Best Woodstove Poems
I set up my writing spot in front of the window
Then, I found myself in this ongoing trance
Nature was on stage, it chose to put on a show
As the cold wind blew, I watched all the trees dance
The warmth from the woodstove, merged with sunlight
Writing slowed down to a sleepy, calm, inside
A Nuthatch caught my attention upside-down after flight
It seemed my muse had found a refuge to hide
So many distractions, I questioned my writing spot
As the world outside, kept with skipping on by
Yet, the things to write about, surely were a lot
So, I went back to the paper and let my pen fly
Here it all is, observations from inside-out
From warmth to the cold, to the living all around
From stillness to movement, silence to a shout
Writing can be magical from anything that’s found
11/23/21
Entry For the “W” New Poems Poetry Contest. Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Writing
The Empty Academy Schoolhouse
It stands on a vast green lot,
No trees to shelter it from heavy, gray clouds
on the rolling foothill horizon.
Its thin coat of white paint peels,
revealing bare, dry-rotted wood.
The rickety porch boards,
once sturdy under children’s energetic steps,
look about to collapse at the slightest wind gust.
What’s it like inside?
Puddles of water from the last rain?
Rat’s nest in the woodstove?
Any desks or yellowed books, pencils,
love notes left behind?
A soiled ribbon slid off some girl’s braid?
A chalkboard with spelling words
or arithmetic problems still on it?
What songs, prayers, or memorized poems
still echo off faded, white-washed walls?
When was the first day of school?
When was the last?
What became of all the children,
who once ran around laughing
all over this green meadow?
What happened to ball players,
clover-chain weavers,
kids who picked lupines and fiddlenecks
for their teacher?
Did they leave Academy,
or do they lie in the cemetery on a nearby hill?
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2021 Issue
This old school house is in the tiny pioneer town of Academy, just outside of Fresno, California, near the Sierra Nevada foothills. Some of the descendants of the pioneer families still remain in the area.
SONATA FOR CHRISTMAS EVE RAIN
I. I sit in my friend’s armchair,
waiting for her to get ready for church.
Pianissimo, the raindrops fall in quick, staccato rhythm
on the windows, the roof, and the pool.
I imagine the circles they make on the water.
expanding in echoes only angels can hear.
II. We drive through the valley’s empty green pastures,
to the old country church in Academy.
The raindrops run down the windshield
like notes connecting in smooth legato phrases
made by a piano’s pedal.
III. A fire crackles in the church’s ancient woodstove,
joining the outside rain in an animated duet.
Lead by the antique pump organ,
we stand to sing, becoming part
of their Christmas carol.
Published in Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2018
The flames in the woodstove dance
Bringing warmth to a cold, rainy day
Mountain weather is up and down this May
Flowers are blooming in sunny days of chance
To show off their colors and bring hope
Smiles, freedom and laughter in sight
Birds all around are taking flight
Nature brings relief and scenery to cope
Heidi Sands
5/4/22
As I’m snowed in cooking on the woodstove,
I’m doing the dishes, watching through my window
Heavy snow falling and swirling all around
It is mesmerizing to watch, calming in sight
Even as it piles up, there is comfort all around
The beauty is as far as I can see
A woodpecker visits the seed outside the window
Thoughts sift from my mind, like the snowflakes in the air
It is pristine, white, blanketed, everywhere!
Heidi Sands
11/27/18
I still see her ghost.
She's at the woodstove cooking and baking.
Perfumes still roam the air.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
(H)olding a cup
(O)f hot chocolate
(T)oasty warm inside
(C)omforting peace
(H)aving quiet time
(O)n the recliner
(C)overed with an afghan
(O)utside, blustery bouts of snow
(L)iving room woodstove heat is cozy
(A)ll sweet taste
(T)o keep me going
(E)ach sip, I take
Heidi Sands
Hum of the woodstove,
my cat curls in her basket.
Winter sleeps outside.
