Long Overheated Poems
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It was a dream about a FIRE; or was it a WARNING about a business
Proposition? This fire was started in our home in our heater. Nothing
Is unusual about trying to keep warm, but this fire was different. It was Started by a relative, and it was at first very much appreciated. Nevertheless, Immediately, the FLAMES became very INTENSE, and did not Diminish.
It was a WINDY day, and I could see that the flames were greatly effected
By the STRONG wind, because the flames were WRAPPING round the corner Of our house. I started checking the walls of the house to ascertain whether They Were normal or being OVERHEATED. My suspicion was well founded as I Could SEE that the walls were taking TOO MUCH HEAT. I was very concerned But did not PANIC. I did not want to call the fire department Just yet; so I Obtained a water hose and began to SPRAY water on the front and side walls, Preventing a catastrophe. I could not understand why the fire became so INTENSE, so RAPIDLY. Immediately after the fire was brought under CONTROL, the dream disappeared as SUDDENLY as it had appeared.
The dream occurred just last night, and this morning, the dream and an Interpretation came To mind. Whether the interpretation is precise, truthful Or not, I do not know. But often an interpretation will UNFOLD in my mind. For some years now, I have believed that many dreams, but not all, are linked To what has transpired in our waking timeline. And the brain has a way of 'TRANSFIXING' our real experiences into the form of a dream.
This dream concerns the sale of property involving a trusted friend. I should Proceed with caution regarding the business matter initiated. Many of life's Experiences are loaded with VOLATILITY without assistance from us. Yet other Components of our lives become volatile when we interact with them.
101621PSCtest, Onomatopoeia Poetry, Emile Pinet
Onomatopoeia words are in caps.
We had just finished reading Twas the Night Before Christmas
“Good Night children.” Their mom and I said.
“Wait a minute Dad…something’s not right. We live in Florida.” Our eldest son said.
“It’s too warm down here for the reindeer.” (Our second son said sounding defeated). “How does Santa deliver the presents if all his reindeer become overheated?”
“There’s no snow, it’s not cold and we have no chimney.” (This statement was made by our daughter) “How does Santa deliver presents to those of us who live on the water.”
I looked at my wife and smiled…my hands thoughtfully covering my mouth. “You mean we’ve never told you”, I said sitting down, “how Santa delivers presents to the south?"
“Santa’s reindeer love to fly…high across the winter sky they soar…but even they get tired so when Santa’s sleigh reaches our shore he gives his reindeer a break on the beach with some suntan lotion and a bale of hay…and hooks up nine Florida dolphins who take over guiding his sleigh.”
“Thank you for helping all my dolphin friends!” each year Santa happily exclaims.
Then one by one they smile and nod as Santa Claus calls them by name.
On Aqua, on Ocean, on Brooke, on Marina…Noelani are you ready for me?
On Splash, on Delta, on Raindrop…it's time to guide me out over the sea.”
“Over and under the sea we will swim…look smart, please stay in two rows…and when it gets too dark to see out there…on Coral…please light up your nose.
“You see Santa is very resourceful.” Dad said…”I hope you now understand…how he can deliver his presents on the water as easily as on the land.”
“Many children all over the world see Santa and his reindeer and instantly believe...but only the children in Florida see Santa and his dolphins on Christmas Eve.”
If you look out your window tonight you might see…on the water…in the moon light arise...a sleigh pulled by nine dolphins, Santa in short sleeves with sunglasses covering eyes.
And if you're lucky you even might hear him exclaim as he and his dolphin drive out of sight.
Happy Christmas to all the children in Florida…
and to all the children in Florida…
a good night.
I can accept love
I have time to learn
and earn
But
can I embrace compassion
I feel sure appreciates me
far more wisely
than I have yet earned?
Positive passions more pleasant
than I could ever find sufficient time
to brilliantly learn
My adoration spot
on this comedy central
AnalRetentive Stage
listing
lusting
more Left Winged
liberating
than Right Fringed
defensively sedating.
I am haunted
by an oppressively disabling gap
between what I have sufficient healthy time
to accomplish
to communicate
to experientially articulate
as anemically contrasted
to all I can imagine health
and safe wealth doing
togathering in this day,
this week,
this month,
this year,
this final decade
of my personal AnthroGay Pride
and WhitePrivilege
to prefer Black Lives MultiEnculturing Matter
and wild Paradise
PolyCulturing Pleasure
Win/Win bi-everything trans-thriving
positively contagious
as the clap
On a loved ones back
is my gay worldview sound
of one left hand liberally clapping
out FreeDom
ReStorative Justice
Love
Between my NonViolently WinWin Communicating
brothers and sisters
LeftBrain verbally dominant
claiming Peace
I nonverbally feel
RightBrain left outside
closeted ungay emotional neglect
In my polyculturally wise universe
feeling all EarthMother's love,
Polyester is always Lose/Lose trauma
bad news drama
while
PolyPathic Win/Win
evokes sacred warm
wet 1 within 0 zen rivers
of deeply penetrating gospel
Good regenerative humor
despite toxic rumors
that my indigenous EarthTribe
intentional family
and trauma-infested community
are suffering from an overheated climate
of monoculturing dementia
Increasingly difficult to recall
the love we have had time to learn
is earned one timeless
warm remembering moment
always liberally Here
as time conserving Now,
unconditionally warm
well-moisturized regard
For healthy hygiene
is next to wealthy
goddessness
A gay gratitude gift
more than sufficiently
out proud
well endowed.
