I would rather see smoke from my own chimney than the fire on another's hearth.
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When The Smoke Comes Out
when the smoke comes out
they are there to say that there is fire
on the chimney
when the smoke is black
they all say i have decided
when the smoke is white
they keep on praying since
no one is chosen
to lead the lost flock
without their grazing ground
during winter time
what if the smoke comes out
from my eyes and the smoke is black
and there is no fire in my heart?
what if i am lost? shall you care?
please don't. I must tell you i am happier
when left alone.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever come to sit by it. Passersby see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on the way.
quote by Vincent Van Gogh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.
quote by Vincent Van Gogh
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Smoke
smoke from the chimney
rises to the sky
and then gone
like us, did you not notice?
we are from here
this heart and then in pain
we rise up
we mix in space
there, do you see still us?
i do not see me anymore
i am fog dissolving in the morning
i am mist dissipating on glass
i am smoke
rising to the sky from the chimney
and then gone....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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What The Chimney Sang
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,
And thought of the one she had long since lost,
And said, as her teardrops back she forced,
'I hate the wind in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Children said, as they closer drew,
'`Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through,
`Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew,
And we fear the wind in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below,
Said to himself, 'It will surely snow,
And fuel is dear and wages low,
And I`ll stop the leak in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
But the Poet listened and smiled, for he
Was Man and Woman and Child, all three,
And said, 'It is God`s own harmony,
This wind we hear in the chimney.'
poem by Francis Bret Harte
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Fire By Night, Smoke By Day
It's fire by night and smoke by day
As we lay in our beds just thinking away
We wake in the morning to do what they say
It's fire by night and it's smoke by day
The sun starts to rise and the birds start to sing
We worry about what to do, what to wear and what to bring
We make a to-do list filled with everything
Just like the summer, the winter, the fall and the spring
Fire by night, smoke by day
There's nothing left to blow it away
Our day carries on as we're stuck to the clock
A slave to the ways of the tic and the toc
We carry a key but there isn't a lock
Trying to discover what is already lost
Fire by night, smoke by day
There's nothing left to blow it away
We wait for the water to wash it away
It's fire by night, smoke by day
Our thoughts start to wander as night settles in
Engaged in a fight we're not ready to win
As we wait for a new tomorrow to begin
The fire starts burning all over again
Fire by night, smoke by day
There's nothing left to blow it away
We wait for the water to wash it away
It's fire by night, smoke by day
poem by Navillus Tam
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The Tent
actually, i do not
go for your tent
as a definition of
what marriage is
not,
i still think that
my marriage is a big house
with the convenience
of five chambermaids
a butler
and a driver.
with a last note,
we have fire inside the
chimney
we have smoke
for the atmosphere
and we have warmth
even in summer.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Epithalamium
A bee in the field. The house on the mountain
reveals itself to have been there through summer.
It's not a bee but a horse eating frosted grass
in the yawn light. Secrets, the anguish of smoke
above the chimney as it shreds what it's learned
of fire. The horse has moved, it's not a horse
but a woman doing the stations of the cross
with a dead baby in her arms. The anguish of the house
as it reveals smoke to the mountain. A woman
eating cold grass in Your name, shredding herself
like fire. The woman has stopped, it's not a woman
but smoke on its knees keeping secrets in what it reveals.
The everything has moved, it's not everything
but a shredding of the anguish of names. The marriage
of light: particle to wave. Do you take? I do.
What for man and woman?
Woman is hearth and man is fire
There embrace is smoke.
Coitus is flame.
Pleasure is spark.
Emission is sacrifice
With orgasm as nectar
The result is birth.
But for this, what for
Did the God make man and woman?
09.01.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Fires
Men make them fires on the hearth
Each under his roof-tree,
And the Four Winds that rule the earth
They blow the smoke to me.
Across the high hills and the sea
And all the changeful skies,
The Four Winds blow the smoke to me
Till the tears are in my eyes.
Until the tears are in my eyes.