Hazy, hot, stagnant heat with cough
Humidity reaching 100 degrees
Waiting for storms to cool off
And also maybe a cool breeze
Resorting on water to get by
I think I prefer winter and woodstove
I feel like I’m in a fog, like I could cry
Dreams of being in a cool ocean cove
The heat wave has lasted a while here
It’s been a tough summer in many ways
I know others struggle lately everywhere
As we try to hold onto hope these days
A lot of effort to survive and get by
Holding onto faith, love and light
Remember, you are not alone
When there’s an aura like the dark of night
Heidi Sands
7/24/22
The rain returns
I guess, I need more cleansing
Birds have arrived singing
But, the pain still burns
Like the fire in my woodstove
Keeping it warm inside
In my safe home, I hide
Like at an ocean, a hidden cove
Information builds, fast and furious
My mind takes it all in
The good, the evil, the sin
Still, facts, have me curious
I worry about people every day
I worry about our country
As I watch it fall, no where to flee
These times are rough, what can I say
Heidi Sands
10/3/21
Christmas Day, December 25th –
she sits alone in living room;
joyous day for her is but a myth;
this day is filled with sad and gloom.
All her family and friends are gone;
she has no one with whom to share
season’s joy; youth’s happiness foregone;
her spirit filled with doleful air.
Sitting on the sofa all alone;
fire in the woodstove softly burns;
reading poetry of somber tone
in hopes to ease these woeful yearns.
Longing for the love she’s been without,
but Christmas tidings warmly brings
cyber friends to her are reaching out
in hopes to heal her broken wings.
_________________________
Merry Christmas, Dear Heart
December 14, 2018
Funny how winter turned into summer
Funny how winter turned into summer, not really, but it left a chill behind
So fifties in July feels like it never left, as we bundle up and we do find
A touch of winter lingering around with its long fingers in the cold air
Winter didn’t turn into summer, just sort of stayed a bit longer this year
I suppose it’s not so funny, while also this rhyme may not quite fit
With the theme it is supposed to be, hopefully not enforced with any writ
Anyway, we’ve been waiting for the rain to stop for more than a day or two
We’ve been hoping not to have to start up the woodstove for a few
Never have I seen a season like this, especially after all the snow piled high
When we eagerly waited for spring, then with what arrived, we did sigh
August may turn out to be a true summer time, we can continue to hope
Before we know it, the skiers will be back for skiing on the mountain slopes
So we are still waiting for winter in summer to actually decide to let go
Then enjoy some summer days, before it returns with all the inches of snow
Heidi Sands
*Placed 5th in contest: Funny how winter turned into summer.
7/29/17
Granny, hunched over the woodstove –
I smell fatback frying in cast iron,
Scents of morning in the Blue Ridge Mountains
Along with hazy mists hanging across them,
Parting for the sunlight as it makes its way up
Over the hills that surround every heart
Living out life on hardscrabble roads of old times.
September 11, 2019
Life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Ironic Zink
Author's note: This is my first try with this, so I'm terribly uncertain if I got it right :)
The curious dormant nature of tools
becoming more than themselves in their quick
and singular way of performing:
Snowshoes making the body's weight a lie
over twenty foot drifts-web-footed
again I get to the river
where the fishing rod asleep in its limber
length jumps suddenly alive when the fish´s strike
leaps right into my hands.
Idle on the back porch the shovel´s
angle is to the point in its way
of getting under the surface. Through use
its handle is turning to harder wood
from layers of petrified sweat
and the bridle hangs stiff on a nail
saving the shape of the mare´s head,
remembering a mouth.
Red and silver rainbow trout freeze
on the snow as the sun goes down and the hot-
tempered ax head caught in the tightening grip
of the cold finally gets its crack
at a tree limb. Later the castiron woodstove
gathers to itself all the heat it can handle.
Smoke rises up to the cold night´s crisp stars,
impalpable almost as words
but which in their right use still have their way
of getting us through to the world
alive for a moment.
There once was a house up on that hill.
Just a stones throw away from the old saw mill.
It stood so tall, majestic and bold
with tales and fond memories waiting to be told.
Four generations had called it their home.
Most born by a fireplace handmade from stone.
Reared with firm hands in comfort with care,
I'll bet they ate lunch somewhere right over there.
The walls were all painted in yellows and blues.
There was an old woodstove once thought of as new.
Many a night voices echoed from the porch
beneath a dimly lit lamp from a brass antique torch.
Quite often the house was filled with music and glee.
No doubt in my mind it was really something to see.
There were laughter and tears, hearts mended and broken. T
Times of sorrows and joy though rarely spoken.
Oh I swear if that house had two eyes and could speak,
the tales it would tell of all it had seen.
But we'll never know. No unfortunately not.
For now it's a Safeway with a huge parking
lot.