Twilight Fire 

Tonka bean ghosting your nose provokes interest
Sparking flames of desire to escape the gloom 
Between my cold lips, secrets go to have a rest,
Midnight is between my desires as I show interest.
My visage is a puzzle, can you pass my test? 
As you try to touch the flame, your smile does bloom,
Under the red moon, you catch me and can attest 
To the fact that I am worth the risk and your interest
As we make our great escape away from the gloom. 




Vaping Away A Lifetime

The youth of today 
Smoking their lungs into charcoal 
The dangers that lurk behind 
Brightly colored pens 
Pretending to be harmless, 
When they are filled with heavy 
Metals and other toxic substances
Behind the apple scent 
There is cancer, organ damage, 
And medical debt 
Each puff is another day that you will
never get back 
Each cough is another scar in your lungs 
Suffocating you with every inhale
Vaping steals your future 
Because it destroys your health
And without that 
You have no lifetime to live.

The Death of Dream

#####

-Come and take as much dollar as you need but stop crying. I hate crying. I hate tears. I don’t want to see anymore tear in your beautiful eyes.

– Why do I take dollar from you. What do you think about me? Am I a beggar? I don’t want to take any dollar from you. 

– You tiny girl! But your sound is like the Himalayas. It seems to me that you are a little bit brave. But why are you crying? 

-I am not bound to tell you. You are not able to help me. You rich people think only dollar can solve every problem. Dollar is not the solution of every problem. Go to your road and please let me cry. I want to cry and cry. My forehead is burnt. I burned my forehead.

Mr. Patrick is astonished to hear the tiny girl. She seems to under ten. She may be more than ten because none can guess her age accurately to see her structure. She is a stolen girl.

Mr. Patrick comes out from his luxurious car. He is now very close to the girl. He gently asks the girl, What is your name?

The girl is now crying with low sound but she does not answer. She is crying like herself.

Finding no other way Mr. Patrick starts to cry.

The girl stops her crying for the time being.  She is surprised and asks Mr. Patrick, Why are you crying? Are you making fun with me. I am not a funny girl.

-I am crying a little bit for you.

-I have no need you to do that.

-At least tell me your name.

-My name is Dream.

-Dream! That is interesting. What is your father’s name?

– It is unknown.  I don’t know anything about him. My mother has never shared anything about him. Even she has not informed me Who  my father is and what his name is. So, how can I tell you my father’s name?

Dream starts crying again. Mr. Patrick is a little bit  nervous but he does not express himself. He asks Dream,

-What is your mother’s name?

Without giving answer Dream angrily asks,

– Are you a question man? Why are you asking me question one after another? I have forgotten everything.  Everything.

– Tell me your mother’s name.

– Death.

-Death! How is it possible? I have never heard this name. 

– Rich people like you are afraid of this word.You want to forget this word by spending dollars. But you won’t, will you?

Your dollar is not as true as death. Death is dead. My mother is dead. She is dead and a dead woman has no name.

– Your mother is dead and this is why you are crying. Now you need dollars. I want to help you.I want to give you dollars. 

-Oh! No, I do not need dollars . If l need l will not take dollars from you.

-But why?

-Simple. Very simple. You are arrogant. I hate arrogant people.

– Take dollar from me. I have enough dollars. l want to stop your crying.

-I need my father’ identity and my mother’s name. My mother’s life. Can you give me any of the two?

– No, no, no. I can’t. I can’t.

-Let me cry.

– Stop crying.

Mr. Patrlck threw dollars into the air.The dollars were flying but could not touch neither the sky nor the tears of Dream.

Mr. Patrick is walking as if he were  mad. He utters some words but these are not clear.

Strange Man

After Jorge Eduardo Eielson 

How far can that strange man go
with bird feet, failing eyesight,
and a cane that is liable to break
in half at any time? He is turning
the corner at a leisurely pace.
Snails leave him in the dust. He
is twice, thrice times slower than
slow motion. Day turns to night
and the strange man lumbers on.
His cane miraculously bends but
does not break. Thin and fragile,
the strange man and his cane
has turned the corner.

