MY FANS

I’ve many thousands of fans,

From Alberta to Oz to Japan.

They read my work with delight.

I’m a laureate in Azerbaydzhan!

My fans the intellectual elite,

The cream of the literate crop.

They have insight, humour and soul.

As winners they stand at the top.

Were they in the Olympics,

Every time they’d win only gold.

They include the straight and the gay,

Young, middle aged and old.

They express a preference for verse

That swings with rhythm and rhyme,

Whose meaning is perfectly clear,

Whose truth will endure for all time.

They also appreciate wit,

That rare and wonderful thing

That from unlikely places

Can sometimes surprisingly spring.

I fear they can’t get enough;

My goal is a verse every day.

But Thalia my muse has been known

To go on a brief holiday.

My fans give me ideas,

Subjects I can turn into rhyme.

With them I’d happily share

The returns that ought to be mine.

But so far I’ve made just a million,

Barely enough to get by.

When it gets to a billion,

I’ll send them all a bottle of rye.

Rye is a Canadian drink.

It brings out the poet in me.

It also brings out the liar.

My fans really number just three!

THE PAINTING

Hanging on my office wall,

Soothing to the soul,

Is a painting by Seurat,

An artist whom I extol.

The scene is of a park

Near Paris long ago.

A sun-lit afternoon,

River Seine and shore aglow.

The park is full of people,

Lounging near the stream,

Or stately strolling,

Not a trouble it would seem.

The world is warm and safe,

Peace and contentment reign,

Everything in its place,

Secure and slow to change.

This moment of tranquility

Seurat was quick to seize.

He forever made it real,

His work a masterpiece.

In winter’s cruelest grip,

I can always get away.

Seurat’s work transports me

To a lovely, summer day.

MEMORY

Your face is quite familiar;

Your name has slipped my mind.

It was just a week ago

We met and, yes, we dined!

I owe a sum of money,

But can’t recall to whom.

He’ll consider me a deadbeat

If I don’t remember soon!

I was there not long ago.

'Why' escapes me though.

Perhaps it was a wedding,

A funeral or a show.

When did all that happen?

It was a heady time.

Our world became a different place.

Was it ’fifty-eight or ‘fifty-nine?

Things never to be forgotten,

Gone as the morning mist.

Names, places and events

Likely only to be missed,

If someone tests my memory;

I wish to seem alert.

Instead I look bewildered,

An absentminded jerk!

CHRISTMAS CAROLS

If Christmas has you down,

Has you harried, has you glum,

The day so near upon us,

And the shopping’s still not done.

The tree’s yet unadorned.

No wreath upon the door.

You’re feeling overwhelmed.

Yule’s become a weary chore.

Take time to hear the music,

Those wonderful refrains

That express the joy of Christmas.

Their beauty never wanes.

The melodies uplifting,

Words with promise bright,

Memories of childhood

Of a storied holy night.

‘Away in a Manger’,

‘The Herald Angels Sing’,

‘Come All Ye Faithful’,

Hear the bells of glory ring!

‘Joy to the World’,

‘Little Town of Bethlehem’,

‘The Holly and the Ivy’,

To such cheer I say ‘Amen!’

Whate’er you may believe,

Religion or cold reason,

All can love the music

Of this delightful season.

Carols have the power

To from sadness make you free,

So turn on your radio

And sing along with me.

MR. WONDERFUL!

Tell me I am wonderful.

Tell me I’ve no peer.

Tell me I have talent.

That’s what I want to hear!

My verses masterpieces,

Works of genius, works of art.

The vocabulary matchless,

The imagery? Off the chart!

My meaning always clear,

No matter how profound.

Both the simple and the wise

Can get their heads around

The points I try to make,

The jokes I try to tell,

The satire and the irony

Ring true as a temple bell.

My subjects universal,

Nothing’s spared my scorn.

I’m a poet’s poet.

In the thrall of Thalia born.

Yet I fail to understand

Why no one shares my view

That I’m God’s special gift,

His reward to you and you!

Reward for what? One might ask.

I for one get none.

There are few readers of my verse.

A web of conceit I’ve spun.

HOME AGAIN

A long time away. Good to be at home.

I often have to ask, why do we roam?

What we treasure’s near, our family and our friends.

Everything’s familiar, current news and trends.

Travel’s become a nightmare, a cruel cattle drive.

You’re lucky if you’re sane when you at last arrive.

What is it that we seek when we go abroad?

What do we learn on strange and distant sod?

That others are like us? Hopes and dreams we share?

The same eternal questions and sorrows that we bear?

This wisdom is in books. We needn’t venture far.

If reading’s not your thing, try your local bar!

BORN LUCKY

Born in Canada

Normal, healthy

Parents cared

Not poor nor wealthy

Schooling good

Too young for war

Prosperous times

Jobs galore

Modest talent

Enough to get by

Not famous or rich

An everyday guy

Lucky in love

Marriage lives on

Three beautiful kids

Two daughters, a son

Travelled the world

Friends everywhere

Lived to be old

Still have some hair

Who do I thank?

Am I favoured by God?

Or is it by chance

A smooth path I’ve trod?