Long Campfire Poems
Long Campfire Poems. Below are the most popular long Campfire by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Campfire poems by poem length and keyword.
Give them clear mountain lakes,
Kid-friendly swimming holes,
Rafts, canoes, and sailboats;
Dads and sons with fishing-poles.
Give them clear night skies,
With just a little moonlight.
To see the Milky Way,
Hunting snipes by flashlight. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
Give them old patch jackets
So that they can tell their tales:
Camporees, jamborees,
And famous historic trails
Give them old traditions:
Native American folklore;
Ashes saved from campfires,
From Scouters who went before. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
All Scouts want is just a chance
To meet wildlife, touch native plants,
Go stargazing and backpacking,
Earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
Cook, laugh and sing ‘round a campfire--
There just ain’t much more
That a Scout can desire.
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
Give them wood to build with,
Lengths of rope with knots to tie,
Multi-tool pocket knives,
Tenderfoots wanting to try.
Give them trails to follow,
Maps and compasses to read,
Kindling for a bonfire,
And patrols of Scouts to lead. Hoowah!
(Boy Scouts) Chawanakee! (clap clap) Chawanakee!
All Scouts want is just a chance
To meet wildlife, touch native plants,
Go stargazing and backpacking,
Earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
Cook, laugh and sing ‘round a campfire.
There just ain’t much more
That a Scout can desire. Everybody!
(Boy Scouts) CHAWANAKEE! (clap clap) CHAWANAKEE!
If I could control my muse, things would be delightful
I could pretend that I care about the possibility of normality.
Trixie is a wild woman, a pirate queen, a gypsy soul.
She dances around the campfire of my soul in her birthday suit.
She laughs at my alarm when she throws crazy ideas onto a page.
But wait, is she not a part of myself?
I ask my witches, faeries, and dragons.
They nod, accepting me as I am, encouraging me to retain my power.
But if I control her, can she be as clever? As outrageous? As cute?
Ouch! She is batting me about my head and face with her little feathered Pen. Bright blue ink is flipping little dots onto my cheeks and nose.
Amusing me greatly, and not making me want to control her at all.
She is my imagination, my wit, my vigor, and my energy.
I dare not insult her, I must revere, respect, and love her.
I avidly search for her good, and point it out, nourishing her ego.
Loving her, adoring her, taking bits of my power back little by little.
Wild were-women roaming in the hills, cliff dwellers around
Avoiding banshee ghost riders, sniffing for them in earthy ground.
Shushing there were-pups least their hidden unnatural selves be found.
Banshee ghost riders suddenly shush, listening to a baby were-wolf sound.
Heading toward a large crevice, which leads to a cave way down underground,
Were-women seal it up quickly after each banshee rider had ridden way down.
An instant banshee ghost rider graveyard, and these riders are never again found.
The prediction of the night hawks to whom the were-women were forever bound.
Is that when it comes to banshee ghost riders, and were-women, the cagiest are easily found.
And if there are caverns and cliffs that are the least big scary in or near your mountain town,
You had better stay safe in your bed, with the blankets pulled up, safe, and cozy and sound.
As wild were-women are more devious and dangerous than were-wolves, and totally honor bound.
They can also throw their voices, many hundreds of kilometers, and imitate a baby were-wolf sound.
Which is how they tricked the ghostly banshee riders, who are now trying to breathe in vain, underground.
And if you do not believe me, or you think you will survive it, you are the bravest man in town.
But if you choose to hunt for this kind of trouble, stand ready to never ever be found.
There is a were-woman right now peeking in your window; you would do best to not make a sound.
For if she notices you, and comes through that window, you will soon be lying underground.
I rinsed my paintbrushes in the Rideau River
Watching a kaleidoscope of colours
Dance with such an intensity
It was the first time I
Saw
Acrylics come to life
Among the minnows
I am Vincent Van Gogh,
I am
Coated in
Deep Crimson Reds and
Rich
Olive
From the Green
I was using for the mountain tops
And
Owl City Soundtrack
Is resounding all around me
Without any essence of a concern or worry
I spent an afternoon floating directionless on The Pelican
Turtles worshiping the sun as they raise their heads as I pass them Slowly
The Heron
Soars under the heaving clouds
The leafs whisper excitedly
Fall is approaching,
As the sun sets over the
Sandcastle Shores
I am fashioned with Waterlilies
Adorning my hair
My campfire perfumed Hoodie
Water that has become my Looking glass...
it
Is so calm, it looks like glass
My wind strewn hair
And
Sun Kissed Cheeks.
In this dream like state
Of reality
I am freed.
There was a gentle breeze on this glistening moon-filled night.
An unknown stranger in the shadow of an oak gave me a fright.
When he turned, I could see he was male, in a bit of light.
He had a nervous cough that was ungodly, not quite right.
We were the only two out here, in the country as far as I knew.
I had chosen this spot in the woods, where the wind always blew.
It was usually secluded, not on my land, but who knew?
Was he wearing camo? I was feeling a bit threatened too.
Suddenly his cough became hacking, and he sounded like a boy.
Not a man at all, which gave my nervous heart a tiny bit of joy.
