The Tangled Branch Discussion Forums

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This thread is a call for new poems - they don’t have to be good, just newly written for this occasion.  

The topic includes poems inspired by thoughts of summer past – of Remembrance / Regret – whatever spawns itself from this first line of thought.  

20 - 200 words, any style & format. 
 

Camp

Traipse to camp after a day of exploring,
“Shh! Don’t wake the neighbors.”
I dig for marshmallow skewers
A pot clangs - we all freeze, cringe and wait to be cursed
by some grump in a tent who forgot what vacation was for.

To be thought of as the rogue campers, oh my!
Those idiots who come in after dark,
build a fire to make smores and chase away the bugs.
Crack a beer or gulp water,
we’ll all forget come morning.

The dancing flames mirrored in our eyes
reflect a day of adventure and exploration -
the bighorn sheep that surprised us at the bend,
the marmots posing for photographs,
a verdant valley of wildflowers
framed in melting snow.

Campfire smoke climbs to the milky way.
A meteor reminds us it’s time to dream.
We wake to the squawk of Steller’s Jays
and the smell of campfire coffee and bacon
to gear up for the next quest.

~Deb

Clifftop Drummer

It was a Cornish Summer,
nearly fifty years ago.
After a long thirst-inducing day,
repeatedly scrambling up cliffs
I could almost climb blindfolded.
I climbed them by moonlight too
by the end of that week.

I went to the cliff top pub for a pint,
not far from the campsite.
A pint which turned into twelve.
Dehydration can lead to excess.

I watched people dancing,
the cropped turf worn almost smooth.
There was a four piece group playing,
good solid driving beats
with an occasional wailing guitar solo.

The female drummer,
who turned out to be their leader,
flitted around her drum kit
like a denim blue butterfly.
Long black hair swinging,
sticks flung high into the darkness
and caught without fail or fumble.
Her gorgeous little bum keeping perfect time.

Then they played a gypsy tune
and my normally leaden feet
took on a life of their own, 
way beyond mere toe tapping.
I rarely dance, but that night was different.

I leapt onto a big round table,
and the dozen girls surrounding it,
after guarding their drinks, 
urged me on.
A wild improvised flamenco
drawn from some deep race memory.

The Man in Black, shirt unbuttoned,
hair flying, lost in the moment.

The bouncers came to drag me away,
but the girls told them to bugger off.
Hiking boots make a fine racket
on a sturdy wooden table.
My introvert turned inside out.

When the tune ended I leapt off
to ragged applause,
Suddenly aware again.
God, it felt good.

Later I helped the drummer,
lugging her kit to the van,
thanked them for a fine performance.
She smiled, dark brown eyes flashing.
"You're a bit of a performer yourself, 
I saw your dance."

And, half a century later,
I can still see her playing.

Gyppo


 

I love it Gyppo. Was this before or after your first time actually performing before an expected audience?


I was put so much in the moment, I thought, I would love to have been there but would not be able to resist and would have likely jumped on the table with you, at least for a moment or two. I'm sure the other girls would have stopped or tripped me. This was a moment for you to shine and the poem tells it well.

Lots of fun here. Thanks for taking me dancing.

~Deb

Long before any planned performance, Deb.

I mentioned it to Mum when I got back from holiday and she smiled.  "Your Dad danced on a table at our wedding.  One of the very few times he ever danced. Did a rather neat and spirited sailor's hornpipe.  Went well with his uniform.  People thought he was drunk, but he wasn't.  Just overflowing with joie de vivre."

Gyppo

Delusions of Grandma

‘Are we going to the seaside?’ she wondered,
as she chose which brooch to wear  
and the care assistant gently brushed her sparse, unruly hair.
‘I used to ride the donkeys – this was long before the war,
with my little brother Walter – he was killed at Singapore.
Then later, me and Arthur spent a week there every year.
We’d stay at Mrs Morgan’s on the seafront by the pier.
Could you pass my yellow gloves? - my hands are cold as ice.
This lady here’s from Zambia. She’s foreign, but very nice.
Our room would face the promenade – we loved that B&B.
We used to sneak in fish and chips, then gaze out at the sea.
Shall we paddle on the seashore? Build castles on the sand?
There I think I’m ready now, would you like to take my hand.
Are we going in a charabanc? Are we stopping on the way?’

So how to tell her gently we’re not going there today.

 

Wow, Dylan, the first time I read that, it flew along in such a breezy way. The final line was a punch in the gut.

When I went back and re-read it, I had tears in my eyes.

Powerful, poignant piece and beautifully done.


~Deb



I came here to post but have decided I'm scooting mine over to the crap poem thread.
It has no business here but I sort of knew that coming in.

     You Wave Back

Glued to the computer screen
I agonize over how to 
type affectionately 
how much your poem
glides sideways.  And in how many 
novel and predestined ways.

Dog perched in the chair
by the window 
low growls.

I look up.  From the sidewalk
you look at me
through my window
then quick look away,
as if caught peeping.

This bright morning nestled
in green and blue of August bloom, 
is why the world was made.

I wave to you, keep waving
Over and over
Until



 

Dylan,

Delusions of Grandma is absolutely brilliant.  Brought a tear to my cynical old eyes.

When my Mum started 'losing it' she still seemed pretty much aware of when she was.  There wasn't that same dislocation of time your poem  describes.  There were blank spots in her memory, like an audio tape with missing sections, but she seemed perfectly happy about accepting when we told her what had gone missing.

Gyppo