Words on Fire V2E4.1

Words On Fire
…Imagineers of Pyrotechnic Poetics
Volume 2 Edition 4.1
( for April 26 – May 23, 2015)

We Didn't Start the Fire


  • Christin Brennan
  • Evelyn Elizabeth
  • José Coelho
  • Denise Baxter Yoder
  • Mel-Mel
  • Michael French
  • Loretta Leslie
  • Weak Perfection
  • Mickey Draca
  • K. Leigh Thoma
  • Mark Read
  • Amit Herlekar
  • Michael Veloff
  • Vicki Bashor
  • Fergus Martin
  • Priya Patel
  • Robert Horton
  • Allene Angelica


“Embodiment” by Christin Brennan

She is a panhandler and responds as hobo in the same call.
She is a junkie that will come
out and consume if the temptress is too close:
as a man falling into a woman.

She is a bolder mother than bitch
and looks more covetously free
alone than flying half mast
by the side of a man.

She is everything worth telling about the 60’s-
the shame in the late 70’s-
and a pitied thing by the 90’s.
She is dreamy

when she remembers
four weeks living in a tree house with a dog
and a lot of hash above Mt. St Helen’s devastating reverence
disturbed, a few feet above

it’s rolling wrath as if choosing all surrounding to scorch
and leaving her as fragile as a doll.
She is the middle of the woods that aren’t familiar
and easily construed in remnants of shadow.

She is a property owner
that does nothing with her bent terrain,
nothing with her wandering dogs,
does nothing about her anger

except yell, does nothing
with her language but dirty it.
She is a simple mouse,
content on crumbs, never cursing the heavens for more.

She is hard to follow
when she ignites the conversation;
she’s a laughingstock with another
beer in hand and crooked beret she wears in public –

fitting in warmly as a drunk.
She is humility without the hunger of noise,
the jest of approval and crowns and rings
that want the glare of the sun.

She is a secret
with the answers lodged somewhere between
her eyes and mouth’s manifestation.
She is the dream I surely know until I

express it. She is the thing I touch
but cannot press:

She hears these definitions and laughs.


Street Art by Rebetiko in Athens

Linguistics by Evelyn Elizabeth

Quieting the distance,
soft whispers form
in our linguistics.

Sounds and symbols
murmuring through
thoughts as we dwindle

away from the noise.
The truth in our pragmatics
ambiguity all but destroyed.

Consonants and vowels
brought into existence
as hushed voices howl

in our soft translation.
We’ve found a meaning
needing no interpretation

as carefully we profess
tongue-tied fantasies
spoken within a caress.

As if I am confessing a sin
my voice brushes fluently
across your skin.

A language all our own
and spoken only
when we’re alone.


Street Art by Rebetiko in Athens

Cunhal das Bolas by José Coelho

A pair of minted walls
of spheric
licking the air
warm, from the passing mornas
and from the fados
around in corners

Beside the sun, fondles
and uncovers
legs, bare shoulders, breasts
molding themselves
to clothing
short, transparent

from the use, from the city, from the
voices, steps, break
open up and eyes

In the lines, the traces are
washed, they drip
drying in the sun
and at the sidewalks, indelible
to the consciousness of fleeting

at the corner of Rose Street
Cunhal das Bolas
a gloomy


Bed Time Short Stories by José Coelho

So often the light
the last big crevice
still visible
on the ceiling

Aloft, the mind
into the tiniest fraction
of mapped
thick globs of blood

The air
to soil & water
thin layers of dust
as walls

The outside glues
to the window –
its vertical volume
filling the inside

The room is
a structure inviting
thoughts on the
landscape –
a condensed object we’re able to
touch & imagine

The eyes lurk
hiding behind color &

The mouth tastes
until flavor becomes formless

The skin breathes

it will be dawn


Turtle~ing by Denise Baxter Yoder

Only 4 inches long from his tail to his beak
He was smack in the middle of our silent street
Turtle Crossing….No sign did I see
But this little guy could soon be history
When I asked him why he was crossing this way
He pulled in his head and refused to say
Scooped him up and ran down to our muddy creek
Where he is looking right now for something to eat


