The pop group Heatwave, it seemed to me
(in 1970)
was dreadfully dull and boring too
(not at all incendiary)
so, with breath control and mind over matter,
(it didn't matter as I didn't mind)
to liven up the act and give it something new,
after much practice and repeating,
using self-made torches soaked in paraffin,
I taught myself how to do fire eating
and late that summer became
(tho' only the drummer)
'Keeper Of The Flame'.
Once, while on stage performing,
some sceptic in the audience shouted, "That's not really hot,"
so, determined to put him in his place
(he deserved all of what he got)
I gave him quite a fright when I flashed the flames in his face.
Then, '77 one fearful night in Bright Eye Band wearing tights
(a.k.a., Smooch on Halloween)
throwing all caution to the wind, as it was gauged just right,
the draft from a fan blowing across the stage set my hair alight.
Although not what I call apropos,
I survived, came out alive, but what a way to close the show.
If you can find shelter when the firmament rumbles
And drips spears of weighty waters
Keep about you the hope that clear skies might come,
Be glad for the storied house that a stray seed built,
That you might claim, and in it, brave the storm.
Heaven takes no command from men
that are stuck by the roadside under makeshift nests;
Prepare, then, to wade from November’s head to April’s tail.
Find friends in the things that crawl, things that creep and jibe.
Say comrade to the tippy tapping tango of rain by the tree’s end.
Before the tree gives much comfort and you forget to miss the sun,
Before you curse Icarus for being too kind to the warmer things,
You will know that the earth can be dark and unforgiving;
The wind stings your skin like lashes from an iced belt
and the cold envelopes your adolescent patience.
The first men gave unto you rocks to strike light and conjure warmth,
Do not yet lead praises due north nor kindle your grass roof,
Because this shelter is made from paper, petrol,
Paraffin, and things that burn;
And you are matchsticks bathed in kerosene.
I'll leave heaven for another day
But just for the here and now today
A million plus candles and paraffin lamps
Won't at this very moment in time
Bring or provide enough light
in order to restore back into my life
My faith and belief
That I put and placed back on the shelf
The a one single day before
As every day before and since
As it was I thought
Supposedly meant to be
But never actually ended up being
Where I now find myself currently
Stuck somewhere in between
Hell and purgatory
With heaven nowhere to be seen
In plain sight
Lest the moon tip over and spill the blood,
With apocalyptic fury signaling the climax
In history as in the days of old Noah’s flood,
When the earth resettles like paraffin wax,
Forming new boundaries in the land and sea
With apocalyptic fury signaling the climax,
People of every nation will hopelessly flee
Before the great and terrible day of the Lord
Forming new boundaries in the land and sea.
Rising from below comes the thundering horde
Incredibly horrific creatures before unknown
Before the great and terrible day of the Lord.
Humanity never again occupying the throne
Nor understanding the myriads roaming about,
Incredibly horrific creatures before unknown.
Comes the archangel with a triumphal shout,
Lest the moon tip over and spill the blood,
Nor understanding the myriads roaming about
In history as in the days of old Noah’s flood.
Written October 19, 2022
The Solitude of the Candle
David J Walker
The sweet smell of spiced
paraffin and flame
the solitude of darkness
I am the name
I am the sound
of the moniker
and bound
To hold the meaninglessness
of a darkness
in a
Darkened frame
In a dark space
In a dark place
Just beyond
The Candles claim
And will be remembered
So long lives
The candle's flame
He awoke
to the sound of pouring rain,
the wind whistling
around the windmill tower,
the aroma of homemade toasted bread
and coffee brewing on the paraffin stove…
In a daze, eyelids heavy,
he heard distant voices.
“He breathes like a sparrow.
The time is near.”
A tear fell on his frail hand.
In the shadows
the ferryman patiently waited…
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A BRIAN STRAND 1097 Poetry Contest
Flames glow with rhythmic fluttering,
casting dark shadows upon my wall.
Paraffin rivers trickle from candles,
spilling in flow that mimics my tears.
My voice whispers, calling your name.
I smother the wicks of waxen pillars.
October 31, 2021
Bite Size Poem no25 Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier
With my quill at hand I must create ink to write
I will gather pine sap from a tree then bone black
Pigment while mixing it together with pestle and mortar
I will take the skin of a sheep and prepare it for writing
Before I can start I must find paraffin for candles so I may see
Then twist some cotton threads for a wick, then
Build a table to write upon with a solid chair then chop wood
For a nice warm fire, then I can cook the sheep that I skinned
For a hefty meal before I can begin this poem
I will start with:
To Be or Not To Be, That is the question
In the laughter of the decent
Baskets from the past bring sorrow
And the joy rapidly disappears
At the sight of their evil deeds
That once used to be their way of life
They changed, only to suffer
From stabbed wounds of guilt and regret
Do they question the choice?
Or is it the darkness that they loved?
