Best Bonfire Poems
As a misty autumn succumbs to winters harsh chilling grasp.
The sky turns bleak and hues of shrouding grey.
The ominous days unfold shorter and colder.
The remnants of vegetation lie pitifully withered and sparse,
as nature rests dead and in the throws of decay.
Early morning frost like sprinkled powder
smothers a barren land
and shards of ice hang from naked trees as fingers of a hand.
Dew drops appear like goose bumps,
along a parade of wrinkly naked trees.
Bare branches and rooftops seem lifeless,
as birds have no desire for frosty serenades.
Trampled iced leaves, decay in ashen damp air,
as snail-like sluggish humanity adorns its seasonal fleece.
Despite winter's scentless bitter breaths,
the soul ignites an internal bonfire -
radiating a vigilant glow to the surface.
Silent One collaboration with Peter Dome.
13 November 2020
Thank you Peter for this brilliant collaboration.
Peter is a very talented poet, please check out his poetry.
As a misty autumn succumbs to winters harsh chilling grasp.
The sky turns bleak and hues of shrouding grey.
The ominous days unfold shorter and colder.
The remnants of vegetation lie pitifully withered and sparse,
as nature rests dead and in the throes of decay.
Early morning frost like sprinkled powder
smothers a barren land
and shards of ice hang from naked trees as fingers of a hand.
Dewdrops appear like goosebumps,
along a parade of wrinkly naked trees.
Bare branches and rooftops seem lifeless,
as birds have no desire for frosty serenades.
Trampled iced leaves, decay in ashen damp air,
as snail-like sluggish humanity adorns its seasonal fleece.
Despite winter's scentless bitter breaths,
the soul ignites an internal bonfire -
radiating a vigilant glow to the surface.
Silent One collaboration with Peter Dome.
13 November 2020
A GUNPOWDER PLOT
The 5th of November is a day to remember,
Children get excited from September,
The sound of fireworks reverberate,
And bonfires with effigies of a life like
Guy Fawkes commemorate
What might have been a very bad turn,
If Parliament was then to burn!
The origin of this story began on the 5th November
Sixteen hundred and five,
Beneath the houses of Parliament, Guy Fawkes,
The traitor was found, and so King James did survive.
Our traitor/hero was brought up in a
Family with an outward Protestant belief,
But the reality was that he was Catholic
And to this day is recorded on leaf!
However, Protestants and Catholics are still
Divided in their faith,
As to which side of the fence Guy Fawkes should haith!
Guy Fawkes sent a letter to a Catholic acquaintance,
To please not stay, and be far away,
On this planned explosive gun powder plot day!
But plans went awry, and this secret letter
Landed, in the lap of James the King,
Who sent his guards to go find this rebellious ring.
Guy Fawkes was found with six barrels of gunpowder, and
Immediately sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered,
But this meant a death of real suffering, a miserable
Horrible fate of been slaughtered!
This for him was unthinkable, so he jumped from the
Gallows and broke his neck.
Young children are not told the gory
Side of this famous story,
For it would wreck
A child’s belief in this day, destroy their enjoyment
Of bonfires, fireworks and loads of fun,
And even recognized as a hero by some!
The bonfire warms me at first, but swiftly turns from nurturing and loving
to raging, and venomously hungry. She is giving off a vicious, angry vibe in seconds.
From gentle to formidable. I watch her moods change as swiftly as her colors.
She makes loud, popping, cracking noises. I watch boxes implode into her, she smiles, feeling her power.
I move my chair back a bit, as her heat is reaching farther with each pop and crack.
She changes her clothing rapidly; from orange to black, to grey, to orange-black, and grey again.
I pile on extra wood and cardboard, and her seductive dance begins anew. She is swaying and
sashaying with the pops and the cracks. She dances high now, leaping, popping. I feed her another branch.
Her thickest logs are starting to smoke on the ends. This surprises me, I did not think she could develop
so quickly.
Fire always surprises me. Never the same, always her own unique dances.
She is falling into herself now, quiet-like and docile. Her raging appears to be over.
She is settling into her gray basement.
I throw a few pieces of cardboard on her, and she darts forth like a rocket, with pure joy, bright orange.
The dance begins again.
My pyromania heart is satisfied at last when we see her creeping stealthily out of her confined fire pit, sneaking toward a pile of leaves, understanding her intention to set the entire forest ablaze.
My thinking brain goes after her with a rake, before my pyromania heart realizes what has happened.
Because pyro loves fire.
Bountiful goodness of squash, pumpkins and gourds decorate hay bales
Elaborate labyrinth of vines dried by August suns lean against twilight fences
Autumn colors of browns reds and oranges and a flash of yellow light the way
Uniquely different each time yet recognizable from one fall to the next
Trickling leaves surround lazy sleeping cat shadows, illuminating joy.
