The Old Man and The Fire
He felt drowned in his darkness
of cold willow shade and death.
He slouched on his rocking chair
with his big wrinkled fingers,
his rock cheeks, tree trunk forehead,
lazy Z’s sang lullabies.
Last year’s fire sang lullabies
filled the air with ash darkness.
Struggled to see past forehead
past charred remains of hot death,
drew symbols with ash fingers,
wiped them from wood on his chair.
Flames had encircled his chair,
licked his porch with lullabies,
caressed with amber fingers.
He thought of deep sleeps darkness,
if he had a place in death,
rubbed wrinkles on his forehead.
Those past Ash Wednesday foreheads,
Sunday teachers in their chairs,
a flood of life before death,
fragrant times lost lullabies.
His want to embrace darkness,
held on with tips of fingers.
He once held his son’s fingers,
moved hair from daughter’s forehead,
turned on the light in darkness,
his wife’s comfort, like his chair.
Sang family lullabies,
never about lonely death.
Flames removed thoughts of his death,
heat tried to smooth his fingers,
not an end a lullaby,
not an angel, a forehead,
a time past, sat on his chair,
middle of charcoal darkness.
Forgave death, wiped his forehead,
cleaned his fingers, rocked his chair,
flames lullabies, his darkness.
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Wow, Jamie. This is much like Faulkner’s ‘stream of consciousness’ method of writing. Very interesting and tense. All the nostalgic thoughts that run through the old man’s mind is great, a nice touch. Well done!
Phyllis, what a great compliment. I love Faulkner and have dedicated many hours of my life journeying through his writing. Thank you.
Some really great phrasing here Jamie, nice work. Lovely expression with stark imagery and phrases to provoke much thought, of age of life and the inevitability of death. Excellent work.
Thank you Tony for your comment. Your words keep me motivated to write. A gift that requires much thanks.
An Old Man’s Lament. When the time comes we old men have a burning desire to repent. Vast memories stored away in our heads. So we can draw upon them at will, to solace our burning souls. The funeral procession not wanted as our ashes slowly burn and dust we become once more.
Thank you Vincent…”…to solace our burning souls.”