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Miko Jan 2014
I snapped my shoudler
back and apart
my girlfriend's a schizophrenic
and I'm shy to sandcastles
The crank lost it's last *****
a one person axe yard
because he's married to smokes
though the cutest couple
goes to Columbia and Magenta
as Batman's into bandanas
so put one on the handle
though a wrist will be as good as plenty
as the campfire fades away
with gentlemen of sorts
August 2nd, 2013
Vexren4000 Jul 2018
A trapdoor placed,
Underfoot in the brush,
A hunter waiting with baited breath,
For some prey to fall into snare,
For a simple campsite meal,
For one.

©BAS
When the caretaker asked
"What is your plan?"

"To feel sick"
I replied
Genre: Clinical
Theme: Reading Mind.  Who examined who?
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes pasted along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps nineteen,
long brown naked legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam naked in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,  
A huge smile on her unforgettable,
beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, in sight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit. Drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Some days and nights, that young maiden of
Moorea does still visit me, in dreams as real
as can be. She never grows old, nor does the
beauty we shared for that one brief moment in
time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her sixties, most likely
a Mother, even a Grandmother yet living.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
Third Eye Candy May 2013
implosions are for starfish and our mission is clear. we have nowhere to be from
and that's half the battle. we are seldom unbridled in the chastity of our carnal bluff...
and our cages are breathing. we are finally designing our most daring Inertia.
both mum on the details in the devil's flotsam. we jot some of the names of the nameless...
on the outside of Dixie cups. like mint julep promise to a tangerine honest.

again and again, we ache through the breeze of our soothing traumas. we court the verity of a sham.
we blast through the congregation of our adversary, snipping varmints from a stale camp
in the southernmost of our due south,; where they fear the bonfire until a vagrant maps
the flaming tongues to a long kiss.... and we crash upon the shore
of Never Asked.

but regret This.
ALEX DRAKE Oct 2018
“the crush”

He sat next to me in the common room
His hair is curly and his skin is caramel brown
The first day he smiled at me and I waved
Through the three weeks I had a crush
He was always nice, he always waved and smiled at me
It's time to light the lanterns
Keep them lit real bright
For someone's out there hunting
On this the darkest night

Each Halloween folks say
A creature breaks the veil
And runs off with a child
And therein lies our tale

Keep watch when you are camping
Or just walking in the park
You don't know if it's watching
To take you far into the dark

They say it is a moss man
Made of spanish moss and sticks
Light and ninja quiet
You don't know just who he'll pick

The story tells of many
Who've gone missing through the years
Some say it's just a legend
To play upon our fears

Look around the circle
See the person close to you
Hold their hand real tight now
Before they're taken too

Feel a breeze so soft and gentle
Hear the wind there in your ear
Take care now when you hear it
You don't want to disappear

A creature from the dark times
As old as time they say
A thousand years or older
Still, it's hunting to this day

Feel that tickle on your ankle
Hear that twig break there behind
Is it coming now to get you?
Or is it only in your mind

Keep the fire burning
If you are camping in the wood
And have somebody watching
For when it's out, it is no good

Do you listen to it's whispers?
Do you try to run away?
Protect yourself with light now
And live to see another day

It's waiting and it's watching
From a distance or real near
Is that the animals there moving
Or is it him that you may hear

No one know where he is hiding
Those taken, never seen
You don't know he's out there watching
Hiding in his coat of mossy green

They say it once was human
But, through magic, is no more
The moss man, is he legend
Or is the moss man local lore

Light the lanterns, and sleep tightly
Make it to the new days sun
Count all those around you
For tonight,you may lose one

Feel a tickle, hear a whistle
Hear a twig, or gentle voice
Sleep tightly or keep watching
It's up to you, you make the choice

Goodnight Campers.
ymmiJ May 18
wife wonderful life
nights ringed fire growing higher
campsite reflections
every flicker different
lighting my eternal flame
L B Dec 2016
Is it my priestly duty
to be denied?
love—time and all else, at all cost!
while he went home alone to watch a movie?

Another victim  
sacrificed
having squandered all my pieces in his game?
Trudging home
along the river
slow, in snow
I parse my losses

At the outskirts of a homeless camp
I pause below a viaduct
hauling passion by a leash
warming hands
avoiding hovel-eyes
Flames flicker on our faces
receiving absolution over embers
of a burning embrace

There trace
in glowing holocaust of skids
in human bleatings and crumblings
our smoke rises— pure   obscure
Appease with *****-blur
the icy, stinging God of winter stars...

