Born Fire

I know
Awakening is supposed
To be
A whoosh
Of Silence

I had that yesterday
Nothing here but Being

Yet still I wake up
Figuring things out
Divine jigsaw puzzle
Disassembling

He told me
We are
Born Fire
And we wake up
To the things
That put us to sleep
In the first place

Why is this house
In particular
So potentiating for me
In particular?
Fine poetry, even finer poets
But something more

A real memory from
My childhood keeps bleating
When I am five
A smoky memory
Of our smoky living room
Redecorated for hedonism
Flocked red foil wallpaper
With naked ladies lounging
In black lined drawings
So many drunken men
Partying
Air thick with grass fired
And who knows what else
Music beating
A roomful of drunken energy
My mother must have been at work
I am only five
The only one in that room
Sober enough
To see the garbage can
Is on fire

Luckily,
I was able to tell
My drunken father
And his stoned friends
To put it out!

This poem was originally posted on an online poetry forum at delightedteahouse.com

Fri Jun 17, 2011 12:24 pm