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Poetry 2017 book Part 1

Story ID:11431
Written by:Richard Laurent. Provencher (bio, contact, other stories)
Organization:Retired
Story type:Poem
Location:Truro Nova Scotia Canada
Year:17
Person:Richard L. Provencher
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POETRY 2017 Part 1
By
Richard L. Provencher

COPYRIGHT

(c) 2017 Richard L. Provencher
Dester Publications. All rights reserved.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

A new collection of writing, all created in 2017 by the author. I dedicate them to two persons highly valued in my writing life: my precious wife, Esther my best friend, whom I married March 27, 1975 and my first and only early mentor, Toronto poet Raymond Souster, now deceased as of several years ago.

These poems are stories within poems and without punctuation so as not to disturb a flow of words. I do believe phrases and thoughts are like the wind, moving in un-interrupted fashion.

I Dance

inside a daydream
the feel of you
scent surrounding your
lovely attire in the wilderness
of my domain…

--Richard L. Provencher 
CONTENT

A Birch Tree
A Boy’s World
A Childhood of Moments
A Distinctive Side
A Menacing Rush
A Mourning Dove
Aircraft on High
Autumn Serenade
Battleground
Beyond Pain
Blackness Follows
By the Moose
By the Sea
Canadian Woods
During Youngster Days
Early Morning Chase
Fatherhood
Grass
Forever
Hatred
He Cradles Her Foot
I Dance
I Lay in the Grass
I Saw a Lady Walking
I Want
Intimate Moments
Last Night
Let Me Hear the Colours of Life
Listen To
Magnificent is This Gift
Memory Often Mulls the Pain
More Than Poetry
No Shoes to Wear
Oh Sly Moon
Our Canadian Woods
Page of Rage
Potter’s Field
Rambler
Rakin’ Season
Razzmatazz
River Run
Rungs to Climb
She Must Have Cried
Shimmer
Shoes That Fit
Silhouettes
Skip a Rope
Spring Comes
Standing Up For Your Rights
Tag You’re It
The New
The Sea Coughs Up
This Homeless Man
Today is Magical
Turn Around
Two Feet
Unfurled Moments
V-Dance in the Blue
Visitor
We Were Kids
When I Was a Youngster
Who Will Be the One to Cry 

A Birch Tree

I scale the side
of the highest hill
holding fast with roots
not plunged so deep--
a standout in a sea of green

from spruce to willow
and poplar to a few scattered
cedar. I am more than
a fist of iron
in my demeanor--
like moose in a forest
stalwart and independent.

Then someone came
and cut me down—
a hiker cold and alone.
He chopped me into
smaller pieces for kindling.
Now I am his
fireball of warmth.

A Boy’s World

is a boy’s world. Time
to round up friends for a
game of scrub
our neighbourhood’s
favourite game.
Harry brought his mom’s
Sears to cover first—
Lee uses his shirt for second
and Herve marks third
with his sneakers -- loves
to run the bases in bare feet.
Me? I brought a birthday
bat and ball. Oh yes we found
a clump of mud for home
plate. Play ball.

A Childhood of Moments

Clouds in shadowy paths
are scudding overhead.

Within evening’s fading light
claws launch a dog’s howl
a little pup now staring at the sky
blood-warmth
on his back – pain like
arrows in his side
barely bearable
as numbness soothes.

Now an eagle with that lost dog
heads for a predator’s nest.

Such memories scare
me back to a childhood
of moments.

A Distinctive Side

Some say I ended up
living on the wrong side
of RR tracks where
cars are rusty
and housing comes mostly
in tiny apartments
rents too often above
one’s pay level.

Your cut of clothing
hair style and thin wallet
can sometimes
determine a future.

Now I allow no limitations
in my intentions.
From ground level
I try to climb
to the stars and beyond
barriers no longer
restraining.

A Menacing Rush

began as a vagabond flame
in a forest about to lose its dreams

where creatures act out of fear
inside a forest fire bold in its rushing.

