Long Hearths Poems
Long Hearths Poems. Below are the most popular long Hearths by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hearths poems by poem length and keyword.
While hearths glow warm with ember’s light,
I dance beneath the pale moon’s gleam,
Where frosted breath curls in the night,
And ice-bound dreams take flight unseen.
The wind, a whispered song so bold,
It sings of stars in frozen streams,
Of silver landscapes, fierce and cold,
A world untouched by fire’s beams.
With every step, the crunching snow,
A voice that speaks to hearts like mine,
Where solitude and wonders grow,
And frozen beauty feels divine.
The Winter Solstice marks my days,
Its silent magic fills my chest,
The sacred chill, the moonlit haze,
This season feels like life’s own crest.
Though Yule and Christmas warm the soul,
The coolness calls me evermore,
To wander where the frost takes hold,
And where the northern tempests soar.
No words could cage this love so vast,
This bond with winter, fierce yet bright,
A thrill that lingers, unsurpassed,
Where cold and comfort both unite.
So let them stay by fireside glow,
With hands wrapped 'round their steaming cups,
While I embrace the ice and snow,
And drink the cold like boldest luck.
They left their father's hearths, those stalwart pioneers,
To follow their dreams to the west seeking new frontiers.
They laded Conestoga wagons and without a backward glance,
With faith and fortitude, ventured into that vast expanse!
They gathered at Independence to form a wagon train,
Then, ferried the Mighty Mo to trek the featureless plain.
They followed the rutted Oregon Trail of those who'd gone before,
Never sensing the hazards and trials that were to be in store!
They were met with savages, mud, dust and howling gales,
Trudging westward, ever westward over endless hills and vales.
With visions of virgin homestead land they followed the sun.
They wouldn't be deterred from the migration they had begun!
"Prairie schooners" were crammed with goods and vital tools,
And were drawn by plodding oxen and cantankerous mules.
The caravan was under the command of a crusty wagon master.
Not to obey his ever bidding was sure to court disaster!
Alas, they left many desolate graves along the rutted track,
Victims of exhaustion, disease and fearful Indian attack.
They conquered interminable valleys and towering crests,
To fulfill their aspirations and complete their western quests!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The gray exhaust of twelve warm hearths
Chased the clouds into the afternoon sky.
There stood the stalwart mansion
At peace with its surroundings
And steadfast with its environs.
Beckoning an affectionate greeting
Just beyond the bridge, it appears
To give light the sublime levity
Of being a nuance of darkness.
Its façade is as prestigious and lucent
As a librarian’s bustline in her noblest estate.
Its walls of luminous windows
Sit still in a kinetic majesty of colors,
Like the yew tree in its bounty of crimson berries.
This refuge from the current disharmonies
Radiates from its midst an unheard music
And a conviviality suggesting a vicarious ecstacy.
Here, perhaps, is that first step in darkness
Of the empire prophesized to come,
Bringing its measureless song
Of the queen of the northern lights,
Whose monarch calms the most vociferous tempest
And warms the most bitter winter chill.
Here, under the clouds of mortal brevity,
Contained are the exotic reactions
To long suppers and golden evenings
From the replenishing of early traditions,
Beyond youth’s humblest dreams.
The twelve hearths fully aglow,
Fueled with only kindling atoms,
Tell of a future only they can know
And every human mind fathoms.
Within these high stone walls,
Lit by radiant lamps’ glare,
Every place an eye-beam falls,
There is the glory of confident flair.
The meadow’s breath a gift to all, the mist, the morning dew,
a silent sigh, a heartfelt call, a prayer to me and you.
Green and warm, full of life, the forest's skirt, the Maid's delight,
where rabbits dwell in lovers’ dells, a dream in morning light.
Gold and bright, full of life, the forest's skirt and Knight's delight;
life lies in grasses high, where lovers sleep and passion cries.
White and fair, full of life, the forest's skirt of pearly white;
burrowers sleep in bowers deep, hearths alight on chill nights.
The meadow's breath a gift to all, the mist, the morning dew;
a silent sigh, a heartfelt call, a prayer to me and you.
The men have made the meadow home, no rabbits now play there,
no deer appear so near the roads for cars bring them dispare.
The meadow was home to many things, butterflies, birds on wing,
yet, few can dwell where men reside, the forest's skirt swept aside.
The meadow’s breath a gift to all, the mist, the morning dew,
a silent sigh, a heartfelt call, a prayer to me and you.
Beneath the cusp of Sagittarius
The archer stands to aim his arrow bold
Poised to reign on heaven's great nebulous
To pierce winter's heart to usher the cold
Early frost kindles blazing hearths inside
Where huddled happy souls snuggle by fire
And speak kindred words of future Yuletides
Festively singing with voices inspired
Thanksgiving supper brings smells to delight
Friends and folks rejoice with good hearts living
The blessings of days with holidays bright
The wondrous festive 'Season of Giving'
Beneath the cusp of Sagittarius
The gift of thanks brings out the best in us
November 3, 2019
New Fall Sonnets Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Completely Your Choice (29) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
The healer strove to mark the place
to walk with heart in hand.
