Long Ashes Poems
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Fire in the Blood
How we love your warming glow
Yet know that we must fear you so
For you would set our hearts ablaze
With your subtle creeping ways
The warming glow the heart desires
Not roaring anger of your fires
Somewhere between we must control
For either side would steal our soul
First the flicker of your flame
Smoulders artery and vein
Finds the fibre to combust
Maybe love, more often lust
How you make us volatile
When we meet deceptions smile
How your heat does dissipate
As your ashes cool to hate
Without you our blood runs cold
To hot, and angers hard to hold
But we love that place between
Hot passion and comfort serene
If only we could bring confines
Have you never cross those lines
But we love that which excites
And so accept the blood ignites
R D Seal 23 Feb 13
What be Ye, Preacher or Mortician?
A mortician prepares and buries the remains.
The hole he or she digs is for a lifeless corps, free of soul.
And the eulogy is of poppies and the utterance of past misdeeds restrained.
A preacher lifts and builds the spirit with truth.
The gates he or she illuminates is for souls of the regenerate.
And the sermons are foreboding, warning against the misdeeds of our youth.
What be ye, preacher or mortician?
The fruits of your labor are obvious for all to see.
The consequences of your actions are evident across the landscape.
One is an orchard with not a word spoken, but simply bearing fruit and seed.
The other is covered with stones over those that the past forsake.
What be ye, preacher or mortician?
Do you hide the truth and live in lies?
Or do you sanctify, pursuing where truth lies and live?
Your master, be he of the world?
Or, be He author of the Word?
One brings death and leaves ashes for remains.
The other brings love and everlasting life that sustains.
What be ye, preacher or mortician?
by Martin Braun
February 23, 2024
P.S. The politics and code by which we live, is evidence enough to know.
BY PROVIDENCE, YOUR STORY
the page would be blank,
the color of light
if his word, he’d omit
tight-lipped
no room to write your story
only his flame of glory
seeds, like the sands of time, roasting
BUT
for the flaming strobe
and cherubim
THEN
one seed dies
his mother cries
his father asks “why?”
the other seed’s marked -
i imagine God drew a cross
with Abel’s ashes
COMFORT
Seth, the settled seed, is born.
His brother, Cain’s a wanderer.
RELIGION
Son of Seth,
Enosh
“At that time men began to call on the name of the Lord” *
BY GOD’S PROVIDENCE
Mercy brings the sheep into the fold
scroll generously displays the printed word
filling our emptiness with hope and promise
CHOICE
freedom to choose - choice blessings,
or refuse, become hell’s refuse**
10/17/2017
*NIV Bible Genesis 4:26
**worthless or useless part of something (Merriam-Webster)
Click in an instance the human volcano erupts
From a distance, feel the sudden switch of countenance
So hot the magma boils
from inside it wont wait to spill over
Looking with intensity yet blind with rage
The feeling on stage acting as salvage
The entire sense of reasoning caged
Unreasonably out of gauge
Just then if not controlled
Boooommm!!!
Bloody lava flows out spiting wildfire
so fast mistakes happen
leaving evidence of ashes
sssshhhhhh!!!!!
it cools, and beclouding smokes disappear
the senses awake and the eyes brighten.
Never say it was the work of the devil cus he may be asleep.
I rise from the white-wine siesta,
letting go of the serpentine songs,
like a crimson-winged dragonfly
lost in the poppy prairies of Persephone,
untangling my prisoned heart
chained by the churning
deceit of Hades’s immortal chains,
savoring pomegranate promises,
pirouetting through petrichor nirvana,
as the sky smells like a saffron rose
above the castle of emperors
dressed in fallen flowers.
Yet the diamonds sometimes are
engraved with ominous omens
and remorseless remnants,
while I return to cinnamon seclusion,
dancing to the mood of my moon.
O divine dandelion,
in your eyes I see suppressed sighs
of a splintered sunrise,
flickering balmy zephyrs of paradise,
as my soul is tied to the softness
of your delicate dusk~
like a faithful disciple,
forever following your footprints~
while velvety roots of florals
face the glows of alchemy,
amidst the array of arrows,
left as ashes of gold gone cold,
and the gracious gusts of gloaming
devouring the unscrupulous wounds
of a fragranced dawn.
I am the aching pigment
in your palette of purples,
longing for butterfly blurs
to bring me back to a
kingdom of kindness,
where I’ll forever breathe tender lilies
rinsed with wind-swept wishes.
But amidst the clusters of jewels
and raining sakura,
tonight I choose to walk with
specters of scorching stars,
allowing curves of my scarred skin
to burn from the blazing breeze
that bleeds nefarious narratives
upon the bleached borders.
So watch me waltz into the
infernal waters of the deep, bruised bay.
There I’ll write an elegy,
for the sorrow that swallowed your spirit.
I will find an anchor to pull
you back to the land of paper lanterns
as I surrender to the
haunting hues of the horizon;
the sweet sacrifice of a beloved blackbird
singing farewell in silence
to save you from the devilish underworld.
As dandelion dreams
are designed in lucid lies,
carving my essence into wintry wires
of woes and verdicts
from the
growing vines of a
villainous valley.
I feel the blackbird weep, it’s everything
I see the blackbird quiver, it’s what you bring
dreary
d a n d e l i o n
A raven quill wakes beneath the chapel roof,
scratching on vellum by a blue, sleepless flame;
its ink is ash from vanquished wings
that Heaven will no longer claim.
She once had guarded Heaven’s verge,
with pale obedience and a solemn song,
until the lower darkness breathed her name
and beckoned her to join the silent throng.
A jasmine veiled with jinxed jewels,
of blackest pearls and midnight dew,
breathed perfume through the chapel dark
to wind itself around her view.