Athens Street Art Humor

untitled by Mel-Mel

I have no knowledge of
I only know today.
I am but a reflection
Seen as I am seen.
Each second a different
Scene played out in a
Unique and different way.
I am but a reflection shining
Light and the actions I display.
A prism of choices colored
In a unique and different way.
For I have no knowledge of
I merely make what is beautiful
Of today.
What It Means by Michael French

I was walking toward the flowering tree
when a brilliant cardinal lifted
from the ground and on to one of the lower branches
It felt like my heart lifted at the same time

It was a moment alone
Separated from all the other things
I deal with on a daily basis
I treasure that

However, being who I am
I have to ask questions
So I thought about that moment
and how I just described it to you

When I use the word “heart”
You know what that actually is
Not the thing of flesh
But a feeling of rising, like the bird

And we all refer to this emotion
in a similar way
We go places and intentionally
see things to feel this

The lifting of “Spirit”
is another way of putting it
Again, while you cannot put your hand upon it
you know what that phrase feels like

The logical part of me asks
do we even have such a thing to be raised?
We can at least share the thought,
the appreciation of beauty

Which of course, asks more questions
What is beauty? How do we know?
You and I have seen things
other people see very differently

So, for me a Cardinal is the Soul of Spring
Don’t ask me to define that too closely
I am not sure I can
And I don’t believe it is necessary

Of course I am also aware that for his part
The Cardinal perceived me as well
Probably as something to be avoided, then ignored
And he went off about his business.

“What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms.”
― Kobayashi Issa


Welcome Home by Loretta Leslie

Moistened lips caress her brow
In repose eyes closed tranquilly
Silky skin translucent
Hand resting delicately on his knee
Sun sparkled diamonds on damp tendrils
Mingling with tears
He welcomes her home
A drowning can be beautiful


Habitual (Part II) by Weak Perfection

As the night endured,
So did the monotony.
A footstep. Echo.
Can’t hear much past the wind’s blow
A footstep. Echo.
Another, followed by the same.
Step, echo. Step, echo.
Redundant, this habit
Formed a path,
But not elaborate.
It was flat, it
Kept me.
In fact, as I kept walking
Kept watching,
Kept hoping,
The path was hard
It turned uphill
I was moving, but I felt still
Kept pushing,
Winds brought change, winds brought chill
I was moving
Out of comfort,
But into assurance.
Out of the known
But I found concurrence
And concurrence means balance.
I found balance
As I walked and watched and hoped.
It’s hard to stay balanced,
And hard to see when we’re not.

untitled by Mickey Draca
Mummify my pupils
Bird of dark matter
You be the pain
I am your anther

Death and rebirth
Followed me to pit
Of fruitful lonesome
Savage dreadful fit

I smelt the dandelions
In springs of summer
Late truthful opiates
Of locomotion armour

Now I am standing
With my feet on water
Show me the fleet
Oh iridescent rover

Mummify my pupils
Bird of dark matter
You be the pain
I am your anther

Unwelcome Notes from a Queen to a King by K. Leigh Thoma

There is ice in my veins
When I think of you
No warmth remains
When your name is uttered

You’ve slaughtered the hand
That once fed you
You have desecrated the land
That we both were built on

What a gift it would be
To have never met you
What a tranquil sea
I would set sail on

You committed the sin
When lies took you over
You did anything to win
But you’ve lost in the long run

Be off with you
With your arrogance and presumption
Join the fray
Full of righteousness and dysfunction

Hold your head high
Among the weary drones of consumption
Elect yourself Monarch
Full of pretentiousness and corruption

