Campfire Poems I
Posted on Jun 30th, 2007
by 
Catherine
Catherine
the day
the sun
the wind
the leaves
the scent of smoke
the hint of rain
the lake colored blue in the morning,white at dusk
eerie grey, when the night is deep
I am haunted by these rocks, these pines
these young fine trees, in ecstatic green
reaching, glowing, layer upon layer
patterned in near defiance
of the branches
the limbs
the trunk
the roots
I dwell
nestled somewhere, beyond
waiting on, the next beat
this forest
this path
this beauty that does not flaunt
but still pierces in breathless ripples
has the quality of liquid
solid only to the touch
but the soul
often parched
drinks it greedily
laps it haphazardly
swallows it gratefully
for really
one hasn’t a choice
has one?
©2007 C. L. B. Callender
the sun
the wind
the leaves
the scent of smoke
the hint of rain
the lake colored blue in the morning,white at dusk
eerie grey, when the night is deep
I am haunted by these rocks, these pines
these young fine trees, in ecstatic green
reaching, glowing, layer upon layer
patterned in near defiance
of the branches
the limbs
the trunk
the roots
I dwell
nestled somewhere, beyond
waiting on, the next beat
this forest
this path
this beauty that does not flaunt
but still pierces in breathless ripples
has the quality of liquid
solid only to the touch
but the soul
often parched
drinks it greedily
laps it haphazardly
swallows it gratefully
for really
one hasn’t a choice
has one?
©2007 C. L. B. Callender
Access: Public
beauty
August 2008 
I can feel the presence of place in this poem. The repeated use of “the” and “this” creates a feeling of “now-ness” and passion.
but the soul
often parched
drinks it greedily
laps it haphazardly
swallows it gratefully
Nature truly is ambrosia for the soul, isn't it?
having a choice, or not having a choice,
is it good that we don’t have a choice?
sometimes methinks it is the real chaos
when we imagine ourselves to have a choice
but it frightens the inner controller, the one
who imagines she/he has a choice…