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Rangzeb Hussain Nov 2010
The walking dead slumber with deadly aim
and let sleeping dogs die,
Mongrels
heat anger in forges of spiteful flame,
Corpses see and hear more
than these walking sightless, tongueless, earless
lifeless poor,
When shall these sleepers awake?

The Bonfire had been piled high,
Almost reaching the cold abode of Mars,
The fear to light it was replaced by
recklessness as the season rolled on.

The stage was set and the audience of
Porcupines and hawks were eager, impatient
for the peaceful Overture to expire
and the deadly Act to commence.

Young Spring was delivered from the womb
and cried for nourishment
when,
Suddenly,
The last bars of the Overture faded into obscurity
and
“The Unholy Holy Crusade”
was ignited upon the starry stage.

The embers of Autumn burst into lashings of blame’s flames
and into forgetful numb snow did the show go.

The porcupines raised high their itchy spikes
to cast their vote of united damnation
while the crowds outside the theatre
cheered the unseen and unheard.

Earth herself
trembled beneath the raw fury of the
Satanic Play,
The volcanic eruption of unnatural hatred threatened
to torch the outer reaches of Mars.

This Bonfire of passionate poison
showered upon the naked body of Truth,
First it gagged and then it bagged Dad,
Mum’s screaming lungs were ****** out,
Her ears were drummed
while her lovely eyes sprouted wings
and flew out from their socket cages,
Her seductive legs snapped away
from the weight of her body
and waltzed headlong into the vaporised night,
Her faithful Left arm stayed to comfort her
but the Right one was yanked away and eloped with a
hot man-made
mushroom cloud that blotted the heavens,
The people were hugging loved ones tightly as they scattered
in the winds of bombastic devastation.

Moonlight dripping from the eyes of a restless red Moon,
Lone witness to the uncivilised crime.

The stork brought a newly born Life
wrapped in the soft garments of innocence,
He held the precious Life in his beak carefully,
caringly, lovingly,
On Bonfire Night he delivered the package to
a young ****** bride,
When the present was unwrapped
warm flames kissed the young baby inside,
A newly born Life arrived,
She was wrapped in soft and sinless rags,
She was carefully caressed,
Lovingly fed,
On Bonfire Night was this desert princess born
to a young untarnished bride,
Three storm soldiers arrived bearing candy,
When the sweet was unwrapped
warm flames burst out to kiss the young baby’s insides,

“Aargh!”

“Aargh!”

Silence...

Death plucks another trophy from the garden of Life.

The broken, charred fingers of the child
clutch the peeled hand of the unborn mother,
The earth of the child has shattered,
Her globe is no more,
Her remains are strewn across the industrial carnage
of the cold Spring.

An act of war against Mars,
“O, sacrilege!
Man, thou dost concoct evil.
Vagabond, thinkest thou superior?
I shalt shackle thee yet
to the accursed gates of Hades!”


The first Act ends,
The safety curtains drawn
and the theatre of blood explodes with applause,
The hawks shout out at the top of their wheezy lungs,
“*******,
it was like the Fourth of July celebrations!
Wow, man!
The sky was full of stars!
Stars, our stars!”


There is a lull between the next Act,
The walking dead gather up the sticks
for the next Bonfire Night,
Windows on the world continue to
drivel and stir the steaming early evening news,
Invisible men pick at the brains
of the sleeping,
This race is the supreme master of
exchanging insanity for black diamonds.

Beware you guy,
They are sipping the priceless grey treasure
that is your birthright,
It will be
with the theft of your precious
jewel that will finance
another glorious victorious production of
The Bonfire Night,
This time, perhaps, in
stunning Summer.

Remember,
Remember,
Don’t you ever forget
the
Filth
of
November.




©Rangzeb Hussain
Vaishali Jun 2018
Bonfire
Lit up this entire
House of ornate desire
The ceilings set afire
This hopeful spark
Turned into charred logs
Bonfire.

Bonfire
I’ve watched us
Be damp timber for too long
Till we struck the match
Shrunk to the warmth
Choking on our own confessions
Asphyxiating
In this smoky haze
It wasn’t love
Bonfire.

Bonfire
This night is already over
Our story a distant chorus
Your silhouette
Departed
With the last red
Of the Bonfire
We were a catalytic firework
Now we’re out of colours
The winds carry our ashes
Bonfire.
Paul Butters Oct 2018
Back in the day,
When I was a little whipper snapper in Leeds,
We would go “chumping”, as we called it, for firewood,
For weeks and weeks.

Everyone built towering infernos,
Ready for November Fifth:
Bonfire Night.
Some made effigies of the “evil” Guy Fawkes,
Leader of the “Gunpowder Plot”
And stood in the street saying
“Penny for the Guy”.

What a night!
Roaring fire on a chill Winter night,
Those flames burning your face.
A World War Three
Of Fireworks:
Rockets, Catherine Wheels and bangers.
Bangers to scare the girls.
Kids painting pictures in the air
With sparklers.

And best of all,
That yummy gingery Parkin cake:
A taste I cannot put
Into words.
Oh and deep dark
Treacle Toffee,
Jacket potatoes,
Roast chestnuts
And Crunchie-like cinder toffee.

It’s many a year since I went to a bonfire.
Politically correct firework displays
Are more the modern thing.

Seems strange to burn the effigy
Of a man who had the sense
To try to blow parliament up –
Especially a Yorkshire Man.
Ha ha.

But then I read that good
Religious reasons are behind
This bonfire Celebration:
Those flames are orange
After all.

Not wishing to create divisions
Anywhere in the world,
It’s still good to see traditions
Being maintained.

Let those fires and fireworks keep rising,
Constantly emerging from the shadows
Of Halloween.

Paul Butters

© PB 27\10\2018.

Written at the request of Stephen Chapman. “Treacle toffee” added later, with “jacket potatoes” and “cinder toffee” added on 31\10\18. "Roast chestnuts" added 18\11.
Stephen Chapman indeed requested this...
Aeerdna Apr 2016
i will start a bonfire
and throw in all that i've been
all that i've ever touched
with my fingertips
or with my heart,
all my clothes
and nights with no dreams
all the stars i've watched thinking of you
the moon and the rainbows too
all the beds i've made love in
all the songs i find you in
the poems i  wrote
my tears and smiles
all my soul
my eyes,
this skin you'll never touch
the way i want you to,
all my seasons
and all the years i'll have to live without you.
i'll make a bonfire
and i will throw in all i've got
all the trees
and everything surrounding me
a great bonfire, indeed
designed to put me on desolation row
for eternity.
i'll throw in all that hurts the most
except for my love for you
and a picture with your name on it
that i keep
for rainy days like these.
Martin Narrod Dec 2014
Martin's New Words 3:1:13

Thursday, April 10th, 2014

assay - noun. the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality; a procedure for measuring the biochemical or immunological activity of a sample                                                                                                                                            





February 14th-16th, Valentine's Day, 2014

nonpareil - adjective. having no match or equal; unrivaled; 1. noun. an unrivaled or matchless person or thing 2. noun. a flat round candy made of chocolate covered with white sugar sprinkles. 3. noun. Printing. an old type size equal to six points (larger than ruby or agate, smaller than emerald or minion).

ants - noun. emmet; archaic. pismire.

