Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Five 2 One Magazine. He has published two chapbooks, "A Curmudgeon Is Born" (Yellow Chair Press) and "Digging for Fire" (Stay Weird and Keep Publishing Co.). He is a Best of the Net Nominee and was the judge of Into the Void's 2016 Poetry Competition. His work has appeared in both print and online journals in 12 countries and has also been translated into Albanian. Coldly Burnt Away The Autumnal onslaught makes the leaves on the trees recede in color counting backwards from green soon enough the leaves turn the shade of burning things brightly arranged embers making it looks as if the trees themselves were ablaze as the eyes scan across the valley the sight is similar to a smokeless wildfire. I Found God I found God huddled half dead in a garbage can in the alley of the city on a rainy night. I tried to fix It, nurture It back to health but It seemed to not want any of my help and instead preferred to simply slump there in It’s current state of carelessness. What can you do when someone won’t help themselves? Even when it’s the being supposed to be helping others? Live (written for my uncle while he was in an induced coma and hooked up to a breathing machine with blood poisoning and a collapsed lung) You’ve been thrown the stairs to the deepest depths of this pantheistic place. You are alone yet not alone. We are all here for you but there is only so much help we can offer. The rest is up to you; to climb back up those painful steps that you were so impersonally tossed down and make it back to us. It will be a tedious process but you know better than anyone that you are more than capable of it. I know you have already begun that slow and pang-ridden crawl, one step every three days. No matter what you must continue this climb, step after excruciating step. And when you finally do reach the top of those evil stairs and wake up, don’t say a word. Just breathe for a while. Just breathe. When the Blaze Begins There are occasions when that ever-burning flicker of a flame is suddenly swept up by gale-force inspiration and grows into giant whorls of blazing creativity as the mind sheds its inner turbulence and spills it out onto the canvass of the page. During these moments that little flicker suddenly spreads into a scorching wildfire of thoughts, its flames lashing out like fiery orange fangs biting upward at the sky. The Sound of the Sun “Listen.” “To what? “To the silence, or what we believe to be silence which may actually be the grinding lapping licking sound of the sun which all creatures have evolved to block out and hear what we perceive to be silence.”
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