A Time To Say Goodbye

To each of us
there comes a time
when an action
becomes right:
   a time of birth,
   a time of death,
   of sadness, or delight.

The clarion call
to fall in love,
the urge
to change direction:
   a time for each choice
   to be made
   as we strive for perfection.

For me
the hardest time
of all,
no matter how I try,
   is when the clock is still,
   and it
   is time to say goodbye.

A Day Never Passes

A day never passes
without I contemplate
another wondrous facet
of our love.

I never look upon you
without that sense of joy
you awaken
in my heart.

Your love is a beacon:
the candle in the window
that lights
my way home.

The Fool and the Mountain

I once stood on a steep hill
watching a fool stumbling his way
s l o w l y
and painfully to the top.

He didn’t
follow the path, but instead
a diversified route through rocks
and trees
and rose bushes.  I thought
him foolish, considering
the smooth simplicity of the path.
For hours I watched him, amazed
by his actions as he rolled in the grass,
dug under stones and such.

At last he stood beside me on the peak, 
smiling.  I questioned him at length
on his trip, stating how pointless
it seemed.  He said, “I helped a young robin
back into its nest;
I watched the sun set in the west,
through a rose bush;
I counted the petals in a daisy-chain,
and cried at the waste;
I found a quartz crystal
that had swallowed a rainbow;
I watched a fieldmouse nursing five children;
I spied on a bud that bust forth as a violet;
I heard the universe speak
through the throat of a swallow.”

And he left me,
standing sad on the hill.

              

The Forest of Shadows

I am pursued through the forest
where there is no colour,
save that of feigned understanding.

Underfoot the rustling
of long-dead rumours
clutch at me like
the slime-laden claws
of some prehistoric
bastard crustacean,
spawned in hatred of change
by a dying mammal
made obsolete by the birth of man.

And the whispers, that were once screams,
that I hear through pounding eardrums,
are still persistent, yet false
as ever.
But I heed them less.

I stumble barefoot and breathless,
through the myriad graveyards
of the Seven Churches: besieged by bells,
garroted by rosaries, choking on the words of men
who would seek to lead, while their
need is to be led:
but they are not.

Dying with every step,
I am beaten, and in frustration
turn
to meet my pursuer;
then weep with futility,
for that dreaded Face
has my own image.

Seal Harbour Days

Eternal fog still caresses these beloved shores
today, as in years past.
Scrub spruce, crowberry bushes, and ferns
now grow in profusion
where once houses stood defiant
against Atlantic gales.
Alders pay homage to fields
where fox pens made vain effort
to supplement
meagre income.

Through the mist a lone saddleback
laments the vanished bounty
his ancestors enjoyed: two pleasure boats
quietly rock
where dories, punts, and skiffs waited patiently
for the fishermen’s return,
or the freedom occasionally granted them
by small, seafaring boys.

At the two small cemeteries
the fog lingers quietly for a while,
like a brief visit between good friends
for whom words are not necessary
to define their kindred spirits.
The damp stillness attenuates a gentle echo
of remembered laughter,
of shared tragedies,
of birth and renewal,
of departures overshadowing
infrequent returns.

Wispy shapes can almost be seen,
in oilskins and Leckie boots,
and in patterned cotton house-dresses
that button up the front:
proud, brightly painted homes
seem to shimmer just beyond
the limit of vision,
and the smell of drying salt cod
and lobster bait mingle exotically
with that of home-baked bread,
molasses cookies, and johnny cake.

In the small village church
a diverse group of people
from near and far congregate
to share their common heritage:
skits, poetry, songs, and storytelling
express a strong sense of community,
a poignant feeling of something lost,
and a bittersweet remembrance
of departed family and friends.

