The Poetry Bus Goes to a Happy Place

We don't quite have a driver yet this week, so TFE has given us free reign to write what we will. I'll add a link to the driver's site once we know who that is – it might even be me!). Although if that person gives us a different prompt I guess I'll be writing another poem LOL.

[Updated - NanU has taken the helm & my poem is just ok - yay! Check out her site to read some good poetry. Heh.]

I remember
a tiny Italian place
in Gettysburg.
We were chased
there by rain
on our campfire -
the foil-wrapped
potatoes not quite
done yet.
cloth napkins,
an attentive
waiter -
and each other.
Exotic oasis
in the midst of
our rustic vacation.

When we got back
to camp
the potatoes
had cooked
in the embers
of the fire.

Gettysburg campground, October 17, 1991

This is from an earlier trip to Fredericksburg, in June 1991 - what I remember most from that trip was how LOUD the birds were in the very early morning. Not that sleeping in happened very much on a camping trip.


  1. So was the Italian place a welcome respite from the rigors of camping, or more of an intrusion? I think I would have welcomed it! (Which is why I don't camp much.) Love the old photos.

  2. Oh it was a welcome respite for sure! We were camping our way from Raleigh to Gettysburg & back - doing a civil war tour sort of thing. After nearly a week of setting up & taking down the tent every day & eating our camp food I personally was ECSTATIC LOL.

  3. I can safely say that I'm 27 years old and I've never been camping. As much as I love nature, I say give me a table, give me napkins and an attentive waiter!
    Thanks for taking us to a happy place, your destinations are always lovely.

  4. That was very nice, Bug and I'm sure that you felt pleasantly fueled upon return to camp.

    By the way, I love the image conjured by The Poetry Bus as a title. It makes me envision a school bus stuffed with people in flowing blouses, driving down the street, pulling over to accost people with sonnets. I know, I'm peculiar. Why do I envision people mugging others with poetry? I have no idea, but try it. Seriously, close your eyes and think of people in velvet, squared framed glasses, lots of flowing garments, pulling over on a the streets of a suburb and descending upon some pimply youths on skateboards. Verse at the read. Pentameter at full mast ;-)

    Fun, right? Right? Not right? Oh, poo.

  5. Thanks for offering to drive Mrs Bug, NanU had first dibs! But you can drive in November if you like, be great to have ya!

    I like this poem it is understated, subtle and gentle yet (for me)conjures a mood and an atmosphere and an ambiguity that I like.

  6. yes, atmospheric is the word. I love the photos, a proper triangular tent

  7. Italian in the midst of a camping trip is such a nice juxtaposition. Makes for good memories, apparently!

  8. I was thinking the other day that I will never camp again. Too old and the Mrs. only camps where there is maid service.

  9. Hmmm a wonderful and unassuming poem.
    There is a free and natural rhythm to this piece that re-enforces the freedom and spontaneousness of the holiday.

  10. I admire those who camp. I'm such a sissy girl.

    We went to Gettysburg years ago and I recall going to this little diner. The food was cheap and so good. I remember H ordering the dessert that had just been made. It was still hot. It was a huge apple dumpling with vanilla ice cream. He let me taste it and I still dream of going back there. I only wish I could remember the name of it.

  11. Ummm.. the Italian place. What was its Gettysburg address? sorry!
    Your little tent doen't look bear proof. Weren't you frightened?

  12. Camping! It's been years and I had forgotten how much our family enjoyed it. Yes, we had a few calamities ... but staying creative usually resulted in a happy ending ~ like yours.

  13. As usual, a lovely descriptive snapshot of a moment in time. I have absolutely no idea why you claim in your profile that you can't WRITE.

  14. I agree with Peter, dear Bug. You have a natural hand with poetry. You set a scene in the fewest words, using active verbs, with a fine rhythm. And then there's that wonderful satisfying closing.
    You do this consistently, Dana Bug. No apologies!


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