My favorite place to be on a warm summer night is gathered around a campfire with my loved ones
I think the fire’s healing properties take action the moment the grandboys hear what’s happening.
They gather small sticks for tinder and with it form a little teepee in the earthen fire pit, a circle of rocks gathered years ago and placed there for this moment.
Slowly, carefully, they add a few slightly larger sticks and with a long wooden match the magic begins.
Smoke rising out of orange and yellow and blue flames as the sticks catch fire
Add a couple large pieces of wood and watch. That, too, catches on.
Madison Murphy Barney shared this as part of the ingredients for a Salve:
“10 oz of tears for what could have been, 10 more for what will be”
The words you used to describe smoke as evidence of transformation reminds me, as did Madison’s words, that our suffering can lead us to hope and joy, to be excited about Love. I used to live categorizing things into “good or bad”. Now I see all as life with greater depth than I ever imagined. I love the way your poem covers that way of thinking.
Canadian wildfires, the new norm, drift over borders and spread their stain of acrid haze into my state, where winter is the hazardous season and now summer is too.
Days lost to eerie smoke, my city briefly awarded the prize of worst air quality in the world. What do the birds feel, with their tiny lungs and air sacs, when this toxic fog descends? We are all canaries in the climate change coal mine. And yet, the most beautiful, breathtaking fiery red sunsets.
made beginnings again. ‘ Beautiful words thank you for sharing them. I find it interesting that the day smoke is our cue word has come that a dear friend has passed into his next reality. He left this world too soon because the smoke of 9/11 caused the many physical trails of the past decade: cancer, stroke, high BP, and things unidentified that ravaged his body. A soul gone too soon because he chose to run towards the smoke to help search for those buried in the rubble. Rest in peace my friend.
In 1982 an arsonist set a series of fires in Berkeley, California from materials on hand, like our newspaper recycling bin. No one was ever hurt and the person eventually stopped. That day changed how I respond to smoke, especially as our daughter’s crib had, until recently, been in that corner. Thank you for your many words which remind me of the other side of smoke.
My favorite place to be on a warm summer night is gathered around a campfire with my loved ones
I think the fire’s healing properties take action the moment the grandboys hear what’s happening.
They gather small sticks for tinder and with it form a little teepee in the earthen fire pit, a circle of rocks gathered years ago and placed there for this moment.
Slowly, carefully, they add a few slightly larger sticks and with a long wooden match the magic begins.
Smoke rising out of orange and yellow and blue flames as the sticks catch fire
Add a couple large pieces of wood and watch. That, too, catches on.
Marshmallows. Chocolate. Graham Crackers.
Laughter. Conversation. Song.
Yes! Please! Give me S’more!
lovely, playful smoke!
smoke
carries
within it
something
mystical
between
worlds
physical
and
spiritual
as the
candle
is extinguished
smoke rises
adding flame
to it
reignites
the flame
from a distance
may the
Holy Spirit
reignite our
smoke
when others
try to
douse
our flame
I love the way your words rise like a thin column of smoke!
I was waiting for how perfect Steven's form would be for smoke today!
Lovely, Steven. I enjoyed the word play and the poem's shape!
Look at how the smoke is drifting ever upwards!
Were I to grasp the burning embers with my hand
would the smoke rise from my fingertips
in wispy notions of the pain I bore for you?
Would you continue on your path of no remorse
not even looking back for your eurydice
as I slip my singed, forgotten wounds in cooling styx?
-
No need to turn, my love, for I am well
and happy on this land
where smouldering sages
feed my quest
for peace
and love
unbanned.
Another deep felt poem. The first line grabbed me in the feels and you never let up from there. Beautiful.
So visceral!
This is beautiful!
Where there is smoke
There is or once was…
Smoke rises from the fire
Melting marshmallows
And from the crematorium.
Fire sanitized all it touches.
Smoke is proof that something once existed and exists now in
New and surrendered form.
I exhale the smoke
Of what has been
processed in me.
Smoke is evidence of transformation.
-Dwight Lee Wolter.
"Smoke is proof that something once existed and exists now in... new and surrendered form."
Weeping...
Care to explain, Nancy? Are you okay?
Just wow. 🌹
Thank you, Fauna.
Madison Murphy Barney shared this as part of the ingredients for a Salve:
“10 oz of tears for what could have been, 10 more for what will be”
The words you used to describe smoke as evidence of transformation reminds me, as did Madison’s words, that our suffering can lead us to hope and joy, to be excited about Love. I used to live categorizing things into “good or bad”. Now I see all as life with greater depth than I ever imagined. I love the way your poem covers that way of thinking.
Beautiful!
It is a person referenced on the Substack of one of the commenters on this thread.
new and surrendered form!
Yes, Margaret. Thanks. That just wrote itself into my poem.
CJ?
What’s CJ?
Smoke and mirrors,
that’s what they call
things that trick us,
that aren’t what they seem,
disappearing now and again
behind the wisps of fog,
not able to be grasped fully
due to the shifting trails,
eyes struggling to perceive
what is real behind the curtain
although the heart knows
that all the world is illusion.
Canadian wildfires, the new norm, drift over borders and spread their stain of acrid haze into my state, where winter is the hazardous season and now summer is too.