During periods of unbridled terror
a menacing with evil intentions

bringing panic and distraction
escape no longer an option.

A Mourning Dove
in blissful
surrender to
his surroundings
flops upon
a back-porch chair
vintage feathers
tucked in place.

And chickadees flirt
in the wind
as snow crystals
flutter about--

the world
a finer place after
Christmas excitement
and the glitter
finally put away.

Aircraft on High

A Dash-8 hovers in seagull style
engines glistening
sunny rays nourishing
farms stitched
in patterns below

clouds are cotton balls
of misshapen puffs--
at 18,000 feet the craft descends

and pencil-lined roads inch across
shades of colour.
A pallet of civilization includes
photo-album cottages
that circle lakes poured into
sink-hole of woods--

safe landing is a relief.

Autumn Serenade

is a chorus of sound
wind and season
intertwined on a plateau
of natural menu--
moose calling
in echoes of challenge
cedar limbs creaking
in mysterious ways
and listen to the tremble
of aspen’s rattle
as the swoop of falling
leaves eagerly
flop everywhere.
The view continues in a blend of
forest and memory
lively marigolds
and musky petunias
bird activity and other
wild things.





Battleground

From the war
he came--
an empty soul
with holes
in his socks.

After
gambling
PSTD and booze
she still cries
nightly.
Beyond Pain

Through sheer determination Lacey
lifts up slowly
her arthritic hip straining
flow of muscular frame.
Black and white she is with an appetite
for adventure -- however the pain.

She carefully saunters
along an old trail (master’s still asleep)
anxious for a last chance to prove
she can match her usual stride--
however the pain.

The scent of spruce and tinkle of autumn
bells as Trembling Aspen
tease her up the mountain side.

From a daunting slope
the trail swings right then left
past blueberry bushes
and leftover rock from a recent slide.

After a journey of groans reaching hilltop
is achieved -- success is freedom
to lay her head down
for a final rest. Her day is done.
God is anxious to
meet His creation. And He is smiling.
Blackness Follows

daylight erased from the scene
in a hint of desperation--
portraying a night of clouded
mass scudding in victorious abandon.

Before long its strength will test
our resolve – flash
of lightning streaks herald
showers of moisture
splashing against any resistance:

A parade of thunder—
bristle of escaping wings as
creatures scurry below
the waterline.
By the Moose

a wooden bridge is
more than a whisper
of creaking like
grandfather’s
rocking-chair.

The river creates a soufflé
of meringue-filled current
in its southerly flow.

Around the bend ripples
overcome a sand dune. Aware
of my presence, a
squirrel skitters tree-upwards.

I am a child of my past --
peanut-butter fingers
fishing with a night crawler
dangling low.

Etched upon an old plaque:
“Three men entombed In ’36
141 feet below, seeking crowns
of gold within the granite,
one man died.”

Like a page in time this village
is sketched at attention
as if stapled to a gravel road

where peace
and simplicity
is not forgotten.

Published 2017-03-10
The Write Place at the Right Time
By the Sea

The shore invites
a carpet of kelp
hurled from the sea

alongside
clams and leftover
crab legs

scourged stones
in captured
colours--

within images
smoothed out glass.

Tidal retreat
a blossom of dunes.



Canadian Woods

Horizon’s edge captures
yellow tinge to sleepy dim
as parallel steps heaped
one upon another--
dusk grinning at
the end of another day.

Gone are front-end loaders
tormenting an expanse
of primal timber
left-over pines remaining
in sentinel-style aside
ridges of tundra--

wilderness a domain
of ancient sunsets.
Our Canadian Woods

Horizon’s sky is a reflection
of orange-yellow glow plunging
into sleepy dim--

a parallel of cumulus puddle
one upon another.
Dusk continues its grin at day’s end
surrenders to finality.