*

Eventually 

Eventually, you will get 
to the bottom of me.
My shrunken heart, hidden 
under a grain of rice.
You will find me with the moth,
a family of them, drawn
to the light. I will be found
somewhere in Asia.
If you want to know, I will
be there in search of
the footsteps of ancient
poets, Li Po, Tu Fu, to 
draw inspiration. Still
as a birch tree I will be.
I will pay homage to
those who held their own,
whose names stood against
the test of time. I will
acknowledge the people 
who came before me,
who painted on cave walls 
before school eventually 
ruined everything.

*


One of the Many Birds 

I find you in the branches
of the dark tree,
just one of many birds,
just one of the night singers.
You are the neighbors 
I want at my grave
singing my eulogy
and my lullaby to ease
my ghost self into sleep.

Train I Ride

I am watching a YouTube video of a train pulling a load of zinc ore on its 750 kilometer journey to the refinery in Townsville, about 100 kilometers north of where we live.

This is no 16-coaches-long-Elvis-Presley number. Think 70 or so wagons, think each one maybe fifteen meters long. The calculating part of the mind goes dizzy trying to work out the metrics of it — total weight carried, total length.

The side panel of YouTube offers me, as alternative, Opening The Coffin Of King Henry VIII, or 80 Incredible Moments Caught On Camera, or Windy Day At The Beach, or David Bowie’s Heroes. All Words In The Title In Capitals, all videos with no relevance to the train pushing on to the refinery.

I leave the train line a few minutes in & open the coffin of KHVIII. Or, more accurately, I am confronted with his six wives chronologically introduced, followed by Kings Charles I & II. Here there is no drone footage, just a commentator droning on. & it’s not the coffin about to be opened but the vault. & because the vault has already been opened to put the headless corpse of Charles I in alongside Henry VIII, plus, probably, opened before that to make sure there was room for a second coffin & opened after to ensure that all proprieties had been observed, the video is something of a anticlimax.

So I return to the zinc. & YouTube, offended by my lack of interest in early 16th century English history, offers up in the side panel Marvel & Star Wars comix — much of it fan-made but posing as the real thing — interspersed with short pieces about the Rugby World Cup.

Now I am offended. I prefer the real thing — if ‘real thing’ is an appropriate term to describe something that is patently not real; & 80-second shorts reveal nothing of the 80-minute struggle that often characterizes the game I’ve loved for nearly 80 years.

The train moves on, past travelers' rest areas & cattle stations, running parallel to the highway. My earlier thoughts catch up with me: the pedant in me rises to the surface; I open another browser window. Search for wagon dimensions: 15.5 meters. 71 wagons comes in at roughy 1.1 kilometers. Plus the two engines. Carrying load per wagon: 72 tonnes. Total load of ore: 5110 tonnes.

Now we’re moving through Calcium — Yes, Virginia, there is a place called Calcium, & guess what they mined there. Time for an interlude. Heroes is again in the side panel, this time a version by King Crimson, also shot live in Berlin like Bowie’s was. & another continuity — the guitarist is Robert Fripp, who played an integral part in the original Bowie recording.

Back to the train for its last minute / forty kilometers to reach Townsville. Maybe it’s the impending presence of a city, but the sidebar fills up with AI-generated jailbait. I switch to full screen, uncomfortable with such companions. & as a convoy of cars towing caravans passes over a bridge while the train passes beneath it, & the beginning of the built-up area draws closer, I close off with my own rendition of Heroes, dipping my toe into those waters where the dolphins swim.

