An Epiphany, or: Playing with Matches

I thought I was at a bonfire

Because I did not look up.

I thought everything was fine,

That all was right, and all was well

And all was good and fun,

Because I did not look up.

I thought I heard a voice say:

“The world is on fire –

Stop playing with matches.”

But I thought they were overreacting,

They weren’t seeing things clearly,

Because it was just a little bonfire,

And everything was fine.

But that was because I did not look up.

But then I heard a noise –

I don’t know what.

I glanced up, and saw the glow of a larger fire.

I stood up.

I looked up.

I climbed up the hill to get a better look.

And I saw the world was on fire.

And we were all playing with matches.

I looked back at the bonfire.

It was small, but too big for me to put out.

I looked at the world.

It was vast, and far too big for me to put out.

“What can I do?” I asked, “The world is on fire!”

I heard a voice say:

“Put out the small fires that are closest to you.

And, for the love of all things holy,

Stop playing with matches.”

- Sharon Bryan

Skirting the edge of the Tammeõde cycle.

He said: "She has a lovely face..."

Go read this post on my other blog. It's the closest thing to a real post I'm going to produce today:

http://thesharonb.blogspot.com.au/2012/02/he-said-she-has-lovely-face.html

Why you shouldn't leave me alone with eight syllables

Screaming Hairy Armadillos

     Should you ask me "whence this screaming?
Whence this noise and such kerfuffle?
With the sense of senseless shrieking,
With the odd unearthly grunting,
With the sound of pain and torture
And a tone of great displeasure,
With its ceaseless high-pitched keening
And its awful oscillations
Just like children playing chasey?"
     I should answer, I should tell you:
"Over there by yonder burrow
Where the grass and dirt seem farrowed,
Where the shade and sun are dappled,
There doth live the armadillos,
Live the hairy armadillos,
Screaming hairy armadillos.
Those called 'screaming' for they scream much,
Those called 'hairy' for they have hair,
Hair in all their nooks and crannies,
More than normal armadillos”
     Should you ask why they are screaming
Why they raise a noise so horrid
Why they sound like bloody murder
I should answer, I should tell you,
“They do scream at all discomfort,
Scream and scream at such a volume,
With a sound like broken banshees
Or a hedgehog in a foul mood.
     “Though their skin is hard and hairy
Still they have so few defences
That they scream to ward off strangers,
Scream to save themselves from danger,
Scream like children fond of screaming,
Scream like raptors in a movie,
Or a baby feeling cranky.”
     If still further you should ask me,
Saying, “Why, though, are they screaming?
Tell us what has happened to them,”
I should answer your inquiries
Straightway in such words as follow:
     “In the zoo are vets and keepers
People dressed in green and khaki,
People paid to care for critters,
And they often need to touch them,
Need to touch the beast they care for,
Need to pick them up and hold them,
Need to poke them with a needle,
Need to look in ears and noses.
They do poke and prod the critters
Just to check if they are healthy.
     “And the hairy armadillos,
Screaming hairy armadillos,
Do not like the pokes and prodding
Do not like to be collected
By a man with khaki trousers
Who would pick them up and hold them
And inspect their nooks and crannies
And administer the needles
To their soft and squishy bellies.
     “So they scream, the armadillos,
Scream like hairy armadillos
Scream because a man in trousers –
Khaki trousers with green trimming –
Has picked up an armadillo
And is looking at its soft-bits,
And it really does not like that.”