"campsite" poems
Art class was a given
A bird course as they say
But, our teacher had gone awol
You could say he flew away
They found him at a campsite
Cross legged on a mat
Naked, drinking cool aid
And talking to his cat
He snapped while teaching concepts
beyond the grasp of teenage kids
Who only wanted to pass time
and be on ebay making bids
He taught them about structure
about lines and Bernard Frize
and now he's in the forest
sitting naked with the trees
Pastels, crayons and chalk sticks
littered where he sat
sitting naked, drinking kool aid
and talking to his cat
the kids, they drove him crazy
never doing what he told
Instead they sat and doodled
while the teacher...well...unrolled
they didn't draw the things he asked
didn't study all the masters
instead they were more intent
on creating art disasters
he came to class equipped one day
to show them some van gogh
instead they all got up
And told him he could blow
he snapped and left the class room
never stopping at the door
he went to his apartment
and picked the cat up off the floor
he went down to the locker
he took his tent back to the car
he was going to go camping
he wasn't going to a bar
he drove up to the campsite
made his kool aid, grabbed his cat
took his clothes off and got naked
and sat down upon his mat
this is where they found him
seven days since he walked out
he's now painting in nice place
where there's lots of staff about
most days he sits in silence
in his jacket, sleeves behind
zonked out on medication
to help him find his mind
they give him lots of kool aid
but his cat he does not see
he just paints with all his fingers
making pictures of a tree
once he was a teacher
of a bird course teaching art
now he gets all his excitement
drinking kool aid from the cart
in his mind there are da vincis
claude monets and rembrandts too
but, on paper he paints tree limbs
in black and grey and blue...
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:42 PM UTC
Camping out is an experience everyone should have
The cool grass in the morning and the birdsong
Timeless air keeps you alive, energises the soul.
Freezing feet and nose is inevitable as blanket or sleeping bag
Don't quite make the grade
The hard ground or undersheet has a smell that remains
In your nose and in your memory
Bringing the place back to you in your latter years.
Once breakfast is cooking everything seems OK
The worst part is the transition of night into day
Then day into night,
It's easy, stay up and just look upwards
No light pollution, no clouds, no sound
Drink in the inky blackness as Orion's three winking lights
Demonstrate how wonderful life is
But more importantly how small we are
Tiny dim orange lights glow in the tents and vans
Muffled noises diminish as the occupants climb
Into their cosy beds and roll themselves up
To keep out the cold, the inevitable insects
One by one the darkness becomes complete
Until no more music can be heard or
Voices, rustling sounds or whimpering children
Wanting their teddy bear or comfort blanket
Mummies and Daddies soothing
The silence is deafening save a cool breeze
Just flapping the tent canvas, small cracking
Sounds as it rolls and then straightens.
Rolls then straightens gently, gently, gently
The guy ropes straining a little then relaxing
Another night comes to the campsite
Enveloped in darkness all are safe and inside
Their little tent or van
Goodnight campers, sleep tight.
Max Hale
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
The chill of an autumn morning
A rising steam as the fallen leaves exhale
The lonesome trees have given up their glory
A carpet of red, yellow, orange, and brown
An overcast sky with no definition
Is but a blur
Movement indiscernible
There is wisdom in the sky, revealed to a few
The smoke of the day’s first fire ascends
Wafting its familiar fall fragrances
Brings warmth and comfort to the soul
And campsite memories of long ago
We pass the bleak and barren cornfield
Stippled with autumn’s harbingers
The Raven
They stare with the blackest of black eyes
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
Outside Stockholm
in that base camp
having put up the tents
and unloaded the bags
and suitcases
from the top
of the truck
you walked with Moira
to the camp cafe
and order two beers
and burgers and fries
and looked out
the window
at the spread of tents
over the campsite
and Moira said
if I have to share a tent
with that Yank girl another night
I’ll go mad
her and her talk
and boasting
of how many men
she’s *******
and where she’s been
and what she’s done
and always wearing
that leather gear
all black and tight
showing her backside
and small ****
and so Moira went on
and you listened
half heartedly
wondering what Judith
was doing in Florence
and who she was with
and if she remembered you
and would bring you back
some gift like she did
from Amsterdam
that postcard
of a Chagall print
which you pinned
to your wall
and if she so much
as boasts of her education
once more
I’ll break her
FECKING JAW
Moira said loudly
so that people nearby
turned their heads
and stared
your thoughts of Judith
blew away
and the image
of the Chagall print
pinned to your bedroom wall
maybe she’ll sleep elsewhere
you said
who else to sleep with?