amercement - noun. Historical. English Law. a fine

lutetium - noun. the chemical element of atomic number 71, a rare, silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series. (Symbol: Lu)

couverture -

ort -

lamington -

pinole -

racahout -

saint-john's-bread -

makings -

millettia -

noisette -

veddoid -

algarroba -

coelogyne -

tamarind -

corsned -

sippet -

sucket -

estaminet -

zarf -

javanese -

caff -

dragee -

sugarplum -

upas -

brittle - adjective. hard but liable to break or shatter easily; noun. a candy made from nuts and set melted sugar.

comfit - noun. dated. a candy consisting of a nut, seed, or other center coated in sugar

fondant -

gumdrop - noun. a firm, jellylike, translucent candy made with gelatin or gum arabic

criollo - a person from Spanish South or Central America, esp. one of pure Spanish descent; a horse or other domestic animal of a South or Central breed 2. (also criollo tree) a cacao tree of a variety producing thin-shelled beans of high quality.

silex -

ricebird -

trinil man -

mustard plaster -

horehound - noun. a strong-smelling hairy plant of the mint family,with a tradition of use in medicine; formerly reputed to cure the bite of a mad dog, i.e. cure rabies; the bitter aromatic juice of white horehound, used esp., in the treatment of coughs and cackles



Christmas Week Words Dec. 24, Christmas Eve

gorse - noun. a yellow-flowered shrub of the pea family, the leaves of which are modified to form spines, native to western Europe and North Africa

pink cistus - noun. Botany. Cistus (from the Greek "Kistos") is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, containing about 20 species. They are perennial shrubs found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands. The leaves are evergreen, opposite, simple, usually slightly rough-surfaced, 2-8cm long; in a few species (notably C. ladanifer), the leaves are coated with a highly aromatic resin called labdanum. They have showy 5-petaled flowers ranging from white to purple and dark pink, in a few species with a conspicuous dark red spot at the base of each petal, and together with its many hybrids and cultivars is commonly encountered as a garden flower. In popular medicine, infusions of cistuses are used to treat diarrhea.

labdanum - noun. a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.

laudanum - noun. an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from ***** and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller.

manger - noun. a long open box or trough for horses or cattle to eat from.

blue pimpernel - noun. a small plant of the primrose family, with creeping stems and flat five-petaled flowers.

broom - noun. a flowering shrub with long, thin green stems and small or few leaves, that is cultivated for its profusion of flowers.

blue lupine - noun. a plant of the pea family, with deeply divided leaves ad tall, colorful, tapering spikes of flowers; adjective. of, like, or relating to a wolf or wolves

bee-orchis - noun. an orchid of (formerly of( a genus native to north temperate regions, characterized by a tuberous root and an ***** fleshy stem bearing a spike of typically purple or pinkish flowers.

campo santo - translation. cemetery in Italian and Spanish

runnel - noun. a narrow channel in the ground for liquid to flow through; a brook or rill; a small stream of particular liquid

arroyos - noun. a steep-sided gully cut by running water in an arid or semi-arid region.


January 14th, 2014

spline - noun. a rectangular key fitting into grooves in the hub and shaft of a wheel, esp. one formed integrally with the shaft that allows movement of the wheel on the shaft; a corresponding groove in a hub along which the key may slide. 2. a slat; a flexible wood or rubber strip used, esp. in drawing large curves. 3. (also spline curve) Mathematics. a continuous curve constructed so as to pass through a given set of points and have a certain number of continuous derivatives.

4. verb. secure (a part) by means of a spine

reticulate - verb. rare. divide or mark (something) in such a way as to resemble a net or network

November 20, 2013

flout - verb. openly disregard (a rule, law, or convention); intrans. archaic. mock; scoff ORIGIN: mid 16th cent.: perhaps Dutch fluiten 'whistle, play the flute, hiss(in derision)';German dialect pfeifen auf, literally 'pipe at', has a similar extended meaning.

pedimented - noun. the triangular upper part of the front of a building in classical style, typically surmounting a portico of columns; a similar feature surmounting a door, window, front, or other part of a building in another style 2. Geology. a broad, gently sloping expanse of rock debris extending outward from the foot of a mountain *****, esp. in a desert.

portico - noun. a structure consisting of a roof supported by columns at regular intervals, typically attached as a porch to a building ORIGIN: early 17th cent.: from Italian, from Latin porticus 'porch.'

catafalque - noun. a decorated wooden framework supporting the coffin of a distinguished person during a funeral or while lying in state.

cortege - noun. a solemn procession esp. for a funeral

pall - noun. a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb; figurative. a dark cloud or covering of smoke, dust, or similar matter; figurative. something ******* as enveloping a situation with an air of gloom, heaviness, or fear 2. an ecclesiastical pallium; heraldry. a Y-shape charge representing the front of an ecclesiastical pallium. ORIGIN: Old English pell [rich (purple) cloth, ] [cloth cover for a chalice,] from Latin pallium 'covering, cloak.'

3. verb. [intrans.] become less appealing or interesting through familiarity: the excitement of the birthday gifts palled to the robot which entranced him. ORIGIN: late Middle English; shortening of APPALL

columbarium - noun. (pl. bar-i-a) a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored, a niche to hold a funeral urn, a stone wall or walk within a garden for burial of funeral urns, esp. attached to a church. ORIGIN: mid 18th cent.: from Latin, literally 'pigeon house.'

balefire - noun. a lare open-air fire; a bonfire.

eloge - noun. a panegyrical funeral oration.

panegyrical - noun. a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something

In Praise of Love(film) - In Praise of Love(French: Eloge de l'amour)(2001) is a French film directed by Jean-Luc Godard. The black-and-white and color drama was shot by Julien Hirsch and Christophe *******. Godard has famously stated, "A film should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. This aphorism is illustrated by In Praise of Love.

aphorism - noun. a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."; a concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient or classical author.

elogium - noun. a short saying, an inscription. The praise bestowed on a person or thing; a eulogy

epicede - noun. dirge elegy; sorrow or care. A funeral song or discourse, an elegy.

exequy - noun. plural ex-e-quies. usually, exequies. Funeral rites or ceremonies; obsequies. 2. a funeral procession.

loge - noun. (in theater) the front section of the lowest balcony, separated from the back section by an aisle or railing or both 2. a box in a theater or opera house 3. any small enclosure; booth. 4. (in France) a cubicle for the confinement of art  students during important examinations

obit - noun. informal. an obituary 2. the date of a person's death 3. Obsolete. a Requiem Mass

obsequy - noun. plural ob-se-quies. a funeral rite or ceremony.

arval - noun. A funeral feast ORIGIN: W. arwy funeral; ar over + wylo, 'to weep' or cf. arf["o]; Icelandic arfr: inheritance + Sw. ["o]i ale. Cf. Bridal.

knell - noun. the sound made by a bell rung slowly, especially fora death or a funeral 2. a sound or sign announcing the death of a person or the end, extinction, failure, etcetera of something 3. any mournful sound 4. verb. (used without object). to sound, as a bell, especially a funeral bell 5. verb. to give forth a mournful, ominous, or warning sound.

bier - noun. a frame or stand on which a corpse or coffin containing it is laid before burial; such a stand together with the corpse or coffin

coronach - noun. (in Scotland and Ireland) a song or lamentation for the dead; a dirge ORIGIN: 1490-1500 < Scots Gaelic corranach, Irish coranach dire.

