POETIC BLOOMINGS

POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.

GRANADA CAQMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – RENAISSANCE CAMP

July 20 – Camping is an escape, but it could be a chore as well. It’s time to re-invent the experience. Pick the one place where you wouldn’t mind setting up “camp”. Replace the tent for a cabana, or the woods for a Hawaiian beach front. Give it a fresh face.

STAYING ON THE TRAIL

July 19 – AMPHIBIANS, ARACHNIDS AND REPTILIANS

July 18 – THIS AND THAT

July 17 – SURVIVOR

July 16 – THE LAKE : OTTAVA RIMA (FORM)

July 15 – CAMP OLYMPICS

Single Post Navigation

67 thoughts on “GRANADA CAQMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – RENAISSANCE CAMP

  1. connielpeters on said:

    Eagle’s Nest

    Give me a cabin
    Tucked in the cliffs
    With the sound of the surf
    Far below

    Sea gulls give glad cries
    Palms gently sway
    And whisper as balmy
    Winds blow

  2. Remaissance Camp

    Sandwood Bay in Sutherland
    in days gone by reachable only
    after a twenty-mile trek across moor and mountain.
    Nowadays a road ties it to so-called civilisation,
    a retrograde step.

    My renaissance camp would set up there
    back in time, like a Tardis.,
    I’d wander the pristine shore
    rejoicing in the sounds of the sublime
    the swish of sea, the cry of guillemot
    the scream of dive bombing oystercatcher.

    Mermaids would whisper their stories
    into my ear to re-invent for the children
    who’ve accompanied me there –
    sturdy trekkers that they were,
    receptive to wilderness and beauty.

    They’ve picked up the baton
    now that trekking is behind me,
    in search of remote places –
    rebirth of the seeds we sowed so long ago.

  3. William Preston on said:

    THE POET GOES CAMPING

    When I camp on the silvery strand
    and dry driftwood is nowhere at hand,
    I can start a campfire
    that becomes a great pyre
    burning poems decrepit and bland.

    copyright 2014, William Preston

  4. Pingback: This Poem is a Hammock, A Notebook and a Treehouse | Metaphors and Smiles

  5. This Poem is a Hammock, A Notebook and a Tree-house

    “This poem is a finely-woven hammock.
    This poem is a chest-nestled notebook.
    This poem is the song in a tree-house.”

    This poem finds its gravity’s suspended,
    it discovers being in weightlessness
    in a dreaming-hover-slumber –
    this poem is a hammock.

    This poem bides its time in vein-blue-lines,
    it places one-word-neatly-after-another
    it ponders and wonders and whispers,
    this poem is a notebook.

    This poem listens to limbs.
    It’s privy to tree-told riddles –
    it places a ready ear on trunks,
    this poem is a tree-house.

    This poem enjoys the knit-net of careful womb – a single-serving hammock.
    This poem imbibes in puzzling together letters – it’s a doodle-ready notebook.
    This poem sleeps among the sapling – it’s a leaf-shushing-secret tree-house.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

    Like yesterday’s poem this poem is also written using a new form that I recently created and the form is being featured in several places right now. To read more on the form and the features, click over for a few links…if you’d like to. 🙂

    Happy Sunday poets!

  6. Pingback: Renaissance Camp | Vivinfrance's Blog

  7. William Preston on said:

    THIS POEM IS A TALLGRASS PRAIRIE, A GREAT PLAIN, AND A HIGH DESERT

    This poem is a tallgrass prairie.
    This poem is a great plain.
    This poem is a high desert.

    This poem waves with the music of the wind;
    it seeks nurture from nature
    and proffers seeds for new growth.
    This poem is a tallgrass prairie.

    This poem welcomes the great expanse
    of the broad land and the high sky,
    and attempts, itself, to be a tableau for vision.
    This poem is a great plain.

    This poem knows long times of sere lines,
    yet, here and there, bids new green grow;
    it waits for the rain to return.
    This poem is a high desert.

    This poem’s music is in the winds – a tallgrass prairie.
    This poem welcomes broad expanses – a great plain.
    This poem waits for the rains – a high desert.

    copyright © 2014, William Preston

    Many thanks to Hannah Gosselin for this inspiration.

  8. DREAMING OF SICILY

    Set me magically down on a beach chair
    anywhere along the seashore
    under an afternoon Sicilian sun.
    When I was a young man I walked there
    on the hot sands, listening to the roar
    of the sea, convinced this kind of fun
    would last forever, that it had just begun.

    It was over in a year. I returned home
    and still now I dream of that Paradise,
    that Eden on the Mediterranean coast
    tugging at my heart. Not Florence, not Rome
    but Palermo, Catania, Cefalù entice
    me like sirens of old to praise and boast
    of my ethnic roots, the island I love most.

    Let me hear again the seaside chatter
    of vacationers taking in sun and sea,
    of children racing into the green-blue.
    Beyond this joy nothing else matters:
    not wars waged nor the weak economy.
    Let me lie there and never part from you,
    oh, Sicily. Let me be forever true.