Unblue by Mark Read

Sitting in a townhouse
Silent as a church mouse

To two tune-some bluesmen
Swapping riffs
And raffin’ the night away

Mustang Sally
Slowing our mustangs down
Lost in streets of London
Ralph McTellin’ me “you’re lonely”

Not me
Not tonight

BELOW THE NIGHT SKY by Amit Herlekar

Studded with myriad of stars
Up in the dark sky
Alone was the night
Waiting for me
And my thoughts
To wander with noise
For memories of pleasure
Causes soothing tides
Within my heart
Against the loud sea
In this silent wilderness

untitled by Michael Veloff
these words
i type across this scream
these words
were here before this dream
my fingers find these keys as if by chance
fortune finds its way
into typographic revelation
they also serve who only stand and wait
they also serve
who let their fingers stream
that which came
before them and will remain
14 - 1
Wings by Denise Baxter Yoder

Low flying
Is allowed
For those whose
Wings wear the wind
Brushing sand
Sugared with salt and promise

15 - 6
Rain by Vicki Bashor

You talk of the rain
as if she is your mistress.
Stiletto spikes in droves
and bits of love
carried with clear,
clean wind kisses,
downpours of sweet
liquid and missed
calls, texts and emails
while you watch her
undress her silky
moist shower of loneliness
onto your level
best shelf of wantonness.
Rain the female,
torn from cumuli scorned
of her, doing away with her,
tossing her ashore with
the ocean riptides or onto blue
porches and ladder rungs
dripping, she waves at the
stars on her way down
to you, and you’re
there to catch her
on your tongue.

15 - 111
Tsunami – Riding The Wave by Fergus Martin

Just a whisper,
an imperceptible breath.

A whisper,
a minor vibration,
creating a ripple of movement.


gathering force,
the wave surges.

Gaining momentum,
collecting flotsam and jetsam,
on its journey.

Becomes an irresistible force,
stirring up shallows,
muddying waters,
disturbing bedrock.

Strong and powerful,
it arrives,
obliterating the past,
changing the present.

all that remains of history,
are fragments of  truth.

Whispers lost in the storm.

Drowned by the tsunami.

15 - 13
Dreams by Priya Patel

You threw me thread
and I transformed it into a rope,
eagerly climbing it
in my efforts to reach you
I am still climbing
Perhaps that is why we call them dreams

M’Lady by Robert Horton

A spoon m’lady
To stir your tea?
Buttered scones
For the infantry?
No, indeed,
You must pass a law
Against such things
As they fight the war.

A silver knife
To cut your pie?
A little indulgence
As young men die?
No, m’lady,
I can’t condone
Letting them think
They might come home.

Supper m’lady,
A piece of toast?
Perhaps some music,
The last post?
Yes, though pensive,
Stirs the emotions,
Drowns out the noise
Of screams and explosions.

A small sherry
To take to bed?
Something stronger
To dull your head?
Yes m’lady,
Fed and supped,
We don’t want war
To interrupt.

Alice by Michael French

The Mad Hatter wasn’t Mad
You don’t know him
I mean, if you saw him
you could be forgiven for thinking that
But your impression would be a mistake
The list of things that are like that
probably picks up where it leaves off here
….on other worlds
Looking up at the stars,
and thinking of Home)

the Raven sat down to write…
The war on reality is going very badly
except in the places it is going very well
and from time to time
the extraordinary thing is that it can do that
in the very same place at the same time
The nature of these things is that they do
exactly as they please
The rules are not subject to any limitation at all

Yet bruised soul and all
we carry on
even though we haven’t yet decided
where we would like to end up

“at any rate, there’s no harm in trying.” 
― Lewis Carroll

I Crave Solitude by Allene Angelica

My idiosyncrasy

I withdraw
For days
Never meeting
A soul
In my hermetic

I stitch together
The minim fractures
Created by
Life’s heavy hand

Slowly refurbishing
In sweet oils
And soothing tunes

To rise once again
Revitalized but

Slightly fragmented

Almost new

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/;-)
©2015 Words on Fire.

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