Gone are front-end loaders
from their tormenting growls
inside an expanse of primal timber

aspen as sentinel shadows across
ridges of tundra.
A domain of wilderness
embracing parades of ancient sunsets.
Blackness Follows

daylight erased from the scene
in a hint of desperation--
portraying a night of clouded
mass scudding in victorious abandon.

Before long its strength will test
our resolve – flash
of lightning streaks herald
showers of moisture
splashing against any resistance:

A parade of thunder—
bristle of escaping wings as
creatures scurry below
the waterline.

By the Moose
a wooden bridge is
more than a whisper
of creaking like
grandfather’s
rocking-chair.
The river creates a soufflé
of meringue-filled current
in its southerly flow.
Around the bend ripples
overcome a sand dune. Aware
of my presence, a
squirrel skitters tree-upwards.
I am a child of my past—
peanut-butter fingers
fishing with a night crawler
dangling low.
Etched upon an old plaque:
“Three men entombed In '36
141 feet below, seeking crowns
of gold within the granite,
one man died.”
Like a page in time this village
is sketched at attention
as if stapled to a gravel road
where peace
and simplicity
is not forgotten.
Published 2017-03-10
The Right Place at the Right Time







By the Sea

The shore invites
a carpet of kelp
hurled from the sea

alongside
clams and leftover
crab legs

scourged stones
in captured
colours--

within images
smoothed out glass.

Tidal retreat
a blossom of dunes.

Canadian Woods

Horizon’s edge captures
yellow tinge to sleepy dim
as parallel steps heaped
one upon another--
dusk grinning at
the end of another day.

Gone are front-end loaders
tormenting an expanse
of primal timber
left-over pines remaining
in sentinel-style aside
ridges of tundra--

wilderness a domain
of ancient sunsets.

During Youngster Days

we gather under shades
of time
travel tales unfolding between
campfire songs--
stars sprinkling blackness
with diamond pricks
teasing our
laughter.

Of family swimming in Ontario’s
Nottawassaga Bay
gondolas climbing
heart-stopping Sulphur
Mountain in Alberta
green growth of PEI potatoes
Cabot Trail curves in NS
rocky soil in Northern
Quebec and undulating wheat
golden across flat
Saskatchewan. Then

the glory of BC Coastal Mts.
scenic pastures in
Manitoba--
Newfoundland’s rocky pride
and New Brunswick
my wife’s
home province. Like gravy
memories cover
moments of undue stress.

Early Morning Chase

Through my window-pane
I see passers-by
anxious faces and
bulging tummies
in a parade overlapped
by cars in the street below
trucks belching past
neighbours on their way
to work and various
appointments.

Inside my perch I inhale
their existence watch their
living and harmless
looks thrown my way.
Would they understand
my loneliness and my desire
to climb down these steps
and join them?

Fatherhood

Guardian of a child
strolling
protecting--

“My legs are shorter”
says our 4 year old

edging closer to the
precipice where
evil lurks beyond shadows.


Forever

You capture me into
your eyes
a journey for two

no one else could
assume
you know my heart

your scent
and that essence
lives within us

I want to dance
with you -- forever.

Grass

Shades of emerald across
a landscape creeping
with long blades
provoking the air with its presence.

Like a beard of Irish green
it protrudes between the roots
escaping from all directions into
a revolution of silence

and all at once the wind
motions it forward as a great army
urgent with strength--
a covering sweeping the land.

Hatred

is more like
an overgrown rat
scurrying from shadow
to shadow
listening and seeking
gossip to pursue
its goals--
to bring chaos into the world
create anxiety in people’s hearts
and completion of a plan--
injustice
and destruction:

Yet somehow we learn
to deflect its intent – through
love and forgiveness.


He Cradles Her Foot

with gentleness.

Smoothes body oil
across the skin

moisturizes--
creates a freshness.

No longer is it
necessary to speak
of age with
a wink

she’s at his mercy
laying in bed
half awake
yet a smile pursues
her lips.

