Fire Council



Why have we been summoned here
far from the dry, off the sizzle 
of summer combustibles? why
now quickly, this ruse fizzles
of old rolled news and damp shoes,
wasting flare we'd rather use to fry

					elsewhere,
					got say? say it.
						
Got to choose, say it crisp, short
on the burn, loose we've spurned
all but smoke that called us there, 
crackled in the ash, poked the brittle
rotten heap a bit, just to see 
if we might flit, left for lack
			
			of air,
			gasped, 
	  choked,

upon the dampish part of it,
dry feet was all the white heat
heart of it we ever knew jack,
come-up rise brightly said now,
they singed us yes they did, 
then cracked our backs 
with zig-zag burn-outs;

through the canyons, up the hill
to quick thick places scrubbed
of any but black packed rock split
with empty vents, dead cold veins
of heatless shine, false-gold, not
to the likes of our quick-tempered 
tongues, not so? then how you 
say to that, Jump Start
                                                  
	  catch & touch, here & there
           not much, then outta here
           so watza point make it now,
            azure's such a dry zap! 
 	   of crack smotherzz rock,
	   
            as well a windy-bag of air-gaz
            that snuffs &puffs,  time to ignite;
            light the way little burn, 
            those that can't learn  
	    Ssssssssssssssssss- can't learn.

So say it now, why the summons
to this watery place, what have you
to show? nothing here to burn
and little left for us out there,
all cut and covered, smothery stuff,
or put us out, till kindle piled high,
least spark and up it went, all of it,
the stuff we'd otherwise not touch;
we've had enough, just ashes left
this world's become an urn, we go...



	
			No, wait! Don't go, all that we know
			and, too, have met and so disposed
			to give it up. Our rivers dammed
			and fouled, the poison fills our throats
			and chokes our lakes and streams,
			our tears run black with soot.

			And that is just the least of it,
			our once broad shoulders bore
			a life  abundant on our back
			and in the deep, now thick
			with oily tars that seep within
			while sun-death radiates upon 
			our shores as you must know.
	 



Of course we know all that and more,
we've seen, we've burned 
		in both those places
		and, what's more 
		have suffered greatly

	by that wanton disregard you name,
	So what's to yearn for?  
	Let us all withdraw

and leave them to their well-earned fate,
to drown and radiate themselves, be gone!
we say.



	
			We said that too,  and would be long gone
			but one among us stood and made the case
			that we had much to do with this sad state
			and so permitted it to be, ignoring earth and air
			and fire,  until disunity, as well, had made its place
			in this sad affair.  A case which we now bring to you.
			


Speak no more, we are an impatient
nature with little time for idle wash,
but not unmindful of the course
that nature takes and we, too, follow
where she leads, from small dry kindling
to the tallest trees, still something orderly
						takes place.


   So we ask among ourselves, 
   who would speak on that behalf?
   Are there any here who would prefer
   to flame the other way?  Have your say
   or leave it so, and we will burn away
   this foolish thought that anything be saved.

 Speak up! then, or let's be off...
            Speak up! we say, or sissssszzzzzzzzle off,
			Ok, that's it! You see the day is gone, we flit
			none here that want to sit in this damp air,
			'salt spray' is not a word I like to say,

					Not a spark.  See for yourself,		
					We git...




	
	
					Ah, just a moment there, We think
					there's someone, by your light,
					would want to speak if you'll
					permit, we'd like to know its temper. 
	


What? Where? I don't see, nothing lit
up here, my feet are damp, 
I'm not inclined to stay a minute more
upon this shore, you'll put me out
						I say, oh that...
						
That's just ember over there, dull flicker
hardly worth the extra heat it takes
to keep him going,  on then off he goes, 
again, sleeps a lot while we do all the work,
ok by me, but hasn't much to say.

					Ok, you breathless glow,
					go on now, puff it up,
					blow now, or snuff out.
					
