Victory
(Song of the Vanquished)
for wartime bravery.
Remembering the big battle
which is now history.
Now, as I hold the cold metal
in palm of trembling hand
in vision of my memory
recall the past event.
As a youngster but in command
I led my men to fight,
and with a dashing bold attack
we forced the foe to flight.
Seconds seemed eternity ...
One of my men just fell ...
There is no time to lend a hand ...
We are running through hell!
Now as I just recall'd the past
After we lost the war
I wonder what meaning it has
the glittering medal?
But I still must and I still do
those battles to remember.
It was the bravest Victory,
we lost without surrender!
Horse for 1995
The Black Horse
Approaches fast
On my horizon
Is this the year
It stops
Before my door?
Oh gallop on
Unwelcome steed
Return another year
For I know
Songs unsung
And stories
Yet unwritten
Pass by awhile
And let me linger here.
Note: This was written when our workshop leader suggested we write a poem for the New Year using a horse as the main subject.)
* * *
Christmas is a source of light
A star in dark December
A beacon beaming
Christmas is a source of warmth
A fire in cold December
Flaming with a sun's fire
Then smould'ring into mem'ry
To warm a colder winter
Christmas is a Blessed Child
Lost in gaudy baubles
Of superfluituity
Coming into focus as a Man
Talking to disciples
He grew as my own children did
Guided by the lights of
Their own beacons
* * *
There are songs behind the doors
Of the houses in the city
And there's earth beneath the concrete
Where the singer walks each day
And the dirty old brick walls
And the grimy wooden frames
Of the houses in the city
Only barricade the singer from his sun
City suns come to their world
Over rooftops, walls and fences
But I know that dawns are born
Of earth and sky
And the people don't get born
In three-piece suits and outfits
From Tan-Jay. They come dressed
In Mother's blood
And the songs, they don't get born
Of concrete plastic or of wood
But of joy and of pain
Of anger conscience tender thoughts
And battered viscera of humankind
Open the doors
Of houses in the city
And listen
* * *
Where did the boys of harvest go?
Where obliged to tarry?
Sang a Guthrie song as they rode by
Our Bill and Bob and Harry
They sheltered under bridges
Those box-car jockey bums
And huddled gaunt and grubby
At Fort William and the Soo
Some mustered autumn's bounty
Eight sheaves to the stook
Lined row on row and golden
At Gladstone and Graysville
Came upon some steady work
In nineteen thirty-nine
With benefit of mess hall
Clean bunk and sturdy boots
Spit 'n polished boots to dance in
At Dieppe and Hong Kong
Where have the men of harvest gone
Where obliged to tarry?
In foreign fields 'neath crosses white
Lodge our Bill and Bob and Harry
October
Soft as a symphony,
golden leaves gently wafting down...
Along the river's edge I stand,
While the moody water fiercely flows.
Is it all real, or some master's painting?
I see the naughty squirrels busily scurrying to and fro,
While leaves dance in the wind along the walk.
Oh! How good to be alive to savour nature's last fling
before harsh winter.
* * *
At last, the month of March is here.
Trudging along the walk I go
Amidst the soggy, newly emerging grass.
Is there a perfume more exquisite
Than that of spring in March?
The river is asleep beneath the soft snow.
But I know it will soon flow
How wonderful! How wonderful
To know God is near amidst the awakening earth.
To make this world a better place,
Where it's a joy to be;
We must become a kinder race,
And - I must start with me
I gave you a posy,
My dear sister Rosie.
I gave you a posy,
To wear in your hair.
I might seem quite nosy,
But, where is that posy,
I gave you my Rosie?
Now, please tell me where!
Forgive me, dear brother!
It's gone to another.
I showed it to mother.
It lies on her grave.
A Hindu widow, in her grief so dire,
Joined her husband on his funeral pyre.
As she screamed, and scorched, and sizzled and burned;
A questing Parsee in the crowd discerned:
"Would he do that, if the tables were turned?"
On a cold bleak day in the month of May,
in southern Manitoba;
When the north winds blow and it starts to snow;
A drinking man turns sober.
"Wishes!" "Wishes!" What thoughts that conjures up!
I wish I were a princess or a ruling aristocrat!
Could have been a ballet dancer - wishes are free for all of us.
In any form we want - let's make it simple - we don't want a fuss!
Well, we have a different approach to what I'm going to tell.
"Wishes" - the name of a lovely dog - her attributes I cannot spell!