He has known her
before features
turned the corner

when wrinkles
and arthritis became
too much
like friends--

yet love remains
a blossom of delight.

I Dance

inside a daydream
the feel of you
scent surrounding your
lovely attire in the wilderness
of my domain--

rainbow fire
like an evening soliloquy
trapping rain on my shoulders
connected to a stairwell
of loon accolades.

Attention spirit within.

I Lay in the Grass

and count strands
of green
Dragon flies landing on my arm
a shriek pending
this ten-year-olds fear prepared
to erupt - -

the sun continues to shine
water lapping at the raft
I fished from
and I’ll probably fall asleep
in its peaceful wake.

Innocence learned a lesson
today - -
fear is fleeting.

I Saw a Lady Walking

her dog. A wandering gait
taking her from
tree to scented tree
his nostrils in ecstasy
captured via
old friends – intruders too
and his mistress with
thoughts of her own.

This backyard once
held songs full of swing.
A car tire beholden
to memory -- a brush-pile
replaced by a garden.

Now she’s older than the
shrub her dog races
back and forth to. Who will
capture his heart when
the garden takes his
guardian into its space?

I Want

to be a wind
frisky and free winding
about these heavens
seeking prey for
the briskness I feel
today. I wish
to be the friend that
discovers you in
a fishing boat
upon the sea below
and the one to
hurry you safely home.

Intimate Moments

The grace of day frames
a new miracle
energizes my spirit
as a mother hummingbird
dips her beak
into a baby’s throat
feeding at full attention.

A parade in moments
with overtures of loving
a fowl with prideful thrusts
and acceptance from
bird babies dependent
on mama – a natural life.

Last Night

a storm came calling.
It shook and shrilled as
houses shuddered.

It flooded with pools of
highway puddles planning
disaster for hurrying
drivers. From my porch window
I await patiently--

trees sway
branches fall
an old nest airborne.
Birds fear calling at feeders
but I have no solace for
them except in the knowledge
this will soon end.

Let Me Hear the Colours of Life

Finch continue to dare the rugby wind
to deter them from skipping
from one alder to another
their yellow flash distinctive
against the green

Lupins the only competition for a riot
of colour their standard stretching
above the wild grass
daisies and buttercups peeking
upwards for a better view

and somehow issues within man’s
domain not quite as exciting or
imaginative nor peaceful. Their pinpricks
of nasty intentions dissolving in the beauty
set upon a platter of natural innocence.

Let me eat fire that I may spew
upon my failures.

Listen To

a baby’s breath
the way He lays upon
the manger
a turn of His head
listening to the
shuffle of hooves
as animals stretch for
a precious look
and Mary and Joseph
so proud of their boy
their son -- our King.
Jesus.

Magnificent is This Gift

in the stillness of morn -- flowers
thrusting as colourful
blossoms within their stockade
of space. The wind ruffling
upraised limbs
in shivers of praise.
And wind chimes leaking melodious
decibels across our farm--
patient for the Keeper of the pens
to be aroused
from night-time sleep.

Memory Often Mulls the Pain

He feels like a lump on the hospital mattress
exactly the way he and his brother
fooled mom with a couple of pillows
and some toys packed under the blankets--

mom laughed when she found out
her boys were outside climbing trees
watching a sunrise.

It grew into a passion for him
the outdoors
where a canoe pursued hidden creeks
leading somewhere

and if you were really quiet a moose with
its gangly ways stood without fear
a majestic
king of the bay
content within his domain.

The IV gives off a hospital look
nurse coming in often to check his readings--
BP okay
drip doing fine
no discomfort for the time being.

Closing his eyes for a moment
the trill of a loon provides an imaginary view
climbing its staircase
of notes meant to herald evening’s lullaby--

frogs burping nearby
bats flying in random ecstasy
and coyote’s eager yelping
from a valley filling with sound-ricochets.

