"More Serious Poems (less humorous)"

I wrote this poem several years ago. I wrote it because I was frustrated. I enjoy all kinds of poetry, but I especially enjoy rhyming poetry. Whenever I tried to share my rhymes with some of the self-styled critics out there, I was often told how childish, and unsophisticated rhyming poetry was. To say the least, I was not impressed with them. I have spent many hours reading and enjoying poets like Robert Service, and I'm certainly not a child. Then again, maybe I am. When I sat down to write this, in an effort to make my point, I tried to find as many words as I could that rhymed with (or sounded like) the word rhyme. I used thirty-eight of them. I guess I sure showed them.

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There was a time when every line of poetry was made to rhyme.

This style, an undisputed sign of genius, was once enshrined.

The people thought it was divine, oft quoted by the most refined.

Like fine red wine from trellised vine, it was considered quite sublime.

R. Service wrote of northern climes, of men, and gold in measured time,

Lord Byron's rhymes were by design. His lines, entwined, were leonine.

John Keats wrote odes to columbines, his voice aligned, in verse confined.

With words like thus, and thee, and thine; long gone, just like the need to rhyme.

Our poets now are disinclined to pen their verse with words aligned.

This type of verse is in decline. Its message oft is undermined

by bards who whine, "It's too streamlined". Because of that they're more inclined

to first malign, and then consign to Ars Poetica's bread-line.

I'll never be averse to rhyme. I say it has not passed its time.

I still find pleasure reading lines where homonyms have been assigned.

I'll write them too, for I'm resigned. My pastime won't be undermined.

For it reminds, in ways benign, of poems past and Auld Lang Syne.

Flying High

When Michaelle Jean was recently appointed as our twenty-seventh Governor-General, I stopped to consider what that meant to me, and perhaps to all of us as a nation. When she came to Canada as a young refugee several years ago, who would ever have believed possible what she would accomplish. Notwithstanding her magnificent achievement, it speaks to what our country stands for, and what it means to many people around the world. Those of us born and bred here sometimes take our freedoms and rights for granted. For others, elsewhere in the world, the possibility to engage their hopes and dreams is not possible. Our flag flies high as a beacon of opportunity and independence. We have every right to be proud.

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This land that we call Canada; this land that we call home;

this haven in a troubled world where freedom's flag is flown,

stands strong and proud, with open arms, for all the world to see.

A place where each man's hopes and dreams can be reality.

A people carved from global mold, mosaic intertwined.

First Nation fathers, Europe's sons, now all of humankind.

From east to west, from sea to sea, and north to Arctic sea,

its cultures blend ... Canadian. ... The True North strong and free!”

With courage, cause, and worthy heart this nation has been built.

It's nourished by remembrance of the blood its heroes spilt.

Its vision has been cherished, and its dream been kept alive.

For sons and daughters still unborn, a goal for them to strive.

Our history tells whence we have come, and what we hold as truth.

Our future glories lie in wait. This land's but in its youth.

Today, our Maple Leaf flies high, a bright and shining star.

A beacon beaming hope and trust to people near and far.

Mystery 101

How many mystery novels have you read lately? I've read several, and enjoyed most of them. How hard could it be to write one of your own? It's all done by formula, isn't it? Here's a short course in mystery writing for all you wannabe mystery writers.

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You want to write a mystery, but don't know where to start.

You're not sure how to do it, but you think you're pretty smart.

You love to read "whodunits", and you watch them on TV.

You've thought about it often. Getting started is the key.

You sit down at your keyboard thinking how hard can this be?

You know you'll need a bad guy, who is shrewd and bloodthirsty,

to carry out a murder, or to prey on someone weak.

You'll also need a good guy, or a hero, so to speak.

There has to be some others too. This may require some thought.

Like what the story line will be, or what will be the plot?

Perhaps an outline would assist? The who, what, where, when, why.

This might be tougher than it seems; but still, you're going to try.

You go down to the library to get a how-to book.

The shelves contain a pile of them. At which ones do you look?

They all look interesting. They are all designed to aid

you write your tale of mystery; your puzzle; your charade.

