Best Woodsmoke Poems
October: I'm eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard -
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone -
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.
Hey, can you tell me...?
I halt. I turn...
Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is the firmament.
I'm staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.
Heavy Special Brew breaths.
Grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I'm smelling pepper -
horror-spice of pungent lust,
its acrid nose-thrust -
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere...
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words - his words -
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.
Please...Please...I'll...
Fear-forced bargaining, but I'm beyond care.
And I'm aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a soundless scream, my muted mouth
mouths silent goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.
Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don't fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.
Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.
From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 90s,
the scattered tatters of essays -
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go
forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I'm sorry
don't tell anyone - I won't.
I don't.
When butterflies float downward like a leaf
As air of Autumn dances everywhere
Whispers of wings become a bright motif
Floating, drifting, wandering on blue air.
Scents of cinnamon whisper treats to come
As wondrous woodsmoke warms us from within
At entry doors are straw and flowering mums
Every shape and size of gourd and pumpkin
Fall promises us all its bright enchantment
A whirling, orange world of wind and leaves
Known as a season of mad derangement
Yet of all- it is the one that most appeals
If I were to choose one season to be
I'd sleep until Autumn whispered to me
Gliding down amber, leaf strewn lanes
Her wild hair flowing in golden tones
Goddess of Autumn awakens again
To soothe the sound of Winter’s pain
She lingers in woodsmoke of promises made
Where trees are shedding their Summer shade
She paints their green with a crimson tinge
Beside oaks that stand all acorn-ringed
Her voice is whispering in every glade
Her frosty eyes and spicy smile
Her ragged, leaf brown rustling gown
Her brisk, bright essence floating down
Is it autumn, when silence has come to a lonely lakeshore?
Throngs of reveling summer tourists are flocking here no more.
Is it autumn, the water's sitting still in the swimming pool?
The rowdy children have gone, unhappily, back to their school.
Is it autumn, when the blooming gladiolus have been lost?
Tonight, the garden's bounty will be bitten by our first frost.
Is it autumn, do golden cornstalks hang heavy with their yield?
The farmer has a scarecrow propped, out standing in his field.
Is it autumn, the pumpkins have no orange spattered 'round them?
Their deep green color is fading now, up near the browning stem.
Is it autumn, the farmer has left his apple orchards bare?
The spiced aroma of baking pies goes drifting on the air.
Is it autumn, when the gathering geese ready to fly south?
Two neighbors saw them yesterday, I have heard, by word of mouth.
Is it autumn, with dying leaves turning shades of rust and red?
The maple tree's timbers brave the wind as they begin to shed.
Is it autumn, with ever shrinking sunsets and chilly nights?
There comes a whiff of warm woodsmoke as the first fire alights.
Is it finally the day when autumn will at last arrive?
Twelve months ago was a long, long time to wait to feel alive!
Date - 8/26/2022
(15 syllables per line)
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.
All year I wait- anticipate the
rusting of the leaves.....the
mad disorder of them blowing
filling up the eaves
I long to brace against the chill
with woodsmoke in the air.
and walk these orange corridors
where all the trees are bare.
As I step this cushioned path at year’s end
suddenly aware of time that’s gone
I’m thankful for the wisdom to endure
all that winter and heaven may be holding.
Fall into Fall
Written 9/19/19
Contest Judged: 9/22/2019 3:44:00 PM
Sponsored by: Chantelle Anne Cooke
3rd. Place
Thoughts keep coming back
of late afternoons
with the dark wings
of currawongs weaving
pathways through the high
branches leaving long threads
of song draped across trees -
the drifting skeins
of woodsmoke from winter fires
burning in cozy rooms,
eyes fixed in hypnotic stares
on dancing flames and minds
meandering the past, some
about to fall asleep.
Thoughts keep coming back
of snow falling silently
in feathery flakes
outside the window
and in the distance, an owl's
plaintive call going unanswered
in the thick air.
I listen to the sound of the fire,
a ticking wall clock,
breathings from beneath
a folded quiet and the drip
of melt water from somewhere
in the dark. I would like to stay
here but the fire is dying out
and its glowing embers
are nearly spent. A chill
is seeping through the cracks
opening between the past
and the present.
A jerrybuilt jumble, so shoddy, diminished;
just cubes of grey concrete with windows and doors.
It started to crumble the day it was finished.
Franco’s “solution” for gypsies and moors.
It’s called “La Dehesa”, the pasture, the grange.
The old ones say once there were orchards here, too.
It’s undergone quite a formidable change:
there’s nothing but concrete obscuring the view.
Like rabbits in hutches we live in our flats,
with neighbours on both sides, below and above,
surrounded by dustbins and children and cats,
and noises of squabbling, noises of love.
