"campground" poems
He pulls away, precariously balanced
above the raucous creek slicing through
the campground’s city-like togetherness
she protectively hovers, hands cupped
inches from his slender back, prepared to grab
honoring his need for independence
the crooked lodge pole leans
toward what little sun is bestowed
upon it by its larger brethren
a mother, a child
a tree, a stream
soft light.
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
~
gold-encrusted jewels dance
on sun-drenched ocean stacks,
his rugged rocks etched deep
by her waves from far beneath,
and Pacific’s gusty breath;
his wind-swept islets burn,
aflame in sunset's dying embers,
like a lover's siren call.
his chiseled keyholes waiting
for the ciphered piercing rays
to collide in rushing tidal spray.
unlocking sunset's golden hour...
surging forth then quickly fades,
as sunbeam fingers slowly slip,
beneath horizon's sultry lip;
dusk unfolds in magic hues,
molten rose turns scarlet blues,
night descends as one by one,
we raptured star-kissed lovers
disembark this ferris wheel;
the curtain falls again,
with sea and rocks
rehearsing lines
to play again another day.
this their theatre
of the night,
performed by two alone,
beneath the moon
and starry sky.
~
*post script.
our last time through in 2004 was a blur on our way through to San Diego, an exhilarating ride for certain, with all of its bends and curves experienced top down in a convertible, but hardly doing justice to Big Sur’s stunning scene in mere hours; we told ourselves we simply had to return.
it took eleven years, and this time we spent a full five days and nights along Highway 1, towing a camper and slow-driving south from Monterrey all the curves to Morro Bay, exploring just about every hike and lookout in between; and in so doing, validating our return in a most satisfying way. Big Sur is officially off our bucket list! her sunsets were particularly rewarding, especially two... one enjoyed at sea level, from the sand and keyholes at Pfeiffer Beach day use area, the other delighted us from high above the ocean waves, seated at the picnic table of our cliff-side camp site at Kirk Creek Campground.
a most refreshing time to recuperate and recharge our spirits; five glorious days of disconnection, reconnecting to nature, each other and best of all, life at the speed of sunsets and star gazing; evenings spent round the campfire with no cell, no i-pad, no laptop, only the light of the fire, the stars and that sparkle in each other's eyes!*
Jan 22, 2016
Jan 22, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
A Stepmother’s voice cuts
through the campground:
*Who left the **** cooler open?*
*Who moved the ******* cushions?*
Her words snap the branches.
My father, just arrived,
hat wet with sweat,
stooped to tie the boat off at a tree,
met at once by her complaints,
her tally of our failures.
Her glare pressed hot against my back.
I climbed the pine,
legs scraping bark,
eyes fixed on the shimmer below-
anywhere but here.
She was there:
elbow on the water’s skin,
hair spread like wet silk,
eyes pouring over me.
Come with me, she said.
Where?
Down there.
She smiled, copper arm pointing to the deep.
It’s quiet.
The fish brush your skin.
I remembered: sirens don’t save you.
They keep you.
She dove,
silver tearing water’s face,
and the lake closed like a locked door.
When she rose,
her shoulders gleamed like knives.
Laughter rolled toward me,
the same heat as the shore,
only sweeter.
Your turn.
I leapt.
The lake’s mouth closed over me.
Green-gold everywhere.
Her hair against my cheek.
Her tail’s slow beckoning.
I followed
until the light shattered above.
I almost stayed-
not to drown,
but to live where the voices could not reach.
Aug 14, 2025
Aug 14, 2025 at 2:12 PM UTC
As I ***** the streets of town, buildings made of grey and brown
Speak to me of people and events I still remember.
Steps upon well-trodden ways, rain makes blacks upon the greys
Painting scenes among the maze, from a long lost warm November.
We once lived on this side-street, our apartment there, small but neat
Moving in we fought the snow that came early that November.
We didn't have many things, but winters all gave way to springs,
And summer nights gave us wings to launch us into each September.
Many of them passed that way, weekdays of work and -ends of play,
Camping on cool clear autumn nights warmed to fire's final ember.
Years passed by uncounted then, new homes we found on new streets when
Our spaces seemed too small, and to the movers we'd surrender.
Walking round I see them all, the homes we made in this town so small
A lifetime spent and good times to remember.
Finally I walk o'er the hill, past the campground now quite still
To a peaceful lot just past the mill, where she went to rest one cold December.
My footsteps give me some small peace, how happiness came with such caprice
When we lived among these streets that I soulfully remember.