For now she heard that sound again,
its ancient music stirred desire;
now dancing with my sweet demons,
she woke the Fangs of Fire.
She heard the first white feather singe,
a warning in the flame;
yet still she followed that dark sound
and let it speak her name.
She’ll have to Learn to live for lovesick lies,
for now the truth will leave a colder scar;
her broken wings must fade to ash
to keep alight her dreaming star.
...and I wane, an angel without wings,
beneath the heavy, blackened dome;
no hollow prayer can stitch the air behind
or carry these burnt ashes home.
If only I could forgive ...
the choice I made to cross the flame,
where demons taught me hunger first—
and now I must do the same.
The quill drinks down the final ash
from wings the skies cannot recall.
For grief is a ghostwriter
whose quill records their tragic fall.
Hope is a complex emotion
There is such a thing as too much hope
Which drowns you in unrealistic dreams
Fed by the unfulfilled imaginations of your heart.
It lifts you up, but the fall is that much worse.
It sets your soul on fire, but it only leaves ashes behind.
You hope too much and your body starts devouring itself from the inside out, leaving a skeleton of desires and broken promises behind.
But you need hope to live, to put one foot in front of the other, to feel the love and the pain, to anchor your existence to this planet, grow old and turn to dust.
You need hope to free your soul and let it wander in the unknown when you cease to be.
Hope is what you're always looking for and narrowly miss on.
Hope is for everyone else, but you.
Hope is an illusion, which you need to let go.
Hope dies when it meets you so don't let it come too close.
All these medals will never revive the souls that were reaped.
Ceremonious honors shimmer, but the blood of martyrs has dried.
No tribute can console the mothers whose hearts are crushed by the death of a son.
Not all are worthy of the celestial spark that carries them.
Some merely burn through their wretched lives and their time in this dimension.
They sow chaos, ruin, destruction, and ashes,
Upon mountains of remorse and lamentation.
Silence weighs like a burden of lead upon my cage of flesh.
Darkness seeps into me from the womb.
Human savagery has butchered my dreams, leaving my convictions incorruptible.
I hear the clamor of walls—thick, oozing, damp with fear and terror.
Time devours me, like a ravenous hyena with pendulum fangs.
My sky is a filthy slab, my horizon a windowless wall.
My life, my name, and my memories fade, letter by letter,
Since the bearer of lights opened my eyes.
I lay the stench of my transgressions upon the cracked lips of a putrid world.
I am the shadow of a man, a vestige of wrath nailed to the ground.
Nightmares whisper—they tell the tales of those who fell before me.
The blood of the condemned floods my cold sweat.
I bear the scars of these forsaken souls.
I am a calamity, the heir of curses,
Of ravenous chains and whips.
I will save this divine flame through the nightmares of my oppressors.
A few nightmares to purge,
And a few ghosts to silence.
My demons are restless.
I hoard fleeting vanities with every blasphemy.
I have learned to wield truth like a weapon of war
In the impure hands of fanatics.
My life on earth is catastrophic,
For my reflexes have been demonic.
First Placing : Poetry Marathon 2025
Sponsor: Mark Toney
{ FREEDOM “We may want to linger, to stay, to arrest the flow and talk about it, photograph it, lyricize it. Yet this beauty is mercurial and we must let it go, for it is already slipping away to be replaced by the new.” -Stuart Sovatsky }
YELLOW FIELD OF WHEAT
Angel of Death skims blacker than tar
a skeletal knock overturning bowl of oats
smelling of frankincense and ashes
to carry you to a yellow field of wheat
where you will dance radiant waltzes
haloed free
your laughter pranced across blue walls with
Michael Jackson, Spider-Man, cheeky elves
relishing Kentucky Fried Chicken as you
played scrabble with forlorn neighbour
bony body birthing revolutions of
roulette with green life and grey death
how you endured those precision needles
wanting to drum tapered fingers on
waiting desk overflowing with car sketches
your thirteen year old bald head smiling
veins on an enchanting spring moon as our
hidden tears crystallised hospital sheets
we tried to keep up with you scoffing
encyclopaedias, Dickens and muffins alike
cancer like a chess game mastered chemo
doctors and nurses becoming kings or pawns
time was now or endless pathos stalking minds
Laurel and Hardy keeping hearts unlocked
on Merlin’s star-patterned couch you will
jokingly converse with Pele and his team
soccer ball silent under quiescent table
my ink cannot pen sad lines as I feel
your lips still sucking dripping nipple
freedom moonwalks on a
yellow field of wheat
In the depths of silence, when quiet becomes a deep and unwavering tomb,
where the echo of old certainties dissolves under the shadow of a bygone memory,
there, among the fragments of stillness, the subtle whispers of a new direction appear,
like a thread of light piercing through the cracks of an old wall, promising a secret spring.
In this place of destruction, where our old shelters collapse,
and we are stripped of the cloak of false quiet, of peace that lulled our souls,
pain becomes an umbrella under which we begin to discover the true contours of our being,
and the death of the old life becomes the gateway to an unknown fulfillment, yet carried in our blood.
Listen, in this perfect silence, how intelligence arises from the ashes,
like the stir of a forest after a storm, a murmur of leaves whispering the secrets of regeneration,
and you feel how in the deep layers of consciousness, the roots of a new existence take hold,
finding nourishment in a silence that no longer knows fear, but only the promise of a beginning.
Here, where silence becomes the fertile ground of rebirth,
where each breath is a covenant with our reborn self,
we find ourselves in the pure sound of unspoken desires,
in the whisper of those who come and urge us to step toward an untouched horizon,
where fulfillment is not a destination, but a journey we begin to love.