They talk of style, the active voice, of verbiage, and cliches,

of punctuation, fluent prose, of spelling, and trite phrase.

There's narrative, and dialogue, and from who's point of view.

There's character development, behavior, parlance too.

You learn how you can show ... not tell, with action, and with deeds;

with dialogue, and danger; with deception, and intrigue.

There's settings, scenes, foreshadowing, beginnings, middles, ends.

There's stress, and conflict; what's at stake, a story's twists and bends.

You must make use of irony, and strong symbolic words

to help portray an image with your meaning not obscured.

This is the mystery genre, its conventions and its creed.

You'll need to understand it well if you hope to succeed.

You read the books. You make some notes. You even take a course.

You're taught the same things that you've read, but from a different source.

You do assignments, take critique, and give some to your peers.

You graduate; a writer now. You're poised for new career.

You come back to your keyboard. You are ready to begin.

You type some words. No, that's not right. Erase, and start again.

Erase once more. The blank screen glares. You stare at it and wait.

The right words just wont come to mind. It's hard to concentrate.

Doubt quickly rears its ugly head. You start to second-guess.

You question the new skills you've learned. You're feeling quite depressed.

Just maybe this is not for you? Not everyone can write.

You know you're good at other things. Of this you can't lose sight.

Now wait a bit. Let's think this through. Let's go back to square one.

Type out what you are thinking of. Don't stop until you're done.

Get used to seeing your thoughts in print. Write something every day.

They told you this in all the books. That's how you make headway.

When thoughts arrive that fit your plot, make notes, and type them out.

Describe a friend, or someone new, and what they're all about.

Then sketch with words their quirks and quarks. Invent a catchy name.

You've now got your first character. Go look around again.

A story's just a bunch of scenes that singly stand-alone.

That is to say each one is a small story on its own.

So pick a scene. Pick any one. Put on your writer's hat.

Some authors write their endings first, and then work back from that.

When that scene's done, pick your next one. Your doubts will be resolved.
Each scene is like a puzzle piece; combined, the puzzle solved.
Your outline will chronologize where you will place each scene
to sequence actions and events, and how to get between.

If you don't like something you've done, then change it til you do.

It's fiction. You can do that. No one else can, only you.

You'll know when you have got it right. You'll know when you are done.

And you can say you learned it all from "Mystery 101".

Passions

How many times in our lives have we heard of something that is just not acceptable to us? Sometimes when I do, I desperately feel the need to not just stand idly by? Usually I don't do much more than vent about it to my friends and family. Sometimes I do more, but either way it feels better to get it out of my system. Now that I'm older and wiser, it doesn’t happen as often, but every once in a while …

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A passenger of passion, I have been throughout the years.

Consumed and often driven by, it's brought both joy and tears.

As far back as I can recall I've been compelled by zeal;

a fervor that comes over me, unable to conceal.

Whenever passion takes the wheel, and I am in accord,

I read and learn as much I can, and then I jump on board.

I talk about it all the time. I'm told I tend to preach.

I know sometimes I go too far. Sometimes I over-reach.

Religion, taxes, politics, or people's rise and fall.

Misuse, or greed, or children's need, I've championed them all.

I've climbed up on my box of soap. I've had to have my say.

Let passion run chromatic course, then fade to shaded gray.

I'd wait the next one come along, then climb on up again.

My friends would shrug and suffer through my resurgent refrain.

They knew though, I'd get over it. It wouldn't last too long.

They'd learned that they could humor me as I sang siren's song.

It's true that I am older now. I've mellowed quite a bit.

This fervor does not come around as often I admit.

I'm more inclined to let things be. They will be anyway.

It's time to let the younger folk get up and have their say.

But lately I've climbed up again. I am consumed once more,

reminded every morning by my bathroom sink and floor.

I must speak out. This isn't right. There's more I need to do

than watch the fallout from my scalp each time that I shampoo?

Senior's Day

When I first joined our local golf course, I longingly looked ahead to the day when I could become a member of the august group of golfers known as the "seniors". They seemed to have much more fun than the rest of us. Now that I am there, I am happy to say that it's just as good as I thought it would be.