Dear Ma I don't mean to write a letter and flee,
but it seems I got the Devil in me.
This average Joe tested my manhood and now
I have to teach him a lesson,
bullet wounds to his chest will leave him breathless
"I'll be out in a second."
Slipped on my jeans, tank top, t-shirt and jacket,
and my Nike's, gray gloc, I'm nervous but fact is.
When I see him won't stop from merkin' this bastard,
Send him to Jenah all shot curdled up in casket.
Before I leave I hit the kitchen
for breakfast I'm hungry,
a couple candy bars, drinks, some
wheat breat and turkey.
Some pocket money I hit the door in a hurry
I left a letter on the kitchen table when mom reads it
"Lord Have Mercy!"
I had the stash in my pack jumped in the Lac put my pack
in the back gave Chief dap put the,
match to my black relaxed and chatted casually,
"Chief I think he hussles right up the block, him we gonna have to see."
The Reaper he gonna have to meet,
this son of a b---h caught me in an alley
put a gat to me and took my cash from me.
Swung his fist and tap my cheek see I ain't have to bleed
I hope he with his boys I'll rat a tat his peeps "they all no match for me."
I think the Devil's after me, please calm down
laugh and breath
don't get overheated cause he can blast at you.
"Chief I see him on 22nd, right their with the all white Sean John
and my diamond cut necklace!"
-----------in the middle of the story, I shoot the person and his girlfriend not
knowing who his girlfriend is, and here comes the twist in this poetic story----------
This can't be happening to me, that's what you'd hear
if my eyes talked
I shot my COUSIN down on the sidewalk.
I didn't know that she was cool with this figure,
if I wouldn't have known that I wouldn't have fooled with the trigger.
I placed my cousin's neck in my palm
carressing her arm,
I looked to the left and surely there was her mom.
I'm sorry, I really am......
Devil says, "It doesn't matter cause for life now you're eternally damned
now give me your hand."
Fin
The Wonder Boys
by Michael R. Burch
(for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric,
who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and
a fine poet in his own right)
The stars were always there, too-bright cliches:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites?amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true . . .
but came almost as static?background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.
They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope . . .
You will not find them here; they blew away?
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,
their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.
The Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
The sun that swoons at dusk
and seems a vanished grace
breaks over distant shores
as a child’s uplifted face
takes up a song like yours.
We listen, and embrace
its warmth with dawning trust.
Dawn, to the Singer
by Michael R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp
“O singer, sing to me—
I know the world’s awry—
I know how piteously
the hungry children cry.”
We hear you even now—
your voice is with us yet.
Your song did not desert us,
nor can our hearts forget.
“But I bleed warm and near,
And come another dawn
The world will still be here
When home and hearth are gone.”
Although the world seems colder,
your words will warm it yet.
Lie untroubled, still its compass
and guiding instrument.
It appears that September is all wrapped up,
tied tight, and intertwined throughout my blood.
I say this because inspiration for September has
never been so fluid, so gushing, and invigorating.
Like presently, I'm feeling the need for a bridge
to take my beloved country and my adopted state
across troubling waters. I need more that a temporary
seasonal bridge that operates between elections, only
to be proven worthless after two and four year intervals.
I need something and someone like September who's going
to stand by me, stand up for me, stand with me during the hard times.
Someone who's never going to give up until the sounding of the bell.
Someone who's going to restore common sense to politics and the
American way. Someone who's going to calm the agenda-driven winds of
'the great divide'. Yes, it would be great if we could cross this great expanse by 'walking on water', but only the Christ can do that. That is why I am
praying for a bridge on which to cross. I'm praying for something and someone so designated by The Almighty to get us across the great gulfs
so overheated as to stir up hurricane force cultural and social wars so
presently prevalent in our nation. O September, I have been anticipating
you, and now that you have arrived, I cannot thank you enough, because I see you as a bridge of confidence and hope. You are the warrior of peace
and poise. I know that you have been observing with great concern the grave doubts and fears. It's you, September, whom they and I have been waiting
for. We believe that you have a Divine appointment, and your calming presence is the hallmark of God's hand upon your life and season.
091421PS
As one who’s walked in darkness I can say:
Avoid, my son, the paths that I have trod.
For, though you may believe yourself a god,
The truth is not something you wish away.
The day I first strapped on this sheath and sword,
I never could envision where I’d end.
