Long Catch fire Poems
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She's a ruffling tulip in stormy winds
Thunder builds up from within
She carries Kharkiv's weight on her wings
Time after time, her nation never wins
Scarlet skirt spreading against her legs
The village man sighs, about to trek
Horses rip through lands of silence
Barefoot, leaves crumble with eminence
Even the animals bark as they tremble
The markets catch fire; they become embers
She cries tears for each fallen man
Her flower crown falls to her hands
Ribbons fight the weather's wrath
For even her clothing wants to fight back
Windmills crack; their companion isn't there
Stolen by a filthy prince who heirs
Heart cooler than Siberia's forests
No regard for her, the poorest
Mountains kiss the horizon goodnight
For the battles drain them of light
Branches snap beneath her feet
Of the poor young woman, down by the Black Sea
Between the reaching shades of tall trees
copper-leafed hillocks’ catch fire,
ghost flames
burnish the slow stealth of evening.
A translucent straw-light
seen only through the thumb hole
of a painter’s pallet,
or in that late sunlit wash, that blooms
so openly that eyes miss it.
Redolent are the long shadows
dipped as they are in rich earthy scents.
The flaxen hay is layered between
timbered silhouettes,
where gossamer ribbons of vapor
hazes-over honeyed acers.
Softly a lambent buoyancy of evening
blends amber and russet wisps
with hues of sorrel and orange.
A mellowing sky drapes over the fields
a chiffon fan of muted rays.
The tawny straws turn slowly,
all unclear to daylight eyes,
but by this eventide
we will view this ebbing day
through a golden glass.
The hurry.
Just because of the lightning which is empty buckets.
We break apart through the cave.
Which has burning sensations.
We don’t rush because.
That’s when the crushing feeling hinders us most.
Just like the lying sensational emptiness.
They don’t have money lying around like we expected.
The hurry.
The sun.
The weird colliding like gum to my lips.
The lightning which peeks through with magnetic feelings.
We hurry because.
They lie to us about the amount of feelings that are allowed to slip through.
Slip though like a ghost who shudders.
And speaks clearly unlike most deathly beings.
The hurry.
The grocery list.
The lightning that pours.
The dancing feeling but it’s a dungeon.
It’s a dungeon.
And they get though anyway.
Thought I was safe from.
The candle light, when nothing can catch fire.
But it does.
But the hurry makes us knock, and stumble.
Crash in this empty palace.
And stones are in a hurry to burn too.
The hurry.
Weird, odd, enthusiastic.
Just like other things.
It speaks clearly.
The hurry.
We did everything fast.
Except try to escape the empty cave.
We put the fire out.
Or so we tried.
Slowly,
The air fills with blue, and the greens catch fire
The hammerlight of Summer
With little mouse-steps,
Steals off into apricity.
I divide my days
Between wine and responsibilities
As a child divides his
Between play and obedience.
The time itself, at its best,
Is wine to me,
Full of light and flavors
Vying for my attention.
The aptly named Sept/ember
Ignites itself against the skies;
Sets my soul asmolder
The inspiration I have begged and badgered
To arrive, does so at last
By its own rule, on its own clock
In the deep of the night
While I should be asleep.
I awake,
Dreams close behind my shoulder,
And find myself at this crossroads,
Inexorably older.
Puppy love is blooming!
I'm not quite sure
If it's divine magic at work
Or a spark that will
Never catch fire.
It's anyone's guess
If the seed of infatuation
Being sown will sprout...
To something more,
Much more.
Are both discovering
Love for the first time,
Or perhaps taking baby steps?
Where it's headed,
Heaven only knows!
If true love is indeed afoot;
If it's a bud about to unwrap
To a full bloom, may it always
Remain blissful; a flame of love
That rages on without an end!
Date written: 08/08/2021
Sheep’s Work Is Never Done
Life calls after sheep in morning to continue
Everyone else sleeps in
Hiding from the corporate coma for awhile
People rise, at a later date, from beds dead tired
Smiles crack on faces; lines move the traces of age around
And break the new dawned day wide open
You can’t count on sheep for anything
They cut wood down in forest
Place it into piles
I know this can’t be done
They have no work permits
Their visas have expired
They line up to be deported
You can’t count on sheep when sleeping either
They wake up freezing cold in wooden homes
Catch colds, catch fire with the trees
To burn the forest down
Weep with matches hidden in the wool
Call it an accident
No one keeps the peace and secrets like death and sheep
You can count on that
Death takes everyone with it, with or without their visa
Sheep move back to their own countries
Work is never done there either, but
To be continued
Classrooms ain't boxes, they're launchpads, ya hear
Where minds catch fire and fears disappear!
You don't teach subjects, you light up souls!
Creative sparks flying, beyond old-school goals!
"Can't do it?" No, you flip that script!
"Not yet" is the mantra that's got us all gripped!
When the world screams "QUIT," you whisper "Try,"
Grit in their bones, you're teaching them to fly!
Questions like hammers, shattering' the norm,
Critical minds weather any storm!
