"fireman" poems
If I told you I was a fireman and a building fell on me while I rescued children from a burning school
would you still look at my scars and judge me unfairly
If I told you I pushed an old lady out the way of a speeding car
would you still look at my limp and judge me unfairly
If I told you I gave everything I own to charity
would you still look at me for been homeless and judge me unfairly
If I told you I had cancer 3 times
would you still look at my bald head and judge me unfairly
I am more than what you see
please don't judge me
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
From where I lingered in a lull in march
outside the sugar-house one night for choice,
I called the fireman with a careful voice
And bade him leave the pan and stoke the arch:
‘O fireman, give the fire another stoke,
And send more sparks up chimney with the smoke.’
I thought a few might tangle, as they did,
Among bare maple boughs, and in the rare
Hill atmosphere not cease to glow,
And so be added to the moon up there.
The moon, though slight, was moon enough to show
On every tree a bucket with a lid,
And on black ground a bear-skin rug of snow.
The sparks made no attempt to be the moon.
They were content to figure in the trees
As Leo, Orion, and the Pleiades.
And that was what the boughs were full of soon.
21.6k
Heat beats down upon the street
Birds too hot to fly,
Blistered sand you cannot stand
Drenched with sweat am I.
Cows collect in shadow deep
Panting sheep hang head,
Goshawk flies in cobalt skies
Hills of grass stand dead.
Whisp of smoke, a puff of breeze
Sirens scream in air,
Running men in squads of ten
Emerge from everywhere.
Now the rising wind takes charge
Runs with leaping flame
Into crown of eucalypts
To rage across the plain.
Too late the tenders hoses pour,
Too late the fireman’s shout
Inferno hot has run amok
And all control a rout.
Generating mighty winds
The fire charges forth
Spiralling in furnace air
To incinerate for sport.
Vanquished men exhausted stand
Watch with useless eyes,
As raging flames consume their truck,
Inside a good mate dies.
A live thing in the burnished night
It writhes and spirals high
Across the flaring treetops
Hot, red smoke fills the sky.
As sudden as it starts, it stops
A wind change in the air.
Ravaged forest stark and black
Hot ashes everywhere.
Hills of cinders smoking now
Stock in death’s repair,
Homesteads rendered charcoal like
Farmers in despair.
A silence in the ravaged hills
Birdless in the sky,
Bushfire horror, death and smoke
Enough to make you cry.
Marshalg
In support of my Australian brethren and their torched nation.
30 January 2013
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
spring planting, spring harvesting, spring garlic
One of the great joys of having a job in agriculture
is to think days, weeks, even months ahead,
One of the great joys of having a job in poetry,
like a fireman, a patient planter of love,
you wait to be called,
then becoming by being,
part of an all consuming burning
come spring, take advantage of the cool, wet weather of spring
to put in multiple crops of peas and lettuce, also a great time
to get your perennial vegetables,
like asparagus and rhubarb, started
the planting cycle is not an either/or,
come harvest thy labored fruits,
nine crops to harvest come March,
kale, pick leaves as needed,
leeks, best left in the ground
and harvested as needed,
parsnips, purple sprouting broccoli,
rhubarb, spring cabbage, spring cauliflower,
and of course, my personal fav,
Spring Garlic
Garlic, like like love, is generally planted in the fall,
before the frost and harvested the following late summer.
But from March to May,
once the ground has truly thawed,
the young lover plants, spring garlic or green garlic,
can be harvested.
it’s a long bus ride to Western Canada
where the garlic spring has come,
ain’t complaining lots of time to write foolishness
and plant a few good bus poems in northern ontario
and even michigan,
the window slides, and the seeds scattered,
but at every bus poet stop,
those that need it,
planted many inches deep
April 2 naught how I wish I was nineteen again
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
Could've been a cowboy but,
my **** didn't suit a horse.
could've been an astronaut but
I wandered off- off course.
could;ve been a fireman but,
my hose was waayy too short.
yeah,
I could've been a bank robber but,
****
I would've got my cute **** caught.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
We come before you Almighty God,
Policeman, Fireman and EMT
to say a prayer before we go
Our ways to each his own Duty
Together now we've come to pray
In case we forget to
During our busy day
The Policeman steps forth,
“Dear God above
Keep us save
and also those we love.
