Thread: Yesterdays

Grandpa plays an old Wurlitzer
Organ as favorite hymns can be

Flames dance freely in the fireplace
as an emblazon of colors - yellows,
oranges, even iridescent
blues display themselves for all to
enjoy.

Silvery sparks jump to and fro
adding even more awe to
an already spectacular, warm,
wonderful expose’.

Scents of cinnamon candle
wax dripping onto a glass dish
atop the mantle and
smells of apple pies baking
in the kitchen reminds one of
Grandmother back in the day as
a family would gather for Sunday
dinner after church services.

heard in the background - -
“Come, come to the church in
the Wildwood….” as well as
“I come to the Garden alone…”

As I sit watching the fire,
remembering my early childhood,
I cannot escape the overwhelming
feeling within of a silent wish that
things could be as they were so
very, very long ago.

You paint a picture of tranquility, and although lovely, I don't get a sense of poetry. Maybe it is just me, thinking that poetry needs to rhyme on some kind of level... I would like to hear what others say, since I may not be up-to-date on what poetry is supposed to sound like today.
Don’t get me wrong, I like this piece, but it feels like it could use a little something.