And my heart is wellnigh broke
For thinking on old memories
That gather in the smoke.
With every shift of every wind
The homesick memories come,
From every quarter of mankind
Where I have made me a home.
Four times a fire against the cold
And a roof against the rain --
Sorrow fourfold and joy fourfold
The Four Winds bring again!
How can I answer which is best
Of all the fires that burn?
I have been too often host or guest
At every fire in turn.
How can I turn from any fire,
On any man's hearthstone?
I know the wonder and desire
That went to build my own!
How can I doubt man's joy or woe
Where'er his house-fires shine.
Since all that man must undergo
Will visit me at mine?
Oh, you Four Winds that blow so strong
And know that his is true,
Stoop for a little and carry my song
To all the men I knew!
Where there are fires against the cold,
Or roofs against the rain --
With love fourfold and joy fourfold,
Take them my songs again!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Loud And Low In The Chimney
LOUD and low in the chimney
The squalls suspire;
Then like an answer dwindles
And glows the fire,
And the chamber reddens and darkens
In time like taken breath.
Near by the sounding chimney
The youth apart
Hearkens with changing colour
And leaping heart,
And hears in the coil of the tempest
The voice of love and death.
Love on high in the flute-like
And tender notes
Sounds as from April meadows
And hillside cotes;
But the deep wood wind in the chimney
Utters the slogan of death.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Do Not Threaten Me With Fire My Love
do not threaten me with the fire of your body my love
for i am a man born of fire and shall die of fire
i eat fire, i bathe in fire, i swim in the deepest part of fire
i like to burn in the fire that you start
from your flicker, from the flints of your gaze
i like to see this hearth, this warmth, this conflagration
you with me burning like hell
do not threaten me with the fire of your thighs
for i eat fire, my body is fire, it is alive with its heat
my sweat are the smokes of fire
my end is the char that stays beside your legs
and tomorrow morning when i finally die
when i am put off by your power
you shall find me as burnt residues
beneath your feet
i am the offering of love to life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Am Ash
do not threaten me with the fire of your body my love
for i am a man borne of fire and shall die of fire
i eat fire, i bathe in fire, i swim in the deepest part of fire
i like to burn in the fire that you start
from your flicker, from the flints of your gaze
i like to see this hearth, this warmth, this conflagration
you with me burning like hell
do not threaten me with the fire of your thighs
for i eat fire, my body is fire, it is alive with its heat
my sweat fumes are the smokes of fire
my end is the char that stays beside your legs
and tomorrow morning when i finally die
when i am put off by your power
you shall find me as burnt residues
beneath your feet
i am ash
the offering of love to life.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fire Fighting Days
The sun is blocked out by a heavy smoke haze
Twelve miles south of here a huge bushfire blaze
It's way through the brown paddocks and stands of trees
fanned on by a warm and a freshening breeze,
Where-ever there's smoke there is fire to be found
And smoke travels by air for miles and miles around
The C F A the Country fire fighters are busy today
The destructive fire front they fight to keep it at bay,
Such courageous people one can't help but them admire
They risk their own lives to save homes from the fire
They display their courage in the gap of fear
Great stories of their bravery we so often hear
Through dry scrublands and paddocks the huge fire front blaze
We are in the Season of fire fighting days.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Tick Tock!
There once was a time
When there was but one,
He came in a sleigh with his bells turned on,
With a long white beard and a fat red pelt
And a tassle and a bobble and a Sam Browne belt!
Just once in the year
He'd appear on high,
With reindeers, winging through the stars in the sky,
And he'd bring all the presents that the kids desired,
They'd send him all their letters in the smoke from the fire.
But the year came round
When it all went wrong,
While singing and a-playing of the reindeer song,
For a boy lay awake while the world was asleep
As Saint Nick clambered down the chimney-piece.
The fairy on the tree
Looked down and around
To the holly and the mistletoe, and then, she frowned!
For the boy sat and listened to the grandfather clock,
As the old clock muttered to the hearth - Tick! Tock!
