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Poetry 2017 book Part 2

Story ID:11432
Written by:Richard Laurent. Provencher (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:Poem
Location:Truro Nova Scotia Canada
Person:Richard L. Provencher
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POETRY 2017 Part 2

Richard L. Provencher


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


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…


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
Beyond Pain
Blackness Follows
By the Moose
By the Sea
Canadian Woods
During Youngster Days
Early Morning Chase
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
Rakin’ Season
River Run
Rungs to Climb
She Must Have Cried
Shoes That Fit
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
We Were Kids
When I Was a Youngster
Who Will Be the One to Cry 


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.


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.


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
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.


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.


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
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
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

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.


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

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
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.


Richard L. Provencher has many story-poems published Online and in Print. His writing is about everyday situations and his work gives voice to the not so noticeable. He and his wife, Esther live in Truro, Nova Scotia and are married since March 27, 1975.
Richard was a member of the Writers’ Federation of Nova Scotia for many years, until his stroke in 1999. He had been a Writer-in-the-Schools Program under their auspices for eleven years. Esther enjoys art-painting, and her church work. Richard enjoys writing poetry, as he continues to recover from side effects of his Brain Aneurysm.

Esther & Richard Provencher created many of their stories & novels from experiences in raising four children, as well as being foster & adopting parents. Richard was born in Rouyn-Noranda, Quebec. Esther was born in Cape Spear, New Brunswick. They were married in Sarnia, Ontario and later moved to Wyoming, Ontario in 1980 and then to Truro, Nova Scotia, in 1986.