His vulnerability, made him a bit less frightening to me.
I asked if he was okay. He ventured closer, so I could see.
I could see he was cold, and some weird motherly instinct kicked in.
Invited him closer. He came to my campfire – young boy named Finn.
I recognized him as a child of Sara and Bill’s up the road.
I asked if he wanted to talk and his words quickly explode.
He had a fight with his father, and got no help from his mother.
He was gulping now, trying to contain himself somehow or another.
After the story, I told him that things would get better soon.
Then I took him home, so I could relax again, and get back to my moon.
It seems to us as we continue to grow older the more and more we find
how often we climb the memory tree that grows within our minds.
A tree that’s nourished by our memories…at least that’s what we believe…
Memories that enter through its roots and form its branches and its leaves.
Last night our family sat around a campfire…toasting marshmallows…making s’mores
Which, except for the masks and social distancing, we’ve done a thousand times before.
And what a treat it was for us…what an absolute delight!
as we watched our daughter and our grandchildren aglow in the campfire light.
Suddenly we found ourselves high atop our memory trees…and near as we can tell
amid the branches and the leaves where our campfire memories dwell.
From where we perched upon our branches we were shown a wonderful surprise…
as memories of old campfires danced before our eyes.
Perhaps that’s why old people smile so much around campfires…
as they watch their reality and their memories blend…
and hoping time will at least pause…or this moment will not end…
But when all the s’mores were eaten, the campfire had burned out
and we said goodnight to our daughter and our grandchildren…
We were not sad…
we did not pout.
Because as we continue to grow older
it becomes easier and easier for us to see…
Our memories made today around the campfire
will find their way into our tree…
And if we want to visit them…any place or any time
All we have to do is smile…close our eyes…and climb.
It was a crisp fall November weekend,
We had gotten up early that morning
A frantic rush, buzzing to go camping.
We'd packed the night before, tired by the end.
My parents briskly loaded the luggage
In the station wagon, then we'd piled in.
Tickled, Ember our lab would lick my chin.
She was very playful, but average.
Tents were set up and a campfire blazing
Overlooking the clear lake and mountain.
We would hike nature trails we were certain
Were safe and waded in the lake fishing.
Our campfire shed a yielding glowing light
That filled the night air with the scent of smoke
And lingering forest pine and silage oak.
Sky a stage of dancing stars through the night.
I think back to all the favorite times
While young, not knowing how the lord lead my
Sight, to see His love in nature, and sky
With family in the fall leisure pastimes.
1/11/2021
The Good Old Days Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
She said "Let's go to Dad And Me, it really would be neat."
I couldn't say no. I loved her so. She was so young and sweet.
A weekend just for us, my daughter and I, with so many things to do.
Arts and crafts, swimming and fishing: for a dad, it was a dream come true.
We packed up the car with camping gear. We packed everything on our list..
Mom helped out, checking it over, to be sure there was nothing we missed.
We got checked in and were assigned our tents. It was quiet and serene.
We sat around a campfire telling stories and drinking water from our own
canteen.
Next morning at dawn, we met at the mess hall, eager for an early start.
It was time for some boating and fishing, then to the pool.
After lunch we would do some art.
Our day was planned into the night; an answer to a father's prayer
No matter where we'd be in the years to come, we'd have this memory to share.
Sunday morning we had some archery, and in the woods we could see some
deer.
My daughter gave me a hug, smiled and asked "Dad, can we do this again next
year?"
I didn't have to think twice. It was so nice. I said "Yes, we'll give it a whirl."
Another weekend to look forward to. Just me and my little girl.
This was written for my daughter, Tina, and the wonderful "Dad And Me"
weekends we had at Camp Louise near Berwick, Pennsylvania.
Battle of Gettysburg day two.
My hands are numb and my shoulders shake with the cold.
I sit on my **** in the cold damp grass,
the campfire does nothing to warm this situation.
It just cracks and spits at the damp wood.
Hardly a word is said and yet my
mind is full of screaming and shouting.
If I pissed myself once this day
I did it four or five times,
never has my cock leaked so much
yet I haven"t sh@t in days.
Food is low but moral is good
and we all have high hopes
for tomorrows battle.
I am under Pickett"s charge
yet my mind is wild
and my heart seems to over beat,
there is a knot in
my stomach the size
of my fist,
so I think
of home
to calm down.
Virginia.
I watch my mother
hanging out
washing with
her thin hands.
I gulp and wonder
if I shall see her soon.
She died three
years ago.
Form:
I went to camp one year to feel so free
Not one of us got sick at all for sure
I went into the river to see and fish
But I was pushed into water so pure
Setup the tent to sleep the night away
With bites that itch kept up the night so sad
The next we thought an idea to try to sway
Insects that bit we net and killed so glad
We slept all night away till sun came up
The dew on tents a view I like for morning
We had a fire to warm water in cup
The drink was strong to wake us up with warning
The camp worker had said there was a fire
Among them all practiced putting it out
Bond fire was great to have this year campfire
We all was new to have much fun no doubt
Now home we go in weeks been gone delay
Running around forest so fun O.K.