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    My Soul's On Fire
    My Soul's On Fire
    My Soul's On Fire
    Ebook154 pages49 minutes

    My Soul's On Fire

    By Stephen Alexander North

    ()

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    About this ebook

    My Soul's On Fire is a captivating collection of thought-provoking and deeply intimate poems which delve into the essence of the human condition. Each poem offers a unique glimpse into various aspects of life, exploring themes of desperation, love, loss, passion, and triumph. 

    This eclectic collection expertly navigates different genres, seamlessly transitioning from works of science fiction to haunting apocalyptic visions, spine-chilling horrors, dusty western landscapes, tantalizing erotica, and profound reflections on relationships. 

    With every turn of the page, be captivated by the evocative imagery and the raw emotional depth embedded within each poem. From exploring the vastness of the universe to unraveling the intricacies of the human heart, the fusion of autobiographical fiction and non-fiction weaves a narrative that is both intensely personal and universally relatable. 

    My Soul's On Fire is a poetic journey celebrating the complexities of existence, leaving an indelible mark on the reader's heart long after the last page is turned.   

    This book includes: a three part apocalyptic story poem (East, where the city lies/The Hunted/The books or that light), Saloon Thunder; Her Blush Response, and more! 

     

    Florida Man Writes!

     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStephen A North
    Release dateApr 14, 2023
    ISBN9798215376126
    My Soul's On Fire
    Author

    Stephen Alexander North

    Stephen A North is the author of the Dead Tide Series, The Drifter Series of books, and a number of short stories.  He is a Florida native, has a BA in English Literature from USF, and is a former Army Reservist.

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      Book preview

      My Soul's On Fire - Stephen Alexander North

      Dedication

      ––––––––

      In memory of Dana Whitted and Pamela Berger

      Also, a thank you to Kerri C Gregory, Kaye Donner, and Joe Crompton

      Pe·riph·er·y

      This is me in decline

      On the periphery, while others live life

      I exist and dream

      I’m listening to Joni Mitchell, right now

      Play guitar, and sing so eloquently

      And I, Lord knows, think far too much

      About boundaries, confines, people’s feelings 

      About being outside, removed

      Not part of a design, beyond what can be said

      With words, a well-described scene

      Or, perhaps, a scrap of witty repartee

      Are you reading this, feeling what

      Most people only see, without thinking

      They’re distracted and look away

      This isn’t their fault, if they don’t understand

      We’re all flawed, aren’t we

      And what’s beautiful, to you, to me

      Might not be music pleasing

      To all with ears, so

      If you don’t mind

      I think I’ll stand over here, on the fringe

      Off stage, and off center

      (completed at sixteen minutes past noon, on a Friday, the twentieth day of January, 2023)

      For, my friend, Jose

      You paint with colors

      I paint with words

      Your lines aren’t always kind

      Then again, neither are mine

      They are true

      Never cruel, intentionally

      It seems we’re on a parallel path

      Just using different forms of expression

      Coincidentally, or not

      Capturing grief, pain, a grimace

      Joy, pleasure, laughter

      Additionally, in the case of your art

      Something inspiring, beautiful, alive

      (honestly)

      For prosperity, for thought

      To leave behind, long after

      We’re gone

      (completed at two hours and nineteen minutes after noon, on a Friday, the twentieth day of January, 2023 and inspired by Jose Berrios’s painting entitled ‘Cathy’)

      A cigarette, at the end of love

      That drunk feeling, the aftermath of joy

      Receding, as I walk you to your car

      We kiss, your happiness

      Still, so apparent

      Moonlight on your face, your smile

      Memories, I can’t forget

      And don’t want to...

      Replace

      You were a gift to me

      Something dear

      And never meant to belong to me

      Someone else might light a cigarette then

      Might blow some smoke rings

      With a tear in the eye, remembering when

      You waved one last time

      But I don’t smoke

      (completed thirty-eight minutes after a clock struck noon, on a Saturday, the twenty-first day of January, 2023)

      Can't say that I've ever done 'serious' writing while inebriated. Music, if anything, awakens a heightened sense of imagination, and women, I won't lie.

      Esteban Alihandro Norte, from 'A cigarette at the end of love.'

      Magnetic Resonance Again

      The nurse told me, take everything off

      Except your underwear and socks

      Wear this gown, and lock up

      Your shoes and clothes

      We’re going to do an MRI...

      Of your cervical spine

      Not long after, she ushered me in

      And she had me lie down

      On my back, my knees elevated

      And my head cradled in something like a vise

      About to be encased, as another nurse

      Fitted a metal mask over my face

      Pressed tight, locked over my nose and chin

      Then, a brief apology

      As something pressed my arms against my body

      "Your shoulders are too broad, I’m sorry

      Are you comfortable?" was the question

      My response, I think

      Was As good as I think this will get

      I was silent about the pain in my neck

      And murmured something

      About feeling like Hannibal Lector

      (wearing that mask)

      They asked, What kind of music?

      Turned out, I made a poor choice

      But with the noise, it didn’t matter, anyway

      Then, I closed my eyes

      As they slid me into

      Twenty minutes of cacophony, of intermittent din

      I remember feeling compressed, overheated

      Face flushed, my neck aching

      And that fucking mask, I had

      To escape into my head, keep my eyes closed

      Remember not to move, tortured

      Until it was over, another long moment

      The freedom as my body slid out

      Moments more, waiting

      But so relieved to be free

      Of that mask, and out of that sleeve

      (completed eight hours and thirty-nine minutes after noon, and three hours after being temporarily entombed, on a Sunday, the twenty-second day of January, 2023)

      Without you, imperfect haikus

      Without you, imperfect haikus

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