The Problem with Flint and Steel — a Poem


Fire from heaven he kept
in the suit-coat pocket, folded
notes in leaves
of the combat bible — sweating
as he climbed
the dais.  His gaze
sharp, scanning
the rows.  The agitated
ones, his targeted
words aimed
at their throats.  Convicting
in mind.  Grace tied
and silenced.

Thirty minutes became
an hour under the weight
of his tongue.  Choruses sung
coercively.  Brimstone smoldered.

End of story — much smoke, no light.

* * *



Victoria is hosting Poetics at dVerse Poets Pub and she has us all hot under the (clerical) collar with a call for poets to bring “Fire.”  Sheesh!  Doesn’t she realize how dangerous that could be?!?

40 thoughts on “The Problem with Flint and Steel — a Poem

  1. I love the opening stanza, and the image of “the combat bible” is terrific. The weight of his tongue, I can really feel that. Then in the end, all that firebut noillumination.

    Like

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