Poems of Smoke

Among The Coals

Born in the hazed amber
I was swaddled and charred.
Another faceless giver
In a faceless sea
Waiting to choke

Tarred and Feathered

Inhale, hold, exhale
Self inflicted.
Slowly pluck feathers
spring chickens
Cluck no more
- cough - cough -
Burn one more
Spark up

Smother

Science is unwelcome
It's unholy.
Innovation is unholy
It's unwelcome.
Dunk the witch
She'll float
Burn the witch
She'll choke

Parched

She's gasping again
Under the wildfire.
Mother Earth gasps
Inland on avocado smoke
While you're eating
Avocado on toast

Driving Forwards

There was traffic on the A19
The toll of incorrect change and
Passes in the wrong lane
Past the deadline for paying, again.

If one day the heat of the moment
Rises beyond the honked horn,
The River Tyne will boil with such a rumble
That crayfish will float among the Nissans.

Spirit of the Sprite

The day has too few a sunrise to explore
But the innumerous colours are counted
In ritual along the distant early skyline anyway. 
Beyond the principle of merely being, 
There's the principle of endless sight seeing
Fluttering on the delicate iridescent wingtip. 
Although all sights are born of intrinsic good, 
Reality requires a respite of recuperation
So the sprite may realign it's own energies. 

Wrapped in nature's most pastoral gifts
The sprite feasts on the bounty of true justice:
Nourished by the fundamentals of harmony
So it may be vibrant in passionate expression.
Though delicate to the lowly observing eye, 
The spirit of the sprite is bodaciously hardy,
Fearlessly inspired by the very air it breathes:
Time had tested itself, and failed to win battle
Against the ethereal protector of land and sea.

Buried Under the Rose Bush

We never mastered houseplants.
Above and beyond, but a foot to the left.
A green thumb was never our best asset.
If you didn't shoot, the leaves would be green.

The potted plants thrived on the terrace:
In the house they just repeatedly cried uncle,
Their roots wiggling like an old b-movie.
Do all new killers go blank in the stare?

Gardening was worse than getting an instrument:
Another substandard, low average hobby
Intended to expand the pointless talking points.
Maybe your urge is due to seasonal pollen?

The effort level of the cactus was minimal.
Yet in a humidity it was still kindling to burn.
Should never have made them my central focus.
The hardware store had a shovel clearance.

I have to straighten literally anything out
So I don't pace 'til the hour of judgement!
You think I could pretend I wasn't here and hide?
If you go down, will you bargain for my pardon?

The Man and The Flower

Stumbling footsteps graced the earth,
Contorting the shrubbery under their weight,
Twisting the roots in their shallow graves.
All things ruined and changed,
Bar a single flower.
He plucks it from its sheath,
Revelling in the intricate swirls on its petals.
 
He falls back onto the sodden ground,
Marvelling in the phenomena before him.
The single intricate flower,
That survived his onslaught of steps.
 
‘I ought to place it by my ear’
He giggled to himself.
‘Or perhaps on my lapel’
He retorted to himself.
‘Either would be fashionable’
He replied. To himself.
 
He lay back on the bed of leaves,
Captured in the beauty of the petals.
Knowing full well he ought to stand,
Ought to remove himself from the floor,
But deciding it easier,
Simpler even,
To just lay there.
A single flower in his hand,
His worldly possession,
His only ownership.
The nurse pulls him from the floor,
Removing the toothpick from his fingers,
And leading him to the bed.
He feels the leaves fall from his back,
Leaving the wet outlines on his vest.
 
‘Our final concern for your father’
The doctor said to the woman before him,
‘Is his persistent hallucination…’

The Quiet Night and The Meditator

No words, or phrases,
Just a still night.
A single body sat,
Draped in a coral shirt,
Leaning over the water's edge,
Toes tickling the cool liquid.
 
Nothing too hard to think about,
Nothing too simple to neglect.
A single body sat,
Not a worry in the world,
Next to the picnic basket,
And old wooden banjo.
 
No love, or hate,
Just a quiet night,
A single body sat,
Beneath the willow,
Protected from the world,
The busy streets,
And the noise of the car.
 
No companion, or nuisance,
Just the minds-eye.
A meditator sits,
For another round,
Another attempt at bliss.
A gentle breath,
The only sound.

Lilith

Beneath the moon-drop eve he waits,
Watching time drift past his brow,
Whilst the owl twittered in the ferns,
And the sparrows nestled in the twigs,
And the cold wind wisps wild 'round the willows,
T'wards the twisted taverns of town,
So he waits past the sunset,
Waiting for the angel of his hearts desire.

He waits for the girl of god,
With rich brown locks draped over
Her petite and delicate face,
With silken, glossy skin that's laid
Perfectly over her womanly curves.
Fine satin flows over her form,
Crested gold sits upon her hair,
Crowning her with the first woman's halo.