Quotes about thermal, page 4
Planet Earth Wants To Be Clean Green Nuclear Free
possibilities
endless possibilities
dance before mind’s eye
dreams
so many dreams
shapes forms sizes dissimilar
latent possibilities
real within vision mind
so easy to achieve
with concentration
with focused effort
with drive determination
if acted upon
realized brought
forth into fruition
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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God Cast Special Effects Lifetime Experiences
This life
is the most amazing
movie set
I have ever seen.
So real.
So lifelike.
So believable.
So touchingly rock solid.
God's really got
his background
stage setting
down to a fine art.
God should win
Oscar Grammy
nominations;
for best setting
best sound effects.
God's special effects
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Suddenly The Nightwind
Suddenly the nightwind comes
and scatters me like dust, leaves, stars, birds,
flakes of blood and paint from a dried rose
and I am nowhere again among the extracted windows
compiled like used theories in the mind-dump,
cataracts, fog, ice between their thermal panes
an obsolete encyclopedia of seeing, image, view,
skating rinks and skies that shattered like eggs
from which nothing ever flew.
Believe me when I tell you
there is not a flame or a shadow
as lost as I am when I fall like moonlit rain
from this endless pilgrimage of clouds
into the wells and watersheds, the dark godheads
and cracked mud of ancient creekbeds
once urgent with my flowing. And I am a fanatic
of unknowing when the darkness
overtakes me on the wing, an apostle
of undelivered monologues
humming like a powerline
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poem by Patrick White
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Life Light Ecosystem Creates Miracle Vision
eagles soar on high thermals
fly through such wonderous freeborn skies
a multiversality of kaleidoscopic sensual
spiritual ever changing seasons
nest on highest most noble
sun eclipsed inaccessible crags
or vibrant living temples
trees raising towards heaven
growing upwards into host life
giving light range soar
across desolate canyons
holy places where Native Americans
built pueblo adobe houses
care houses upon spiritual sun paths
piercingly beautiful sky images
celebrating auras earth heat
thermal energy fields keen eyes
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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I'm Going To Stare
I'm going to stare the sweet, white oblivion
behind the purity of this page down
until it breaks its vow of silence
like the hymen of a nun
and there are little scarlet letters
of red-blooded apostasy
lying like rose petals all over the snow.
I'm going to track birds all over this page
like the linearity of an unknown Etruscan alphabet
everybody's trying to translate into their native language
like the lozenge of a sacred syllable
that disappears on their mother tongue
like the first spring thaw of the year.
I don't care if the hunters in my rear view mirror
scratch their heads at the strange signs they're tracking,
I'm going to expand their vocabulary
with beasts that have never appeared
on anyone's wall before.
I'm going to teach the Neanderthals
to paint like Hieronymus Bosch.
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poem by Patrick White
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Extensions of Crash - Strophes For Frieda Kahlo
As with love, also the bellows.
Strophe 1
She could not stop there,
had to flare out, dry paint,
and the dryer flesh peel down
to bone, a sexless esqueleto*,
skull no longer mustached,
a calavera**, nothing more,
curved calcium reliant forever
upon canvas, what is congealed
there to fan and burn,
a 'cauda pavonis'**.
*Skeleton
**Skull
***Pea cock's Tail (an image in alchemy)
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Basking In The Silence Of The Cooling Day
Basking in the silence of the cooling day,
sunset in the blood of a snake on a rock,
coiled into its own thermal like the hawk
in the twilight eye of a peacock past its prime,
I go out of my way, by the railroad tracks,
where the adolescents lay their lives on the line,
to accord it the dignity we all hope for in time.
The acrobatic swallows have finished
their aerial attack on the cults of the gnats
and now the nightshift relinquishes the sky
to the dog fighting gypsy moths
and the stealthy dive-bombing bats.
Every evening, the same, their finest hour,
shooting each other down in flames,
and the stars and heritage lamp posts looking on
as if they couldn't be any less concerned.
Crackheads in khaki shorts pass me,
caps askew, and smile nervously at my earring,
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poem by Patrick White
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And Though It's Dark And Cold Now
And though it’s dark and cold now
in this ice palace of broken windows
that don’t know whether to bite their lips
or cut their wrists like a suicide
that took it one step too far
like an eclipse that went into exile
I remember the swell and release
of your breasts in moonlight,
rising and falling like a lunar tide.
I remember coiling my finger around
the soft chestnut tendrils of your hair
as if I were dialling a long distance call
to someone I knew light years from here
who was living her dream
like the black sheep of a shepherd moon
she was giving her life up to.
You were an atmosphere on the nightshift
on the intensive care unit of a hospital
applying a cool poultice of moonlight
to the volcanic burns
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poem by Patrick White
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The Lover’s Secret
WHAT ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried
To guess his ill, and found herself defied.
The Augur plied his legendary skill;
Useless; the fair young Roman languished still.
His chariot took him every cloudless day
Along the Pincian Hill or Appian Way;
They rubbed his wasted limbs with sulphurous oil,
Oozed from the far-off Orient's heated soil;
They led him tottering down the steamy path
Where bubbling fountains filled the thermal bath;
Borne in his litter to Egeria's cave,
They washed him, shivering, in her icy wave.
They sought all curious herbs and costly stones,
They scraped the moss that grew on dead men's bones,
They tried all cures the votive tablets taught,
Scoured every place whence healing drugs were brought,
O'er Thracian hills his breathless couriers ran,
His slaves waylaid the Syrian caravan.
At last a servant heard a stranger speak
A new chirurgeon's name; a clever Greek,
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poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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If bodies of their own heal
I
Two scores of ripe years ere, remember I,
At shower, shaving mirror, shaping hair,
Bending elbow when turns annoying nigh,
I wonder when, how my hurt hushed in there
Unknown to me, as seasons oft set in
Early or late, till one day forced are we
To tune into the change though not keen;
More than the dull pain, hurt irritates me.
The medic I consult, cool as was I,
But more sure, call it a tennis elbow,
Me in protest, not having played the game,
Laugh it off a little respectfully,
The doc unmoved as e'er, letting me know:
Oh, just the same, it is no more than name.
II
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poem by Aniruddha Pathak
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