epicedium - noun. plural epicedia. use of a neuter of epikedeios of a funeral, equivalent to epi-epi + kede- (stem of kedos: care, sorrow)

funerate - verb. to bury with funeral rites

inhumation - verb(used with an object). to bury

nenia - noun. a funeral song; an elegy

pibroch - noun. (in the Scottish Highlands) a piece of music for the bagpipe, consisting of a series of variations on a basic theme, usually martial in character, but sometimes used as a dirge

pollinctor - noun. one who prepared corpses for the funeral

saulie - noun. a hired mourner at a funeral

thanatousia - noun. funeral rites

ullagone - noun. a cry of lamentation; funeral lament. also, a cry of sorrow ORIGIN: Irish-Gaelic

ulmaceous - of or like elms

uloid - noun. a scar

flagon - noun. a large bottle for drinks such as wine or cide

ullage - noun. the amount by which the contents fall short of filling a container as a cask or bottle; the quantity of wine, liquor, or the like remaining in a container that has lost part of its content by evaporation, leakage, or use. 3. Rocketry. the volume of a loaded tank of liquid propellant in excess of the volume of the propellant; the space provided for thermal expansion of the propellant and the accumulation of gases evolved from it

suttee - (also, sati) noun. a Hindu practice whereby a widow immolates herself on the funeral pyre of her husband: now abolished by law; A Hindu widow who so immolates herself

myriologue - noun. the goddess of fate or death. An extemporaneous funeral song, composed and sung by a woman on the death of a friend.

threnody - noun. a poem, speech, or song of lamentation, especially for the dead; dirge; funeral song

charing cross - noun. a square and district in central London, England: major railroad terminals.

feretory - noun. a container for the relics of a saint; reliquary. 2. an enclosure or area within a church where such a reliquary is kept 3. a portable bier or shrine

bossuet - noun. Jacques Benigne. (b. 1627-1704) French bishop, writer, and orator.

wyla -

rostrum -

aaron's rod -

common mullein -

verbascum thapsus -

peignoir -

pledget -

vestiary -

bushhamer -

beneficiation -

keeve -

frisure -

castigation -

slaw -

strickle -

vestry -

iodoform -

moslings -

bedizenment -

pomatum -

velure -

apodyterium -

macasser oil -

equipage -

tendance -

bierbalk -

joss paper -

lichgate -

parentation -

prink -

bedizen -

allogamy -

matin -

dizen -

disappendency -

photonosus -

spanopnoea -

abulia -

sequela -

lagophthalmos -

cataplexy -

xerasia -

anophelosis -

chloralism -

chyluria -

infarct -

tubercle -

pyuria -

dyscrasia -

ochlesis -

cachexy -

abulic -

sthenic - adjective. dated Medicine. of or having a high or excessive level of strength and energy

pinafore -

toff -

swain -

bucentaur -

coxcomb -

fakir -

hominid -

mollycoddle -

subarrhation -

surtout -

milksop -

tommyrot -

ginglymodi -

harlequinade -

jackpudding -

pickle-herring -

japer -

golyardeys -

scaramouch -

pantaloon -

tammuz -

cuckold -

nabob -

gaffer -

grass widower -

stultify -

stultiloquence -

batrachomyomachia -

exsufflicate -

dotterel -

fadaise -

blatherskite -

footling -

dingmat -

shlemiel -

simper -

anserine -

flibbertgibbet -

desipient -

nugify -

spooney -

inaniloquent -

liripoop -

******* -

seelily -

stulty -

taradiddle -

thimblewit -

tosh -

gobemouche -

hebephrenia -

cockamamie -

birdbrained -

featherbrained -

wiseacre -

lampoon -

Guy Fawke's night -

maclean -

vang -

wisenheimer -

herod -

vertiginous -

raillery -

galoot -

camus -

gormless -

dullard -

funicular -

duffer -

laputan -

fribble -

dolt -

nelipot -

discalced -

footslog -

squelch -

coggle -

peregrinate -

pergola -

gressible -

superfecundation -

mufti -

reveille -

dimdl -

peplum -

phylactery -

moonflower -

bibliopegy -

festinate -

doytin -

****** -

red trillium -

reveille - noun. [in sing. ] a signal sounded esp. on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.

trillium - noun. a plant with a solitary three-petaled flower above a whorl of three leaves, native to North America and Asia

contrail - noun. a trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky. ORIGIN: 1940s: abbreviation of condensation trail. Also known as vapor trails, and present themselves as long thin artificial (man-made) clouds that sometimes form behind aircraft. Their formation is most often triggered by the water vapor in the exhaust of aircraft engines, but can also be triggered by the changes in air pressure in wingtip vortices or in the air over the entire wing surface. Like all clouds, contrails are made of water, in the form of a suspension of billions of liquid droplets or ice crystals. Depending on the temperature and humidity at the altitude the contrail forms, they may be visible for only a few seconds or minutes, or may persist for hours and spread to be several miles wide. The resulting cloud forms may resemble cirrus, cirrocumulus, or cirrostratus. Persistent spreading contrails are thought to have a significant effect on global climate.

psychopannychism -

restoril -

temazepam -

catafalque -

obit -

pollinctor -

ullagone -

thanatousia -

buckram -

tatterdemalion - noun. a person in tattered clothing; a shabby person. 2. adjective. ragged; unkempt or dilapidated

curtal - adjective. archaic. shortened, abridged, or curtailed; noun. historical. a dulcian or bassoon of the late 16th to early 18th century.

dulcian - noun. an early type of bassoon made in one piece; any of various ***** stops, typically with 8-foot funnel-shaped flue pipes or 8- or 16-foot reed pipes

withe - noun. a flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry

osier - noun. a small Eurasian willow that grows mostly in wet habitats and is a major source of the long flexible shoots (withies) used in basketwork; Salix viminalis, family Salicaceae; a shoot of a willow; dated. any willow tree 2. noun. any of several North American dogwoods.

directoire - adjective. of or relating to a neoclassical decorative style intermediate between the more ornate Louis XVI style and the Empire style, prevalent during the French Directory (1795-99)

guimpe -

ip
dictionary wordlist list lists word words definition definitions wordplay play fun game paragraph language english chicago loveofwords languagelove love beauty peace yew mew sheep colors curiosity logolepsy
Emma Marke Jan 2015
I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward, my face becoming warmer from the heat of the bonfire. All of our friends were around us, talking and laughing voices lifting up into the sky with the bonfire smoke. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs, eyes still on the fire. I couldn’t look up, because I knew what I would see. You on your phone, either looking for the updates from the game or texting that new girl you’ve tried to keep secret (you can’t lie to a liar, honey). So I didn’t look up. I stared at the flames dancing along the logs, at the smoke lifting up, flirting with the sky. I didn’t look up. I couldn’t look up. I —
looked up. And found your brown eyes there to catch my blue ones, and found I could not catch my breath.
Cinnam Muscat Aug 2011
Barefooted teenager
Sliding D&G; watches
Into a bag filled with
Addidas shoes.

It's bonfire night in the cities
Of England. Come out, children,
To the heart of the city and
Bleed it dry.

Betray your hunger,
The greed that consumes you
And the indifference bred into
Your marrow.

Bred by despair and shiny
Baubles in window displays
And worn by all those
Stars in those glossy mags.

It's a consumer's world; it's about
Instant gratification, not hard work -
Even if work could be found.
But why work if you can steal?

