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Where Shelter Jul 2023
They come by dawn’s early light


Just past Five am, they do an extended aerial search,
though well familiar with the shoreline and our oppo
campsites, they fly over in formation noisily debating,
which hunting grounds seem most secure, least guarded.

the scouts, numbering six, descend to the far edge of an
adjoining neighbor’s property, as always, remaining close
to the water’s edge, while the main body of these ghastly,
geesely beasts, numbering today a massive force of 42, land and storm our beach, after traversing up the earthen berms that buffer the bulkhead, and that also provides them a out-of-sight, surreptitious, secretive approach to the fresh green grass, that has emerged from two days of much needed sky watering.

Our preparations are at the ready, the old faux velvet slippers by the door, next to it our weapon of choice, a white parasol, most suitable for a tour group of tourists to follow, but this day, it is an extension of a waving arm and low growling.  Once the bevy of heads are espied bobbing spotted coming over the rise that downward slopes to the beach, the battle commences!

The two forces well known to each other, we advance slowly,
with a deliberate mien on our faces and in our step, and the enmity, I mean enemy, sees us coming and the alert is squawked, and all heads raised. they the geese, are in full dress fight or flee modality.  

We get within but a few paces when they squeak retreat, and in good order march to the beach, hoping to observe us in an early retreat and plan a sneaky return.  But we  proceed closer and they beat their wings and head to safety, and seeing us close observing their action, wisely to the water go.

But we know them well. Uncannily uncanny, they pretend to hide evasively, with semi-wounded pride nursed, while under the cover afforded by the dock. Yet, seeing our presence in attentive attention,  go forth finally to a safe distance to the wide, broad Peconic Bay.  

But this day is not yet over, for these foul fowl, counting upon human laziness and the appeal of a quick victory, paddle over to our other neighbor’s unguarded land mass and start to clamber up onto dry land 100 yards further east.

We gamely observe and realize furthest action now required,
descend to the beach, each side warily observing, regrouping.
Our approach is well kenned, and the enemy decides this day their cause is lost, and to the water retreat once more, heading around the bend, onwards to Shell Beach and West Neck Harbor.

As we return to our encampment, the bunny rabbits who,live beneath the deck emerge to give us glorious applause, for love no lost tween these two mismatched species of the same Kingdom, who share the appetite for the grasses greenest nutrients, though the geese leave their dreaded cluster bombs most unpleasant, and fully ravage the grass as if it was theirs alone.

The rabbits bring us coffee in porcelain mugs, steaming hot, for they have witnessed before this dance, most progressive, this charade of derring do, and love the quietude of the early morning, happy to share it with the itinerant beach walkers of the early hours and our
Dawn Patrol.

We drink in  our victory in deep and hot, and note per doctors orders, that our heart rate never exceeded 125 beats per minute, as ordered.

Sunday Jul 25
Silver Beach Armed Forces (SBAF!)
Peconic Beach Division

Officer Natalino (his official code name]
p.s. For reasons mysterious and unknown, our earbuds play a victory much most apropos, Act Ii: Dances of the Swan by Tchaikovsky
p.p.s. the next they returned with reenforcements, sixty  strong in all, some with
attitude,refusing to budge, unti almost face smacked…but they retreated and I watched them away,for the morning was glorious, orange clouds, reflecting the sun light arising, from behind my back…a pale blue hued sky of an aquamarine, and I secretly (shhhh) thanked then **** geese for waking and taking me lit to watch immobile the birthing of a beautiful, temperate day…

P.P.P.S.  If you look to the map on the left, the battle ground is clear and visible!
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Tin cup