No,she isn't my dog, but I wish she were.
She came to live with me for a while - I became so fond of her.
She is a Lhasa-Apso - as beautiful as she can be!
Her lock of lovely auburn hair kept in place by a barrette, you see.
Her beautiful longing eyes - it's all one can stand!
You fall in love with her, so little does she demand.
She is gentle, intelligent, serene - loves to be petted.
Looks like a queen, when on our walks she struts unfettered.
Well, enough of that - I hope you have the picture.
There is a faint note of despair - she will return home for sure.
But we have our memories - our jaunty little walks at times.
A little bit of sadness creeps in - I wish "Wishes" were mine.
* * *
Early in May a sturdy leaf broke the soil,
Strong, determined, unknown.
The elements were kind,
And a large plant was grown.
So many buds appeared
That soon the puzzle was solved.
A little bird had dropped the seed,
A giant sunflower evolved.
More and more happy faces appeared
As the summer months were spent.
She shed her beauty on all,
For that we are well content.
One morning I came to my kitchen;
Was someone saluting me?
As I neared the window I found
My sunflower waving graciously.
Blowing, blowing in the wind,
So happy and so bright;
"Your mission is accomplished,"
I told her with delight.
Now her mature weathered face
Continues to beam like a friend.
Does she know by the feel of the air
That her stay may soon come to an end?
Perhaps now she is waving, "Good-bye",
Knows she has come her full round;
Awaiting the birdies to take her seeds,
Get some of them back in the ground.
Nature has plans for all things,
So fruitful, so complete.
All creatures may enjoy
Her bounty is replete.
* * *
The question is often asked
To answer is my delight;
What is that insignificant ball?
What is its plight?
There are so many joys,
Too numerous to tell.
It is my golf ball,
My imagination starts to swell.
Even though it is tiny,
A long story unfolds,
It is so important,
Many stories are told.
A round of golf inspires one
To get up and get out;
You may not be competitive,
But you will try, no doubt.
It takes you out of doors,
To enjoy the fresh air and green grass.
It offers four hours of entertainment,
We may not speak of scores, alas!
You do become involved
With competitors and friends;
You finish your game today,
But that's not where the story ends.
You learn about Nature,
The meadowlark, the geese,
The beaver and the muskrat,
To mention the least.
The ducklings abound;
A cheery prairie dog,
Yes, even a mouse or two
Just under the log.
The little waterfall
With its gentle roar,
Speaking to you as into it
Your newest ball will soar.
You do attempt to improve,
Oh, for a birdie or a par;
What will your partner say?
Nothing your hopes will mar.
What about a hole-in-one?
What a delight that would be.
They say it is possible,
The challenge is on, you see.
Now you are so relaxed
With pleasures you have accrued.
Off the nineteenth hole for coffee,
You're now in a great mood.
One may even shop for a new iron;
"I owe that much to me."
That my golf is improving,
All my friends will see.
I believe I have answered the questions,
That ball is worth the world to me.
If you'd join me in my madness,
A better world it would be.
Gentle little wren, so soft and spirited,
Searching shoots and twigs
Hidden under veiled spraying boughs
.
Your charming trill ringing melodiously
Through the air as you happily prepare
Your nest in your shelter.
You jostle and turn new finds tediously,
Abiding with anticipation of birth
As you get ready to lay down your eggs.
Dawn arrives and you rest your tender
Head upon the hollow.
Awaiting the breaking morn to once again
Make us aware of the magic of nature.
* * *
Winter trees gently sway reaching to
Grasp something beyond themselves,
Holding onto their being in order to
Flourish with beauty in the spring.
Their branches weighted with snow,
Show a sighing torment,
At times relinquishing their will
To survive.
With each new day, the sunshine glow
Gives them anticipation, trust,
That survival is imminent and slowly
Buoyancy is evidenced in their limbs.
My daily journal is full
Full of empty pages.
They wait for symbols
Symbols to express
My deepest thoughts.
Made real by squiggles
On fresh white paper
These thoughts gain life
And lead me on
To actions.
When December comes
And I look back,
May I be willing
To own my squiggles
And accept my actions.
* * *
Merlin, Merlin
Man of mists
Ancient Druid
Straight and tall
Float through time
O Celtic bard
With magic gifts
For here and now
In the shadows
Meet with me
Friend of mine
From well-worn books
Share your essence
Sharp and bright
As crystals sparkling
In the night.
I cannot wear this worry like a garment,
A coat upon my shoulders all day long.