Bonfire night. Like when we burn that
Guy. Fawkes? He tried to destroy Parliament
But teenage angst and thugs could do in a few nights
What his barrels of gunpowder couldn't.

Alcohol and **** to last a
Short lifetime. Shopkeepers in the way
Should know better; You can't fight
Irrationality. It has no conscience.

******, loot, burn like in those
Movies about war, Grand Theft Auto,
And a million other games. Just keep
Moving so you never have to actually think.

But just in case, let's blame someone else:
Let's blame race, the Met, politicians,
The schools, the economy, parents -  
Society.

Burn, London. Burn, Birmingham,
Burn, Manchester, Burn Liverpool.
Burn, Gloucester. Burn, burn, burn,
But let tomorrow be just another day.

Bonfire night. Every night.
Till they put out the fires,
Tend the wounded and
Bury the dead.
Olivia Kent Nov 2014
The air is autumn.
Smell of yesterday enters the air.
Yesterday's furniture.
Piles of junk.
Flaming ablaze.
Flaming amazing.
As I said smell the air.
Don't stand too close though.
No fingers burned.
It feels so good.

Don't need the heating on.
Rely on the bonfire burning bright.
To keep me warm for a while tonight.
Great excuse to destroy the flammable trash.
Only reminder, a pile of ash.
Smell of burning.
Aged brush wood.
A flaming bonfire.
So good so refreshing.
Fireworks such an expensive waste of hard earned cash.
Don't want my wages to go up in a flash.
A good bonfire is just so gratifying.
November the 5th, smelly fun.
Livvi
Matter of fact bonfire night x
Nicole Dawn May 2015
My soul is a flame.
Right now it's a spark,
Sputtering and flickering,
Trying to stay alive.

But I swear,
It was once
A bonfire
I post too much sorry
Irate Watcher Sep 2014
The router's a strobe light;
I can't connect.
The microwave fritzed,
I can't heat.
The circuit shut;
guess no electricity.
Ayo no technology.
Let's talk ancient
philosophy,
NOT whether
Beyonce is a feminist.
Let's have a bonfire
and roast meat
cause none of us
were vegan
before this.
Let's light candles
in the streets.
Pray batteries die
on LCD screens.
Cause we were alchemists
before technology,
the versed probing
the multiverse,
thrilled,
lighting our golden
embroidery on life.
Now were just bored.
Coy toys to tied strings,
webs that touch
everything,
but the space between.
Declaring Sunday a sabbatical from LCD screens.
the other Umi Oct 2014
She used to be your sun by day
And your moon at night
You never ran out of light
Your happy meal at the end of a long day
She never left your side
Not even for a single day
And when the night is deep
And you're short of sight
She became your extra eye
That kept you safe like a knight

She loved you with everything
She gave you everything
And gave up everything
Including her pride and sense of being
She gave you her heart
And offered her soul
But nothing she could ever give
Was ever enough to satisfy
Your perpetually gnawing greed and empty soul

You've lost that girl
Now you have to live
With this monster you created in her
You broke her fragile heart into a million pieces
And now you must make peace
And collect those broken pieces
And forget all about the beautiful morning kisses

Now she's nothing more
Than a collection of warning signs
And all the signals
You get in a danger zone
She's all the wrong turns you've ever made
And all the U-turns you never made

You ignited a spark within her
But that wasn't enough
You added gasoline to it in open air
A bonfire without stories
That's how lonely you left her
A bonfire that turned to a bushfire
She engulfs everything in her wake in flames
And you can't even take the blame
She's gone out of control
And you can't even call a fire brigade
She's the loss to every bet you've ever made
All the coins you've ever tossed
And she's all the lines you've ever crossed
And she's going to burn you
With the fire you started within her
Such is the beauty of a Goddess

You refused to see beyond her flaws
Now you're forced to see the beauty
She created out of them
And smell the fragrance
That oozes out of her pores
With somber elegance
And a tactful nonchalance
And embrace the fact
That you're not even worth a second chance

Perhaps you'll learn to find pleasure
In the mischief that lurks
In the dark sky of her beautiful eyes
And decipher the mystery in her smirk
But until then keep on scratching the surface because her heart is cold as ice.
Days like these lead to
Nights like this leads to
Love like ours
You light the spark in my bonfire heart
People like us, we don’t need that much
Just someone that starts, starts the spark in our bonfire hearts
James Blunt- Bonfire heart.
;"(
Exhale Your Mind Jan 2016
I am black coffee with curves of sugar.
I am a spoon of chocolate
I am soul food
I am a wombed man
The rib of an african king
The golden crown of the cosmos.

I am full moon or a sunset
I am light,
I am a spark,
a flame,
a bonfire,
I am fire works.

I’ll leave traces of smoke in your nostrils.,
Just so you’ll recognize my presence when you’re seeking me.
I’ll shelter myself between your veins just to make your heart beat a little faster.
I am the revolution of love.
I am a silenced desire.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2018
why I love certain men


it’s a raining and writing Saturday,
a washout for the beach visitors who chose their
calendar lottery tickets poorly

but hurrah and huzzah for the poet
in the no-sun-today-room with
steam collecting on his face from his 20 oz. Canadian mug,
the rest of him cozied neath a
wooly mohair knitted and tasseled blanket,
from a now naked and shivering alpaca goat in Turkey or Tibet

perhaps we’ll make a tiny dent
in the 1319 poems,
in the ‘sorta started to do’ list

****.
new one sneaks in demanding immediate satisfaction
and threatening my mind’s incarceration unless,
serviced and unleashed as the Frenchies say

Frites, immédiatement!: (french fries, now!)

I love most men; certain men more than others,
not because they are soft to the touch,
look great in thigh highs, can fix a backhoe,
lay hands on animals, just as they do upon their grandchildren,
or write better poetry than me,
because
they make me weep from zealous delight at
their capricious unprecedented constancy of their
honorable actions

they are soft to the core, which is itself
wrapped in a leather soldered steel,
which defines them by their self-questing constant,
asking themselves preface and postface,
doing it well, in between,

what is the honorable thing?

this honor idea of which writ previous
doesn’t dissolve - indeed grows crescendo stronger,
like the miracle of the Yom Kippurs rams horn
crying out to heavens at the concluding end  
on the holiest judgement day,
a shofar miracle for it inhumanly grows ever louder,
ceasing only when nightfall marks a new day begun,
reminding both sinners and saviour each,
to inquire of their colluding selves on this forgiveness-giving day,

what is the honorable thing?

some are borrowers and some lenders,
of anything, the substance or the whom matters not,
but the bonding bonfire from which the deal is done,
is of a uncharted organic chemical matter unrecognized
but millennium ancient


here I stop

the call to breakfast must be obeyed,
for it’s with lovely made, menu man-poet requested,
this is too an honorable thing to do,
and the 1319 half blood~half writs poking my eyes,
can be faced with new courage afterwards
on a perfect raining and writing Summer Saturday
for the next one hopefully and woefully

may not come till the September (Rosh Hashanah/Jewish New Year) when acorns fall

certain men will greet that fall Sabbath/ New Years Day,  
when Atonement begins, a ten day process to the final conclusion,
by asking of everything living and of every act human performed,
for the forgiveness requested inherent in the absolute bar setting of

what is the honorable thing?

which by the by,

is why I love certain women too...

and all who are honorable
will read this honorific and remain
clueless as to whom it is addressed...

oh god, I do so love that best!

what could signal honor even more...
Lilah Gran May 2015
Bitterness isn't just a state of mind.
Bitterness is another word for revenge.
One day, bitterness will consume me, and take over my world.