Simple pleasure common treasure it has its worth by it connection not everyone but many found this by an
On old pump by itself or next to a bucket you could drink or use it to prime the pump it lends itself to
Western lore found around the chuck wagon on a cattle drive one of the men on the trail drive squats
Before the fire with gnarled hands he holds the cup with hands that are callused from handling his lariat
Day in and day out on the cattle now he holds it filled with coffee strong river coffee drawn from the
Brazos shaded by mesquite cottonwood and juniper finest example of Texas this old cup ties you into
time and place a past that is loved and loved ones that shared campsites that now have passed on in the
Heat of the summer day you drank hardly from its contents it banged around in all kinds of
Circumstances invariably most of them pleasurable ones and who handled the cup mother or a favorite
Grandmother you see her hands lovingly holding the cup they go together like flowers and rain you strain
To hold the thought you don’t want to let go of that special connected memory or maybe they used it to
Measure flour by closing your eyes you can almost smell the bread or biscuits the flour produced it takes
You across many thresholds that are steeped in precious memories that can never be again you are
Taken back to childhood by something so simple but so useful it creates a lost time of joy and
Happiness long remembered and never to be forgotten a symbol or a symbolic trusted identification
With place or person you feel its coolness in your hand you move it around for a few quick moments
You return to yesterday not bad for a piece of tin they give so much credit to other metals for other
Reasons of course the value they possess and what you could exchange them for but that is talking
About a certain amount were dealing with priceless things of the heart that no amount of money can
Buy just think next time there are many items that are in themselves of little value but they are
Touchstones a gateway to a broken past riches that aren’t for sale or they are not to be bartered away
They are never put in a safe but they so readily take you to a safe place tender joy is felt in the heart
A calling can be felt and heard jewels of inestimable value lay hidden they easily come into view when
You touch insignificance without expecting anything the world lets you know you are richer than you
know
Anna Zagerson Aug 2012
Nothing matters because this is all too transient
Facebook smiling photos granola girls with  hair flying up
Faces red from drinking and being pressed by their boyfriends surprise birthday parties Oh
The boy you once loved happily smiling from campsites You knew he was different when he told you
I like computers not *****, dueling not drinks
Sense not sexuality
And yet he’s there, grinning without you, happy until you are finally Ashamed
Of what did not happen between you
Ashamed
Because his friends surely know of your shame, his numerous friends who are not your own because of some Accident of your narrow birth
That did not bless you with his indifference, his casual, easy way of holding on to people
Ashamed
Because you’re staring at a world that doesn’t really exist
And you know, you just know, that you still care what It thinks.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Tin cup

Simple pleasure common treasure it has its worth by it connection not everyone but many found this by an
On old pump by itself or next to a bucket you could drink or use it to prime the pump it lends itself to
Western lore found around the chuck wagon on a cattle drive one of the men on the trail drive squats
Before the fire with gnarled hands he holds the cup with hands that are callused from handling his lariat
Day in and day out on the cattle now he holds it filled with coffee strong river coffee drawn from the
Brazos shaded by mesquite cottonwood and juniper finest example of Texas this old cup ties you into
time and place a past that is loved and loved ones that shared campsites that now have passed on in the
Heat of the summer day you drank hardly from its contents it banged around in all kinds of
Circumstances invariably most of them pleasurable ones and who handled the cup mother or a favorite
Grandmother you see her hands lovingly holding the cup they go together like flowers and rain you strain
To hold the thought you don’t want to let go of that special connected memory or maybe they used it to
Measure flour by closing your eyes you can almost smell the bread or biscuits the flour produced it takes
You across many thresholds that are steeped in precious memories that can never be again you are
Taken back to childhood by something so simple but so useful it creates a lost time of joy and
Happiness long remembered and never to be forgotten a symbol or a symbolic trusted identification
With place or person you feel its coolness in your hand you move it around for a few quick moments
You return to yesterday not bad for a piece of tin they give so much credit to other metals for other
Reasons of course the value they possess and what you could exchange them for but that is talking
About a certain amount were dealing with priceless things of the heart that no amount of money can
Buy just think next time there are many items that are in themselves of little value but they are
Touchstones a gateway to a broken past riches that aren’t for sale or they are not to be bartered away
They are never put in a safe but they so readily take you to a safe place tender joy is felt in the heart
A calling can be felt and heard jewels of inestimable value lay hidden they easily come into view when
You touch insignificance without expecting anything the world lets you know you are richer than you
know
Lundy Jul 2020
I remember our first conversation. We talked about mermaids.  You made a joke about sea foam, I was intrigued.

I remember you asking me out the first time. And I remember telling you I didn't think you were ready.
You lashed out. I was freaked out.

I remember you leaving without warning. You dropped out of all your classes and hit the road.  For 6 months you sent me pictures of campsites; of elk and bear you'd shared sunsets with. Pictures of you next to cliffs you'd scaled.  Via texts you recounted a story of how you'd climbed a mountain just to find reception to call your ex. I remember wondering why you would tell me that? I felt jealous. It turned me off. I remember you complaining to me that she was a "feminist" I said "Good for her." We both should have known then.

I remember sending you Gloria Steinem quotes with every campsite picture you offered. On your way back to California,  you asked to see me again.

