This poem originally appeared in The Literary Nest.
The unfortunate name evokes
a pornographic ploy,
but, after all, it’s crammed
with heedless hoi polloi.
Some come to sleep beneath
these ancient redwood groves,
but most are here to party
in dusty drunken droves.
Few of these garish tents,
Airstreams or Winnebagos
exude a quiet reverence--
just cranked-up radios.
Raccoons and ravens revel
in the spoiled earth,
but more skittish wildlife
give this camp wide berth.
As sugared kids trample brush
to throw in their camp fires,
a drunken parent shrugs,
and John Muir’s ghost expires.