G’nights inaudible as blessing

Am I derelict enough to be worthy?
Fallen far enough?
from the porches of prosperity?
to escape it all?
That wedding white
the newborn’s head
that numbing denial of decay?

Am I depraved enough to make it?
to the pages of your tragedy— minus poetry?

But the angel said
“The poetry’s more!”

Than leaving me—beyond you

...in the shambles of my words
NO. 31 O'HIGGINS ROAD, CURRAGH CAMP, CO. KILDARE.

I climb a stair
that isn't there

stand on a landing
in mid-air

each step I take
creates the next part

of the vanished house
lost to time

as see through
as a cartoon ghost.

This was
(still is) for me

No. 31
O'Higgins Road

my world
the universe of me.

What was once
my bedroom...is now a cloud

a window
become a moon

night and its storm
sit in our living room

a bird tiptoes
down the stair

flying through
nine year old me

reaching for the light switch
to turn on

what isn't there.
It's just an empty muddy space now...no one could guess all the life that was lived there...but in my mind the house is still alive and goes on living despite its death.
Madison Sep 2018
The moths followed the little square
Like he was a flame
The little square wrote a book about his despair
And the moths made a proclaim

The little square didn't like us
So he told the moths to find us, "the mess"
He told them to do it without fuss
'Cause without us his garden would be flawless

The moths came out to his garden
They found me and my kind
And pulled us out with a gun
Treating us like we aren't apart of mankind

We were put on trial by them
And thrown into fire
We were shoved into a room by 'em
And gassed because it was "prior"

Occasionally the moths were bored
So they played hangman with us
This was a game that they adored
All we could do was stare at the hanging carcass

They were our friends and family
They were the only medals we had left
We were too broken to be angry
So we ignored the theft

When the moths got rid of us
They went for the most damaged weeds
That often made us anxious
Because of it some did misdeeds

Some couldn't deal with the pain and fear
So those weeds jumped to the birds
On the floor they left a smear
The smears thought jumping would send them homewards

Though we saw death so many times a day
We were still able to eat and treat people with hate
It was because from our god we have gone astray
Maybe because we were all under weight

In our stomachs prowled lions
Our hunger was so severe
If we found stray scraps we would go for the ****
If you went for the food you were a volunteer

One time we ran out of food
So we complained even more
The moths got tired of our complaining mood
So we ran to a new camp door

We were often moved
We went from camp to camp
Of course we all disapproved
On the house that was based by our stamp

On each of our wrist
Was and inky black stamp
It was on the moths checklist
It was our name in each concentration camp

When we were saved from hell
We were all broken weeds
We couldn't even sleep well
But the ones that saved us answered our needs

The ones that saved us helped end the war
And some were normal citizens
Everyday we are grateful for their loving core
Even if we had great differences

Though the Holocaust made us different
And the memories haunt us
It was kind of a movement
Because now people won't walk into war without a fuss
This poem is dedicated to the Jews that suffered from the holocaust
Al Melaskev Aug 31
Camping, Pool and S'Mores,
Fishing, the y and giving,
friendly camping fun!
Smoke Scribe Mar 2015
Part II  of "Got 0 Followers"

aim high
to keep
it low

expectations
such an
Awesome Awful
curse
others infect
you with

don't, yada yada,
ya wanna be like
Tom, **** and Jane,
even Harry, a transgendered
friend and fellow (ha) outcast,
all with a good job
prospects of a
goodly tented long life?

so ya write poems
to nobody
about nothing and
you are pleased
to be pleasing just yourself

in writing you have
nothing to prove,
so read them
like keepsakes
ya like,
keep 'em & me hid,
in the shoebox
under the closeted
pile of ***** clothes,
special designer outfits concocted
so they keep my remains,
privatized and unsanitized,
my equity,
hidden,
disguised as disgusting

but for god-sakes
don't follow me,
unless
you want to curse us
both with
Expectations of Expectations,
then comes with
illiteracy of
Affection

then the literary
pre-tension
that always follows,
leading to

Affectation,
the first derivative of the infection of affection

yeah,
then comes
caring
and it instantly it's too late,
you're *******,
right up the mental heine,
lost condemned
ruined annihilated
crushed subverted
crushed into
mental death camp suffocation of more, please ma,
can I have some more?

**crap, why did you have to go and follow me?
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