"brushfire" poems
this roaring fire in my belly
consumes me like a cleansing brushfire
preparing the ground for new growth
from the ashes of my former self
wiser, stronger, less afraid,
like a phoenix, i will rise
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
the tectonic plates
in me
are shifting
as our continents
approach collide
my ocean is
getting closer
to the mountains
on your landscape
tallest grasses blowing
in wild demon dance,
shaking their
heads as heated
storm approaches
oven-baked air crackling
with its own
electric currents
Nothing can stop it
it's a magnetic force
one to be
reckoned with
surrendered to
as dust foams
like ocean froth
around our heads
clinging to us in tiny
starlit fragments
and soon will come
the slick dive into
wordless waters,
just skin on skin
slippery mouth muscles
like entwined snakes
flick-flicking, shiny
in eye-lit cherry moons
Take my hand.
Just pull me in.
Enfold me,
without talking
watch as my aura
rushes into you,
first a delicate whisk
of cool light
to slake the thirst
of coal-licked caverns
then sparks
and bubbling oxidation
turning into liquid brushfire
Hold your palm
to my chest,
as if to keep
my heart steady,
my glowing flare of halo
pressed into your
clavicle, taking in
the embryonic beats
soothing my torrid ache,
infusing minerals
in vitamin-laced libation
It is time to simply bask
in the new
crispness of radical
shake off
the silt and salt
and rise up
into the spheres
of memory
of soulspeak
of collapsed time zones
budded breath
spiraling up
in curls,
diaphanous
dark mist
ascending
into
light
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
i’m dying soon
on the side of a highway
as cars pass like comets
and trucks rumble by
to stir the gravel
as avid teeth sniff
me out to pull
at my porcelain skin
before the bird beaks leap
from the sky
to peck at what’s left
of my brushfire bones
i’m dying soon
and it may just
feel
like any other day
that i’ve known
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 10:25 PM UTC
*The cordons of existence are constricting
For the keepers of the dream have let us down,
Who will buy tomorrow if performances are hollow
Causing all the global spectators to frown?
American has been the silk pyjamas
Since ’45 they’ve lead the world’s display
In health and wealth and brandishing the muscle
But in recent times it seems they’ve seen their day.
For since Clinton’s time the National debt has spiralled
They’ve departed brushfire wars in disarray,
Default now looms obscene with disharmony supreme
With Congressional leaders ranting in the fray.
The fiasco of a Government held to ransom
By a faction of extremist’s from the right,
Whilst the greenback in decline won’t change water into wine
The dire threat of fiscal chaos causes fright.
So global confidence is fading in the dollar
And the watchers shake their heads in blank despair,
For the willingness to follow is now a bitter pill to swallow
When the USA’s rock steadiness aint’ there.
So, what’s around the corner for tomorrow?
What aspirants are waiting in the wings?
With a fading USA perhaps it’s China’s turn to play
Though that’s going to mean adjustments made to things.
Of course we’re venturing into territory’s unchartered
And the crystal ball consulted, isn’t clear
But one thing I can assure, if this is what we must endure,
Is that our tomorrows will be something, now, to fear.*
Marshalg
Auckland N.Z.
19 October 2013
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 8:01 PM UTC
I.
You can always tell the
Virgins from the way they
Glide—cerebral giddy with nectarfilled
Hearts and earlobes full of
Wax/
Wane moonshine turf if you’re not
Dying for astronomers’ loves and what makes
Ptolemy different from Claude is
Given prove:
Equal and opposite reaction.
II.
Shove knife down pork
Wasn’t so hard, was it.
III.
TWO SOLIDS INTERSECT
In a plane. In the bathroom, to be exact.
What follows is not
Essential to the proposition;
Calculate the spatial
(surface area, volume of cubicle,
conclude insufficient is <
where escape
velocity is )
useless to
resistance factor 7 [prepare
for lift-off landing
taxi
To the Bronx of course where else would I
Be on a night like this it’s raining in the parlour
Wont you step outside?
III.
anemic & half-
starved half-
sandwich
go on,
have a bite.
IV.
in arm will undulate bloodcellspouroutcantstoptoowide
are you just imagining this?
What would they tell you in school blood is
thicker than water
i’m not sure they eat
carnivores here.
CARNIVAL
festival of meat.
