Burning Both Ends

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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.

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To A Flame

moth and hand

Like a moth’s scattering
of night, awakening lights
with wings wildly scratching
the air with fluttering shouts,
you frantically try to capture shadows
while zig zagging the art of confusion.
Steered by signals, light waves
like battering rams of celestial
navigation, singe your soul.

A Quadrille is a 44 word poem.

When Light is Absent

flame-1363003_960_720.jpg.

What are you doing
that I can’t be?
What is it occupies your thoughts of me?
Who stands in the light that
blinds equally
both shadows dancing in the flames?

Where can you be now
that I won’t see?
What longings are seeping deliberately?
Who finds them and binds
inextricably
both shadows melting in the flames?

Your fingertip is touching fire,
is that you for me?
When I can no longer feel it, you reach for me,
like the fire atop the tallow’s
intimacy,
both shadows make candlelight’s flames.

West Window

24802-142E61B649F1F4951C7.jpg

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
Li Shangyin

Diaphanous

diaphonous.jpg

Diaphanous –
we transmit light
through our skin
and it shines on our past
full of plights
and plagues,
all wrapped in gauze,
and it is gazed upon
by hawking heads and hunched
shoulders
inside of flimsy clothing
where hands disturb the air not yet cool,
when thrown up scorched by the torch
of red hot pokers –
batons of war –
but with great zeal
we poke through and flutter
our flimsy wings like a moth caught
between the light and dark, torn between
a stream, serenity, a cudgel to be bludgeoned
with or a brightly lit tunnel to a dream.
Wholly unsure until singed,
our vaporous silks show their fragility
until light and wills coalesce,
then we are apt to fly with dainty ego intact
into the luminosity of peace,
which, sadly, has become
Diaphanous.

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