Words on Fire V2E2

Words On Fire
Imagineers of Pyrotechnic Poetics
Volume 2 Edition 2
( for February 15 – March 14, 2015)

We Didn't Start the Fire


  • Rosa Bizzintino
  • Mickey Draca
  • Mel-Mel
  • Kay Leez
  • Portia Burton
  • José Coelho
  • Fergus Martin
  • Seraphime Angelis
  • David Kernohan
  • Vicki Bashor
  • Robert Horton
  • Frank Ramon
  • Allene Angelica
  • & featured moderator, Arthur Turfa


Poesia.L’Attore. by Rosa Bizzintino
Scordo di
essere me stesso,
recito di tutto,
dal malinconico
al comico,
mi trucco e
mi specchio; no!
quasi non
mi riconosco;
ma quando salgo
sul palcoscenico
le mie mille virtù e
mi riscalda il cuore
la platea,
che mi applaude
entusiasta e
calorosa e
mi lancia
boccioli di rosa.
Ma io triste torno
al mio camerino e
mi preparo
a recitar
un’altra parte
per il Divino


To forget
be myself,
I play everything,
the melancholic
the comedian,
I makeup and
I mirror; no!
almost no
I recognize myself;
but when I get
on the stage
I offer
my thousand virtues and
I heart-warming
the audience,
I applaud
enthusiastic and
warm and
throws me
But I’m sad I come back
to my dressing room and
I prepare
to recite
another part
for the Divine
Double Dutch by Sol Robbins

Double Dutch by Sol Robbins

2 untitled pieces by Mickey Draca

I’ll sleep where thorns are weapons
Against poisoned souls of spatial misuse

I’ll bleed where fire is all we know of love

I’ll rest my mind where entity of you turned into thorns

I’ll use you
I’ll weep
I’ll die a little

I’ll sleep where thorns give birth to roses


Snowdrop petals
Are the most delicate tears
Of balanced nature
In gardens of synthetic love

Blooming in winter
Only few
They bring foils
That cut poems

Of instincts and veil
Mashed into sound of tears
Falling down the virtual face

Of private wells
In the abyss of self

15 - 11

(spoken word) by Mel-Mel
Hard and unyielding
Frozen with ice
Embraced by darkness
No color or spiceThe fire in the distance
Vivid and bright
Blazing the shadows
Brandishing its mightThe lone abandoned dove
Who silently sings
Is caught in a quandary
Between restraint and wings
If Poetry Hadn’t Come To me… by Portia Burton
If poetry hadn’t come to me,
things would have been much simpler,
more clear, less transparent.
Nights would have been peaceful,
sans dreams, sans senseless squirming.
Days would have been pleasant,
filled with girly gossip about films and fashion,
Miley’s antics, Taylor’s tresses,
and I’d have dumbly asked,’Wordsworth,who?’
My fingers would have been enjoying
showing off their new ‘nail-art’
instead of leafing through the poetry-books
with the gluttony of a caterpillar…
What can I say about that girl in me,
who breathes and writes poetry?
Would have she been there? I don’t know,
yet, one thing is clear,
I would not be ‘alive’ without her.
Humanities #4 by José Coelho

under water
everything would be easier

less oxygen, less energy
less destruction

love would flow
warm and cold streams
reaching souls

without prejudice
to mankind evolution
only problem –


Blinkered by Fergus Martin
The papers were late, breakfast was burnt,
and now you’re behind, you’ll miss the bus,
be late for your coffee appointment.

Coffee wasn’t served in 30 seconds,
the waiter hates you, this place is awful,
and you rant at the world in comfort.

The t-shirt don’t fit, your hair is a mess.
What do they think as you sip on your latte?
The shit on their shoes is what you surmise!

Got soaked whilst walking outside.
Now you’ve a cold, you’re dying a death!
Whilst you hang on to life in suburbia.

You’ve really got it tough, haven’t you?
Plumber can’t come till tomorrow,
unlimited dripping for another day.

Second car fund is building so slowly,
boss is a swine, won’t give you more hours.
How can you survive with just four wheels?

On your PC, tablet and smartphone,
the world is awash with pictures of cats.
Connected world disconnected from life.

Need a larger TV for your shrinking world,
60 inch screen can’t do it justice.
That endless fixation with false realities.

Can’t find the polish that matches your eyes,
nor a dress for your night out with friends.
Another day wasted in this life that is hell.

In the warmth of your carpeted corridors,
in your self-centred mind, life is so harsh.
So you scream at the world, as it treats you unfairly,
at its cruel imperfections, life is so hard.

As another head rolls,
from another limp body;
in another world,
your disastrous existence:
Is Peace.


