POETIC BLOOMINGS

POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.

GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – CAMPFIRE

July 10th – Today we are huddled around the campfire. We are swapping stories. We are listening to the sounds around us. We join in a song or two. Or we look at the flames and just clear our heads and dream. Write about fire. Or marshmallows (the s’more, the merrier). Ash and sparks. Or an internal flame! Think campfire and tell us what the image inspires inside you!

 

STAYING ON THE TRAIL

July 9 – FOLLOW THE LEADER

July 8 – POET CAMP

July 7 – INTENSE IN TENTS

July 6 – HELLO MUDDAH, HELLO FADDAH

July 5 – DID YOU HEAR THAT?

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74 thoughts on “GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – CAMPFIRE

  1. Marjory MT on said:

    10 CAMPFIRE

    Within the burning coals we
    seek to find anew that
    one hot, hidden spark
    that erupted
    Igniting
    our first
    love.
    Marjory M Thompson 2014

  2. Marjory MT on said:

    WALT, I love the July PAD and it’s subject matter. My schedule is just not letting me get posted what I do write, Hopefully I will get them all in place before the end of the month. I loved camping it was a big part of my growing years. Thank you especially for your ‘passing on your mom’s comments about Typ-o’s.’ … 🙂

  3. William Preston on said:

    IN THE OPEN

    A cold night
    and stars high-bright
    and campfire burning low
    make summer in the mountains feel
    like nothing else is quite so real.
    The universe can flow
    across the sky
    while here I lie
    as embers leach their glow.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  4. Pingback: Campfire’s Burning | Vivinfrance's Blog

  5. Awakened

    Laughter, jokes, singing, debate
    around a pleasant, friendly fire
    now it is late
    night collapsed upon itself
    gentle, hushed, reverent.
    I stare into the flames as
    a pleasant lassitude settles in
    and see nothing but
    the hissing, hungry flames
    darting, dancing,
    swirling, twirling
    in wild abandon
    igniting a fire
    in my tepid heart
    a fury
    to be that free
    unrestrained
    burning with passion
    at the joy of being.

  6. GOOD MORNING, SUN

    Gold coin in the vast sky,
    You don’t fool me one bit.
    All day you spew fire
    In your galactic neighborhood
    To impress all those rock spheres
    Floating like ornaments,
    Attending the birth
    Of still another new day.

    How you strut your blazing stuff
    Down the cakewalk sky!
    The bravado you show:
    Is it meant to impress us?
    We of this green planet,
    We of the wooded forests
    And the cool blue oceans,
    We know you are lonely.

    #

  7. flashpoetguy on said:

    A LOVE POEM IN JULY

    True love can set
    two hearts on fire,
    forge within the flames
    pure golden happy lives,
    but love must stay true,
    keep its distance from deceit.
    Two hearts must beat as one
    yet remain always two,
    and lovers to survive
    must love God more than
    each other and walk in His Light,
    be totally consumed within
    a conflagration that true love
    ignites for all eternity.

    #

  8. (Poem w/image: http://lettheballoonssailmeaway.wordpress.com)

    Smoldering

    I see him there
    in firelight’s glow
    Those eyes burning
    And I want to know
    More, so much more
    And where, where
    this will go.

  9. SCORCHED EARTH POLICY

    Condescending diatribe,
    incendiary words meant to consume
    the essence of all in its path.
    A logical progression
    in the succession of all things in sight.
    Leaving nothing behind,
    an endless string of pathos and heart,
    a man who could fashion line,
    chapter and verse, and what’s worse,
    stand by his convictions to rise
    above the smouldering ashes,
    proverbial phoenix of passion’s pyre.
    The fire within becomes his sin,
    leaving nothing in his wake,
    taking stock of every nuance
    of worded profundity, the undoing
    of a finely crafted association,
    no celebration; no elation.
    Just the station to which he has
    himself resigned. For in his mind,
    he holds the flint that will spark
    his survival; a revival. He will not
    look back lest he turn to salt.
    Poetic Gomorrah is burning.
    He will not fan the flames.
    Just let the bastard burn and walk away.

    (C) Walter J Wojtanik, 2014

  10. flashpoetguy on said:

    CAMPFIRE SECRETS

    Weary eyes squint out of focus
    staring into the blazing campfire
    in search of signs,
    portents perhaps of the future
    the way Superman’s x-ray vision
    pierced steel walls
    or the dark muscovian eyes
    of Rasputin held the czarina’s gaze

    What am I looking for?
    Marshmallow buildings up in flames
    reveal what to me?
    The owl above us in the trees
    hoots a plaintive song of night
    or of things to come?
    Are the fires consuming the branches
    gentle ocean waves or Hell-beckoning fingers?

    Jimmy Hogan says he has one more
    spine-tingling tale to tell
    but I half-listen, still caught up
    in the hypnotic swirl of the campfire.
    “Where is my head?” asks Jimmy’s beast.
    “Who stole my head?” he asks, touching each of us.
    As the fires begin to take on what feels like someday,
    Hogan pokes my chest, screams in my ear, “YOU!”

    #

  11. RJ Clarken on said:

    The Near-Sighted Firefly

    Although quite blurred, he saw a flame
    and figured that was where he’d aim.
    But strangely, ‘round the glow were sounds
    that sounded human. That confounds,
    he thought, but nonetheless, he came

    much closer to the heat and light.
    Poor lightning bug with myope sight.
    [When one flies into blazing fire,
    one’s consequences could be dire –
    he needed intervention, right?]

