(part two on my ode to the humble, yet gestalt campfire)
Busy, buzzy, ringy-dinging
shouting, scolding, swearing, slinging
Bashing, dashing, banging, crashing
Rushing feet and teeth gnashing
What a weird, wild wacky
wonky, work-a-day world:
the horror show called grownup
Where everyone races but no one wins
Mr. Grinch was framed
It wasn't Christmas he minded
But the NOISE NOISE NOISE
Assaulting ears and peace of mind
Come away from the roar
the gardinkers and Tom-tookers
the hustle and hassle
the tussle and worry-hurry
Come to the big lake
on a Michigan summer night
hear soft smooth soul fixing sounds
of earth and wind and fire
Campfire kindling trackle, crackles
Birch wood sizzle-hissle whistles
Swallows singing swan songs
Wakey bats echolocating bugs
sensual sklush of lake-surf surge
Sklish-swish, moan-groan wind
Nearing thunder crumble crunching
Misty, moisty crickle-trickle rain
And we by the campfire sit
Loathe to go in and end the night
Companionably conversing
on nothing and everything
Where the most stressful
topic for evening discussion
is whether they are called
lightning bugs or fireflies
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