Friday, March 11, 2011

july seven two thousand seven

a poem:

black white blackwhite
cream brown no cream
brown creambrown
cream cream brown
greengrey charcoal
purplecrimson teallight
frolicking reveals
more colours with each
black and white becomes
more as light to dark
uncovers the truth
and the soul recognises more

why is a flame not life?
why do we then describe passion
and love and hate with it?
are the emotions, the deepest and
longest to linger
/or the shortest, perhaps/
why are they compared to the flame
if it is technically inert?
it dances with shadows and bounces off
corners and frusrates and amuses
she who muses
i warms her hearth
and is a centerpeice in our
oldest sense of home
it destroys like hared
deconstructs what it made possible
in creation.
it is true that a flame canno reproduce
in the animalistic sense,
or in any other organismistic (la)
unless you count a spark catching
or an ember carried on he wind
a field fire blazing
lighting up an entire sky
flames licking more and more until
it consumes all and cleanses
the landscape
a flame is a mirror to a soul