The Farm Orchard
8/21/20 Sundown Late August Still too hot in the tent Sitting outside Shirtless Staring up at the stars Between the breaks in the trees Sipping wine and Wishing my wife were here But knowing she would hate To sleep outside Or inside my little one man tent On the hard ground In the morning I make my oatmeal and coffee On my portable stove and enjoy the now chilly air Before I tear down the tent And return to civilization.
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7.29.19
Backyard Campfire Dharma Bum Camping Alone When I was a child I had an old army canteen that I filled with water and drank from (although I probably should not have) I had a strong desire to be alone the lone loneliness had already taken hold Later, I found the words of Kerouac The desire to be On the Road the roaming poet Sitting in a forest completely alone lying in a tent late at night each acorn that hits the ground startles me awake and the one solitary nut that crashes into my tent nearly gave me a heart attack the next morning a slight dew across the top of my tent i look out to the lake in front of me Prestine Pines
8.24.2019 I come here with the hope that my insecurities will fade with the cell phone signal. I come here with the hope that I will find enlightenment in the middle of the trees. It is nearly sundown when I arrive, road weary, tense. My tent poles won't stay in as I walk to the other side. My dinner, cooking on the portable stove, topples over, the contents spilling onto the ground. I've sworn to leave no trace of myself. I wash away my spills. Erase my stains. I drive away still no closer to enlightenment. I am still full of insecurities. However, I look back and know that I have left no trace. 7-13-19
MS River St Park Lone Pine Campground In my mind it is 1965 And each picnic table Is filled with lunch Fresh off the grill As mothers of young sons Try to wrangle them together to sit at the table Instead, what I find here today is that I am the solitary tent pitched in the state park Sweat, dripping off my shoulders as I wait for a breeze that also seems to bring a trio of butterflies what was remorse for the present becomes an acceptance of no and wondering if this is what it would be like if I were the last man alive |
About this blogThe posts on this blog page are first drafts of poems. The revised forms of these poems will be included in an upcoming volume. ArchivesCategories |