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Cameron Coolidge Poem
I have a vision of her.
She is twirling and laughing
In a white sundress
in the middle of a clearing in the woods.
Canopy overhead; sun sprinkling down through.
She twirls and dances to her heart's content
to an audience of trees and leaves.
Her music is silence
with an occasional bird call,
and with leaves crackling under her feet.
Her style is freedom.
A no-holds-barred adventure.
Her adventure is nature.
F*** the city 'scapes.
Give her northern lights and mountain heights
that make your heart leap;
Leap like the way mine does
Watching her twirl
Amidst the green leaves
As they clap and clatter for her
In her white sundress
and her infectious smile
With her arms out wide while she spins.
She's in her nature.
And she's in mine.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2020
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
I sat at the corner table with my journal and coffee,
Observant to the shop and the world outside preparing for the weekend.
Through my gaze, I fell upon a girl who appeared somewhat frustrated.
She had the look of a writer who was unable to find his story’s mot juste.
However, she must have felt my stare, for, much like a fantasy,
Her eyes met mine directly; her eyes of beautiful dark chocolate.
She blushed a quirky smile and sipped at her hot chocolate
As I returned a smirk and toasted to her with my coffee.
I was now oblivious to the world but for her, a fantasy
Lit up my mind like a firework display on the weekend.
There was no way to explain her beauty, no mot juste,
As the French say, though the thought left me frustrated.
The shop was filled with chaotic noises that never frustrated
The calm that I felt while I watched her sip that delectable chocolate
Drink, a satisfaction like finding the ever-fleeing mot juste
For an unexplainable sensation. I gathered my courage and coffee
And sifted to her table, feeling like I was in a state of fantasy,
Unbeknownst that I walked toward an unforgettable weekend.
I’ll never forget how the sound of a song by The Weekend
Was playing in the background, how she was frustrated
Because it reminded her of bad times in world of fantasy
Called the past, along with how she stained her shirt with chocolate,
Even though the stain now resembled one of light coffee,
Though the point remains the same; emotional mot juste.
We talked for hours, and happy isn’t the mot juste
For how I felt after leaving and wishing the weekend
Would last longer. I would go to the same shop for coffee
Day after day to meet her again, becoming so frustrated
That I had not asked for her number. One day, chocolate,
Rich and sweet, filled the air and enveloped me in fantasy.
I lifted my head, consumed by leather-bound fantasy
Which I was reading, to find her standing there, a mot juste
In a dictionary of effervescent words. She set her eyes of chocolate
Upon my own and cast me back into the past on that fated weekend
On which we met. My embarrassment had me stammering, frustrated;
Foolish. She smiled that disarming smile and bought me a coffee.
She told me this coffee shop made her favorite hot chocolate
And that she comes here on the weekend to unwind after a frustrated week.
She’s a motif of pure, perfect fantasy existing in reality. She’s my mot juste…
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2017
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
I am defined in darkness.
Nothing but an immaculate shadow;
A mere silhouette against the light of the world.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2013
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
"Walk" - a simple word uttered.
The dogs jump at the door,
that old, creaky, wooden door,
at the mere mention of the word.
Open mouthed with tongues hanging out of the side,
panting and whining with glee,
they wait impatiently, watching for the turn of that tarnished golden knob;
waiting for an invitation to a world beyond their walls; their second domain.
A creak, a gap filled with sunlight shining a ray through the dust; an escape.
Full speed, they take off and clear the tiered wrap-around deck in a second.
A smirk and a chuckle occupies my mind as they run across the cement driveway, past the standalone basketball hoop, into the yellow-green overgrown field.
The foot path through the weeds, worn down over years of journeys, is my guide.
The dogs' noses are theirs.
To the river with the trussed train bridge they go.
The rusted walls of the bridge, hidden from the road which lay a mere 200 yards away, are hidden by the limbs of trees that form a canopy over the water.
The dogs wade in, chasing the sticks and twigs I throw, gulping and splashing.
The dogs jump out as I call them while climbing up the ledge to the railroad tracks.
The smell of tar, like freshly lain blacktop, rises with the heat coming off the rails, the ties, and the rocks with occasional coal sprinkled in.
Though the way is straight for miles ahead, and a mile behind, I place my ear to a rail to listen and feel for any hint of vibration of metal scraping metal.
Nothing.
