From the Nor’east, Forty

The sirocco blows soft out of Algiers:
it tells a mystic tale, of the streets of the Casbah, pale;
of Arab women, veiled; of the call to prayers, wailed;
of the hand of Allah, the sword; of the life of Mohammed, the Word.

An Arctic gale sweeps from Greenland:
it whispers frigid tales, of glaciers and white whales;
of seas that have no chart, in the places where icebergs start;
of expeditions lost; of snow-plains that n’er have been crossed.

A mountain breeze sighs from Haiti:
it speaks of a green-clad  isle; of dark-skinned girls that smile,
while held high on their heads are baskets of mangoes or breads;
of dark and moonless nights, and secret voodoo rites.

But the winds that lash the Banks:
they keen heroic stories, of schooners, codfish and dories;
of small boats that sailed with the tide, and how men who sailed them have died;
and yet through the whitecaps and foam, they carry warm memories of home.

Early Spring

Silver thaw is glistening,
and we are happy listening
for the passage of the geese.
Outside storm clouds are blowing,
and its just started snowing,
while we lie here knowing
the crocuses are growing,
and we have love,
and peace.

Cloudburst

Watching
a relationship e
                         r 
                           o 
                             d 
                               e
is like drowning:
flashes of the past
flow before your eyes.

With the knowledge
of hindsight,
you watch
and recognise
the failures,
the weaknesses;
the massing of the clouds
that will (in a moment: in an eternity)
obscure the sun.

As a Sail on the Horizon

The boy looked out to sea: 
past scrub spruce on rocky tors, 
his gaze skipped over gravel shingle 
whispering an ageless sough to the sea. 
There! Across the reach, beyond the island! 
The tiny sail touching the horizon 
would stay with the boy for hours,
traversing his lilliputian world.


Later, an economic refugee 
"going down the road," 
the boy was reminded of the sail 
as he watched through the night 
on the "Maritime Express." 
Small pools of light would appear 
in the Stygian darkness of a New Brunswick night: 
reminders of comfort and home.


On the horizon of my life I have seen many sails. 
Some have docked, sojourned, 
to become part of my life for a while. 
Others passed, unknown, into the vortex of Time. 
I only wish, at this late date, 
that I had tried harder, made more effort, 
to make the journeys of others 
as joyous as my own.

Across the Meadow

Across the meadow, the grass was green,
the clover sweet, and the air was clean:
the rivers fresh, and the ocean blue,
and in April forests, violets grew.

We could smell the dust on a country road,
and were not afraid to touch a toad.
We could walk a fence ‘cross the top of the world,
and lived for the winter when snowflakes swirled.

We loved grasshoppers, and were shy with girls,
and examined shells in search of pearls.
We built flimsy rafts for profound explorations,
and awaited summer with wild expectations.

Now no one cares that the birds have flown,
and who is to notice that the leaves are brown?
For now we are old, and have lived long in pain:
     I wish the grass was green again.

Epitaph to a Wave

The moon is forlorn.
From the midst of the sea, a wave is born.

Basically meek, it does not know
Why it is, or where it will go.
In silent decision, it gathers in force,
And, like a ripple, speeds away from its source.
It has no purpose: (like the rest of its kind)
It rolls on without destination in mind.
It grows in stature, in power and might,
Still devoid of ambition, with no goal in sight.
It gathers momentum, not knowing what for,
And, with one final fling, it dies on the shore.

He dashes through life with a rush and a rave:
He dies without question.  Man must be a wave!