FANNING THE FLAMES
I was heavy
Weighed down
And buried by Judgment
Unintentional but hurtful just the same
Expectations of who I should be
As a daughter
As a Catholic
As a wife
As a colleague
By men
Fearful, yet domineering
Oh, the irony
That your insecurity has fueled my power
Fed the tiny coals that the women in my life
Have protected
Fanned them into flames
Fed the fire in my belly
Ignited my strength and resolve
Given birth to my voice
I am woman.
I liberate myself.
Hear me thunder!
And growl, and rage, and shout
I will no longer be judged, dismissed, hidden—
or silenced.
Storms are passing with
The heat I could not stand,
The days drag on so slow as
Summer's flames were fanned
Winds calmed the burn
Yet it lingered there,
As stubborn as ever
Hanging on in the air
Just when I thought
That I was truly done,
Then came the rain
And a more gentle sun.
A daisy in spectacles smiled at me,
her yellow face lit with delight.
Petals fanned out like an airy Elizabeth ruff,
as if she’d dressed for morning light.
She tilted toward the sun with flair,
a scholar of warmth and breeze,
holding court with honeybees
and nodding at passing butterflies.
Her glasses caught the shimmer of day,
round lenses full of sky.
I swear she winked — a petaled, gentle woman
with joy she couldn’t hide.
And there she stood, proud and bright,
a blossom wearing her best.
Proof that even the simplest flower
can bloom with a touch of jest.
Sycamore tree, swing thee far?
On a crescent line?
Yes, sir. As I strive for par:
I think of the vine.
Due, friend, to its supple reach?
Twist and turn a-right.
Spark within me, I beseech.
Flicker, fly, and fight.
Well, young man, mythology.
Legends of the old?
Ancient is the redwood? Sea.
Lava makes the gold.
Sword, point heavenward and stand.
Enforce hell's command.
Fear severe, have you been planned?
Fire, forms frequent fanned?
Doubt, without? Tough taut to tout?
Down the waterspout.
Lily pad, repair or rout?
Flagrantly to flout.
Yet organized the strong ones step.
Each in rhythmic racks.
Soldier, load thy gun with pep.
Notes hang up with tacks.
City bells, alarums.
What message will you ring?
Plume volcanic, ply thy plums.
Blister as ye bring.
Crumbs. Chaos, thy star dances.
Dissonant its flow.
Fate and Fortune, white chances.
Black the broken bow.
The halo slipped and landed, in the hay.
The fox bowed low, then carried it away.
The sheep were counted; one counted back.
The wool stayed white; the ground slick black.
A wooden gift came from nowhere, bearing no name.
The gatekeeper smiled, with no one to blame.
Inside, soft footsteps danced with borrowed names.
Around the gift, their roaring fanned the flames.
The music hummed; the horns kept perfect time.
The fox and hounds perfected every crime.
Which mask was face? Which face had paid the rent?
The mirror winked, then claimed it never meant.
So lock the door, but leave doubt outside.
For even keys may volunteer as guides.
Question each gift that knows your name.
The brightest bargains rarely play, a fair game.
The inbox filled with some strangers dressed as friends,
Each knew exactly where any, and every, suspicion ends.
One showed my name before I'd written mine;
How long have counterfeiters, rehearsed that line?
The gift horse waits until celebrations start.
The fox still knows which strings to pull apart.
New masks grow old; old riddles keep their guise.
Deceit still knocks, once, twice—asks to step inside.
On a blistering branch of July,
a squirrel lay flat as a pancake,
tail limp, paws splayed,
melting into the bark like warm butter.
He squinted at the sun in the sky,
that smug, blazing tyrant,
and muttered to no one in particular,
“Honestly… this is excessive.”
Beads of sweat rolled down his nose.
Others dripped off his whiskers.
He fanned himself with a wilted leaf
that gave up halfway through the job.
Finally, he stood, wobbly and dramatic,
and shouted toward the sunlit void:
Has anyone tried turning the weather off and on again?
The oak trees rustled considering the suggestion
But the heat stayed.
The squirrel sighed,
flopped back down,
and added,
“Well… it worked for my router.”
Bring them here!
Even from the ends of the earth.
Let them speak if they could,
Of these feats, acts and truth!
Who gathered the grains of the earth,
And scattered them across the face of the deep?
Do you know who? Step forward!
Step forward and speak!
Who said to the proud waves of the sea, "Enough!"
Making the foundations of the earth its boundary.
If you know who, step forward!
Step forward and speak!
Who wove the mountains and the rocks,
Molten and fire fanned until they were strong!
If you know, who step forward!
Step forward and speak!
