The Aspiring Bard

My image The embers break Like porcelain And shatter in a Flickering of sparks. I bank the logs, Reflective of Those careless firebrands That further blacked The charred remains Of self, And check to see That all the sparks Are dead, the dampers right, Forgiveness lit and living In my soul.

Source My signage, all the shapely Winter trees  That point me further out With every breeze, To purple heights of boundless Mystery; These mountains make A vagabond of me.

My image I mostly left my deeper thoughts Digressing in the rear, Contented now with smaller things, I build a fire here. I do not search for metaphor Or hidden simile In eager flame or drifting smoke Or ashes in my tea. I simply sit and feed the flame, Take tea and ash together, And notice how the leaden smoke Changes with the weather. I think this piece actually started last Sunday, when I was burning trash and drinking lukewarm coffee, laced with cardboard ash. At that time, I tried to write a poem that presented fire, simplicity and ashy beverages in the light of some cleverly-worded analogy, but that didn't work out very well. At all. Yesterday, sitting by the little fire I'd built in the woods, sipping some mildly over-steeped chai (caffeine and fire seems be a bit of a habit), I scribbled down the first, very rough draft of the poem you've just read. I put pretension aside. I stopped trying to write anything ...

I do not write about marriage and couples and falling in love. It's something I know next-to nothing about, so I steer clear. But this story idea has been wandering about in the back of my mind for several years now and I thought, 'hey, it's Valentine's Day. Why not give it a try?'  So anyway... ______________________________     "W e're through. Done." His shoulders sagged beneath the admission of defeat. "Nothing left to do but sell out and leave.    "Oh." She said. It was a flat, stale word, doing no justice to the feelings that surged inside her. She was torn between joy over her own gratification and a sudden sorrow for his dead dream. Standing before the dishpan, she slowly washed and washed a cracked china plate with her gaze directed straight in front.    "One good thing. I know you'll be happy to get out of this place." He was looking at her, waiting for her response. She turned to face him.    "Yes....

Source Don't listen to the weatherman That much, (We're living in Missouri, what's The use)? But when the juncos all begin to Hustle, You better start preparing... It'll snow.

Source The moon, More gracious than the sun, Retires with a modest air, Drawing up her mantle stars To make a single, Queenly bow Before her light Is faded.

Source The fire glows In ever smaller rings And winter blusters, Hungry, at my door, But thoughts of greater men Lie in my hands And filled with words I am no longer poor. By the way, you should really follow the link at the bottom of the image and check out more of Linda Connor's incredible photography.