POETIC BLOOMINGS

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

GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME

July 29 –  Now that we’ve spent nearly a month at camp, we found many things to appreciate here to have the thought of not wanting to head home just yet. Even if you’re not usually a “camper” there must have been something you’ve likes about the experience. Revisit that one thing that made you a “Happy Camper”. Give the connotation a good light for a change.

STAYING ON THE TRAIL

July 28 – IT’S A DAY

July 27 – BARREL OF MONKEYS

July 26 – THREE-LEGGED RACE

July 25 – AT YOUR SERVICE

July 24 – IT’S RAINING AGAIN (OUTSIDE)

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59 thoughts on “GRANADA CAMP FOR WAYWARD POETS – I DON’T WANT TO GO HOME

  1. William Preston on said:

    A SONG AT TWILIGHT

    A catbird skulked
    and sang at me
    when I had sulked
    beneath a tree.

    I still can hear
    its echoing mew;
    it brings ever near
    a day I won’t rue.

    copyright 2014, William Preston
    apologies to Robert Frost and his Dust of Snow

  2. SUMMER CAMP BROUGHT DELIGHTS

    To appreciate home
    now and then we need to leave it,
    step outside what we’ve known
    and live without the familiar.
    It’s true that we can’t see
    all we have until we lose it,
    until we step outside
    and spend some time without it.
    Summer camp brought delights
    I could never have had at home.
    We hiked, sang, worked at crafts.
    We city kids learned of nature,
    made memories to last,
    But home was where we hung our hearts,
    the place that we called our own.

    #

  3. The Last Son Rise

    The cool morning air begins to warm
    As the sun breaks over the horizon
    Illuminating the rippling lake
    Like a field of sparkling diamonds
    Another of God’s perfect scenes

    My thoughts drift back over time
    Of family and friends that I love so
    The good times day in and day out
    Even some of the not-so-good times
    All things considered, I am blessed

    Blessed with more than I deserved
    More than I ever asked for
    At times I’ve even wondered why
    God would think so highly of me
    To keep me around for oh-so-long

    For I have failed Him so many times
    On a daily basis I have fallen short
    Yet He realized my faithfulness
    And the weakness of my humanness
    He helped me win the battle within

    Why was my mind in retro mode
    This was my morning devotion time
    Yet I could not reroute my thoughts
    My brain bombarded by the past
    Controlled by something beyond me

    As I gaze over the morning lake
    A wave of feelings comes over me
    Engulfing my soul with peaceful calm
    As if to say that this rising sun
    Will be the last that I witness here

    Then I see Him in the distance
    Walking slowly along the shore
    The sun surrounds Him mystically
    Or is it just His majestic aura
    Such love washes over my soul

    He walks up to me without a word
    His smile is unlike any other
    Pure love glows through His eyes
    He reaches His hand out to me
    And I rise to face my King

    My soul is purged of all regrets
    My sins forgotten in that moment
    My only thoughts of what’s ahead
    For what’s behind is what’s behind
    My family knows where I will be

    My family knows where I will be

    © 2014 Earl Parsons

  4. RJ Clarken on said:

    All Mingled into One

    “On such a night,’ I thought, ‘were ill and good,
    Bright and unlovely; precious, tawdry,
    All mingled into one
    And pressed against my heart.” ~Irene Hunt, Up a Road Slowly

    To say goodbye…this breaks my heart.
    Emotions? Mixed. So ‘a la carte.’
    I know it’s time; oh yes, I know.
    I am not ready to let go.

    Our time was precious, bright, and I
    know once alone, I’ll surely try
    to smile. Right now, it’s all for show.
    I am not ready to let go

    And yet, all things must find their end.
    The memories, just like a friend,
    will comfort bittersweetly, ‘though
    I am not ready to let go.

    ###

  5. The Harmonious Symphony of Camp (Ottava Rima)

    The peace which seeped into my weary bones
    every time the loon trilled his summer song
    and the way time melted, and all time zones
    became the same – just camp zone, with one long
    time keeper – the sun – and the only tones
    you hear are those of kids, getting along.
    This month long adventure has smote my fears
    and the memories have absorbed my tears.

  6. READY OR NOT

    I had my reservations
    when I first came to this place,
    consumed by hesitations
    from a fear I’d meet disgrace.
    With challenges abundant
    on this single, outdoor theme,
    I thought I ‘d be redundant,
    which brought down my self-esteem.

    And so, I plodded warily
    (at least, on days I could)
    and wrote, not always merrily
    and sometimes not so good.
    I poemed about rainy days,
    the food, romance and fears,
    and in this campground poem maze
    learned much from poet peers.