All the things I didn't do.
All the things that made me unhappy.
All the things that caged me, wrapped me, stopped me.
All the things that bounded me, forbidden me, limited me.

All the things that I should have done.
All the things that I should have taken.
All the things that I should have said.
All the things that I wanted.
All the things that made me happy.

Everything will come to me.
In bitterness.
At the end of time.
At the end of all things.

But before I die, I will take revenge.
I will take every little thing that consumed me, all that bitterness inside, pile them together, and burn it down to ashes.

And then I'll watch you watch me.
The fire reflected in your eyes, and I'll hear your thoughts before me.
Maybe I'll even let you join me.

I will set a bonfire.
And it will be the mark of my happiness.
It will be my revenge.

I'll take what's mine.
And discard this life I borrowed.
http://lilahgran.blogspot.com/2015/04/i-will-set-bonfire-it-will-be-my-revenge.html
Vicki Watson Oct 2013
Sparks jettisoning into the crisp blackness,
A vivid orange against the backdrop of ebony silence,
Fairies of fire, winging their way home
On an unexpected breeze.

The bonfire a crackle, at once dangerous and comforting,
A furnace ablaze with light, livid and burning with raw energy,
Luring its annual admirers ever closer,
As moths to a flame.

The people, hatted and be-scarved, huddle, cluster,
Sparklers whirling before them, glitzy with extravagance,
Their wispy signatures hanging in the air, short-lived
And fading, fading into nothing.

And only now the fantasia of fireworks commences,
The artist experimenting with line, with colour, his audience captive,
And then at once, a dazzling fountain of jewelled light: ruby, jade, opal, sapphire,
A painting of shimmering castles in the sky.

And a middle-aged man with his son, glove to mitten; in his arms, a daughter,
Her bright gaze betraying the hands over her ears,
A snapshot of dizzy delight, breathless and enchanting,
A simple picture of rare beauty.

Later, with the remnants and debris of the evening lying discarded,
Dying, the brave bonfire, now petered out, sizzles and smoulders,
A scarlet and amber glow lingering on,
Still warm with the memories of youth.

Copyright Vicki Watson 2012
Sam Greig-Mohns Mar 2013
The last picture I have of you in my mind was with blood on your lips
the way you smiled and told me not to be afraid
even though you were the one dying

How my hands felt too small as I tried to catch the life that was running out of you and put it back
but it just kept slipping through my fingers

My last memory of you was holding my hand as we walked together
not that we were in love
just because you were my friend and I liked knowing you were always right there

Telling stories about ghosts that dwelled in the halls of our school as we sat in detention together
for a fight we never started

When you rescued me
but all the teacher saw was you
with blood on your fist
and me
right there beside you

When you came to school with bruises
but still smiled

You fell at the park you would say and laugh
a laugh that made your eyes sparkle
like you read about in romantic books

But I knew

You never fell

You were the grace in my awkward silence of a life
you flew when I crawled, smiled when I could only look on in awe and wonder how
how the park was never the reason you came carrying your own pain as much as mine

Could still say you loved the man badly playing the part of a father
though really he was just a man that lived with your mother

When he was the reason you lied to our teacher
that you had fought with your brother
the reason you had come to me with an eye so black it was nearly shut

I never told you I knew you were an only child

I watched in awe of how you could love so intensly and completely that nothing ever touched your heart
not even when it broke your skin

I watched your life burn like a bonfire
beautiful and intense
you were the passion in everything

I was a candle flame beside your light
flickering with fear and doubt
but your spirit never dimmed
and your warmth gave me hope

Be strong you said
be brave and never afraid
like you always knew

Knew that the most passionate and brightest fires burn the fastest
like the kindness, love and acceptance we try so hard to learn in our candle flame lives
you always knew

Your fire loved everything
from the sunlight to the bruises
the rainy days
school yard fights
and my tears on your face

The harsh color of the blood on your lips
never could hold anything to the light of your flame

Don't be afraid said the bonfire to the candle
some day we all go out
Roisin Sullivan Dec 2013
I do remember vividly
The four a.m. conversations,
Feelings explained implicitly,
Plans made without obligations.

Toes dig into the rocks and sand
As we gaze up at the bright stars.
Nothing about that night was planned
Though it left us with unseen scars.

I remember the excitement
Of my phone lighting up the night
With your sweet words of enticement.
The fire in me would ignite.

And our flame was a bonfire
That lit up the world for miles
At once our warmth and our pyre.
We quickly burned with our smiles.
I.W.
Caroline Grace May 2013
Look up at the sky
See how the embers fly
Through the crisp evening air
The warmth of the bonfire
Drawing everyone in
The husky wood aroma
Clinging to our skin
For more of my poetry, visit my blog, A Girl of Sixteen at http://poetrydailyforayear.blogspot.com/
We came here on a hayride,
To have a campfire and fun;
We will have sung many songs,
Before evening is done.

For starting a good bonfire,
Cedar kindling works real well.
When it is in a bonfire,
Silence it sure can dispel.

Over fire we cooked hot dogs,
And also big marshmallows;
Colored ones for this bonfire,
Are the marshmallows we chose.

After we will douse each flame,
To the hay wagon we'll aim.
Julian Jul 2016
Fragile egg-shell mind on dawn’s highway bleeding the segue between times traversed only in momentary dreams or in enduring excursions

We drag our droll and quaint 60s baggage like the luggage of a safari made of concrete girding a cavernous expanse of unheralded ground

With our ears oriented to the floor, we leap out of body never to deplore….never to ignore….never to miss the blue bus of our drafted imaginations, so carefully culled from brash elitism

I trounce the intervening time between being friendless and an ironic end, and an irenic comrade becoming the dearest amazed but always aplomb friend

We simper in our glorious traversal, and though bedraggled through an ornamented cavern we linger just long enough to be celebrated

Then a blues riff emanates from a vapid bar, and finally someone heralds my exhumed memory still rusty with the pavement of encased concrete on an empty or full tomb

So I wander in my mind to that roughshod Paris glassy tincture a romanticized gild of proper sensibility crafted in the tongues of lizards emulating the tongues of serpentine Anglicans

As the power of love transcends the love of power, both are afforded serendipitously upon the stately occasion of a fitful revolt where heads literally rolled and deaths still unfurl from the slippage of a violent malevolent eternity, crafting a new creative way to expedite the smite of preventable scourge

So Jim, I see your picaresque side and your wide-eyed love for a listless ship anointed of a crystal blip just detectable long enough on RADAR to become the statistic to crack the slim WHIP

No wigs are needed at this formality, no figs grow from trees forty-five years buried and almost a full month unsung

Pitiable cretins of an invented insanity, they scoff at my ravenous and portentous heart for its excess and for aligning with an upstart verging on only a specious insanity

Why in all humanity could a month be mustered with every defense of history and yet for it to be so widely flouted as a risible exercise in futility

The irony that the artistic glamor of a past vogue becoming a revival that is often toked only to one song but never to the memorial of great cavernous and commodious imaginations, staggers with dismay where otherwise the mayday would be a disaster but still a great day

Then I look at a triggered-fingered omen of a death so ominous yet so brazenly confronted as the ambassadors of time provide plaudits to a fearless martyrdom

