This prompt sort of plays in with our first two prompts. A fire can combat the cold and could supply the smells of which we wrote. But what about fire? Write a beneficial or detrimental aspect of fire. It might be a forest fire, a bonfire, a fire in the hearth, even a fire in the hole if it fits within the parameters of our challenge. It’s good to ignite our collective muse and choose to let our words blaze.
MARIE’S BURNING DESIRE:
Autumn Awakens (sonnet for my favorite season)
Its very shadows fall uniquely fall
And that begins the season, in my eyes.
Trees flame with reds, or yellow fireballs
As autumn’s colors blaze against blue skies.
It sets my heart alight, and makes me smile.
Its cool air feels delightful to breathe in.
Its mood ignites a passion in my soul.
It is my chosen season – long has been.
Trees captivate me as their colors spill,
Like kindling for reflections long-since gone –
The merriment my child-heart treasures, still.
So much to love … excuse my rambling on …
But passion for Ohio’s autumn days
Will burn in me forever and always.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
WALT’S SMOLDERING EMBER:
The ember glows, left to smolder,
the smell of burning leaves fills him,
fending the colder temperatures off
and setting off a blaze of uncontrollable
ferocity. The seeds of love become a blaze
just as volatile. From the first smiled hello
until you are both consumed by its pyre,
love is a fire. It is consuming yet not
destructive, it is instructive and nurturing.
Love will penetrate you and warm your
insides until you are ablaze with her.
You can be sure if you play with fire,
you’re going to get burned.
And fires eventually lose their glow,
from blaze to simmer to smolder and die.
And so someday will you and I.
But, we’ll keep our fire burning until then.
© Walter J Wojtanik, 2018
126 thoughts on “DAY 3 – AUTUMNAL P.A.D. CHAPBOOK EXERCISE: FIRE”
Sonnets first thing in the morning, Marie…my mind has been splashed awake! Then, I read Walt’s fuel to the fire…Wow! I’m all a-tinder!!
PS. Walt or Marie, could you direct me to the instructions that talk about using lines from past poems. I cannot find it and must have missed it in the crash of my computer. Thanks!!
The instruction is in the body of this prompt, Linda.
That’s me, your friendly neighborhood poetic pyre starter! Thanks, Linda!
Walt, such a lovely, sad ending. Marie, that sonnet is pure autumn gold.
If I understand correctly, my poems are supposed to have seed lines or phrases from the poem I posted on 4 October in response to the Bloomings post of 30 September (How Have the Mighty Fallen). Accordingly, I used “orange and yellow” from that poem in the offering below:
that passions start with fires
comprising orange and yellow
Love this, William. Embers are like hope in ashes.
I understood, maybe incorrectly, that we use a line from the first poem in the second, a line from the second in the third…as a chain. Maybe we have the option of either approach. (Our good taskmasters are not so rigid, thank goodness.)
Great incorporation of the line, Bill. Not all lines come from that poem. Today’s poem culls a line (or phrase) from YESTERDAY’S poem, and so forth. And As I said, no points off if you forget or find it too taxing. The key , as it has always been here, is about the process. If you write a draft of a poem, you (and we) have done our “jobs” (“Jobs” in quotation mark because if you love what you do, you’ll never “work” a day in your life.) We all seem to be enjoying ourselves.
Thanks, Walt and Damon. I did misunderstand. If I had understood correctly I would not have used Crapsey cinquains, I guess; it’s hard to use whole lines from point to point with that form. I will try to fit into the intention, though, as it should be fun. I agree that the point is to enjoy the process of creating poems, but the challenge should be fascinating.
you could use phrases or fragments of lines to achieve that goal William. That goes for every one. Just some link back that touches you original thought
Well, glad you cleared that one up. New try on Thursday.
Lovely question! Nicely done.
Marie, your sonnet catches my eye and fits my sentiments exactly. I’m guessing you live in northern Ohio, where the cold comes first. Thanks for this piece.
Marie and I had (still have) a blog together called, “Across the Lake, Eerily”. You know where Buffalo sits in relation to Lake Erie. Marie’s Toledo (Maumee) is at the extreme opposite point of the lake from me. So if that’s Northern then…
I’ve been in various parts of Ohio, and the southern part, around Dayton and Cincinnati, feels a lot different than the part around Cleveland. Never been to Toledo, though.
Yes. I was born in Columbus (GO BUCKS!), raised mostly on the eastern side of the state, spent my high school years in Florida, and have lived nearly my entire adult life in Northwest Ohio. We are right by the Michigan border.
Ooh! You said the “M” word!
I know! I know! I haven’t slept a wink since! 😀
Walt, I love the way your poem builds “from the first smiled hello.” So much vitality. Wonderful.
Thanks, Wills. Finding my vitality one day at a time.
