by J.S. MacLean
August draws the clan to beach-fire circles.
He is centered like the nightly blazes
where the glowing logs resemble faces.
They have character but they are not him.
One must hold the inspirations dreams bring
here to us, before the ashes whiten.
Kingfishers on breezes spy and target,
slitting Satan’s throat to catch and survive,
casting over for one more to snag on.
By the Irish channel, by the graveyard,
on the mound of Saints, his legend lives on.
But, I saw no shooting stars this August.
J.S. MacLean has been writing poetry since the early ‘70s with two collections “Molasses Smothered Lemon Slices” and “Infinite Oarsmen for one” available on Amazon. He has around 175 poems published in journals and magazines internationally in Canada, USA, Ireland, UK, France, Israel, India, Bangladesh, Thailand, and Australia. He enjoys the outdoors and the indoors, too. In 2007, he won THIS Magazine’s Great Canadian Literary Hunt in Poetry (1st Prize). He strives for lyrical and hopes for accidental.