Long Woodsmoke Poems
Long Woodsmoke Poems. Below are the most popular long Woodsmoke by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Woodsmoke poems by poem length and keyword.
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)
In the stillness lies unbroken
The fragile silence of the day
When a whispering, winter wind
Comes in to rest from play
In the silence of the wood
Lies the peace, so hard to find
Lost, then found, as well I could
To collect my heart and mind
In the stillness falls the snow
And nothing else has to matter
Not the chills that come and go
Or the teeth that begin to chatter
In the stillness of the season
I see a cardinal live and thrive
Persistently, and without reason
While the coldest winters drive
In the stillness, not a mile away
There above the treetops I see
Curling woodsmoke hang and stay
From a home that waits for me
In the stillness all is well
Between the heavens and the earth
Take this moment, live it well
And know just what its worth
Woodsmoke, Laughter, and Warmth
Sunlight slanting through pines,
the creak's cold whisper,
a child's echo of laughter.
Bare feet on smooth stones, slick with moss.
Ankle-deep in melted snow, a shiver on the skin.
The taste of distant winter, sharp and clean.
Splintered light on the water's surface,
a fleeting mirror of a girl's wonder.
Flickering flames,
a circle of warmth,
faces I know by heart.
The mountain's breath a memory.
Drying by the fire,
the scent of woodsmoke clinging to a wet t-shirt.
Laughter, a low hum of stories,
spun in the smoke that rises and disappears.
Hands held out to the heat,
the red glow on fingertips.
The day a perfect circle, beginning and ending here.
A final, deep breath before the chill returns.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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.
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.
The green of summer gently yields its hold,
As England wakes to amber, rust, and gold.
A sudden chill infects the morning breeze,
And whispers briskly through the changing trees.
The morning mist hangs low upon the down,
And wraps in silk each sleepy market town.
Above the fields, the fractured sunbeams break,
To paint a golden path across the lake.
The ancient oaks that guard the country lanes,
Now drop their heavy, bronze-encrusted chains.
The acorns fall, the chestnuts split their shells,
While woodsmoke rises from the hidden dells.
Along the hedgerows, scarlet berries gleam,
Like crimson jewels caught within a dream.
The robin sings his solitary note,
A melancholy tune from feathered throat.
In hollowed ways where shadows love to hide,
The copper leaves are swirling side by side.
They dance in circles on the dampening earth,
A final waltz of beauty and of worth.
The rivers flow with slower, deeper grace,
Reflecting winter’s fast-approaching face.
Yet in this fading light, a magic dwells,
Enchanting mossy banks and rocky fells.
The churchyard yews stand solemn in the rain,
As yellow fields surrender all their grain.
The harvest gathered, and the barns filled high,
Beneath a pale and shifting northern sky.
And as the twilight pulls its curtain down,
And throws a violet cloak across the town,
The hearths are lit, the cozy parlors glow,
Defying winds that from the ocean blow.
For autumn here is not a sudden death,
But nature holding in her sacred breath.
A beautiful, prolonged, and golden sigh,
Before the silver snows of winter fly.
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.
"A melody whispers through the trees in the Autumnal season.
A colorful song, a sing along, and nature's beauty is the reason."
~ by poet
In the night, a mellow mist softly veiled
verdant meadows, and over valleys it hailed.
But in dawning skies, sunshine prevailed.
His golden rays warmed the lands,
and it was trusted to him for safe keeping.
Leaves rustled from gentle winds sweeping
as willow branches began their weeping.
Autumnal changes made many demands.
Tree limbs are bare in this season of the year.
They seem to be desolately sad and drear
as though gloomy, in mourning they appear.
In a flux of malaise is a grove of elms.
Pumpkins are being harvested in fields.
Maize and wheat crops giving abundant yields.
Scythes, the tools, the farmer now wields.
With a chromatic palette, Autumn overwhelms.
Upon heavy boughs, ripened apples teeter.
The early harvest produces those much sweeter.
These things I see and write in poetic meter.
I see migratory birds flapping their wings.
Daylight dims much sooner in this season.
Mother Nature's calendar is the reason
the night air has a chill that I find quite pleasin.'
What breathtaking landscapes, Autumn brings.
Shades of crimson, burnt umber and gold
covers hillsides with hues so strikingly bold.
Blazing, like flames of fire, the colors unfold.
The scent of oak woodsmoke fills the air.
Keats' 'To Autumn,' speaks of "swelling the gourd."
Squirrels are scurrying to collect acorns to hoard,
and we'll have a feast in thanksgiving to our Lord.
Autumnal glory has a vivid flare beyond compare.
You have come mightily upon my brows,
Yet blessing my folly when I had cried nude and
Watery,
My vagitus loud with the frenetic timbre of wartime
You have swept through the corridors of
Silhouetted stalks, fanning lean, vertical leaves that shield
The nakedness of the African seasons —perched
And soggy,
And at waking time, when November bares its
Thunder-whetted fangs with the ruthlessness of a Puff adder.
It is cold and skin-whitening.
Streaks of flaking, dancing rods descend on femurs un-pumiced.
Dehydrated throats accompany ancestral hymns on the
Humming bees’ melody, stifling the courage of the Tchagra.
Drab, and cracking the serrated softness of heels and
Stale, moss-ridden kernels, the waves of the storm,
Blinding, besiege our common sempervirence,
Long lost among the blurred firmamental gaze
And straw-gold material upon this prostituted earth.
Snuggly warmth comes by the power of woodsmoke
When dawn, shy from the raillery of the rising sun,
Hastens to the coronation of sacred rain beyond
Our limits —a pomp of relegated and flustered seasons.
The scorching yellow has dim
and the cuckoos call out to each other.
parading above the paddy of gold
are grey tufts of warm and humid clouds
lunging onto the trees,
with crackles and flashes of silver light.
Boughs of ripe mangoes sway
marigolds and freesias cup all they get
quenching their thirst after a rigid summer’s reign.
Tapping on my roof
like a child playing drums on dinner plates
the pitter and patter goes on.
the earthy smell rise as weeds stretch and flowers yawn.
the season of rain
of nature’s music, of cold nights and
new blooms.
The season of mirth as woodsmoke
tangle with petrichor.
Rain like a true Knight
galloping around.