The world is on fire.

I look outward from my couch.

The world has been watching me burn too.

Overworked, under-appreciated.

Diagnosed with the same issue.

How do we solve it?

No idea.

First,

I'll sit here, and write this poem.

"The world is ending"

They said

I didn't believe them

A moment later

You called me on the telephone

"Stay where you are"

You said

"I'm coming to get you"

The tremble in your voice

Told me it was

True

You had no car

Neither did I

So we tried to run

It was no use

Everything was on fire

From Manhattan

To Jersey

From New York

To Japan

We couldn't get out

Only one of us could make it

If we tried

You couldn't leave me

I wouldn't leave you

So you took my hand

Together

We ran through the streets

Broke into that old club

In the Bowery

You held me in your arms

And we slow-danced

On that old sticky floor

To the sirens

And screams

While the world burned down

Around us

I didn't cry

I wasn't even scared

Because

I was going to spend the rest of my life

Looking into your eyes

Everything would be

Okay

"The world around's on fire and here am I

...writing this poem,"

Said, who?

From where?

----a sound all in my head,

and now charring the paper---

maybe it is the I who is on fire...

the World, in no apparent hurry,

its grief played out as reruns on repeat,

over and over, over decades, and centuries

the soap opera saga oozes, and no account

of tears washes it clear, nor quenches

flame and heat---

---the head spins

---the heart bleeds

---hands hold out helplessly

in rotational feats---

effete

couched aside churlish hi resolution screens

of channels that do not change on pressing

and stations that depart, Cerberus

without you, without me,

hellish Greyhounds,

of reality

I fought to follow my desire,

and in the end, I got burned.

Now standing on this pyre,

I realize it wasn't for you I yearned.

Pushing my ideals and aims on you mistakenly,

my love for you was a love of complacency.

I am sick and there is no life in me,

renew me please and set me free.

I pled ignorance as my case,

but I saw the truth in your eyes, your face.

I hurt you, and it is my everlasting disgrace.

poets do not write

poems downwind,

they draft words

into the cause...

cultured lynchpins

strike Hope at the feet

and writers refuse

to let It burn

alone...

newsprint

crumpled

makes quick

kindling

unlike books

we know

but...

poets do not

write poetry

isolated

in tomes...

they transcribe

longhand...

between the lines

the euphemisms

and dysphemisms

of society's Immolation

within our Universe

the smoldering

suicide

of life

and art

of conscious

and conscience

of mind

and thought

of fossil fuel

and light

of cause

and purpose

of death...

and that which never dies.

08.06.2024

The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem.

Challenge @treasuredjules

Fire is supposed to bring fear but I have never felt more at peace.

Being surrounded by it, it feels like a dream come true.

For so long, I have sought it out; I have craved it, yearned for it.

Remember when you were told not to play with matches?

It was the best day of my life, to learn that I could control the fire.

I dug through the junk drawer at home in search for the magical sticks.

The power that one little match has; it's almost unfathomable.

A backyard fence burnt to ashes, the ground on either side slightly charred.

There is a beautiful irony to it all.

I remember being called crazy by my parents, the fear in their eyes.

I remember being called crazy by my friends, the laughter in their voice.

I remember being called crazy by my boyfriend, licking his lips.

Families always want to meet their child's partner, like it's a final exam.

"He may not be good for you, so we need to pass our own judgement."

Some people worry about first impressions, I worry about a plan failing.

Let's take some time to set the scene.

A family dinner; gloriously braised pork with carrots and potatoes.

A meeting between damned souls as they smile and shake hands.

My boyfriend sits down right next to me, making sure to squeeze my leg.

He always does that when he's nervous that I'll talk.

My parents wishing that they could be anywhere else than sitting across the way.

Dinner conversation is forced, laughter is calculated, comments are targeted.

I rise from the table, my emotions as unreadable as always.

My little secret is waiting to be shared from just up the stairway.

I look left, right, down the halls, from the foyer to the back door.

Out of sight, out of sound.

A bathroom excuse covers for me as I sneak to the top of my new viewing deck.

Creak...

Chit!

Whoosh!

---

Here I sit at an old wooden desk, it won't be long now.

Neighbors have seen the smoke, running out to the street, calling for help.

I look down at them from my bedroom window.

I am writing a final goodbye, to my parents, boyfriend, and police.

Their screams echo in the walls, the sound of their nails scratching for a way out.

The fire crackling, roaring, unrelenting from just under my feet.

I let out a sigh of relief as I write my final words, smiling.

News anchors will read the story of my "sickening crime" in their broadcasts.

I will already be far away from this realm, taking abuse and feeling pain no more.

Not even a poem

in this round

left, right

numbers

fired

for the count

I am down

on the floor

as

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

The world is in flames

& I have lost

all senses

to a Fox Trot

in Embassy

trenches

it's o' Danny Boy and

the Blue Danube waltz

Penguin after penguin

in Tux

Oyster shuck

hors d'oeuvres

glassy eyes

lip gloss

& filtered Lights

while we take

another turn

for the worse

as

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

fingers on pearls

important matters are set

in this sort of paltry decor

British rain is Classical

on the frame

it's time

for the sucreries

meaning en Français

our ample desserts

I see hotly

the head server

has lit the flambé

and now we Tango

to height of

ballroom

passion

with our best

Flamenco dancing

fellow comrades

brulé 'd

in secours

as

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

We have ice

out that sparkles

& catches bright

passing glances

of interest or approval

note, note, note, rest

in the side alleys

& we pause

with lips pursed

Champagne?

well, why not

the world is raging

& a toast is

small cold insult

to the ancient Fire

our steadfast march

towards certain

death

makes no toll

in aftermath

for these decisions

made in our wake

we turn again

simply

ol' traditional

family men,

ladies & gents

in account tallying

our own

as

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

one, two, three, four

2024 JUL 28

The world around us is on fire and here I am just writing this poem feeling numb

To the left, to the right, doesn't matter which way I look

I got to be honest I am seeing people acting dumb

The things they say and do has got me all shook.

I am so tired of bad behavior and bad news stories

I feel as though I cannot breathe

Weather, groceries, utilities, gasoline and bills - yeah we got plenty of worries

Overwhelmed, yep, but we just can't give up and put on a mourning wreath

We have to be like Taylor and shake it off

There is certainly work to be done

Needs to be plenty of room for all at the trough

A mind in search of peace is a battle that must be won.

Purification and renewal are symbolized by fire, along with creativity, passion and desire.

Protection and safety, fanned from a spark, encircling the fire, the light in the dark.

Vitality, energy, intuition, the divine, fire oh fire a positive sign.

Yet fire can burn and rage untamed. Not freedom, but anger and war and pain.

Not warmth, but acres of forest aflame. Not comfort but temperatures gone insane.

Will we rise like the phoenix, renewed and evolved?

The flame of compassion, our problems solved?

An alchemical transformation, our hearts of gold?

All the burning greed and hate gone cold?

(I'm NO poet, but enjoyed the challenge.)

Here I am

Watching the world burn

Wishing you were here

Holding me hand

Wistfulness