Long Thermometers Poems
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i told you it was cold
i ran to you for warmth
i bartered with my soul
i prayed to calm your storm
you said i did not say
claimed i was always far
or rotten, there i lay
a dead, uncaring scar
i told you i would freeze
in that melancholy house
you blamed it on the breeze
said thicken up my blouse
you lied to my face
though the temperature clear
was as frozen as space
only fit for a bier
i know you will scold
if i asked you to stay
hunting songbirds of old
just to scoff as they bray
but i reach out my hand
as i so often do
because i know that my ways
are so foreign to you
i cry to embrace
your harsh, distant corpse
i would not dare to face
you with words you can warp
do thermometers lie?
was the temperature fake?
or did you let me slip by
to succumb to my fate
A few hours of tittering on past glories of a planet,
Tsal, Pezal and the team see a screen still alive from sun's power,
Broadcasting (most likely in a loop) with partly dark LEDs
The news of a time when Nature hadn't turned entirely sour.
Tsal asks himself like a sharp stab to his chest:
"Didn't they read the signs?" Tropical rains coming early
Then late year on year, messing up planting and harvesting,
While thermometers lost touch with reality, doing exactly what wasn't said on the telly.
Floods washed away months of tilling and planting on estates,
While droughts washed away whole villages, leaving them empty,
And more nuclear disasters decimated whole cities and states,
But life went on disregarding the warning in Humpty Dumpty
Fiddling with the core's magnetic fields led to imbalance,
And the Earth struggled to shake off the destroyers,
Spewing molten venom and nerve gas to dance
Upon the lives of sons, daughters and fathers and mothers.
Yeah, Nature had long lost what was left of patience,
As the Ozone let in the rays so long waiting at Earth's doors,
To steal the seas and rivers out into space's expanse,
As if to say: "You have all, yet you don't recognize, and keep seeking more."
(c) Nyonglema
Certain Notions About Earth
Oceans fill themselves with liquid pleasure
Storms corner the world to make it spin
Fires feed themselves with a desire to be the sun
Deserts take their time to sort through sand
Grains get in the way of weather as they travel west
Certain winds move by themselves forever up
Lands shift but mostly hold objections down along tectonics faults
Grounds swallow rivers until saturated or full
But were made for walking, along with mountains
Thermometers can tell you this
That deep inside the core are metals molten red
Rocks get older with each period and each age
Trees hold the Earth in place and dream of greener days
Animals have their place
But that’s a lesson for another day
Ice Ages Come With Colder Days
By February March moves on to centuries
Still the sky comes laden with atmospheric vapor
As light as ice, clouds abundance falls to the ground
As thaw fails to gather life’s potential
If nature could take her pulse it would be cold
As it turns whiter in the depths of endless frost
It moves much slower
Birds fall from trees, snow dusted cotton balls
Frozen, wrapped in winter gowns
Ice laden, as thermometers grow longer
To accommodate the permafrost engaged
Temperatures plunge next to zero
Stretched, bound to solid rocks
But why bother with the calculus
When the net effect is O
Where can barometers go but down
Where zeros abound out numbered
Devices known to man stop time
Unwind realities effects on climate
Blizzards lay out the land with no regrets
With blinding wind and white theatricals
Lost directions and compasses offer no hope
No protection in the endless snow
Where are the strawberries this year?
Why do blueberries not come to crop?
Dropped out of boundaries is Spring
Colored butterflies fly off the wing
Adopted by Winter it would seem
Frozen leaves hold on to cold
As on the trees they cling to memories
Fall spinning into muddied puddles
Turned to ice by dim moonlight
Reflecting lake’s late midnight
Sounds so quiet, so serene, as if not audible
Make their way to invisibility, silent in the air
Drift silky into mysteries of crystal ice
To nowhere special, collecting what air has to offer
Which is somewhere around but where
Words can not describe the inside outs of Winter
Ice ages are unforgiving, lasting for centuries on
For eons, music is unheard where it once abounded
Unearthed to be recovered in melodies un-listened to
Songs remain unsung however without the living
A world has yet to be discovered colder than our own
No one sings a song with no one there to sing along
Real Tea
We steep it far too long,
lowering thermometers,
holding rulers to steam,
timing the swirl of leaves
in glove-warmed hands
in our cosie cuddled pots.
