At the edge of evening,
on a late-summer night,
the garden is pretending
it will last forever.
Lilies lift their pale trumpets
through the violet hush;
roses crowd around
the knees of two girls in white.
They bend over
their paper-moon lanterns,
shielding the wicks,
watching them flicker gold.
Do you remember those days
when life was so simple,
when dreams seemed real,
our faces aglow in the light?
How night arrives
as it always does,
quietly, leaf by leaf,
darkening the garden around us.
Still, the lanterns remain—
each one a little kept summer,
each one saying
not nothing will be lost,
but carry this:
there is enough light
for the next remembered step—
two small shadows
following the lanterns
home.
In the Pabbi Hills,
A couple of decades ago,
A small village called Mayyrr glowed
In the tender night of spring.
From every home, tiny flames flickered,
Like a swarm of fireflies—
Some crowning the upper slopes,
Some resting in the valley below.
The night was alive with gentle chatter,
Elders sharing tales and quiet laughter,
Warmth flowing beside their brass lanterns,
Stories unfolding, softly, like smoke in the air.
Lanterns poured love through their golden flame,
Wicks drawing oil from the reservoir,
As time, silently, drew life from the old folk—
Yet left their warmth, wisdom, and light
Lingering across the hills,
A memory that glows forever.
Gloom blooms as more bombs boom;
Even saints are tainted by crimson stains.
Fears tear through cradle-cries,
And withered blood floods the clustered gutters.
A prowl of projectiles surrounds their bounds;
Wounds whine on a round ground.
Pleas fail to heal the skin’s impetigo—
As silence stains the lens.
Then violence dons another garment,
While silence lies dormant;
Cries from festered wounds pry the dry, wry air,
As echoes crawl along.
All goes to soothe egos,
They boast with coats of loathes in floated boats,
In self-conceit concerts,
They celebrate nothing, noting no woe.
Wicked wicks don’t wink weak,
They sow discord and spit splintered discourse,
They supplant hate as baits,
And their words plunge the world to more dangers.
Peace peeks through a bombed hole at round tables,
Yet war speaks through their mouths;
Those who would quell the spell still sow their guile,
While skies scold, souls lie cold.
Flaming wicks atop candy cane sticks
mirror holiday revelers’ delight
Their joy shattered instantly
~ flash-mobs alight and unite
One is snuffed, one comes on,
a torch gets passed.
From the deceased something is new again.
The ghosts of all my selves
still light their wicks.
I clapped for breath and called it victory.
Bittersweet gold trophies,
tears for top tier.
I’m glad mine’s not for participation.
There’s a new finish line,
sign the contract.
Hand yourself over to reinvention.
Spirits are saluting
the staircases.
Continue to climb, the past’s your wingman.
I recall the yelling but silent voice of winter
that broken December when the lights from
lanterns shot up from their wicks with the
fading strength of departing glows abroad.
Twilights hastened through the spine of
receding days, halting the approach of a
wayward Christmas.
The wilderness around us yielded froths from a
puking snowstorm,
fastening laces of Hell with strings of abundant
sleet.
I’ve only desired to light old lamps with young wicks
(the tongues of flame must be blinking hard with vigilance)
Across dark, mildewed alcoves that smell of ink —her writing ink —
But one thing led to the other, and the ink I
Found froze in my eyes, the bottle instantly petrified among desert ruins.
I searched, from my village to Nantucket, borrowing
The courage of voyaging storms, seeking earnestly her quill feather,
Just to caress her pretty face with it.
But the power of distance arrested me midway and warned me
Of the dangers of costly adventures.
I hankered after a trained parrot —an amanuenses of note—
With less brilliant plumage,
Electrifying elocution,
To detect to me the protocols of her language.
But that, too, failed.
The parrot was either born mute or chose to be.
I did all I could? to seek, to find, to locate, to identify items
Belonging to her —bric-a-brac of a telling age.
And then there were none.
I recall the yelling but silent voice of winter
that broken December when the lights from
lanterns shot up from their wicks with the
fading strength of departing glows abroad.
Twilights hastened through the spine of
receding days, halting the approach of a
wayward Christmas.
