As nomads do, I travel far and rise
In realms where diversity intertwines.
To seekers in hostels, I do confide
That the pursuit of peace must live worldwide.
It's good to know that outcry still brings peace
When we respect each other's human rights.
At times, our conflicts advance without cease,
And the poor end up living in campsites.
In every heart, let human rights arise.
Lasting love grows as good acts never end.
Let's walk with care and keep all hope alive
Since warmth ends war when helping hands extend.
No matter race, creed, religion or need,
We aid human rights by doing good deeds.
On the side of a path branching off from the road
expectations of glorious guilt mount
makeshift trenches housing truants, anxiously counting
the seconds 'til school officers call off the hunt...
Free at last at 9:30 to pursue puerile passions
constructing lean-tos in trees, small campsites nearby
They'd burn down the bush in a heartbeat if only
their consciences would forget how to sigh
. for public domain
My campsites had no history,
like a house, a neighborhood,
where children grow up,
and grown ups grow old,
a place that you miss
when it's finally sold.
They served for a night, or maybe two,
sometimes for a month,
til the time to go
arrived. I would pack,
and clean up the site,
and rarely looked back.
No site was ever mine to own,
only a place to be alone
with a hurt or low thought.
Overwrought or distraught,
the healing that came
I could not have bought.
I plant an image
and it comes up a poem
red, yellow and green.
It has leaves and limbs
and phrases never heard.
I walk around it and touch
it on all sides
realizing the body
is greater than the words.
The body is greater than my thoughts,
and late at night it talks to me.
I remember
an early morning drive
silent and still
skies of gold
new growth reaching for the sun
rising, rising from what was scorched
aspiring to be
old growth nearby
that knows no time
but knows all seasons at once.
I remember
telling a friend of the Great North Woods
of passing the passages that led
to campsites and clearings
passing.
I remember
coming back to her.
I tell her our story
unsure of where it begins
where the middle is,
and yet,
I don’t want it to end.
She clears a table
and comes back to refill my drink.
Neon lights in the window shine,
and she smiles at me-
there are stars in her eyes.
A grizzly isn't really, as bad as he's made out
He wanders round the parklands, when no humans are about
But there are times of course, we meet him in his home
We can't blame him for being there, it is on his land we roam
Open up your tent flap, and see the big brown bear
Close it quickly zip it up, you must not meet his stare
He would not come to campsites, if nothing for him there
After he had looked around, he would go elsewhere
He has that special odour, you can tell where he has been
You sense that he was at your camp, even though not seen
That is why statistics, that are often known to lie
Can this time tell the Gods own truth, so very few will die
So when you stay in National Parks, or even just 'Out There'
Leave a pristine place behind you, leave nothing for the bear
We can do it safely, out camping in the bush
If we just use some common sense, not give our luck a push
So there is that big brown bear, sexes named as hogs
Does little of the damage, of domesticated dogs
But he is big and looks so fierce, he takes a lot of blame
Should he vanish then this earth, would never be the same
My mothers' perfume.
The scents throughout the day are wondrous,
And not at all like fungus.
Filled with love and delight,
Sometimes reminding me of campsites.
My mothers' perfume.
Keeping me calm through the rain,
And not causing me pain.
My mothers' perfume,
Is what keeps me happy at night,
When I wrap up tight.
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