We loved the leaves and cool of fall, the change of seasons, first snow squall
And the love was greatest in our very last November.
The change of month took her away, how lost I felt on that sad day
How can I but hate the first day of December?
I miss her arm that fit with mine, I miss the way that her eyes shine
Just every second of lost time, since we loved our last November.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 11:01 AM UTC
Today, the renaissance continues … with any luck
The words flow
So I follow - - > The poem of life
I am in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains
In a town called Okotoks
After breakfast, I’m driving West
First across the Sheep
Past Big Rock
Then west down the number 7
And through a Black Diamond
And again, across the Sheep - - > I don’t know how that works I’m just following the path
Taking a turn at Turner Valley
And on to the 22 and into K-country
Kundalini Country, perhaps
More likely Kananaskis
A vision of a great leader to set aside place and space
For beautiful things to grow
Now down the 549 and into the heart
I’ve hiked hearts ridge
Camped there in the dead of winter once
Only thing keeping me warm was a Nalgene bottle full of tea
And the down of our feathered friends
Insulated on a bed of air
And of course a shell from the face of the north
Tonight, I sleep at Indian Graves (Campground)
Latitude: 50.2417849636
Longitude: -114.362189631
Cause it’s here that I find answers
And I bet, if the land decides to speak, shares poetry
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance.
Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into.
You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: ******** ******** ******** ******** All ******** for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******** keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******** structure that holds up the ******** truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******** structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night.
The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth.
You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute.
The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic.
So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 1:54 AM UTC
Where there once was children catching frogs
in their hands, playing in the rivers dividing the sites,
or trying to convince the camp staff to give
them the branches they are attempting to clear,
There is now only her.
In the bright sun, doused in it’s heat,
her body shrivels in her wheelchair.
I step forward. She doesn’t move.
Her head falls forward. I scoop it up.
Hair lifting from the scalp, slipping away
between the webbing of my fingers.
I place a pillow behind her head and lay it back.
She snuggles into the blankets.
Pills fall into my palm; Red capsules, tiny whites,
chalky blues, and pinks with dust. Carving craters
into my lifelines. I place them on her bedside table.
She asks me to sort them. I throw them at the wall.
Two dozen stick, her mouth falls open, I scrape
them off and pour them in. Her teeth chew
and her tongue savors, I offer water. She sips,
it piles into the stomach. Bulging. I drain it
with a needle. It spills from the sky. The wind catches.
Tornado sirens blare across the grounds.
A scream cuts through my vocal cords.
I stand on the other side of the bridge.
Mud cakes the wheels of her chair. Her voice carries
before falling halfway across the slick surface.
A crack strikes the sky. The frogs beg me to go
inside. The wind cuts the skin. My vocal cords
rip and struggle against the storm. They fly
into the eye. The tips of my fingers catch before
they disappear. She smiles, her eyes slide closed.
A strike crumbles the bridge.
Oct 13, 2023
Oct 13, 2023 at 12:54 PM UTC
When I was in the third grade, I spent a lot of time camping at a campground in Redhouse and a lot of time by myself. One Summer day, I was playing in a creek when I spotted a frog. I had a very active imagination as a child, so I decided to play with the frog. The first game that came to mind was the game of catch. Excitedly, I scoured the surrounding area for something to toss to my new friend. After a few minutes of searching, I found a hand sized rock. With the rock in my hand, I exclaimed, “Get ready, here it comes!” Then, I underhand threw the rock to the frog. I eagerly waited for a few minutes for the frog to throw the rock back to me, but the rock was motionless. With much haste, I slid down the creek banks and picked up the rock. There in front of me was the smashed remains of my amphibious friend. For the first time in my life, I was faced with death. Tears began to roll down my face because I realized it was my fault that he was dead. I was now alone again and I had nobody in which to discuss this event. That frog was the first and last thing I ever killed
Ever since that day, I've had an eye on the man in the black robe that's waiting patiently in the back row. I know it's not normal for someone my age to think about death, but it helps me enjoy my life. At any given moment I could combust, stop breathing, or get smashed by a rock, so every moment that isn't spent in death's cold arms is an absolute blessing. I regret that it took the life of another living being to teach me this lesson, but I will not let that frog's death be in vain. I have to make up for the life I wasted, and if my flame for life starts to die, I visualize lifting up that rock and my soul is instantly stoked. If death is going to catch me, he is going to dance around the trail of fire I leave behind because I don't only believe in death, I believe in life.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 11:23 PM UTC
distant loon cries sullen
voice carrying through the mist
dawn breaking in the warm valley
as the quiet of night gives way –
barely audible cooing
travels the entire length of the campground
as weary and barely rested travelers yawn and stretch
nature giving them the alarm siren
while also placing on faces, smiles and contentment –
three long low whistles
signify the time for feeding has arrived
as delicate legs
poke gently into the soft mud
‘S’ curved neck ready to strike
any unsuspecting fish that may be stirred
from its resting place
by those same long loon legs –
perched with a perch
the majestic dinosaur stands tall above its prey
feathers, soft shades of blue and grey
hide the heart of a killer
bent on feeding its dear sweet babies
for one more day –
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 6:07 PM UTC
i advance upon the campground
of wayless disciples.