He closes his eyes tightly
smells the pine
hears the rustle of trembling aspen
current’s churlish flow--

now a woodsy serenade calls
to join the scent of forever ways.

More Than Poetry

In love with a dream--
working clothes and farmer
boots hide heavy socks on a day
full of mosquito bites.
Some victims take a swig of gin
I soak myself in deet.

The dawn
makes me smile
wild heart-beat stilled
like a whispering shadow
sky ablaze -- a promise of summer.

I come alive to the dance
of field and sky
and glory of daffodils
a loon’s melodic cry
red embers on a sleepy night--
I live -- I live!

No Shoes to Wear

Came to visit my pal
‘cause us kids liked to run
through piles of garbage
the other end of town

a place where stuff
ended up in trucks
then dumped at the end
of Dump Road.

My family could afford
two sets of shoes.
Sneakers for play Scampers
for school and church.

Eddy was not so lucky.
His parents were
really too poor for
such childhood luxuries.

Oh Sly Moon

Cathedral silhouettes
are surrounded by peek-a-boo
dots as flashlight beams
chase tall risers in the street

trapped in night-time.
No longer mysterious obelisks
without traffic
or secretaries
and big-money deals--
only the mien of glassy stares

and steel watched
by a pale moon on the sly.

Our Canadian Woods

Horizon’s sky is a reflection
of orange-yellow glow plunging
into sleepy dim--

a parallel of cumulus puddle
one upon another.
Dusk continues its grin at day’s end
surrenders to finality.

Gone are front-end loaders
from their tormenting growls
inside an expanse of primal timber

aspen as sentinel shadows across
ridges of tundra.
A domain of wilderness
embracing parades of ancient sunsets.

Page of Rage

I hear liquor on his breath
as he stumbles against the door
fingers scratching the wood
paints it with curses

opening then falling down
three times before he makes it
to our bunk bed side -- brother
and I cowering dad’s home again
wants to say he’s
sorry he missed our game.

Soon mom will come to our room
and the fighting will begin
about the rent due and money
needed - - new shoes
for the kids and school needs
booze on the loose again.

Potter’s Field

No fame do I leave
beneath this headstone
fashioned by a man whose
purpose to lay at rest
souls such as mine

without gain
nor notoriety. Among
the poor
I earned my life
without a hefty bank
account to claim my own.

This body now lays face up
a soul joined with others
who pre-date me under maples
and sun’s stare
that skims an eastern sky.

I will rise in splendour
from a flame of life’s vision
into rainfalls of glory--
among spirit-souls of men.

Rakin’ Season

Autumn’s embrace
shuffles leafy movement
under a copse
of magnificent maple
and curled-up edges scatter
in disarray.

Accepting the rasp
of tines
lawn’s surface
is a continuation
of outdoor exertion--
hefty piles filling one bag
then another.

Dear one soon calling
Lunch! One
last bag beside the
maple should complete
an agreeable task--
and he does with a spurt
of satisfaction.

Rambler

Meanders across the
sidewalk eyes alert for
discarded treasure

empty pop cans
here discarded butts there
a half-eaten pizza slice
invites -- pepperoni preferred

hair askew dressed for
winter in summer weather
cologne adding

fragrance to the wind
and some are
lost in its presence.


Razzmatazz

Shadows decorate and curtains
an ally. A lady lies quietly
in one corner bed. Her
son a guest in the other at this

Palliative Care Wing. She’s
finally asleep after her last cancer
treatment and contemplating
an unknown future.

He’s thinking of mom who
carried him when they played
‘horsey-back’
laughter a popular song at home.

He stretches. Gets out of bed
leans over and kisses her cheek.
Tears natural these days.
Couldn’t get here quick enough
to be with her. Lips move in prayer
as he kneels by mom’s side.

Outside across the hospital site a
razzmatazz of life carries on.

