In the porch light
ash is illuminated
specks of falling sky
pieces of evergreen needles
drop onto my arm
leave lines of black.
It hurts to breathe this grey air;
forests blazing hurt the heart.
Pray for rain, or better, snow.
(because, you know, snow
doesn’t bring lightning
or more fire).
she left the window open
woke to ash on the couch
mountains are obscured
noon light is yellow
armageddon glow
our expressions of worry
furrowed brows
above our masks
(N95 now)
don’t ask about our stress levels
as we check the lightning tracker,
the live stream wildfire map.
After the pandemic
seems we don’t yet have the knack
of acceptance; get the bag
ready to go,
make sure we know where
to rendez-vous, pretend
all this is normal.
What more can we do?
Bless the fire fighters
as the map clicks to fire number
one thousand one hundred thirty two.
Something is missing from my life:
the crack of the ax
winter’s firewood piled high
wood smoke rising from a chimney
the snapping from the grate
heat sinking into the bones
live fire, primordial comfort,
on a cold night, its golden, spitting light
shadow painting a picture of all we
require.
Your pain bursts out the barrel of a gun
punches holes through community
explodes small town security.
Neutrality’s a liar.
And in world news:
Notre-Dame Cathedral is on fire.
.
My own photo, detail around the main entrance of Notre-Dame. Paris, 2011.
My own photo. Notre-Dame tower details. Paris. 2010
A poem should stand on its own merits, but I feel like a bit of clarification this time. There was a shooting in my small, Canadian town yesterday. Two people were shot in their church; one died. Our community has been reeling from this shock, and now another tragedy. The loss of life. The loss of a building. Can you compare the two?
The city is empty
save for the fire fighters.
Lines of vehicles
………….. ………wind past
………………………. ………wind through
………………………..wind by
devouring walls of flame
fanned by wind;
neighbourhoods empty
except for the crackle
of destruction.
She said, compassion is a light.
It attracts those in darkness who then devour it.
Oh what a sad and bitter theory!
No.
Compassion is a fire that burns freely
and radiates warmth and comfort to those who draw near.
Fuel for compassion is love and contentment, which renews the fire regardless if anyone has gathered to enjoy the heat.
Compassion can not be taken, it can only be given;
it is the essence of its fuel.
No one who is truly compassionate can be bitter,
because bitterness is the antithesis to love and contentment.
The fiery flame of your hair
declares you.
You flash with fury and
unleash lashes of your tongue.
Light catches
in the disapproving flips
of your flickering locks,
We witness your scorching glare.
Viewed from a distance,
a bonfire is a beautiful thing
and I occasionally enjoy ginger snaps
while watching the fire.
.
.
Ah, it’s a stereotype, I know, but sometimes folks walk right into their cliché and live there.
Oh beautious fire
Seeking to break
from the TV screen
and to devour
the drapes forever
out of reach.
I feel your pseudo-warmth
and hear your rich
crackling call.
Festive fire
Turned and fed
by the flannel
garbed arm,
you will not harm,
shoot cinders far,
force risk by axe
splitting logs, or
lugging them inside.
My floors are clean
but lack the lingering
scent of cold pine.
Yet still, you remind me
of fires from Christmases past
and fires yet to be.
You are quite festive enough
for me.
Mist drifts on snowy mountains,
slash piles burning:
molten eyes in a ghostly face
glowing above us