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Now seniors are a special group of people who are older.

At some point if you last this long, you're placed into this folder.

Some say you must be fifty, others tell you fifty-five,

To get the Old Age Pension, though, you need be sixty-five.

These seniors range in age of up to thirty years, or more.

The fifties bunch, the younger ones, have just come in the door.

The sixties set, the senior vets. They're golden now and proud.

The seventies and older are the super-senior crowd.

A lot of them no longer work; their income's often fixed,

relying on their pensions, or a savings plan they've nixed.

They count on lower prices offered them on Senior's Day.

They have to watch how much they spend, this much to their dismay.

The department and the grocery chains, in fact most all the stores,

give Senior's Day reductions for this graying group. Whatsmore,

at movies, parks, and restaurants, they always get a break.

And so they should; this land of wealth is what they helped to make.

The golf course in our town offers its seniors their own day.

The senior men have set it up for Thursday morn to play.

To play with this exclusive group one needs be fifty-five.

The younger ones can't wait to join; its membership has thrived.

They usually have a contest that is played within the game.

Golf handicaps are always used; skill levels not the same.

They start to straggle in at 7:00. They must be there by 8:00.

Though some of them walk slowly, it is rare they show up late.

The rookies feel the need to win; they practice fore they start.

The driving range, the practice green; to warm up is just smart.

The seniors have a coffee, laughing at the young upstarts.

The super-seniors sip their tea; they'll be on power carts.

A shotgun start is what is used to get them on the course.

It usually fires at 8:00 AM; this time is not enforced.

Before it bangs, they head out to the hole they've been assigned.

At first it seems like chaos; at the tees the groups combine.

They make their way around the course; the rounds don't go too fast.

'Cause what's the rush; it's Senior's Day; no others will get past.

No Gimmies this day; count each stroke; the score card tells the tale,

Of those who's game was better than; of those who all will hail.

They're usually done by noon, or so. Their passion now subdued.

They put their clubs away and head upstairs to have some food.

The dining room, for seniors, has a discount on this day.

They get their fill, with reduced bill; still grumbling, I daresay.

Then later, when they've settled back with coffee after dinner,

The Captain stands up with his list to call the day's prizewinners.

There's low team scores, K.P.s and putts; for each of these, a prize.

The best games too are given due, but they're not emphasized.

The prizes offered are new balls. It helps defray the cost.

Replacing those that have worn out, or some that have been lost.

The winners cheer, the losers whine, but no one goes home sad.

The winners are just those, that day with more good luck than bad.

All weary now, it's time to go, they file out of the club.

It's time to rest their aching bones; perhaps a nice hot tub.

This senior's life is not too bad. I'm glad I persevered

through all those years of nine to five. I'm happy to be here.

Can You Hear Me

How many of us are guilty of this? Take heed.

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"I love you. Can you hear me? I love you ... It's too late,"

The words I could not say to you before God sealed your fate.

The words I thought so many times, unspoken, my lips closed.

Repressing tender feelings from which our affection flowed.

Why did I not profess my love when you could hear me speak?

Instead, I've waited till you're gone; forever sound asleep.

These words, a muted anguish, are now feelings; mine alone.

Hard chiseled into marbled rock, soft words on ice-cold stone.

I always will remember you. Your memory clouds my eye.

I loved you more than words can say. I'll love you till I die.

I cannot bring you back to me. I beg you this instead.

Forgive me for my silence, and the things I never said.

"I love you. Can you hear me? I love you ... It's too late."

The Fortress

Several years ago, my family and I visited the fortress of Louisbourg in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. As we walked around this rebuilt symbol of Canada's historic past, I knew that I had been there before. I remembered everything. As I walked around corners or entered buildings, I knew what I would see before I got there. It was eerie, but it was real.

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In Seventeen and Forty-Four, before this country had a past,

the Fortress Louisbourg stood proud, though history's fickle die was cast.

The pride of France in the new world, destruction soon its destiny.