    Now looking back, I understand
    it’s not about the theme
    but following a daily plan
    to form a writing scheme.
    Some prompts I’ll be forgetting
    from our host, that wily scamp,
    but much I’ll be regretting
    when I leave Granada Camp.

    © Susan Schoeffield

  7. WELCOMED SOLITUDE

    I hear it clearly. For nearly
    a month now the sound of silence
    has become a trusted friend. My head
    clears when I near its fringe. Any hinge
    unlatched becomes attached in this peace.
    A place where space is abundant,
    and a writer can be inspired,
    synapses fired and reloaded
    and goaded into action. The attraction
    is most wanted, a welcomed invitation
    to find the inspiration I seek.
    As others begin to stray, I will stay.
    The sound of silence.
    The trusted friend.
    My words never end in this place.
    and I find my peace in solitude.

  8. connielpeters on said:

    Camp Ends

    The river gurgles its goodbyes.
    The pine trees sadly wave farewell.
    The empty campsites look forlorn,
    and, oh, what stories they could tell!

    The rafts look lonely tucked on shore.
    The dinner bell no longer rings.
    The game equipment hides away.
    The crows fly off on wistful wings.

    The campers vow they’ll keep in touch,
    with shouts of, “I’ll see you next year!”
    As soon as the bus goes ‘round the bend,
    the counselors begin to cheer!

  9. We don’t want to go home
    Posted on July 29, 2014 by http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com
    Where are you hiding? The parents called.
    Come out this minute, it’s time to go home.
    They searched the camp,
    they searched the woods,
    they shouted hither and yon
    until at last from the old oak tree
    a giggle met their ears.

    We don’t want to go home,
    they shouted
    as their hiding place was revealed.
    Hard-fought negotiation ensued
    with promises to return next year
    before at last they slid down to the ground
    and sulked all the way to the car.

  10. There’s Always Next Summer

    I won’t miss damp morning air
    or mumbles of “that isn’t fair”
    when Mira loses yet again

    Lumpy oatmeal I’ll gladly leave
    and tepid showers will be a breeze
    to say goodbye to

    screen doors that squeak
    and roofs that leak
    will not be missed by me

    But I hate to think of my new friends
    I may never see again
    and the fun we had.

    I miss my Mom, my Dad, my cat
    they’ll have out the welcome mat
    but, boy, I’m gonna miss this camp.

  11. Pingback: Ready Or Not | Words With Sooze

  12. Priti on said:

    The Gift of Camp

    The art of feeling
    the power that is breathing
    connecting all dots

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

    (Fresh Perspective: Rainy Day, Indoors)

    Camp Songs

    I usually run to imagi(n)-
    ation, But I will cease this run for once
    Sit near enough to hear, to share, a song
    of others’ cares. Rehearse and practice there
    That once at home, these tunes with me, I’ll wear.

  14. Pingback: Keepin’ Her Real | Metaphors and Smiles

  15. Keepin’ Her Real

    That soft moss
    a simple stone
    this leaf-rustle-breeze
    these tall-tall trees –
    the way they repeatedly breathe,
    yes, this forested forever breath;
    I’ll never tire of that,
    every single pine-needle scented whiff is a gift.
    When I’m far from these Woods
    I place myself in their gem-green center,
    I bring awareness to their presence –
    when I’m away from Mother Nature
    it’s then that I realize I’m never too far removed,
    I’m just an inhale-exhale – a peaceful-thought away.
    I’ve saved sun’s rays for grayer days,
    memorized sunrise
    pocketed purple hues
    and lined the locket of my heart
    with a soft pink-velvet-sky.
    I’ve learned to whisper her into existence,
    rally her beauty into being
    and shape a sanctuary of her spirit within –
    a piece of Gaia’s wild lives inside me,
    that soft moss, simple stone
    and leaf-rustle-breeze.

    Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014

  16. This paints a beautiful, fragrant picture.

  17. Pingback: Campcide Tales, Day 29: Homecide | The Chalk Hills Journal

  18. Campcide Tales, Day 29: Homecide

    Homecide

    The bees, the ants,
    the dirt-stiff pants, the wind,
    the rain, we all complain,
    the food, oh ick,
    and bugs in shoes, the rocks,
    no sleep, clothes in a heap,
    the songs, the laughs,

    The hugs, play slaps, here
    by the firecide, rivercide,
    lakecide, tentcide.
    I really don’t wanna to go
    home’cide. I just wanna
    to stay here a while more.
    Here at this Campcide.

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