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.


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




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



  1. 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:


    Who would
    have considered
    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.

  2. 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.

  3. Walt, I love the way your poem builds “from the first smiled hello.” So much vitality. Wonderful.

  4. 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.

  5. Pingback: AUTUMN AWAKENS (Sonnet for my favorite season) | pictured words

  6. 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.

  7. 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
    firefight below,
    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,
    important matters
    to attend to.
    Easy now to understand, 
    no matter the task,
    the work is peace,
    all that really matters.,
    all for which I pray.

  8. .
    fire light
    reflects in eyes

    the somber
    thoughts that hold

    one back
    to better times

    diamond sparks
    wing new possibilities.

  9. 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.

  10. Autumn Campfire

    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


    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

  12. 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
    To smell
    Consuming forest fires
    A pray-er, a thank-God-I’m—
    Not-going-to-hell giver
    Heavenly tongs touch lips
    Lips and finger
    With live coals
    Who will go?
    Thunder cracks
    Send me
    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 Franklin

  13. 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.


  14. 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
    Still another
    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
    Undeniably impressive
    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
    His mouth
    His eyes
    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
    Burns brightly

    • 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!

    • WOW.

      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!

  15. 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.

  16. A Fire’s Remains

    What 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.

    What remains
    of promises?
    Remembrance vague and gray,
    cold and ashen vows, once said
    with fire and passion,
    minds unheeded, shadowed by the flames.

    What remains
    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

  17. 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.

  18. 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.

  19. 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,.


    Heat rises,
    so does hope
    and desire.
    Passion soars
    and burns inside
    like a fire.
    It may grow
    when provoked
    with a kiss.
    It may die
    when tears fall
    with a hiss.

  21. 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.

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