They hoped for a change,
It appears, there is more than what
The preachers promised them.
In the unrighteousness of the wicked
Wave after wave, they get blessed
It rains manna, or at least, it seems
I wonder if He has been too tolerant
Or if we should keep waiting for justice
In the sins that they have transformed into norms
They have laid a bait for the weak and poor
That has had their faith shaken
In the falling of the decent, peace they find
They quench fires with gallons of paraffin
Their love of the riches hasn’t proven futile
And they have forgotten of the warnings.
Pitter, patter little feet,
running up and down the street.
Screaming, laughing, shouting loud.
Thin silver lining, in such dark cloud.
This moment's fun, will end too soon.
Replaced with angry curses
and paraffin fumes.
Green, amber - filled bottles,
all but soothe,
Lurking shadows,
set to abuse.
No whimpered prayers,
to make it end,
hope, long dead,
that at last in bed -
Safety find,
but instead,
A different kind of pain begins.
Now, at last, bitter tears release,
Tiny, wretched soul, at last to sleep.
Candle bright affection
is melting
Trust is on the wane,
our love light is flickering
Vows of fidelity
was such a beautiful beginning
Heartfelt words spoken with sincerity
had no echo fear of ending
This love burned so bright,
but only for a short time
Until waxen tears of disillusion
started doubt dripping
Beautiful plans,
glowing promises dissipated so fast
Passionate hope
with a cold lip stroke turned into ash
Fiery vows of fidelity
was such a beautiful beginning
Lovely scented words waxed with sincerity,
they had no wick fear of ending
Now, beautiful disillusion
has waning hope tearfully melting
Flickering doubts,
trust is sorrowfully wavering
Paraffin emotions ... scarlet strain
of a twined, tallow heart
is burning at both ends with pain —
A sad start of living apart
Breaking bricks are many in this project
no one can build a strong house with them
all the clay got to make bricks in this land
crack and fall when joined to build house
Brick makers know their skills in bad job
paraffin they pour on wood to bake bricks
they burn and produce beautiful bricks
customers who see them shine pay in haste
Often brick makers leave rain to soak clay
and gather them to bake with big logs
but when masons use them to erect walls
whole structure crumbles down in thunder
Brick makers, why mislead constructors?
masons, why do you use breaking bricks?
can’t you search for stones to do good job?
are your minds too dull, too numb to reason?
Building houses with weak bricks in the morn
destined to crumble in the evening same day
is playing in the sand as children do in play
they build but none lives in the sand bungalows
Resolve to be wiser than the ordinary wise
Take time and choose best building stones ×2
Defunctive smoke
From the brain
Rankles the soul:
An eternity of ignorance.
There are no marrams for skin.
Marquetry of bones
Intricacy assumes
Hoodwinking eyes
That see only nudes.
Whining gin.
Phthisic mind
Transhumanizes darkness
Swaddling rain
In a hollow pearl.
Aperient paraffin.
Happiness now:
Being straddled in the sun,
Juvescence:
Fustigating the sea.
It’s win win win.
Inside the gall bladder,
The unstilted oyster
Is condited:
Redundant sud.
Quite self-akin.
Concite the hymns of Satan
If you find yourself perjured,
Faith is more recondite
Than delirium.
Terribly consanguine.
Win win win!
There are no marrams for skin!
-Pin Dew (01/05/2017)
Diaspora that cant go home
Mum and Dad came on boats not grand
They left the sun behind
To the old country to lend a hand
replacing uncertainty and find
Prosperity, erase the poverty of native land
And we’ll send money back home.
They were met with sticks and stones
Were broken, not just their bones
Wogs and minstrels they were called
In Harsh winters and damp ghettos hauled,
unfamiliar foods and hapless children
Tears flowed inside and years out,
From broken ribs phlegm does spout
Husband’s and fathers ruled with fists
Paraffin fires took lives of kids
Benefits to small to feed and clothe
Necessitate a hustle to cope
And depression became the reward
Misery slapped hard onto every face
No pubs to ail our weary souls
This old country is a hard hard place
Welfare killed all dreams and hopes
Drugs and anecdotes became our lot
Newer immigrants got the jackpot
Penniless and broke, Too ashamed to go home
No riches to share, not welcomed, disowned.
You don't have to shut the door
And hide your shame and fears
And cover your weaknesses and pain
You can live it open
Welcome the conversation
Treat the wounds and free yourself of hurt
So you can walk free and not run away
So you can sing in the light and not cry in the dark
Sex is a quick fix, sex is an attractive paraffin
It's okay to be different, different is beautiful
It's even more okay to be an introvert
Introvert is so deep and full of wit
You wish to be like her because everybody loves her
You wish to sing and act like her
You wish and wish to be exactly like her
Entertaining, fun and funny
But you have you and your poetry
And with that you have a golden truth
That's you, not just a physical lure
Even she wishes she was like you
So quiet, so shy, so mysterious, so smart...
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