Search Results for “Bruce Morton”

Which or why matters not. It would be best to forget The whole damned lot. But what do you want to bet That we will go for a rerun. We will do as we have done, Enlist the starry-eyed young, Stack them like cordwood Tight in the barrack bunks Prepared to feed the flame. We will play the patriot's game, Wave the flag and sing the song Fight for right and right wrong And it will not be long, again, before We exhume the past, bury the future.

S’more

We sit mesmerized
As the fire builds, sparks
Ever hotter, we lean closer
Slide white marshmallow
Skewering ourselves
Turning tan to gold
Then black crisp
Goo pressed on graham
Cracked earth so brittle
Chocolate squares melt
Softening to flesh as we
Consume ourselves licking 
Our lips as heat licks us
Devouring, rhapsodic
As a blood-red sunset

Where There Is Smoke

It probably began somewhere
Else with a flash and crack.
A spark struck, then smolder.
Smell it in the air, nostrils flare,
The throat tightens, lungs burn.
The scent of pine, fir, larch,
And juniper gin up the hearth,
But there is only scorched earth,
The forest fast becomes torch.
Smoke pudding settles heavy in
Bowls, hollows, ravines, and rims
Mimicking morning mists, veils 
That will not lift until snow falls.
We cannot breathe easy, we hunker
Down, anxious, shut up in the house,
Worry about the kiln to come,
Ash glaze and twilight glow, urgent 
Evacuation orders. Go! Get out! Now! 
No time to inventory valuables or sins.

Bruce Morton…

…splits his time between Montana and Arizona. His poems have appeared in various venues, including, most recently, Muddy River Poetry Review, Sin Fronteras/Writers Without Borders, Wilderness House Review, and Ibbetson Street. He was formerly Dean of Libraries at Montana State University.

In The Bezine