THE POET

Every day I write some verse,

So I guess I am a poet.

What kind of poet am I?

To which muse do I owe it?

I’ve tried to write an epic

(With hilarious results!).

I’ve tried my hand at lyric

(That embarrassed most adults!).

Modern verse repels me.

It lacks both sense and rhyme.

One wonders if the scribbler

Could compose a telling line.

It appears my fate is light-verse;

Witty Thalia is my muse.

I’ll never win a Nobel Prize,

But perhaps some folks amuse.

SLIPPING AWAY

Life goes on from day to day,
Each one a sequel to the last,
The future molded from the clay,
Shaped by fingers of the past.
Until one dawn a threshold's crossed
When the link that joins the days
Seems to be forever lost.
A new world one senses in the haze.
The past a dreamlike never land,
A future ever less assured,
A base shifting like the desert sand,
A fearsome state not long endured.

A CERTAIN LADY

Man, don't argue with this lady!
You'll only come to harm.
If she can't prevail with logic,
She'll crush you with her charm.
You'll end up on the scrapheap,
Humbled and depressed.
You'll wish you'd never met her,
Ne're your thoughts expressed.
She's bound to get the last word,
And never you forget,
No guy who could outsmart her
Has been born to woman yet!

RAIN

Rain comes when skies are blue;

It comes when skies are grey.

It may come when it’s expected,

Or spoil a sunny day.

It’s mostly unpredictable.

Outdoor things you wish to do

May have to be postponed,

And inconvenience you.

Garden parties may get wet.

Funerals aren’t exempt.

Parades get poured upon.

A picnic? Best not attempt!

It makes things fresh and green,

And the flowers bloom,

But I’d much prefer it

To my schedule more attune,

As in my bathroom shower,

It’d rain only on demand,

And never, never interfere

With events I’d planned.

GOING HOME

We’re about to leave the Island.

The summer’s gone too fast.

We’re returning to the city

To face the winter’s blast.

We’ll miss our many island friends,

Our cottage, cosy wee,

Mountains in the distance,

Deep forests and the sea.

Why don’t we stay in Lotus Land?

We love it more each year.

Each time we leave the thought occurs,

We shan’t return, I fear.

From the softness of the Georgia Gulf

To the Prairie's bitter clime,

We drive a thousand miles

Across terrain sublime.

Is this to be our destiny,

Every spring and fall?

To rush between the harsh and mild

When the island has it all?

I hope we soon will see the light.

We’re getting old, you see.

We may get stuck in Prairie muck

And ne’er again break free!

MY DIGITAL CAMERA

I’m now the awe-struck owner

Of a camera digital.

Once I learn to use it,

It’ll be my constant pal.

Automatic F-stop,

Flash and focus too,

With a little practice,

I’ll be an expert true!

It doesn’t need a film.

It’s magic, it would seem.

Shoot all day and night,

Never miss a scene.

I’ll keep it in my pocket.

I’ll take it everywhere.

Keep a wary eye out.

I’ll catch you unaware!

When you come to visit,

I’ll show you pics galore!

I’ll become a photo nut,

A digital camera bore!

CALL OF THE WILD

City folk, leave behind

That old familiar scene!

Return to unspoiled nature!

Break from tired routine!

Hike into the forest,

A good friend at your side.

Raise your tent, build a fire.

Let senses come alive.

Hear the jaunty songbirds

Trill among the leaves.

Hear the drone of insects.

Feel cleansing in the breeze.

But this you must remember,

Nature too is cruel.

In wilderness or Gotham

Cunning is the rule.

So keep your rifle handy.

Stay awake at night.

A grizzly may be stalking you.

You could die before first light!

FARMERS’ MARKET

Saturday morning, summer time,

Milling crowd, weather fine.

Among the products of the soil

Works of artists’, craftsmen’s toil.

Folks with goods they think might please

Set up shop beneath the trees.

Tourists, locals wander through,

Seeking bargains, something new.

Friends and neighbours chat and joke,

Yet what may lie behind a cloak

Of disingenuous words and smiles?

What brings people to these isles?

Beauty, peace and isolation,

Escape from urban perturbation.

Yes, and something other too,

Something of a darker hue.

In cabins hid in forest murk

Abandoned hope and lost love lurk.

The Farmers’ Market, delight to all,

But does joy last beyond the fall?

CALL HER ANYTIME

She walks in beauty down the aisle,

The world encompassed by her smile,

Firmly clung to father's arm,

She effervesces joy and charm.

Bridesmaids aglow as summer days,

Guests brush joyful tears away,

When suddenly a sound rings out!

Could it be? There is no doubt!

A cell-phone call has interrupted,

This holy rite rudely disrupted.

The guests all turn to find the dink

Who to such boorish depths could sink.

At last the truth hits with a shock,

And all in total wonder gawk.

The unblushing bride has boldly plucked

The cell-phone in her bodice tucked.

Then is heard her voice so coy

Above Beethoven's Ode to Joy:

‘Hi! I'm glad to hear from you!