He's well, but in the grip of something evil.
Whichever way he chooses all goes wrong.
Just beyond his grasp a door is open,
He has to see it's been there all along.
A simple step will take him o'er the threshold
On Life's ladder, to climb up to a higher rung.
The skills, the care and kindness all await him;
There to free him, give him comfort, let him feel
His life is worth so much to those who love him.
Dear God, send help in time to make a difference.
Your Power we need to cause this pain to heal.
* * *
Gently, like a mother settling her babe to rest,
Fall the fluffy snowflakes. See, they neatly come to rest
In ever wider coverlet of white, all spreading
Over crocus, grass and even tiny robin's nest.
My thoughts with springlike shades of green are tinted,
Budding leaves, warm breeze and bursting blooms all hinted
Of summer's days, a frolic in the sunny rays,
With evening breezes wafting by, sweet perfume-scented.
Nature's whims no one can guess, 'tis best to let her play,
Her own sweet plans will all be seen upon a later day.
Spring stands by to play her part until the sun does shine.
Then once again we'll feel the surge as springtime comes our
way.
I walked through the woods near my garden cool
In the dark of a sleepless night,
And in the midst of my wanderings
I beheld a wondrous sight.
At the witching hour, a gentle breeze
Moved the clouds in the strange half-light,
And I stumbled upon a grassy bower
Enclosed with birch trees white.
As I stood at the edge of the circular glade
A cloud moved out of my sight.
And each tree gleamed bright with a silver sheen
As it shone in the full moonlight.
Then out of each tree stepped a dryad tall
With long locks of silvery hair,
Clad in garments green of diaphanous form,
Floating free in the cool night air.
They joined their hands and danced in a ring.
Their feet scarce touched the ground.
And the winder of watching this vision fair,
Ever moving, held me spellbound.
Then they beckoned to me with outstretched hands
To join in their reverie dance.
And I danced with the nymphs in the full moonlight
As if I were caught in a trance.
Then a cloud came over the lustrous full moon
And the wind in the trees did moan.
But still enthralled in my fantasy dream,
I danced in the glade alone.
* * *
We saw you on a bright October morn, a jewel
Far below our mountain way.
The east enclosed by stark and barren rock
Devoid of trees and shrubs,
A windswept wasteland, sinister and cold,
With hues of mauve and grey.
Sparkling with myriad dancing sunbeams
A brilliant sapphire sea;
With gentle shimmering, rippling waves
Lapped on your western shore.
And in between the mountain and the sea
You nestled, warm and friendly.
We hurried down the steep and winding road.
You welcomed us with hospitality.
We walked along the shoreline listening
To hypnotizing sounds
Of dancing waves that beat in rhythm 'gainst the jagged stones
In an harmonious euphony,
The laden bougainvillaea blossoms, mauve and orange,
Spread out above us in a canopy.
And on a bench we sat contentedly and soaked the autumn sunshine,
And watched the fishing vessels
Spreading out as far as we could see, like miniature dots of colour,
Rocking on the undulating sea.
And everywhere we saw such friendly faces,
With simple, unsophisticated mien.
Our day was perfect, calm, serene and restful,
A day of days to be remembered.
And leaving, we called out to you, "Dear Cavtat,
Next year we'll come again."
We could not know that in a few short months your streets
Would echo to the sound of guns,
As neighbour fought 'gainst neighbour, friend 'gainst friend.
While ancient hatreds, buried deep,
Arose once more in cruel, cold, unfeeling form
To devastate this treasure in the sun.
We'll go no more to Cavtat.
We will keep our mem'ry
Of perfection on an autumn day.
A mem'ry that will never fade and die, but stay
Forever vivid in our souls.
We saw you on a bright October morn - a jewel,
Far below our mountain way.
* * *
My pyjamas are on, my face is washed,
I've said my prayers to God.
I've been kissed and tucked in my own warm bed
And I'm off to the Land of Nod.
The Land of Nod is a wonderful place.
Look! There is a lollipop tree.
And there is a cat with fiddle held high,
And he's playing a tune for me.
And the fairy queen in her beautiful gown
With a crown upon her head,
Waves her wand. And then on a bright blue plate
Is my favourite gingerbread.
Tin soldiers are marching down the street.
Their drums make lots of noise.
Wherever I look there are wonderful things
To please all good little boys.
Whatever I want I can see it there,
A big boat or even a zoo.
I love to go to the Land of Nod.
It's a place where wishes come true.