The wilderness around us yielded froths from a
puking snowstorm,
fastening laces of Hell with strings of abundant
sleet.
Sear my heart, O rampant rage!
Simmer deep within!
Scour, devour this rusty cage!
What it takes to win...
As below, thus up above?
Not in this fair world.
Raptor hawk, guard well the dove?
Dead man's fingers curled...
Golden sparks to signal?
Attention that will get!
O prospectors, pill or pall?
Does it pay to fret?
No! Indeed not, my wild child!
Red run reconciled?
Crocodile in Nile beguiled?
Doubt and dismay dialed.
Tiled like floors in ancient tower?
Which architect planned?
Nightshade, is thy milk a-sour?
Blighted by the banned.
Is the ocean welling up?
Where the wound began?
Ark of Covenant, thy cup!
Revenant, how you ran!
Mutilation! Mutiny!
Murder in the streets!
Something lurking we can't see?
Have you seen the beats?
Reservations kept for six?
Bring thy crucifix.
Sullen heat out in the sticks?
Candles without wicks.
Fix it up, O soldiers!
We really must make do.
He who survives, first deters!
Ask the wallop hoo...
We traveled up the dark river Styx
Past vine choked jungle shrouded in mists.
The candle flames wouldn’t burn their wicks.
All ‘round we heard when the serpents hissed.
Ahead the bleak city of the dead
Where the monkey gods howled their dark tunes
And on its cracked walls could still be read
The markings of their magical runes.
Oblivion had taken the place
And carried them wailing to the void.
Chaos was something they couldn’t face,
Though ’twas the very thing they employed.
Their glory had been all too fleeting.
Madness and decay had seized the day.
They forgot Who that they were cheating
And in the end they were forced to pay.
Gratitude, sovereign atop Meru’s lofty crest,
Glides through crevices beneath Challenger Deep rest.
I traverse with solemnity, a mortal blessed beyond infinity—
An Avatar, eclipsing senators, defying eternity.
Finite breaths, ephemeral within the infinite filament,
Flickering wicks of joy and sorrow, omnificent and omnipotent.
Hope and dreams wither and tether—
A responsibility to shoulder—who dares to hinder?
A flowery benediction—born a woman,
Silent steward of primordial secrets spun,
A womb of the universe, where giggles ripple,
An architect unparalleled, designing destinies dribble.
I love a good movie, I honestly do
I’d watch one alone and I’d watch one with you
Adventure or Western, perhaps a film noir,
A comedy suited to my Ma and Pa
I like a good Thriller, a detective drama
A tale of vendetta, of justice or Khama
I do enjoy Horror, I rather like gruesome
And stories of outlaws or some wayward twosome
And thrill me with gunfights, a street brawl or two
A hideous death for the bad guy will do
I do love a story, exciting or fun
Not just an excuse for firing a gun
Okay, I confess that I like those films too
In which gangsters shoot up a hullabaloo
But the plot is the crux, it’s what makes my mind smile
You can’t just have guns going off all the while
It’s pouring outside and pretty damned cold
A night in with Netflix has gotten me sold
So let’s watch a movie; forget going out
Let’s sit down and see what ‘John Wicks’ is about
*
Well, she’s gone to bed and I’m sat on my tod
Most of the cast are conversing with God
I have to confess that this shoot-em-up rave
Is gonna go down… as a personal fave!
Why does the longing of lived wax melt clean off your wicks?
Oh, how do you hold a capillary existence fending off the ticks?
Over and over to lay wasted during the cold times, of treats and tricks
Daylight will return beauty to you in magical ways after the season of the sticks
Save your strength, take time to slumber; why be awake to witness the politics?
each candle contains a Flame
life abounds within its Light
Fire when these Flames unite
and banishing the darkness
warm comfort flows from within
drives away the biting cold
the wind of division blows
extinguishes one candle
where once each formed The Fire
individuals, yet one
this missing Light makes all less
less Light, less warmth, comfortless
tears of grief fall on the wicks
Flames sputter and dim but stay
keeping at bay the darkness
forever missing your Light
Our auras caress,
heart lotus awaiting touch,
that love may blossom within.
The light that ignites
candle wicks in hearts barren,
is magic God Himself wields.
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