she said
huh? who else is there?
what about that Yorkshire girl?
you asked
maybe she will
I’ll ask
Moira said
can only say no
and she sat
and thought
and sipped her beer
and the other people
looked away
and returned
to their conversations
and you sipped yours
taking note of her small hands
and plumpish fingers
and the small *******
pushing through
the tight tee shirt
and the small
silver crucifix
hanging down between
and her moving chin
and you wondered
how well she *******
but didn’t ask
being
you thought
rather rude.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
I’m sorry. It’s such a frightening
thing. While I’m covered in airborne dust
and dirt, somewhere out of the desert
you dream of losing a girl you never had.
Under a straw sunhat, I argue with a chubby bartender
who insists my “over twenty-one” wristband
is not enough to justify selling an overpriced beer
to my baby face. I run through crowds, back
to my campsite, cursing her under my breath
for delaying my drunken dance. But somewhere else—
out of the heat and the food trucks and the live music
and the showers in the backs of trucks—you know.
And you prepare yourself for the path I am down,
where I miss Frank Turner for the sake of stumbling,
and later my legs will tremble under a tent
that may or may not be my own.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 2:56 PM UTC
“The Huntsman”
“There are plenty of fish in the sea”.
What they don’t know about me...
Is that I’m not a Fisherman.
But instead I’m a Hunstman…
Following the trial of the White Doe,
I have a wish, and she has the power.
Many years now I pursue her.
This doe is one of a kind…
She’s keen and clever.
Her tracks are hard enough to find.
With ease, she evades my traps.
Each AND every one on the map.
She never leaves my mind,
yet she’s always out of sight.
Craving to touch her pelt:
a desire beyond any I've ever felt.
Then like Divine Intervention
I’m swept with rejuvenation
On a cold winter night.
She’s at my campsite.
Pulling the rifle to my shoulder,
The barrel aims for her eyes.
She shivers like silver flags
under the moon light .
Hesitant, the rifle was lowered, I turn back.
Realizing if I were to pull the trigger,
it would mean the end of the journey.
Negligent, I didn’t notice the White Stag.
He impaled me, through my lung with his antler.
My blood freezes onto snow covered lilies.
Once I fell to my knees…
I remembered my wish.
I turn my head for one last glance.
I crawl to the rifle for a second chance.
I then whisper to her,
“I want to be with you forever.
That is my wish.”
TJW 2013
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
Comfort near a restful fire
This wintry night
Armor by side
A vision of conquered terrain
While in slumber
Campsite posted with guards
In darkness
Wolves feasted on wounded game
Sounding of the horns
ready for battle
Dawn is near
To eliminate the enemy
A victor's choice
My goblet filled with ale
With the spirits enjoyment
A savor
From a warrior's blade
Sep 8, 2009
Sep 8, 2009 at 3:35 AM UTC
i.
i drag the canoes over the granite shingle
of our island's beach the battered Aluma-Crafts
leave my hand a dark metallic looking gray, which
even smelled of metal we walk up to the
campsite, a ridge, overlooking the lake,
spread out around a fire ring set beneath
pine trees so thick that no understory grows
ii.
as the long summer day cools we decide after dinner
to explore choosing one of the island's many
game trails, leading from the water back up into
the woods beyond the campsite, we pack the
food back into the bear proof barrel, grab our
boots and set off down the trail
iii.
the pine give way to a grove of aspen, the
leaves fluttering as if by some wondrous
enchantment, as the shrubs started to grow
thickly on the ground channeling us into a
narrower game trail with the large, misshapen
granite boulders like a maze stretched out before us
iv.