We revere the cup,
catalogue the aroma,
argue whether the color
means what we think it means—
what real tea ought to be.
Meanwhile,
the real tea drifts,
up and away
with the vapors
that escapes
our nostrils
inhalation!
Wandering off
beyond the grim
plain-glazed rim,
It flaunts its time
it chimes its rhyme
it grins at our
uncertainty
out of reach
of a real cuppa tea.
bit by bit,
itty-bitty—
sip by sip
slip by slip—
whiff by waft,
one leaf at a time.
away from the cup,
away from the tongue,
away from its solemnity
away from the label—
Real Tea!
It's Real?
This Tea!
It's Real Tea!
With the gentle sound of rainy days
I do recall the games I played,
while home from school, and when fevers brewed
when I was sick, and clouds ensued
to turn my stay in bed for days
Hands soothed my brow, and beads of dew
grew pearls of moisture, in rainbow hues
The window dripped, and I was sick,
but I didn't seem to mind a bit!
Sometimes I still can see it all...
the tiny dolls, and toys were strewn
upon the bed, around the room
where I was mending from the flu
Dampness on a counterpane,
thermometers and sounds of rain
will take me there......back home again...
The memory of childhood, lie
beneath a quilt of prose
stirs longing for that healing grace,
that comes again upon the page...
A mother's touch with vapor-rub
Some toasted bread, a tender face
A playground out beyond the dew..
The lonely swing, a misty view..
A shadow was my childhood friend,
those afternoons of sick-bed games
Imagination flew so high, a carpet ride to magic lands
I could look beyond the counterpane
Watch the sun come after rain
A tattered book of childhood poems, still holds me by the hand
.................................................
My first introduction to poetry...Robert Louis Stevenson's Childhood Garden of
Verses "The Land Of Counterpane"
(A sick-bed keepsake that kept me company)
For the contest: "Prose vs Poetry" sponsored by Jerry T Curtis
12 years ago, after 38 years removed from where I was known, I went back to the area where I was born, to the place where
the basic things of life to me were taught and shown. Not to the actual town, because it was mostly gone.
Not to the actual house, because it too was all gone.
But to the county seat, said to be the home of the blues.
Truth be told, I never felt at home there anyway.
It was a real challenge just finding places to play, Always being told to stay inside the box where we belonged.
As mortals grow, we learn to utilize both thermometers And thermostats so as to not only measure their surroundings
But also to set in place mechanisms to adjust those same surroundings.
So, growing up, I was boxed in, and mine was really just a place to work And stay, where childhood fun was 'shooting marbles' or playing in the hay. But even then, we had no say but still longed for a better day.
Growing up, I was well behaved, never causing trouble, Nor did I make any attempts to burst anyone bubble.
If one had dreams, they had to guard them dearly, prayerfully. Otherwise, they would turn into nightmares or get blown away with the wind.
It's been said that home is where your story begins, which sounds like a God-Send, but I say that home is a place like no other place that you wish would Never end.
In a real sense, over time, I was shielded from the pain of all those things, the good, the bad, and the ugly, that went away, and blessed by God with so many other things with which I have been warmly embraced.
110520PS
Early morning in half light
setting out to bake some bread
getting out the tools all need
shining steel and burning heat
6 quart mixer of heavy weight
shining bowls of stainless steel
spinning hooks of the enamel white
heavy motor of ozone stink
hardened glass and red thermometers
measuring cups of precision use
machine ground wheat of brown and white
salt of sea and golden butter
glasses of water heated just right
packets of yeast poured with in
golden honey from wild flowers
mix together and set to bubble
steel cups filled with white flour
even smooth with knife for butter
poured into the spinning hook
spinning in an orbital pattern
adding both salt and butter
spinning till as smooth as satin
adding then the brown wheat flour
turning till it ascend like a ladder
pouring out on floured counter
kneading with fingers lightly floured
shaped to fit the loaf tins waiting
there to rise with yeast breathing
oven heated to medium hot
filled with steam for the crust
baked until a golden brown
with the kitchen aroma filling
new fresh bread hot from oven
set aside to finish breathing
then to slice for the eating
covered with butter and golden honey