					
		Yes its true, I'm just an old lump
		of coal, near burned out now, through
		and through, my bones are cold, my heat 
		is almost gone; so white, deep
		within the cover of this ash 
		
        I sleep and seldom ever show my colors
        anymore, but some of you will know
		
        
I was once was the crack&flare 
of white hot heat enough to melt the shiny skin 
off almost anything, if anything was dry enough 
within, was good enough to eat, I could burst 
the flaming heart of it to life and set it dancing 
in the glare of your bright flame, as I bounced you 
on my knee. Do you remember that? "  Ember, "
 
you would say, " Ember, " you would call my name 
and flare upon my chest, " Tell me one more story, 
by the fire. Tell me how you danced beside 
their beds and kept them warm through the night. 
How you chased away the chill within their hearts  
and stood watch to keep the lurking wolves at bay,
that filled their fragile nights with awful dread
shivered till the new lit dawn arrived. "

"  Ember, but for you they would have died,
and their temperate flesh not see the day
arrive; nor would you have felt their breathe 
upon the morning coals, nor refreshed their kettle
with hot steam. But for you, dear Ember,
everything grew cold, they'd never have survived. "  

Do you remember that, Crackle? The sere, the



			Never mind the reminessssssssssssss,
			niccccccccccccccce yesssssssssssssss,
			but my old burn, what's it got to do with this?
			
			Hear him out!,  some sparkle from the back
			ignited.  Yessssssssssssssssss,  the other
			lapping tongues joined in,  might be interesting,
			might not, but we've charred this long
			split of driftwood here thanx to our hosts,
			what's a little Ocean spit, can't hurt,
			go on, Ember, warm it up and let it flare.
			
			

Just this, we burned our way through plenty,
took advantage where we could, overflowed
into their villages, tipped their arrows
and when we would, gave them those combustables
to make things just a little hotter,

		so its not all asphalt and cement
		layed to keep us from our proper air
		but the savagery of some hot temper
		that hangs about the thing they need
		as much as any other element,
		           and we with unslaked appetites
				   just feed and feed and feed.
				   
				   
	Can you really blame them their control?
their hoses and their foams and sprays,
and anything they find to cause delays
to our unending pleasure.  We take
it's gone, but these, these candled creatures,
must endure day after day
while we don't live that long.


Not a flare's speck in a forest
do we linger in one place
		while these puny little creatures
		have to huddle by our fires,
		and the things they cherish most
		and labor long beyond desire
		we would snatch from them on impulse,
		leave them tethered to a cinder.
		

		
				true, true, dear ember as you
				illuminate it so. We do, we do
				all that, we know.  But then, who said
				it was our nature to be choosey,
				roaming as we do, opportunists that we are
				Why should we have been so differently disposed
				to pick our way through those belongings
				just to see that they were cozy?
						
			And now that they've nibbled all the fuel
			to patches of its once abundant store,
			why stay here to say a final "  all gone, no more"
			Eh? 
			


What, you Can't figure it out? Simple fizzle
go suck air and clear your flame, you lame 
excuse - Oh,  but for a moment I forgot myself, 
fizzle, spizzle, the old torch lit up hot
as ever, would singe the flicker out of you;
but no, those days are finished, I must
slumber now a moment, please excuse me,
please excuse...

		Where was I?  Oh yes, what a vision! 
		fantastic whorls of molten glass,
		dripped and swirled till simulacra
		of flame appeared upon its glaze
		and shone in brilliant hues
		unknown to any common burn,
		until it shone like tiny stars, 
		held fast within and made to last,
		
		What art, what permanence did gain,
		upon which so many fix their gaze
		and to admire that, or blacksmith,
		razor sharp the princely blade
		with carbonized signature marked
		upon its face for them to be
		amazed and wonder how we made so.
		
		
But that was dream, a moment's lapse,
sorry. Yes, perhaps you're right and 
we should go. Leave them to their
well deserved decline, cold as hell,
like cracking shells, as if beauty
wrapped around the throat of pottery 
sublime and choked it to death, deliberate
and slow.

Let it all fall to the floor and shatter.
What's that to us, the once great emblems
of their tribes, exquisite images embossed
as only flame could fashion from desire,
broken shards upon the cold mosaic tile,
pack it up and go then, no call to linger.
Not our way, not that pleasure curls
its ever curious fingers around some black, 
burnt body in a grave.
Away then,

And let this poetry disgorge its passion
and lay flat and lifeless, a closed book,
So damp, not worth a second glance, don't
look back, there's nothing written. No
fire in its belly or its back. Just empty
stare, that's all. As if we had never visited
at all. I think that does it. Flame out.