Show tonight? I'd really love to!

But for a while my schedule's tight.

Call again, say Friday night?'

THE WHIRLIBIRD*

On our summer cottage deck

Mounted on a post,

Sits a wooden whirlibird,

Waiting for the wind to blow.

Brightly painted, multi-hued,

Yellow, red and white and blue,

Eyes of glass and wings that spin,

Peacock-proud and keen to go.

A gentle breeze won’t make him stir.

He demands a stiffer test.

A hurricane is more his style,

Then with joy he starts to hum.

He bravely turns to breast the storm,

A note emitted with each blast.

Unflagging ‘til the gale has passed,

When watchful silence is restored.

So like his maker, this doughty beast,

Crafted on a hobby bench

By a man who never dreamt

His spirit to the bird would fly.

Unchanging, stubborn, unafraid,

Thriving on adversity.

Tough, courageous in response

To life’s unending challenge.

Defying nature’s cruel assault,

Heedless of his pain,

His future told in numbered days,

The tempest faced with steady gaze.

A departed friend is with us yet

In his loving handiwork.

A wind-blown singing whirlibird

Won’t allow us to forget.

*In memory of Phil Ross

THE MAGPIE

Intrusive arrogant bird,

Strutting on my lawn!

Fat, sleek and fearless,

Begone beast! Begone!

You have no joy to offer,

No redeeming traits at all.

Fly back to where you came from.

You offend me with your gall!

You're a fright! You're a pest!

You're a demon on the wing!

You're an uninvited guest,

Without the wit to sing.

Jaunty robins, friendly sparrows,

Welcome! You bring cheer.

But I'll let the cat out

When magpies venture near!

MY FAVOURITE THINGS

SWEAT SUIT PANTS

My favourite pants are old and worn, but warm from foot to bum.

They’re stained with mustard, ketchup, paint,

And a splash of Navy rum.

The cuffs so badly tattered, they are beyond repair.

The drawstring broke, the waistband slips,

And neighbors stop and stare.

I wear them in the garden, and working on the car,

I wear them out to dinner,

At church and to the bar.

They’re baggy and unsightly, to that I must confess,

But they’re a major part of me,

Without them I’m bereft.

So I’ll wear these sweats forever, and on my tomb inscribe,

‘He never made the best-dressed list,

But had his pants on when he died!’

SLIPPERS

All day I shuffle ‘round the house

In a ratty pair of slippers.

I sound much like a grounded seal,

Waddling on his flippers.

My mules are poor examples

Of the shoe designer’s art.

They’re unstylish and misshapen,

And the seams in places part.

They’re slightly soiled. Okay, a mess!

Forgive my wardrobe sins.

They’re warm and soft, slip on with ease,

And for slippers that’s what wins.

SWISS ARMY KNIFE

It can slice and saw, stab and dig,

Clean a trout, skin a pig,

Pop a top, pull a cork,

Use it as a dinner fork.

Bore a hole, turn a screw,

Tighten bolts, mend a shoe,

Open cans, trim the trees,

Pull out slivers, cut the cheese.

Fight off bad guys, help the good.

Make you top-dog in the ‘hood!’

It’s a friend, forever true,

Always keen to work for you.

It may even save your life,

That versatile Swiss Army Knife.

MY COMPUTER

Each day when I get out of bed

I hurry to my desk.

I don’t take time for breakfast,

To shave or even dress.

I bring to life my old PC,

Click on Outlook Express,

And read and transmit email

‘Till other matters press.

Mundane tasks accomplished,

I return to learn what’s new.

I write a bit, surf the net,

And play a game or two.

I pay some bills, order stuff,

Delete a page of spam,

Now it’s time to go to bed,

And dream of DOS and RAM.

TIME DIFFERENCE

When I was a little boy

Time was but a word.

Life went on forever,

Clock’s numbered face absurd.

In my youth perception changed.

Time assumed a heavy hand.

School days seemed unending,

The future a far-off land.

Then I became a working man,

Time was now the master.

Life was ruled by deadlines,

The clock moved ever faster.

In middle age my motor slowed,

But not the clock, I fear.

As it got up to cruising speed,

I lagged in second gear.

Now I am an old man,

My hours scarcer grow,

Clock hands spin like pinwheels,

Time is now the foe.

CANADA

Canada has got it all!

Eden’s plenty ere the Fall.

Mountains, forests, lakes and streams,

Ocean shores and land that seems

To stretch forever East and West,

Scenic wonders Heaven blessed,

Beaver, moose and polar bear,

Silver, gold and oil to spare.

We assume this treasure chest

Is due to holy righteousness.

In previous life we were so good,

God gave us his best neighborhood.

He threw in a health-care plan,

UI, welfare, Petrocan.

And to top our legacy,

He awarded us the CBC!

Still we carp and moan and whine,

Ungrateful for our gifts divine.

We can’t even summon thanks

For our friend and neighbour Yanks.

We scorn their taste and wild excess,

While envy drips for their success.

We can’t even let them be

For instead of ‘zed’ saying ‘zee’!