We pray for your unending favor
that we never need use
the rounds we chamber
Our Vests that we wear
for our own protection
please keep 'em bullet proof
and our safety never question”
The Fireman steps up, and then takes a knee
“Dear God above I need you now
I know you're always watching me
In the Fires of our Hell
or on the highway to there
Please keep us from hurt
and not singe a single hair
Give us the strength to lift a wall
or tenderness to pick up a tiny child
give us peace when others are losing it
and peace if the scene starts getting wild”
The EMT takes his stand
“God I guess it's my turn
Not really safety out there
or the protection from a burn
But rather Lord I need your help
let me make the right decision
on every patient that I care for
Their lives in my hands I've been given”
Then all Three stand together
with their heads all bowed low
Dear God above, to all of us
please your mercy would you endow
Keep us safe and bring us home
to our wives and our children
And each time a truck roles out
let it come back safely to it's building
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
"Boy toy
or girl
toy! Don't
make me tell
you again, Pedro!"
I have committed a felony
within the land of the Golden Arches.
I have gone through
another patient's order
and forgotten which gender
to assign to the child
standing right next to them,
as if in need of another
fresh new coat in
traditional roleplay,
as if these little ones
were the cattle of tradition.
How foolish of me to assume
that the tiny calf in pigtails
would enjoy the strong-willed,
goal-setting, leadership-evoking
action figure instead of the sanitized,
goal-admonishing, vapidity-provoking
fashion doll.
I wouldn't want to lose
another valuable customer.
Jul 1, 2010
Jul 1, 2010 at 9:43 PM UTC
Spalshes of blue
Bursts of pink
Dapplings of red
The smell of the ocean
The taste of ice cream
A song that makes me smile
I'm singing
I'm dancing
I'm falling
I'm running
I'm swimming
Its the Renaissance
Tumbleweeds blow by
It's Christmas
It's July
I'm happy
I'm content
I'm scared
I'm laughing
Then he's there
Holding me
Devouring me
Setting me on fire with his passionate kiss
Sometimes he's an actor
Sometimes he's a fireman or a soldier
Other times he's a knight, a lawyer, an architect or race car driver
And, he's always mine
He's tall
He's short
He's fit
He's stout
Tonight he has no face
But I remember his smile
I know his voice
We go surfing
It's bright out
The sun is warm
I'm on horseback
I'm driving a fast car
My friends are laughing
They are dancing
They are acrobats
We are at a party
We ice skate
We fight
There's an explosion
It's bright.......bright.......bright
My eyes have opened
I am awake.....or am I?
Everything here is smeared in hues of gray and blotches of black
I laugh and it doesn't sound real
I don't dance
I don't sing
I don't swim
And he's not here
I can barely capture his voice
I vaguely remember his smile
There is no great adventure
There is no great love
Is this real?
Or is this plain version of life the dream?
I am nothing here
I am no one here
I look at the clock longing to go home
Longing for my life
Longing to wake up from this terrible dream filled with gray
I want to return to my splashes of blue
His smile
And the warmth of a new adventure
I long for life
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
When I am all grown up
There's lots that I can be
A million different choices
And the choice is up to me
I can be a fireman
And drive a truck all painted red
I can work inside a kitchen
And make sure that folks get fed
I can be a sailor
And sail from sea to sea
I have a million different choices
And the choice is up to me
I can be a teacher,
and teach children to write
Or I can be a singer
And sing on stage each night
A footballer, a builder
or a worker in a zoo
It's up to me exactly what
job that I will do
A dancer, or a dentist
A scientist or vet
It's up to me and no one else
What kind of job I'll get
A painter, or an acrobat
A lifeguard on the beach
I can be an astronaut
And to the stars I'll reach
I can be most anything
There's lot's that I can be
There's so much for me out there
The choice is up to me
I can drive a race car
Let my imagination soar
This is just a short list
There's a million, million more
I can be most anything
There's a lot out there for me
For I am just beginning
And there's lots that I can be
An astronaut, a soldier
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
THE ONE ABOUT...
"Did you hear the one about..."
Death's
already laughing
"...a fireman, a butcher & a janitor
walked into a War..."
Death loves to tell this joke
Sometimes Death changes the details
"...a guy from Omaha, Ohio & Nebraska
walked into a War..."
"...and the shell fell into
the hole they were cowering in..."