i feel cold. my presence as the un
wanted season / my
presence bright as detection and
wet with reason
[for being there].
the journey was warm,
full of tongues tropical
and otherwise.
i arrive wearing
nothing. the camp -
yellow with doubt. i say,
"this is so midwestern".
i drag the so behind
me like a dog.
the disciples eye
me like a dangerous animal.
i am a dangerous animal: reasons
[for being] shine wet like ****
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:59 PM UTC
i saw him on a- actaully i dont know when i saw him first. probably late on the second or third day. we missed each other the first day. but i know, when i saw him, he stole away my breath. its such a cliche thing, but just this once i can say im not lying. i watched him on his bike. wide shoulders tan. snapback placed perciaously on his head. i spent the next two days staring at him. watching him leave his campsite each time and watching him return each time for reasons unknown by me. then she came, the third night. we went to the playground. i didnt expect anything to come out of it. but he was there. and my brother, oh wonderful brother, was friends with him. my heart welled. i talked to him for hours that night. i went to bed happy; happier than i've been in awhile. i had talked to him. the campground boy. the boy who stole away my breath. the next day, he came to the field right after us. i know why now; he wanted to get away from his family, i understand where hes coming from. unfortunately. but we spent the day together. then we went in the pool. this is the time my heart sank into the middle of the earth and hasnt come back yet. she flirted. and the worst part, he flirted back. my heart sank even more that night. i watched from the sidelines as they messed around with each other. him finding excuses to touch her. her giggling her boy-attracting giggle. ******* giggle. i went to bed that night, heart sank, never coming back. i will probably never see him again, but i can tell i will probably never be able to let him go fully. he was special. my age. different than the boys i know from school. i just know i will never forget his face, i will try not too. he was the last thing i saw as the car left the campground
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 7:58 PM UTC
ain't just a craze
in the august haze
******* relays
mindful strays
campground chaise
amazing gaze
tour the tent maze
no rain delays
catch some rays
music all ways
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 10:39 PM UTC
The alarm got us up before the sun fully awoke
we pulled our sleepy bodies out of bed
got on our grungies not even fixing coffee yet,
got our gear together in the pickup
and headed for the peninsula
where we hoped the sand bass would be schooling,
searching for some breakfast of worms or flashy things that looked to them like food.
If we were lucky we hooked a few which we would cook later
or save for the freezers back home.
When we got back to the campground
we’d comb our hair brush our teeth and head into town
for Pat’s Cafe who served the best biscuits, eggs, hashbrowns, and pancakes in the region
and if we were lucky Pat herself with her long black hair and **** lips
and substantial hips
would stop by and in her Texas twang and charm
she’d tell us about their farm
we’d speak of our wives
and some of the small details of our lives
and how we loved that large beautiful body
that sparkled and sang to us each spring
and how we savored dipping into Lake Whitney.
In late afternoon we would laze about the RV
discussing Theilhard and Jesus and Charlie
he’d speak of Bob Wills and we’d share
trying to make sense of the spirits there
and how they made us leap and soar.
We spoke in sync and explored
lines of novels, and fascinating texts
that made us eager to discover what was next
that would make us laugh or shed tears
of all those memorable years
we’d been brothers
afloat of the same waters
becoming men who hoped to make their mark
spark something good in the minds
of other seekers who also drank wines
fermented in corridors of learning
who had the same yearning
for knowledge and truth
embedded early and deeply in our youth.
Mar 4, 2019
Mar 4, 2019 at 6:29 PM UTC
SANDOVAL
Your brigs of bustling pilgrims light at last
On this sweet-scented isle called Cozumel.
Depopulating half of Cuba’s farms,
The skills of our six hundred souls, or so,
Erupt now in a pitched activity.
