"fireside" poems
I recognise
those tired eyes
with fond recollections
how we made them so
by the lush warmth of the fireside
through the night:
decadent movements.
Oh,
how those eyes and your body glowed.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Chills run down your spine
Caress with a caress, tender
Breaking a physical valve, meander
Touch to touch, unkeeping of the line
Unplanned, a mystery thick as pine
Feeling, shaking like thunder
Nothing short of splendor
Heart breaking without time
Pulling away from rush
Far from appeasement
No longer engrossed, no longer heated lush
Cold like the words he meant
Stinging like fireside brush
Kisses from fervent
14 April
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC
On her way to work one morning
Down the path along side the lake
A tender hearted woman saw a poor half frozen snake
His pretty colored skin had been all frosted with the dew
"Poor thing," she cried, "I'll take you in and I'll take care of you"
"Take me in tender woman
Take me in, for heaven's sake
Take me in, tender woman," sighed the snake
She wrapped him all cozy in a comforter of silk
And laid him by her fireside with some honey and some milk
She hurried home from work that night and soon as she arrived
She found that pretty snake she'd taken to had bee revived
"Take me in, tender woman
Take me in, for heaven's sake
Take me in, tender woman," sighed the snake
She clutched him to her ***** "You're so beautiful," she cried
"But if I hadn't brought you in by now you might have died"
She stroked his pretty skin again and kissed and held him tight
Instead of saying thanks, the snake gave her a vicious bite
"Take me in, tender woman
Take me in, for heaven's sake
Take me in, tender woman," sighed the snake
"I saved you," cried the woman
"And you've bitten me, but why?
You know your bite is poisonous and now I'm going to die"
"Oh shut up, silly woman," said the reptile with a grin
"You knew **** well I was a snake before you took me in
"Take me in, tender woman
Take me in, for heaven's sake
Take me in, tender woman," sighed the snake
Dec 24, 2019
Dec 24, 2019 at 8:42 PM UTC
I love the morning dew
yawning baby yellow
new beginnings to follow
a dawn to call my own
I love the settling shadows
waning magnificent glimmers
warm by the fireside
stories yearning to be retold
a dusk to let go
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
there was a little snowman he was very bold
not like all the others he always felt the cold
the snowman built a fire so he could feel some heat
built it very carefully and made it very neat
as the fire burned and it began to glow
now he was getting warm and the cold began to go
snowman fell asleep by the fireside
forgot about the cold that he felt inside
he began to melt while he was in his sleep
and woke as a puddle nearly to feet deep
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
*Shall I speak of autumn leaves while summer doldrums reign?
Wistfully, I wait for frost to paint my window pane.
Dare I yet imagine smoke from chimneys wafting forth?
Can you taste the chilling breeze that lingers from the north?
There is no time like autumn, when relief from summer's sway
Gives rise to fireside interludes and sweet rolls in the hay.*
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC
Two miles from town, I meet an old woodcutter
and we travel the road lined with huge pines.
The smell of wild plum blossoms
drifts across the valley.
My walking stick has brought us home.
In the ancient pond – huge, contented fish.
Long sunbeams penetrate the deep woods.
And in the house – a long bed
all covered with poetry books.
I loosen my belt and robes,
copy phrase after phrase for my poems.
At twilight, I walk to the east wing –
spring quail startle into the air.
Tramping for miles I come upon a farm house
as the great ball of sun sets in the forest.
Sparrows gather near a bamboo thicket,
flutter about in the closing dark.
From across a field comes a farmer
who calls a greeting from afar.
He tells his wife to strain their cloudy wine
and treats me to his garden's feast.
Sitting across table we drink each other's health
our talk rising to the heavens.
Both of us are so tipsy and happy
we forget the rules of this world.
Too confused to ever earn a living
I've learned to let things have their way.
With only three handfuls of rice in my bag
and a few branches by my fireside
I pursue neither right or wrong
and forget worldly fortune and fame.