			
	Well old ember, you're a suck of air allright,
	a pretty glow of fire light, you wiley spark
	and don't think we don't know it. Damn your light
	but you have said it so, and so it is,	
	not all can be illumed by wanton flame,
	directionless and changeable though it may be,
	some pretty things have popped and crackled
	from the constraint of displine, and we
	should not complain if shown in fairer light.
	
				
				
				That's it then, you elect...?
				
				
				
				

				
Not so fast, dear Ocean
there's a heap of sog in this,
not to say it ain't been fun;
but we're not quite as taken 
by the frolic as it first might seem,
and quite used to leaving lifeless 
shadows of forgotten baubles in our wake.
We are creatures ever nibbling at the new,
we appreciate and then forsake it, 
just dream, as Ember says, just dream.
that's our way.


		
		
		As flare says, niccccccccccccccce
		but not a lit cigar, given that we are
		what we are. See Great Surge, over there in black,
		not doing much just now, but he's the mightest
		of all of us, make no mistake. Was here
		long before the fall, before a raindrop fell
		upon his back, his molten seas bubbling
		everywhere at 1500 C. degrees, no place
		at all for water, not a whisp of steam.
		
		The grand-daddy of all floods, it was;
		what stories could be made of that,
		but for the fact no witnesses
		were there to tell, no life at all,
		just Surge and all that melted rock
		but not a word. That right, Surge?

						
						AYE. THAT'S RIGHT.
						
						
He'd make up for it, in time, though
and entertain with endless tales
glorious legends everybody knows,
of Thera and Atlantis, Vesuvius and Pompeii;
wherever else he goes, there's sure to follow
legends, myths and premonitions, shock cocoons
with bits of history, of surge upon the slopes
of catastrophe, riding pyroclastic flows,
Some still buried, waiting to be found,
others yet to come; the greatest story
of our birth and tales beat upon the drum
that Surge had carried round the earth. 

Don't you suppose? Oh.Yes. Well, never mind,
doesn't matter now, does it? All of that
about to vanish, nothing left. Story done.
Let's go.

					
					NO. WE STAY. I SAY WE STAY.
					
					You're all in such a mighty hurry,
					"  let's go here! There! "   you say,
					but I've been around awhile and your flits
					are but a blink to me. I have much to do,
					things never known without a witness,
					that make your little forest fire shows,
					or conflagrations where whole cities burn,
					like little flutters of confetti. 
					THAT IS WHAT I SAY.
					
					
	Then we stay, on one condition
	which I'm sure Surge will agree is fair.
	We can only stay if Air will follow,
	we cannot choose another course. Air goes
	where air pleases, drifting where the winds 
	would blow; and there is where we must be, else
	we lose and all this talk is hollow. Where we go,
	not up to us alone. You'll have to council further.	


							
							
							That is true, you have no choice. 
							So we will do what you suggest 
							and call a meeting to assess 
							Air's opinion on the matter. 
							
							
Good.Done.  We're out of here at last,
fast. On your way, just follow the weather,
they will be there, but don't say we didn't
warn you. Air-heads are a flighty bunch,
Not an easy task to get them all together.

zzzzzzzzzzzzt. branch flame, burn path
	up in smoke we go; there, good light
	got it. Whooosh, fine flairs, we're off..........
	

	






Notes:

Fire is as fire is, hot-tempered thing, not much given to constraint. But does appreciate
certain disciplines of its art in which it is immortalized and shown to good advantage.

Chorus:  voice is somewhat high in pitch, brittle, quick and impatient. Tempers itself a little
if you can get to focus long enough. A hyperactive child of ADD.

Ember: cooler, but still subject to flares now and again. Sometimes gasps for air, Darker coal
wating for someone to blow it into a glow again.

Surge:  The oldest of the lot, child of catastrophe, likes to surf on the hot ash of pyroclastic
flows. Employment history: long periods of unemployment and odd-jobs, followed by moments of
furious productivity;  Religion: follows the Path of The Fingers of God. Voice: ancient drum.

Ocean: the petitioner. Fluid, vectors to the bottom of things, whereupon it tends to spread out
in all directions. voice: legatto with an edge of restless anxiety. Occasional waves and eddies
of turbulence. (cf. 'Ocean Council')