Long Camp Poems
Long Camp Poems. Below are the most popular long Camp by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Camp poems by poem length and keyword.
At the edge of the town, hidden amongst the trees
Is a nudist camp where folks walk around as they please
They all go about their business strutting their stuff
And as you've probably guessed, they're all in the buff.
There's all shapes and sizes, some skinny, some fat
Others go all out while some cheat and wear a hat
There's vicars, teachers, scientists and truck drivers too
And more from all walks of life, doing what they like to do.
Some boys in town were bored, and wanted some fun
And came up with a heinous plan to make the nudies run
They all covered up and they put a wasps nest in a bag carefully
And planned to throw it over the fence and film it for all to see.
But someone in town had heard of their dastardly plot
And phoned the nudist camp and said "some info I've got"
The nudies were alerted and waited for the town boys attack
And they put robust plans in place for a counter attack.
A lookout then spotted the town boys heading their way
The nudies were going to make those delinquents pay
One of the boys threw the nest over without making a sound
But a covered up nudie quickly caught it, before it hit the ground.
He threw it back over the fence, the town boys were in shock
All the angry wasps had now escaped and were flying amok
Then the nudies rushed forward with water pistols full of honey
And squirted it over the boys until it was sticky and runny.
The wasps picked up the sweet scent and nosedived on the boys
The nudies were laughing so much it drowned out the boys cries
A nudie filmed it all and told the boys to go online and take a look
And said this footage you'll find on our group site on Facebook.
All the boys started running fast and were trying to get away
The air was blue as they tried to keep the stinging wasps at bay
They reached the lake that was just on the outskirts of town
And all jumped in and knew that they'd never live this down.
Written on the 7th July 2022
I first saw him -the blonde Adonis - at church camp when I was but 14.
In the group ahead of mine, he turned around and our eyes magically locked.
I felt so sure he liked me. That’s how I recall it anyway, but it was not meant to be,
for shortly thereafter, another boy approached me, cute and sweet,
and he and I fast became an “item.” However, I kept searching every day
for just one sight of the blonde Adonis, whose image still lingered in my mind.
Later, I saw my new boyfriend from church camp at monthly regional youth activities,
where I’d also see the blonde Adonis, who sometimes eyed me, but spoke not a word.
After a time, my long-distance boyfriend and I called it quits,
but I never stopped yearning to know the boy who I’d seen first that summer day -
the blonde Adonis who I was later to learn was one of ten charming siblings,
all beautiful children of a couple highly respected in our church community.
Tall, blue eyed, confident, popular, talented, smart and athletic,
the blonde Adonis was a young man destined for greatness!
Ever hopeful, I kept going to the regional activities, thinking “this will be the day!”
Always I’d watch him, wishing I was the girl slow dancing in his arms.
He was the most fascinating person I would never get to know,
and his thoughts about me (if he ever had any) I could never even guess.
I felt so sure he liked me when our eyes locked like magic that first time. . . .
At least that’s the way I recall it.
For The Most Fascinating Person I Never Knew Poetry Contest of Craig Cornish
*For the Cutie's Identity, See "About this Poem"
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,
sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone
prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self
failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.
Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths
measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...
smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping
zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,
oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene
synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.
Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,
one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing
into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,
maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach
ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
An Irish lad
Of seven or so
Bears witness to the hate in his fathers eyes
As the British with guns walked on by
Never knew a soldier who wanted to die
Especially one not seeking battle
Ahhh but if eyes could kill
That Brit be dead dead dead
Poor little boy to see this at all
Fathers breeding hate to the sons
That British lad carrying a gun
That helped him not a lick
As the bomb went off
Nicked them all that day
Ten more Brits in boxes like chocolates
For an Irish feast
A young lad in London
An orphan created by cowardly acts
He longed for revenge
Said one day, I shall make Saint Patrick pay
One day, I shall make me father proud
A paddy bastard I shall stab
And feel might righty proud
Well luck seemed to be full of four leaf clover
For those two lads of hate would meet
Far away and across an ocean
Where two solitudes already live and breath
In a summer camp of northern adventure
Why they had such times and bonded well
They had no idea of their respective bloody hells
They were boys of dreams beneath it all
Hate had not the chance to fester and swell
So when they returned to their respective colors
They had learned from friendships and love of life
Hate should belong to the fathers
Never the sons
Clarification on:
Hate should belong to the fathers
Never the sons
Hate should belong to no one, I simply meant that we could solve alot in this world if it wasn't passed from generation to generation!!
Notes:
During the conflicts in Belfast a group in Quebec ran summer camps for Irish kids of both Catholic and Protestant areas of Ireland. Much harder for the parents to hate each other when the children bonded and became friends. I am trying to find out what group organized this so if anyone happens to have any information love to hear from them. I know there was a group that did the same in Chicago but haven’t been able to find any info about the group in Quebec.