Rio, my German Shepherd, runs left to right to left to right,
following a scent likely left by a beaver or fox,
Sniffing, marking, investigating.
His top-black coat and tan legs and chest stand out among the grey rocks and green trees blocking the view from the road.
Onward he goes.
Cheyenne, my beautiful Doberman, shines like wet black ink in the sunlight, a brilliant sheen.
She looks back at me to make sure I'm still near; my protector.
Rio rejoins and nips at her neck.
Onward we go.
After nearly a quarter-mile of trying and failing to walk on the rail,
we come to my secret; a "hidden" path to the left,
down the bank, through the trees and brush, and up the hill on the other side.
The weeds have been knocked down over the years, a familiar way.
The smell of pine and recent rains
Complement the blue sky and shimmering blue-green lake over the ledge, just beyond the brush.
A hidden gem; a place of personal tranquility.
I watch Chey and Rio trot along, peacefully
In a memory I'll cherish for as long as time permits.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2018
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
I've burnt so many bridges
with an empty box of matches.
Friendships fall to waysides,
and I watch it while it happens.
Distant conversations;
Eyes no longer fastened
on the times when all we knew
were echoes of our laughter.
The flames of time have blazened.
They've left me charred and blackened.
The bonds between us, once so tight,
have since been frayed and slackened.
My days have become so lonely.
I feel they're quickly passing.
Yet, slowly am I moving
while depression is amassing.
So my friend, this is my sorry.
I'm wayward from my pathway.
Just know I'm here, and always am,
if you're willing to meet halfway.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2017
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
For whom does the death rattle whisper
on this windless, snowy night?
The old man sitting by the fire, listening
to his loving wife, wordlessly wishing;
yearning for more time within this life.
His blue eyes flicked in the fire's light
fixated on his joyous love
who's black hair blended along with night
and silver streak fallen over her eye,
never able to stay above.
As the rattle grew into a shutter,
the smoke plumed upward to the sky.
The fire crackled, and popped, and sputtered.
Watering, his blue eyes said goodbye.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2017
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
We fought them in the trenches, low
We fought them in the sky
To them, we came from the unknown
Disguised by rising tides.
We fought them in the sky,
Ripped from this world in mid-air
Disguised by rising tides
As ashes fell from here to there.
Ripped from this world in mid-air,
this world has known no such hell
as ashes fell from here to there;
as tears began to swell.
This world has known no such hell.
To them, we came from the unknown.
As tears began to swell,
we fought them in the trenches, low.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2019
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
Rejoice
in the Sweet Salvation
From Hell's damnation.
You no longer conform to
Those who don't want you
To be you.
You've now freed yourself
From the makers of Mainstream
Society.
Rejoice in the sweet
Freedom.
Revel in the liquidation
of their control.
Now how does it feel
To be relinquished?
Like swimming through
The scene without
Fear to be real.
Glow in the dark,
Glow brighter in the light.
You've broken through,
You're now the 8th wonder
Of the World.
You are the great Sight.
You are you, no longer alike
with anyone else.
Welcome.
Welcome to yourself.
How does it feel?
Well it feels like freedom
To be real.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2018
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
What more have we to write about?
Waters rippling from thrown stones?
And what of passion or true love
Found only through lasting pain.
The aches suffered throughout the times
Will surface forevermore,
Relentless to our fighting urge
To suppress the burn once more.
Stabbing at our beating hearts
A strike merely meant to wound
So as to heal, so as to learn
From the pasts we live within,
Trapped like a mouse inside a maze
Which has no exit nor light;
A lonely soul left to wander 'round
'Til it finds a wall to sob near.
What more have we to write of,
You ask?
No, what more have we to see.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2013
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Cameron Coolidge Poem
What haunts you when you close your eyes
At night, about to fall asleep.
Knowing that there will be not a sheep
To count, but horrors from your past.
What crawls through your mind at night
Once you shut the lights all out.
Alone in the dark where the unknown blooms
Before your eyes without your knowing.
How much courage do you have
To stand up against all that you fear
When the wretched smiles from ear to ear?
Will you run from your demons, or will you fight?
So what comes for you when you close your eyes?
Skeletons dance in your corner closet,
Cackling with glee as they wittingly mock you
For your childish nightmares keeping you awake.
Copyright © Cameron Coolidge | Year Posted 2013
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