A Dream of Steam
Step into a dream
of hot shower steam,
and a shower screen,
to scrub up clean
with bubbling soap,
oh the wishes, oh the hope,
not to wash in an icy stream.
And, excuse me, please;
which way to the latrine?
just proves I’m too citified
to survive this campacide!
Written for Creative Bloomings, Day 20 “A Dream Camp”
The sun rose over that sulky morning,
As Janie Lee sat there picking ants
Out of her toothbrush. Those stuck
In her minty toothpaste were mostly
Dead. We all felt pity with her, and
We’d walk by and pat her back, like
An old dog with a gimpy leg.
It was mintacide. Dentalcide. Yep,
She finally understood: Campacide.
Written for Creative Bloomings, Creepy Crawlies
A Spy in the Blind
Those proper words are pasteurised
with morse through venetian blinds,
and that tourist office,
is a foreign redundancy,
a francophone that is now rarely called.
Oulipo’d source: “CIA’s style manual,
Directorate of Intelligence Style Manual
& Writers Guide for Intelligence Publications,
sections 1.3 and 1.4
Written for “Who are the word watchers“
Date: 17 July 2014 23:51 (c)
A Lakecide Swim
Deep views distort
Stirs to swarm.
Dark waters slate,
Bid us to glide
Below its mirrored tide.
Poem form Ottava Rima abababcc,
Written for Creative Bloomings
Campcide Tales, Day 15: Sportacide
A bat and ball, we had
None at all, so we pitched
Pine cones at clouds and threw
Our voices off cliffs. The strain
Of ears to hear echoes of sport -
It was totally
… Sshhhhh! …
Written for Creative Bloomings, Day 15: Sports Day
Campcide Tales, Day 14: Riotacide
We woke to lightning flash and thunder crush.
The moment’s measure was a thunderous riff
Of solo song, and we all sulked that this storm
Was no way to start the day. We demanded
blueberry pancakes and bacon as retribution.
We banged knives and forks on the table
To the accompaniment of low rolling thunder.
This was a riotacide. Revolting weatheracide,
And we chanted “campacide, campacide!”
This was surely our Bastille de’cide.
Written for Creative Bloomings, Day 14: Thunder Storms
Down The Swallow Of Its Throat
This was an eclipse without honour,
Of monumental lacklustre. It slipped
Steady toward dusk where shadows
Side up all tarty with darkness,
And then quick as a gnat’s blink …
It shot behind a cloud, and then
disappeared down the swallow
of its throat. We’d hiked high into
the hills to claim a piece of sky,
just a small bit for our own, room
To flee the millions craning to see
that cheeky moon hide in gloom.
But we were ready for its nonsense.
We unwrapped sandwiches and
Poured out sweet tea in china cups,
And then we waited for the moon
To reappear and join the picnic.
Sunday Whirl #169: eclipse, piece, throat, shot, honors, lackluster,
manufactured, millions, hike, room
The next morning strained.
We were the slow rise of sun
Along the edge of bloody
bedlam in the forest. Birds.
Birds filled the air with noise.
Janie Lee swore that silence
Took the heat out of the day,
So we stood still as sticks,
Begging the birds to shut-up.
But we could see now – sleep
Was a twittering deception.
That much was clear; the heat
Clung about us, then swallowed.
We came stumbling into morning
From hard exhaustion, racked
From lack of sleep, and creaked
Into stiffness as we bent double
Over the creek in slow jolts.
Extreme effort just for a wash.
We were a stiffened hobble,
Expected to walk again today.
It was creakacide.
Only Janie Lee still loved camping,
And she was a committed loonacide.
Written for creative bloomings day 13: senses
If you wear sandals,
If you wear shorts,
Then say bon appetit
To ticks and midges,
Bites and scratches,
And those crawling
Hikers, campers, cover-up,
Spray your arms,
And play it safe.
It’s an all-you-can-eat
Snackacide out there.
For creative Bloomings, day 12: photo prompt
We called him Jack Hornpipe, and there was
a glamour, a romance about him for us girls.
We was tanned, wore white shorts and a t-shirt,
and he smelled of cocoa, slicked with its sun-
melted fat. I often fought the urge to lick him;
I’d kill for chocolate when I was 12. Still could.
Jack did mysterious stuff, like ‘shinning up
the ratlin to reef or bail-up or splicing
the mainbrace’. Jack taught us girls to sail.
He taught them to sail, too; the boys who
camped across the lake. Jack Hornpipe
slept in a small boat moored at their dock.
I can’t remember why we called him Jack
Hornpipe. Wish I could but it’s beyond my
memory. But not the smell of that cocoa.
Jack Hornpipe: the sweetcide of camping.