dripping with nostalgia.
gilded with gold
from the passage of time.
romanticized in afterthought,
idealized until unrivaled with the present.
overcome with homesickness for times
filed away in her memory.
She felt her heart
constricting her throat,
and she quietly
swallowed her spirit
could snake up higher
and mount a pulse of pressure
behind her blurry eyes.
It tasted like
cotton candy dripping with twinkling sugar,
like the smoky air of a campfire,
like blown out birthday candles and dripping wax.
A shattering explosion of memories in her mouth,
leaving her with
Buzzing emerald jungle swoons—
hip kitty soul eyes embrace the red wanderer.
It’s a tactical chess game,
both aware of the other’s presence.
Nebulous black perched in shadows,
desert red fool skips like a rock.
when eyes eclipse each other
an electric hummmmmmm buzzes
as their hearts start glowing like a peridot ember
the wind whizzes and twists
through their perfect curly hirsute
rushing luscious aurora energy pulsing
to and fro like giddy hearts exchanging notes in class…
Their blurry bodies bound forward
fox scorching ground while panther burns branches
lightning leg movements paws calls thunder
sun red hot fuzz lunges up
midnight cool moon goddess panther slams down
colors collide and crash and cling and clap
spines ignited in tye-dye holographic rainbows
their claws singe each other’s skin
their eyes swirl black holes
holy howls and breath coalesce
as one love
as one sight,
mythical tail told to all
through campfire gypsies and artists canvas
panting the dancing fox and panther
Hold your sword hand to the fire.
Purify for battle.
Cleanse the idleness and gentle caress.
Now comes time for cruelty.
Cage the urge for peaceful pursuit.
Temper cold steel with the heated blood
Conquer those who’d conquer us.
Release caged mercy at war’s bitter end.
Lament later for the fallen from both camps.
They fell for King and Country.
'1. my father told me that cedar branches thrown in the campfire sound like strips of bacon on the griddle. as the eldest son in a farm family of nine, he knows the sound of bacon – he made the sun breakfast every day until he was eighteen.
2. my father told me that his father said he is from the only place in the country that doesn't have an accent, and in the same breath, called that place “Warshington.”
3. no one told me that bridges burn from one end like a cigarette.
4. no one told me that smoking gets old. no one told me that one day you crawl out of your tent and throw the crumpled pack of smokes you slept on into a campfire. no one told me that every cedar tree talks to you, voice crackling in the falling ash, saying 'he is home; he has returned to the cedar and the fern,' and then swears that it doesn't have an accent.
5. my father told me that we all return to cinders. i was too busy burning from one end to listen.
All those scared nervous nights
with the door not quite closed
all those shameful drunk fights
fall asleep in your clothes
playing war like a soldier
camp at aunt Billie Jean's
don't go back til they're sober
that was life so it seems
and you'd cuss out existence
hid away sad and blue
then return with resistance
no one even missed you
watch the lonely campfire
at thirteen wide awake
sleeping bag your eyes tire
under stars that don't hate
I am from the pond out back, from frogs and dogs, and camping under the stars.
I am from camo and rifles, from gardening with my grandma to family reunions.
I am from blanket forts and Saturday morning cartoons, from late night adventures with friends to stories told by the light of a campfire.
I am from family and friends, love and happiness, but I am also from divorce and tears, from locked doors and yelling through walls.
I come from weddings and new beginnings, teaching me that even though there is a dark side to life there is a light at the end.
I am from bloody knees and biking down dirt trails, from adventure and mystery, not knowing where the road will take us.
I am from convertibles and the wind in my face, from predictable jokes to fishing on the lake in the warm sun.
I am from late summer nights on the beach with my friends to sled races down snow covered streets.
I am from memories that I have and the memories I have yet to make. My past is what makes me, me and I cherish last bit of it, good or bad.
by the lake
an evening campfire –
mist on the water
There was this beautiful place,
It's still there sometimes, I think,
But I don't know that it's quite the same anymore.
We wore no shoes when we were kids there,
On the first day, the thistles prickled your feet,
By about the third, somehow your feet became oblivious to their existence.
Oh, I forgot to mention;
It's was a field.
A field filled with colour and canvas,
Our homes, the tents and caravans, in little circles surrounding a fire pit.
There must have been about a dozen of these circles spread across the field,
Each with a makeshift kitchen
that was sheltered by a flimsy gazebo.
Us, the children, became almost like, wild animals;
Only returning to our dwellings for
sometimes, money for the little shop,
And (occasionally) sleep.
We played in the mud, and found homes in the hay bales.
We'd run around in nothing but underwear because we had not a care in the world,
I remember climbing into the homemade hot tubs in the early evenings,
when the temperature was cool enough for us.
Sometimes we'd sit in the saunas too, but we always preferred the hot tubs.
In the craft tent we could construct things from willow branches,
We could paint faces and make collages.
Sometimes, we'd have water balloon fights.
There were compost loos and bucket showers,
Most the kids were used to them,
In fact, we liked them, it just served to remind us of the contrast between there
and normal life.
(Not that anyone there really cared or noticed when you'd had your last wash...)
At night we'd lie on the damp grass,
And the sky looked bigger than it had ever looked,
And we swore on our lives that the stars must be brighter too.
