Scalded Poems

Salty Brine of Turning Tide

torrents of tears flowed
when he saw a sea dragon
beached dehydrated
for he knows that it like him
could only shed tears on land

the tears were salty
welling from bag of sea brine
in the ocean's blood
he harbored in his body
as fluid to bathe his cells

he needed to cry
but till now tears would not spill
weeping on ebb tide
to wash moribund eyes clean
and inhale with a fresh breath

he fights the current
gripping on to refusals
yet the water wins
the dragon prowls in the foam
its searing breath flares fear

one tear another
fell soft on scalded shadow
fell on dragon's eyes
sending the sand grit flying
washing the stall clean of grime

fear sinks in the tide
form of the trial changes
relief opens gate
as ocean consumes his past
dragon wings have unfolded

tears were the pivot
to beat the challenge
breaking resistance
setting sails on favored wind
on the course past the dragon

Snow

The untimed snow rushed insulted against the glassed shoulders on the poster,
and they were made of paper, they were bare…
It cried, scalded, on the painted, colorful faces,
and they were made of paper, they were bare…
Its outraged tears transformed into tears of joy,
and through them they were still smiling,
not caring for the bitter cold,
in defiance of the delayed spring,
Because they knew,
It could not wash away their colors,
It could not cover their bare shoulders.

firefight

temperature rising
fire storm raging inside
her soul skin is scalded 

blisters sizzle her mind
parsimony lost in translation
thoughts on autopilot and overdrive
emotions opposing each other
and her restless Self

seek and she will find
pot of gold 
charcoal incinerator
catatonic cauldron
roasted synapses
or heavenly peace

a rainbow melts into oblivion
the void teases resolve
agony waits in patience
for resilience to scorch

when the past lingers on
with future uncertain
all she has is the present moment
short lived and eternally feverish
a pyretic meltdown knows no limits
and yet she is a survivor 
and not a victim

Heatwave

We stepped carelessly outside
one hot August day,
to see the seething summer sun
and her wrath on us she lay.

The sweltering heat
it struck us first,
and sent us hunting for shade
dizzy with thirst.

So heavy was that air
so unforgiving that cruel sun,
she scalded my skin to blisters
then blinded my eyes for fun.

In the shade of an oak
for a moment we lay,
but through the branches she pushed
and relief she burned away.

Waving our white flag
back inside we did retreat,
to the air-conditioned rooms
sighed the sun 'vengeance is sweet'.

I do not read your poems

I have held it
Caressed its jagged smoothness
Embraced its subtle metaphor
Wept in its nuanced nudity

I have been held hostage
Imprisoned by strangers
Tortured by their words
Scalded by their souls – unsheathed

Escaped
The arduous and trivial
Riding the stoic stallion
Of poetic resonance

I have been enraptured by words
Flowing gently over pebbles
Cowered in the catharsis
Of a spirits rebirth

I have danced with you
Laughed with you
Healed with you
Cried with you

For I am a poet
I do not read your poems
I allow them
To read me

Critterature: The Saga of Veronica Vole

This is the saga of Veronica Vole
Who committed the perfect crime.
She murdered three lovers,
But not all at once,
She did 'em in one at a time.

The first was a lemur,
A two-timing schemer,
Who seduced all thirteen of her nieces.
Every female enticed him,
So she sliced him and diced him,
Then stir-fried and ate all the pieces.

The second, a lobster,
Was also a mobster
Who threatened her once with a putter.
So she got him alone,
Then boiled him well done,
And had him for lunch with drawn butter.

The third was a vulture,
Devoid of all culture,
Whose name, she remembers, was Vince.
He was planning to eat her
After he bet her,
So she tased him in self-defense.

In a big pot she tucked him,
Then scalded and plucked him
And served him "en casserole"
To her fourth beau, a critter,
Who'll make a good fritter,
She thinks as she spoons out his food.
'cause though she doesn't tend
To have good taste in men,
She does tend to like men who taste good.

Ms. Vole is not a siren or a femme fatale,
The kind of dame who'd tell a guy to take a hike.
At heart she is simply a sweet-natured gal
Who never met a man she didn't like.

Four Seasons

Summer’s footprints are here,
scorching land at noon.
scalded tree leaves fear,
they will fall soon.

Dawn emits autumn hue, 
cloud laces sapphire sky.
Grass dons pearly dew,
rustling golden leaves fly.

On misty panorama screen,
winter makes frozen trace. 
Across snowy landscape scene,
arctic wind slashes space.

Miasma departs cerulean sky,
spring ripples radiant air.
Singing birds merrily fly,  
buds bloom with flair.

Will I Still Wear My Scars?

