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Lilli Sutton May 9
On main street in Sharpsburg
the man who always sits outside
is in his usual place,
and I wave to him on the drive home.
After eating in the sun, and the books
and the pet store. My sister and I
talk about it and I tell white lies
on the phone. About how I’m still
coming to Utah and how I’ve found
a place to live, but I can’t go there yet –
the truth, but slant. I keep hoping
I’ll know what to do on Monday.
It’s spring, and I mark the time
by the dead deer with necks twisted back
lining the sides of the roads. Since yesterday,
the **** parts stand out more.

Tonight I went to the river
to visit my friends and help them
make a campfire. Something I’ve always
been good at – arranging sticks,
even green ones, so they go up in flames.
We toast marshmallows and I sit close
to the ground, so my face is hot.
They leave for a little while, and I watch
the flames spread alone and listen
to the spring peepers. In the creek beside
the river they are deafening, and I want
to cover my ears on the walk back to my car.
But I leave them be, and let the cries pour in –
I know what it’s like, to be small,
to want to make noise in the world.
purple turtle Mar 10
Laughter filled the air
With no worries or cares
Bliss burned intensely
The whirling wind astir
Floating fiercely
The dawn
It's aching with blood and tears
With it
A dew doused ultimately
A spark ablaze
A lost cry carries
unto the sky
Seems he wanders
To ponder its way out
Raylind Jan 5
picture us,
lawn chairs and faces black, like kettles left
out go our hands and dark palms
For now we, the migrants
our knuckles on city doors not ours
humbled to our toes this star-less cold
dining room dreams, now on fire, mercy our new coat
neighborly faces take hands
washing them over buckets though nothing
there was no wall
We all will be at the mercy of another's doorway
Eric Babsy Sep 2018
Orange is a color to be recognized.
It is the color of a pumpkin with a demon surprise.
On Halloween it is all carved out with jagged teeth.
Take the pumpkin it is all carved out, a top, and a candle underneath

Orange is the color of Autumn.
When the leaves turn color is it not awesome?
They fall to the ground, a plucked feather.
The season of Autumn, what time could be better?

It is also the color of a basketball.
The seasons usually start in autumn as well.
Dribble and pass, drive, or shoot, your choice
When the buzzer beater is made the fans show their voice.

Orange is the color of a citrus fruit known by the same name.
It is also part of breakfast if you drink you could rise to fame.
Because of the old saying of “early to bed..”.
Can make you in the morning quick to lift your head.

Orange is also the color of a campfire;
With the provoked embers ready to inspire;
The tails that are scary;
With monsters that seem a little too hairy.

As you can see the color orange can inspire a great many things.
When you think of it I hope it inspires dreams.
Orange is the color for your creation.
Wherever you live no condemnation.
Little Lady May 2018
The fire fills the wood
It's orange embers glowing-
summer smells so good.
Writing a haiku daily
Mike M Feb 2018
With steel and flint
We strike a spark
Our hope,
to burn away the dark

A simple spark
Not all it seems
To ward off fears
rekindle dreams

Shield it well
And give it air
Feed it's needs
And take good care

And from that spark
A flame will grow
To heat the soul
And rid your woe
Julian Delia Jan 2018
(campfire poetry) WE ARE FIRE, WE COULD BE WATER

Flickering, fluttering, licking all it touches
Through another log it goes;
Spreading warmth, consuming everything,
Atoms and particles
Splitting and shifting in throes.

Fascination, energy at its purest.
An open flame, made malleable
By the hands that feed it or quench it.
There is no greater exhibition
Of something as infallible
In its awe-inspiring might
It is an eternal fight
Between that which is to be consumed
And that which is to be construed
Into something new, and different.

And so, we are one with the element
That awes us and terrifies us at the same time.
Our life is built
On the graveyard of our ancestry;
Our homes are powered
Through the sacrificial burning of past lives.
The food we eat is life from our perspective,
Yet it is death itself for all else.
The trees we cut down, the animals we torture,
The lives we take, the populations we uproot;
Our way of life is an endless reenactment
Of an ant being crushed by a boot
No life is sacred, all can be loot.

We are fire, we could be water;
A more gentle element than most.
A soothing, balming agency
Like the overachiever who dares not boast.
Both are harmful in excess,
Both can be destructive,
Only one is restorative.

And so, we choose to be fire;
We torch, burn, consume,
Until all that is around us
Transitions to its post-human state.
A lifeless mass of black and grey,
An emotionless, bottomless decay.

Alas, as these ruminations grind to a halt,
I find myself desperately looking for the fault
That has created the chasm that brought us here.
Where exactly did we go wrong?
How did we go from being masters of our fate
To this dark, ominous presence
That shrouds all there is?

The Renaissance, the Enlightenment,
and all the revolutions that were and will be;
The great men and women who dedicated their lives
For a better future.
To you, we should apologise - although it wasn't all in vain,
There still is a thousand-mile journey
One that has not gone very far.

And so, we choose to be fire,
When we could be water...
A poem about fire, written next to one.
Gabe Ouellette Oct 2017
Sitting by the fire, here we think,
Life is on the brink but all we have is us,
So why worry about wars,
when you can get look up at the stars at 1 am
teach your peer about holes in our reality,
gossip of current rumors, future tropes,
past trips and falls, runs and crawls.
Why fall when you can jump?
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