plan in the chill of evening has a price
The destruction brings forth a different realism that hurts
women, children, the old and they pay the price
but they, the people hating, war mongers don't care.
Ideas are slapping me in the gut today.
I shove one, another falls, one urges me to play.
I bite them and smash them and slash them to bits.
They keep coming back, not caring if I scream or have fits.
Come on! I say to my imagination. Give me a break.
She takes out a potato and starts broiling a steak.
A pink dinosaur with orange dots stands on my head.
I guess these ideas will keep coming until I am dead.,
The same people who demand I put that mask over my face
are the same ones who lift sieves from borders.
Inviting sludge +slag along with the gold.
The ones with no respect for law and order.
The same ones that demonize all police.
The same ones who close an ocean.
The same ones who claim they can stop rioting with a hug.
Broiling the soul of the country for optics and blood ratings.
The same ones that release violent inmates.
Into society to protect them from the flu.
The same ones that are defacing Honest Abe.
The same ones that use retirement homes
as halfway houses for rapists and drug addicts.
The same ones that rip toilets from their mansions,
to avoid paying taxes-all the while raising mine...
That's why you can bet your blue "regressive" behind
That my thumb will be turning red come November.
Thunder growled and prowled the leaden sky,
no sign of birds in trees, no bees nor butterfly.
High summer and the thrumming of rain on leaf,
the catatonic stillness and quietude only brief.
A crackle of jagged light excites and splits the sky asunder,
followed by a murmur then a crescendo of rolling thunder.
The rain applauds with hordes of watery droplets,
that hiss and sizzle in the clammy air like rhyming couplets.
A moments grace as clouds race and build to thunderhead,
then the moiling, broiling vapour ignites and crashes overhead.
The brooding skies lighten as the heavenly orchestra perform,
diminuendo, percussion and birdsong the ending of the storm.
COME HERE SWEETLY
BY: MIGDALIA TORRES
Come here Sweetly
I know you are my friend
Come here Sweetly
I want to know your Name
I am Robin Rock
Who walks along the way
To Grandma’s House away I will go
and meet Sweetly on the way
Come here Sweetly
I need to know your Name
Come here Sweetly
My Wolf Pack is at Bay
Take another look and place another Hook today
for Children like you are my Bait,
and tastes sweetly just the same
Come here Sweetly
and don’t you walk away
A Fire Pit is Boiling
I’ll have some Meat today;
A Wolf Gang always gets his way
A Wolf Gang never walks away
So come here Sweetly
I’m Broiling You Today!
HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYONE!
August 1965
Laying hot tar and sand
Swarms of mosquitoes
Broiling summer sun
Warm water tasted cool
Low pay, nasty job
No job, no pay
Endless stretches ahead
Laying hot tar, sand,
Sweat, and what was left
of my self esteem
On Georgia roads
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