Romantic tapping;
Sends us inside, for napping
Shower happening
My disillusionment with organized religion
came as a result of my realization of its
ambivalent nature.
Church clothes clothe hidden judgement;
secrets ingrained in button downs,
sinners treated like cash cows,
and knees sore from repeated attempts at repentance.
You were not like that.
Though you suffered the stings of persecution's arrows,
your humanity,
the morality you possess from the altered reality we commune in,
was ever more human than the prized proprietors of the pulpit.
Our lives entail getting used to
the ground moving underneath our feet,
for we are immune to inertia, my love.
Hold me once more as you journey onward into fragile memory.
Goodbye Bible Camp Girlfriend, goodbye.
The school bus crawled into the village
just as the sun slipped beyond the horizon.
Villagers emerged with machetes in hand,
clearing the road for their visitors—
men and women united by a mission
to protect and preserve marine life.
Joy filled the island.
Laughter echoed from every corner.
The local captain, Pastor Kagoto,
could not stop reciting his poems,
while songs drifted through the evening air.
Village girls came out singing,
their voices carrying across the shore
as they welcomed the newcomers.
Later that night,
the visitors pitched their camp on the island.
The women retired to their tents,
while the men gathered around a crackling fire.
The waves whispered against the beach,
their rhythm clear in the stillness of the night.
Above, the sky blazed with countless stars,
as if the heavens themselves had joined the villagers
in welcoming the guests.
As darkness settled over the island,
hearts were filled with anticipation,
and every soul carried great expectations
for the days that lay ahead.
We are aliens
thethered by an organic bisector
of existential connection.
My lover and I are cosmic bodies
twisting to fit the intolerance you call sanctuary.
The scriptures criminalize the words
passing between our lips.
My lover’s hips tell the secret of eternal happiness
in tandem with damnation.
Our thoughts live in a coffin;
a biblical cessation of breath.
Our hands hold onto the remnants
of childhoods lost.
Our eyes look back to before
we realized the intentions behind our gazes.
When our torsos leaned down to pray
instead of wrapping around each other
in the dead of night.
Goodbye bible camp girl, Goodbye.
Monday morning sneaks through shack and grime,
Bullets whirr where drug barons plot their trade,
Gatas tread gingerly.wasting hours and time.
The spaza hums,mugs chime,Rooibos Tea in the lane,
Bambinos sidestep shadows,mae geri into dustty tins,
Old timers murmur incantations under the day's first pain.
Smog sprinkles from braai stands where mamtanies fry,
Pirated Kalashnikovs twinkle in the sun's first glare,
Yet souls beat steady,declining lies.
Klevahs shuffle,wallets empty,agrrements whispered fast,
Tiny tots peep through windows,hearts throbbing loud,
Even in agony,a tenacious hope holds steady steadfast.
Through shacks,mirth trembles,sharp but bright,
The day starts with grit,with pain,with dreams,
In this dream struggle, the spirit fights for light.
The hunter and the hunted
Animal instinct is confronted
Eyes of a hawk, and Indian walk
Blending into the sound of nature
Silence, patience are no virtue here
It's a way of survival it may appear
Many brave men have tried to tame the land
A few have fallen while trying to stand
As the sun touches the horizon
It ends the battle between man and beast
Nature calls the wild home to rest
Soon the sun will appear in the east
The pages are forever being written
Of legends great and small
The truth maybe stretched
And wearing many veils
As the stories grow tall into tales
........see you next year
Her name was Clarice; she was my best friend at summer camp
This was a Bible camp, so there was a lot of praying and singing
We thought some of the other girls were hilarious
At twelve they were wearing lipstick and talking about boys
Clarice was redheaded, with a zillion freckles
I always thought I had a lot of them until I met her
We resolved to be besties forever
I think we sent three letters back and forth after camp
But for one week we were such great friends
Competitors too, trying to memorize the most Bible verses
I still remember how our eyes would catch and we would laugh
For no reason at all, and for every reason
Clarice and I sat at the bonfire the night before we went home
Whispering silly things to each other, laughing at the others
Because they wanted to be grown-ups
Even then, we knew we still wanted to be children
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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
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