The life of a spark

Just beneath the skin of surface
something darker
traveled through
like a current
can only be felt
in volume.

Right outside of the visual range
a source of heat
like an explosion of light
ignited
all that could be flammable
was taken asunder.

What lurks like intuition
our own shadow seems detached,
aloof and cool to the touch.
An absence only felt
as nothing
that could be caught.


Painting by Winslow Homer (1836-190) , 'Campfire, Adirondacks', c. 1892 in Public Domain. 

Warning signs

Red dawn
sits quietly
behind Eastern hills.
Space
is blue and cold
in moonglow flood-
light.

A candle flickers
inside
the window.
The birds stir
leaves,
while wind
picks up any loose
thoughts.

...the purpose of a flower,
color can make us
feel.
Beauty is perishable,
like the light
of this day.

A reflection glows
warmer,
warnings signs were every-
where
day breaks
hearts as light as air.




Painting by Herbert James Draper (1863-190), 'The Gates of Dawn', in Public Domain. 

Flick-her

Opposites attract each others

Curiosity

At first sight

Rapture is often mistaken for 

Attraction,

an alternating current-

Notice the friction...

Sparks are not always a promising sign,

nor an indicator of warmth,

as in

A promise to burn.

Painting by Martin Ferdinand Quadal (1736-1811), 'By the light of the candle', c. second half of the eighteenth century, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

reception

I was called upon
to light the candles
I arose first
to a voice
in the dark

and listened

Over my right shoulder
and above
whispers
as a breeze
would hum

and falls across my skin
like daybreak

It was not necessary
to know
more than could be heard
and I do not ask
for repetition
as in prayer

for a sign

a flicker as sure as
aglow,
I kept
quiet, in order
to Here myself
saying 'Yes'

while carrying the flame.


Painting by Godfried Schalcken, c. 1670-1675 in [Public domain].

The old flame

I have been sucking on rage
                    like a Jolly Rancher
                    all day-

They say
sucking calms coughing
                        fits, since we cannot do both
simultaneously.

The sun is blazing behind
                               the thunderheads
                               making the air tepid-

Did I mention the fire
                        coursing under the skin
                        causing the concrete to ripple
                         and fingers to spark?

Steam smolders in pillars from atop fences
as if the candles
were blown out.

Love and Hate, like thermodynamics,
                          compromises

I stand in between
with my lips stained red,
             a saccharin taste of cinnamon
that was once my favorite

reminds me
of our in-
consistencies.

Still,
I struggle to breathe.





Painting by Henry John Stock (1853-1930) in Public Domain.

Six Reasons to Never Try Poetry

They call them mockingbirds, some are nightingales, a few may be owls or ravens,

but all are really pretending to be the pursuers

while they are in fact the ideal prey.

All are moths-

of which there are more than 160,000.

Drawn to their own demise, despite the heat, they repeat the fire dance,

a Danse Macabre in verse.

In all fairness, one should be warned-

1. You will never be good. Or done. Or get there. Never, nevermore. It will always be wrong, could be better, you should have never tried, a waste of your time, a sacrifice for nothing. If you want to feel a sense of completion or accomplishment, this is not the way. You will never be able to make it go away. Get a drawer, carry a pen, try to forget. 

2. You have only copied others far better than you-who copied those that were far better than they. 

All the words that are strewn about and unsorted,

the ones you polished up and put together and

something spectacular, or smooth, or morbid,

were not yours to put your name on. 

You were not the first person

to make your bed.

3. Warning: Also-they All die beautiful, decrepit and anonymous, poor and misunderstood. They pass away, they are evoked and manipulated, worshiped for saying one thing-over and over-apropos to those who know how timeless interpretations remains. They keep their keys. They take thier fortunes with them. The published, finished, are boarded up, condemned-to looting, pillaging and squatting.

The moth never learns from others smoke. The moth must devour the leaves and petals from poets of other seasons if it is to survive famished and cleansed by morning dew. 

Some say violets capture a certain raw nature, many others pine over roses, and there are those of silk, that bare no resemblance to prose, without punctuation or stamen. 

4. The night is shared by good and bad voices, loudest to those who listen.

5. Color is not necessary for presenting a beautiful display. Light and heat are most attractive when removed.

6. A moth is a critical link in the food chain. 

Fake eyes, ink stains, shadow, ash and dirt colored, clicks and sonar are extra like lyricality. Both predator and prey are symbiotic as reader and writer, both flock to the light despite the smoke and despite the act of dying every night. 

Painting By Michel Bouillon, Vanitas c. 1668 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Magnetic fields

The air holds warmth in sealed packets

and ships them to living bodies

whom linger idyllically,

overdressed in gaudy allure,

pink jasmine sprays its lusty plumes

overhead the woven flower wreath

making this crown Joyous.

The mustard yellow fields are lit.

Local poppies have all stuck their spindly necks

out tall, above the scruff and common

gullible daisies.

Petals spark fields of amber glow, 

strong in orange and

merely mocking 

the white weak sun.

There was green hope all over the hills

-After All-

Winter wouldn’t stay fixated on grey

forever. Tasted the difference between 

yellow earth and blue sky-together

And It was good, 

And it was all green

left by the sugary dew

drawn to each other

in the new Spring atmosphere. 

Painting by Granville Redmond, Coastal wildflowers (1912), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Do you have a light?

Carrying a torch
I suspect, like the rest of us-
Firestarters.
Literal ignitors.
Incinerate is also one of my favorite
injections.
Annihilate also,
an equally affectionate term
of endearment; intrinsically, me.
Who'd like to
Obliterate the words into invisible
strands of silken smithereens
that contrail traces of sulphuric smoldering
acid rain and combust blood as dry rust
when mixed with ink.
I think
I am betwixt.

I trust truth
shot from the canons lip
as if it would help
the self-destruction, vis-a-vis
reconstruction along
To start a pyre and burn it all up
before any further corruption
acting like battery acid
leaks out, infuses or incites
one of those pesky muses,
Andromeda forbid.
Albeit-
if you can read this
I remain,
sparkless.



Image of painting by Eero Järnefelt (1893) Burning the brushwood [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Flame thrower

The children were called Embers
The parents roaring Flames
and in old age they All
became Coals.

Consumers only content
and subdued when all fuel
has been spent, lying low
until rekindled
into reaction
by a taunting breeze.

Always reaching
Up
for more
while leeching all the colors
and converting it into
expendable heat.

Dancing on destruction,
memories bridging by a spark,
the arc spans its dire
detonation
as quick as a wick
lying
next to another already lit.

Together the family,
kindling flames,
carry their torches
and blames. Sterno
for their kindred Inferno.




Image flame match strike, full color spectrum [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.