Why the Desire for Sparks from a Fire? A Romantic Poem

As I stoked a dying fire,
A warmth set to soon expire,
I added more fuel: dried wood.
Gave coals space to breathe, good.

And as I watched pine
Smoldering there,
Wood slowly warming,
Yearning for air,

It gave me pause;
Made me wonder why
Women look for passions’ cause
And ask for “sparks to fly”.

Sparks flying mean only
The flame’s been disturbed, goaded,
Kicked, poked, prodded, turned,
Or that super-heated sap exploded.

Instead shouldn’t they look for
The smoky, slowly-warming feat
That finally gasps air, and with a roar
Throws off constant, strong, radiant heat?

No sparks there
Kicked, thrust, thrown at random
Into the night air
With sudden, reckless abandon!

But rather glowing, red,
Steady, comforting heat.
Passions’ flame which, carefully fed,
Gives warmth that will repeat.

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Burnt hurt dumb thumb! A comical revolutionary poem

I burnt my thumb!
I feel so dumb!
But I also have to say
I singed my wrist yesterday!

The logs we cut
do not fit
in the firebox!
(that’s the size of it!)

A 16 inch cut
will, of course,
let me put wood straight in
without using force!

But these logs were sawed
by some hand unseen
after they were felled
to measure 18!

So wrestle, push, pry,
twist, poke, force,
balance and jam must I,
and then, of course,

Sometimes my finger, hand, arm,
or wrist, will slip up and touch
that hot iron box!
“Does it hurt?” “Yeah, pretty much!”

But gas heat is expensive
and the wood, it is free!
Though I’m apprehensive,
we burn the felled trees!

And I have to suffer
and force more wood in;
there is no safety buffer!
I’ll probably burn me again!

Singe my wrist, arm, hand, thumb,
finger, and again feel warm, and dumb!