Days lost to eerie smoke, my city briefly awarded the prize of worst air quality in the world. What do the birds feel, with their tiny lungs and air sacs, when this toxic fog descends? We are all canaries in the climate change coal mine. And yet, the most beautiful, breathtaking fiery red sunsets.
This is heartbreaking. From the tiny lungs and air sacs to the fiery red sunsets.
the new norm in too many lands. . .shalom
😢
‘This is where my
now and one day
meet, in precious,
controlled surrender,
an alchemy of endings
made beginnings again. ‘ Beautiful words thank you for sharing them. I find it interesting that the day smoke is our cue word has come that a dear friend has passed into his next reality. He left this world too soon because the smoke of 9/11 caused the many physical trails of the past decade: cancer, stroke, high BP, and things unidentified that ravaged his body. A soul gone too soon because he chose to run towards the smoke to help search for those buried in the rubble. Rest in peace my friend.
Thank you for sharing this, Eran. May his now and one day meet in peace.
I'm weepy this morning. Grief and beauty can coexist. This is a touching poem.
Oh, Eran. This gave me the chills, especially the last two lines. Thank you, and blessings to you.
'an alchemy of endings' captures for me that place where the many faces of smoke become one. Shalom
Thank you for sharing this heartache, Eran.
Easter fire
smoke
there's too much of it
and not enough spark
wood smoulders
it must be damp
already
people gather silently in the darkness
the circle ever widening
they clutch their unlit candles
in hope
the first change in the light
dawn approaches
I fold more newspaper accordions
the way my grandmother showed me
honed by a lifetime of building coal fires
layer upon layer
but not too tight
so the air can get in
a hiss and a flare
crackle and snap
a collective exhale
Easter can begin
oh I had a childhood of building the coal fires with my granny. this takes me there!
My voice was stifled by the smoke
of burning pulpits and pews
the stained glass windows taunting me
as the sunlight caught the dust motes.
They didn’t notice the fire that consumed bodies
as they conspired to save souls.
My throat still burns from the toxic ash
that rained down in the form of white Christian evangelicalism.
This is an important sentiment. Amen.
Thank you, Nancy.
I love that you wrote this. Thank you for your vulnerability and important images!
Thank you, my friend!
Smoke
Not the smell of summer campfires
Or fireplaces on cold winter nights.
Or even my father’s Lucky Strikes
Permeating the house, or the car
when we took long trips to the shore.
But the smell of my grandfather’s smokehouse
when I stood in the small darkness
feeling the damp stone walls
and looking up to see the fat hams
hanging on their iron hooks
while a circle of coals burned
slowly at my feet.
Was I too being cured?
The impact of the last line was mouth dropping huge. Oh!
well done
Love this final line!
WoW Kailin, I love this poem so much.
Smoke
Early in the morning silence
In the drowsy liminality of awakening
Smoke calls
up through the gap in the radiator
dark
grey
heavy
Alarmed we move
Our nursing child in the next room
Our neighbors stirring
I nurse my child in a police car
The fire is damped
Smoke lingers
In 1982 an arsonist set a series of fires in Berkeley, California from materials on hand, like our newspaper recycling bin. No one was ever hurt and the person eventually stopped. That day changed how I respond to smoke, especially as our daughter’s crib had, until recently, been in that corner. Thank you for your many words which remind me of the other side of smoke.
Maybe my guy is that guy?
The smoke from the campfire
swirled, ebbed, flowed and drifted.
Upwards, dancing to and fro
while we talked, sang
and roasted marshmallows.
We would wear the scent
of burning applewood.
A scent not at all unpleasant.
Sparks would shoot upwards,
along with the smoke,
whenever a pocket of moisture
was found by the flame.
A hiss, a spit and another
explosion of sparks.
Ah… to be sitting around
the campfire.
I love how the smoke took quite a few of us to marshmallows!
Smoke
Anger is my fire, then I roar and rage
Destruction is all I care about
To myself and others
It burns bright,
Others get hurt in the fire.
So, what then is smoke?
Smoke, as the fire begins to burn,
Smoke, the flames lick damp wood
Smoke circles to the sky
Or is taken by the wind
To act as a warning to other creatures
Danger
Is smoke is something to run from
Or pour the water of compassion onto
For fire is the end of life
It creates its own death
If water is applied
Then smoke comes and creates confusion
Injury occurs but there is still life
The tree lives battle scared to once again to love
a powerful play between the smoke that is part of the fire and the smoke that signals the end of the fire, circling to the sky and taken by the wind.
Where there is smoke, there is fire
Where there is rage, there is fear
Where there is fear, there is pain
Where there is pain, there are tears
Where there are tears, there is release
Where there is release, there is openness
Where there is openness, there is possibility
Where there is possibility, there is hope
Where there is hope, there is beauty
Where there is beauty, there is truth
Where there is truth, there is love
Where there is love, there is grief
Where there is grief, there are ashes
Where there are ashes, there was smoke.
Turn turn turn.
I really appreciate how you went through all of those and came back to smoke. Very cool.
Ritual smoke
Intimate partner of fire
Quiets gnarled energy
Carries invisible tendrils of
Prayer across the landscape
Welcome mystery whenever
I meet this
Healer