Camping Poems from My Heart
Updated: Jan 23
Poem #1: My Father, The Fisherman
It's the brisk, pounding wind through my hair,
it's the crisp, cold water splashing on my face,
it's the time spent on my father's boat,
where year's of memories have taken place.
It's, "Shel, you've gotta bite!"
Or, "Wow honey!, that's a beautiful fish!",
It's being with my dad on the water,
sharing adventures, laughter and joy,
of being a fisherman's daughter....
Poem #2: My Mother, The Preparer
She plans her meals thoughtfully,
around each adventure in mind,
She works hard to keep us all fed,
her meals are never behind.
The cooler is packed with ice, goodies and planned dishes,
with hamburger meat for the grill,
and potatoes for the fishes.
There's room for the s'mores, that we will enjoy by the night,
She is my role model,
whom I love with all my might....
Poem #3: My Jocie
I'm tired of all this illness and napping,
so when I'm finished with chemo,
I want to go camping.
I want to be at the water,
where I can be filled with gladness,
instead of sick in bed, and burdened with sadness."
"My love, if being at the water gives you strength to fight,
I will make sure we go camping,
to fill you with light."
We cover your tender bald head, with sunscreen and a hat,
you take off running down to the sand,
with your best friend by your side,
she will patiently stand.
Joy fills up my girl,
and she smiles with laughter,
and I know that my Lord holds her in His hands,
both now and forever after....
Poem #4: My Memories
It's where there is joy, laughter, adventure and sorrow,
where we gather as a family,
today and tomorrow.
The meals spent together,
challenging storms and hot weather,
we are under one roof,
in our camper, together.
Holding onto the years of memories we've made,
buying this camper, was the best choice that we've paid.
From the maintenance, RV mishaps and scaring towing,
from babies to young ladies,
our camper is growing.
I smile and chuckle, at the events of my life,
and hope that I am a good mommy and wife.
Memories will be passed down to the next generations to come,
and the knowledge and wisdom
they'll inherit has just begun.
Thank you Lord for my camper,
and the blessings within it,
my life has been more complete,
and I'm thankful for each minute.
Poem #5: My Sophia
She waddles through the water,
with her soggy diaper and bouncy curls,
digging for crawdad's and pointing to squirrels.
She drinks lake water and her goose bumps keep growing,
my little girl loves camping,
raining and snowing.
She loves carp shooting and getting covered up in blood and guts,
my dainty little girl,
some might think she is nuts.
She's rugged, yet dainty, sweet and tall.
No one would ever guess,
that she is a tomboy at all.
Keep fishing and getting muddy, 'til your heart is content,
for watching you grow up,
has been the best years spent.
Poem #6: My Nikole
It's where you took your first steps,
on that wobbly, rocky shore,
where your heart longs to be,
to adventure and explore.
My baby girl loves camping, and has such a free spirit,
she especially loves the water,
and always wants to be near it.
She loves her hamburgers, s'mores and junk food,
and when she is camping,
she's never in a bad mood.
She's brave, yet cautious,
curious and observant,
finds joy with all types of camping,
displaying much fervent.
Her camper is her second home,
and she'll let you know it,
she knows it inside and outside,
and can tell you how to tow it.
Her dream is to own a camper one day,
to be wild and free,
work hard then go play.
That's my adventurous outdoor girl,
as you can see,
she's part of her dad,
but mostly of me.
Poem #7: That steep, cruddy, muddy road
It was flooding with rain,
and the road was slimy muddy,
I could tell in the headlights,
the road was getting real cruddy.
My anxiety increases,
as the road gets steep and narrow,
I want out of this truck,
as fast as an arrow.
The truck engages,
as he carefully gears down,
and my heart is a racing,
to the truck's growling sound.
He says, "we will make it,"
with confidence and strength,
I whisper, "if we make it," to the Lord, I will thank.
We made it that night,
cold and alive,
for us Montanan's, know how to survive.
I say, "never again,"
as we drive home days later,
I'm thankful for my family,
for I know God's plans are greater.