Death cracks up
"...an 18 year old & two guys of twenty
walked into a War. . ."
"Wot's yer poison?" Death snickers
"...some guys called Sam, Hank & Frank
walked into a bar in a War and
they don't ever ever walk out..."
Oct 2, 2025
Oct 2, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC
I could have been a carpenter
With a callus on my hand
Or a marina worker
With my feet inside the sand
I could have been a historian
With glasses and a globe
But I’m just a lowly laborer
And my bones are getting old
I could have had a bank account
With lots cash and dough
Or a white picket fence
And I’d watch my green grass grow
I could have been successful
With sleep and no stress
But I chose dreams and passions
And still I feel I’m blessed
I could have never met you
With your big red sixties hair
Or could have never shared a night
In the starlight of your stare
I could have never known the truth
Lived my life a lie
But honesty has found me
Loving ‘til I die
I could have never realized
What a lucky lad I am
Or could have never battled
For what I believe in
I could have given up on it all
And laid down in defeat
But my love you do inspire
Me out onto the streets
I could have been a carpenter
With a hammer and a nail
I could have been a fireman
With a hard hat and a pale
I could have been lot of things
For there’s so much to be
But if I had to pick on one
I would pick on me
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
I.
Fireman, censor of literature and destroyer of knowledge, with his mighty flamethrower. He loves his work. He loves trouble and strife. He loves fascination with the people next door. Mostly, he loves his hammock. But sleep will be his final unrest.
II.
A gift for the darkness: reading from the forbidden kept hidden in the air-conditioning duct. The walls within turn on and off like Cora Pearl. His wife listens to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. They walk on as an extinguished connection. In the flickering of his eyeballs, he dreams of driving recklessly to Dover Beach and drowning her.
III.
Burning bright. He is burning so brightly. In the factory of mirrors, he takes a hard look. He's a flammable book. And it's a pleasure to burn. "What are you doing?" She asks. "Putting one foot in front of another." He answers.
Aug 9, 2021
Aug 9, 2021 at 3:31 PM UTC
Ten minutes now I have been looking at this.
I have gone by here before and wondered about it.
This is a bronze memorial of a famous general
Riding horseback with a flag and a sword and a revolver
on him.
I want to smash the whole thing into a pile of junk to be
hauled away to the scrap yard.
I put it straight to you,
After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the factory
hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear,
When they stack a few silhouettes
Against the sky
Here in the park,
And show the real huskies that are doing the work of
the world, and feeding people instead of butchering them,
Then maybe I will stand here
And look easy at this general of the army holding a flag
in the air,
And riding like hell on horseback
Ready to **** anybody that gets in his way,
Ready to run the red blood and slush the bowels of men
all over the sweet new grass of the prairie.
2.3k
~
when joy seems lost, when peace is gone;
to earth falls flat pleas skyward cast;
when those thought once to be a friend,
have all gone on, seems none are left;
when ears that heard, yet now are deaf,
when dreams lay torn, and hope bereft.
do not despair, nor call for end,
beyond these mists i am your friend;
your voice, a cry on wing and clear,
not all have left, know i am near;
i am hope disguised as gentle hands,
that reach to sooth the soul in angst.
i am love cloaked as eyes that seek,
the wounded heart that silent weeps;
i am your brother, i your kin,
though not by blood, nor race, nor skin,
yet beats within this breast as yours,
a heart breathed life at heaven's door.
your breath, my own, my will i share,
till yours can breathe, your burdens bear;
my oath, my pledge, your comfort be,
my blood transfused, beats still in thee;
i lend my hope to be your warmth,
i offer arms to hold you close.
you need not face another day,
a lifeless soul who walks away,
a faceless one who’s lost their voice,
but ’til your own has been restored,
to you the lyrics, lines belong,
'til you remember, i’ll sing your song.
~
*post script.
approximately 96 hopeless souls reach the end each day, and pull the trigger on whatever their choice of escape they had planned it to be (that’s one every fifteen minutes). the number is even larger if we include those who attempt and fail. if there are only six degrees of separation, imagine how many in your circle this means are contemplating, and are in and out of some level of consideration of making this day their last. remember, a song is amazingly powerful. it does not take a fireman to talk someone down off a ledge or a policeman to coax someone into laying down the gun, it only takes someone who is willing to listen, long before the gun and the ledge; someone willing to smile and be hope and notes for a soul who has lost their song... to remind them of the song they have forgotten; their song... hope’s song!*
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 12:06 AM UTC
No honor given
American people honor many things.