And sometimes we'd slide around at the ankles of the adults, on the smooth solid floor of the 'Ballroom Gazebo'
to see who could skid the furthest.
You'd make the best friends you'd had in your whole life;...
They were forgotten in weeks,
But you knew you'd make new ones the next year.
I remember skipping around, joining the grownups in a circle dance, linking hands with two strangers, singing words that I didn't understand.
I remember my parents trying to wash me and my brother in a tin bath near the fire, but the bath got too hot to sit in.
I remember trying to meditate with my dad, but my little bottom just would not stay still.
I remember the kettle whistling on the fire.
I remember fire dancers spinning, illuminating the night, and that, one boy singed his eyelashes as he tried to learn.
I remember playing card games in a stranger's caravan, and sheltering from the rain in a stranger's tent.
I remember chasing bubbles.
I remember the sound of raindrops on canvas as I drifted off to sleep.
Once, I signed up for a dancing workshop,
And the pretty woman stood at the front, and taught us to belly dance
and jangling jewelry.
Our parents would give us a pound coin, and we'd run to The Midnight Cafe
and buy hot chocolate, with cream, and marshmallows,
Or sweet chai tea (mmmmm...)
The process of forming and building on a community had only ten days to take place,
So it would all happen at such an intensely accelerated pace, and in such close proximity,
That everyone became more like family in the end.
Some adults would walk around naked; nobody would bat an eyelid.
Throughout our ten days we were surrounded by exquisite foods, and smells;
The vegetarian dishes at the daytime cafe,
The smells of spices as they cooked,
The aroma of incense and scented candles
wafting through the air.
And all around us there was music;
Of all genres,
Around every campfire,
Anyone who could play an instrument would join in.
(And anyone who couldn't)
As well as music throughout, there was an opening and closing procession,
Where my dad would lead with his accordion;
and I was just so proud that he was my dad,
My mum would play her violin too, before she got too ill.
The procession would lead us through all the circles,
Which, by the way, we named after the colours of the rainbow,
(We called ours, 'The Lilac Circle')
And as we walked, we would be joined by more , and more people,
Singing, dancing, playing the saucepan...
On the ninth evening there was a cabaret,
To showcase all the wonderful things people had learnt
from any workshops they'd been involved in.
This included music, ballroom dancing, Bollywood dancing, small plays, amongst other things...
I guess the most beautiful thing was the sharing,
All bringing our little contributions
to fill the circle's kitchen,
Taking in turns to cook meals for our neighbors,
It was done without thought,
We shared everything and looked after each other.
We shared our talents, our knowledge, our music, our life stories...
Some people would cry when they finally had to leave, and return to normality.
Because, when you got home,
Your skin browned, from hours in the sun
(And your hair, quite likely, infested with nits),
You felt empty and sad,
You welled up, thinking about the field
for weeks after;
No place compared to it,
It was otherworldly, so magical, so beautiful.
There is no place, I have ever felt so relaxed.
To smile at every person you pass,
To sit on the grass and converse with a stranger,
To make a new friend in a matter of minutes,
Is an amazing thing.
It is a simply indescribable magic,
That just could not be found in the monotonous routines of our everyday lives.
I miss the field.
Sooo, although the content of this poem means a lot to me, it's probably one of the worst pieces of writing, because I just wrote it all quick, to record how I felt, however it seems to have got the most views of all my poems anyway, so yeh, if you're looking at most popular poems, I would suggest looking at some others, because I reealllyy don't get why this is at the top either...
This is a story about a man with a bad heart.
Where were you when I was
so cold that I could see my breath?
That's when I started playing with fire,
and studying the politics of love and loss
but was only left with alibis and lying eyes.
Those eyes were yours.
That black dress and those blue eyes
told so many terrible secrets and lies.
Forging in my mind from that curbside goodbye.
Your personality is a casualty.
I know it seems like I'm a world away from you now,
but I won't let you just walk away from this.
See, I've got a sin that I've held on to
and it needs to go back to you.
I seem to be addicted to bad decisions
but I don't want the guilt anymore.
I'm not here for rage, dear, I'm here for revenge.
After all that you did,
I've got more than just a campfire burning inside me,
and it needs to find an outlet.
You disguised all your mistakes with that one goodbye.
It's time we all found you out.
Little idea I had with using some Emery song titles in a poem.
I let the sky be my tent tonight,
a sparkle-filled indigo field
like a Star Trek transporter.
I swirl the stars with my mind
as my body says, "Energize!".
My destination: points of light,
any one of which could be a hive
of beings living, working, playing
in a mirror of the musings originating
from the sleeping bag in which I lay.
Rolling over to feed my notebook,
a firefly insists on sharing my pen.
Among his friends gathered about my flashlight
is a dragonfly twisting and turning its head
in a display of 360 degree impossibility.
"Do it again!", say my wide eyes,
then I'm shushed by a distant Canis howl.
The trees carry its magic to me like
a powerful totem, making me wary,
reaffirming our instinctual similarities.
Relaxing, I smile goodnight to its echo,
shoo the Insecta from their little electric campfire,
and turn my face again to the Universe
while whispers from a nearby stream
provide a soundtrack to twinkling above.
Gentle air pulls its blanket over me,
while scent of earth and pine
send me dreaming of cosmic fireflies,
blinking their lullaby in rhythm
to the ecosystem powered by my heart.