Poems by John H. Freeman Copyright © 2001

The Smoke Hovers Low

My campfire stings the dark
and singes the cape of a cold night
as blue spews twist within
the churn of crimson-yellow tongues.

The smoke hovers low;
shrouds the air with veils of hazel-gray.

A warm breath steams
with the drifting ash of yester-trees.
Pops of fugitive forest spring and flee
the splash of a limb's dissolve.

The smoke hovers low,
in ballet with the breeze and blaze.

Amber beads of dew like eyes upon the trees
watch each log feed the flicking forks.
Shadow-claws retreat before a stir
of amber spires that light a teary bow.

The smoke hovers low
over the smells of cremated timber-flesh.

Embers mock me from the char
and bake my eyes as I stare deep
into a hole of hellish glory;
a pit of narcotic nighttime suns.

The smoke hovers low;
dances in the damp of impending day.

Dark bleeds onto the light
and lays its siege upon the ring of fainting flames.
The fire retires into a rippled bed
of arbor ghosts and flickering spirit frolics.

While the smoke hovers low
to make me smell of this tomorrow.

John H. Freeman