Flesh
LIVE
trembling
quiver SWIFT shoot through air DUCK dead swandive nosedive outplug
BOOM go the couple in the cabin
lavatory
laboratory? Rats go bang in the night
crash & burn debris over Detroit is our
favorite way to die
colorful isn’t it rainbow—
brushfire—
bruises and fire storms out and around the
populace to decimate seems like mating by a factor of ten
V; or. X^2+i(70x7)=
aftermath:
my ex squared
with me seventy times
seven
equals in
fortitude (labor-intensive)
tea costs sixpence in dallas what about
you so
integral to my
being that sometimes I wonder if you’re just
imaginary or if
what it takes to be transcendental is
beyond what’s rational or even what’s
real to me:
eight is
enough for the eggs.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
the sun prowls around
its rocky master
and you
a shadow in its breath
your eyes closed
your hair blowing
like a brushfire
bleeding oolong
the brazen claps of
sunlight thunder
down upon your shoulders
a freckle appears
then another
then another
your sea of blank skin
now crushed
tiny islands
cooling you in
sun-drenched picture
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 2:29 PM UTC
in pealing season, she is a girl of lousy ingrowth
she is an unkempt corner; kitchen sink. legs pulled like knives. phone call her curled tendons; isolation in
grit and fibril
she is women with wings. this is how we stymie the rapunzel. we carve the ugly into her. we teach her to wear skin like saran. skin like punishment
cut-coin the rumpelstiltskin. how she is wound and string, paper-doll; bird-in-a-box
how we wring the juice of her on washcloth. hung upturned from the ceiling fang; plucked and feathered
like apology. cherry-picked; veins like mikado. how it is dark and she is blind-bat wind-warriors; waterboarded with no hands
upturning the paper boats of her in every follicle; how the flipswitch insecurity eats her like pickle. in a storm
she is neither nor tongue nor limb
just breast, bone, the weight of mirrors
how we jettison when the grief is heavy. abandon. thick, empty abandon.
alone in grit-cusps when the monsoon has eaten into the white, wispy mortuary. dark in hallways; yet pale and slender. she is beautiful.
we lift her ribbed corpse off the shoreline.
we unload the offering like red carpet;
this is how we wrap her in white and weary-eyed
translucent. how unavoidable we become when we are the last hope. crippled. when we look hope in the eye. askance. how she will beg you to look at her with the heart in the honey-jar; torso in tourniquet
how the walls are ripped in shades of askance. how we look away.
how us, walls, look away.
how, us, walls, askance.
how we drip of askance; how the pink flesh and cherry-limb slips like matchstick on brushfire
how there is purple and primrose and bruise
there are some spots on the floor where it still reeks purple and yellow and bruise
how we are
lousy
ingrowth
here. how we
try
to
pluck
and erase
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 8:33 AM UTC
Romanticism is
Melancholic at best
Always daydreaming
Each one a test
I'm a hopeless optimist,
Some may say.
Tossing petals on a silly rose,
wasting the day.
The idea of love,
So open and free
Thought provoking, mysterious
Until it gets to me.
Then I recall,
Why I prefer being alone.
It's hard to find peace,
In someone else's home.
By home, I mean mind
Two becomes one
You both have to share it
To simply enjoy the sun
Idiosyncrasies,
Start to synchronize
The way we view life
Is seen through one set of eyes
We become a machine,
Two bodies and one brain
A lovely entanglement
Loneliness has been slain.
You passed the test,
And you've set me free,
But only through binding,
The concept of 'you and me'
Romanticism is
Melancholic at best
Until the real thing comes,
And starts a fire in my chest.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 12:33 PM UTC
Forget her
Don't suffer to remember just to suffer forever, sucker
Lust safer
Rub one out and see if the hunger doesn't expire a little quicker
Cold fire
Flip it 180 and record what's bound to transpire
Loves quagmire
Simple desire will always inspire but ensnare a liar
Shifty empire
Not strange to aspire to be a vicious, succubus, vampire
Almost satire
An enticing lure to offer for sure but unstable as brushfire
Situation's dire
Sooner than later fall victim to the inevitable backfire
Flimsy tightwire
An act in need of fools for hire, speaking to the choir
©2023
Dec 4, 2023
Dec 4, 2023 at 4:40 PM UTC
remember, chances are
you will die in an earthquake bigger than Haiti's
or sizzle in a brushfire más caliente que Hades
or perish on the smog with your stupid lungs that don't breathe
with one of our 3.858 million
love thy neighbor
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
sweetness evades me, hiding in my stomach. being broke is not the worst, i guess.. until hunger shakes my bird bones - skinny not an issue, but weightlessly i drift to the keyboard back and again and with lazy eyes tracing the pattern provided over and over a few times more before
heart drench me
beating around in the brushfire
i stand on delicacy, shiver and stammer, foreshadow until you can't reply without stepping on my long skirts trailing
and i just woke up, i have no idea what i'm referring to anymore
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
This is today’s calm headline: when the clout of a hammer
sings a would-be house the same way a dog’s howl fractures
an all-too-sudden image of a stranger. All of this having
to do with your body, that is when trying to insinuate a day
like a beast cautious behind a brushfire. Take your hand
and cross your body – paint a gesture, with your timid signatures
a showcase of a blind transaction for something and take it
to the nearby cathedral. Fasten you would, a murmur veiled
and hidden in one of the pews and kowtow / this is your
finest headline today / before them, make do your obeisance
to / to fall like a downed tree after a surge / drift on a river /
/ repeats as if you do not forget /
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 9:52 PM UTC
windows blue, brushfire outside frame
lens snaps unfocussed souvenirs
button stuck & final landscape
reel changed in digital camera.