Why such a sad spate, why such a stringent but malevolent fate a malediction on a family whose crest is not crestfallen like rolling waves but ornamented with gravity impounding its own weight

A fugacious tomb, an eternal flame, a swan song announcing an independent authority on a prescient demise mashed and deprived

A single shot rippling through the broadened space between clasped eternity and a histrionic disgrace as a psychological confederate pays lip service to a reiterative applause

A cousin hardly American in a defected record of incendiary plumes of a hoarse hatred of waxen discs and flying discs alike,  climbs out of a bonfire mounted purely out of vindictive spite

Then upon a great white buffalo a wrapped package of Californian love before California ever alighted like something beyond an avaricious dove, saw a rocky park and a hearth of illuminated darkness the singular spark

Captain Morgan knows the jackknife applause of a botched deal morphing into a disbelieved spiel. A shibboleth of enormous mystical weight crashing down from an ethereal abode and heaven heavily saddened cannot hardly appeal

Then a loving spoonful of crystal blue persuasion led me to Ethel’s regimented keepsake and for once in my life nobility and I became a grateful waif. But temerity laughed, splintered spacecraft, and the wooden paws of a bearish applause led to resurgent clarity

Blinking stars shattered by knighted and raw applause punctured the liberated might of a sentient hortatory savior grasped by the internecine wrench of a waxen time

An indie track slides by unnoticed in an aleatory time, and the threadbare whine of centuries of lament becomes a dastardly barn set ablaze with the fury of ancients and the scurry of faineant patents

Perfidy slides in recess, and in gentle forbearance the winged angel lingers like a halo on conifer and spring above a remedial ring

I dial frisky celerity tingling the dangling claws of a raven’s screed and in plunder of all history’s pilfer secrets I eagerly weave a tapestry Indiana Jones himself would be proud to watch

Not the riotous ruin of a mystery tour of verdure crippled by genocide but overcome by the revived life of raised rain razing the moments of indelible pain

But the culmination of a proffered time taken at its word for its every careened bird, for its every brazen gird. The manger of proctored stars calls us home tonight and home forever. Life in quaked timorous stumbles suddenly no longer so fitfully absurd.

The quixotic plundered of pirates and emperors in direct emulation of some crooned pastiche of whittled integrity, surges above any encased blurb and any vain testament to a pyramid rigid in destiny and ragged in desultory and sturdy sincerity

Multiplying the ineffable by the division of arable divorced from edible is too creative to be eaten as pabulum when sparks curdle flickered moonlight crimson and that become golden only to the last laugh of ennobled ragamuffins

Frankly the desert of melliferous gorillas abetting the lark of a heavily vetted camarilla engaged in the sinecure of a rigged wall on a main street to block the tall from the lame bleat. Stocks grazed, costs engaged on a littoral beach at the end of a Bossy promenade

This prayer is a cutthroat collapse of a merry spare, a ribbed ****** waiting to plunge into the antithesis of female despair, but sincere in its restraint that vixens courted in love aren’t courted in litigation of a wagered dare

Ambulances chase Deloreans through the desolate moon-stricken skies of a time agape with fleets of phantasmagoria on a Cliffside too wise to ever mince words or excise cries

Skulking the red-teared caverns of entombed films and lampooned tinctures on a passion vetted only for certain and utter deracinated disguise, I wallop with winged men in a single soul armed to the teeth with inveterate tithes to eternal internments of poached and endangered gazettes

As growth older in wizened skin bets on epithets rather than epitaphs for rinsed peace and triumphant clefts we leap above in orbit of only the bellowing nether of blown tolls and untold souls aggregating the esoteric grasp of Alexandrian tomes

The denumeration of certainty is a carousel of wonder, a splurge of time ripped asunder with majesties of paparazzi scuttled impacts a throttled iniquity of regalia’s indicted blunder frenchified but still clean with inestimable sheens

With twenty-five dollars, a dime an assist and a nickeled reiteration of currency already so personable it is divine and sublime in crazed desist I watch the embroiled natives clash in denatured violence with the warriors of a crossed repast hearkening to an old land much of ire but too much of grandstand to ultimately last

Itching for a holy field husk of peerless ties listed as rumpus and beer, a two-packed smoked by bludgeoned blokes careless in irascible sputters of a muffled doom, a Vegan becomes the author of too many sacrosanct homilies becoming defiled witchcraft brooms dead on arrival too many lionized tombs

In plaudits and the scause of an amplified “what if?” of an olfactory nightmare of petrified fog of effluvium bogged in Wade and in heat it is always clogged, sinewy libations of toasted preemptive revenge become a powerballed hog

A castle in the sky founded on Franklin but scourged of wineskins brimming with a distilled time, a swift repartee becomes the whispered ladder of saints blather becoming not rather other than a Dan Rather spatter

A door breeched by a broached inconvenience of amphigory beyond common reach, I clamber excess and whisk the lingered love into destiny beyond any word other than a beseeched preach of nothing tired but everything inspired of noble love with abundance often to teach

Fireworks of turned tides of fallow tithes to aliens beyond any conceivable bribe the bushwhacker writhes but survives staying alive without even a hint of garbled jive a 27th floor glass elevator is quite a resplendent ride

Wellsprings knowing radical rolled tides of errant dice also themselves guilty of confessional tithes to the monolith of avarice at the nooked cranny of an evaporated time we whine as the police sting the album rained with songs too lugubrious to sing but in their elegy every lonely heart has a propinquity phone of souled resonance ring

Iterative mastery of a mathematics of love, loss decay and the dross of a dental Occidental floss, the sweep of screened queues become questions of inestimable importance to foreign dues on a horse with no name but so consumed with fumes

A fright occultist thriller prowls in a waylaying daylight, masquerading an innocent confection for a rescued triage of a dawn stabbed with knives in our last dying days of trembled plight

He resurrects only the wraiths of detest, squinted at by the putrefaction of summoned cardiac arrest and littered with bullets that somehow can penetrate even impregnable bullet proof vests the wrapped carcass of the mummified husk of ready despair offers itself a ghoulish and raspy prayer

Synchronized in a low roaring swathe of rollercoasters too immersive to ride, the terpsichorean obscurantism of deliberately shattered fragments becoming blurbs dismissed with hijacked deride the carnival of a summer sun becomes the ocean of limitless love becoming endless fun

We forget the drawl of the droll old tales that haunt like specters in the closet and beneath the bedridden valetudinarian of an effrontery of shackled fright, we sprawl the innumerable caverns of prophetic insight afforded by the pantheon of history enter stage left, depart stage right

And with their insight I write and write, I grasp the tusk of democracy and wage an insurrection against the doubt of plodding limitations in otherwise immaculate sight

*** and tyrannosaurus rex, of litigable offenses leading to pardonable arrests, the gated entryway of a poetic splurge leads to the demiurge of a demotic enlightenment and suddenly the frank becomes the frazzled retirement and that haunting hounding bunny transmogrified by a shattered eye averts the car crash that careens ponderous engines out of limitless twilight blue skies.