“In the textured glass, a body, blurred. Wrong collection of pixels to be Michel.” - the line that destroyed me. I read a line in a book. It is beautiful --- the line is beautiful I must explain what it means to me for a line to be beautiful, because you see --- it can be subjective and defining my terms is a habit acquired. An aftermath of studying philosophy. And so I find this line beautiful because it is simple yet unique. It --- I have to stop and think to explain--- evokes in me instantly an explosion of emotions. Which emotions though? Bear with me, I will explain: First, I feel tricked as if a magician played a hand, and although I was attentive to their every single move, I still missed the secret of the flash, between the Turn and the Prestige. Then I feel dumb as if my _amman_had asked me when I was young to bring her a specific piece of thread, and despite my multiple rounds of deep searching the Danish cookies box (where she stored all her sewing threads), I informed her of my failure to retrieve what she had asked of me. Only for her to come and show me how the thread was right there, in front of me, I shouldn't have even opened the box. Finally, I feel bitter like a mathematician working for years on an impossible problem, on the verge of making a breakthrough, but someone else already finds the answer--- an answer so simple that it hurts. And so I read every beautiful line, knowing it could have been mine. I tell myself: The Universe of language is rich with beautiful lines, the more that are taken, the more arise. The Space in the marginalia is infinite, and whether it takes seconds or eons, I will have my time --- to craft a line; simple and beautiful. But until then, I must burn, green with envy, I will toss and turn. Even though I am glad that Zadie Smith came up with it, and yet I can't stop lamenting the loss of another good line. I know I will never commit the biggest literary sin, called plagiarism. But I have mastered the Original Sin of coveting the word forbidden.

Virgo, Prose Poems for Tara 


Like the Ascent of the Sun (once there was just the salted sea and you and yes me) 


the northern morns’ mourn like death of life, a silent lamentation if possible. crisp and unwavering darkness and Saturn rules the universe. but, once there was the southern seas, salted of course, and the breezes, a chorus of angels, kissed us and protected us and gave us secret gnosis and mystical insights hardly imagined. and the idea of the tides receded like the tides themselves and we appeared on northern shores again, - oh no! but between the winter lands and the summer lands there was something else, a sign and signal, that waited in your eyes, or rather in a quiet subtle sparkle of light there. this is what to concentrate on, maybe it is your soul. like the right holy scripture, like green chakra, like the special found rain-washed river stone, like the ascent of the sun. 


sky and earth

the long sky, wide also, infinite in fact, and down here opaque for the mist and fog. mysterious. grey. a dream. the silhouettes of certain birds seen out of the corner of the eye, quick, fast, darting, agile, gnostic, full of strength and wisdom. then gone back into the firmament beyond the tree line, the hidden worlds. and the earth. what of it? rain makes long snake-like shapes in the precious and precarious snow. everything melting. fields. loams. tree farms. wooden fences. beige. brown. sometimes stones water washed, hundreds. fallen trees for old summer and winter storms. strange mushrooms watch the worlds out there. step and step. the structure of peculiar shrubs or wildflowers that froze in mid-growth as if waiting for something. the talk of the little streams loquacious. ravine. woodland. do you remember spring, summer, or fall, like old dreams? curving path take me and us under the evergreens that wait and are still, quiet, non-boastful and meditative. verdant. chaparral in the sudden winter wind. 


terra Tara terrene, doncha know the earth is a virgo queen (of the long roads and the sun, or tractors and loams on the edge of the world)


the last of small towns in figurative and literal sunsets. the winter dusk waiting in some line of dusks to have its descent upon vast, vast, impossibly vast lands. also, to a discerning eye, a notification sign affixed to a pole or stick denoting the future conversion of the vast lands to business, residential, or other designations. but first the king winter moment of seconds and years,- roads like causeways and the old barns sometimes peaking up,- hill, flatland, on concrete forms. pastel blue. garden variety red. muted green and also grey. river, lake, estuary. many towns have the same street names. old church. little store. eatery. bus station. outskirts are factory, train tracks, old buildings for lease or sale but some just abandoned,- concrete ghosts and some paper or drape dances in the cold wind alone outside a single pane broken window. way back the tree line, evergreens, birches, other. the ancient sun still strong, slightly warming. feed corn fields. aren’t the dwellers of houses alone, lonesome, melancholic, ruefully ruled by Saturn even on an otherwise sunny Saturday? maybe. maybe not. blackbird. owl. hawk. water flows and other water is frozen. frozen and flow. flow and frozen. I watch the clouds. I look for a sign or marker perhaps metaphysical. I don’t know why. everything crisp and still and clean. the rains and snow have attached to millions of branches and stayed. a sudden gust and a sudden guest. the spirit of some thing that stretches beyond the length of the road, and that lives longer and stronger than the sun itself, and is larger than philosophy religion and all art forms, is watching.


