A Warning

She walked in and signed the papers
With black ink and an unsteady hand.
The man collected them and tapped them
On the desk to line up each page.

The clock on the wall never left midnight.
The papers were laid on the desk and
His sweaty hands were folded resting on top.
She noticed his watch was broken.

A breath…then words ended the silence.
He spoke with memorized lines,
Explaining what she had done. He thanked her.
She noticed his voice was cold.

Nodding, she said nothing, but thought
"How can he work without windows in this heat?"
As she left, she walked out past the waiting line.
No waive, no good bye…just her name in ink.

This poem has no relationship with the one following.

Embers Burn

Beneath a soft ring of ashes Embers burn.
Quietly fading from a flame
Suffocating and slowing cooling
Sleeping beneath the blanket they made.

Wood became a tool of fire,
But it has nothing more to give.
The fire ate and wanted nothing to drink,
But soon it may sip a cool death.

Trapped within the walls of an initial purpose
Of cooking, or forging, or refining
The Embers have no new converts--
No use, no new tool or task.

The fire became something it is not - restful.
Waiting, it will slowly die.
Not forgetting that it needs
More than itself for life.

But, the attempt to stomp it out
Gave the embers flight.
Into the wind and dark sky
Gently, softly, silently the fire flies.

The weak Embers fade and vanish in darkness.
Those with more to give of themselves
Float down slowly anticipating
A transfer of heat with a touch.

Passion has its place again.
Heat will transfer and ignite another
The ember of flight will fade
But the fire's purpose will have its way.

Marc Amesse
July 14, 2005

Seventh Story Begins

So this is a blog!