suddenly we stood face to face with a giant
bull moose with velvet covered antlers that seemed
to be at least four feet across, he shook his head up,
like a horse shying, so i slowly moved us behind a tree
to give him the trail
v.
around the fire wrapped each in our
own paddle-worn thoughts
we could hear wolves, calling
across the island in mournful howls
such a delicate balance of nature at work,
my moose so full of life and spirit would be
safe yet from the
wolves
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 6:23 AM UTC
Miriam coming out of her tent
caught the early morning sun;
let it transform her into slow
wakefulness; allowed herself to be
caressed by its heat, its motherly
warmth. Her companion in the
tent, some girl from Lancashire
who spoke such utter tripe, slept
and snored on. She scanned
the field of tents, red and blue
across the greenness. She wished
she knew where Benny's tent was,
but it was pouring with rain last
evening and both fled to their tents
to avoid getting wetter than they
already were. How wet she got,
right down to her underclothes;
sticking to her skin, which had
to be peeled off, and trying to do
all that in the small tent unable
to stand, with the girl gawking
at her as if she'd never seen a
naked body before. She zipped
up the tent, and made her way
up to the campsite restaurant
through the green field still damp
dampening her shoes. The restaurant
was busy; people talking, queuing
up for food and drink, table upon
table packed with other campers.
She lined up; she'd find a table
after; sit where ever. Benny found
her and told her where he was
and the table. She felt a thrill enter
her; a sense of excitement flowed
through her body as if someone
had switched a switch and sent
off a deep overriding desiring itch.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC
Season's greetings, or the omission of a hand to hold
when it's winter bleak, miserable and cold.
Two weeks away in the sun, or campsite summer-lit mornings
and sand in our sandals from an evening on the shore.
The dew puddles are forming,
its stagnant river sister foaming
with cream lips at the edge of the white water;
she's whispering well-thought-through white noise
because she knows of the future to come,
the upriver source told her that you've
two seasons left to sort yourself out.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC
The night is upon us
Stars glowing and twinkling
Like sequins on a blanket of black
The sounds of the forest
An orchestrated song
Crickets chirping, Owl a hooting
The rustle of the trees
I sit here on duty watching over our clan
The noises I am accustomed to
Would be deafening if I were not
I sit atop our campsite
The flames of the campfire dancing
Emitting a low glow of light
Shadows of the forest dance
To the song of the flame
I am alert, my senses clear
I smell the rain coming
It will be here in a day or two
My eyes trained to focus
In the low light of night
I am the night sentry
This is a job I must do
The trickling sound of water
Faintly heard from afar stream
I see every part of our camp
From my post within a tree
The campfire pops and crackles
I do not flinch to it's sound
I know the sounds of the night
I catch a scent of something
On the cool breeze of night
The scent is wild and thick
Slightly burning my nostrils
Then the sound of twigs snapping
Snapping in time to footsteps
I look in that direction
I see nothing, but the smell rises
I ready my bow and strain my eyes
The snapping getting louder, closer
One hundred paces from campsite?
Maybe more, I hold my breath
Listening through the sounds of the forest
Intent on hearing the oncoming threat
My eyes focusing on the direction
The snapping closer still
It stops, the orchestra is all I hear
I take a long breath
Then hold it as I listen harder
Bow still at the ready
I listen, I wait, I slowly breathe
Time seems to slow down almost to a stop
I peer at the direction of the snapping
Nothing seen, but I know it's there
Maybe the campfire creates fear in it
But it did not detour!
I slowly set myself comfortably
I am ready, my bow is ready
Then suddenly the snapping starts again
Only faster and heading to camp
I hear my breath, it has become fast
I hear my heartbeat in my ears
I still hear the snapping
And the sounds of night
Thirty paces from camp?
Maybe closer, I see the brush move
Shaking violently under it's strength
I point my bow, I am ready
Heart pounding, breath speeding
The wild, thick scent ever imminent
I wait for what seems a lifetime
For the invader to protrude
From the forest into view
Ten paces from campsite?