This damp night under a grassy roof
I stretch out my legs without regrets.
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I feel it in the tenderness in your expression,
when you call me baby over the phone.
I feel the charm of your masculinity.
Something deep inside of you transfers esoterically
inside my soul.
I want you to get deeper into our merger.
I want to be your dream come true.
I want to cradle myself next to you;
a blanket on the floor, a pillow on the bed,
a tent in a back field in the middle of the night.
it doesn’t matter where we are, as long as I lay next
to my man.
I will be happy, I will be whole.
I like it when you call me baby, I am fully aware that
I am yours.
I am dedicated to my African King, and I know that you are
devoted to me.
When you call me baby, I know you mean it.
You arouse a fireside of warmth inside my wet harbor,
and when you call me baby, you make me feel like Black Beauty!
I feel the sensations of your heartbeat, jiving to music that
only we can hear..
You make me melt like heat to ice, when you touch my lips,
and kiss me goodnight.
I feel exclusively special when you call me your Lady!
I can’t help but hold a torch for you.
I like it when you call me baby, it makes me feel rather
profound for you.
When you call me baby over the phone,
I want to add your sentiment as my preferred ringtone.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 10:52 PM UTC
Sweet was the ancient tale once told,
Of star-born realms and skies above,
When primal hearts, though proud and bold,
Still held the thread of love.
From rose-hued lands where dreamers grew,
No scorn arose, nor warlike word.
‘Twixt cultures old, the wise and true
A gentle peace was heard.
The sea lay calm, the waves moved slow,
While birds sang high on salted air.
The stars, the moon, and myths below
Drew hearts with gentle care.
When Orpheus, with lyre in hand,
Could charm the trees and still the shore,
He sang not just of death’s dim land,
But love that dared for more.
And songs poured out, both wide and bright,
Unbound by ticking clocks or schemes.
A joy unspoiled by neon light
Still stirs in silent dreams.
No noise, no screen, no hollow glow,
Just fireside tales and open skies
A world less fast, yet rich to know,
Where wonder met the eyes.
But now, a broken engine hums,
Where whispers clash and meanings blur.
Though minds are fed, the heart succumbs
In dreamy shadows stir.
This modern sprawl, in steel-clad guise,
Sees freedom drown and ruins swell.
While gilded dame with cunning eyes,
Buys silence, sells the shell.
Sweet childhood homes that most recall,
Still mourn the loss of treasured views.
While elders chase the siren’s call,
The Futures drown in hues.
O bitter jest, this march of mind,
That trades the soul for hastened days.
Where hearts and minds are redesigned
By profit’s clever maze.
Progress cloaked where truths are wrung
May blind the heart and charm the tongue;
But in the hush, old songs are sung
Still bold, still clear, still young.
Naturae consors esto
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 10:02 PM UTC
A nobler king had never breath--
I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.
(And oh, the shirts of linen-lawn,
And all the armor, tagged and tied,
And church on Sundays, dusk and dawn.
And bed a thing to kneel beside!)
The bravest one stood tall above
The rest, and watched me as a light.
I heard and heard them talk of love;
I'd naught to do but think, at night.
The bravest man has littlest brains;
That chalky fool from Astolat
With all her dying and her pains!--
Thank God, I helped him over that.
I found him not unfair to see--
I like a man with peppered hair!
And thus it came about. Ah, me,
Tristram was busied otherwhere....
A nobler king had never breath--
I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen.
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'The beggar boy is none of mine,'
The reverend doctor strangely said;
'I do not walk the streets to pour
Chance benedictions on his head.
'And heaven I thank who made me so.
That toying with my own dear child,
I think not on _his_ shivering limbs,
_His_ manners vagabond and wild.'
Good friend, unsay that graceless word!
I am a mother crowned with joy,
And yet I feel a ***** pang
To pass the little starveling boy.
His aching flesh, his fevered eyes
His piteous stomach, craving meat;
His features, nipt of tenderness,
And most, his little frozen feet.
