HERMIT’S FIRE IN THE FROZEN MEDIEVAL FOREST
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wind, a teeth-chattering dirge
through skeletal branches,
finds no purchase on the small flame.
He built it low, a secret
whispered to the snow-laden earth,
a defiant ember in the kingdom of ice.
Years bleed into seasons here,
marked only by the shrinking woodpile,
the lengthening beard, the deepening lines
etched by firelight and solitude.
He remembers faces,
ghosts flickering in the flames,
loves lost, battles fought,
a life traded for this quiet burn.
The forest breathes around him,
a vast, indifferent lung.
He is a mote, a spark,
yet the fire persists,
a stubborn refusal to surrender
to the long, cold night.
And perhaps, he thinks,
as the embers glow,
that is enough.
Just to burn.
Just to be.
Backwater junction in a backwoods town
Rusty and creepier than a carnival clown
Timber rattlesnakes hide their slanted eyes
No one visits this woodpile, no big surprise
single bunny eats
has whole yard as it's garden
plays in the woodpile
stacked against fence line
someone's hard work has paid off
winters work is done
Spring is still kicking its heels,
in winters waiting room,
expectations unravel.
The squirrels are too awake,
there is no sign of sleep,
in their glittering eyes.
Magpies peck at a low cast sky,
hunt, for gaps of sunlight.
Charlie, the old man
who chop's his own firewood
died yesterday,
mice have already moved
into his woodpile.
Creep around the stacks of wood
To see if something's there
That shouldn't be there if it could
Before it vanishes into thin air
Watch it crawl away too fast
With a face of mud
Because its face has long decayed
From death and time and blood
Follow hard upon its track
And you will not come back
Snatch you down its muddy hole
It makes its nest and naps.
I never expected you to come to Australia first
Still with the appearance that I am familiar
I must travel across the ocean back and forth
And you? I wonder how could you come here?
I saw you climb the fence in our hometown
Up to my ears and blowing your horn
Then you asked me if I was afraid of
And I said: I like your beautiful song
We used to play hide and seek in a woodpile
I pretend that I don't know where you're hiding
You can't wait to stick your head out of the pile
You tell me you're right next to me with your song
I see you in this foreign country unexpectedly
Did you travel across the ocean to follow me
We meet in these wild fields when melancholy
The joy alike seeing relatives you bring to me
I always feel the coldness of the world
Many things are inconvenient to say publicly
But my heart has been filled with your love
When I need some real "friends" so eagerly
We know "friendship" already too many
The definition of them is confusing me
The Illusory "friendship" is hard to rely on
Only you, Wild Petunia, by thousands of miles
You come here to stay with me
Mind like an acrobat
She sways precariously back
and forth with the constant influx of travelers
Who never seem to stay more than a night
Part with their cynical phrases
And compare her to a trapeze
She is the calico feline that hides
In the woodpile for fear of being known
The nights have long since turned frigid
The aroma of death
Is what gives her away
Too late now to be saved
Imperfections in the sky
Draw weary eyes to gaze upon them
Amplified in the freckles on her face
Pinpricks on the vast unknown
Flaming balls of unknown chaos
Look like stars to the naked eye
I was not made for the hutch
No Wire fence to keep me in
A bedroom light my search light
I’m a Frabbit set me free
To these four walls I must conform
Someone’s else’s rules obey
Your life controlled by fear
Regards what your masters do or say
From the meadow to the woodpile
I fear the acts of man
I wish to escape, begin living in colour
Set this frightened rabbit free.
There stands the painter upon his hill
His wife is gone but not his skill
On each and every rainy day
He hunkers down for an outdoor stay
A woodpile serves him as his chair
From which he casts his longing stare
Slowly the brush does touch the paint
As he pictures his departed saint
Quickening strokes all each knowing
His eyes now closed the paint a flowing
The colors before him come to life
The strokes reveal his teary wife
Hunger, gelid, frigid, no nighty,
In a long coldly winter night,
Needy for a so big woodpile
In dark, solo I had to chop
Details are good chop --
sticks chum pal up --
marks choc-ice !!!
Choppy choosy !!
Wood not woo !
Cook not coo !
Warming,
fire up,
heat,
fill,
by
crawling through tall green grass
making miles of tunnels
in fields all around
a lake, the yearly rain makes
floating on rafts
crafted from grandpa's woodpile
hot brown hills of slick dry grass
slid and sped down
in cardboard boxes
old knotted oak tree
climb up like a ladder
jump into leaves piled high
acorns falling
my childhood pastimes
wonderful memories of home
Over the pine trees the ball I threw
Neighbor’s bay window the ball went through
My neighbor asked me if I would?
Come over to his house, split a cord of wood
In the woodpile see the chipmunk pray
I do not want to be the Bald Eagle’s prey
From the woodpile a gagging scent
A payment my neighbor’s skunk had sent
So much of beauty has come and gone
and never known its own worth
in farm and field in whitewashed barns
in the raucous music of the rooster.
Poorer are we for the loss of harrow and ax
the woodpile stacked with oak and ash
the balsam pillows stowed in drawers
of quilted blankets and linens bleached.
The not so ordinary loved packed scarf
from scraps of sweater knitted
the braided rugs made from well-worn blankets
and the smell of wood smoke in caste iron.
Reminisce with me of clothes upon a line
and the smell of sunshine on white sheets.
Remember, oh remember the lady slippers
deep within the birch filled wood at mid-day.
All of these have come and gone
mere photos remain pixels without emulsions
slick shadow less, machine stamped hulls
so little of real beauty remains.
Fires burning, burning bright.
Not for warmth or even light.
Burning flesh seared to the bone.
Was this the sense of martyrdom?
Mary Tudor was the Queen,
return of Popery her dream.
Henry's child without a doubt,
her fathers deeds to turn about.
Men and women, loosing life,
butchers son and bakers wife.
Bishops, clerics, Lords and sires,
Not one spared the holy fires.
Thomas Cranmer was her aim,
he caused her mother so much pain.
Anne Boleyn's most errant knight,
causing Mary's own sad plight.
Hooper, Ridley, Cranmer too,
English folk, all good and true.
All subsumed to appease her bile,
sacrificed on the stakes woodpile.
Fourteen score souls finally died,
entering the flames with pride.
Heretics, each and every one.
Assured of joining God's own son.
As death became well-nigh routine,
The people cried God Save the Queen.
But they, in their hearts, were wary,
amongst themselves called her Bloody Mary.
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