Fire-water

Do or die
or simply dance away the day.

Look,
the light lingers,
though morning never grew to swell with sun.

Oceans of wild, wet and windy
fill the window,
streaked and streaming,
rivuletted,
running to rejoin the rivers.

Inside,
the stove glows,
a captive star,
a poppy,
its voice the growl
of earth’s deep fiery regions
of flaming flowers

and the great molten brassage
of cast-off ideas,
forgotten faces
and lost dreams.

Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

23 thoughts on “Fire-water”

  1. I always think I am a decent poet till I start reading your poems about nature…they are truly something! Loved this line
    “Inside,
    the stove glows,
    a captive star”

    and Hey!

      1. There are things and things. It’s hard to get everything done. Days aren’t long enough and energy runs out. I have no problem writing but have big problems getting anyone interested in it, so what’s the point. Depressing really. What about you? I tried to find your blog but it’s gone.

      2. I am so sorry to hear that. I understand you saying days aren’t long enough, and sometimes I feel the same way. There’s always a catch it seems.

        You can’t find my blog? Maybe because I changed its name a while back, it is “One Great Fantasy” now.

    1. I had a second look, different word set to see if she’d give me something that wasn’t rain. Seems not.
      Brassage is one of those words that I can’t think of the English equivalent off hand. Sort of like melting pot but in a brewing sense.

      1. I looked it up, and there’s an obscure English meaning that has to do with making coins, and then the French meaning was mixing or brewing. I’m thinking a molten brew. 😀

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