River Run

Paddlers pause
at autumn’s sunset

as anxious hearts inhale
the silence its
beauty --

a colour code of reflections
from gold to
orange banners.

Carried on October wings
our canoe is a glider
love’s expanse in racy flight.

Rungs to Climb

Cling to the ladder
and reach for another rung--
like a child mewling and puking
in the words of Shakespeare
cautious fingers
grasping up-up and away.

Each rung like steps
in life’s mobility
a single directive now
for the next perpendicular
strands of aluminum--

like a teenager
dancing with excitement
respite from an iPod
dreaming of a muscled body
moving up the ladder
sureness in a hurrying step.

Rungs represent a climb in life
each reach a testimony
of faith where stages of living
come alive
in the reaching--

Now the reality of older
age slows my grasp
overcomes an arthritic ache
got to keep going
a poke in the backside from my
wife spurs me on.

She Must Have Cried

about Christmas
and the fact
money was in short supply
and the tree
was missing lights.

Food was scarce--but love
meant family

and knowing these
little problems would change
when things
turned the right way.

Shimmer

I don’t want to share
my life in shades of grey
but show up at the ballpark
with surging fire
as an evening delight
shimmering in parallel strips
across horizon’s lip.

Shoes That Fit

Some did not. As a child it
didn’t matter
if they were a bit
tight. So long as there was
a minimum of comfort--
beggars can’t be choosy they say.
But I was not a beggar
nor poor I thought since my
friends were in the same canoe.
We didn’t compare ourselves
to the other side of town where
the richies lived. We found
out later that too much
grasping meant missing out
on memories of down-to-earth
childhood days.

Silhouettes

Along the seashore
tide is out and visitors
play in the sun.

It provides a background
for razzle-dazzle--
with shades of reddish delight
humps of sand in view.

Skip a Rope

I am a shopper in the
sunshine of life. I solicit
those who seek my
colours. Rainbow and

evening light share
my daylight. To
thieves of age do not
deter me from the right
path. I am alive
in the sunshine of life.

Spring Comes

suffused with morning gleam.
Another sunny day
and remnants of snow

melting away in moments.
From storms of layered crystals
they came -- once rampant like
a runaway kite.

Now birds begin to trill
as winter continues in flight.

Standing Up For Your Rights

Whenever you pick
a wild rose
be careful of the thorns.
They’ll hurt much
more than gossiping.
It can never take
the sting away
unless you acknowledge
you are not superman
and quietly accept the pain.

Tag You’re It

and we ran with the wind
chased pals and threw
ourselves upon the ground
laughing and carrying on
not caring if we wore
hand-me-downs
or lived in a neighbourhood
where few owned a car
and grass stains
would get us yelled
at from dad. All the same
we still had fun
in its simplest form while
dads rested from
working underground
at the copper mine
and moms tired from
last night’s waitress shift.

The New

Me. Words cause tears to fall
like a knife with pain that tears into
old memories -- I cry.

Lonely are the nights as a dove
seeking a mate
the right one
with an anxious heart
who can party through the night.

Tomorrow will be an arrow
probing
the strength I have left

But I'll be smiling--
a knife the price of redemption
even if only a memory.

The Sea Coughs Up

sand and salt
and at times leftover
debris from ships
ahoy long times ago

as the water roils
and twists on destiny’s
day -- so many
lost their way
and shuddered upon
Nova Scotia’s
shore--

Careful young sailors
with lives so proud
of this land your
daddy’s and grand
daddy’s did roam

be watchful for the sea
can steal your soul.

This Homeless Man

had a chilly-bone night
winter’s breath closing in

a shame more stores
close too early for the man

with leftover treats left to
linger for someone’s appetite.

Collecting food scraps
no longer the perfect plan--

cold and hunger to
determine his attitude.

