Ignitio

The poet said the world would end again in ice,
But I believe its destiny will be the fire.
When all the stars go singly to their dark defeat,
And nebulae, undone by entropy’s deceit,
No more to light’s creation can aspire,
And last among the heaven’s arched and soaring heights
Fair Sol, that bloodied giant, falls upon our sphere,
We’ll recall among ourselves the wrathful Flood
Ancient counterpart, deep quenching of our sins.
The world once burned with scorching guilt, but now begins
The final forging, metal bought with Lordly blood;
The fire summons all to judgement and to fear.

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Bowl

All I have is this day
And no bowl to put it in.
Not even a camera or
Pencil.
And I am definitely not good enough
At origami. Not even close.
Sculpting is out too.
The earth has just the right amount
Of dirt,
But only because the thing
I want to sculpt is the world
Today,
And I’m fairly certain sculpting everything the way it already is
Is redundant.
Face paint would help,
Though.
No way
You could ever interpret my dance
As I go hopscotching down the sidewalk
Like someone with nothing to lose. But
For now
This tablespoon
Will have to do.

Wet Walk

This is a short free verse poem in which I recycled another poet’s line, as an exercise. See if you can guess which one is the borrowed one!

On one of those rainy days, when the sun seemed so far away
Under the spatter and
drip
of the then,
You told me you did not want my umbrella.
You were perfectly content to let the
sky
Fall on your head,
And somehow the world seemed suddenly
To make sense that way.
So I put away the sound of the gibberish that the rain
Was typewriting on my umbrella,
And talked to you like a normal human being.
We were wet, us two walking in the afternoon grey,
While the umbrella’s steel tip clicked patiently along,
Metronoming with its tick
Our quiet concerto of talk, and laughter,
The grey and agreeable silence.
I still think you’re strange.

Two

The two feet that carry me
Through my Sunday-blessed,
Sun-blessed world,
They carry me past those two squirrels,
Chattering in their tree-war.

Those two dogs, one black,
His brother white,
Chasing eternally cheerful
After the ball, the ball,
The wonderful ball
Look look look there it goes –

And the two lovers talking
Side by side under the sleeping bag
On the stage in the park.
They know they have a good thing,
However their hearts came by it.

And there were two robins,
But now there are three,
Worm-grubbing with sidelong glances,
Maybe to balance me,
Here alone in the afternoon:
But they’re wrong, for I am sitting with the sun,
Chance companions,
Both beaming,
The two of us.

None of which is to say
That I would never seek another
To walk by the side of.
And she and me
Would walk under the sun where
He waits, expectant, now that I have someone else,
Waiting for his own beloved moon.
That’s the way the world works.