Best Open Fire Poems
In front of newly glowing fire__the warmth
Fills the area in very front
Family draws close_warm against cold
Time today flew as trees were cut (down)
Cut just to the perfect length to burn
On the open fire of night's desire
These hours of story telling__laughter
Make up for labor of timber felling
Time spent at the well drawing water
Here now time for discussions
Story-telling, laughter, memories
The fire softly lighting Mother's eyes
its the beat
a shopping street
vender stand
around like a band
smoke goes higher
with the HOLIDAY
OPEN FIRE
My cousin Finn was raving about the new dish at Claude’s Diner.
There is no appetizer better, truly nothing finer.
They call it Chestnuts roasting over an Open Fire.
I had to run out and try it, I had such a desire!
Are you sure? Asked the waitress, my Auntie Maude.
Oh, yes, I said, staring past her at the cook Mr. Claude.
Claude began cooking and Maude left, her grin bright.
Guess what it is? She asked as I gave the dish another big bite.
Chestnuts? I guessed, but it truly tasted much more like meat.
You are not even close, she told me. Do you think they are sweet?
The best of the best. What is the secret? What special stuff does he put in?
Mountain oysters, or deep fried bull testicles, said my amused cousin, Finn.
the is the comming season
it has a reason
stopping gift shopping
stands with a little cup
round balls you bust
smoke going higher
OPEN FIRES CHESTNUTS
I miss an open fire.
Warmth, these days,
is breathed out of the thin lips
of a plastic vent commanded
by a button.
There is nowhere now
where I can sit
and stare into the depths
of a dancing flame,
enter that sacred space
where thoughts and mystery
meet and reconnects something
in me to its earliest roots.
I miss how an open fire
centres life around its glow,
how it works to draw us in,
gathers us to share
in its living warmth.
I miss how it fills in the silence
with its sounds,
the crackle, the whispering hiss,
the sudden bump
of a falling log. I miss
poking and prodding
the charcoal remains, breaking
them apart and seeing embers
ignite into a bright spill of flame.
I miss the smell
of burning wood, the incense
that first sanctified our ancestors
humble homes and awakened
a wonder that set us off
on our human quest.
I get it that an open fire is now
not an environmentally friendly
choice but a polluting relic
of the past. I know
the romance of it
no longer thrives.
It's rather like old religion,
better gone, but it leaves
a hole in our lives.