Marie, oh how I want to slide through Ohio again now, in the FALL! Only visited once on a drive thru to Syracuse. Amazing country, will have to return. Fall is here now as well it seems, our cold front has seemingly stuck.
Walt, your pictured pyre is beautiful, flamed into a passionate blaze by well sparked words. Loved it.
Comment much appreciated, Damon. I always think of fire in “romantic” terms in spite of its destructive qualities.
Come on in!
Pingback: AUTUMN AWAKENS (Sonnet for my favorite season) | pictured words
Chaining? Drat! I went off the first one. Gonna need all two weeks to get straight.
Two days and early voting begins.
Political Action ads strike sparks
off their dueling claims. The lies,
the acrid, nose-pinching smell
of something electrical scorching
inside the wall, hidden and deadly.
They make any choice seem wrong,
but if they want flames of rebellion
to rise from, a one-viewpoint Phoenix,
they’re flat out of luck. We argue,
indivisibly. Anyway, soon it will rain.
Anyway, you make me smile
Count me among your grinning admirers. 😉
Yes, bring in the rain. Thanks Barbara.
Change is the only constant! Well written.
Rain is a better choice.
Marie and Walt, your works are so gorgeous that they are almost intimidating. I said almost, working at it now
Wow. *blushblush* Thank you for your kind and generous words!
Fall of ‘67
October 27, 0230,
I’m falling, then flying,
perhaps from friendly fire,
death surely on its way.
I see my mother in the light,
dead these nine years.
I am no longer matter,
floating high above the
clear even in the darkness
of this early day.
Go back, she tells me,
you are not to stay,
still work for you to do,
to attend to.
Easy now to understand,
no matter the task,
the work is peace,
all that really matters.,
all for which I pray.
This reminds me that mztter and energy are one. Wonderful.
Whenching and commendable. This is a powerful piece of poetry for sure, Daniel. We are all matter, and that’s all that matters serving Him who made us matter.
Speaking of intimidatingly beautiful work. Daniel, this story will always hold me captive. Please, don’t think I am using that term lightly, or trying to be humorous. I just don’t know any other way to better express it. Such powerful words, here.
I agree w others Daniel, powerful and heart rending.
reflects in eyes
thoughts that hold
to better times
wing new possibilities.
I am delighting in the Fall offerings in poetic form. Marie and Walt yours are so discreptive they make fall happen anywhere.
Thanks Marjory. All these poems are making fall happen all around. I love reading the various aspects of fall in all of your poems as well!
Thank you, Marjory, and ditto what Walt said.
Clear and hopeful little piece. Very nice, Marjory!
Marjory, something so pensive about the power of fire on mind, and your offering captures it.
One Last Cookout
In the country neighborhood,
where I grew up, we were
mostly relatives along with
some long-time friends.
When fall colors, crisp air and smells
would cast on us their fallish spells,
we would almost in unison decide
it was time for one last wiener roast.
We kids would run to the woods
to cut marshmallow and wiener sticks,
while moms would cook goodies
and dads would build the camp fire.
We’d all gather at one of our homes
and spend the evening eating
playing games and toasting hotdogs
and marshmallows on the campfire.
And when the embers would glow,
and we sang all the songs we knew,
and our fingers and noses were cold,
we’d call it a night, tired and content.
Done right, like this one, my favorite type of theme
You’ve taken me right back to childhood memories! *sigh* LOVE this, Connie. Thanks for taking me with you!
What a wonderful activity and memory to reclaim through a delightful poem Connie
Oh Connie, the round of images and memories that carried us to that contentment was so warm and satisfying. Beautiful.
I always try to squeeze every last opportunity in before it freezes over, Connie. Although I have grilled on Super Bowl Sunday. I’m just that way. A wonderful memory and a well written one at that.
This made me smile and sigh for childhood.
oh, the smoke that swirls
on a chilly breeze that ruffles
through our hair and stings our eyes
oh, the smoke that seems to
follow us as we run from one
side of the fire to the other
oh, the smoke whose flavor
infuses out hot dogs and
crispy brown marshmallows
oh, how I love the smoke that
rises up into the sky carrying
our dreams straight to heaven
Personal, yet universal. Perfect
This, on the heals of Connies, makes me smile wide! Especially your final thought. Lovely!
Your words bring back wonderful family memories, Thanks Candy
Just perfect. Loved it.
You’re making the angels hungry with this, Candy! Love the way you’ve strung this together with the “Oh the smoke…” phrase. Wonderful sentiment!
Lovely poem, Candy!
SEA OF FLAMES
The sun ignites the waves, rolling in after the storm
as day tucks itself under the edge of horizons comforter.
I breathe in deeply, eyes shut to this time and space,
daydreaming of youthful follies, when life seemed endless.
Now, in the autumn of years, my spirit resonates with the call of geese,
the blaze of colors and the fire of sunsets by the sea.
