fires all about
sky orange
not from flame
but refracted light from
smoke so thick
you can gather it
in your hand

the flames miles away
for us but for some
on their doorstep
devouring house

ash falls like snow
and sits in drifts
up against firetruck tires

men and women
volunteer warriors
return soot black
and exhuasted
to rest before
returning
to the front

devastation
of wildlife corridors
devastion of small towns
live's lost and broken

and it is still only spring

stealing time
to pen some words
that may be
considerate  enough
to rhyme

stealing time
to sit  apace
with  myself
and muse away
a small portion of
this humid hour

stealing time
to stare at space
and watch
the dust motes
dance with
ballerina grace

stealing time
with vacant smile
as the world and
his wife, walk on by

it is  in moments
like these stolen away
that i gather the beauty
of each and every day

the smoke haze is settling
now  the landscape wears ashes like
a widows mourning dress

no longer the rage, the flames, the fire
the passionate devourer has been siated

leaving destruction as it's  rememberance

Heard today of the demise
of a couple elderly 78 and 73
caught in the malestorm
of a bushfire, unable to leave
the property they had  lived on
for more than 50 years...
they took shelter in the house
he built...only to have it become
their pyre ..they were found together
There is  poetry in this, love passion,tragedy, darkness and despair
and though these word do not come anywhere near describing the situation, it is my belief that these two people deserved some words written for them...
May they rest in peace...

rain upon roof,
gentle falls,
creating a cocoon
of humid heat
in which we sit
mesmerized by;
the soft sound of
rain upon roof.

~for she who will know~

the Mother of Muses came to me

on bended knee
come for to confess
a lie so grand it boggled
the heart

we bring you nothing more
than what you already possess,
the jewels of rose gold are emplaced
in your dual ventricles,
the veins stained with blue green sapphires to
feed the right and left hemispheres,
where the emerald heat and the yellow gold,
raw melt the alpha word-finery awaiting,
the pinpointed pinprick of an eyed glimpse

to release the oxidizing words atmospheric
we are not needed, just proceeders,
*** stirrers? no. *** watchers? oh yes.

all contained within,
this then, the art of the human heart,
where the external stains rest awaiting,
completing, complimenting, coming
to fruition in a reforged new birthing

see how the child looks with adoration,
perceiving the art of the mothers heart,
the spilling of time at the precise moment
when the exchange is as long as an eye wink
and as short as an entire lifetime

We the Muses, not teachers, nor inspirers,
just peddlers, collecting thimbles of words,
polished with hued syllables of tarnish,
experienced watchers discerning the exacting,
the interactive interactions of the cells,
the DNA concoctions of singers and sinners,
priests and the unforgivable, trying to tie
what deserves untying, which is an everlasting
poem that needs, laughing, an original act
of the art of the heart, yours, permission to say
The End

11:14pm
nyc
Sept. 18, 2019

it is the frayed string
of hope
that sustains a shattered
mind
hope floats,

a little walnut boat
set upon the darkest  of seas

hope sees the dawn in the
deepest part of the night

hope sustains
hope maintains
hope remains
hope endures

that ember of grace, that ember of grace
endures, ever-ready to be coaxed into a flame

sometimes hidden deep within
but never absent, never absent
always wanting, wishing to be found

awaiting planting in fertile soil
taking nutrients in growing,
stabilizing  fragile ground

hope is life
life is hope

hope is knowing both flower and ****,
have purpose, that of both we need
flower for joy,
**** for silent comparision

hope loves both,  gritty or beautiful  
have place within a heart willing to grow
for as it has been said before:
by poets far better than me.

you do not see the dawn,
with out the darkness
of the night...