I remember our first date, and how you asked if you could kiss me. I offered you my cheek, and later that night I couldn't stop thinking of your lips. You texted me that you wanted more. I remember touching myself as I fell asleep.

I remember you telling me you would die for me.  Laughing I told you, "That's so dramatic." You smiled confidently and told me you loved me. I said it back. We were watching 28 Days Later. I remember thinking we were so lucky.  

I remember building a bed out of blankets and pillows on our empty apartment floor. I remember countless trips to the hardware store, we were determined to build our own furniture.  I remember planting a garden, and proudly harvesting the garden. I remember frequent candle lit dinners. I remember your hands traveling up my skirt as I poured you more wine. I remember I wasn't wearing underwear. I remember us spilling the wine.

I remember telling you that you were my bestfriend. I remember pretending to be okay when you told me you already had a bestfriend and a soulmate  but that I could be your wife.

I remember the first time you hurt me. You regretted it immediately. Held my face in your hands I remember you kissed my cheek, again.  I still trusted you.

I remember the first time I hurt you. My off-white satin dress reflecting the moon. My animosity verbal daggers, I was so ****** I forgot to be ashamed. Sometimes I still forget.

I remember you telling me that I will never be your priority. I remember transferring money into your bank account. Weekly. I remember working 12 hours and coming home to give you head. I remember falling asleep on your chest as you massaged my neck. I remember thinking that was love.

I remember finding women's underwear in our laundry. An earring in our bedroom, and butterfly hair clips in your car. I remember not believing you when you told me they were your sisters. I remember letting it go.

I remember that time you threw me against the dresser. I remember you telling me it was my fault. I remember letting it go.

I remember with you I had found a sister and a mother. I remember realizing these women I loved were victims of abuse. Belittled and silenced. I remember realizing I was a  victim of abuse. Belittled and silenced. I remember being disgusted with myself. I still wanted you.

I remember you calling me abusive. And you were right, I had changed.  "A cornered dog may cower, or it may bite." Our therapist had said. Do you see any of that now? Do you see how bruised I was?


I remember almost getting murdered. And how much I struggled to feel alive after. I remember asking you for help. You told me it's not your responsibility.  

I remember the anguish.  I remember thinking about suicide. I remember telling you I didn't know how to survive. I remember you telling me I was weak. I remember behaving, feeling, like my mother.

I remember you hovering over me. Intimidating me. I remember telling you to step back. I stood on my tippy toes to look big too. And when you didn't back down, I chest bumped you. I remember you weren't sure if you should laugh or fight. I remember you telling me you didn't love me anymore and you hadn't for some time. The next morning I woke you up with my mouth on you.

I remember you leaving me. I stood in the doorway and promised myself I would not beg. I let you walk away. An hour later you returned, but not for me. It was never me. You took your gun and video games and again I stood at the door. This time I begged you to stay. I remember you walking away. I remember our dreams. I remember understanding that I was ******* done.

I remember packing under a THC haze. I remember leaving my lingerie for you to find in our closet.  In your closet. The black one with the garter belt on display. I remember Bodie having diarrhea on the carpet. I left it there. I also left you with enough money for two months rent. I remember you texting me telling me I owed you more.

I remember the day I ran out of clean underwear. I was late for work and so I wore your sisters, or were they your ******? They fit comfortably. I felt sick. I ***** called my neighbor when I got off work. I remember opening wine at 3am and doing everything to him that you used to ask me to do to you.

I remember you reaching out to me over some ******* excuse. I told you that you had already lost me but that wasn't yet true. I just had absolutely no faith left in you.

I remember that none of it was ever worth having you.
janet chavarria Aug 2015
for many years they've come to schwenksville
crowding the streets to camp on the hill.
life is brought to the Old Pool farmfields;
pitch the tents and shrug off the suit shields.

they've come to sing these grasslands alive
guarding traditions that will survive
with guitars, violins, flutes and song.
while the beat dances to the crowd strong.

for many years city people leave
their orderly days to hear minstrels weave
tales of love and loss set to music
with strummings old, new, and exotic.

over the bridge that arcs a small creek
to the concert area and seek
a good spot for a blanket hoedown;
they come from uptown, downtown, hometown.

dress is casual, sunblock crucial;
campsites range from fancy to frugal.
hand claps, toe taps, knee slaps to the beat;
musicians drum, hum, strum in the heat.