At whose voice does the East wind skip,
Like a lover to her bridegroom sprint!
If you know who, step forward!
Step forward and speak!
Whose fingers fashioned Pleaides and Orion,
At whose voice does Bootes shimmer and leap?
If you know who, step forward!
Step forward and speak!
Who is the source and the resource,
Even the completion of all that His Glory wrought?
If you know who, step forward!
Step forward and speak!
18"26
As I awake each morning, it’s a new day, for me to learn,
as I walk through the fires, my soul does not get burned.
I am no longer, the man, I use to be,
for as I rise daily, the fires now strengthen me.
The trials and tribulations, of this day, that I must face,
going through the refiners fire, I am saved in Mercy and Grace.
In the truths that He has shown me, as I walk in this light,
I’m guided by His Spirit, to be that which is right.
For, He’s an ever consuming Fire, burning off all my chaff,
allowing me to join in, with the Angels, a Holy laugh.
For things are not as though, they appear to be,
once I was blind, to these things, but now I can see.
I now seek those Spiritual things,
which keeps me from, these deadly stings.
Giving love for hate, peace for strife, I turn myself around,
I begin walking, in the truth, that I have found.
Led by His Spirit, the Truth, becomes my stand,
and when I touch the darkness, my fire’s, now get fanned.
I love how dark
the room, wrapped up
in quietude, the rain
will stir, and the grand
will soon; blanket
of singular drops
will soak the earth
snow cover of grand
wrapped up in cocoon
second cup of coffee
bare feet and relief
from humidity
how silent the rotation
of the fanned out blades,
like the clashing of clouds
there is a cure for silence,
the eventuality that
the world awakens
and the flowers, all wet
there will be the morning kiss;
lips parting, bliss
perhaps it is
a pancake morning
the pouring
of batter and mizzle
“a drizzly-mist,” and
comfort food, or scrambled
yolks and whites
with cheddar and chatter
“brain food”
still, quiet
1/
Timorous, and trembly hearted
Quivering, world-blown besides.
My sister in sensitivity
Relief, know. Where it abides.
2/
Sunned; and for a seaview
As sparkly eyed, Love's own
Unfathomable depth!
Both dawn and dusk facing.
A brightly sailed width.
As far all pangs from out
Cape-hung, yet still cleaved to
Dearest, your hand!
Life's ongoing procession
A peaceful dream; fanned.
Midnight draped darkness around like a shroud
The silence though was like stone on air
'Twas paused by ambulance's weighted cloud
Our vows once spoken, now beyond despair
Now night seems to press in upon my hand
Shadows fill corners of my old worn mind
Then a spark springs forth that needs to be fanned
That tiny light spark knows hope I'll soon find
Once buried seed dreams of spring's sun warm glow
Deep within, silent faith endures long, strong
My hope and faith are not fragile, but flow
Whisper, come forth let your love go in song
Dark that enshrouded me release today
My heart has some hope and will find a way
forest oracle
lyre-tail fanned in forest light
leaf-scratching lyrebird
undergrowth mimic
sound archivist of forest
echoes dawn’s chorus
Line of inquiry:
“We look at spirit not at form
Our touch is gentle, kind and warm
We but reflect God’s love and light
‘Tis the path to which we conform”
Our corporal body is only an outer husk,
Which we leave behind in life’s dusk.
But a fragment of the divine in every chest
Dwells, that no force on earth can bust.
It can kindle each being like a lamp,
Even when we wander aimless like a tramp,
Throwing light in the dark, showing us our way,
Guiding and forbidding us from going astray.
This spark from the divine may lie covered in ash.
But it can be fanned into flame and can flash.
In life’s ups and downs, in moments dark and bright,
We feel the throb of life inside, a flash of light.
God’s love and light alone can make us whole,
And even after our death, we live in our soul.
Reflect God’s love, it will our lives transform
To His divine mercy, let our lives conform-
......So spake simple Simon
The deck of cards seemed alive in my hands.
I loved the whisper of shuffling, and
the way kings and queens stared back,
their faces older than anything I knew.
I built castles from fanned-out suits,
believing they could hold real wishes.
Every card I turned felt like a doorway~
a little spell I was certain I had cast.
the accompanying memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/casino_night_13716
Grammy’s dining room, a charming little casino,
the overhead light turning ordinary air to gambling gold.
Cards fanned out across the oilcloth,
their soft edges warmed by her steady hands.
Dried beans clattered in chipped bowls,
riches measured in the music of pretend.
Grammy’s laughter rose first,
Aunt Maudie’s chasing after,
two sparks lighting the whole room~
and I sat between them,
certain magic had pulled up a chair.
the accompanying memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/casino_night_13716
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