Where the lights that go before us tred,
In darker days their absence led.
A flame out too soon, not quite begun,
When one cannot see their first setting sun,
Where the reaper concedes to angels
To ferry this small soul.
In lifes webs many tangles,
There’s one strand so bitter, and beautiful to behold.
Dedicated to the daughter of my friends Kendra and Jurian. May she rest in peace.
The dances of ashes as the flames fall,
Transforming into coal, so red, so warm,
From the corpse of the wood, no smoke at all.
No grey tail in the sky; none left to warn.
From a cradle of life, now darkness, death.
T’was our own hand, set this forest a flame,
Gave no thought to future, what would be best.
Our own hand set it, none other to blame.
“Is there no hope left for the burning earth?”
We wander wailing. How much do we help?
One finger lifted, to green we’d give birth.
What we do wondering about the self.
God’s green earth; we must care for our mother.
The same way, we must love one another.
Posted in Nature, Sonnets
Tagged ash, brother, burn, earth, fire, flame, green, love, mother, poetry, smoke, sonnet, wail
She was the one who was painted with ash,
Caught in the flames, she knows there’s no escape.
All the walls around her suddenly crash,
There is no worry, that with her she takes.
She doesn’t run. It’s she who set fire.
And now not caring if she lives or dies,
She walks outside as the flames expire.
Knowing he’s in there and dead, she won’t cry,
She’ll search the ashes looking for his ring,
He was the one to leave, now he’s to blame.
She must be certain with the dead he sings,
That he won’t rise and haunt her from the flames.
Sitting down on the curb, waiting for lights
Of red and blue to take and end her life.
Forgotten amidst the clouds of black smoke,
Hidden by the flames of time in that place.
She can’t quite remember the man who spoke.
All she knows, she tries, to remember that face.
She has been told: it is time that heals all.
With all she’s seen, she tends to disagree.
Time doesn’t heal her, it only burns all.
“Worry not,” she says, “we’ll return, we three.”
But who was the second? Who was the third?
How would she know? She’s the last among flames.
Not a reminder, But a prayer unheard,
Now with no one beside her, none to blame.
With no one to remember all she’s done,
She walks on, to tomorrows setting sun.