crisis of the phoenix

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Early poetry stored here.

Submitted: May 22, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 22, 2018





By Alexander Guinevere Kern



He had that old lodestar in his loins

Urging him upward. He was midway

To his millennium and wearing down fast.


Sick of self-evident truths and vested

Grief, he traversed the sand delirious

As a mad prophet, his tail feathers

Leaving a clumsy zig-zag behind him.


The wind howled in the desert

Echoing a vacancy in his soul.

Years, decades, centuries

Passed as he mounted the

Pyre of Success. It had utterly

Worn him out. He was tired

Of his Old Self. Time had altered

Everything. Time to forge a new persona

Capable of coping. With a ragged,

Agonized gasp he reaches the plateau

Of his life. He pants, "This, yes this

Is as good as it gets. This altar shall

Be, both casket and cradle to me."


He expands wide his wings, arcs

His neck backward, and through the

Magnifying glass of his cornea

Stares straight up at the sun,

Setting himself on fire. His scream

Is the tortured slipping away of years.


And the Phoenix

Sits in the licks, a sheet of flame like

A moat around him, a crimson cummerbund.

His wingspan -- two flaming hands

Waving a benediction. He is consummated

And consumed. Talons do not burn --

Smoke curls up around their convex edges.


His remains billow, then collapse

In upon himself -- and out, and out

And out of the tar-black bundle,

Purged clean, all glossy-eyed,

Laundered mind, legend in his genes,

Comes his cawing clone.



~copyright 1985

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