business armour, new & costly
spare strides, fresh shod feet
new path to wear & flatten trail
movement forward, steps with bells.
behind eyes dam pressure, fears of
others, games with blades, paper greed
leather pouch of cards, no perception
rides of ease & empathy bypass.
laundry dangles worn & fresh
warm breeze & sweat beads, pegs support
changing days, transforming month
summer growth for a turn of season
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 8:23 AM UTC
Flames of deceit engulfed the vast fields of my heart.
Composed of slender dry blades of trust and love; that danced to that old song together like watching sea of hopeless romance.
The blazing fire grew hastily; greedily feeding.
Leaving no survivors.
All of my fields reduced to wisps of ash in a mere instant. The grains are no more and the harvest shall yield no food this season.
Fearing the worst, I prepare for the work ahead to replenish my crop. In good time, the new growth will sprout. If I am patient, if I tend with care, I will confidently provide an abundance of new produce.
Insurmountable quantity and resilient to the elements.
I say, sometimes the brushfire must be burned in order for new growth to take its place.
Remaining ever vigilant and keeping the inferno from ruining my fields again.
Apr 4, 2022
Apr 4, 2022 at 2:01 AM UTC
I. A gene for combustion
passed down through summers
spent fishing mud-slick tributaries,
cultivating a taste for wildness
wiggling on metal hooks,
sun-bleached shells
cracking at the weight of
tar-speckled teeth;
an animal made supine,
made to mold like clay,
a carcass of love
II. thrown into a kiln,
now discarded, abandoned
hungry maggots taken to flesh,
burrowing in the soft, hidden places
where viscera meets homesickness
where memory becomes gun smoke
and home—the place where
I sweep up the broken pieces
of pottery—becomes a grave.
III. Here lies a familiar body:
bleached bone as kindling,
a house pregnant with smoke,
then fire;
this is where all
witch hunts begin—
woman made child
made martyr
made monster
made firewood,
a temporary shelter,
not a fire to be prayed to.
IV. Burning.
Morning star plummeting,
oxygen-rich, dying poor
on a back porch, basket of
vipers spilling out like kerosene
and into the woods—
a brushfire
voice of God burning
through the screen door saying
“He wept.”
V. I named the fallen star
Lazarus;
dead but not dead,
reborn in the face of my
father
who stares
into the 500-mile long
reflection in the rearview mirror
of his ash-colored Chevy
to a place God-touched
and wild.
VII. He tucks the lion parts
of himself in the furnace,
shedding glory for loss:
to lose the rattle of the caged
animal in his chest,
the fires that hunger for more
than the pines,
to sleep without dreams of
funeral pyres covered in
snakes.
VIII. Today,
I am a ghost caught in daylight
here and not here
mind on fire
facing Lazarus in the hallway
hospital gown as yellow as
sulfur,
charcoal staining his lips
while I burst into flame,
burning screams,
a mirror’s reflection
of the worst
parts of himself.
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
Wake up O’ Soul
Arise from the slumber
Liberate that ******
Let loose the encumber
Re-kindle that fire
So eager and curious
Spread those wings & flutter
And experience the brilliance
Unleash those thoughts
Be wild in wanderlust
Make all the crazy moves
Pursue life’s Trivias & Musts
Dive deep within the heart
Explore that which lies asleep
Unravel the thread layer by layer
Demystify the enigma that lay so deep
There’s none but only You
Who can defy the clouds, dark hued
Hanging motionless on the thoughts
Searching feeble excuses to elude
There’s none but only You
Who can really triumph the world
Burgeoning ahead amidst ravages
And bloom like a Bud
The realm of darkness
Glooming within and outside
Will succumb to the Light
Of the flame that will ignite
So come and Wake up O’ Soul
Let the ashes of the past deride
Surrender to the brushfire ablaze
Annihilate thy identity and die
Resurrect again the phoenix within
Stronger & wiser thou arise
Cease being a derelict soul
Proclaim the world “You are Alive!!!”
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 5:24 AM UTC