One cannot help but feel that,
as the fog hangs outside the door,
yesterday still exists just beyond our sight,
remembered voices and smiles continue,
and small boats sail with the tide
to return with the sea’s harvest.
Children play in tidal pools,
returning to country kitchens
blessed by the benediction
of home cooking.
At the store down the road,
conversation rules eternal,
and the fog mixes with the smell
of Zig-Zag tobacco,
while comfortable nail kegs
host men who were giants in their time.

And down the gravel road, a small boy,
holding tight to his father’s hand,
walks, unknowingly,
towards a future
that will celebrate his past.

The Grown-up

(For my children, Kelly, Erin, Geoff, and Siobhan)

It wasn’t a magical star
granting a childish wish
      that made me grown up,
nor was it an evil wizard’s
vengeful spell
      that made me old.

She looked at me,
secure there on my lap,
      Pooh flannel ‘jammies’
wrapping her in the security
of being young, and safe
      in Daddy’s arms.

I used to fly with Wendy and the boys,
run from pirates with young Jim Hawkins,
      that was the boy I was!
It seems only a few minutes ago
Gordon and I fought the Dervishes
      at far-away Khartoum.

It wasn’t cosmic stardust,
falling one mystic night,
      that wrought this change
from the carefree boy I was,
the discovering, exploring, querying
      consumer of countless books.

It was the knowledge, my child,
the sure and wondrous certainty
      that you awaited,
with your brother and sisters,
that made me run, singing,
      to be here with you today.

The Net Mender

He sits there on a lobster trap,
Outlined against the sky,
With mended fishnet on his lap,
And sadness in his eye.
          For he longs to sail the sea once more,
          And hear the gale wind's mighty roar;
          To match his wits against the sea;
          To pace the deck where the wind blows free;
          To lie in the shade of a tall palm tree;
          But he is old, and sad, and he
                    Must mend the nets.

His weathered brow is paler now:
His keen eyes not so bright:
Still he longs for the surge of a schooner's bow,
And the crackle of canvas, pulled tight.
          How well he remembers Jamaican night,
          And the reefs of the Great Australian Bight.
          And he longs for the life of the days gone by,
          Knowing that soon he surely must die.
          But when he has gone to his port in the sky,
          Where stately schooners and clipper ships ply,
                    Who will mend the nets?

The Northern Banks

The once-proud schooner rots on the shore,
and hears the breakers’ endless roar,
to ride the flood tides nevermore,
to fish on the Northern Banks.

The flood tides oft’ had borne her away,
to face the North Atlantic spray,
and filled her holds day after day
with cod, from the Northern Banks.

But she was Queen of the Sea in her day:
beneath her bowsprit would porpoises play,
and through winter gales, her captain would pray
to the god of the Northern Banks.

Yes, she was Queen of the Sea, in her prime,
and through her rigging seamen would climb,
and strain ‘til they heard the cry sublime,
“Fish ho!” on the Northern Banks.

Then with holds full, she’s homeward bound,
and through town streets laughter would sound,
and her crew would smile, for word was around,
“She’s the best on the Northern Banks!”

Now the Queen lies asleep, with the beach for her bed,
and children play in the sand ‘round her head,
but she doesn’t mind, for her heart has led
her home, to the Northern Banks.

Siobhan Video: Full Metal Alchemist - 24 (For Wendy)

Epitaph

I hope it is an autumn day
when my magic journey ends,
with scarlet maples blazing forth,
caressed by western winds.

My wish would be for cumulus clouds
scudding across the sky,
with a flight of geese heading south
and honking as they fly.

My family and friends would gently smile,
and recall a life of joy,
and a loving man who looked at life
with the wonder of a boy.

The last of my wine should freely flow
and a Jameson’s or two,
and glad memories would be exchanged,
unembellished, and joyously true.

And my ashes would be scattered
on the waters of the bay,
and my spirit would take flight:
thus I would pass away.

And my people would remember me
when the wild nor’easter blows,
when the moonpath is on the harbour,
and when the lupin grows.

And my spirit will be out there
and their memories will not dim,
and sometimes with a smile they’ll say,
“that reminds me of him.”
.