the turquoise telegraph, or of watching the water whimsical


the island was immediately friendly and light, the inhabitants welcoming and joyful. an open aired bus traversed the market framed roads for a while and made for its destination the white sand coastline that married constantly a sea that was first turquoise and then further out, dark hued blue. 


how agile the small fish that swam through there like bits of colourful dream remnants and how atmospheric the myriad clouds that still allowed enough sun to gather upon the small gentle waves and the fine grain sand. sometimes birds could be heard chatting distantly about something and this conversation mingled w/three men softly sounding tin drums, pan drums. 


verdant palm leaves and indigenous shrubs, relaxed people and the noonday ease. the turtles are in the ocean and vessels roam,- motor boats, cruise ships, sailboats, yachts, and the world then is for long moments like a painting pastel and uplifting, meditative and contemplative. watch the turquoise water ripple just a little. can you see it? do you sense it’s mystery that has opened somewhat for you to read? and can the sea be read, discerned, known, like some story or poem, or like a kind letter home? 


the woman, the dreamer, the world 


one time I had a dream and I was beside you walking and you were smiling and at ease. we passed all the people and the people never knew anyone such as you. I do think there was a sea, and the wind in front and trees behind somehow sang songs of magic and visions and prayers. the palm leaves spoke w/the moon. you seemed happy and strong in spirit. slowly in the dream there was some problem and the world became gray and not multi-coloured. and the dream ceased. yet…but…still…nevertheless…one time I had a dream and we didn’t need literature or art or anything because we walked happily. we were our own music. for a moment anyhow. 


You Are the Sun 


there was the super flower blood moon and the nocturnal rains like bad dreams. but you are the sun. there was the world, oh my god and word, how miserable and low, petty and shallow. but you are the sun. there was the witching hour and grey dawn, w/the angel absent and the psychic discord of mean souls in the air. but you are the sun. there was the world frozen, the hopeful and inspiring wildflower of the pastoral field gone long ago, as if it never existed, and I told whoever I could about it’s beauty but nobody believed me at all. but you are the sun. there was dismay, discord, even death and no re-birth, just a thousand bad memories. yet you are the sun. there was the long lonesome sky even the birds gone far away, trading winter’s dark for summer day, and the wind vexatious, the towns unwelcoming and acrimonious, the cities saturnine and sinister. but you are the sun. all the major and minor arcana disappeared save for the Tower card. it painted itself upon the world everywhere. I went to the loam and stream, the sea and lake, the earthy valley and ridge and even to where fires tried to burn brightly. but there was nothing really, truth be known, and I could hardly see the earth. it was as if even day was night. because you are sun. because you are the light. 

I Walk a Wooded Path After Hearing of a Poet's Death

 

"What is divinity if it can come

Only in silent shadows and in dreams?"

 

-- Wallace Stevens, "Sunday Morning"

 

 

Who sought most to puzzle out through words

what he couldn't yet know

 

Who taught poetry in a big city, wrote poetry

only about things outside it

 

Georgia's lyrical Jim Fowler who wrote of many creatures

that crawl the earth

 

So I walk at twilight with the scampering raccoons

hoping to see a possum

 

Gently lift away a palmetto frond to which a spider

has woven its web

 

Press a pinecone's bracts letting an angry witch

of pain pierce my thumb

 

Think poet's laurels, crown of thorns, find a yeoman's

polytheism in the night-sound of crickets

 

See the purled fabrics of Spanish moss as figures

of life's many shadows

 

Seek the large turkey vulture feather I've eyed

on the ground by the trail for days

 

Touch my forehead, think of the remembered legacies

of many great poets

 

Socrates said philosophers should not fear the unknown

of death

 

I imagine one poet's joyful yawp -- the stars offering up

their secrets -- who groused over its mystery

  

(In memory of David Bottoms, 1949-2023)


Steven Croft lives on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia. His latest chapbook is At Home with the Dreamlike Earth (The Poetry Box, December 2023).  David Bottoms was Poet Laureate of the State of Georgia from 2000 to 2012.