BURN AND BURN ALIKE
H. W. Bryce
Time flies as fast as a runaway train.
There I was, at the top of the mountain,
The city lights below twinkling up like
Christmas. ‘The glitter of the colour’
Under the moonlight and stars lit my
Dream of future adventures, career
Was building, the city was set. Plans were
In order, I had paid all of my debts.
And still the Amazon burns.
But time is relentless, time races ahead.
Time leaves us behind; time travels
At the speed of a blur, and time has bled.
And Australia burns.
Yes, time travels as fast as a runaway
Train, like the fog of memory as my train
Of life hurtled through careers and cities
And countries and personal train wrecks…
And BC and California burn.
Sometimes I feel like the train that blew up a city
In the night. That train in Lac-Megantic.
Seventy-three crude oil filled tankers,
Forty-seven persons dead. Like my career
at the Madison-Avenue-like branch plant.
The boss brought a young chic from Outland
To Here and Put her to work in our Ad Sales
Department. The guys all thought it was an affair.
The guys kept phoning her on the office phone and
Stared at her bust and laughed as she stood
By her work station, talking. After all was
Said and done, the Boss got fired. An ordinary
Guy was set up to replace him. The wrong guy.
Sometimes I lose faith.
And now, Ukraine is burning up.
And I lost all respect for our bosses, even
for world leaders as the Ukaine burns and the
World stands aside the schoolyard watching, as
It does, as my world did when my career
Blew up in my face, too, like a toxic train wreck
When my disgust flared up and I spoke with
Flaming tongue, and I got fired too.
And still the Amazon burns.
And now a train blows up with deadly chemicals
Aboard and burns, and burns and burns and burns…
That train in Ohio. A heritage of thick, black smoke
Hanging, hanging in the air, folks fleeing,
Fleeing, finding it hard to breathe
As the chemicals they burn…
And the people flee by the hundreds, no
Specific place to be, overtaken by
Fleeing time and speeding train.
Not their fault.
And lungs begin to burn.
And still I toil away, working at my craft,
Now down off that mountain top,
And time still flying past,
Like life’s events, all in a blur,
And the fires still are burning,
For things to do, and in regret.
And still, the Amazon burns.
— —
You may well think it is a leap too far to go from the individual case to the multiple. Not logical. A trick. But please, do not underestimate the power of emotion, on either level.
The poet writes of and from the heart. Asking, How can you help when you are so far away? How do you stitch together a life? Their lives?
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