Sponsor Joseph May Contest Name Alpha Lines
________________________________________________________
Beauty comes down effortlessly, fire glows higher.
The flames flicker and dance as they illuminate the dark.
Bright fingers of crimson and gold, reaching skyward,
Now and then embers would escape with a loud spark.
Lingering moments nestle on paused quiet respite.
Amidst the smoky scent of our cozy campfire.
The overwhelming aroma of our campfire is quite surreal.
Familiar sensations waft into an aromatic spire.
Questing reprisal still the undergrowth vanquished ways.
The fragrances so inviting, mixed with earthy sprays.
As the breeze diminishes so our campfires warmth we feel.
The eucalyptus enhances a perfume, in a smoky haze.
Jacaranda kindling lingers, memories now over prone.
The spellbinding flames flicker, casting shadows of their own.
As the dark velvet night closes in, our fire glistens in tone.
It’s all made more spectacular by our campfire’s cologne.
Soft raindrop music lulled all to quiet
with dreams of fairies, strawberry Delight
Stars sent lovelights that winked off and then on
wind whispered “shh,” very soon will come dawn
Quickly, rain grew restless, began to pound
sent enormous waves to hide the soft ground
Two rivers merged, creating a large sea
Higher, stronger grew sea's intensity
It thrashed and spun and at last over ran
the hopes and dreams of youth's happy clan
Tiny wonders with life's days still to know
embraced by angels and lifted from flow
Dawn arose to a promise that was swept
nothing remained, but tears that were wept
Garden paradise that once sheltered green
torn, spilled over imagination's dream
Can there again be songs mingling with air
Can memories help those who lost, repair
Somewhere above, among soft, lilac clouds
are Mystic camp songs sung, offkey but loud
And, in a rainbow with a lovely face
are watercolors for those left to trace
moments of joy, each to gently unfold
Then find tomorrows you can, again, hold
The bordello camp
Morning in Aruba, the cock has crowed three times
Men get out of beds that hundreds have slept in
of other men, they are silent, waiting for taxis
to take them back to their ship
Sad men, there is no jubilation here, cigarette smoke
A cold morning beer while waiting for the transport
A seaman, overcome by the tardiness, tries to run away
There is nowhere to run; the whore camp is in the desert
on a desert, sand, bushes, and snakes.
The madman, plied with alcohol, is sleeping.
The other carried him onboard.
In the courtyard, a woman swipes the dance
floor, doesn't bother to look up, when this day ends
They will be back again, or someone like them
will come, here, drink, dance, and pay for sex
girl and her daddy are in the doctor’s waiting room
neither of them appears to be sick
she looks especially well.
Her eyes are bright, and she is moving around like a bubble
She smiles at me and waves.
I wave back, glad to see her.
Maybe they are here for a camp check-up?
She turns and regurgitates all over the seat.
Her father takes his time noticing.
He has been looking at his phone.
We’d not seen our grandson in weeks,
Unless you count photo-type peeks,
But today, like a champ,
When we met him at camp,
He was grinning right up to his cheeks.
We were thrilled we could thus reconnect,
Though we hadn’t known what to expect,
But our mutual hugs
(So much better than shrugs!)
Had a perfect, delightful effect.
Now we’ll spend a few days hanging out
And I know, with no shred of a doubt,
We’ll enjoy what we do
And before we are through,
We’ll forget we’d a Henry-less drought.
I found a bunch of letters
Dated 1993,
Which were written by my son from camp
And forwarded to me.
It was his first time staying there,
For one month, in a bunk.
He was away, with new routines
And he was in a funk.
His letters said he missed us
And was homesick just at night.
Aside from that, it seemed that he
Was managing all right.
A theme that was recurring
Mentioned we should send him stuff.
It sounded like, to him, our parcels
Weren’t filled enough.
This summer, his own son’s at camp -
First time, a different place,
But now in photos sent
We see his mostly smiling face.
His emails sound more upbeat
(Just a tiny “miss you” cloud),
Though he can’t request a package
Since today, they’re not allowed.
The grandkids are heading to sleepaway camp,
Their clothing all labeled and packed,
Plus all of the extras they may or not need -
Way too much, as a matter of fact.
They bring pillows and blankets and flashlights and fans
And shin guards and sandals and cleats
And towels and bug spray and sunscreen and stamps
And shampoo, toothbrush, toothpaste and sheets.
They need rain gear and sleeping bags, books and canteens,
A laundry bag, backpack and socks,
Plus sweatshirts and jackets and underwear (lots!)
And their sneakers and rain boots and Crocs.
Of course there are bathing suits, t-shirts and shorts
And sweatpants and PJ’s and fleece,
But there are no iPads or Switches or phones
So some wonders, I guess, never cease.
The days spent at camp will fly quickly until
All that stuff gets repacked to go home,
With some missing or ruined or filthy, but that
Is a topic for some future poem.
Early in a damp woodsman's camp
seeing sawyers from a logging town
to stop the conversation bogging down
as asked my age among other things
I replied, 'Cut off my head and count the rings,'
then had to be quick-witted and fast-footed
made a bee-line through the trees
so as not to lose my noggin
when a burly lumberjack grabbed his axe
I ducked and dodged his mighty swing
which (in a nonce) saved my bacon (and my bonce)
and them's the actual facts
Old Donald an out of work tramp
retired to a new nudist camp
what he hadn't been told
was the pool water's cold
which reduced his prospects when damp
It's cloudy Sunday
At foothills of Mt. Apo
Lies array of tents.
It makes a stop; the kids climb on
And poof! The day camp bus is gone.
The parents wave; the kids, strapped in,
Are off to let their day begin.
Some campers smile, while others fret,
Not certain of their prospects yet.
Still, most of them (not everyone)
Will spend some hours having fun.
The afternoon will come at last,
Their camping session over fast.
The day camp bus will bring them back,
Their parents waiting with a snack.
Winding up the sheet,
I just Couldn't sleep!
Dragged the sheet outside,
Beside the mud puddle,
That I thought was alive!
The railroad tracks right by my side,
Tied a string there,
Then over to a tree.
Just over there.
The sheet kept falling off,
Fell on top of me.
The dark came suddenly,
Beware the Zackerman!
The fear is no fun!
Ran for the house,
Came in,
Quiet as a mouse!
The sheet stayed outside,
I'll check tomorrow,
See if it's alive!
gruesome black tattoo
survived concentration camp
gold solid soul
on letter put stamp
sent women who are at camp
who would be a vamp
beneath serene and reflective night skies
gentle feelings silence each tear, each fear,
breathing in smoldering dreams who arise
rustles of stillness, spark a soft prayer.
glowing faintly beneath the moonlit night,
flames enchanting, silencing the sad sighs,
warm odors tempt the eager appetite
along the camp’s edge, before the fire dies.
stars like glitter stand in the softest clouds,
caressing heaven with easy refrains,
love getting away from the noise, the crowds,
where relaxation is all that remains.
scents of the back woods fill the heart and soul
with a tenderness that’ll make the life whole
Related Poems