    So…near the campfire, someone laid,
    mistakenly, a vision aid.
    A pair of glasses had been dropped
    and it was here the firefly flopped.
    The lenses showed that he had strayed –

    but just before he flew away
    good Karma he did thus repay.
    The kid who lost her ‘helpful’ specs
    now found them since bug-light reflects.
    And that’s our campfire take-away.

    ###

  12. ‘Round the Campfire

    We strum
    We sing
    We’re doing the sing-a-long thing
    The fire
    Getting’ higher
    As we join in a somewhat odd choir

    It’s the evening campfire time
    Singing songs with lines that all rhyme
    Don’t really care who’s off key
    It’s praise time, can’t you see

    The girls
    And the boys
    In a circle making some noise
    Fire burns
    Sparks fly
    As we all sing “Sweet Bye and Bye”

    At Bible Camp at the end of each day
    We’d sing, we’d talk, and we’d pray
    And think what our lives were all about
    As we waited for the fire to burn out

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  13. Darlene Franklin on said:

    Here again is my attempt at humor. . .you can probably guess why I have called myself “humor-challenged.” Thank Bambi for my phobia.

    SPARKS

    Campfires bring different mem’ries to mind
    Eat burn-black marshmallows, sing songs that bind
    Not me! Not me! Rainless Southwest
    Under burn ban, and fire’s a pest
    Sparks, once my name, I changed without regret
    Not me! Not me! Campfire sparks are a threat

  14. Pingback: Spirit Kindling AND Little Light Bearers | Metaphors and Smiles

  15. Spirit Kindling

    The meadow is silent but for the sound of crickets
    and the hollow echoing croaks of pond frogs.
    The night is dark but for the sky lit of stars
    and the frequent blinking lights of fireflies afield.
    My soul is still but for the constant awe rising
    and the ever-glowing ember of inspiration igniting.

    Nature’s way is written in lengths of lavender
    purple plumes set the scene aflame with beauty,
    wildflowers grace the stage in surges of color
    and their scent on summer breeze is consuming.
    Blooming and fading they’ll each take their turn,
    fading and making space for the next set of glory.

    A story unfolds in intricate layers everyday
    it’s written in crickets, stars and fireflies –
    it’s scripted in soul-stirrings and blooming.
    Lavender scented memories plant poignantly
    light and lushness seed one’s spirit deeply
    and I’m set ablaze again by the brilliant season.

    AND…

    Little Light Bearers

    Tiny harbingers of luminescence guide my path tonight,
    small lamp of great delights remind me to breathe as a child –
    full of wonder and awe for a simple gift blinking in the night.
    Fill me forever with your treasure that I might see with eyes afire,
    that I may be fervent for life, thank you, Little Light Bearers.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  16. Priti on said:

    At The Campfire
    Dragon moon, half awake
    gleaning my sleepy attention
    as I watch feisty kindling flames
    maneuver their soaring imagination

    The dance of light and dark
    amplifying night time velvet burn
    that flits and flirts with an inky flare
    encompassing an embracing enthrall

    Nascent stirring sparks
    fly on invisible broomsticks
    into goose bumps of owl stories
    dousing them in gossamer laughter

    There is an ochre sacredness here
    smoldering logs and cravings of frogs
    an unpretentious hewn warming of souls
    a common ground crackling away at layers

    Look there, swirling in phantom smoke
    out there, glistening in purple fronds
    between that half-lit dreamy glaze
    there blows an ashy hint of you!–

  17. Sorry this is so late. I’ve been a bit tied up today. Here’s my little offering for today.

    Fire’s Heart

    Flames dance a jig
    of joy for their release,
    winding upward toward
    starlit darkened skies.

    In fire’s heart lay ingots
    of red-gold coals fueling
    the heat, the life,
    releasing dreams for flight.

  18. Darlene Franklin on said:

    Claudsy, as a newcomer to poetry, I enjoy shorter poems to the point, and I love this one!

  19. connielpeters on said:

    Around the Campfire

    Around the campfire, we breathe in smoky air.
    The flames dance up and down, as if they have no care.
    We toast marshmallows and hotdogs on long and pointed sticks,
    watching orange and yellow tongues get in their fiery licks.
    Then we load our flimsy plates with goodies brought to share.

    We watch with fascination, from each folding chair,
    twigs, paper, plastic cups meet their end right there.
    It’s how we sometimes get our kicks,
    around the campfire.

    And when red embers glow, we dare
    tell scary stories or sing with flair.
    With words and melodies we transfix,
    when gasps and laughter oddly mix,
    till we have no more time to spare,
    around the campfire.

  20. Burnt Marshmallows

    The flame flares higher,
    grab a stick.
    Push top through
    center of marshmallow, wait.
    When singed to black, eat.

  21. Marjory MT on said:

    🙂 Ya got that down pat.

  22. Pingback: Campcide Tales, Day 10: Firecide | The Chalk Hills Journal

  23. Before the Last Star Fades Away

    We sit by the campfire
    telling stories, singing,
    sharing our adventures of the day
    but slowly we disappear
    one by one
    as sleep beckons,
    until
    I’m the last man sitting
    gazing at the dance
    between smoke and flame
    and I’m metaphorically drawn
    to compare life’s relationships
    to the dance before me
    even while my brain is
    slowly hypnotized by the
    soothing arcs and bends
    and I let life fall away
    as I become complacent
    with the dying dance before me.

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