Today it stands in resurrect, reliving this land's history.

At Dauphin Gate a soldier's dare, a flintlock held across his chest.

The Demi-Bastion, strong and tall, with cannons mounted at its crest.

A tower clock, with but one hand, that strikes each half-hour of the day.

The Engineer who built these walls, his eyes are tired, his pallor gray.

The Bastion with its barracks dark; so barren, dreary, damp, and cold.

Across the court the Gov'nor's wing, with silk brocade, black oak, and gold.

A chapel's haunting, tallow scent, where underneath a casket lies.

A Governor who passed away before the fortress fought and died.

A wall of fog moves unrestrained; fort shrouded now in blood thick mist.

A Sentry dons his Justacorps; the chilling cold it helps resist.

At Fred'rick Gate, the wharf alive, the catch ashore, chaloupes at rest,

while fishermen at sailor's pub eat heavy bread from local grist.

At King's storehouse a merchant deals; the children loud, engrossed in play.

There's fiddle, fife, and joyful noise, with street music, alive and gay.

The fortress walls surround the town; so strong, and yet, one point so weak.

The ramparts of the King's Bastion, from which the British dared to breech.

A day to walk with history, a moment lived from out of time.

Remembrance of the way it was; cold apparitions, ghostly mime.

A part of this land's heritage; a place for all to come and see.

A look behind into our past, it helps to make us what we'll be.

The Island Of my Youth

As this story tells, when I was a young man, fresh out of school, I joined the Royal Canadian Air Force. Within a year, I found myself stationed in Prince Edward Island. I was from the west, and knew absolutely nothing about PEI. Over the next eight years, I received an education that no school could ever offer. It was a wonderful experience; one that I will always remember.

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I know a place within this land, a garden of delight.

Where gentle waves lap sandstone cliffs, as cormorants take flight.

Where striking hues of green and blue combine to wake the senses,

and red clay roads split rolling fields contained by wooden fences.

Where bays protect from windswept sea, Cape Islanders at moor.

Small hamlets nestle 'round their wharves with traps and nets secure.

Where beaches, like a ring of gold, surround the land within.

A cradle rocking with the tides, it's where this tale begins.

A young man then, just out of school, the Air Force beckoned me.

So I left home. It was my goal, this country I would see.

My training done, my posting due, I hoped to go out west.

Alberta, or BC perhaps, Alberta would be best.

As it turned out I had no choice, no matter how I tried.

They told me I'd be sent 'Down East'; a place called Summerside.

At first depressed, but nonetheless, I overcame my doubts.

I'd not been east. I'd try at least. It's what this was about.

At ferry's roost on mainland shore, it took a while to board.

Prince Edward Isle, nine miles across; expectant look toward.

Red shores in view, gulls high above; the salt spray wet my hair.

With backwash churn, approach by stern, the ferry shed its lair.

The Island's not a spacious place; its size is not its strength.

At narrow point it's four miles wide, two hundred in its length.

The Island folk have made a life from sea and land as well,

with lobster, cod, and famous spuds, they catch or grow, then sell.

As I drove off the boat that day, I had a funny feeling.

I knew this was a special place. My senses, they were reeling.

I knew my life would change while here, not sure just how or when.

A chapter new began that day; a fresh page set for pen.

The base, alive; a blue beehive of peacetime operations.

With giant Argus; Neptune bold, sub-hunting aviation.

It was the time of Cold War, and the practice could get real.

We took it all quite serious. We all worked hard with zeal.

Away from work we could relax, a bit of time to play.

The mess, the sports field, rink, or gym was open night and day.

The town was just five miles away, and we were welcome there.

We'd mingle, shop, and meet the folk. They treated us quite fair.

The Island has much sand, and surf, and wind-blown, fresh, salt air.

It really is quite famous for the many beaches there.

Like Cavendish, or Cabot Park, with people everywhere,

or if you want more privacy, a smaller one elsewhere.

I think of Tom from Stanley Bridge, his fishing boat for hire.

He'd take us to the mackerel schools; heave fish guts to acquire.

