Friday, March 03, 2017

The Fire of Humility

Scott Thomas Outlar, Atlanta, GA
—Poems by Scott Thomas Outlar


Don’t open your eyes so soon,
this winter swoon
doesn’t want to let us loose
quite yet.

Red blooms
at the end of your branches
feel soft
on the tips of my fingers.

Careful not
to squeeze too tight
and stunt this growth,
even though
a cold snap
could come calling
at any moment.

I fall in love with the sun
every afternoon anew
when its rhythms of light
pour down through the sky,
splashing with a radiant shine,
sparking the sound
of a symphony
from the choir of birds
that can’t stop singing.

Who can blame them?
When the thoughts start soaring
I find it hard
to shut up
just the same.

(originally appeared in Dissident Voice)


Humility is a fire.
Honesty is the gasoline.

There are only
so many ways
to say the same thing
twice, or even
before the time
to bleed into
a new phase of silence.

God is a whisper of grace.
Life is caught up in the wind.

is not just a base metal
placed in the cup
of a stranger
on the street;
it can also be
the quickest path
to heaven
and/or evolution.

Take your pick, choose a side.
One master is quite enough to serve.

 —Anonymous Photo


There are few things in life
more sad
than the final sip
of the final glass
of the final bottle
of wine.

Death is one.

A funeral is another.

a marriage
without an open bar
beats it all.



What if there was a high that actually satisfied?
What if there was a hit
that didn’t need to always be repeated?
What if there did exist
such a state as perfect peace?
Well, hell,
that sounds an awful lot
like death to me
(and I’m not yet ready for the grave).
So pass the next dose this way,
and let’s soar
once more
toward the sky
in this never-ending search
for heaven here on earth.

 —Anonymous Photo


I want to snort gold
and get high
on the savage flames
of an Apocalyptic urge

I want to bathe
in the excess glory
that shakes from the clouds
after dancing with God

I want to lick the sigh
from your throbbing navel
and taste the blood
when you weep with the moon

I want to feast on the flesh
from the fruit of the tree
and rest with the knowledge
that our innocence is complete


Today’s LittleNip:

—Scott Thomas Outlar

As long as you never stop
to think about it,
you’ll never have to worry
about trying to make
it all make sense.


Many thanks to Scott Thomas Outlar for sending us poems all the way from Atlanta. Scott performed one of these poems, "Comes the Budding," at a poetry event in Jasper, Georgia a couple of weeks back; see He was featured in Medusa's Kitchen on Jan. 14, 2015.


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