It bursts forth from the thicket
Large and tall, but fast
I take a deep breath, hold it
My arrow ready, I pull back
Feeling the muscle in my arm strain
To hold steady and create force
I release my arrow
My shot sure and true
The arrow meets with invader
A crimson cloud of rain explodes
As arrow connects
The sound of a heavy fall
The low moan as life escapes
I remain at my post
I watch intently
After feeling assured
I lower my bow and continue watch
We will investigate the invader
In the morning, as my job is
Night sentry.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 2:42 PM UTC
couple hours sitting,
self-inclusive psych time.
when we came to we
grab'd some beer and
went down to the dam'd creek -
namesake of our campsite.
water a constant sixty-degrees even
in triple-digit Oklahoma summers.
immersed myself to avoid
fear of the cold, and
heart palpitated as i
sat down with water up to chest.
began pounding rocks
together. under the water.
like a silent neanderthal
shaping the first tools.
you sank the beers and we linger'd a bit.
children splash'd in deeper water,
she made comments of their endurance.
final thought before head'd home,
no children died on the Titanic.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 8:09 AM UTC
When you asked me
for the only direction
to the campsite of Holy Aurora,
I fed you with the temptation,
and when you laid the blanket
I made you the bed instead.
I was already underneath the lake,
and I extended my hand to you,
waiting for you to realise
that there is nothing at stake,
and there is no wrong in being true.
When you talked to me
about the fiery, empty sunset,
there were devils that lingered and smiled.
I painted clouds and rainbows
for you to be sheltered from,
partook in a deep sigh and grew.
You were awakened
by the smell of the brewed coffee,
filled with our joy and contentment.
You were no longer in a daze,
forever buried in the strong aftertaste.
Stay within my sight,
and touch me with all your might.
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 9:04 PM UTC
There is a fine little lady
That goes by the name of little miss Katie
Whose campsite seems way too shady
So it'd be nice if she'd calls us back, maybe.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
If you listen very closely
You can almost seem to hear
The sound of faeries dancing
Upon a sea of fallen leaves
To an autumn evening hymnal
Carried by the river's humming course
And the beat of bright red embers
Cracking in the frosty breeze
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 8:15 PM UTC
This is something I wrote to be read at my Cousin Rene's funeral.
Oh My! I'm zooming down the Spanish coast... dipping my toes in the Med.
But you might find me on a Cornish Campsite drinking Pina Coladas instead.
Or it could be me, arm-in arm with good pals in pre-war summers... painting Withernsea red!
To all of those who saw me through the darker days I am thankful that you helped & guided...
Oh My! ...But I'm better now... I'm free... it's been a trying time, but once again... I can be me!
And there's something else I've just realised. Do you know what? I can see!
The last few years haven't been kind to me. Apparently I hadn't been making much sense.
I knew inside what I wanted to say... being with me must have made people nervous... tense.
But now the pressure's lifted, for loved ones and for me.
I was ready - went on too long. Now I'm on the 'other side'.
From now you’ll hear me on the wind in the trees and my whispers, in the surf and the tide.
I'm pain free, light and frothy again, teetering on heels... I’m a dizzy apricot blonde... No need for me to hide...
I might even drop in on you as I'm told you can... to say a quick thanks for all who helped - or tried...
Oh My!... and yes....people to thank? It's like an Oscar speech...
there's a list....but amongst all one stands out... shines like a star...
My Chef... my Chauffeur... my Ears.... my Eyes... my Angel... my Wingman... My Ken!
By my side through bad times, the good times and all those difficult bits... Not the now - but the then...
My Multi-tasker, My Carer...My Rock... My 'Rock & Roller'...
I remember we used to jive way back when...
And as the old song goes, I'm sure ... We’ll meet again!
Oh My!