Today is Magical

and morning begins with
a bathing of sun’s
touch upon my face.
My feet step down and
press back a serpent’s tongue.
I wash-dress-eat
then seek out a path to call
my very own.
Hello’s and Thank You’s
mark my journey from stores
along the sidewalk
and I know how much we
need each other.
Last night thoughts &
anger disturbed the flow.
Through faith love and forgiving
we overcome forces
from the other side of woes.

Turn Around

A different plateau this ageing business...
from childhood cries to exploring
our neighbourhood yard as a
here- there-everywhere-two-year-old.
Activity is repetitious. Such
independence from a newly arrived
child on this planet we pondered.
This child tests the flavour
of growing older into pre-teen
with flexing muscles...
and the demands of teenage growing
followed by romance and love.
Marriage brought them into a full circle.
Now seeing me in this wheelchair
in a nursing home room
staring at photos from the past...
watching from a well of love.

Two Feet

carried a baby
from mother’s love
aloft by a doctor
feet high -- slap not for pain
a first breath
and life’s miracle ways.

Baby feet helped
in the balance of sitting
and rolling around on
floors untamed--
until walking on
one’s own -- ooh’s and aah’s
from adult adulation.

Quickly the child grew
so did feet and
without such grand support
life could not be
sustained as easily--

days months and years
flashed by
gathering strength along
meandering paths.

Teen years later feet
eagerly soared
at a hurried pace
and pizza menu dates
prepared for young love.

In adulthood feet carried
hope hard work
and security within
a circle of family and friends
during lives of living—

as receding hair arrives in
days of older age -- memories
remain all wrapped in
love and feet no longer able
to drive the bus.

Unfurled Moments

The sky is an anvil
of banners
staging disruptive displays

snow more than droplets
in a frenzy
wind slashing and motorists

stranded in parked abandon.
Highways are stilled
warnings heeded
“get off the highway”
reported by Police

and in the countryside
horses flee fields
for the shelter of a barn among
a boil of roiling activity.

Children see footprints
fill with snow
designed from today’s childhood

a mothers’ duties not
quite done--
fix supper under the breath
of candlelight
and remind tucked-in
infants tomorrow is yet to come
in a land of future surprises.

V-Dance in the Blue

The sky will soon
excite with honking
and boldly so--
(in an arrowhead sort of way)

as scores of geese
seek southern space
to accommodate
their vagabond stay

‘cause sly winter’s
on the way.

Visitor

I hear a boldness
in the night

of clacking rails
and hooting delight

a freight train
clamorous as it swings

through small towns
of sleepy ones

taking dreams on
a one way ride

to places where
the sun always shines

We Were Kids

and counted railway ties
with our toes -- avoiding slivers
at all costs
imaginations taking us
far down the track
past pastures and hills beyond
no little brothers and no
little sisters to impede our beat.
Not skipping a timber
of wood we showed off our
best speed while
waiting for mom’s supper call.

When I Was a Youngster

we gathered under the shades
of time
tales unfolding between
campfire songs
stars sprinkling blackness
with diamond pricks
teasing our
laughter.

Of family swimming in Ontario’s
Nottawassaga Bay
gondolas climbing
heart-stopping Sulphur
Mountain in Alberta
green growth of PEI potatoes
Cabot Trail curves in NS
rocky soil in Northern
Quebec and undulating wheat
golden across flat
Saskatchewan. Then

the glory of BC Rockies
scenic pastures in
Manitoba
Newfoundland’s rocky pride
and New Brunswick
my wife’s
home province. Like gravy
memories covered
such moments of undue stress.

Who Will Be the One to Cry

when I am gone?

Will it be in the rain that falls
as it protects the forest
I once used to roam?
Or mist upon the lake that swells -- filled
with the spatter of God’s power?

Perhaps come like tears when my little
boy hurt his foot and to mommy
he rushed for a hug?

Now all gather together in love
amidst the challenge of family caring
praying together for each other--

as Bible pages from God’s Book of life.

PART 2 IS AVAILABLE ON THE OURECHO.COM SITE