Oft, by my fireside's ruddy glow,
I think, how in some noisome den,
Bred up with curses and with blows,
He lives unblest of gods or men.
I cannot ****** him from his fate,
The tribute of my doubting mind
Drops, torch-like, in the abyss of ill,
That skirts the ways of humankind.
But, as my heart's desire would leap
To help him, recognized of none,
I thank the God who left him this,
For many a precious right foregone.
My mother, whom I scarcely knew,
Bequeathed this bond of love to me;
The heart parental thrills for all
The children of humanity.
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a desolate bargain
all my dead days with a
crown of thorns
for a single gesture of warmth
all my days
as her silent saint of persecuted tears
my fireside midnight in the comforting
company of what appeared to be angel
their dead languages ring true to
my long deceased heart
feel light as a feather
like the wind itself come to tear
my very soul from the mortal soil of
this unforgiving life
from my burying ground
seen a burning light cresting the east
burned with a silent majesty
an unspoken glory come to lift
my eyes from these dark workings
heard an old man with a child's voice
telling wasn't my crown of thorns to wear
wasn't angles but shadows
come to keep the midnight watch with me
still a saint of her persecuted tears
now that the full weight of
this mortal dirt soul
hangs upon me like a corpse
all the living done wasted away
Dec 1, 2016
Dec 1, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
I’m rather fond of chocolate cake
I’d like to learn to knit
But I can’t abide Celine Dione
And Celery is ****
I find a book most comforting
And the odd banana split
But I hate celebrity look-a-likes
And Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I’m happiest by the fireside
Some music, I’ll permit
But I grit my teeth at gossipers
And dead ringers
Canadian singers
And Celery are ****
I love the air about my hair
And the grass beneath my feet
But I've never been too keen on wasps
And **** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I’m partial to a cup of tea
With a biscuit next to it
But I’ll never vote conservative
And insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are ****
I like to bake a birthday cake
Or build a Lego kit
There are many things I truly love
But Right wingers
Insect stingers
**** slingers
Dead ringers
Canadian singers
And celery are STILL ****
**
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 7:37 PM UTC
This.
This is decorating my living room, and only my living room,
With every available piece of holiday cheer.
This is sitting by the fireside, drinking apple cider and listening to the woman who can recite Twas the Night Before Christmas by heart.
This is shortbread cookies.
You may ask if you can have one.
You may, but not the one who looks like a man.
His legs have been broken and icinged back on. He is special. .
This is not enough wrapping paper.
Too much wrapping paper.
My dad will never learn how to use wrapping paper.
This is managing not to fight with my sisters on the darkest days in winter.
This.
This is skating on black ice in winter boots,
Using icicles as lollipops,
This is mittens, hat, scarf, forgotten on the snow man.
This is the fort you couldn't knock over,
This is making lists.
Breaking lists.
Writing and rewriting.
This is advent calenders.
This is candycane addictions.
This is pleasant smiles from the grumpiest holiday shoppers.
This is the reason I love Christmas time more than Christmas day.
And this,
This is not a miracle.
This is a tradition that is older than I am.
This is the family I can always count on.
This, is home.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 9:20 AM UTC
Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
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Evermore has man searched for God,
the one who lives forever,
reaching upward towards the sun,
Icarus smitten with metallic rod.
Evermore has man dreamed of eternal life,
mixing potions,
magnum opus,
man or monster under knife.
Evermore has man sought immunity,
medical perfection,
telomeres with regeneration,
society given a longer unity.
Evermore has man longed for the paranormal,
vampires and immortal beasts,
fireside stories fit for fear,
portals to the imagination.
*The bird of Hermes,
is my name,
eating my wings,
to make me tame.*
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 12:42 PM UTC
I am called a scrooge
as I dislike this greedy
grimy "holiday" of gorging
gratuitously on cookies dipped in mashed potatoes.