In Quebec, they often refer to “The two solitudes” meaning the English and the French here, oh the irony that such a place saw fit to bring another two groups of people together. The world is always full of surprises!!!
Rise for there is a stirring and a calling in the air
Feeling Divinely touched in a moment real and rare
Flooding holiness making every heart and soul aware
Proclaiming to all that this is an answer to prayer
Rise for the Spirit is declaring it is time to wake
Slumbering no more for the battlefield is ours to take
Anointing poured out so thick every soul quivers and quakes
Rallying we march out for the enemy’s camp to break
Rise for Jesus the Christ is standing at the right hand throne
Singing fills the air in a powerfully joyful tone
Forcing the foes to flee as the banner of love is flown
Pushing ever forward for to us victory is known
Rise for God the father is calling to take it all back
Rescuing from the pit those whose heart and soul have turned black
Restoring all whose faith have fallen to despair and lack
Establishing his kingdom as the final great love act
They got him as a puppy when Danny was nearly three.
He was a scruffy little fellow and had no pedigree.
Daddy asked, "What are you going to name the little tyke?"
"Scruff" said Danny. "I think that's a name he'd like!"
They became the closest pals and were seldom seen apart.
Every move that Danny made, to him Scruff's eyes would dart.
Scruff would tag along with Danny to ensure he didn't stray.
At night as he dreamed of kings and things, Scruff nigh him lay.
The sun-tanned, barefoot boy and his dog formed a loving bond,
As they explored the fields and streams and veiled horizons beyond.
Scruff chased rabbits and butterflies as they took their daily tramp.
Danny shared his lunch with Scruff when they took a break to camp.
Time hastened on inexorably as it will and schooling beckoned Dan.
Through high school then on to college, Danny became a man.
Scruff was moving slower and gray hairs were seen upon his ruff.
'Twas apparent that time was taking its toll on good and faithful Scruff.
In a far-off place strife began and Danny marched off to war.
His heart was shattered as he left Scruff whimpering at the door.
'Twas to be their final farewell. Alas, Danny did not come home.
Never more would Scruff and his pal those fields of Indiana roam.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Tied First Place in Seren Roberts "Little Lad And Big Dog" Contest - July 2013
We were four tough teens and one day at school we were dared
To spend a night in Hangman's Woods to prove we weren't scared,
We'd set up camp for the night then heard loud wailing and a moan
Sheer blind terror overcame us when we realised we weren't alone,
We ran as fast as our legs could carry us and we didn't look back
And made it to the woods entrance and there stood by an old shack,
Were our three so called school friends who'd set us up for the dare
They were laughing and pointing at us and all we could do was glare.
Written on the 25th October 2020
8 lines Of Spooky Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin.
That last day leaving summer camp,
didn't know she would be there too.
My protector, my ghost..
I expect each of us as kids dreamed,
yet scared to define the two.
Watched as she drove away, life lost a little of its taste
so far out of my league, yet always wondered,
what another life could've replaced.
Don't invest in secrets of yesterday,
and certainly not tomorrow.
Put all your coin on this today..
that which all old men
seek to borrow.
Carry your heart for all to respect,
live long all precious days.
Don't trust your soul to intellect,
for it'll abandon you..
just when you trusted it
to stay.
There's genius in a child's clutch,
and love in life's brocade.
Without it most don't hold to much,
and see all wither that they made.
Don't know if the past matters much,
to me remains ever just the same.
When two lives shared all in touch,
and one just a picture in a frame.
When I was a young lad
I was a boy scout
We went once a month
On a camping trip
With our father
Coming along.
Once we went
On a camping trip
Along Stinson beach
In Marin County.
We had a campfire
On the beach
A real bonfire
Welcomed
In the chilly night air
Fond memories
Of being a boy scout
50 years later.
I am proud
That I was a boy scout
In some quarters
In the hyper-liberal bay area,
Of the late 60s and 70s
Boy scouts were denounced
As being nothing
But training camps
For the fascist overlords
Of the universe.
But I disagree
And am glad
I was a boy scout.
Always regrated
Never becoming
An eagle scouts.
I said to the class,
"Now the first thing we're going to do, is feed this poem."
& I asked my friends, "Do you want to help me write an Arthurian epic?"
They replied, "Do we?!"
My son is writing a story, with a character called Professor Question-Mark
My daughter believes we're taking a plane somewhere every night
I picked up my children on the last day of their summer camp,
With my son running out the automatic doors uttering, "Let's get out of here."
Hundreds of pounds down the drain
Mad cheddar
Mad stacks of cabbage and
Post traumatic Christmas disorder
In the King's chamber at Windsor Castle
The audioguide informs tourists of its decorative history
Before announcing the bed in question in front of us is not the actual bed
A man groans and walks off
My mum asks me to go check on my dad in the public bathroom
I knock on the cubicle and say, "Dad, are you in there?"
He replies, "Yeah."
We find him at Victoria Square and I realise it wasn't him
There is mad screaming from another carriage on the train
I know we are near our station