Inspired by Jessica!

Reading Jessica's most recent description of trips to her Grandparent's farm made me think of camping, and my Grandpa's farm. Some of the fondest memories I have growing up are camping with my Mama and Papa. "The Lake" and "Track Rock" were our two campgrounds that were visited throughout the year. My Papa always picked the same spot on both campsites so it was a familiar intimate setting. We recently re-visited "Track Rock" and I was saddened to see how they pack those RV's in like sardines now. In the "olden" days it was open and spacious...I guess nothing can stay the same. I also loved rompin' around my Grandpa's farm. There were always cats to play with, cows to watch, and ponies to ride. I lost both my Grandfather's at an early age, and I still ache for them...one I knew well, one I barely knew. These two poems I wrote in a Poetry Class in college and got the biggest response when I read them aloud. Poetry really isn't my thing, but I like to play with the art! I hope you enjoy them, and I promise, for those that do read my Writer's Corner that more original stuff is coming. I have just been so uninspired as of late. (Oh thanks Jess for leaving a comment on my Writer's Corner, I about flipped out)...so without further ado here are the poems...hope you enjoy...

Campfire Breakfast
I wrote this for my Papa, my Grandfather on my Mother's side. I hope you enjoy it...

(I know not in poem format...I like breaking the rules...actually copying it changed it and I didn't want to fix it, enjoy!)

It is morning, and birds are chirping in trees that shiver in frosted air.The smell of campfire, sweet and ashy, wafts through this small dwelling place.I throw off the patchwork blanket of memories and warmth,my bare legs prickle with goosefleshwhile my fingers gently part the hand made curtains from the small window.Voices mixed with laughter and long pauses between sips of coffee- black and hot,become muffled by this house on wheels.I quickly throw on my faded gray sweatpants, my mustard yellow t-shirt,and my cherry red jacket…faded sneakers finish this honsomble.I turn the latch, pushing,the door parts and the fingers of chilled air crawl across my face causing my nose to redden.The smell of rich coffee, bacon, eggs, and biscuits causes my stomach to cry out.Sitting, eating breakfast, I watch the familiar faces around me.I know them like I know the creases of my hand.My eyes fall on my "Papa",His baseball cap pulled snug between his ears, hiding the slight bald spot on the back of his head.His stance is slightly bent by age,His gentle eyes, his handsome face, those strong hands creased by age poking at the fire with his special stick, making sure that it was perfect.His accent and laughter still tremble on me…what sweet memories.

farmer
this poem is dedicated to my Grandfather...I never got to know the strength of his character because we lost him to soon...enjoy...


Smokey warm beers
Drank in air conditioned sheds,
Away from warm houses and nagging wives.
Brimmed caps pulled on baldheads,
Sweat soaked shirts,Wasp stings, tractors, cowlicks,
Unrelenting farmlands.
Standing strong and working hard.

The silhouette of a man in the distance.

If you like what you read I encourage you to check out my archives...most of it is old work, but I'm interested in any input that you have!

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