The flamboyant flame stands before me,
framed by garish smoke rising
to meet an aloof sky. The crackling embers —
embarrassed to be seen laying down
on the job — pop out of sight,
making way for flashier lights.
The bonfire demands to be seen, illuminating
places undiscovered, too dark to survey.
Is it possible my caustic humor burns
those who venture too close? Do I dare
take stock of myself now — already gray —
biding time ’til I pop where I lay?
Perhaps, as winds breathe smoke
unexpectedly back in our faces,
I merely shift my perspective.
There’s magic in turning sticks into wands Continue reading A catalyst
The match lights.
The newspaper sparks immediately —
the flame matching the intensity
of the ink passionately spread through
a dozen stories — and dissolves into ash.
The infant flame crawls onto twigs.
I stand mesmerized by this transmutation:
words once poured over by anxious writers
now spilled into a fire as kindling, sweat
burning into memories I’ve already forgotten.
The winds shift.
I rearrange the sticks to assist their demise,
wondering how many revisions — how many
editors’ notes — were born before the news
fanned out to a half awake audience.
The flames leap from twigs to logs.
I stare transfixed at the graceful movement
of the blaze (so gorgeous as it spasms
on this log, then another) effortlessly
transforming timber into trifling confetti.
I find it poetic.
My stomach screams an idea, an ephemeral epiphany
I must immediately share for art’s sake,
enthusiastically published on pulp
and eventually catalyst for another fire. Continue reading One man’s art