We’ve confiscated idols, and our cross
Now overlooks the rising ropes and tarps;
Our cannons hedge the campground, with our horse,
As secret weapons, hidden in the ships.
ALVARADO
Now what a breezing cakewalk will it be
To pacify this docile flock of lambs!
Let’s ****** the sweetmeats from their trembling lips,
And wean them to the yoke of servitude.
Vassals alone make masters out of men.
CORTÉS
Not yet so fast. For Cuba’s stewardship
Forbids such a carnivorous regime.
Father Olmedo warns us not to tease,
Much less ****** the native nymphs.
ALVARADO Cortés,
We trust that you, like all stargazing men,
Crave glory, fortune, and above all, fame;
That royal favor and divine accord
Will light on those who quell idolatry,
And carve new lands for God and His Castile.
CORTÉS
But like a gentlemanly pirate, I.
For Cuba’s governor deceives himself.
His pure concern for human chattel, gold,
And bandying the Indies as it were
A distant annex of the Moorish war
Has wrought a desert from a paradise.
Long-term success requires a colony.
And with what wherewithal! These islanders
Stand head and shoulders o’er Carribbeans,
With their rich-painted books and towering keeps,
The graceful girding of their modesties-
SANDOVAL
Their slave trades, and their binding bright bouquets-
ALVARADO
Distilling liquor: Culture’s surest sign.
CORTÉS
Our prime directive is to baptize them,
Not march before their eyes the Seven Sins.
But how to learn their Tower-of-Babel tongues?
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
They were strewn out everywhere,
all over the campground
lay naked firm-bodies
in every conceivable position.
The only audible sounds
were drunken snores
& the songbirds singing,
jumping merrily
in between the midnight revelers,
scavenging backpacks
for their morning meals.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
When I tell my testimony, it becomes a tragedy known as my "6 - month story".
Unique in its weight, age, and mental destruction.
And I'm a broken person, you know that.
But hear me now, I'm trying to say what's important.
I don't write much about God these days, but I find myself in a position where I need to say... something.
I don't blame God for what happened to me. If anything, I blame myself. And I know blaming God gets me nowhere.
But being on this camp ground for the fifth year in a row seemed different, knowing I may be older, but wisdom and experience has fallen beneath me.
The friends I knew, younger than I am, and yet they surpass me.
And I fell into sadness again.
An easy crier, I am.
But then, suddenly there was something here.
A curious voice, wondering how I came up with all these song titles, and claiming how awesome I am.
And me... being absolutely floored at how much you wanted to talk to me. Let alone... learn my songs?
Nobody has ever done that before.
Suddenly I don't feel so alone. I feel like I can sing again, like I can smile again, and this two hour session with you learning my song is the longest surge of happiness I've had in months.
And I don't want it to stop.
I feel... at home.
This old campground, and having someone to talk to.
Or hold my hand and tell me it's going to be okay...
Instantaneous connection.
I've had it before. With many other people who have left me what feels like a lifetime ago.
I fear I may get too attached, or scare you away.
That I might find a peace here in your friendship that may pull itself away before I can say "thank you"...
So..
Thank you.
If God has helped me through anything in life, He didn't never had to give me riches, or fame, or reputation.
He gave me people.
So many people.
It's been so long since anyone has been a new friend to me.
And I'm so glad that you found me. Even if it was ten years later.
Time has a way of being like that.
God being bigger than time, knowing something like this would happen.
Of all the people who could've found me at that time in my life...
I'm glad He picked you.
I know, I'm sappy and cliché, and write sentimental things too early because I'm afraid of losing good people. Mostly because I have lost so many already.
But I hope you'll stay.
I'll have that sad song written soon enough.
And you gotta be around to hear it.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 2:43 AM UTC
Almost entirely,
we smell like lavender
and brush our teeth with honey-baked laughter
I found two magical things this morning, even before breakfast
but this life is not just fire, it’s burning
And my romanticised campground does litter itself with children and lemon balm
With this stress, it's all pulled apart
and the bits forgotten
but it’s okay; I’ll put the pieces into your food
and make sure it’s tasty
For now it’s better to have dreams about rats in the flour
than the nightmares that we used to have
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
Flooded seed and an itchy tongue. Daddy told me motionless creatures in the road were only listening for earthquakes, now see a disaster less natural. Lightless life ***** food from a **** stained trough. The homeless man eats McDonald's in a community garden, we vacation in resort report portions of third world countries. Dont wanna see, eat tv screens when our popcorn runs out, bury our waste beneath the ground confound endangering species: we, dont appreciate nature unless we're festival campground packing wrapping drugs in the litter of something like liveliness post pictures with plants we plucked from a place think land is ours if we occupy the space but this isnt like we're used to cant just hit erase and if we're a part of this future why cant we look it in the face
Mar 6, 2018
Mar 6, 2018 at 12:54 AM UTC
Her eyes fill with tears
as we leave the costal campground.
