Fire Burns, not Knowing

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Fire burns not knowing the destiny of its flames, knowing only the hot apparitions of arboreal souls being whisked from the trunks of history. Fire dreams of Jazz, Ellington and Davis, Coltrane and Fitzgerald, each on the frontiers of ethereal genius, bowing only to the sun in the magnitude of their fire, dreaming they are fire, burning without hearing the destiny of their songs, only the presence of a cryptic melody, embroidered into the lace of their souls, suavely selected from among the urban noise, allowed to evolve,

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Exhaled through the brass and the strings, the woods and the winds of a present moment, never knowing whose ears will tune in, whose go deaf, who be indifferent to the inner fire, the vital force of the forest, of the mine, of the universal mind, just out of reach of the saxophone’s highest pitch, into vast channels yet unplucked, untuned by delicate fingers, dreaming of the sun, the original fire, the song, the fire, the sun, the poem that transforms back into itself.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda

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Song of Green

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The song of green and a bamboo flute, an ancient twist whose limbs embrace itself, in time, whose children are birds whose children are songs whose tunes are the colors of the rainbow mountains, all in accord with the Argentine sun waning into winter whose colors are dreamt by ice creams while parakeets and arrow birds interweave their melodies, seashell chimes percuss in the Pumamarca breeze waiting, within Om.

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With the coming breath, approaching colors, omniscience of the green, the yogi in the sun, the flight of dreams, a yellow balloon bouncing and bubbling its brief existence down the chalky cobblestone corridor, wiry poplars shade the voices of vendors whose shawls dance ever color of the rainbow, cousins to the parakeets,

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While a poet-mechanic repairs the language of the soul, the tapestry where every sound is a blessing, upon which every step is grace.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda

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Listening to the River

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Listening to the river and reading between the splashes and the stream just what the paternal hand has offered us, in flowing disguise, the secret of existence.

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Reading the sun’s final request upon nearing the horizon, exhausted it would seem to these chilly stones, outstretched shadows, these fallen leaves, but the glitter on the river is ever as golden as the locks of the angel whose fire assures our existence.

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Is this some secret esoteric language that so few understand the sanctity of water, unable to appreciate a sacred space wide enough to spread our souls upon the lawn, without being trampled by the industry of distraction?

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A yellow-breasted native takes flight, before being branded with a collar and a name.

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Copyright 2007, Tom Radzienda.

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