The Maker Of Crowds Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

Marc turns his hand to anything
and through my windscreen
I see him bowed over a cone
of sparks, breathtaking, always
this metier shower that makes
dark all. No pall, these particles
are so excited, and invite that
you follow eachs' story before
wonder bleaches into each life, the
sad quenching, look! Metal cloud of
reddy flies, each has life so bright
before rebound to extinction-more
follow, and you are wondering
why the fountain should stop, stop
the bright bouncing, fizzing spark
so dead now, so invisible and
indivisible, and it is here
that I turn off the pitter patter
of traffic news and muse on these
new found possibilities;
the big small and the small
big.
What star doesn't live its eons so
large in that dark ocean and one day
to glow, glimmer and die. And so do
we, trooping up to play, gesticulate,
swoon, all
so very soon