Firework Scars by Carter Vance

on

|

views

and

comments

Firework Scars

I stepped by the waterfall,
memories restless, awakened
from induced night slumber,
drugged with bottle contents
until the pain of tears vanished

Until the misery of wrought hands,
twisted iron becomes but another
breath catching exercise, a cleared
throat from pasts immemorial to

Walk beside in space and time
to final resting. A blackout
after wounded crackle of static
on the airwave, a signal taken
too little from words

We passed as codes in dark
corners, back and forth through
wire fence.

A look at the roadkill, the tar
paper pine, the burn rubber leavings
of last year’s party favour revolution

Tells of nothing, save regretted
rancor: the lonely scribe dying
with his head firmly perched

To righteous side he’d never take
in fear of too much certainty.

Carter Vance is a writer and poet originally from Cobourg, Ontario, Canada currently resident in Gatineau, Quebec, Canada. His work has appeared in such publications as The Smart Set, Contemporary Verse 2 and A Midwestern Review, amongst others. He was previously a Harrison Middleton University Ideas Fellow. His latest collection of poems, Places to Be, is currently available from Moonstone Arts Press.

Image: Dietmar Rabich / Wikimedia Commons / “Dülmen, Kirchspiel, Wiese in der Bauerschaft Börnste — 2016 — 1523-9” / CC BY-SA 4.0For print products: Dietmar Rabich / https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:D%C3%BClmen,Kirchspiel,_Wiese_in_der_Bauerschaft_B%C3%B6rnste—2016–_1523-9.jpg / https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/- Alternatively: Dietmar Rabich / https://w.wiki/9AYK / https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/https://w.wiki/9AYK, https://w.wiki/_tsVi (Shortlink)

Share this
Tags

Must-read

One Poem by Charlotte Van Schaack

Writing On The Wall   Even with the fear of haunted place, everyone is trying to become a ghost.          As in the paid...

One Poem by Kate Gorman

FALLSTREETLIGHT SWITCH The sodium-vapor streetlightswith fresnel lenses like lidded eyeshave been replacedwith horseshoe-like arcs of LED lights.As the morning stays dark longerand evening comes on...

Three Poems by Mary Whitlow

Cloth & Sun    Chaos greets me at the door—   broken things swirl,   dust motes through worn curtains,   a breath before the next bruise.   You coil like an old cobra,   fangs...
spot_img

Recent articles

More like this

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here