for many years the keepers of song
have come to schwenksville to play along.
with stories in their mouths and a spark
in their hearts, that burns into the dark.

in the years ahead this tradition
will survive, that will be their mission.
simple melodies and rhythms play,
the spirit of folksong will not stray.
Devon Roberts Oct 2016
Almost empty diners

Churches on a Wednesday afternoon

Funerals when you're the last on looking at the casket

Empty freeway traffic stops on rainy 2am mornings

School before the bell rings

Silent amusement parks

Children-less playgrounds

Hospitals when you stay overnight alone

Once shared, now empty apartments

On top of ladders with no one holding the bottom

Campsites

Frequently vacant specialty stores

Every Waffle House after 11pm

Concert hall after the last encore

The encyclopedia section of the public library
Spicy Digits Jan 2019
I climbed giant boulders
to gather wild berries for you
A heavenly golden lake stretched
across your vision.

Unfazed by my generous offering
Oblivious to the dragonfly hovering
You drowned yourself in screen-time, buffering
I waded out alone.

I picture wrapping my legs around you
the air full of scents of homely comfort
a long day lightened with sweet laughter
our minds rest, immersed in fictional realms

But online games take away our nights
Political trivialities and football highlights
I sit and dream of smoldering fires on campsites
While you fall asleep alone.

In darkness I wrestle with the devil
for my piece of present moment, untainted
I beg for black viscous sleep to drown me
to wake without feeling half of me is gone

And you wrap me in the soft fabric of your skin
And you chase away the sprites to let the light in
And you breathe for my lungs as the attack glows dim
And it's just you and me alone.
No relationship is perfect, but be with the one who will sit with you in your darkness.
wordvango Jan 2017
summer sunsets in Northern Michigan
along the falls of Tahquamenon  
memories now
the campsites fire at dusk
rising embers into the sky
sat as stars
the shimmer off the falling water
rushing to go downstream to fill
Lake Superior
with new life as always intended
brook trout
brown and coho
just below the rush
raging
smaller smelt
the caviar
of a beer batter
there I grew
in a way to know
nature
her ways
her live and die
callousness
she is beauty
but severe
too great to take in
all at once
it took me forty years
to grasp
and appreciate
what it is and
what it was
jerard gartlin Nov 2017
i just don't understand
how such a tiny
lil
dainty thing
like
you
could take up SO MUCH space
inside  my  mind  &  even  come
flooding clumsily into my ugly heart...
your ringed
                    fingers forming bridges
across the tread marks
left behind
by earlier attempts to find you
((by other women i mistook for you)),
tiny smoldering campsites
& a persistent rhythm
marking the remnants of relationships
that your eyes help me forget...
yes
when i stretch out on your retinas
the others don't exist
yeah
when i fixate on your freckles
        there's     no       echo o o
                    in             my head.
you've filled it up entirely &
my eyelids keep the image in....
imagine what the ending is
if the beginning blows my mind like this!
we are simply freckles
                      on the face
                          of god
& you won't stick around for long
so i'll just be yours until you're gone.
Marquis Green Jul 2020
Missing the risks of angst in your growing states,
Asking for more events, more moments, more
Defining traits,
An access to adulthood with pure innocence attached,
A lip sealed love note passed around to everyone before your beauty,
They all knew,
7AM would be the warmest, yet calmest part of morning,
Still stuck in mourning,
I wish I spoke more
Before they moved too far to hear me.
The music was never about listening,
It only took responsibility dropping
To escape back into the vibe,
Show and tell,
List the moments of your family,
Tell me about your history before 1930,
And how you managed to come to existence,
And what you miss the most.
Arcades at the back of the grocery store,
Summers I couldn’t wait to never end,
Friendships and evolution of speech,
Touch felt genuine, and not out of courtesy.
We earned the lockers, a pasty white future,
And textbooks so old,
Just to repeat history every lunch period,
“Speak from the heart”
No, speak with your love,
You’ll create waves when you skip rocks.
Fleeting,
A timeless moment of happiness,
I have it until I remember why I shouldn’t,
It does declare,
“My everything, if this time feels like it belongs in a capsule,
Bury this melodic lead behind championed trophies and campsites,
Let me know the face of my first crush,
I’ll write mistakes all through my notebook,
The boys won’t let me call it a diary,
The girls say you shouldn’t keep a journal,
Well, we’ll just call it a logbook.
Coffee’s bitter,
Everything looks like the past,
While my presence is just future tense tension,
Who, me?
I’d rather represent silence with error,
I’ll dance to whatever I’d like,
And depression just sounds like a Fray song over muddled rain,
That radio compression makes every cassette sound fragile,
You’ll miss it.
You’ll miss it so bad.”