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 8:57 AM UTC
Oh its that time again isn't it
Summer, had my ticket for months, but its that time properly now
Planning brings a strange nostalgic reality to it, little multi-sense photos
An atmosphere can be difficult to really deconstruct when you just got words to go on
But its definitely one I enjoy, one that I embrace headlong
Travelling is that monotonous thing, early rising to enjoy the window of a minivan for a few hours
Watching the familiar turn to new hills and roads that represent thousands of lives and millions of cells
That I don't give two ***** about
Did somebody bring a CD? Does it work? ****** hell.
The service station provides our group with yet another chance to take the **** out of each other
And converse in that usual way, a spontaneous collection of enjoyable media, social events and our opinionated picking apart of the world
Then we get there, I'm reminded of my sheer lack of exercise as I carry all my **** to the campsite
And after a while we're set up, the tents are out, the deck chair is under my *** and the plastic cup of *** and coke is in my hand
And here's the atmosphere again, that memorable ******* where the brits are really bohemian
We drink, we talk, we laugh, we **** take
The night develops and the spontaneity and quiet chaos cracks out of our shells
And if I've done well I've forgotten all of it, or puked it up the side of a fence
The bands come on the next day, and the drink is that usual inhibition ********** friend
As a couple misfits in black shirts and jeans surround themselves in thousands of misfits in black shirts and jeans
And the dark comes along again, I lose my crowd to immerse myself in another
That song on my mp3 player becomes four men on instruments, with bigger speakers than my house
The experience becomes completely mine as alcohol lowers my cynicism and enhances my immersion
Making that band a little more ******* awesome
I wake up with a dodgy looking beard, misplaced hair and a tent to abandon
Looking forward to a shower and a plate of chicken
But with resounding sense of success and a slight smirk
Definitely do it again next year.
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
As I lay out under the stars
My mind runs wild
With thoughts of happiness
And even a man...
He is out there
I know he is.
Who?
The man of my dreams.
I don't know where
I will find him.
He could be in DC
Or he could be in Dubai
Or maybe in my hometown.
I guess I'll never know
Because secretly deep down
I know he isn't real.
Everyone settles am I right?
I could settle for the man
Who is usually under my sheets
But I'd rather not...
I would rather roam around
This unforgiving earth
Than be tied down to a man
Who only wakes up to drink
A cold, disgusting Bud light
And falls asleep at the hand
Of sweet Mary J
As he inhales his reality away.
No!
I shall not and I will not.
These thoughts prove no
Actual use to me so I will
Push them aside
As I move to the next campsite.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 1:22 AM UTC
A million leaves rotate in a slow spiral to the ground already littered with the colors of autumn
the creek, frigid even in summer, flows as quickly, quietly as possible down to a creek larger in size, to a river, to the ocean eventually taking every laugh and tear with it
every summer from since ages before I was born i have been there generations laughed and cried and fell in love upon that creek, next to the campsite
Lot 47 was just a lot, it was wider, had bigger trees but it is just a site
a site where my grandparents loved each other more than life itself, where my dad laughed harder than he ever did at home, where mom learned to cook, where i got the scar on my ankle, where our names are illegally carved in the trees
where i learned to build a fire, hiked for miles, saw baby elk up close, fawns and bears.