Then a shower of soot
And the old black boots,
As Santa came a-calling in his old red suit,
But he saw a little movement, hidden by the tree
And he roared -'No presents for the likes of thee! '
He turned to the hearth
To the chimney-piece,
As the boy sprang out with a whimpered: 'Please! '
But the rules had been written by the man in the hood,
'I only leave presents where the children are good! '
The boy thought quick,
He'd heard 'Tick! Tock! '
He opened up the front of the grandfather clock,
Then said, 'That's fine, in a goody-goody home,
But what about the kids who are bad to the bone? '
Then he caught St Nick
By his Sam Browne belt,
Pulled him off his balance in his old red pelt,
Then stuffed him in the front of the grandfather clock
That had muttered to the blinking of the tree, Tick! Tock!
The boy then turned
The key in the lock,
Imprisoned him forever in the grandfather clock,
He took all the presents from the old man's sack,
And once he took the presents there was no going back!
There's no more Santa
And there's no more sleigh
For it got a parking ticket on the very next day,
And the parking inspector set the reindeer free,
For no-one asked the question - 'Where can he be? '
So now there are streets full
Of men in red suits,
With their false white beards, and their fake black boots
With the only real Santa, imprisoned in a clock,
He's jammed against the pendulum, it can't - Tick! Tock!
11 December 2009
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Hidden smoke is a friend indeed
'If they pick I have some words for a country sad song.
Yes, If they sing I hear quietly.'
A rising smoke from a cottage chimney whispers to the barren sky.
'They burn the happiness and it turns into smoke.
Where do I go nobody knows?
But don't be frightened
I never pollute the sky and I promise you to bring rain for your crops to smile
And feed you in a severe drought.'
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Chimney Smoke
My chimney smoke billows, streams and puffs,
Peacefully wafting o'er the bluffs,
Drifting further, merging with clouds,
That act as our blankets, our mantles, our shrouds.
O the good Earth is spinning around and around,
And the sun ever shines without making a sound,
And the hearth in my house is burning some wood,
Crackling and popping like a good fire should.
Yes we laughed and we cried and we had such a ball,
Was all of this something after all?
'I know not our strange plot, ' said the tired, old man,
Then returned to the spot where his whole life began.
Immense and stupendous with checkerboard floors,
We push forward like pawns down the long corridors,
Capturing pieces like killing machines,
Yearning to turn into quantum queens!
There's blood in the streets and there's blood in the fields,
There are bird-picked bones by the broken shields,
And the cycle continues forevermore,
Massacres, genocides, holocausts, war!
And when we look back at all that's been done,
In the name of survival, development, fun,
Will we try to correct the mistakes that were made?
Or live to regret them, forget them, and fade…
poem by Joshua Dinkin
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Cabin Fever
Cabin Fever.
The firewood in the hearth hiss and smoke
refuse to burn bright, these limbs of a giant
will not heat my cabin this winter evening.
I must have done something wrong, don’t
know what. I have doused the flaccid limbs
with alcohol, drank some too, now the fire
is burning bright with an inner ice blue tint.
From the floor looking up I see the roof is
on fire. Someone knocks on my door, I’m
a pirate burning my ship, there is rum for
everyone; for the dreary I’ve diet coke and
for the loony there is low fat yogurt.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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For You To Trust Me
for you to trust me
i must listen and keep the promise
about your love and your
new lover
not to tell about the fire
burning inside your hearts
and eyes
for you to trust me
i must not be the rain
or the sun
i must not be the river
to sing what you both have kept
as a secret
inside the chimney when the smoke
rises to the skies
i shall only watch
and keep the pains that both of you
too suffer
i have not told you
that in love
goes the joy
goes the pain
and now you must take them all
like water and sand
in your hand
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Rekindled smoke
You asked for smoke,
But kindled fire
And ashes rolled beneath your feet.
But if you lived without desire
Betrayed your wrath for something higher
Then there'd be smoke without fire
And love would spring up from the heat.
poem by Sasha Ioffine
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