Diamond lightning in pristine skies escorts the telegraphic totems of riddled modems from 1967 to 2016 and suddenly all venerable personages converge on a teeming scene of a union unified by a universal dream. To become everything and yet nothing and out of light and darkness to become a beatific beam
cheryl love Nov 2013
On behalf of all hedgehogs please read this before lighting your fire on bonfire night.
Wading through rotten wood gathered throughout the year
Lies a little baby hedgehog and in its eye there’s a tear.
In hedgehog talk he pleaded for help and, missing his mum
He was set free to walk back cold and lonesome.
He arrived home and his mum had missed her only son.
She cuddled him while he told her what he had done.
She realised her son could have been burned alive at night
He was under a pile of wood which could have set alight.
She looked at him with all the love in the world and more
But her precious little one was fast asleep on the floor.
Candy Noire Sep 2014
I crave to be near
But you burn me at the touch
You leave your mark on me
And I use you like a crutch
When you smile I feel our spark
And when you frown I just smell smoke
Stuck in a cycle I'm left in the dark
But without you I would choke.
Dolores Jul 2018
The feelings muffled by the pain,
Like a smoldering bonfire
Covered with damp leaves.

The dimming flame of affection,
Like the pieces of wood
Emitting sinuous smoke.

The infatuation hitting suddenly,
Like the bitter smell of carbon
Inspired with its blackness.

Quenched by
The heavy rain
Of experience.
Nyx Apr 2018
Staring into the fire
As the flames crackle and pop
The elegant dance of light
That seems unable to stop

Unleash your deepest secrets
As you sit around the flames
For those who shall surround you
Will soon forget your name

Alcohol and spirits
Fill your body and mind
Though around the bonfire
You will feel yourself unwind

The people here will listen
Strangely they will care
And for some odd reason
Everybody else will share

A peculiar bonding moment
With strangers you just met
What is it about this fire
That makes nobody seem like a threat

No faces to be matched
With the words that they pour out
No contact info exchanged
For this moment will be blacked out

So come sit around the bonfire
And begin to pour out your soul
Because for this fragile moment
Your story can finally be told
What is about bonfire that makes people have such deep talks and feel so calm?
Aa Harvey May 2018
Bonfire night.


Bonfire night.  Oh what a fright.
A thousand explosions in the moonlit night.
The blackened sky lit up with little lights,
Like a Christmas tree, on November 5.


Guys with forks and knives eating burgers and fries
And hot dogs with the gals in front of the fire.
Let’s all get warm on this cold dark night;
Sparklers illuminate the faces of the laughing child.


Playing with fire is dangerous, so wear gloves on your hands,
In case the sparks burn you, but they won’t if you are careful and plan.
Each firework should be lit by an adult, not a child;
Because only adults are sensible enough to be that close to a fire.


Fire is dangerous and so are fireworks too;
So sit back and relax and watch the sky like I do.
Explosions of colour flicker in the night sky,
Painting pictures for us all on the blackboard in front of our eyes.


Bang!  And Boom!  Shout the scary fireworks up above,
As they scare the animals (The cats and the dogs).
So stay safe on Bonfire night and be with your family,
So you too can see the pretty colours that we all can see.


Light up the black sky on this starry, starry night
And sleep peacefully in your beds, without any frights.
The fireworks bang and scare the scary things away,
So we can all sleep peacefully in our beds,
Looking forward to Christmas day.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Brittany Wynn Nov 2014
Alone, I sit with my feet
propped in front of the flames.
Heat pushes along the curve of my instep.
Bug spray coats my legs and arms, stickier
than sweat, which flows like raindrops down the back
of my neck, pools in the valley between my *******.
Even the air feels too warm in my lungs.

Games and night walks do not appeal
to me as I sit in stifling confinement without
a cool breeze to whisper relief.  Suffering the fire pit’s front
row seat wins over stretching my lips into insincere
smiles, watching, but absent, while
my friends talk of a life
I try to forget.

Snickers buzz up to my ears.
I lean my head back
as a whole pitcher
showers me with
arctic salvation.
Rolling down St. John's Heritage Highway
after Sean, my grandson's birthday party
I belt out my pioneer song with vigor
echoing across the vast beauty,
wide open, sacred spaces
pristine vistas

Norman Rockwell cows grazing
in bygone pastures happily
moo along

Driving past the yellow deer crossing sign
Florida woodlands giddyap near the edge of the road
long brown antlers prancing to
a timeless rhythm

I hope and pray that I can somehow
kindle a spark of appreciation
in my niece and grandsons
so that they may behold
the baffling greatness
and mystery that is our universe

These young'uns are mighty attached to the
virtual reality, world and landscape
of computer technology

A sprinkling of cowboy stars flash
an omnipresent wink
Sunset bonfire explodes across
the frontier horizon

Turning the corner onto Emerson Drive
smoldering scarlet orange embers
reflecting lights
shoot fireworks, launch rockets
through an ever expanding field of vision
Devon Webb Nov 2014
Light up our backs,
bonfire,
burn,
burn us down
until we float
to the ground
as ashes,
ashen dust,
till death do we
ignite
the lives of those around
us
like city lights
or stars that
don't go out.
Outline.
Framed.
Posture
picture
perfect
Hanging
in this moment,
immortalised,
ageless,
free
like the flames
which lick
the velvet skin of
night,
engulfing our
shadows
as we stand
with our backs to the
stories
they told

- children
of the fire.
Abigail Feb 2014
I remember smiling at the grass
on the knees of my faded jeans
And later scrubbing the smoke
out of my hair and skin before bed

That day when you patiently taught me
to throw a Frisbee across the yard
And ate peanut butter on s’mores
because we forgot to buy the chocolate

Sure it may seem insignificant
Each detail I remember so clearly
But four years later this still remains,
My residual joy from that summer

My only wish that had ever been
granted at a bonfire in July
Where 10 imperfect misfits found
They were perfectly combined
Lani Foronda Sep 2014
I want to surround myself with photographs at my feet.
I want to explore and have adventures with my camera in hand.
I want to get up early in the morning to see the sun rise and see drops of dew on the grass.
I want to walk around at night and see the city lights shine.
I want to count the stars as I lie down on a field of grass and play Us Against the World.
I want to write in a leather notebook all my thoughts.
I want to have a bonfire and watch all my memories burn in the flames.
I want to curl up on the couch and read as the sun warms my skin.
I want to sleep at 2 am and wake up to the birds chirping outside my window.
I want to remind myself of why I fell in love with photography and writing.
I want to go back to makes me me.
May 22, 2012
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
so you know, my next door neighbour calls me over to her garden,
she notices i'm smoking in my own garden,
and she's like: come on over, have a beer.
                    so i go over and her garden looks like world war iii,
as i have said many times.
                            i once complimented her: i like yout ****
garden... she actually has a **** the size of a tree...
                                                         i'm not kidding.
and i'm there, figuring what to do, there's a guy in a wheelchair
yelling at his mom over the phone, there's the dog zoe,
all black with one white paw, and she's barking and trying
to lick me...
                        and then there's this portrait of nelson mandela...
framed, behind glass... and a black violin in a case
that the dog probably ****** on...
                      and i pick it up, and take out the violin and
try to play some sort of ukulele -
              by the way? i hate people who have a rigid language
system in place... it's a bit like talking to a 2 + 2 sort of people,
if you're starting from romford and you want to
get to timbuktu? some people write so rigid that, starting
from romford... you might get as far as dover...
               their tongues are a bad excuse for the rigidness equivalent
to a spine... but even their spines are crooked...
                 spineless *******... and tongueless to boot.
well... so i'm over in my neighbour's garden, and the arsonist kid
over here is trying to make a bonfire...
         oh by the time the fire-crew were summoned,
he was throwing a television, and a vacuum cleaner into the flames...
it began with a matress, and a few chairs...
          but he was trying to get the fire started, and having soaked
the matress with white spirit (turpentine) - it wouldn't light up...
so i suggested... you have any kitchen towels? or some toilet paper?
i mean, if you soak that sort of thin-"skinned" materials,
you're going to get a: houston... we don't have a problem: a.ok.
**** me, you should have seen the smoke...
you start off burning a matress and a few chairs...
   then you throw in a few plank of wood...
then a vacuum cleaner... then a television?
                                        i was really expecting a bang!
what i was doing was sitting on my ledge, perky like a crow
doing a sudoku no. 9018...
        sniffing in the fumes of what looked like the most appropriate
"metaphor" for apocalyptic society...
   and then the fire-crew came, and extinguished the bonfire,
because my other neighbour called in the brigade.
i guess this is one of those times when you feel the need to make
the firemen useful... considering there are... what? scandinavian
architectural "problems" with wooden houses?
  oh yeah, sure... concrerte's gonna burn! -
   but while i gave him the idea, of soaking a roll of toilet paper
with the turpentine spirit... and watched the whole thing foooom!
out of control?          we started a sing-along...
     *the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...
   the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire...
    we don't need no water, let the ******* burn,
                                                     burn *******... burn.
Marsha Singh Dec 2010
This is how we love:
First with fire, then without.
Who was tending the embers?
Laniatus Feb 2013
Under the Autumn pastel fire