Poem #8: The Captain
The wind is whipping and pushing us over,
He grabs tightly to the wheel,
to keep it off of the shoulder.
The girls sit quietly,
in the backseat they ride.
my anxiety increases,
and nervousness, I no longer can hide.
"This towing is not for me," I constantly say,
he says, "I've got it, be quiet and pray."
Terrible visions keep flooding my mind,
and I wish when we were towing,
I was a little more kind.
But we reach our destination,
as if nothing has happened,
I should have shut my mouth,
and listened to the Captain.
I say, "I'm sorry for he things that I said when we were towing,"
he said, "that's okay, my patience is growing."
I'll chalk this one as another memory of growth,
and swear I won't freak out next time,
with a solemn and oath.
Poem #9: My Eska
She's furry, robust, frisky and loud,
she loves sniffing the fish,
It makes her so proud.
She is 90 pounds of Labrador muscle,
and when we are carp shooting,
she knows how to hustle.
She's part of the family,
everywhere we go she is with us,
and she loves all things stinky, rotten and delicious.
She is my outdoor buddy,
I love her more than words can convey.
She is my best friend.
And to her, my secrets I say.
Just say the word, "camping",
and she knows what that means,
and loves to sleep on the couch,
enjoying camping dreams.
Life is not complete, without my girl by my side,
I love my furry baby,
my feelings for her, I cannot hide.
Poem #10: My Camper
This is my palace,
my second home on four wheels.
Where many have gathered,
sharing laughter and meals.
These four walls have kept us safe,
and it's a great place to hide,
I've made it like our home,
we have two of everything inside.
I've learned so much camping,
through all of these years,
I've conquered things about myself,
especially my fears.
It's hard to explain,
how much camping means to me,
I get to go to go places all over,
to be wild and free.
Camping is such a huge part of my spirit.
It's just the adventurer in me,
I can't wait to be in it.
Poem #11: Me the Campaholic
Once upon a time,
lived a freckle faced little girl with pig tails,
whom walked along the sandy lake shore,
collecting rocks and making crawdad trails.
Always digging, swimming and daydreaming,
of places she would go to explore.
Being out by the water,
was never a bore.
She was an energetic little girl,
whom always wore a red bandana.
A "redneck" you'd say,
a tomboy from Montana.
She could tie on that hook,
and fish patiently for hours,
pretending she was an eagle,
swooming through the air,
over the water she towers.
This little girl grew up,
to be the finest outdoor lady.
She's tough and spontaneous,
you might call her, "camping crazy".
You'll see her at the lake,
with her three little minions,
whom also explore, daydream,
and go on their own special missions.
She doesn't want a big home,
or diamonds or pearls.
She just wants to go camping,
with her three beautiful girls.
With every chapter of this life,
she is still a young soul,
on being content where she is at,
has always been her goal.
Poem #12: The Huckleberry
It's purple, it's juicy,
and bursting with flavor.
Each bite is treasured,
with enjoyment and savor.
It lives with the bears,
and grows on short bushes,
And when you need to use the great outdoors,
be careful of those toushes.
From pancakes to syrups,
beautiful pies and jams,
huckleberries make the best toast toppers,
and desserts in cast iron pans.
They hide deep in the mountains,
and are an adventure to find.
Those luscious purple berries,
only our Maker could beautifully design.
Poem #13: My Grandpa, The Finest Fisherman
It could go across the water,
like a hot lightning bolt.
He called it the "Rose Bud",
my grandpa's ocean boat.
Grandpa was the finest fisherman,
anyone could ever know.
He lived to go fishin',
he was always on the go.
Memories fill my heart,
of the times spent with him on the water,
I looked up to that ol' fisherman,
proud to be his granddaughter.
With stiff knuckles and crooked fingers,
he still made his homemade tackle
He'd laugh and tell stories,
of his memories and travel.
Fisherman like him hardly exist anymore,
I think of him often,
when I walk the lake shore.
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