She placed her foot upon the path
and walked ‘pon ochre sand.
Her head was high, her gaze direct
the path before her steep;
to her goal with chattering teeth
the healer’s eyes did keep.
She went within the darkness deep,
earth's core she did explore;
with heart hearth lit and good intent
she visited earth's core.
The Mother had oft seen her there
and gifted her each day,
with lava, light, and wet warmth
the Mother watched her play.
Still, now the healer knew the truth,
a truth she must absorb.
Father lived in hearths held on high,
He was another force.
And, if the healer was to grow
help others come this way
she must go forth, rise, absorb
the upper light displayed.
With trembling lips and fearful sighs
on she purposefully strode,
this child of clay, of lava formed,
to Father’s bright abode.
And, as she rose above the clouds
into the firmament
she lost her shape, as child of earth
gained oneness in ascent.
No boundaries now held her form
except His loving grace,
this cherished child of mud, of clay;
she took her solemn place.
“Light or Dark, neither good nor bad,”
a choice the Father said.
a place for all, a purpose too
and lessons learned instead.
So, the healer turned to earth
upon that golden day.
She’d learned the joy of dark and light
found wholeness, in this way.
2026-02-12 Write A Beautiful Carpe Diem Poem — Sponsored by Constance La France
I have a butcher’s at sunlight on skin,
warm, tremulous, yet coolly indifferent.
A sparrow scuttles across sodden turf;
its head inclined, inquisitive, keen—
I smile, imagining its quiet thought,
a tiny philosopher of morning light.
The wind threads through skeletal, bare branches,
stirring peat, drizzle, and smoke from hearths afar.
I inhale—letting it suffuse my lungs,
a private liturgy pressed to my heart.
Time traverses my fingers, soft at first,
like river water shaping unseen stone,
then quickens—sharp, insistent in its beat,
resonant within the hollows of my chest.
I taste the acerbic tang of fallen berries,
feel loam yield beneath soles and marrow deep,
and in this fractured, ephemeral morning,
I recognise the miracle not quite mine:
all of this—fleeting, exact, and unbidden—
asserts its plenitude; I am suffused.
The Face of Hope
The face of hope never masquerades in forlorn visages
Towering above spiraling pits in the dark midnight of essence
Breaks disingenuous chains of nightmare’s clutches
In bleak mansions of the dark moon to warm their hearths
Refusing to prostitute possibility
With poignancy that probes lost footsteps trying to hold onto
Perfect moments of saline life support
Steps in to shine with opportunities’ bright smile
Refuses to accept the suicide of love
On rocks of the torn heart’s tragedy
Or see unscalable opaque obstacles
Or wear the mask of homeless helplessness
Discarding pity’s piercing banshee sneer
Fate’s cynical demand to fulfill obtuse fate
The face of hope refuses to wear desolate –
Or a God forsaken destiny -
Bereft of moonlight squeezing between
Abandoned footprints of dreams
Smothered by smog
A single shaft of illumination – a cloak protecting fragile insight
Never bewitched by night’s dead space,
Wearing victory’s luminosity of enduring promise,
Vanquishing a taunting laughter of ridicule
To break down anxiety’s imagined walls
Surrounding the paradise of foolishness
With dawning reveries of one bright star.
Abiding in eternal covenant
The face of hope never masquerades in forlorn visages.
5-6-21
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
I’m the prince with calloused palms
up at dawn with stifled yawns; pulling on boots
feeding pigs and herding cows - stuck in mud, it’s raining now
and as I plough, I dream of life... not on a farm
of white walled castles crowned in gold (like the tales told of old)
where beautiful princesses dance and laugh
(with roaring fires in their hearths) blowing kisses at princes
brave and bold - none of them shivering, miserably cold
but dreams are dreams, and so I plough
heir to acres; fit and well (and down in the village, there is this girl)
I have no castle, but I’ll ask for her hand
in time, a son, and new prince of this land
The meadow’s breath a gift to all, the misty mornings’ dew,
a silent sigh, a heartfelt call, a prayer to me and you.
So green and warm, and full of life, the forest skirt and the maids’ delight.
There rabbits dwell in lovers’ dells;A gauze filled dream in morning light.
So gold and bright, and full of life, the forests skirt and Knights delight;
The Dame and doe do lie, ‘pon hillocks high, where lovers sleep with passion's cry.
So white and fair, yet full of life, the forests’ skirt of pearly white;
Where burrowers sleep in bowers deep, and hearths light on winter nights.
The meadow's breath a gift to all, the misty morning’s dew;
A silent sigh, a heartfelt call, aA prayer to me and you.
Now, no green bloom, no home for them, the builders-men once more;
to take the glen and make man's homes, no deer will roam fourscore.
A meadow’s a home to many things, to bold butterflies and birds on wing,
Yet, few can dwell where men reside if forest's skirt, gives way to tide.
The meadow's breadth a gift to all, from sea to shining sea
America, a heartfelt call, a prayer to you and me.