Smaller Flames: a summer campfire poem

2nd night campfire when I needed a “cheat” log because everything was drenched from a big thunderstorm.

Like Petoskey stones and lake water, I can’t think of summer up north without thinking about campfires.

Campfires on my grandparents’ beach were extra special. They’d go all night. They were for cooking hotdogs on sticks and roasting marshmallows for s’mores. They were the centerpiece of deep, curious, and fantastical conversations. They were a guide to gazing at the stars and mapping out the galaxy. Cooling even on the hottest nights of July and August.

Lately I’ve been acutely aware of the dueling dynamics of fire. A source of warmth and inspiration. Part of ritual and tradition. A way to cook and refine. Survive. Fire is also deadly and destructive. A tool of intimidation and threat. A cause of extreme devastation.

For me, campfires have always been a place where I could bring all my emotions and questions. Without even speaking them, they were received. Placed in the pit like logs, twigs, and tinder. Ignited by whispers and childish prayers. Campfires were a place where troubled relationships calmed. Tensions relaxed. Struggles slept. Where past pains eased. Future fears subsided. And the present was the time that mattered.

I don’t write much about my father, but I think of him when I think of fires. How he was different around the flames. And so were we. No longer strangers, but co-campers. We talked. We listened. We heard each other. We laughed. Disagreeing didn’t lead to denigration. God, religion, gnostic gospels, ancient mysteries, paranormal activities, and conspiracy theories were regular topics of discussion and debate.

He shared his vast knowledge of astronomy. Helped me find the constellations we could never see at home in the city. He let me ramble on about the characters in the latest story I was writing or dreaming up in my head. He never let me tend the fire though. Not because I wasn’t capable, but because that was his job. He didn’t teach me the rules of fire making directly, yet I learned, by carefully observing his every move.

Ruby, my almost always Happy Camper.

On my most recent trip up north, I made sure the cabin permitted campfires. It had been a long time, since I’d made one on my own. While I doubted my abilities, like riding a bike, it’s one of those things you never forget once you learn how to do it.

I stayed out there for hours. Stargazing. Looking for planets behind the clouds. Tuning my heart to the rhythm of the waves. Making s’mores. Attentive to the suffering and the hope of the world. Letting my intentions ignite. My grief burn. My gratitude blaze.

This week’s poem was written around that camp fire.

Listen and read below.

Smaller Flames
©Rebecca Wilson, June 2025

at the beach
the guy in the cabin three doors down
brought out a leaf blower
to stoke his fire
of course
the flames got real big real quick
then he doused it in lighter fluid 
an inferno
lighting the sky around us
as children way too close to the heat
cheered in their pajamas

my own a struggle 
the wood wet from heavy rains
kindling like seaweed 
twigs mush
but I managed to get it going 
with patience, care 
gentle breathing 
nothing spectacular for the neighbors to admire
but a perfect fire 
for s’mores and stargazing
as waves turn
lake water into lullaby

brightly as an unnamed constellation
phones light up
alerting 
the USA 
has just bombed 
Iran 

my first tears are for the children 
too close to our fathers’ toys
and weapons 
vengeance, retribution, power 

killing and calling it peace
setting the world on fire 
as proof they have the biggest
              FLAME

Poetic Prompts
Choose any or all or none to write or reflect about.
Share in the comments if that feels right. I’ll do my absolute best to reply to everyone.

• What is your experience of campfires?

• How do you prefer your marshmallows, toasted to a golden brown or burnt? Straight out of the bag?

• Do you put Hershey Bars or Peanut Butter Cups on your s’mores?

• What tears do you cry for the world?

• What hopes do you hold for our children?

Water-fully yours,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

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