Bridge Burning The whirlpool I spiral down fills with burning leaves as the trail they make rises above me like dusty ghosts or forgotten pages from my scruffy book of days. Watching them, I break into meditative flames consuming the lost ground of forgotten memories as the binge drunk yellow eye opens and I drink from this flaming lake of parched corn where every regret, like an enemy within, stands up to confront with clenched fists and passionate accusations.
Umpqua Wayside Here among the rocks and wet sand I gather the feathers weathering like a broken fan up a bony carcass clinging in fragments to white bone peeling beyond hurt.
Whispering: You are not what you think either. Dream on that. There mounts in squalls a sort of Rusty spire; The teething wind of generations past The furrowed ground we stand upon Our ancestral house each generation On their own must liberate. And so I come to Lord Weary’s Castle A monument of sorts but not a home. Smelling of depression and a world of wars Spires yet standing against the windy sprawl Deserving of respect if not admiration Demanding tears my price for understanding.

Scott Malby lives along the Central Oregon coast in a village in his mind called Lost Bay. He is a columnist for four ezines and a reviewer. He recently was intereviewed by Tin Lustre (http://blogstudio.com/tinlustrearchives). His poetry has appeared in Ariga, XConnect, Wiredheart, Tryst, Flashquake, Poetry Superhighway, Babel, and Entropic Desires.

Copyright 2003, Scott Malby. This work is protected under the U.S. copyright laws. It may not be reproduced, reprinted, reused, or altered without the expressed written permission of the author.