Intricate webs made by Indian Summer spiders sparkle in corners of our porches
Football season unveils friendly animosity amid the joyous coolness of autumn
Ultimate prettiness resides in this well thought out palette of our master artist
Luxurious pieces of kindling lead to a red hot bonfire adding ambiance to the night
Flush with butterscotch colored maize peppered with red and black kernels,
Autumn magic has no comps. She is her own category, unchallenged
Lovely in her unparalleled radiance, honored with the year’s prettiest skies
Languishing in comfortable repose, not understanding her magnificent innocence.
Written 9-10-2018 Beautiful Fall Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
As I stare at the bonfire the flames are reaching for my flesh
As she touched me I feel alot warmer
The more higher she gets the closer it is to touch the night sky
The more I stare at her
The brighter it is for me to see clearly.
As I stare at the bonfire dreams are starting to appear
Dreams that are brighter than sleeping in the dark
The warmth keeps me safe
I can sleep in peace.
As I stare at the bonfire
I know that I am home.
Born in the breath of woodsmoke and fire,
I learned early to love the art of falling.
Leaves tumble like poorly kept secrets,
trees strip down without shame -
modesty’s for summer, after all.
October hums with rebellion:
bonfires blaze, sunsets bleed,
and the wind, cheeky as ever,
slips its cold fingers into every undone button.
History rattles here -
200 years since Waterloo fell quiet,
suffragette echoes stomping in boots,
a reminder that not all noise is noise.
It’s a trickster wrapped in amber light,
half beauty, half bite,
where endings feel like beginnings
and ghosts pretend they’re just passing through.
They whisper, “You’re braver than the fall.”
And with each year, I’ve learned to ask,
Will I rise, no matter how hard I fall?
Can I burn and still remain whole?
These are the quiet prayers I carry -
for strength to keep standing when the world turns cold,
for light in the darkest corners,
and for the courage to blaze,
unashamed of the fire I carry.
Stitched from October’s fabric a
half twilight, half ember -
I walk between the brittle and the burning,
the quiet and the wild,
a child of autumn,
still falling,
still smugly aflame.
Was this simply a predestination or one fate made true?
It all happened so fast, just as my eyes can blink from green to blue
Paper flowers unfolding; artificial growth of life's prose that show rhymes have nothing worthy or anew
Tampering with the speed of this time machine, I have lost the governor's screw
I'm shaken by how heavy this hammer hits, and then the bell rings as though it was threw
Maybe it's just the pointless pounding in my head or the hatred my heart has walked through?
The sun's getting really low now, while my memories are shaded from its view
Except for all the ones that you and I have faded to
If you're reading this, also know that I miss you
But like the fire I'm sitting by, my heart is broken, much like the sticks that started it; in two
There once was a Fawkes name of Guy
Whose dastardly plans went awry
Now in November
We still remember
And take pleasure in watching him fry
see about poem
A single key
turns the lock
of the door
you’ve been
pushing against
for all
the life in you it takes,
the door like Life breaks
into a million pieces,
and there at your feet
like irretrievable moments scattered,
you try to avoid the splinters,
but you gather them up instead,
each splinter a word lit, now
the bonfire burns
inside the inferno
the life renewed, borne again
wakes, it walks on water,
just,
as it walks through flames,
there the compass
draws you home,
like a magnet
calls the key
Candide Diderot. ‘24
key.
compass.
There was once a young Madam from Paris
Who liked to sun herself on the terrace
Her legs covered modestly
But not from hypocrisy,
From her varices, she wanted to spare us.
For Jan's Limereick 11 Contest.
Saturday February 20th. 2016
~First Place ~
ALL YOURS(JUN 8) Poetry Contest
Brian Strand
a bonfire smokes - -
a tiny hedgehog wakes
and scuttles out
Jack Horne for Russell’s Autumn Splendour contest, 26th August
When we were young on bonfire night,
Watching fireworks light the sky
And marvelled at that coloured light,
When we were young on bonfire night.
Enthralled by that explosive sight
As sky rockets burst on high,
When we were young on bonfire night,
Watching fireworks light the sky.
Barry Stebbings
22/06/2016
The bonfire has been lit
Around it we all sit
Out comes the tall tales
Of heroic deeds and fails
And those who attempted it
In this circle we all can fit
And everyone talks a bit
Till the sky starts to turn pale
The bonfire
The stories that make a hit
Are those with a dose of wit
And we all laugh and hail
The heroes who blazed the trail
Who also told their tales with
The bonfire
The wiggling whiff of smoke stings my eyes,
so I try to stoke back to life the buried embers.
Now tiny tongues of flame sway, twist and wriggle
like snakes through parched leaves, devouring twigs,
even sooty pieces of brittle rocks and pebbles.
As the dusk broods, darkens and deepens into night,
my shadow shivers and shrivels away behind me.
I gaze at the darkness beyond the dancing bonfire:
the calls of unseen cuckoos and the ticktack tapping
of a faraway woodpecker have all died down.