Camping is a Dream

Latest poem for my Starving Writer Survival Fund.

The crisp cold air of the early morning stirs you awake,
Nipples crackle frost-like while you pull on your sweater.
The fire has smoldered to embers,
Wood chips and sticks stoke it back into being.

Iron skillet held over the fire,
The crack of the eggshell,
The sizzle of the bacon,
Bread burnt in the open flame.

Eggs, Bacon, Burnt toast. Deliciousness.
Washed down with cool refreshing spring water.
The Good start to a brand new day.
Camping is a Dream.

Only thing better is…
Waking to Room Service in a Five Star Hotel.
(On second thought, you can keep your Great Outdoors.)



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s