When this cold, broken world is healed of its sins,
and flooded with light and the warmth of your grace,
When all is reborn and remade for forever,
and time's paralyzing fear is erased from reality,
When you raise my humble body for an endless celebration -
a dance, a song, a heart-bursting Hosanna -
When you make all things right ...

Will I still wear my scars?
My scalded flesh ... it is all I have known.
Shall it be refashioned into flawless skin?
What age will I be? How skinny? How fat?
I have been many things, and there is more I could be ...

Forgive my curiosity, for I know it matters little.
Better to focus on shepherding the fragile soul you gave me.
I leave my future body to your hands.
It, as all else, is your gift to give.


4 February 2024

Horn Had Taken a Hike to Find Father Farrell

Find Father Farrell and Terrell

when over barrel
while incredible church is imperil
find (call) Father Farrell (Terrell)

Parish which we cherish would scream
when scalded with steam so it did see
when either having been suspectable to sterile
or fond of finding a pleasant parishioner
who has happened to ferociously find 
that his friend was feral
which we knew would be infuriating
while humiliatingly absurd we have heard


Interesting. Old
priest in Wichita, KS
was Father Bob Terrell.

Weevil Weather

It was not healthy,
a blunderbuss wind
had shot itself.

Strong legs for weak minds
were needed.
Therapy dogs did their best
to heal the barking mad.

Weather pattens predicted
downcast skirts,
hats orbiting Australia,
expensive sneakers crying in the rain,
nothing of the sort occurred,
but pigs did hover for awhile.

Any thought wired
to an inch of cringing flesh
tended to leap away
like a scalded cat.

It had all stopped by teatime,
however
the sugar bowl crawled
with dazed weevil's.

Later we sprayed the wilting fields
with Chanel Number 5
just to keep the evening alive.

Empty Swing Swings

The empty swing
swings gently
in the gentle
breeze that wafts
across the empty
playground park.
The dust in the foot-pans 
beneath the swings
lifts up in the breeze,
swirls and curls in
a spiral willy-nilly, willy-willy.
The town has all but died.
A tardy few die-hard's remain,
as they have no where else to go.
The salty groundwater,
which rose up in the soil
due to over zealous irrigation, 
scalded the landscape and sucked
the life out of everything alive.
Even the birds and bees departed
as the vegetation was parched to 
dry, shriveled brown, littering
the stark parched brown earth,
dotted with snow white blotches
and scabby scolds.
The residents were given fair warning.
They failed to heed the tell-tale signs 
and reduce their wasteful
excessive irrigation, 
as the salty water rose.
The call to change was such an irritation.
Like everyone, everywhere,
the people here, only took up a tardy reaction
when it was too late,
or almost too late,
which blind fate swung to 
far, far too late.
Their fate was sealed. 
This time the gauge
had swung far right down
to empty.

St Remy Wine For Enemy

He had as a friend met Remy,
Now, he is his sworn enemy:
On seeing Remy would withdraw,
Race towards any exit door,
For if Remy did, sword could draw:
A full fight or half of it sure!

A friend suggests "Buy St Remy
For your Remy Arch Enemy:
It should wounds heal and clean the sore,
Cold water on scalded heart pour.
"Good ideas we pick or ignore;
At my finance this one would gnaw"
Still he should settle any score:
No headway use teeth and jaw!

The seeds you planted shall grow
The seeds you planted shall grow.
I saw the ones you did sow,
I think that's what you should know.
You don't cocks order to crow,
The twilight to shadows throw
And you can't tell River "Flow".

Down the grasses in farms mow.
They're weeds: much worse than snow.
When you do this lines you toe.
If you fail wait for the blow!

Tell others I told you so.

Peaceful Dawn

Last night's grief was filled with a serene dawn.
Woodsmoke and scalded spices flood the air.
The darkened sunlight disclaims treads the lawn.
Last night's grief was filled with a serene dawn.
Its frail hand yet brings in a shift of fawn.
A dream, like a toenail, is a brief dare.
Last night's grief was filled with a serene dawn.
Woodsmoke and scalded spices flood the air.

Written: February 26, 2023

Forest Fire

I know you are there
At the bottom of the Ocean
At the deepest part of my heart
I know you're there, 
You little fire.

They are scalded but not yet burnt
They're searching for you
To hold, stop and
bury you in the dark
Don't worry I'm here
To keep you alive holding on my tears.
Wait, be patient
The time will come
Time will come for them
To see you as forest fire.

Concerning An Ant's Dna

Skiing on a cup of java 
  the little ant got burned
Limping out to lick his wounds
  he decided to return

Once again the ant was scalded
  yet he seemed quite unconcerned
I guess that ants are just not programmed
  for this lesson to be learned

• Short Scalded Poems
• Famous Scalded Poems
• Best Scalded Poems
• Read Scalded Poems
• Long Scalded Poems
• Scalded Quotes