Soundlessly, she sobs…
not for sadness,
but the remembrance of times past.
I cast loving eyes in her direction
keeping the wheel straight as we
careen down Oregon’s beautiful highway 101.
Years flash before my mind’s eye…
Images of present wrappers strewn about
and,
family meals with extra trimmings
and,
placing grandma Sue under her favorite tree
to spend eternity.
Too much time has passed.
I gently stroke her thigh and express my love,
she turns and looks deep into me,
knowing I understand that it is not pain,
but the love of our children
and the times we will never have back
that gives redness and puffy eyes cause to be.
Quiet miles pass…
The green rolling hills break off onto sandy beaches;
white tipped waves crash giving the dampened granules
a darker tone
matching the interior of the grey Saturn Vue.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 5:55 PM UTC
i dreamt of you last night
there we stood, at the campground
separated by the delicate ties
woven together in the intricate web
that brought us together in the first place.
we had to act as strangers even though
i know more about you than your
best friend,who stood three feet away.
couldn't meet my eyes to risk familiarity.
even my dreams know
we can't be together.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
The day you broke
I knew.
I was asleep in a bunkbed
in a campground that was all too
silent.
I woke to a thump I had heard
on the roof
and I thought
maybe it's ghosts
maybe it was hers.
That camp was meant to cure
my selfishness,
I had lost my freckles
my lungs
my calluses
it was meant to find the forest
as a new health because
I couldn't keep my shoulders back
far enough to help myself
It reminded
me of your slouched posture and
crying together
on piano benches
The day after Jess died
I hated her as much as you did.
I found out through a facebook post
and climbed the nearest
mountain.
stumbled over rotten logs,
ripped my pants
trying to get a cell phone signal.
you didn't answer.
I cried for an hour
because I was 300 miles away
and I knew you were too.
I am sorry that I ever
let my mind wander into the
darkness that hers fell to
because I know that
that could have been me
3 months before
but you helped me not to.
When I was trapped
by darkness
you were my lighthouse.
Singing with you
is the best I ever feel.
The air that awakens my lungs
at the exact moment as yours,
gives me the clarity I
was searching for
in that campground
I hope you find it too.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
Gobble Gobble
turkeys everywhere echo
cross fields of autumn leaves.
They speak to one another
through ethers of sounds.
Its that time again
for whispering blessings
to their turkey family who are chosen
to decorate holiday tables.
Time to wish all the homo’s
they share earth with
a Happy Human day.
Time to go back
to fly to that campground
in the sky.
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
I miss the small town girls,
whose names I have
mostly forgotten,
the games of tag,
the make believe scenarios,
the fun we had.
I miss the star lit chats
that the adults had,
while I ran
with flint rock sparks,
and chased fireflies.
I miss the old campground,
where we would swim
in a small sandy pond,
splashing.
When the older folks
dipped in
they got bitten,
but I never felt
any fish nibbling.
These memories
have been dimming
over time,
plus distance
as I swim in
a different
world,
but I was younger then
playing with other children,
innocent.
I miss those moments.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 7:13 AM UTC
The campground is deserted,
it's quiet and serene;
no crowds of noisy people,
in truth, there's no one seen.
I scout each hidden site,
to see which one is best;
but they all look the same,
can't tell one from the rest.
Eighteen bucks for one night,
the price keeps going higher;
my camping days are fading,
to the tents, I don't aspire.
Old age has softened me,
a bed is more my speed;
the refrigerator's there,
and has all I'll ever need.
The campground is deserted,
it's closed for this fall season;
there's only ghosts of campers past,
that slept there for a reason.
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC
To see you smile again
to play a game of
Chinese checkers
and then dominoes
watch wheel of fortune
to see who knows
the answer faster
then those ********
on the show.
To see your
scraggly face
half-grown beard
silent strong type
who smoked a pipe
who worked the campground
near the end of his life
just to make a little more money
and have something extra
to do at night
To go back to when
we three were traveling
together to New Salem
me the small skinny
child with tubes in his ears
and you two old farts
who took me there
Now I only see you two
in dreams.
Feb 2, 2018
Feb 2, 2018 at 7:58 AM UTC