Boys get louder to express their feelings,
Unmatured matchmakers,
To lunch tables clamoring over last night’s news,
And tomorrow’s homework,
Order and stability,
It’s just one house,
And we’re all chipping at the paint,
Things we let go, caused issues in our fondness,
But we still had festivals, parties, and experiencing our favorite MP3s as a live audience.

I might not ever return,
Let’s take these, our foundational stones,
And not forget why tossing them in the water,
Felt like the time right before the streetlights came on,
And our favorite TV show rewound Season 3, Episode 5.

A closure to answers,
A burden to ask questions,

Not a care in the world but my missing Link Cable,
And a liability to not be late,

My friends will leave if I don’t show up right after school.
We’ve got the newest trading cards,
And one time will be the last time,
But the last time will feel like just another time.
This is a brand new single I'm gonna be releasing soon, and I could really use some feedback on how I can transform this into a contemporary work!
Thank you and I missed you all it's been a long 4 years!
Lev Rosario Feb 2021
Oh Poem
May you be as radiant
As the sun
Live long and prosper
Be the beacon of my existence

Tell somebody that there was
Somebody who was me
With this body
With this collage of emotions
With this pattern of Love lives

May you be read by somebody,
Anybody with the fever
The fever of solitude
The fever of authenticity

Oh Poem
May you find campsites
With firewood and streams
As you go along the forest
Of human existence

Have the courage
That I do not have
To kiss potential lovers
To drive to the mountains

Grow up
Let go of me forever
You are lovelier
than your creator
And more so stronger
T daniels Mar 2019
The sounds of human life
The herd's steady gaze
Peering at campsites.

Red valleys full of travelers,
With openness in their eyes.

Bulky shapes in the distance
With indigo hues,
Spiders skitter across the dunes
I thought “how slowly they move”

Lead us to that inaccessible horizon
Over rocky hills and ancient tracks
Covered in euphoria leaves,
So, in the end, we may stop and breath
JT May 2020
Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
lightning on
your driest trees
or once-loved campsites
left neglected, or kindling
that you'll never see--
it all burns just the same.

Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
flames beget
a blood orange sky
and magma pits
beside black trees,
and all your kindest woodland creatures
hurt and hide and crawl away--
but they burn all the same.

Suppose it starts
with wildfire;
see your landscape
on the hill, sickly scorched
with trees rail thin,
stark beside lush greenery,
almost lovely in how clear
the story of the suffering feels,
and burning's just the same.

So what if it starts
with wildfire?
There's no need
for water, seeds,
when warmth still crackles
in the wood and
you have pain and gasoline;
light the match and you will see--
it still burns just the same.
Ronni MH May 2018
As autumn sweeps uninvited
into barren hills,
lovers stare into openness
listening to the music,
the laughter, the shouting,
the occasional child crying
and at the little barbecue fires
all over the campsites,
shining in the darkness,
like fairy lights strung across the hill,
and above them a full moon,
rising most obligingly in the sky,
trailing stars in its wake.
vircapio gale Jan 26
sundogs past the vale --
late Spring's changing wind atop
the same, sturdy tent


bald mountain rains--
the worms retreat
with every step



'

sunset river-bat~
i stand deaf on the loud shore,
with star and crescent moon


'

Spring-summer fronts ~
tornado siren, trains;
owls on the edge


the French Broad's roar
doesn't drown the bass across--
campsites decay

pristine pristineness~
comparing filth with (to less) filth,
unnatural taste

'
individual--
tree, then mycelial port,
ants, woodpecker feast.
earth, life, openness;
a walking-staff's thud.

~


water's tone
over three leaves~
a steady stream



~

mountain spring of Spring--
a higher note is struck
in flowing free

shady water source--
salamander audience
of fullness' ease

mountain nooks in bloom--
univied cradles pause,
contact deeper breath

~

almost summer--
a level ridge
stretches our backs

~
growls in the Spring dark--
a large rodent returns home
to unwelcome guests.



Spring lushness--
mountain sunrays glide north
as we climb




woodpecker echoes ~
the empty forest vibrates
my growing hunger


~

please feel free to form a tanka with any of these starting verses. perhaps renga will follow

— The End —