(c) 2018 Linda M. Rhinehart Neas
Beautiful, Linda. Just beautiful. And I appreciate the many “fire” words you incorporated.
Oh Linda, this deep breath is rich with hues of satisfaction and contentment.
Thank you, my friends. I enjoyed writing this one very much!
The progression of life register well in this poem, Linda. Now
We take the time to appreciate all we have taken for granted. I relate well to this. Thank you.
‘as day tucks itself under the edge of horizons comforter.” What a cozy image that brings.
picked up lines from the t itle poem and yesterday’s poem
Something in me fears a fire
Bambi’s mother died too young
JFK died of bullet fire
on a cold November day
And I live close enough
Consuming forest fires
A pray-er, a thank-God-I’m—
Heavenly tongs touch lips
Lips and finger
With live coals
Who will go?
Into the cataclysm
Fireproofed by God’s grace
Protected by His love
Pentecost fires still
fuel new growth
until next season
and a final
Darlene, well written confidence in His power and sovereignty.
Wow, Darlene…such much in this. Well done!
As all have said, this is a thought provoking and powerful poem. It had touched many hearts here, Darlene.
Thanks to all of you. A very personal poem for me.
playing on the street
in front of
drop to the ground screaming–
prey of drive-by fire.
Made me gasp!
It is a tragedy hitting too many neighborhoods. How can you warn a child about staying away from stray bullets?
I can hardly contemplate the subject. What times we are living in. 😦
Reality is some time hard to accept especially when one had so much ‘safe’ freedom as a child . Well written.
Thanks, Marjory. We really did have much more freedom, and less warnings.
A sad commentary on our times, Sara. City life could be a walk through some treacherous surroundings. But surely it’s not confined there. I guess I never thought of that fire. An astute observation.
Thanks, Walt. It may not be confined to city life, but there is more of a chance that someone will be hit.
I have to agree with Marie. Gasped. Reality.
In case I haven’t said it lately, Walt, THANK YOU. Thank you for this. For being willing to reopen the garden with me. For your amazing ability to prompt poetic words again and again and again.
And THANK YOU, dear poets! Thank you all for peeking in. For your generous offerings of your precious time and incredibly creative and skilled words. For your encouragement for one another. For your kindness. For your the variety of beautiful blooms you plant and cultivate to selflessly share.
Aw, gosh folks! I’m … what is that when you can’t think of what to say? Oh yes, speechless! A labor of love. This has become what used to be, a genuine sharing of thoughts and Emotions in an environment of support and love. All in a non-competitive way. Thank YOU Marie for asking. I had been itching to do this again. All the various regenerations of this place fell short without you. It’s good to be “home” with this family of poets! Thank you all!
Warm smiles to ya.
You guys keep us blooming!
The prompt was fire, and ironically I spent the afternoon tending the fire we used to heat up the hot meals we served the workers for Hurricane Michael relief just North of Panama City. Great time. Met a lot of great and grateful people. Back tomorrow for more.
The first spark didn’t take
Snuffed out by resistance
Snuffed out again
This time by selfishness
One more try
But to no avail
The ego prevailed
Then the sparks took a hiatus
For years they laid dormant
What was the use
They’d just be snuffed out
Or so they thought
But then one strange night
One very, very strange night
Some forty years ago
He accepted an invitation
To a “Men’s Conference”
Thinking it something different
From what it actually was
But he could handle it
He was tougher than most
No sparks had stuck thus far
They’d not even smoldered
And he was ready to douse
Any embers thrown his way
His fire proofing was tight
Then the festivities began
First came the musical sparks
Lyrics that cut to the bone
Convicted the soul
Caused inescapable thought
The spark began to smolder
Then came the testimonies
Heartfelt and honest
Spark after spark intensified
Far too many to snuff out
And the smoldering grew
Then an elderly man stood up
Shorts and a Hawaiian shirt
Flip-flops and black socks
A real picture of fashion
He sauntered to the podium
And studied the crowd
Suddenly out of the silence
The old man broke character
His lips spoke of the Way
His right hand held the Truth
His message preached new Life
Loudly and confidently
The sparks began to fly
From his fingers
And his Bible
Sparks of conviction
Sparks of truth
Sparks that burnt to the quick
All landing in one heart
Adding to those from before
Those still smoldering
Unable to be snuffed out
Suddenly the toughness was gone
The dousing was ineffective
The defenses were down
And the sparks on his heart
Ignited into a fire
That to this day
Earl, love this fiery conversion!
And thanks for serving in the relief.
It’s amazing what a spark can ignite to blaze brightly. It smolders, flickers, bursts to flame and blazes. Love the commitment and dedication to our sisters and brothers, Earl. We’re grateful for you!