Nonnas by David Kernohan

They sit in silence
Beauty once succulent
In its fullness, now
Folded into story lines

Black dresses
Mementos to men
Who were never there
Now long gone

Fingers, unadorned
By love’s symbol,
Made inconsequential
By arthritic knuckles

They sit in silence
Love’s sacrament
Sipped in the cup
Of memories

The scent of his
Shaving soap
His sound, when
He spilled his passion

Their aching body
Reminisces on
The pain of birthing
Passion’s creation

They sit, knowing
It takes time, and
Silence to age
The lees of love

swamp water by Vicki Bashor
white cedar trees
with their wet cinnamon
scent can be found in swamps
with cypresses and roses,
the latter more subtle
than your grandmother’s
and the former can reach 8 feet.
the swamp water bears
my dreams and dark desires,
moist fragrant fragments
inconspicuous in the mire,
pink cinquefoils and
blue hyacinths floating
among the frogbits unhurried,
light descending worried
through the willows and the oaks
to a blue-green surface
that is deeper than it looks.
15 - 11

The Joker, a poetic excerpt of Sometimes Brand of Variegated Larynx: Impressionist Poetry by Seraphime Angelis

~~~The Joker~~~


whack-job gunner BAMM!!
rocket launcher SLAMM!!
RIP! SOCK! ’em norm to the ground
just a cutup goin’ round
supervillian size
ZONK! POW! in the eyes
gonna prank gotham strange
WHIP!! WHAMM!! of a crazed
wicked glasgow smile
toppa straight-jack’d style
or a hooligan warp
BANG! BANG! in the dark

sucha card
sucha clown
so much mayhem goin’ down
first a bank
then the mob
now all Gotham city robbed
of their safe
of their sane
nothin’ left to do for Bane
gotcha Judge!
gotcha Dent!
Batman’s grind is now hell-bent

KAAA-BOOM! chaos thrives
still at stake, more lives
Bruce Wayne, whatcha gonna do?
funster gag: a switch-a-roo
Two-Face saved, but Rachel’s through


Holy Bat!
the joke’s on you.


Therapy by Robert Horton


An eye, watching,
Scrutinising every move.
Nothing to see here!
There’s nothing to prove.
You can keep your observations
And analytical reports,
I am no worse than you,
You, and your warts.
Judge me, I dare you,
I’m itching for a fight,
I’ll punch you out of malice,
Not out of spite.

An ear, listening,
Hearing every word
Nothing I’ve said has been a lie,
You are just being absurd.
You can keep your silly couch
And your patronising smiles,
You already know me,
I’m written in your files.
Condemn me, I trust you,
I don’t want to be here anymore,
I’ll be leaving by the window,
Not by the door.

A mouth, talking,
Saying everything I know,
My mind is outrageous,
My reactions are slow.
You can keep your clever speeches
And oratory skills,
Just give me electric shocks
And some psychiatric pills.
Fix me, I beg you
The voices cause me pain,
I want to live a normal life,
Not to be insane.

A hand, reaching,
Touching every thought,
I think I am a number,
Between nothing and nought.
You can keep your hand in mine,
Somehow I exist,
Not just another zero
On your patient list.
Tell me, hear me, see me,
I want some empathy,
Let me think that this is love
And not just therapy.

Ernest Holmes

They Don’t Care by Frank Ramon

they don’t care
about the destination
if the ride is crazy
or the road conditions
they don’t care whats in
the rear view mirror
or the windshield
washer cleaner
they don’t care
about the road ahead
or how to lean
when the bull sees red
they don’t care
how much it costs
they don’t care
as long they get off

they don’t care
about the big election
or a twenty hour steel erection
they don’t care
about a road to hope
or if the big boat
sinks or floats
they don’t care
if they are lost
or how the painter
hides the rot
they don’t care
how much it costs
they don’t care
as long they get off

pushers and users
all self abusers
one makes money
both make losers
once involved in
the chicken dance
cant find your wallet
and you lose your pants

they don’t care
about the killer cough
they don’t care
as long as they get off

How You Gonna by Mel-Mel
How you gonna,
change the world,
On me.
How you gonna,
Make it hard,
To see.
How you gonna,
Make it hard
To breathe.
When I woke up,
Things seemed
So strange,
To me.
When I woke up,
Someone changed
The world on me.
How you gonna,
Change the world
On me.

Breaking Good by Frank Ramon

you can take a break from the highway
you can change the channel
on your local news
you could have a healthy drink
smoke a spliff and clean the sink
and then you take a break from the blues

you can take a break from suggestion
turn the advertising off and let the real world thru
you could do good work
on anger and on hurt
and then you take a break from the blues

now were a multi cultured
and multi language people
passing over border lines
and we need harmony
and symphony and
a little bit of
rhythm and rhyme
Noah built him a boat
and the flood made it float
but who will make an ark in this time
i can pick and i can chose
and i can fracture hate with tools
and then I get a break from the blues

Don’t you see the homeless on the roadside
just a little misfortune and we could be there too
