I don't publish my poetry very often. There's no good reason why, except I don't really enjoy reading most poetry, and so I assume that most people don't care for it either. I've never been the kind of person who "gets" Shakespeare. I enjoy reading some of the older poets such as Poe and Frost and the like, and I really like Eugene Field. But, for the most part, I won't go out of my way to read a good poem. That being said, I'm going to offer you one of my own. The Camping Trip was never intended to be anything other than a documentary of my son's first camping trip. But, it's a fun poem, so I hope you enjoy it. Please, there are no hidden messages within these words. I know, for me that's an accomplishment, but this is nothing short of mindless amusement.
The Camping Trip
Little Seth was one year old
He knew neither hot nor cold.
He ran around inside the camp
Whether it was dry or damp.
He ran in the grass and through the rocks
Took off his shoes and ran in his socks!
His mama chased him everywhere
Always scared she heard a bear.
But no bears were ever found
And little buddy ran around and ‘round.
He picked up sticks to eat them whole
He even put them in a bowl.
He wouldn’t ever stop to rest
Even when the sun did crest
The mountains on the eastern slope
He faced the darkness with new hope.
He hoped to count the stars above
The sleepiness away he shoved.
The threw his dog into the flame
His franks would never be the same.
His marshmallow glowed in the dark
When it finally caught a spark.
He ate it up very quickly
But his fingers still got sticky.
His mama tried to put him down
So he could sleep safe and sound.
But he had no desire
To leave his place by the fire.
But once she had him in his bed
He became a sleepy head.