The End
"The world is ending"
They said
I didn't believe them
A moment later
You called me on the telephone
"Stay where you are"
You said
"I'm coming to get you"
The tremble in your voice
Told me it was
True
You had no car
Neither did I
So we tried to run
It was no use
Everything was on fire
From Manhattan
To Jersey
From New York
To Japan
We couldn't get out
Only one of us could make it
If we tried
You couldn't leave me
I wouldn't leave you
So you took my hand
Together
We ran through the streets
Broke into that old club
In the Bowery
You held me in your arms
And we slow-danced
On that old sticky floor
To the sirens
And screams
While the world burned down
Around us
I didn't cry
I wasn't even scared
Because
I was going to spend the rest of my life
Looking into your eyes
Everything would be
Okay
Lie
I fought to follow my desire,
and in the end, I got burned.
Now standing on this pyre,
I realize it wasn't for you I yearned.
Pushing my ideals and aims on you mistakenly,
my love for you was a love of complacency.
I am sick and there is no life in me,
renew me please and set me free.
I pled ignorance as my case,
but I saw the truth in your eyes, your face.
I hurt you, and it is my everlasting disgrace.
Hellucinations
"The world around's on fire and here am I
...writing this poem,"
Said, who?
From where?
----a sound all in my head,
and now charring the paper---
maybe it is the I who is on fire...
the World, in no apparent hurry,
its grief played out as reruns on repeat,
over and over, over decades, and centuries
the soap opera saga oozes, and no account
of tears washes it clear, nor quenches
flame and heat---
---the head spins
---the heart bleeds
---hands hold out helplessly
in rotational feats---
effete
couched aside churlish hi resolution screens
of channels that do not change on pressing
and stations that depart, Cerberus
without you, without me,
hellish Greyhounds,
of reality
Enlisted...
poets do not write
poems downwind,
they draft words
into the cause...
cultured lynchpins
strike Hope at the feet
and writers refuse
to let It burn
alone...
newsprint
crumpled
makes quick
kindling
unlike books
we know
but...
poets do not
write poetry
isolated
in tomes...
they transcribe
longhand...
between the lines
the euphemisms
and dysphemisms
of society's Immolation
within our Universe
the smoldering
suicide
of life
and art
of conscious
and conscience
of mind
and thought
of fossil fuel
and light
of cause
and purpose
of death...
and that which never dies.
08.06.2024
The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem.
Challenge @treasuredjules
For I Remember Everything
Fire is supposed to bring fear but I have never felt more at peace.
Being surrounded by it, it feels like a dream come true.
For so long, I have sought it out; I have craved it, yearned for it.
Remember when you were told not to play with matches?
It was the best day of my life, to learn that I could control the fire.
I dug through the junk drawer at home in search for the magical sticks.
The power that one little match has; it's almost unfathomable.
A backyard fence burnt to ashes, the ground on either side slightly charred.
There is a beautiful irony to it all.
I remember being called crazy by my parents, the fear in their eyes.
I remember being called crazy by my friends, the laughter in their voice.
I remember being called crazy by my boyfriend, licking his lips.
Families always want to meet their child's partner, like it's a final exam.
"He may not be good for you, so we need to pass our own judgement."
Some people worry about first impressions, I worry about a plan failing.
Let's take some time to set the scene.
A family dinner; gloriously braised pork with carrots and potatoes.
A meeting between damned souls as they smile and shake hands.
My boyfriend sits down right next to me, making sure to squeeze my leg.
He always does that when he's nervous that I'll talk.
My parents wishing that they could be anywhere else than sitting across the way.
Dinner conversation is forced, laughter is calculated, comments are targeted.
I rise from the table, my emotions as unreadable as always.
My little secret is waiting to be shared from just up the stairway.
I look left, right, down the halls, from the foyer to the back door.
Out of sight, out of sound.
A bathroom excuse covers for me as I sneak to the top of my new viewing deck.
Creak...
Chit!
Whoosh!
---
Here I sit at an old wooden desk, it won't be long now.
Neighbors have seen the smoke, running out to the street, calling for help.
I look down at them from my bedroom window.
I am writing a final goodbye, to my parents, boyfriend, and police.
Their screams echo in the walls, the sound of their nails scratching for a way out.
The fire crackling, roaring, unrelenting from just under my feet.
I let out a sigh of relief as I write my final words, smiling.
News anchors will read the story of my "sickening crime" in their broadcasts.
I will already be far away from this realm, taking abuse and feeling pain no more.
One, Two, Three, Many...
Not even a poem
in this round
left, right
numbers
fired
for the count
I am down
on the floor
as
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
The world is in flames
& I have lost
all senses
to a Fox Trot
in Embassy
trenches
it's o' Danny Boy and
the Blue Danube waltz
Penguin after penguin
in Tux
Oyster shuck
hors d'oeuvres
glassy eyes
lip gloss
& filtered Lights
while we take
another turn
for the worse
as
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
fingers on pearls
important matters are set
in this sort of paltry decor
British rain is Classical
on the frame
it's time
for the sucreries
meaning en Français
our ample desserts
I see hotly
the head server
has lit the flambé
and now we Tango
to height of
ballroom
passion
with our best
Flamenco dancing
fellow comrades
brulé 'd
in secours
as
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
We have ice
out that sparkles
& catches bright
passing glances
of interest or approval
note, note, note, rest
in the side alleys
& we pause
with lips pursed
Champagne?
well, why not
the world is raging
& a toast is
small cold insult
to the ancient Fire
our steadfast march
towards certain
death
makes no toll
in aftermath
for these decisions
made in our wake
we turn again
simply
ol' traditional
family men,
ladies & gents
in account tallying
our own
as
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
one, two, three, four
2024 JUL 28
Fire and Peace
The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem feeling numb
To the left, to the right, doesn't matter which way I look
I got to be honest I am seeing people acting dumb
The things they say and do has got me all shook.
I am so tired of bad behavior and bad news stories
I feel as though I cannot breathe
Weather, groceries, utilities, gasoline and bills - yeah we got plenty of worries
Overwhelmed, yep, but we just can't give up and put on a mourning wreath
We have to be like Taylor and shake it off
There is certainly work to be done
Needs to be plenty of room for all at the trough
A mind in search of peace is a battle that must be won.
The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem
Purification and renewal are symbolized by fire, along with creativity, passion and desire.
Protection and safety, fanned from a spark, encircling the fire, the light in the dark.
Vitality, energy, intuition, the divine, fire oh fire a positive sign.
Yet fire can burn and rage untamed. Not freedom, but anger and war and pain.
Not warmth, but acres of forest aflame. Not comfort but temperatures gone insane.
Will we rise like the phoenix, renewed and evolved?
The flame of compassion, our problems solved?
An alchemical transformation, our hearts of gold?
All the burning greed and hate gone cold?
(I'm NO poet, but enjoyed the challenge.)