Smokemont is just a place, a place of happiness and love and nostalgia of family and friends and a sense of forever
it is a place i will never go again but whenever i close my eyes and reach for peace it is the place i end up
with the smell of nanny's chili at dusk and coffee early in the cold humid mornings where mist rises off the creek like a magical fog seducing us in solitude and a quiet joy. The marshmallows roasted to a golden-y perfection every single night with Poppy telling stories and nanny squeezing into my chair wearing a navy blue hoodie and telling me to put on something warmer
Where i sit and read harry potter for hours, where we are all one again and when i open my eyes...poppy has sold the camper, nanny is buried with river rocks from lot 47, and we swear we won't go back without her
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
Once fully liberated, she rides her antique, three-speed bike down the small hill from her campsite to the: RESTROOMS – SHOWERS – PAYING CAMPERS ONLY. She dismounts and goes into the well-kept, recreational facilities and takes a hot, 50-cent, seven-minute shower, arching her soapy back against the white tiles, rubbing her soapy front in the same spot, up and down and up, and then, rinsed, she stands, dripping wet in front of the first full-length mirror she's seen in weeks, gyrating her hips, mocking pin-up poses to herself and all god's good-looking men with a sense of the absurd, then she wraps her towel around, tying the knot between her ******* She stands outside in the sweet, Santa Vidian air, finger-drying her hair and imagining, unabashedly imagining, guys in the campsite above, eating fresh-cooked meat and ogling her. Then she takes off down the road, pale green nightgown fluttering against the rear spokes, past Bonnie's trailer where from sundown till 11pm you can hear the best country music: Randi Travis, Willie Nelson, Hank Williams Sr. She pulls up to her sweet “Bleu Belle,” shushes the dogs reflexively, hops off the bicycle, and turns, eyes closed, face upraised into a rare shaft of redwood forest sun.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
We camped at the Wanee Festival
We came to hear Gregg Allman play
We did some primitive camping
But the stage was 3 miles away
Through the woods we walked in the darkness
After Widespread Panic had played til midnight
No shiny pebbles and no flashlight
To help us back to our Primitive Campsite
We were Hansel and Gretel just groping
Night fell a long time ago
We had no reference point, no direction
Only darkness and fear could grow
We walked all 1800 acres
Of Live Oak's Suwannee Music Park
Til we flagged down some park rangers
Who gave us a ride home in their cart
I'm just lost in the woods without you
Though we started it all as a lark
You left me stranded by the port-o-potties
Paralyzed all alone in the dark
Forget about those cold showers
And no power to call or text
Or the cold, and blow-up mattress blues
Are we ready for 'Burning Man' next?
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
The world was wandering.
On their own perishable wilderness.
Researching to eradicate the truth.
From the eyes of the people.
They gave them handkerchief.
And the human beings received it.
with gratefulness, they dont know, they' re deceived.
They taught them how to blindfold their vision.
Although, they bump, hurt and wounded.
They smile, knowing that was just fine.
But the Serpent too grinning.
Putting the circuit of brainwashing in their minds.
They dont understand, they were pull away.
From the Way, which give them forever life.
They thought, it was ok to continue.
They fed their children with the same theory.
And the children pass it on to their children.
All through their lifetime, everything will build confusion.
As the end will knock into their doors.
Crying and regret will be their campsite.
Full of darkness and a dungeon of fire.
The light will be absent there.
And this is their worse graveyard.
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 12:25 AM UTC
Campsite fire
Newly lit
Burn with reckless abandon
Heavy breaths, to a bonfires blaze
Logs kissed and caressed by fire
Snap
And ache for more
More to taste, more to fuel
Ever striving for brighter peaks
Can barely catch my breath
Faintly now, content embers burn
Pop and crackle like merry minds at ease
At peace
Always thought the bonfires blaze
To be unmatched
In warmth and comfort
Now though, I seem to find
Equal exaltation, in infernos of a different kind
Trusting in the ebb and flow
Searing bright to homely glow
As by embers unwavering life and heat
My hands find yours
And remain complete
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 12:18 AM UTC
I used to spend my weekends on a lake called Ossipee, somewhere up in New Hampshire. During the day we’d spend hours in the crystal waters, working on our tans and watching as our skins turned a shade of golden brown. At night we’d make campfires and roast marsh mellows and play loud music until the old neighbors next door told us to keep it down.
I would ride my bike down to the campsite where my friend Brian’s parents had a place, and we’d ride all over the grounds or swim the lengths of the beaches. When we had money we would go to the general store and stock up on sweets and pizza, and sometimes our parents would bring us out on the boats to explore new sections of the lake.
We did this every weekend until the day that Brian’s brother fell off his boat and drown under the dock. After that, Brian’s parents didn’t bring him up on the weekends as often, but during the week his mother would sit in their doorway and cry, and sometimes when I rode by seeing if Brian was around I’d hear her saying William’s name.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 12:28 AM UTC