We honor soldiers, fireman, policeman.
We honor football player, baseball players
But we don't honor the american Indians
The way we should.
The is running bear, Cochise, and many others.
This land was owned by them before our father took it from them.
No honor is given to them or even a thank you.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
it showed
an utter disdain
for the conventions
of such an event
that they would
not toe the line
like the others
they proffered
none of the standard
shoulder-dipping
sidestepped shuffles
nor the exuberant
failing of arms
that have come
to be expected
of "good" dancers
those overused staples
that accompany such
predictable song choices
outdated and enjoyed
only ironically
this dance could not
faithfully manifest
their truth
they danced
not for that unnoticed
peripheral audience
but solely
to tell a story
to one another
instead they chased
cavorted and capered
with piggybacks
and fireman's lifts
arms-spread spinning
they became fireworks
their bodies
exploding apart
pulled together
breathlessly
slipping
and stumbling
without a care
leaping shoelessly
from place to place
from song to song
ending always
in each other's arms
Jan 27, 2023
Jan 27, 2023 at 10:32 AM UTC
Oh thou art an odd little man
Who peirced his **** in a fetish fad
A date from hell it had to be when he started acting very weird!!
Lick my shoes! Go f@@k off. You've no idea what they cost!
You want my tights ! Hang on a mo
I don't like where this is going!
Now the narcissistic little ***** has only gone and unwrapped his ****
Time to pack my bags and leave this one's
not the one for me
Tie me up and call me names! I'll call the police they do the same !!
Don't do that I beg of you
I'm scared of them you have no clue
I can't face the boys in blue
They will ridicule me far too much
Then the truth came squirting out
A ***** FIREMAN
NOW GET OUT!!!!
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
We risk our lives everyday
every time that we clock in,
it's our way of life and what we do
its the way it's always been.
We wake at 3 am to bells ringing
and sirens blare,
we leap to our feet and go get dressed
to fight deep in Hells lair.
In the darkness we don our gear
Strap on helmet and boot,
as one these brothers all get up
go sliding down the chute.
We run to the truck now wide awake
and with ease we slide in,
we put on our headsets to hear each other all other noise becomes a low din.
We race to the scene where smoke is showing
no one knows who got out,
we put on our airpacks and our masks
to talk we must now shout.
With axe in hand we enter therein
the Devils home amidst the flame,
we quickly search for everyone
boy, girl, man and dame.
The air is hot we can feel it through
the clothe armor that we wear,
but on we search through the building
till we realize we're low on air.
Another crew goes in
In their hands the hose
To find the seat of the flames
It's advancement to oppose
We cut the roof we pull the ceiling
Our hands and feet lose all feeling
We find a child we cover them up
We rush back to the door
We bring them to safety and go back in
To check and search for more
For hours the cycle repeats
Till all is said and done
The fire is out, we've done our job
This time we won
No fire is left and all are safe
We put our tools and hose away
And go back to the station
Where hopefully we'll get to stay
Our gears been scrubbed
Time to rest our exhausted bodies
We wake at 8 am to bells ringing
and sirens blare,
we leap to our feet and go get dressed
to fight deep in Hells lair...
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
Look.
He was just very enthusiastic about
being a fireman. He was always on
time and he never stole anything.
That's all I wanna say about it.
He never touched nobody or nothing.
That's all.
Really.
And stop calling.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 3:09 PM UTC
Mom is sweet,
only likes candles that
smell good enough
to cause cavities.
I make sure to get her one
every year.
Become supplier when
her warm vanilla sugar habit
burns down the last wick.
She says it makes the house
smell home.
Turns bitter taste of argument
into something she can swallow,
wants to be able to inhale love.
Says that when candle smoke
feels more like a lover's arms
than your actual lover's arms
there's something about her that
burns out too.
When warm vanilla sugar//mom
cries
she melts.
Divorce making the cavities
in her mouth rot
faster than she can burn out
this flame. Her bedroom
the wick and my father spitting lighter fluid
while swearing he loves her.
I'm sure he does
but this wildfire of a marriage
cannot be contained in this house.
Needs to branch out,
call in reinforcements.