Sometimes I give them fruit and a sandwich
nothing that’s destructive, its the best that I can do
and then I get a break from the blues


In Our Madness by Allene Angelica

In your madness
What were you thinking
As we idled above the cliff
While you blistered your skin
With your cigarette
Threatening to take us
To heaven?

It must be love

In my madness
Blinded by what
I thought was real
Love shuttered me
In a false sense
Of security

In our madness
I stayed too long

You had me for
Another three years
Before I ran
Ran as fast
As my legs
Could take me
When I knew
It was safe

Did you think
I would stay forever?


3 poems by featured moderator, Arthur Turfa

In The Best of All Possible Worlds

In a backwater town
Far from the Interstate
But close to the siren call
Of rumbling freight trains,
I sit with Waylon Jennings,
Bottle and two glasses between us
In the glow of neon beer signs
Behind an empty bar.

Long-haired and bearded,
Freak and Outlaw we find
Common ground as we express
Who we are, as we chase
Our Holy Grails
Unconcerned with people telling us
We are wrong and foolish.

Each drink, each story, each joke
Fuses our spirits together.
We say the same thing
In different dialects.
Consensus does not imply
Betrayal of one’s roots
But the appreciation of another’s.

As rosy-fingered dawn spreads
From the east over the fields
Waylon and I revel in the
Best of all possible worlds
My lyrics melting into
His flawless music and
His gritty baritone voice.


Revolution Shmevolution
(inspired by S.L. Weisend)

The revolution will not be televised at all,
(nor will it even\r taken place)
not even on PBS, where Boomers relive
the pasts they wished they had experienced/

The revolution almost happened
but it cut too deeply into party time
and Disco was more fun than protest songs
and the Beatles broke up anyway.
(Who could dance to Sgt. Pepper?)
Most people graduated and looked for work
even without mountains of crushing debt
like their children and children’s children have.

No one misses the revolution
Dennis Hopper went on to vote for W.
Everyone watches reality television,
voyeurism of celebrities and pseudo singer/dancers.
In Andy Warhol’s American
everyone had 15 minutes of fame.
In today’s America
Everyone has a diagnosis.

Revolution sounds communist anyhow,
or at least like Democrats and pinkos,
and everyone wants their slice
of the American Pie before illegals
or the Federal government takes it.
Entitlements are no good, but
some people want theirs all the same.

There won’t be a revolutions
but plenty of time for high desert standoffs
with flags waving and microphones
flanking the AK-47s
which are essential to freedom
so long as the right people have them
and those who want social justice
better duck before it hits the fan.

The world does not end with a bang
But with whimpering phone calls
To talk show radio hosts before
They cut to commercials
For ginseng, gold coins, and
Rabid political attack ads
Droned into ears in
crescendos of cacophony
until it seems true enough
Mistah Kurtz- he still dead!


In the Crucible


If you are invited to a party
Only to be given the third degree,
That certainly is not the place for you.
There are better places for you to be.

Autumn leaves strewn on the sidewalks,
Flowerbeds in springtime bloom
Cannot conceal winter of the soul
Or unending harshness of heart.

Clearly marked are the streets of the town,
But its relationships resemble a labyrinth
Impenetrable to the uninitiated
Slowly and incompletely making their way.

As you wander through organized chaos,
Regretting deeply that you ever came,
Now beginning to act defensively,
Steeling yourself against forthcoming blame.

This is not the enchanting land:
a provisional habitation at best.
Departure does not require permission,
it only requires resolution.

The time of annealing is almost done.
You have resisted fire and icy glare.
From afar steals on your ear a new song,
Listen, rejoice, and hasten to the sound!

Refuse the tawdry frocks they offer you.
You deserve a soft, brightly-colored gown.
Accept a necklace of finest white-gold,
Upon your head I place a slender crown.

Peace will find you unexpectedly,
Perhaps blowing across the prairie,
or surrounding you on a commuter train,
solitude comforting you in a crowd.

What went on before merely was
A discordant prelude to more soothing tones.
Temporary rancor recedes to memory
And you experience enduring calm.

The Magnificent Seven [Moderators/Co-Owners/Co-Editors]:
RC deWinter
Chris Flegel
Uma Venkatraman
Mary Macharia
Arthur Turfa
Frederick Andrew
Michael David Saunders Hall (aka the 21st Century Griot)
BigUps & Much To All Contributors. Remember: the poet tree will be streamed…so, let’s forever indulge in the balance of delicious agony and suite ecstasy of our everlasting leaves, always writing what the moment recommends to infinity and beyond. Till next time, Write On/;-)
will smith
©2015 Words on Fire (in association with AfroDamus & the Conscious Matter Collective).

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