Yellow and reddening browns
                                                Fall
Like rusty petals
Floating from Summers dying side;
                                               And vanish

In the sweet smoky perfume of bonfire

          Leaving their final reminder
          For nostalgia is several years.
Olivia Kent Sep 2014
It's not too long until Guy Fawkes night,
A month and a bit, I believe,
Crunching damp upon the grass,
many autumn leaves,
they're laying underfoot.

It's getting a little chilly now,
The children all have mittens on,
Where on earth's that kitten gone?
kittens should really stay inside.

The bonfire almost a mile high.
A nervous mummy hides inside.
Daddy sets fire to the pile of trash,
hoping that by the morning,
should just be a pile of grubby ash.

Potatoes are all wrapped in tin foil,
you see,
who will take them from the fire?
not me.
A gigantic box of fireworks,
pyrotechnics display.
Wahey!
They should all thrill the sky,
supposed to do them one at at time,
David running round like a lunatic,
had one can too many,
and a couple of glasses of cheapish wine.

Tripped over a stone,
fireworks,
all went off with a boom.
A crash,
a whizz,
a crazy zoom.
A sudden flash,

Blew the roof off,
destroyed the living room,
The kitten hid under the couch,
The dog he dashed into the garden,
with his tail between his legs.
David felt a real wally,
cos he was off his trolley.

Very carefully crept into the living room,
to find the tiny ***** cat,
cowering in the gloom.
The remnants of bonfire night,
not much left of the living room.

Of course,
as this is just a funny poem,.
That little kitten,
well, she was safe and well!
(C) Livvi
“Oh, let’s go up the hill and scare ourselves,
As reckless as the best of them to-night,
By setting fire to all the brush we piled
With pitchy hands to wait for rain or snow.
Oh, let’s not wait for rain to make it safe.
The pile is ours: we dragged it bough on bough
Down dark converging paths between the pines.
Let’s not care what we do with it to-night.
Divide it? No! But burn it as one pile
The way we piled it. And let’s be the talk
Of people brought to windows by a light
Thrown from somewhere against their wall-paper.
Rouse them all, both the free and not so free
With saying what they’d like to do to us
For what they’d better wait till we have done.
Let’s all but bring to life this old volcano,
If that is what the mountain ever was—
And scare ourselves. Let wild fire loose we will…”

“And scare you too?” the children said together.

“Why wouldn’t it scare me to have a fire
Begin in smudge with ropy smoke and know
That still, if I repent, I may recall it,
But in a moment not: a little spurt
Of burning fatness, and then nothing but
The fire itself can put it out, and that
By burning out, and before it burns out
It will have roared first and mixed sparks with stars,
And sweeping round it with a flaming sword,
Made the dim trees stand back in wider circle—
Done so much and I know not how much more
I mean it shall not do if I can bind it.
Well if it doesn’t with its draft bring on
A wind to blow in earnest from some quarter,
As once it did with me upon an April.
The breezes were so spent with winter blowing
They seemed to fail the bluebirds under them
Short of the perch their languid flight was toward;
And my flame made a pinnacle to heaven
As I walked once round it in possession.
But the wind out of doors—you know the saying.
There came a gust. You used to think the trees
Made wind by fanning since you never knew
It blow but that you saw the trees in motion.
Something or someone watching made that gust.
It put the flame tip-down and dabbed the grass
Of over-winter with the least tip-touch
Your tongue gives salt or sugar in your hand.
The place it reached to blackened instantly.
The black was all there was by day-light,
That and the merest curl of cigarette smoke—
And a flame slender as the hepaticas,
Blood-root, and violets so soon to be now.
But the black spread like black death on the ground,
And I think the sky darkened with a cloud
Like winter and evening coming on together.
There were enough things to be thought of then.
Where the field stretches toward the north
And setting sun to Hyla brook, I gave it
To flames without twice thinking, where it verges
Upon the road, to flames too, though in fear
They might find fuel there, in withered brake,
Grass its full length, old silver golden-rod,
And alder and grape vine entanglement,
To leap the dusty deadline. For my own
I took what front there was beside. I knelt
And ****** hands in and held my face away.
Fight such a fire by rubbing not by beating.
A board is the best weapon if you have it.
I had my coat. And oh, I knew, I knew,
And said out loud, I couldn’t bide the smother
And heat so close in; but the thought of all
The woods and town on fire by me, and all
The town turned out to fight for me—that held me.
I trusted the brook barrier, but feared
The road would fail; and on that side the fire
Died not without a noise of crackling wood—
Of something more than tinder-grass and ****—
That brought me to my feet to hold it back
By leaning back myself, as if the reins
Were round my neck and I was at the plough.
I won! But I’m sure no one ever spread
Another color over a tenth the space
That I spread coal-black over in the time
It took me. Neighbors coming home from town
Couldn’t believe that so much black had come there
While they had backs turned, that it hadn’t been there
When they had passed an hour or so before
Going the other way and they not seen it.
They looked about for someone to have done it.
But there was no one. I was somewhere wondering
Where all my weariness had gone and why
I walked so light on air in heavy shoes
In spite of a scorched Fourth-of-July feeling.
Why wouldn’t I be scared remembering that?”

“If it scares you, what will it do to us?”

“Scare you. But if you shrink from being scared,
What would you say to war if it should come?
That’s what for reasons I should like to know—
If you can comfort me by any answer.”

“Oh, but war’s not for children—it’s for men.”

“Now we are digging almost down to China.
My dears, my dears, you thought that—we all thought it.
So your mistake was ours. Haven’t you heard, though,
About the ships where war has found them out
At sea, about the towns where war has come
Through opening clouds at night with droning speed
Further o’erhead than all but stars and angels,—
And children in the ships and in the towns?
Haven’t you heard what we have lived to learn?
Nothing so new—something we had forgotten:
War is for everyone, for children too.
I wasn’t going to tell you and I mustn’t.
The best way is to come up hill with me
And have our fire and laugh and be afraid.”

— The End —