Campfire MAG

February 13, 2008
By Jennifer Gilbert, West Chester, PA

My ashen gentleman arises. Rich in cinders,
his hands unravel to smother the splinters
and soothe me like bubbling brandy. Evenings
often I collapse atop my sketch pad, pages jolted
with willows and whimpers and that old, ugly owl,
and he carries me in a tea cozy of smoke,
where I awake to eggs and crisp French toast
(he does try not to burn the edges).

Each drawing is shaded in shy, charcoal strokes.
But if I reach up toward his burnt cheeks to kiss,
he disintegrates ’round me, lost as the mist.



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This article has 4 comments.


--------- said...
on Jul. 16 2011 at 2:46 pm
---------, De Queen, Arkansas
0 articles 0 photos 59 comments

Favorite Quote:
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This poem was very comforting, yet tinged with sorrow. Good work.

on Mar. 18 2011 at 8:09 am
BitterSweet1993 SILVER, Bronx, New York
5 articles 0 photos 35 comments

Favorite Quote:
Love is only a dirty trick played on us to achieve continuation of the species. ~W. Somerset Maugham, A Writer's Notebook, 1949

So close, yet so far. Incredibly saddening, incredibly touching.

on Apr. 30 2010 at 9:35 pm
BlackKittie SILVER, Milwaukee, Wisconsin
8 articles 1 photo 55 comments
oh my god...you have no idea how amazing this is

on Sep. 17 2008 at 5:35 pm
this poem was soooo cool


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