My policeman of a father
was never a trained fireman,
can only call in a blaze when he sees it.
So I stood by and watched while
their marriage burned
but never kept the house warm.
Now I cannot light a candle
without feeling loss. The memory
of my parents slow dancing
at my aunt's wedding
sits shot gun in my car.
It's the four lighters I carry
around with me at once.
It smells like ash.
But my mom says she'll buy
me a candle for christmas,
one that smells like family dinners,
one that smells like coming home
to both parents.
She says I can burn it in my new bedroom,
says we don't have to live in
the memory of a house,
can live in the parts of us
that go home for the holidays.
The parts that smell like
warm vanilla sugar,
a lover's arms,
a wedding's slow dance.
And maybe one day
every day can smell like that
too.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
Many hats on my head,
Many titles to claim,
I find it fulfilling to be,
Everything that motivates me.
One day I’m a fireman,
Another day I am a jailer,
This day I’m a poet,
Tomorrow I’ll be a mailer.
What’s funny is this,
A name and a shield,
Is merely a buck for a meal,
My ignorance is so bliss.
These paths are not me,
They are merely a guide,
For me to find whomever is me,
On a security guard’s salary.
To make films or to weep,
To keep jails or to sleep,
To fight fires or to leap,
Into this pen of little sheep.
Why is it that I,
Aim to be that guy,
Who’s career should imply,
That I’m “something” till I die?
An artist,
An actor,
An experiment of all factors,
I try hard to be somebody,
When I’m already my own everybody.
I’m exactly what I need to be,
In this world of all these faces,
Masks grow tight around these cheeks,
Why aspire to climb mountains,
And reach such heightening places?
I’m a detective one day,
An electrician by night,
A silly little dreamer,
Always ready to take on flight.
I’ll pilot this aircraft,
And spread my wings a’sailing,
Without prejudice or hesitation,
I may not always succeed,
But I’m never failing.
Oct 23, 2023
Oct 23, 2023 at 12:20 AM UTC
i am leading an undefined life
on a kite string
full of fake faces, staged greetings,
and smiles
that don't quite extend to the eyes.
it is as full as a predated diary kept until now.
my childhood went missing in rose gardens
and the space between
the goals.
i had a chalkboard that wouldn't erase.
i have read between the lines of love notes
i have read emotion in only seven letters
i have read passion in fourteen keys
i thought i was untouchable
...and i was...
but not unwillingly.
i got caught writing nursery rhymes
on my desk
in the middle of an exam.
and now, at eighteen, i have seen
the carriage stop, and slowly drive away.
i have heard the beauty
in john cage's
four minutes and thirty-three seconds.
i don't know why, but i have chopin's
nocturne in E-flat major
stuck in my head.
i hate not being able to say the right words
when i need them
instead of when
i find them.
i love the woven metal
embracing my finger;
that makes us almost sisters.
i've lost a heavy golden crucifix
with an anchor as its back,
and a tiny bundle that tore me up inside.
i'm looking for a fireman
named greg
just to see how he's doing
since 1997.
i wish that everything i wrote would become truth,
because then
i could make people come back.
and my heart is strong.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 5:05 AM UTC
The prehensile snout of a Tapir
is posturally renowned,
but I am no caricaturist
unless I required Rhinoplasty
Neither am I an
Air Force Major or a Fireman,
never having shot or doused in anger
never clanged quid pro quo,
I am a wordsmith, without a necessarily dangerous course,
a wedgeless door stop this side of juxtaposition,
trying for a profile,
riding on a buzz,
to think so few images
could conjure so much verdure
Dec 1, 2012
Dec 1, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
I enjoy the word "sweet," it accurately describes the succulence of your lower lip
I wish to ****
and bite, and bruise.
"Hard" is your body, lean and tough
and assumedly rough
intense
passionate, all those lovely sensual adjectives that cheesy soft-erotica novellas
(that I "don't read")
use to describe a Man on a horse,
or in a fireman's coat, covered in soot,
saving kitties and pleasing cougars.
You are quite the male that I crave,
absolute perfection in human form that tempts and tortures my guilty thoughts and heaving breaths
so that I feel like one of those helpless heroines who swoon over a sensitive, wounded man.
But God do I want to inflict wounds on you, and lick them clean.
You have been a bad boy;
go to my room.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC