Burning Both Ends

Unknown source

A
flicker,
a stare,
fires the
column,
bled bare,
by the pale
yellow, violet
flame
as

its gliding wax
grips and its rhythmic drip sets fast,
and not unlike our game.
The Slowness of time
runs with our thoughts down
this vine as I tease the quick
with scorched fingers. And, as
is your want, you navigate me,
and like moths, we
self destruct when we linger.
A stolid breath of air soon releases our
stares, and we flinch in the
flame’s parting sigh;
its sulphuric stench from the quickening
wrench, reminds me of that
stark light – as
sleeping birds hum
and a candlelit morn draws nigh.

A Tiny Thing

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I’m copying Dorinda Duclos and re posting a Christmas favourite of mine and hijacking the lyrics – influenced by ‘The Little Swallow’ Carol of the Bells composed by Ukrainian composer Mykola Leontovych in 1914-  Re written, and loosely based, this is what I got. дякую (thank you).

Sing little bird,
fly overhead,
rest in the trees’
wavering breeze.

Lift your curtain high at dawn,
let sleep the flickering candle’s yawning.

Tall trees aglow,
clouds full of snow,
laden with light,
black hops on white,
snow flurry sneeze

small feathers freeze.
Fly little bird
lift up and fight,
go little bird

circle the light,
sleep little bird,
soundly tonight.
Try little bird,

lift your wings while you’re still singing
soon the night will warm your dreaming.

Fly little bird
reach for the night,
go little bird,
shy of winter’s light.

Warm your body, melt the snow
for the daylight crisp below.

Go little bird,
sleep little bird,
find the songs you sweetly sing
nestle there ’til winter’s still.

Go little bird,
up to the night,
fly little bird
soundly tonight.

See the moon she’s smiling for you
shivering stars their arms are open too.

So go, little bird,
fly little bird,
high little bird,
hush, little bird.

Soon will come the voices of the morn,
joyous little creature of our dawn.

Go little bird,
fly little bird,
sleep little bird,
twilight is heard.

Go little bird…
go.

West Window

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When dusk falls,
its heavy heave presses –

the sun is no use to me –
we are both lost,

abandoned by an empty window
bereft of flame

where a tallow once touched,
now naked, fumes impatience

blown from within,
but I cannot give a time for my return –

when rain rises in an autumn
pool and the moon steals

the place of daylight,
together we can light the candle.

**Inspired by Sent North on a Rainy Night
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