David Estringel is a writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalopress, North Meridian Review, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Horror Sleaze Trash, and The Blue Nib. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed by three poetry chapbooks, Punctures (2019), PeripherieS (2020), and Eating Pears on the Rooftop (coming 2022). His new book of micro poetry little punctures, a collaboration with UK illustrator and artist, Luca Bowles, will be released in 2022 by Really Serious Literature. Follow David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com 

Fireflies

(originally published at Lothlorien Poetry Journal)

Quiet starfalls, 
sprinkled from God’s fingertips,
slice and burn through Summer’s night
to dance and play atop the barley, 
resting, gently, noble crowns upon
smooth brows of boys and girls 
playing in the fields.

How these kings and queens of Earth (of nothing),
swathed in paupers’ cloth 
with bodies, electric,
of hot blood and light,
laugh and prance in fountain-drunken promenade 
through this mortal coil, blind
to cut and scrape.

O, flowers among the chaff,
with cheeks, sticky-sweet with red plum jam, and arms, outstretched,
I pray those luminous wreathes and heady scepters never fall
as you leap, and twirl, and stumble
into the sweet oblivion of your starry fields, for
just beyond the horizon
fire flies.

Sepscendence

(originally published at Alebrijes Review)

Fire 
in my lungs
and poisoned veins, 
fading
in (to white)
out (to black),
I see the eye of God—
unflinching
cold
against the welcoming void 
of closed lids...
…that dream?
Is He keeping vigil?
Calling in the loan?

Always attending 
never 
ending,
His watch, nary a waver,
there
between the veil
‘til shadows 
of angels, wingless
white
against the blaze of
artificial suns, rouse me 
back 
to this world of light 
and illusion—the Hell 
of my own making,
Was He keeping vigil?
Calling in the loan?

I suppose I’ll never know

Dandelion Wine

(originally published at The Milk House)

Sittin’ 
on the back porch—
drunk 
on gasoline 
and baseball cards—
I’m rockin’ 
to the creaks of bones
and backyard poplars 
that sway 
in the summer breeze.
Clouds pull 
like flour sack dishcloths 
‘cross God’s baby blue 
to hold back 
the rain,
and thoughts steal away 
to the cold 
of icebox-orange smiles 
against teeth
and 
another bottle 
in the cupboard.