People grabbing & gouging
for electronic pop culture distractions
to celebrate the "birth" of a baby
from a lady who claimed to be a ******
Everyone expects something
to be given, pressure permeates
those souls who wait 'till last minutes eve
as laborers looking for reprieves of this
audacious onslaught of wild eyed drooling
consumers
while I shutter at home watching TV's screaming
*Why wait 'till the "holidays"
when you could have gotten that anytime?*
Kids with detailed lists of wants make parents
feel like **** if the money's not there--
traveling to visit relatives the family cares little about
while everyone sends fake happy cards espousing
happy scenes of fireside matching sweaters next to a
tree cut from outside brought in--
a metaphor for the biannual church families
dressed up to sing hymns and drink wine.
So you can call me a scrooge,
or even a grinch,
I don't really give a ****
cause I've been giving gifts
consistently loving thy fellow man.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 2:27 PM UTC
Peter built a paper boat
Which he could float about the sea
To hidden spots of lonely coast
Where not a ghost or man would be
He painted words along her bough
That soon would plough and skip and trot
Between the waves that rose and falled
The boat was called 'Forget Me Not'
He bid his wife a fond goodbye
The tide was high when he embarked
He drifted from his tiny cove
While weather drove and seagulls larked
He set his course horizon bound
For solid ground of ****** shore
As darkness came he made a bed
To keep his head above the floor
The voyage took him straight and true
Across the blue, toward the sun
But soon a tongue of lightening spat
And thunder rattled like a gun
The waves encircled hungrily
And angrily about their prey
The tempest heaved with no regret
It blew Forget Me Not away
He found himself all caked in sand
And on a strand of desert beach
Forget Me Not had run aground
But safe and sound from tidal reach
He folded down his paper yacht
And found a spot to build a home
But saved the sail and rudder strings
To forge some wings and daily roam
He glided high and long and wide
Past mountainside and shore to shore
And through the night he forged a blade
And with it made a lumber saw
He felled the trunk and snared the beast
And cooked a feast to celebrate
The rain it sought to disagree
But quick was he to remonstrate
The moonlight waxed and waned apart
And on his heart a longing formed
For home and his beloved bride
For fireside and there be warmed
And so he took the house he'd made
From humid shade of seldom oak
He set the island to his aft
And cried and laughed the words he spoke
They matched the words he'd lately hewn
Beneath the moon in shady spot
He carved into that seldom tree
'Remember me, forget me not'
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:23 AM UTC
We saw six stars melt
& counted every constellation,
three signs of the zodiac,
kept ourselves warm
holding sticky fingers
& kissing each other's
sugary-lips.
The taste of marshmallows
lingered in our mouths,
as our tongues
played serpentine-games
with tightly-shut eyes
lying fireside.
I wanted to stay
with you like that,
love you infinitely,
but we both knew
nothing so nice
ever lasts.
Now, when I think
about the past
& melt marshmallows,
I see your pretty face,
remember your sweet-kisses,
feel your tender touch.
Only the Lord knows
how much I miss you.
So you should know darling,
I've saved your loving-memory
deep in my heart
forever & it comforts me
when I'm alone & cold.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
Now that the winter’s gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth,
And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble-bee.
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful Spring.
The valleys, hills, and woods in rich array
Welcome the coming of the long’d-for May.
Now all things smile, only my love doth lour;
Nor hath the scalding noonday sun the power
To melt that marble ice, which still doth hold
Her heart congeal’d, and makes her pity cold.
The ox, which lately did for shelter fly
Into the stall, doth now securely lie
In open fields; and love no more is made
By the fireside, but in the cooler shade
Amyntas now doth with his Chloris sleep
Under a sycamore, and all things keep
Time with the season; only she doth carry
June in her eyes, in her heart January.
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*A Farewell.
Part two.*
Sun nearly forgiving of summer.
I save my whole spectrum of emotions
For gratitude.
How can air be this clean?
Atmosphere..?
