‘Tis late now in the balmy eve, without the slightest stir,
When lighter than a hot balloon cuts through the humid air
Such light through dusk that becks the dawn like some dry burning fir,
Streams freely, past high up the noir chalkboard, from rockets’ glare.
Mock lightning sparks, loud thunder strikes, skies glow, electric snow,
As cardboard comets launch into convolving, sparkling show.

From old Medieval China the infernal creature hails,
Where worked a frenzied chemist, searching immortality.
Saltpeter, charcoal, sulfur coarsely mixed, his potion fails,
And blast! kaboom! boom! found he crackling whimsicality.
Thus, Fate unleashed surprising doomsday hellfire, save dismay,
And Earth knew no more glorious spectacular display.

This hour, one feels celestial in these projectiles’ blaze,
What long the ancients understood, true cosmic comity,
Wherefore to mark phenomena dart swiftly in the haze,
Whereby grows patriotic pride from spectral unity.
Those zipping, whistling, night-lights herald exultation grand,
And splatter, scatter jubilation, seen across the land.

What miracle mere pasteboard holding pyrotechnic stars,
Quick cast aloft via propulsion, launched like arrows true,
Succeeds in poking aerial expanse, halfway to Mars,
Combustibles slick snap bombastic energy anew.
These merry missiles mimic supernovae, darts, spry bombs,
Explosions charring song in hearts and itches in the palms.

The sight delights, ignites the firing neurons of the brain,
Like static shock, excites the wiring, joy as with a kiss,
Or when the palette tastes some foods most flavorful, not plain:
Ambrosia sweet, chop suey saporous, rich gumbo bliss.
As can pop candy in one’s mouth much boost sensation fine,
Such shooting stars invite always elation quite divine.

Oh, how they streak so gracefully with choreography,
Fast filling up the inky empyrean flawlessly,
Lush brightness blows, exposing over brush geography,
With shapes unique as types of pasta, all dance saucily.
The varied vivid hues well bleed and blend in mugginess,
Their pomp felt coolly breathing breath through summer stuffiness.

Their arcane elemental mixture magical to ken,
Aluminum smiths silver, Barium mints green, alas,
For orange, Calcium, while Copper conjures azure, then,
As Iron forges glints, so Sodium yolks gold first-class.
By masters, comely tints right made through preparation prime,
The chief among them red, white, blue for celebration time.

More colors bold arise: champagne, pink, tourmaline, each shade,
Soft beige, calm turquoise, malachite, chartreuse, lime, emerald,
Pristine mauve, lilac, lavender, magenta, purple, jade,
Cerulean, teal, periwinkle, scarlet, marigold,
Persimmon, amethyst, puce, fuchsia, cyan, peach, cream dyes,
All auras of aurora frolic, sway in dreamers’ eyes.

They gambol all, each creed and kind: discs, button ribbons, rings,
Strobes, Catherine wheels, chrysanthemums, firm Roman candles, too,
Kamuras, peony blooms, crisscross-fractal crossettes, wings,
As well as screaming spiders, horsetail shells, and cakes in view.
All wondrous gizmos prompt crescendo up the pinnacle,
Match any antique song or ornate banner principal.

It’s flash! bam! alakazam! up the onyx colored sky;
Angelic gems, whole lot resembling shiny opal crisp,
Undamaged stretch of raven atmosphere bedecked thereby,
And echoed clatter, clamor, ringing din heard wisp by wisp.
Bring they such brash cacophony, from which no soul may hide,
Like manic drummers sticking solos to the welkin wide.

A smoldering aroma wafts enchanting scents above,
As all the streamers, sparklers, flashing pom-poms come to rest,
As so does too the powder, dust, and crispy smoke thereof,
All blazing chandeliers and flaming flowers shown top best.
The surge of spirit charged cannot be found within bookshelves,
For, like all things, us stardust shine, and recognize ourselves.

Man craves petite Big Bang, the birth of universe: first first;
His inborn rushlust thirst draws him to witness fireworks burst.



Cyrus Jalinous is a freelance artist/writer born, bred, and currently residing in Washington, D.C. Jalinous is studying Film and Visual Media at the University of California, San Diego. He is finishing his debut book, Peaches & Dreams, a collection of poetry.

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6 Responses

  1. Sally Azar

    ‘Bring they such brash cacophony, from which no soul may hide, / Like manic drummers sticking solos to the welkin wide.’ and ‘Man craves petite Big Bang, the birth of universe’. A very joyous read!

  2. C.B. Anderson

    If I were to overlook the inscrutable meter, the jumbled syntax and the gratuitous diction, then I might be able to agree with the comments above. I used to love pyrotechnic displays, but now I’m not so sure.

  3. Monty

    Phew! I feel like I’ve just exited a maze of incoherent diction. At one stage, I wondered if I’d ever find my way to the exit.
    And one commenter described this frenzied ramble as ‘beautifully written’. Ye gods . .


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