Each Sunday, some woman (I can’t tell you where)
starts singing, as morning creeps in through the shutters.
Flamenco, like woodsmoke, just hangs in the air,
and laps over drainpipes and outlets and gutters.
She’s clearly a gypsy. I can’t say I’ve seen her,
but singing is thoughtless, as easy as breathing,
and something about her, her aural demeanour,
is caught in her song, which comes seeping and seething
through windows and clothes lines, as if by osmosis.
She sings for herself. She’s not grabbing attention.
There’s no petty ego. Aesthetic hypnosis
is selfless. Seduction, without condescension.
She sings of her pain and her ecstasy. Both
can be borne on the air, like a children’s balloon.
Her art is unconscious, leguminous growth,
yet as hauntingly lovely as the light of the moon.
Gitanos, gitanas – delinquents and whores.
Well, maybe – but, seeing those ravishing eyes,
or hearing The Song as it wavers and soars,
I know in my soul where my sympathy lies.
Woodsmoke
Sweet, resin pine
Rising, drifting, curling
Comforting warm chimney fragrance
Autumn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Christmas tree was real, always~
pine needles littering the carpet
like fallen promises.
Mother's hands smelled of pine resin
and brandy-soaked fruitcake~
her laugh a ribbon unwinding
through the underheated rooms.
We believed in everything then~
the rustle of wrapping paper angels,
the miracle of snow settling on the porch
like an angel’s breath.
Through a haze of woodsmoke
the radio hummed of
Bing Crosby Christmas tunes
while our wool socks scratched
against Granny’s sofa,
its springs complaining
beneath our sugar-rushed weight.
No one told us time could be folded
like tissue paper around a gift~
that decades later,
we’d still taste peppermint sticks
and hear the distant choir
of a dozen jingle bells
still tied to the doorknob
of memory.
Vital fluids drip
into the bucket
below.
Corn snow underfoot
a stark landscape
black and white
trees, snow and
shadow.
In the early dawn
our breath clouds
and the air
smells of
woodsmoke
and new maple
syrup.
Surely
the sweetest
sign of spring!
.
______________________
A new month, won't be long now.
Vital fluids slowly drip
into the bucket below.
Caught in
black and white landscape
of trees, snow and shadow
in the early dawn.
our breath forms clouds
but breathing in
we smell woodsmoke
and new maple syrup.
Surely the sweetest
sign of spring.
"Nellie MacGuire"
By Rachel Heffington
Each little room in our house is so nice
But the nicest of all, full of woodsmoke and spice,
Is the kitchen--we almost don't dare to come in
So we walk on our tip-toes and stick out our chins
And peep `round the oven, just hoping to see
That Nellie MacGuire is taking her tea.
Her hair's shiny brown and her cheeks fairly glow
And when she is happy she'll give us some dough.
But if we peep in when her apron is tied
(With a big, fiercesome knot sticking out at the side)
Then she squawks like a hen with a new brood of eggs
And she thumps bread like carpenters thumping in pegs.
And if we are daring and step on the floor
Nell counts up to three and she counts up to four.
Then she purses her lips with a "look at you" face
And sends us off packing right out of the place.
But of course we come back and creep `round by the door
And we see the spice rack full of bakery lore,
The pantry shelves laden with bread light as silk
And the dairy with cheeses and butter and milk.
The fireplace gleaming, the huge iron pot,
And the tea-kettle that sings a song when it's hot.
The cab'net with china-blue flowers and white,
The medicine for when we're sick in the night.
And next to the window with sun streaming through
Holding tea-cup with flowers, some white and some blue,
Sits Nellie MacGuire with apron undone
And we knew now's the time we can start having fun.
Too dark to see
but I know you're there.
wild wind blowing through your hair.
Across the river,a white canoe,
takes the rapids,
straight and true.
Waiting ,waiting,wait,I hear
the deft approach.........
I know it's you.
Faintly in the dark of moon,
I sense your presense in the gloom.
The smell of woodsmoke
like perfume,
the heavy aura and the rune
silibant inside my soul,
saying now my half is whole.
Your hand assures me to my place
in front of your envisioned face,
we strike out for the past again,
Time,
the river without end
It was in Autumn 's signature
the smell of burning leaves
that I succumbed to
distant drums
And bartered to believe.
Woodsmoke circled round
and round
to show your misty form
you kissed my face
with love and grace
and told me not to grieve .
Upon the hill a wolf pack
howled out my secret name
I shaped replies
in cryptic cries
and begged you not to leave.
You are the wind in winter
I am the Summer sky
the pain is sweet
we never meet
except in dreams we weave.