Who

The Seattle post . . .

Chandelier
by David Keith Johnson

Inside our silent flames we seem
 to be at once liquid and fire,
  tumbling upward to disappear
   just at the apex of desire.

The distillation of a dream
 is alchemy, a wizard’s task;
  precipitation of a flame
   cannot be captured in a flask.

We quiet progeny of night
 can recognize ourselves to be
  at once the artist and the art,
   the dream, the flame, the alchemy.

With faces made of candlelight
 and souls composed of flimsy twine,
  we grow upon platforms of wax,
   which soften, liquefy, decline.

Inside our silent flames we seem
 the distillation of a dream,
  we quiet progeny of night
   with faces made of candlelight.

The London riposte . . .

The Book of the Living
by Kenneth Durham Smith

Open the cover of the dark, heavy book
And write these names upon the shining pages:
Eduardo, Eugenia, Alexander, Rose,
Karen, Pola, Joseph, Arthur, Tamar,
Tosin, Emily, Joachim, Obafemi,
Aishu, John, Miriam, Holly, Ann,
Niyi, Bernard, Michael, Judy,
Subhadra, Ellie, Max, Sam,
Jennifer, Francois, Nicola, Gregor,
Oyinkan, Diane, Gerhard, Sharon,
David, Paul, Shuba, George, Joann

And then turn the page to an empty sheet
And write on for days, weeks, years,
Each breath, each heartbeat a name
In a book that never runs out of pages

This is the work of angels, thousands
Upon thousands upon thousands
Writing at the same time
In the one dark heavy book
And no name can be undone
Or turned away or forgotten