Golden Ember

A little spark in time caught my eye, burning the words into my memory and scarring the page.

Hidden in the dark, she flies,

Drifting towards that of cold and empty,

Breathing in the last of the molecules,

Sinking into what wont last,

 

The door opens within the moment,

Curious eyes watching the magic,

Golden ember floating within the air,

Settling against the dying of wood,

 

Singing in tune with death alike,

They burn together in harmony,

Keeping the cold from seeping into bones,

One must die so the other can live,

 

We watch in admiration as they scream,

Tempting the icy dredges to dare,

Oranges and reds alike, maybe even blue,

Winning all battles beyond compare,

 

Once bright and alive, fighting strong,

Now simmering just beneath the surface,

Hidden in the dark they lie,

Waiting for the appropriate moment,

 

Waiting, watching, for that time to come,

Breathing in the last of the molecules,

Until nothing but darkness doth exist,

The fire burns colds, leaving us to mourn.

Author's Note

It's winter here, and it can get cold. I suck at lighting fires, so instead of trying, I thought I would write about my failure.

Reviews

[drew garner]

“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic.” - Oscar Wild.

But you do something different you retain the sanity that most interesting poets lack all the while through the subtlety of emotion through language. Create an atmosphere of some kind of expressionism that works like a funhouse mirror of sorts to the literary cliche of banality as seen as the average and remind the reader how beautiful and important everyday life is. I wish I could do your writing justice, it is a constant pleasure to read. And no matter how hard I try I still can't figure out how you consistently can pull the rabbit out of the hat. as always Jim Dodge says it better so I will end this review with one of his poems waiting for Whodini to come up.

"magic is not the manipulation of appearance
it is the expropriation of the real.
not mastered sleights blurred with patter
but the actual rabbit in every hat.
no tricks. not the key to the shackles
from her mouth to his
passed in a good luck kiss
just before they chain him in the trunk
and drop it in the cold, real river.
not the key, but the kiss itself,
tender, fearful,
as wild as the release within us
when he floats out of the weighted trunk
and from the river bottom begins to rise,
escaping the skilled deceit,
freed from the illusion of escape."

[Coyote Poetry]

I loved how you used the language.
"We watch in admiration as they scream,
Tempting the icy dredges to dare,
Oranges and reds alike, maybe even blue,
Winning all battles beyond compare,"
The above lines were my favorite. You made the reader believe and understand the words. Thank you dear Poet for sharing the excellent poetry.
Coyote