All there is, is me.
And a cat that hasn't given a
Whimper in complaint
Since then.
I see something like a sun;
Only brighter, throw; no -hurl-
Herself in my face, screaming:
*"I love you, you crazy Norwegian
Brute of an imbecile
Viking Poet!
Now be with me! I will admire
You living your every dream
From as far away
As you wish me
To,"* new love
Emerging like a mad phoenix
From the ashes of my sorrow,
Shining through feather tips
As I see crows the size
Of falcons part and
Reveal her singing to me:
*"I will not breathe, my lord,
Until you share this fireside
Bed with me yet... oh, yet
Again."*
I have been given
So much
Gold.
I will treasure
It.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Never Neverland is the place where dreams come true
Where you don’t have to be serious, don’t have to grow up
Where Peter is the one to follow and ensures that the everlasting imagination is forever
You can run around in your underwear and no one would notice,
Go get worms by the fireside and tell them to come play
Astronauts, doctors, photographers are all dreams reachable
In Never Neverland you are safe from teenagers torment
Or weight weighing you down, every time you count the calories of a *******
Never Neverland is a place of wonder, a place of intrigue
And where memories don’t fade, everything is everything
And everyone is part of some huge inner circle
Giggling and building forts
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 5:40 PM UTC
Last night was a perfect night,
watching shooting stars across the sky
the crackling firewood
and the glimmer in our eyes;
smores, and stories
of troubled times
and how we're grateful we made it out alive.
Scripture study fireside,
testimonies, and lots of tears cried,
lead to long group hugs to dry our eyes.
This is what real Friendship feels like:
this is remembering why I needed to stay alive,
this is why I'm grateful for God's presence in my life.
And I think I'm learning,
"borrowed time"
means staying up until the sunrise
and still calling it Saturday night.
Why else would He have created Summertime?
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 2:18 AM UTC
a commune back home not hippie
buy 300, no 500 acres great land
in Codroy or misty high hilled Avalon
built great big house wraparound porch
beset by rocking chair by the sea yet
in the woods at end of road all brown dirt
growing gardens, herb and vegetable
pulling weeds but keeping good green ****
brewing beer by own hand
group work but not always group think
friends lovers writers growers givers
all come to stay
making great pots of stew and strange brews
awakening brought far from Peruvian Torch homeland
telling stories all somehow great fables and anecdotes for life and living and love and everything that's good in the long run
at night over bottles on beaches by fires
we worry these are funeral pyres
for our great little social experiment
fear of leaving loving womb
of isolated salt fish by sea commune
real world so crass&brash; an unctuous affair
where here instead guitars, ukes
silly screaming little buddhas recite poems
by gleaming eye fireside
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC
Comets or meteors?
Perhaps they're like rooks and crows
“Where there's a rook there's a crow
“Where there's crows there's rooks”
To be one amongst a shower, a storm of meteors
Hurtling through the emptiness of infinity
Protected by the confidence of knowing
That we and our equally frenzied fellow travellers
However far we hurl ourselves
Flashing by through all the vastness
Looking tiny and bright like a fireside's sparks
Consumed in a stampede, burning up and soon to be lost
Are in fact racing along a familiar orbit
That could last as long as a million years
Which all too soon will pull us back to where we've been
A familiar sight, overlooking what we've already seen
Or to be a lonely meteor
Deserting the pack, distracted by some new attraction
Sampling a novel atmosphere, hardly aware
Of the flames gathering round
Till the grip that was a comfort
That was such a pleasure to be caught by
Loses its interest or changes its intent
Returning the wanderer to the emptiness
Or turning a journey of exploration
Into a pitiful conflagration
With a final pathetic fall
Messy and destructive to all
That witness the meaningless call
Of that misguided journey's concluding bump
Well, I don't know if this is good science
And hope not to be subject to such violence
Shooting stars may enjoy applause from those below
But I'll see it all from here, and adore the moon's glow.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC