I hanker and pine for wood burning stove weather

I haint no spring chicken,

("Buk buk buk buk ba-gawk!")

but in Summer re:

long in tooth sexagenarian

nostalgic for the following imagery

evoked yesterday with very little effort

(aside from sweat of my brow – just existing)

June twenty second hazy, hot, and humid

at least here within the environs -

of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania

tooth thousand and twenty four,

the air analogous to a steam bath outside,

though such insight

strictly predicated on meteorologist

as seen on the flat screen.

Now before scrolling down

lemme forewarn you of dire prediction

reading about how yours truly

doth suspire for Old Man Winter

returning with a vengeance

delivering a white July Fourth, Halloween,

Thanksgiving, Christmas,

Groundhog Day, Saint Patrick's Day...

yours truly desiring experiencing

becoming comfortably numb,

after envisioning, invoking

then summoning forth cold spell.

Should deep freeze rain (reign)

crystalline precipitation pure as the driven snow

blanketing large swaths of webbed wide world

wreaking havoc courtesy

unparalleled blizzard conditions,

would stump and confound earth scientists

suddenly finding themselves pensively trumped

subsequently becoming overnight skeptics

and staunch Republicans to boot - argh,

who grudgingly, hesitatingly scrap

what seemed to be

irrefutable air tight evidence

with reams of data proving global warming

and side with deniers –

mostly non Democrats

courtesy artificial intelligence

hinting at inexplicable

significant ice age approaching,

barreling, and coming fast as a freight train

virtual models prognostication

would show Polar Vortex

engulfing the entire planet

clamping down hard

much of the United States

likely a couple short months in the future,

forecasting temperatures to register absolute zero

taxing the electric grids to heat lovely bones

chilling, freezing, immobiling civilization, whereby

government agencies regularly issuing

permanent code blue declarations,

which teeth chattering cold scenario

impossible mission to imagine or avoid

with wind chill factors in triple digits

Jack Frost overstayed courtesy welcome,

when climate controlled central heater

allows, enables and provides

man/woman made respite hooray,

apartment cozy as a poetry nook,

whereby yours truly his head he doth lay

(under crocheted blanket)

quickly slipping into deep sleep;

the missus (madre) and her padre

(me) taking a siesta until spring

in my dream I take treadway

from such new zzz land

to Piccadilly Circus, London,

welcoming me to early twentieth century

balmy weather all year round

place named Willoughby, where one

unnecessary to get bundled

and wrapped up –

like a mummy dearest

kvetching in vain at frigid forecast oy vey,

where surveillance cameras take x-ray

of suspicious character - Not Me,

while actually in reality

outside apartment B44

one after another Nor'easter

howls like bajillion banshees

vents wind chill factor

as temperature dips

into low double digits as high,

and subzero higher negative number as a low,

I summon (with a puff) fire breathing

friendly quasi magic dragon,

an acceptable and laughable substitute

calls for none other than Barney

purple anthropomorphic

Tyrannosaurus Rex dinosaur.

Though a non-smoker of cigarettes,

I discover pleasure slowly puffing

on my pipe, and chose one at random

from among the collection

made of briar wood, meerschaum,

corncob, pear-wood, rose-wood or clay

listening to crackling flickering hearth,

yours truly snuggling

(curled up in a little ball)

with favorite reading material

close proximity warming,

thawing, and quelling lovely bones.

For no particular rhyme nor reason

I lapse into a reverie

and hear the brutal and nasty wind

plaintively howling the song Molly Malone

her lilting voice distinctly heard

Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive, oh!"

Meanwhile atavistic visitations hover

after hypnotizing mindscape

of twenty first century Homo sapien

as flashback visions of proto humans

commingling with competing

short and nasty brutes

brushes within subconscious

purring, mew zing catacombs

jump/kickstarting, harkening,

dawning lion eyes zing

thawing ordinarily dormant memories,

where forebears alive bajillion years ago

battle him of the republic

thumping their chests

and uttering primal sounds

against vastly outnumbered predators,

who make mincemeat of weakest warbler

similar to contemporary beastie boy punk bands

survival of the fittest

linkedin to anonymous

Monkey's Uncle recherché representatives

toehold barely latched

precarious niche easily

activated punctuated equilibrium evolutionary quirk

imperceptibly bumped uglies

begot robust progeny

offspring expanding comfort zones

penumbra expanding edge of night

dark shadows receding further

outer limits of twilight zone

phantasmagoric shifting shapes

images in the flame

(hint...think Plato's Republic in general –

and Allegory of the Caves in particular -

synonymous with Allegory of the Metals)

alluring, beckoning, daring...

establishing, foraging, growing...

harvesting, invoking, jabbering

kowtowing, livingsocial,

Ashley Madison matchmaking tinder (ha)...

now lemme zip forward

back to the future

bajillion years somewhere in time circa 1970's

British comedy troupe

nudge nudge wink wink,

say no more

know what I mean courtesy

Monty Python's Flying Circus

rollicking humorous sketches

oft times tackling primal urges

proto humans initially verbally grunted,

where guffawing laughter

rewarded survivalist basic instinct

temporarily staving rabid

quivering premonitions outside

creature comfort boundaries,

whereby Geico Caveman

will remain till... dis ember

by George thoroughly good appetizer,

viz good chilled Wren plus

Pheasant under glass

burns away hunger pangs.