Okay, first and foremost, thank you for your generous giving of time and resources to those in great need from the destruction Michael caused. Truly. Thank you!
And next, this poem. Damon used the term “fiery conversion,” and that is spot on! Your words inspire, Earl. They point to our God. Our loving Savior. THANK YOU, SIR!
Oops. Messed up again. I started a poem with a line from a previous poem but didn’t like the direction was going, so switched gears and forgot to repeat a line. My bad. I’ll have to take two lines from this one for tomorrow’s prompt.
It’s fine, Earl. With a poem like this, I think we can forgive the oversight.
A Fire’s Remains
of last night’s blaze?
A consequence of embers,
nearly cold in ashes gray
barely old after a night
when we agreed to dare to speak our minds.
Remembrance vague and gray,
cold and ashen vows, once said
with fire and passion,
minds unheeded, shadowed by the flames.
of last night’s blaze?
A dusty scent of fireplace ashes,
gray and black words rendered
into powder, whiffed,
swept upward thru a flue
when doors are opened to cold winter winds.
© Damon Dean, 2018
What remains is this poem and it’s brilliance. Emotion rules the day, Damon. Nice!
Damon, let me just say that I look forward to your words every single day. And this is a prime example of why. So glad you are here, and so generous with your poetic mind!
And I to yours…[i]et al.[/I].
Agree with Walt. This poem is touched by brilliance.
Chairs gathered round the fire,
crackling, snapping flames desire
it’s lapping, licking at the log
on the wind it’s dancing, prancing smoky fog
welcoming friends both new and old
to share spectacular stories untold.
Oh my friend, you are getting more and more skilled at writing verse! Loving the internal rhymes that add so much to the end rhymes! I’m impressed! (And did you mean to end with untrue? Or maybe untold?)
“lapping, licking at the log” and ” dancing, prancing smoky fog” … sooooooooo poetic!
Thanks. You and Walt…YES. I meant untold, but you know…mistakes fly from my fingertips. 😉
Join the club! 😀
Possibly untold? I can fix it if you need to, Shelly. But I do fancy this bit of poetics greatly.
Well, it’s untold now!
Shelly, I just LOVE this…. the “crackling, snapping” flames predict the chatter of shared stories.
Love the use of all those action-popping words!
Okay, This refers to yesterday.
My neighbor’s burning leaves and yard debris
under the oaks that border our driveway.
The smoke and crackling catbriar confuse me.
The slight danger, utility, beauty.
A century or two ago, my young
mother, remembering her rural tweens,
set fire to our yard to rid it of weeds.
Imprinted on my mind like a postcard,
fire that rose like hot breath from the grass,
and the blue sky with just a few fast clouds.
Years later, we would laugh about the wind
and Mrs. Primm next door in an apron
ruining her shoes to stomp out new fires.
The green leaky garden hose that saved us
from catastrophe should have been bronzed.
I’d love to have that piece of yard art now,
and a flag to show the wind’s direction.
Smiling at the detail of this imaginative memory, Barbara. Memoir worthy, me thinks!
What an entertaining read, Barbara! You are excellent at weaving mood through your stories. Such skill and talent!
Oh, Barbara…what a fantastic memory. I have similar moments in my childhood. Dad once set afire the underbrush in the city park across the street so Mom could glance out her window and see the local pond….it got out of hand and nearly started a forest fire! All the local kids and neighbors were slapping yardbrooms and stomping flames. Till the fire department arrived and saved the day. None of the firemen had aprons on, tho.
This is just such a perfectly related memory, so well written. Thanks,.
“None of the firemen had aprons on” made me grin. And I must say, what a loving (albeit risky) act of your dad toward your mom. That’s love.
so does hope
and burns inside
like a fire.
It may grow
with a kiss.
It may die
when tears fall
with a hiss.
Either way you get steam, Linda! A lovely and incendiary look at love and fire. Exceptional!
Love this, Linda!
As do I. And I must say, if I didn’t see who wrote this and had to guess? I’d say Sarah. 😉 That’s a compliment to you both.
So, I’ve two different sets going, if you wonder. I have this issue that I can’t let things go unfinished & I started two, so…..I have to finish. 😦
Burning from Above
Who will lead this captive to victory?
Is there one who from smack can set me free?
I beg, plead, cry, wonder if hope exists
beyond the pseudo-peace, numb of drugged bliss.
Who has the strength to rescue from this pit?
Who from memories can give me respite?
I cry in terror through the night, wishing for
heart’s release from shame’s claim and guilt’s waged war .
Full of the Father’s aroma of love
His grace is a fire burning from above
Consuming the guilt and the shame in me
torching my chains, proclaiming victory
Answering my debt with His provision
Giving me sight, restoring my vision.
Beautiful, Shelley. Amen!
Two powerful poems! Bookends, really. Wow …
Walt, such a lovely, sad ending.
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