As overheated steel will break and bend,
Each forward step led me to my reward.
In battle glorious I made my name.
The flames of war burned off what might be weak.
I fought and killed with well-practiced technique
And earned, I thought, the bounties of such fame.
For fortune and for glory I would hunt.
And all across the globe for war I’d quest.
Each bloody battle just another test
To see if it would sharpen or would blunt
The weapon I was turning out to be;
It was not just my sword that could cause harm;
But all of me, heart and brain, hand and arm
Could cause as much destruction equally.
And every wound that to my foe I’d give
Unknowing back upon me would rebound.
‘Twas only so much later that I found
The man who deals out death can’t really live.
Gaze, my son, upon these many scars.
Imagine, if you can, each injury.
Not all were given by an enemy
But rather the desires of my heart.
Broken now, I lie here through the years
Unable anymore to freely move.
Perhaps I just resent the need to prove
That all the pain will never cause me tears
In darkness have I walked and now I live
If living is indeed what you would name
This sad existence filled with sin and shame
That I fear even God cannot forgive.
For you, my son, I offer but advice:
Try to find the hope to rise above
The hate I’ve lived, and learn at last to love;
The path that might lead you to Paradise.
There is a state of mind known as woebegone
In which one feels like an addict on methadone
The more one tries to feel upbeat
The more one suffers mental defeat
And the mind plays on like a gramophone.
8
The boys outside the bar appeared rapscallion
Their actions were downright reptilian
Every time a girl would walk by
One would let out a loud cry
Acting just like an overheated young stallion
8
There was an old lady from New Jersey
Who recently moved to Poughkeepsie
She met this old fart
In a local Kmart
And the two proceeded to get quite tipsy
8
Roger was smug and a bit of a grandee
Others viewed him as somewhat of a dandy
The girls giggled and downright snickered
Because they knew he sought entry to their knickers
But alas, with buttons and zippers he just wasn’t handy
8
Bobby was well known for his generosity
But also known for his excessive gulosity
He would take you to lunch anytime
But always state “what’s left over is mine”
And clean the table with the utmost ferocity
8
There was this old man from Toledo
That liked to parade around in his speedo
The old ladies would giggle
Watching his sagging butt jiggle
But it did little or nothing for their libido
8
There is this retired gentleman in south Buda
Who would like to vacation in Bermuda
But his poem book didn’t sell worth squat
Now he’s stuck with who knows what
As he reads travel brochures in his pad in south Buda
8
There is this Colorado guy in the Springs
Whose Windows computer does unusual things
The damn screen turned permanently black
So he went out and bought a new Mac
Now he doesn’t answer when his telephone rings
8
Form:
Oppressive Orange
Another tequila sunrise drifting up from this deserts overheated floor.
Barely daybreak, tangor skies just becoming visible but the sweat already
stings like citrus...
How can this place be called home?...
This place by noon will be an inferno, no shade, no refuge,
just chromatic mirages filled in by reddish sand and sunrays
that burn your pigment on first touch...
How can this place be called home?...
Nothing grows here, no wheat, no rice, no orange groves, or mangoes.
Nothing except the population of the starving and this is where they call
home, in the fluorescent flame of Hell.
How can this place be called home?...
The burnt reddish pigment dominates life here holding everything down
by the weight of its heat. Here it is the beauty and the curse, can it get
any worse?
How can this place be called home?...
The only place on earth oppressed by a color and all of its bad attributes!
The color of heat, the color of life, the color of death for millions of
starving people...
How can this place be called home?
My neighbor's piano swirls around her finger
likened to a keyed car where scrapes linger.
She teases out a tune as we both try to hum
along with swirling keys her fingers drum.
The naturals and the flats whirl around
us as we mount her piano earthbound.
Her slap grooves my cheekbone to her hand. The sting grooves
with a vinyl record hissing. My neighbor moves
between the outlining appearance of a bee
in golden gyrations till her swat smacks the bee.
Her canter thumps a vase. Calm peonies revolve
along its rim as arrangements dissolve.
Between her turntable and windowsill's moth rack,
the bee puts up a fight. It can't get off its back,
an eeriness like a sixth sense that it will cease
to bob six legs. Each tonearm's reach needles a crease
of dead air. Although the buzzing makes the final
cut, the static starts with a vinyl
record, this one's translucence as golden as bees
in the sunlight. The record plays
while the neighbor fusses over a vase of peonies;
I brush her ears with small talk till we're both tongue-tied.
A high pitch taps a cicada to hide
horizons like a mountain-raised shadow
smoothing out summer's every echo.
Dark accidentals cascade into ghost-white keys.
The sun-licked honey floats its naturals
till a petal at the windowsill moats its musk
around the bee's indoor husk. A pesticide breeze
platters the buzz-freeze fellow on its back
warped in sunshine like a vinyl record
with an overheated edge, the record,
in turn, pedaling peonies and pianos