You see the genius in every child,
Multiple strengths and talents are running wild!
Culture ain't a costume, it's the heart of your class,
Every story is honoured, no voice shall pass!
The real world's your textbook, with problems to solve,
Projects ignite, and minds evolve!
One-size-fits-all? That ain't your style!
You tailor-make learning, mile after mile!
Ancient wisdom flows through digital streams,
You're bridging worlds, or so it seems!
So here's to you, sculptors of tomorrow,
Stoking the flames, burning through sorrow!
You're the architects, masons, and more -
Of minds unfettered, reaching to soar!
We see you, we hear you, we feel your fire,
Lifting us higher, ever higher!
Now on this day, we shout it clearly,
"Happy Teacher's Day!" Let the world hear!
Your passion ignites, your wisdom guides,
In you, the future of nations resides!
So take a bow, you've earned this praise,
Teachers, we celebrate you, now and always!
How does it feel to be in love?
I imagine the perfect romance filled with laughter and desire
To walk into a room and see your lover’s soul’s instantly catch fire
Of course, there will be fights
I’ll get angry over something silly and swear that it’s justified
You’ll promise that I’m just over dramatic, as both our egos collide
And then there will be days that I’m sad
I’ll try my hardest to keep it hidden but you always see through my guise
You’ll cuddle me tightly all through the night then wake me just before dawn to remind me there’s always a sunrise
My favorite moments will be spent with you
We’ll excitedly watch our favorite series and make bets on which character is about to go
We’ll playfully fight and start stealing kisses, naturally losing all focus on the show
You’ll be my first and last thought each day
Every night I’ll snuggle up close and embrace your warmth while praying whole heartedly that we’ll never be apart
Every morning I’ll wake up and turn to kiss you but you’ll grab me first and, with a smile say “Good morning sweetheart”
We all have buttons,
But we all have them in different places,
Almost impossible to find by looking at our faces.
The best way to find them is to build on the relationship,
And get them to trust you enough,
To show you where they are,
Or if they can be operated by remote control,
Give you the password.
Be aware if they have an internet connection,
You may have to double click.
Some of us have a silent mode on our off buttons,
So the other person can get a good nights sleep.
Children can be turned off,
But to do that you need a key,
Which is turned anticlockwise,
So they run out of energy and go to sleep.
Some will need a favourite book or toy,
To be provided before you can turn the key.
Remember anti-clockwise, not clockwise,
As that will wind them up and nobody
Will get any sleep.
Some people have off buttons that if pushed too hard,
Can catch fire or explode,
And if that happens you should call in an expert
In relationship building,
Like all pieces of equipment,
You should test them more than once,
To make sure they are in working order.
I also have to warn you,
That outside the hours of nine to five,
A professional relationship builder,
May be hard to find.
Of course you can avoid the need for one of those,
By building more than one relationship,
So you have a friend who you can call after hours for free advice.
Also it is recommended that you call only one person at a time your partner,
It is I am told, quite lonely,
Never having the need to push someone's off button occasionally.
Turtle by the Door
The bears and wolves are few,
one threadbare widow mourning,
two grays as consumptive as smoke.
The large dwindle,
their bodies grow more awkward,
more at odds.
The heavier beast's sway
like drunks in the scant woods.
Under a pelting dark they come.
Beneath a stabbing ice, one by one-
the animals.
I listen to their shuffling,
the scrape of delving claws.
They are scavenging,
pulled closer to me by visceral prods.
Hesitant paws withdraw as they near,
a restlessness keeps them gnawing
a middle ground.
I crane my neck from its ribcage,
they fall back and return,
wanting - always wanting.
The small creatures enter
where cracks fill with moonlight.
They scuttle and hesitate,
a little way,
a little.
I am Turtle,
a makeshift thing,
cloud-splashed and sullied.
I sing back the needy shadows,
cast my lamplight eyes
onto their weltered
hair-streaked hides.
~~~
Turtle Speaks
I did not bundle this day’s flesh,
nor did I carry it to a pathless end.
I merely watched it pass over black mountains,
slip away over thinning trails.
The sky-tent will catch fire again.
I am a roughhewn turtle.
I am starlight in a mud-pool.
A blind faced mole has carried
the moon up from the dirt once more,
though it is only a white bone,
only a hollow tooth.
Turtle am I, an unwrought creator,
one who watches,
who knows not to say
what cannot be said.
~~
Turtle Goes to the Light
Turtle's carcass is nibbled
into threads of brown river water.
His empty shell tumbles lazily
in slow currents.
Turtle stays where the starry mammoths
beat sunlight into skin and bone,
and he waits.
Mole, beaver, and badger
heap the dead upward
until light licks them away.
The world feeds upon itself,
Time weaves new moth wings
from long buried evenings.
Then turtle reappears.
He hatches from an egg pushed through
green sludge and marsh fire.
He returns as a burnt shadow.
Turtle's leathery tongue clacks
he calls to all the blood-filled:
“Come again,
come around and around” he calls.
When his song is done
he perches on a scorched log
in the middle of everywhere
as silent as a stone.