Mark the spot, where our house once stood
High on this hill, so tall and proud. These charred remains
of what was our Nirvana, now scorched
wasteland of naked trees, waving fire-bleached
branches at the fiery sky.
The empty butterfly jar, prepared before Piposa’s Fete
Stands in a dusty corner; the brilliant creatures already
soaring above the shelter’s star to the heavens above;
like them, my thoughts are free to rise or tumble
Yet bind me to the burning shackles of this war.
Wild fireballs blast across the blackened fence,
Their garish leaps as circus flamethrower’s sleight of hand,
Yet deadly accurate; images around my head,
creating patterns like Aunt Mo’s paisley carpet of the 50’s.
Why skin so sore? Movements faltering, smoke so dense.
I press my face into the crude black earth; charcoal
debris swirling in the windborne flames, scar my feet.
My present, past and future, all exposed in an acrid
mass of scorched dark hell. I lift my head and meet
the blast head-on and know that all is done.
“‘Burnt Offering’ is an ever developing metaphysical kaleidoscope of reality and thoughts, of events and of dreams; it is a multitude of personalities, developed throughout my life; it has no beginning and no end as yet!” — Janet Ghio