In a quiet, wood-panelled den, there’s a low fire crackling in the hearth. Two leather armchairs face the flames. Don and Ben sit with a small glass of amber sherry each.
You know, Ben, a lot of fireplaces…. I’ve known the best of them. But this… this one has a good heart to it.
There is a soul in a real fire. Something a manufactured flame can never learn.
Right, exactly. The phoney ones spit and hiss. No respect for the burn. This wood here… it’s loyal. Like good oak. I have a place, incredible place, where the oak burns like slow gold.
My grandfather’s house smelled of olive wood. Old, gnarled branches that remembered the sun. The scent was like smoke and memory mixed.
(Taking a slow sip.) This sherry… there’s a story in it. Some sherries are just vinegar wearing a fancy coat. This one speaks up. You can taste the years.
Spanish, I think, Don. It has a quiet voice. A nutty, whispering finish.
Whispering—I like that. Good phrase. It doesn’t shout. It just… sits there, being excellent.
A log settles, sending up a shower of embers that spin and fade.
There. That little collapse. When I was young, I believed each spark was a tiny story ending.
I like a clean end. Not a messy one. Wind, for instance, is messy. Whistling through cracks, no discipline. A fire like this… it’s all agreement. Everything burns on purpose.
Contained, but alive. There is a dignity in that.
Dignity. Sure. Look at that flame, curling up like it owns the air. And maybe it does.
It asks for nothing. Not even our attention.
(Nods, swirling the last gold in his glass.) That’s the real thing. No asking. Just being. We’ll do this again. With my oak. Oak that knows how to hold a flame.
I would like to taste that smoke.
They fall quiet, two old men wrapped in warmth and amber light, speaking of everything and nothing as the fire hums its slow, familiar hymn.
Shared with W3 prompt #179: Write 5 separate Hay(na)ku poems, each about a different aspect of love, including but not limited to: Romantic love, familial love, self-love, unrequited love, enduring/timeless love. Each poem should stand alone but together create a layered meditation on love.
After reading through others’ entries for this prompt, I was inspired to give it another try, particularly after learning more about the Greek Gods of love. Above is the new entry, below the original (titled Curriculum).
A search for corners finds one amiss this may, for a moment, mildly amuse;
She’s incomplete, though nearly whole, so the hunt continues along for a while;
The missing part may be under wraps or lying beyond the end of her ropes; Every day, a new donning of caps becomes the method by which she copes;
All your playbooks, now ripped and torn, watching in wonder, awaiting your turn; Under a bridge or to the manor born, there’s a fire inside, ready to burn; So she’s a puzzle, a partial form, Yet here she stands, resolute and firm.
Tangy, the aftertaste of unsent ink, words left like fishhooks in my throat. Of your preposition that held up my sky, love became my silent film, soon unreeled.
Not to be unzipped, unbuttoned in the dark, man’s executioner lurks within his whisper; Best laid plans are left unsaid at the confessional. Friends echo fallacious words tonight, the coin was tossed into the sea.
Tongue tastes, a blind snake in a maze; twisted sheets after bad dreams and on the bridge that’s always burning, tied a noose to the rail.
Tangling telephone wires hum my hymns over the moon-whispered tides; Our empty cups, save our salt, simple as a slip, a dark entry, joyful as the fire laughs at the forest; Words become the silence.
Tied (again) but now with notes; Tongue (again) a rusted hinge knotting the clocks, doing time.
Over (returns) like a skipped stone’s fate, poems sank to the lake bed; Often returning to the teacher’s words spoken into jars and never sealed.
Tangled in a comb’s teeth; Tongues – final act – stilled by dawn.
Live and maintain pretence, to write poems on ghost paper. With the last match in the box, friends (again) echo their silhouettes.
All the sand left in the glass; Tongue (last stand) now a relic, tangled for a final time in this museum.
Word one, we’ll never say again, @ – a noose around the moon; The most dangerous definite article on the wharf where lost verbs go to drown.
Legendary, the stains became night, the inkwell we dip our days in; Of (last breath) the last breath; Tangy – full circle – a foretaste of new words for scented letters.
A type of mesostic or maybe a skeleton key poem, I’m not sure exactly what this form is called. The first word of each line is taken from the complete poem ‘word tangle’ by Rog Leach. The last two lines reflect back on the first two. The words are 95% mine, with some original assistance from AI for the base. I kept the line ‘@ – a noose around the moon’ though, as it appealed to me.
Trepaneringsritualen – Getting Neubauten and Keuhkot vibes from this. As others mention at bandcamp – riveting, terrifying, menacing! A good Thursday morning downer.
Haunted Horses – If this was the first time I heard this style or genre then I would love this. Very good.
Gay Beast – This is my kinda thing and already familiar to me. I’m always looking for more music along these lines.
Lunar Mistake – I like this, it could grow on me. The vocals put me off on the first song but are nice on others. Kinda soft-prog. Gonna listen some more.
Atrium Carceri – I don’t have time for this. I’m not a young man anymore. I get all the ambient noise I want at 8 pm in my jungle village.
1994ever 