On the way out we'd check his traps; the lobsters were for lunch.

We'd bring the beer. He'd have some too. Illegal, I've a hunch.

The corn roasts that we used to have were always held at night.

The nurses in the town would join us, much to our delight.

We'd call them up and head out to a lonely beach somewhere.

We'd pick the corn along the way. It grew most everywhere.

The Sunday drives to Woodleigh's to see castles made of clay.

These replicas in miniature were designed for display.

The eighteenth green of Cavendish was back lawn to Green Gable's.

Here Anne lived her young life, as scribed in timeless Island fables.

But forty miles to Charlottetown, the birthplace of this nation.

In eighteen hundred sixty four, began that legislation.

A corner stone on which to build this land, true north and free.

A vision bold, that would unfold, for the whole world to see.

I left my youth back on that Isle, remembered now with smiles.

With swelling heart I look back at that windblown, sea-swept isle.

My life began anew while there, with wife, three daughters dear.

Eight years the Island nurtured me. My heart still holds it near.

As I sit here and tell this tale of times not long ago,

I hope these thoughts were tempered not by mem-or-y's halo.

Since then I've seen this country's breadth; none better, I contend,

than this small piece of paradise. This tale's now at its end.

The Living Forest

I wrote this poem for my father. He lived and worked in and around cities all his life, but dreamed of someday making his home closer to nature. When he retired, he made his dream come true, spending several of his last years in the Caribou country of British Columbia. He loved his log home in the forest, and penned many words describing the peace and beauty he had found. This poem is taken from some of his words. It is my tribute to him.

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Winter's storm in dark of night, branches burdened thick with snow.

North winds howl, the trees salute. Ghostly showers drift below.

Now awake, the tall pines stretch, grasping stars in cloudless night.

Moon hangs low in morning's shine. Majesty fades to the light.

Spokes of gold slash through the trees, tempered rays of Master's knife.

Water droplets; dripping dew. God's elixir of new life.

South wind's whisper wakes the woods. Warming sun steams forest floor.

Squirrels chatter; buds in bloom. Trickling streams to rivers roar.

Tamarack, and aspen tops, gently tickled by spring breeze.

Robins feed their nested babies harping loud on high trapeze.

Suckers hammer dead remains, beetles gnaw on rotting stump.

Showers bring out summer's glow, plants and flowers; nature's trump.

Lightning flashes, thunder rolls. Forest matt is tinder dry.

Raging fires engulf the green. Stately, blackened legends die.

Sunset masked by smoke's dull glow, clarion to thick wet cloud.

Weeping rain to mourn and heal, nature's curtain; green's grim shroud.

Vibrant orange red and gold, autumn's brush paints its encore.

Northwest winds to wound and wilt. Leaves return to forest floor.

Molten, snow-white parasol, trees put on new coats of bark.

Forest quiets, resting now. Waiting for the end of dark.

With Thanks to Cliff (Stumpy) Stampe (1918-1989)

The "Silver Rule"

You've all heard of the "Golden Rule", but have you heard of this one?

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When very young, I looked ahead with eagerness and zeal

to each new day; to each new thing the world to me revealed.

Twas then that I first realized something that seemed to work

"No matter what you do, do well. It brings reward and perk."

The next few years I looked ahead with eagerness and zeal

to learning how to make this work; how I could make this real.

I listened, watched, and held my tongue throughout my years in school.

Confirming first impressions, it became my "Silver Rule."

Career begun, I looked ahead with eagerness and zeal

to making name in chosen work; ambition's slick chain wheel.

Work hard; work long; be better than. That was my "Silver Code".

And sure enough, I rose above. I was on the highroad.

At ten years in, I looked ahead with eagerness and zeal,

the carrot still in front of me; the future still ideal.

At twenty years I asked myself. "Was there not something more?”

Achievement and success were mine, but work now seemed a chore.

At thirty years I looked ahead with eagerness and zeal.

I was excited once again. The future held appeal.

Work's afterlife had beckoned me, and what it held in store.

The silver in my hair suggested this might be the "more".