    #

  9. Being wonderfully busy with grandsons. Be dropping in occasionally though.

    “Lying” in Tall Grass

    I told all my friends I was going to camp
    no phones, no internet, not even mail
    for one whole week of solitude.
    Every morning I slept in late after
    watching my favorite movies at night.
    I caught up on all my reading, read some
    for the fourth time or more.
    I reclined in the hammock with a
    Bahama Mama and a bent straw
    as cardinals and wrens sang lovely songs
    and butterflies flitted from flower to flower
    and chipmunks chased and tumbled in fun
    and squirrels chitted and chatted in the oak tree
    and the scent of roses mingled with a balmy breeze
    that strummed my skin like a soft sleepy ballad.
    At the end of the week I was relaxed and refreshed
    and didn’t feel guilty for my tiny fib one bit.
    It was the best – staycation! I highly recommend it.

  10. The Wake Up

    Now I lay me down to sleep
    In a cabin bed with cotton sheets
    My shower done, my body weary
    I close my eyes, my mind goes dreamy

    Suddenly I wake from my slumber
    What is this veil I’m sleeping under
    My bunk is now a four poster bed
    Billowing sheers around and overhead

    My cabin mates are no longer here
    My cabin moved to a beach not near
    I step outside with a gawking gaze
    To snow white sands and emerald waves

    The sun I rising over an endless sea
    Such natural beauty memorizes me
    I run in the sand and down to the shore
    I want to stay here forever and more

    The palm trees sway in the gentle breeze
    Oh, Lord, never wake me up, oh please
    I know this place cannot really be real
    It’s just too beautiful; just too surreal

    But, alas, all good things must come to an end
    Still I fight the shaking of my cabin mate friend
    I don’t want to leave after what I have seen
    Just one more hour to enjoy this great dream

    One dip in the water will make it all right
    One dip and I’ll give up this wake up fight
    I jump in the surf, the salt water I taste
    Or is it the water they poured on my face

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  11. Priti on said:

    It truly is such a pleasure to read (with all the senses) the wonderful ,eloquent, imaginative poems here.

    This poem is a feeble attempt to dabble in Hannah’s above mentioned creative form —

    This poem is Air, a Star and a Space Camp

    This poem is freshly charged air
    This poem is a novice star
    This poem is a celestial space camp

    It is shapeless and layered
    expanding, unwinding breath and
    restlessly nourishing invisible parts
    This poem is air

    It shimmers with wishful thinking
    feeding on milky hope
    configuring quests of eternity
    This poem is a star

    It rests in that unlit part of the moon
    delving deeper into black and white
    scaling nebulas beyond buoyant seas
    This poem is a space camp

    This poem is learning to breath free–it’s spirited air
    This poem is a twinkling connecting dot- it’s an exploring star
    This poem is an in-between stage full of possibilities- it’s a wonder studded space camp

  12. (Poem w/image: http://lettheballoonssailmeaway.wordpress.com)

    Next to You

    Could be anywhere
    Where two could share a moment
    Close enough to touch.

  13. Sand Camp

    Above the sand and boardwalk,
    a roomy efficiency, fully furnished
    with all the amenities
    needed for comfort. Coffee
    and pastries for breakfast,
    as we sit on our terrace
    overlooking the ocean. We build
    sand castles, collect shells,
    and swim. Any activities
    are open for all, but not
    mandatory. In evening
    by firelight on the beach,
    we listen to the lapping
    of water, roast some
    marshmallows, and gaze
    at the silver-studded sky.

  14. Pingback: GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – SCAVENGER HUNT | CREATIVE BLOOMINGS

  15. I don’t need much…

    Running water,
    hot and cold,
    a toilet with a door.

    A comfy bed
    surrounded by windows
    and books on every floor.

    Someone to cook and clean
    so we could play
    and play some more.

    Swimming and hiking –
    the best of both worlds
    right outside my door.

    Oh I could continue on
    but the fact remains –
    less is always more.

  16. In Nature’s Hide-a-way

    Days have lost their names, who cares
    We have the sun to guide us
    When it opens up the sky, we eat
    When it nestles in the piney wood
    We party

    Meanwhile we guide our canoes
    Through the murky, dreaming water.
    Bears and deer spy on us from the
    Shoreline. Lazy old carp tempt us
    From the muddy bottom. All of them
    Are safe.

    Our camp is in a no- hunting zone.
    It is a hotel for tired animals. The
    Only hunting allowed is for lost coins.
    At night the stars lend us their glitter.
    All the creatures that ever were nestle
    Among them. We walk quietly along
    The trails. Our only lantern is the moon.

  17. Pingback: GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – CAMP DANCE; SUMMER ROMANCE | CREATIVE BLOOMINGS

  18. Pingback: GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – YOUR AREA ADVENTURES | CREATIVE BLOOMINGS

  19. Pingback: GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – IT’S RAINING, AGAIN (OUTSIDE): INTERVIEW WITH PEARL KETOVER-PRILIK | CREATIVE BLOOMINGS

  20. Pingback: GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – AT YOUR SERVICE | CREATIVE BLOOMINGS

Plant your poem or comment here!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: