New Classic Poems – Contemporary Verse That Rhymes

“The Gardener.” Artwork and poem by Jonathan Day. 

1

Writing free verse is like playing tennis without a net. 

– Robert Frost 

2

New Classic Poems 

Contemporary Verse that Rhymes 

An Anthology 

Compiled and Edited by 

Neil Harding McAlister 

Illustrated by Jonathan Day 

3


Contemporary Verse that Rhymes 

Published by: 

McAlister, Neil Harding 

11 Island View Court 

Port Perry, Ontario, Canada 

L9L 1R6 

www.durham.net/~neilmac/travelerstales.htm 

Digital design and production supervision by Arzina Merali 

© 2005 Neil Harding McAlister. All rights reserved. The copyright of each poem in this collection is 

owned by its author. By written agreement, poets have assumed personal responsibility for the original 

authorship and clear copyright ownership of the works that bear their names. No part of this book may 

be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including digital 

information storage and retrieval devices and systems, without prior written permission of the publisher 

and the copyright owner(s), except that brief passages may be quoted, with attribution, for reviews or 

for scholarly purposes. 

Published and printed in Canada. 

ISBN 0-9737006-0-2 

4

Contents 

Index of Poems 6 

Foreword: Is Poetry Dead 9 

Everyday Pleasures 15 

Love 29 

The Dark Side 53 

Then and Now 73 

People and Places 93 

Just for Fun 111 

Family Matters 127 

Poets’ Biographies 145 

Appendix A: 

on-line contest rules 155 

Index of First Lines 159 

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Index of Poems 

Everyday Pleasures 15 

Coffee, Sally Anne Roberts 16 

When the Sun Turns to Glass, Sally Anne Roberts 16 

The Hole-in-the-Wall Café, Neil Harding McAlister 17 

Composition, Peggy Fletcher 18 

Mozart at Dawn, Sally Anne Roberts 18 

Game Bird, Rick Ellis 19 

Be Mindful of the Moment, Neil Harding McAlister 20 

Playful Pups, James K. McAlister 21 

The Storm, James K. McAlister 21 

The Happy Trout, Keith Holyoak 22 

Sonnet No. 5, Tim DeMay 22 



Journeys, Angela Burns 24 

Life, Tan Kar-Hui 25 

Perfect Days, Alan DuMond 25 

The Garden Party, Mary McIntosh 26 

Inspiration, Angela Burns 27 

Sylvan Song, Anya Corke 27 

Morning Song, Wayne Leman 28 

Epiphany, Angela Burns 28 

Stars, Nancy Callahan 28 

Love 29 

Orange Blossoms, Anne Baldo 30 

Sonnet, John Nause 30 

I Can’t Imagine Why, Rick Ellis 31 

The Sparrow and the Hawk, Peter G. Gilchrist 32 

Almost Leaving, Karen Godson 36 

Autumn Walking Summer Home, Karen Godson 36 

Great Unanswered Questions of History, Richard Scarsbrook 37 

The Guide, Peter G. Gilchrist 38 

Dim Sum, Sharron R. McMillan 39 

Lyric for an Irish May, Michael Moreland Milligan 40 

Caution, Nigel Clive Bruton 41 

Northern Light, Nigel Clive Bruton 42 

Letters of Love, Patricia Louise Gamache 43 

Men and Woman Are The Same, Mark Clement 44 

Rules of Engagement, Neil Harding McAlister 45 

Wind of Despair, Patricia Louise Gamache 46 

How Like Unto a Longing Heart, Vincent W. Williams 47 

The Maiden’s Tale, Gregory J. Christiano 48 

Shadow of Bird, Vincent W. Williams 50 

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The Golden Lie, Frances McConnel 51 

Amalthea, the Unicorn, Gene Dixon 52 

The Dark Side 53 

The Works of Poe, Sally Anne Roberts 54 

Lady of Decay, Anne Baldo 55 

Her Funeral Flowers Never Bloomed, Anne Baldo 56 

Between Heaven and Earth, Anne Baldo 57 

The Sea of Silence, I.B. Iskov 58 

Snake in the Grass, Brenda Tate 58 

Plague, David Anderson 59 

The Great Equalizer, Pearl Watley Mitchell 60 

Anger, Neil Harding McAlister 61 

Ripples, Opal Michelle Norris 62 

Gray Streaks of Dawn, Gene Dixon 62 

Voices On the Wind, Gregory J. Christiano 63 

Only Once! Gregory J. Christiano 64 

Villanella Nervosa, Zachariah Wells 65 

The Foundling, Cynthia K. Deatherage 66 

Red Heart of Night, Irene Livingston 69 

Echoes, Irene Livingston 70 

Guilty Plea, Aaron Wilkinson 71 

Crazy, Aaron Wilkinson 72 

Then and Now 73 

Winter Reflections, Peggy Fletcher 74 

Incident at Stirling Castle, Wiley Clements 75 

The Mile of Gold, Neil Harding McAlister 76 

Warriors Dance, Chrissy K. McVay 77 

The Odeon, Neil Harding McAlister 78 

Dragon Days, Angela Burns 78 

Toledo Cathedral, Neil Harding McAlister 79 

The Loon: How the Loon Got His Spots, Eric Linden 80 

Weaving, Angela Burns 81 

Lighthouse Lament, Angela Burns 81 

A Six Pack of Sonnets, Aaron Wilkinson 82 

The Ballad of Trapper McGrew, Mary McIntosh 84 

In This Court, Vincent W. Williams 85 

Snow Flakes, Anne Maarit Ghan 86 

Book of Life, Anne Maarit Ghan 86 

The Voyage, Bob Stampe 87 

The Plot, Bob Stampe 88 

She Rocks Away, Irene Livingston 89 

Old and New, Angela Burns 89 

Playing Poet, Aaron Wilkinson 90 

The Bagpipe Maker, D.L. Grothaus 91 

Letter to Ezra Pound (1959), Wiley Clements 92 

People and Places 93 

The Gift, Peter G. Gilchrist 94 

The Thinker, Jonathan Day 96 

The Gardener, Jonathan Day 96 

In the Ruins of Chichen Itza, Neil Harding McAlister 97 

Passage to Point Barrow, Wiley Clements 98 

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Here Up North, Neil Harding McAlister 99 

Jerusalem Engines, Michael Pollick 100 

Urim and Thummin, Michael Pollick 100 

The Ballad of Muktuk Annie, Eric Linden 101 


Pens and Poems, Gene Dixon 104 

An Easterner Looks West, Neil Harding McAlister 105 

Addressing My Geography, Sam Samson 106 

The Other Side, Adrienne Kurtz 107 

Thirsty, Wayne Leman 108 

Friends of Solitude, Anya Corke 108 

Star Student, Brenda Tate 109 

The Captain’s Missing, smzang 109 

Jingle Bells, Neil Harding McAlister 110 

Just for Fun 111 

Plain Vanillanella, Neil Harding McAlister 112 

Snoggle Sonnet, Vincent W. Williams 112 

Optical Delusions, Neil Harding McAlister 113 

To Mr. Blank, Poet of Pessimism, Wiley Clements 114 

If Only, Neil Harding McAlister 115 

Birthday Surprise, Bob Stampe 116 

Must My Poetry Be Deep Nancy Lazariuk 118 

The Ballade of the Bulge, Anne Maarit Ghan 119 

Edinburgh, Albert Lawrance 120 

To Her Apathetic Students, Vicki DuMond 121 

A Chance to Just Be Me, Nancy Lazariuk 122 

Guinea Pigs, Neil Harding McAlister 124 

Christmas Tree, Angela Burns 125 

In Concert, Wiley Clements 126 

Family Matters 127 

End of Season, Neil Harding McAlister 128 

Her Lover’s Gone to War, Michael Moreland Milligan 129 

The Skeleton in Rawhide, Neil Harding McAlister 130 

The Runner, Neil Harding McAlister 134 

Matrimony, Anne Maarit Ghan 135 

The Waiting Game, Jonathan Levitt 135 

Wish from a Rainbow’s Mist, Maria DiDanieli 136 

Midlife Musings, Neil Harding McAlister 137 

Prophet of Sod, Aaron Wilkinson 138 

The Truth Of It Is, Bob Stampe 140 

Girl 1951, Cathy Wilson 141 

Dear Abby, Anne Maarit Ghan 142 

Untitled, Anne Maarit Ghan 144 

8


Is Poetry Dead 

9



Foreword: Is Poetry Dead 

I 

s poetry dead If Alfred Lord Tennyson, 

Percy Bysshe Shelley, Edgar Allen Poe, 

Robert Service, Emily Dickenson, Rudyard 

Kipling, Lord Byron, Lewis Carroll – or any 

authors of classic, formal poems had lived today, 

they might have had difficulty getting published. 

If Longfellow had presented The Song of 

Hiawatha to an editor nowadays, he would have 

been dismissed as an eccentric, academic crank, 

and his manuscript as bloated and unmarketable. 

Yet this work sold more than one million copies 

worldwide in the poet’s lifetime, and catapulted 

its author to financial success, international 

acclaim and lasting recognition. 

The world has changed; tastes have 

changed. Electronic media have made mass 

entertainment widely and cheaply available. The 

reading of poetry, both in public dissertation and 

for private pleasure, has declined 

correspondingly. Busy, modern households have 

many leisure time options and hopelessly 

overbooked schedules. We find quaint the very 

notion that Longfellow and the other “fireside 

poets” wrote poems to be read aloud for 

entertainment and moral enlightenment by 

families gathered around the hearth. 

Our lives may not be measured in 

coffee spoons, as T.S. Eliot lamented; but too 

often they are chopped into brief segments by 

the staccato barking of television commercials. It 

must be a comment on our brief attention spans 

in the age of TV that we are astonished to find 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin by Robert Browning, in 

all its prolix entirety, included in a school 

textbook entitled “Shorter Poems,” published in 

1924. 1 Today there would seem to be too little 

time to spare for the contemplative, insistent, 

persuasive, repetitive – and occasionally lengthy 

– structures of formal poetry. 

By the early 20 th Century, poets were 

seeking new directions. Abandoning the classical 

styles that had embedded rich imagery, broad 

metaphors and resounding, moralistic messages 

in their work, innovative “modern” poets often 

embarked on intensely personal journeys, 

favoring the private over the public, the specific 

over the general, the challenging and 

confrontational over the familiar and affirmative. 

Perhaps in reaction to a sometimes 

stultifying, rigid formalism that had preceded 

them, many poets abandoned rhyme and meter 

altogether, eschewing the constraints of fixed 

styles to grasp the seemingly unlimited 

possibilities that free verse appeared to offer. 

Inevitably, just as the great, classic poets 

of earlier times had spawned legions of admiring 

but untalented imitators who churned out singsong 

doggerel, the brilliant innovators of free 

verse inspired their own imperfect imitators. The 

deceptive informality of free verse seemed to 

offer an easy shortcut to many writers of limited 

ability, who imagined that they could suddenly 

write poetry simply because they had been 

excused from the intellectual discipline of 

making their thoughts conform to the previously 

insurmountable constraints of formal style. 

Agrammatical, quirkily-paragraphed 

prose pushes the definition of “poetry” beyond 

the breaking point for many of us. Robert Frost 

once said that “writing free verse is like playing 

tennis without a net.” For good or ill, however, 

free verse has become the overwhelmingly 

predominant style of contemporary poetry. 

Opposing this trend is ranked little more than 

the trite, predictable, rhyming clichés of popular 

song lyrics. 

This is unfortunate, because great lyrics 

seldom make great poetry, or vice versa. A few 

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brilliant poet-songwriters such as Leonard 

Cohen and Tom Waits have almost bridged this 

chasm; but their performances are an integral, 

inseparable component of their special art. Their 

song-poems are generally appreciated as auditory 

experiences rather than as words read from 

printed pages. 

Most readers now have little or no 

exposure to well-written, contemporary, formal 

poetry. In our modern world, poems that rhyme 

are merely old-fashioned; something we were 

exposed to during school days when the works 

of dead poets were exhumed for dissection in 

English literature classes. 

This book was born of frustration with 

this state of affairs. Just as a preponderance of 

badly-written free verse in no way diminishes the 

genius of accomplished poets who have 

mastered that genre, a plethora of commercial, 

rhyming doggerel does not reflect the ingenuity, 

grandeur, emotional impact and intellectual 

integrity of well-constructed, formal poetry. 

Unfortunately, even the best of modern, 

formal poetry may not reach a potentially 

appreciative audience. The most casual survey of 

the current books and journals where poetry 

appears confirms that, except for a few 

publications with a bent towards neoformalism, 

there exists an almost universal prejudice against 

poetry that scans and rhymes. Neoformalists 

believe good poetry does not require its readers 

to possess special education or arcane sensitivity 

in order to appreciate it properly. Classical poets 

always directed their work at a literate, 

thoughtful, but general audience. By contrast, 

obscurantism seems to have been elevated to the 

cardinal virtue of free verse. The more 

obstinately such a work refuses to divulge its 

meaning to the general reader, the more likely it 

is to find a home on the printed page. 

At the same time, the free verse style of 

poetry considered avant-garde in our 

grandparents’ generation has grown rather 

inward-looking and stale. Its audience has 

shrunk proportionately. The anæmic sales of 

poetry books in comparison to other fiction and 

non-fiction stands as irrefutable evidence of the 

book-buying public’s indifference towards 

contemporary poetic expression. If money talks 

in our modern world, the silence is deafening. 

Having utterly lost touch with the kind 

of mass readership that Longfellow enjoyed in 

his lifetime, present-day poets direct their output 

mainly towards each other, publishing on the 

Internet, or – when they can get their works into 

print at all – in thin chap books and special 

interest journals. Total press runs typically range 

from dozens to a few thousand copies for a 

“best seller.” 

Moribund it may be; but formal poetry is 

not quite dead in the 21 st Century. 

With fortuitous timing, modern 

technology comes to the aid of this 

ailing, traditional art form. Although the 

democratic medium of the Internet 

indiscriminately spreads literary drivel, it also 

allows serious and talented poets of all genres to 

address a potentially wide audience. 

With this in mind, Contemporary Formal 

Poetry decided to throw open its Internet site to a 

contest for rhyming, metrical poems only. 

Detailed guidelines for what would and would 

not be acceptable were posted. (Appendix A.) 

The very concept of a poetry competition is 

inherently problematic. Which poem is the 

“best” – The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The 

Village Blacksmith, or Do Not Go Gentle Into That 

Good Night Poet, teacher, editor and noted critic 

John Ciardi once warned that “there will never 

be a complete system for … ‘judging’ poetry.” 2 

Therefore three equal prizes of CDN$ 50 were 

initially offered for three works that would stand 

out as being particularly praiseworthy in some 

manner. 

Poems in all formal “western” styles 

were invited: sonnets, villanelles, odes, elegies 

and epics, narratives, ballades, acrostics and so on. 

Particularly welcomed were the longer works 

that cannot get published elsewhere – the big 

narratives that do not fit within the limited space 

available in small periodicals, or inside the 

cramped submission boxes on most of the postit-yourself 

Internet competitions. 

This contest immediately attracted an 

untapped mother lode of poetic creativity. The 

first entry, Peter Gilchrist’s polished narrative, 

The Sparrow and the Hawk, appeared in the E-mail 

in-box within hours of the contest’s 

announcement. Several hundred entries were 

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received between April and October 2004, far 

exceeding initial expectations, and threatening to 

overload both in-box and web site. 

By the time the contest had closed, a 

remarkable on-line collection of well-crafted, 

and mostly unpublished poetry by living writers 

had been assembled. The realization that a 

unique treasure so carefully amassed might soon 

be consigned to digital oblivion with a click of 

the “delete” button was almost unbearable; and 

the idea to create a more permanent record – 

this book – was born. 

The Editor of this compendium claims 

no scholarship in the study of literature. 

However, it is hoped that readers will excuse 

him for exercising his own imperfect judgment, 

and for calling on that of family, friends and 

poet acquaintances, to choose the works for this 

personal collection, personally financed. Those 

who dispute his taste are welcome to do so. 

They are encouraged to back their artistic 

convictions by publishing their own collections 

of undiscovered poetic gems. 

As Lao Tzu observed, a journey of a 

thousand miles begins with a single step. This 

book is one small effort to redeem a formal, 

classical branch of poetic expression and awaken 

the attention of the reading public. It’s goal is to 

help re-emphasize poetry as a respectable 

avocation, and to attract talent from both 

amateurs and professionals. 

New Classic Poems demonstrates the art 

of poetry rather than the poetry-for-profit 

criteria of modern publishers. Here you will find 

excellent unpublished poets – new Byrons, 

Tennysons, Poes and Longfellows awaiting 

discovery. They are largely ignored by the 

contemporary poetry “establishment” with its 

myopic focus on unstructured verse. 

People spend money freely on their 

various hobbies and passions: why not do the 

same for the publication of poetry Home 

computers and word-processing have 

democratized hard copy publishing. For a 

reasonable financial outlay, the works of talented 

poets can be committed to a book that will long 

outlast the ephemera of the Internet. 

A half century from now, the rhymes 

and vivid imagery of these poems will live to 

entertain and inspire a new generation of readers. 

If this book serves no further purpose than to 

transmit the well-crafted thoughts of a 

contemporary poet to a grandchild yet to be 

born, it will have served its purpose and be 

judged a success. 

The appeal of traditional poetry seems 

to be almost genetic. Little children respond to 

ancient nursery rhymes long before they 

understand their meaning, and even though 

most such jingles have lost their original, 

historical significance. How many readers have 

subconsciously memorized Lewis Carroll’s 

Jabberwocky, and can still call it to mind after 

years of neglect Its sheer sound - its rhyme and 

rhythm and crazy words – made it memorable. 

Memory is the key. Poetry that rhymes 

and scans is inherently memorable; and herein 

lies its remarkable power. Free verse, no matter 

how brilliantly written, cannot easily insinuate 

itself into the reader’s subconscious mind. By 

contrast, those rhyming poems that our parents 

read to us when we were children remain with us 

for the duration of our lives. 

It is said in common parlance that we 

learn our favorite poems “by heart.” May the 

cadences featured in this collection resonate in 

the hearts of you, our readers, long after the 

hearts of we, the poets, have ceased to agitate in 

this world. 

About the Poets 

Works are included from poets who 

reside in Canada, Germany, the 

United States of America, Malaysia 

and Hong Kong. For reasons unclear 

to us, the great majority of submissions came 

from Canadians, even though this contest was 

advertised internationally via the Internet. We 

Canucks appear to be a poetic nation. It is a 

matter of personal regret to the Editor that he 

lacks sufficient linguistic skill to evaluate poems 

written in French, our country’s other official 

language. A wealth of contemporary Canadian 

poetry in French could not be accessed for this 

collection. 

Of the poets who chose to reveal their 

ages, the youngest whose work is printed here 

was 11, the most senior 84 years old. 

While many of the poets with work in 

this anthology are being introduced to readers 

for the first time, we are also honored to 

included poems by some published writers. 

Several have won awards for their poems, 

12



including Irene Livingston, who garnered 

Canada’s prestigious Leacock Award for poetry 

in 2001. Several of our poets are professional, 

freelance writers. A couple of them were, or 

remain, the editors of poetry and literary journals. 

Homemakers, actors, university professors, 

carpenters, doctors, hoteliers and students are 

represented here. Several contributors have 

exceptional personal accomplishments to their 

credit: for example, we present a poem written 

by one of the youngest Chess Grandmasters in 

the world. 

However, none of our writers currently 

identify themselves as full-time poets. Affluent, 

hereditary nobility with abundant leisure hours 

in which to pursue their Muse, are uncommon in 

our time. To refer to a poet as an “amateur” is 

no insult, however. On the contrary, it is a badge 

of honor, because the word derives from the 

Latin verb, amare – “to love.” Our modern-day 

poets obviously do love their craft; and in this 

respect they are artists in the purest sense. In 

common with the independently wealthy Lord 

Byron of old, they are not in it for the money. 

Brief biographies of our contributors are found 

at the back of this book. 

About the Collection 

U 

nless otherwise noted, the poems that 

appear in this collection are previously 

unpublished in print media. With a few 

exceptions that were deliberately 

solicited from several accomplished poets, these 

poems were sent by their authors in response to 

an Internet solicitation for entries for 

Contemporary Formal Poetry’s first on-line contest. 

Nearly all of the works in this book were 

therefore posted electronically at one time on 

our Internet web site. 

Poetry was selected for inclusion in this 

collection according to several criteria. Each 

work must exemplify the formal style in which it 

is written. Adherence to meter, strong, original 

rhymes and convincing stanza structure (where 

appropriate) were all considered essential. Each 

poem is noteworthy for the way in which it 

embodies its genre: perhaps with a strong and 

moving narrative; a vivid, sustained metaphor; a 

particularly chilling frisson of horror; or a 

surprising, new application of a traditional style. 

The anthology is somewhat arbitrarily 

organized into broad categories of interest: love, 

family, regional, gothic and so on. One 

intentionally terrible poem that defied the 

contest rules – Albert Lawrance’s deliberate 

reworking of the notorious Wm. McGonagall’s 

dreadful ode to the city of Edinburgh, Scotland 

– was included just for fun. For further 

amusement, it was tempting to print several 

unintentionally bad entries in a special category of 

dishonorable mentions for the “William Topaz 

McGonagall Memorial Booby Prize for 

Doggerel.” Inevitably, a number of touchingly 

earnest but truly lamentable efforts are 

submitted to any poetry competition. However, 

such slipshod works were excluded from 

publication in order to protect the identity of 

beginning poets who may need more practice, 

but whom we would never wish to discourage 

by public ridicule. 

New Classic Poems is an exercise in vanity 

publishing only to the extent that it puts the 

vanity of its compiler on public display. 

Exercising a publisher’s prerogative, he has 

included an immodest share of his own work, as 

well as a couple of poems by his young son, 

which he presents with paternal pride. The other 

poets whose works appear in this collection 

stand absolved from any accusation of vanity or 

nepotism. A poet, like any other author, deserves 

to be paid for his or her efforts. However, since 

sales of this book are scarcely expected to 

recover its costs of production, much less to 

return a financial profit, our authors agreed to 

accept recompense in the form of a free copy. 

We hope that this book will shower gratitude 

and recognition, if not riches, on all of our poets! 

Acknowledgements 

Sincere thanks to all of the poets who 

contributed to Contemporary Formal Poetry’s 

first on-line contest. Particular appreciation 

goes to those authors who consented 

subsequently to have their work reproduced in 

this book. It should be obvious that the opinions 

expressed in this Foreword are those of the 

Editor, not of the individual poets: only their 

own work can speak on their behalf. 

Affection and gratitude goes to my 

energetic sister-in-law, Arzina Merali, both for 

13



her technical expertise, and for her practical help 

to transform a collection of digital files into a 

professionally printed and bound book. D. Jean 

Taylor provided valuable technical assistance. 

Love to my wife, Dr. Nazlin McAlister, 

for tolerating the life of a computer widow on 

far too many evenings while her eccentric 

husband attended to both creative and 

secretarial demands of his unusual avocation. 

Our children, Zara and James, proved to be 

willing sounding boards and helpful critics at 

impromptu poetry readings over the course of 

many months. Hilderic Browne’s astute, 

humorous and occasionally pithy observations 

concerning the broad field of poetry were 

motivational and entertaining. Other friends and 

acquaintances have been patient recipients of 

unsolicited poetry in their E-mail throughout 

this project; and they have been helpful with 

their thoughtful comments. 

Angela Burns (whose poems appear in 

this collection) kindly donated her expertise as 

an experienced editor to refine this Foreword 

and to help with proof reading the manuscript. 

Jonathan Day, also represented by his poems in 

this anthology, spontaneously proposed to 

illustrate the book, and generously contributed 

all of the fine, original linocut artwork that 

graces these pages. 

The inspirational example of poet and 

novelist Louise Murphy is noted with sincere 

thanks. While flying to Toronto to receive the 

2003 Shaunt Basmajian Award of the Canadian 

Poetry Association, Ms. Murphy kindly shared 

some of her poems with this Editor, a stranger 

to her. 3 After reading some of the work that her 

airline seatmate had written, the experienced 

poet encouraged McAlister to reflect that a 

private passion for poetry might be something 

worth sharing with others. 

Finally, but most importantly, hearty 

thanks and congratulations are due to all of the 

poets who labor, often in obscurity, to keep the 

rhyme, beat and resonance of classic, metrical 

poetry alive in this era of ubiquitous free verse 

and vapid, pop song clichés. 

____________________________________ 

References 

1. Shorter Poems. Toronto: Minister of 

Education for Ontario, 1924. 

2. Ciardi, John: How Does a Poem 

Mean In An Anthology of Verse, ed. Charlesworth, 

Roberta A. and Lee, Dennis. Toronto: Oxford 

University Press, 1964, p. 316. 

3. Murphy, Louise: Pilgrimage. Toronto: 

Micro Prose, 2003. 

N.H.M c A. 

Port Perry, Ontario, Canada 

January, 2005 

14


Everyday Pleasures 

15



Coffee 

Sally Ann Roberts 

C offee mild, but dark as toast. 

O h healthy cup of robust roast, 

F resh the smell of perking pot, 

F avors senses while it’s hot. 

E verlasting in every way, 

E very morning, every day. 

When The Sun Turns to Glass 


W hen the sun turns to glass, bright prisms will bow, 

H aze colored rainbows, collect in a prow. 

E niticing to enter, inviting to pass, 

N ow stained into color and bonded in brass. 

T angible gold embosses the floor, 

H anging precisely where sun streams implore; 

E xciting to ponder, too great to ignore. 

S unbeams slice gently through stained colored glass, 

U plifting performers delightfully dance; 

N ectar in colors will surely enhance. 

T asteful concoctions are put on display 

U nder the sun in the eve of the day. 

R ainbow reflections adhere to the light, 

N urture`s in beauty before edge of night, 

S uspended in awe, a form of delight. 

T ouched by the breezes, another encore; 

O nly the wind can add something more. 

G reatness surrounds when curtains are drawn. 

L ady Aurora the Goddess of Dawn, 

A ll welcome her warmly before she is gone. 

S pecial is she, through the window she casts, 

S plashes of color, when the sun turns to glass. 

16



The Hole-in-the-Wall Café 


At a big hotel that I know quite well 

Is the Hole-in-the-Wall Café. 

It’s a fine retreat when you’re feeling beat 

At the end of a tiring day. 

On the cluttered walls hang prints large and small, 

And the skull of a longhorn steer, 

While the cowboy hats, guns and lariats 

Recall days of yesteryear. 

When a hostess fair with impeccable hair 

Comes to greet you at the door, 

You’ll walk into a room that could use a broom 

For the sawdust on the floor. 

But this artful mess, groomed to look its best, 

Makes you think of a bygone age – 

You’re a traveler bold in the days of old 

While you wait for the evening stage. 

The place comes alive as the guests arrive, 

Looking suave in a rustic way. 

They like to be seen in designer jeans – 

Not the togs of yesterday. 

And the steeds they ride with such evident pride 

Are neither cheap nor quaint: 

Parked out back are the Cadillacs, 

Where you’ll never see Old Paint. 

In that cowboy club they serve fancy grub 

That a wrangler might find strange: 

Chuck wagon fare you won’t see there 

Cookin’ on their kitchen range. 

And the beer that’s sold is always cold! 

Just order what you desire 

From the deferent host when you drink a toast 

By the natural gas campfire. 

It won’t give a feel of what was real – 

But a legend seldom does. 

So raise a glass to a mythic past, 

And the West that never was! 

Overworked and tired Come get re-inspired 

At the close of a hectic day, 

And if you’re free, come along with me 

To the Hole-in-the-Wall Café! 

17



Composition 

Peggy Fletcher 

Allow yourself the privilege of a song 

that catalogues the Earth's creative pace 

dance to the rhythms nature plays online 

create new century concerts, celebrate 

our rapid times, our craving to be known 

allow yourself the privilege of a song 

on days when darkness overcomes insight 

when dull and angry voices set the tone 


forget the headlines, sway to notes unborn 

hear music sweet as any ever played 


of building notes of grace to exercise 

the mystery of this world, its errant ways 


The timing carries weight, its lyrics paced 

to sing the past, the present and beyond 


dance to the rhythms nature plays online. 

Mozart at Dawn 


Grandeur crescendos 

in metronome time, 

symphonies sounding 

as if right on cue, 

break into dawning 

like poets to rhyme, 

and paint into beauty 

on a canvas of blue. 

Classic creations, 

an ear’s form of art. 

Magical mornings 

awaken and yawn, 

and bring with it pleasures 

to place in the heart; 

sunrise and coffee 

and Mozart at dawn. 

18



Game Bird 

Rick Ellis 

The Owl sat 

Pale and restless 

Such a rare 

And mindful bird 

As he pondered 

His existence 

Weighing lies 

He had procured 

In that fading 

Twilight glimmer 

Setting suns 

Which had no name 

Vaulting blues were 

Edging dimmer 

Constellations 

Danced aflame 

Milky Way washed clean 

His conscience 

Shooting sparks 

Betrayed his aim 

Clever fowl 

Maintained a silence 

Voicing Truth 

Delays the game 

19



Be Mindful of the Moment 


The here and now is all we hold through times of joy and sorrow. 

We may watch fulsome years unfold – or may not see tomorrow. 

Be mindful of the moment. Pay attention to each one. 

The past has fled beyond our grasp, the future’s yet to come. 

There is no way to measure what ensuing days might bring, 

So seize the utmost pleasure found in every daily thing. 

The road of life is far too short: no need to travel fast. 

Investigate the wonders that lie strewn along the path. 

The tender leaves on springtime trees, rough pebbles on the ground, 

The snowflakes drifting on the breeze that fall without a sound, 

Are all unique and precious, if we take the time to see. 

No two have been identical in all eternity. 

Is this not true of people too Be mindful, then, of each. 

Both strangers and those close to you have useful things to teach. 

The two of us part richer if we pass the time of day, 

And don’t just brush each other off, then hurry on our way. 

Preoccupied by urgent schemes of business, love or power, 

By gambling on our future dreams, we lose the present hour. 

A life is forged of moments linked together like a chain. 

Live each in full – for down this road we shall not pass again. 

20



Playful Pups 

James K. McAlister 

Man’s best companion, 

Adorable balls of fur, 

Tumbling across the floor. 

These pets prefer 

To woof at the door! 

Shoes they quickly fetch, 

And bones they hungrily chew, 

Wagging their short tails. 

I haven’t got a clue 

Why they scratch with their nails. 

Expressions tell tales. 

Prize possessions pets, 

Paw prints on the snow, 

Like ballerinas, they pirouette 

For bits of Oreo. 

As playful as children, 

Their feet are on the go, 

Wriggling their floppy ears. 

The ball you throw 

Is fetched with cheer! 

Bounce and pounce on mice, 

Chased by hissing cats, 

At night when all is quiet 

They sleep on pillows and mats, 

Opposite of raucous riot. 

The Storm 

James K. McAlister 

Wind rustled crunching leaves 

That on the sidewalk lay. 

There was a big storm coming 

On a windy Autumn day. 

Thunder rumbled overhead 

And shook me through and through. 

A jagged bolt of lightning struck! 

The sky then cracked in two! 

Rain washed down the dirty road. 

It hissed, and gushed, and muttered. 

The downpour swept dead leaves away 

Into the bubbling gutter. 

21



The Happy Trout 

Keith Holyoak 

The trout had much to celebrate— 

Not just the lure with its tasty bait 

But the way the restless ripples shone 

With pearls cast down by the sun at dawn. 

The line stayed slack, so the fish swam free 

To plunge and leap in ecstasy, 

Thrilled by the gift of life renewed. 

The angler’s joy, though more subdued, 

Revealed what the trout had overlooked: 

That fish was well and truly hooked. 

Sonnet No. 5 

Tim DeMay 

When close of day stands shortly knocking hard, 

And wearied feet feel freshened freedom nigh, 

When paths are beaten, trodden, finished far, 

When breath in excitations quickened flies, 

When low the lantern’s yellow oil falls, 

And soft the brazen flickered flame flecks forth, 

When darkness seeps into the cornered walls, 

When to the silent sleep succumbing more, 

When winter slowly flakes and tumbles out, 

And cold rules harshly, biting with sharp winds, 

When heavy lidded eyes sag farther down, 

When death bestows thee one red fatal kiss, 

Hark ye upon the western sky afire, 

And east, another rising sun flies higher. 

22



Sonnet No. 6 

Tim DeMay 

“So esoteric!” cried the dismayed child, 

A student learning physics formulas. 

The teacher turned with chalk in hand and smiled, 

“I know you know who Albert Einstein was, 

And Schrödinger, and vectors, force and mass, 

But look again and give its grace a chance. 

See standards, absolutes since eons past, 

See stars and planets caught in cosmic dance, 

And space is not a stage but moving cloth, 

A fabric warped and twisted, stretched and spry, 

Each warp concordant with known physics laws, 

Each twist a wonder to the learnèd eye.” 

The student left the class with flooded mind, 

Stark beauty shown when once he stumbled blind. 

Sonnet No. 1 

Tim DeMay 

My soul flies fast through marble azure skies 

Outpouring love, compassion, lust for life, 

Rejoining other hearts in sun-flamed eyes, 

And passing over, through, amidst like minds. 

My soul soars over oceanic hills, 

Low swiftly swimming through the flowing grain, 

My soul weaves softly up the rolling rills, 

And rides the breaking Rocky Mountain waves. 

My soul leans close to palpitating hearts, 

And whispers lightly, “comfort” in thy ear, 

Intently hearing all you would impart, 

And driving off all grievances and fears. 

My soul excites when wonders does it find, 

That it, like all, is kindred with mankind. 

23



Journeys 

Angela Burns 

I've danced in moonlight, dreamed in marble, walked a twisted road 

Lived for now, looked back in sorrow, watched a fate unfold 

Strummed a harp and piped the wind and heard the phoenix sing 

Burned with magic, ached with joy, astride a dragon's wings. 

I've sailed my ship in azure seas, swayed with yaw and roll 

Rode on beasts and galloped wild where only sagebrush grows 

Shivered in the frozen wastes and trudged through rainbow sand 

Sought the secrets, found the answer, held it in my hand. 

I've felt the chill of deep space voids and bathed in ancient light 

Rolled in freefall, twisted Time and joined the comet's flight 

Smelled the air of other worlds and watched auroras flare 

Stalked moons of blue and suns of red in volumes everywhere. 

I've found new history, modern myth, upon these paper shores 

I studied and discovered truths, yet always look for more 

While caught in chains of golden prose, I've never lost the thrill 

Of paths unrolling into mist where treasure's hidden still. 

I've known such folk, along the way, in present, future, past 

I meet them there, we travel on, 'till we must part at last 

For whether journey's long or short, the saddest rule I know 

Is when the grand finale's reached, I must depart and close. 

Each trip I take is like the first, each tale is quite unique 

My soul addicted, slaves my heart and fires will speed my feet 

To where the books sing siren calls that I will not deny 

And banquets of delicious words await my hungry eyes. 

24



Life 

Tan Kar Hui 

Learn to make the most of life, 

Lose no happy day. 

Time can never bring you back 

Chances swept away. 

Leave no tender word unsaid, 

Love while life shall last. 

The mill will never turn again 

With water that has passed. 

Perfect Days 

Alan DuMond 

The morning sunlight shines upon me, 

On the dew and through the fog; 

The birds are singing loud and boldly, 

With the croaking of the frog. 

Oh, lovely morning to me bringing 

Joyful sounds of Nature singing. 

The noonday sun shines on me now. 

Fields of flowers and grass I see. 

The dew and fog have burned away 

As quickly as they came to be. 

Oh, Sun, be strong and keep on burning. 

Earth, be strong and keep on turning. 

The evening sun sets in the west, 

And the blue fades from the sky, 

As the sunlight goes to rest 

For the night, but not to die. 

Oh, perfect days like these that pass, 

Dear God, let this not be the last. 

25



The Garden Party 

Mary McIntosh 

"Did you know that she's left"... 

"Is it going to rain"... 

"Her husband has gone"... 

"I have such a pain"... 

I really do think it is going to rain. 

"This cake is delicious"... 

"Her baby is ill"... 

"She stayed home today"... 

"They've not read the will"... 

The newspaper said it is going to rain. 

"Did you see that long dress"... 

"And what of her hat"... 

"She's not serving butter"... 

"They had quite a spat"... 

I really am sure it is going to rain. 

"Her daughter is pregnant"... 

"She's not even married"... 

"She bleaches her hair"... 

"Don't she look harried!"... 

My neighbor next door said it's going to rain. 

"I must get on home now"... 

"It's been a nice tea"... 

"Glad you could come"... 

"Drop by and see me"... 

Here it is now, it has started to rain. 

26



Inspiration 

Angela Burns 

Detection, perception, reflection alone 

Inflection, connection, allusion unknown 

Decision, precision, conception sublime 

Attention, expansion, revision betimes 

Progression, submission, presumption inferred 

Rejection, dejection, placation unheard 

Distraction, libation, compunction restart 

Duration, distinction, repletion of heart 

Sylvan Song 

Anya Corke 

A savage sunset robed the silent wood 

and sheathed each tree in raging folds of gleam, 

igniting lichened stones that long have stood 

near pools asleep in deep, eternal dream. 

The pines began to whisper ageless calls 

to rousing voices veiled within my soul, 

my footsteps lured toward the sunlit halls 

of woods where pealing bells of Elfland toll. 

The glens resound as Zephyr strings his bow 

through slender boughs of ancient poplar trees; 

his lilt stirs logs where pale wildflowers flow 

in dryad haunts of dreams and reveries. 

The wood has locked sweet Nature’s legacy 

and loving worship is my only key. 

27



Morning Song 

Wayne Leman 

Morning dew glistens 

as nature listens 

to the music of the dawn. 

Chipmunks chatter 

and sparrows scatter 

while the roosters crow their song. 

The rising sun 

says the day has begun. 

I can't help but sing along 

as the songbirds fly 

and the dewdrops dry: 

I'm alive, and I belong! 

Epiphany 

Angela Burns 

In somber-hued cathedral halls 

Lit by streaked, gold-spackled rays 

Through ferny dells on leaf-soft ways 

Where season's touch so lightly falls 

Where insect buzz among the trees 

Plays counterpoint to clear bird trills 

With scents of earth these wonders fill 

My soul with joy, my heart with peace. 

Stars 

Nancy Callahan 

They call each star a sun, 

yet half a cosmos’ worth 

can't yield the warmth of one, 

or shine a brighter light. 

What lies they spread on earth 

about the pinpricked night. 

28


Love 

29


Love 

Orange Blossoms 

Anne Baldo 

You gave me orange blossoms when I was sixteen 

Now they are dust, only dead wreaths 

You told me you would never leave. 

Dreaming, I pretend I was never deceived 

Judas, Benedict, Burr and all traitors between 


In glances of strangers I see your eyes gleam 

This perished garden offers no reprieve 


For a summer you promised me every dream 

Then you were gone, a creature of steam 


Some voids never fill, a heart like a sieve 

In the end, it’s only faint memories gleaned 

You gave me orange blossoms when I was sixteen. 

And you were gone when the leaves faded from green 

As you walked out the door, I still believed 



Sonnet 

John Nause 

You see in me that fading time of year 

When new horizons should have no allure: 

I've known discovery, possessions, fear 

Of loss, recovered and learned to endure. 

I'd half convinced myself to live out life 

In restful solitude, familiar faces, 

Untrammeled by new paths or anxious strife, 

And not seek out new climes or distant places. 

But now I've found, for every man at last 

One hill-crest will his fancy overlord 

Unlike all others in his dappled past. 

He knows this new landscape must be explored. 

So calls she forth my hiding heart that I 

Must know her love's secrets before I die. 

30


Love 

I Can't Imagine Why 

Rick Ellis 

Love is the child 

Of delicate wants 

Passive in passion 

She uncertain, flaunts 

Seductive, alluring 

She tempts as she taunts 

A masterful mistress 

A framework that haunts 

You hurt me in spite of 

The love that I gave 

And I can't imagine why 

Misguided priorities 

Lighted my way 

False-colored signposts 

The promise of day 

The dream came up empty 

The sky ashen gray 

No flowers can grow 

In the heat of the fray 

You left me in spite of 

The hours that I prayed 

So I can't imagine why 

What did you learn 

In the fields on your walks 

Tie not the hands back 

Keep winding the clocks 

No end of the rainbow 

No ship at the docks 

Stop looking for diamonds 

In a landscape of rocks 

You're happy in spite of 

The plans that we made 

But I can't imagine why 

Heartstrings are highways 

The road of the knave 

From the end of the hallway 

To the foot of the grave 

Who'll sit beside me 

And share in my laugh 

Ponder these musings 

Or my epitaph 

31


Love 

The Sparrow and the Hawk 

Peter G. Gilchrist 

They burst around the river bend upstream from where I stood 

and side by side they leapt across a drop. 

The morning sparked their helmets and reflected off the wood 

of paddles arcing quickly through the chop. 

They raced along the rapids with a reckless disregard 

for boulders breaking white along the chute. 

The smaller of the kayaks pulled ahead, but straining hard 

the second cut the waves in close pursuit. 

The gap between them widened as they raced around a rock 

that curled the current back upon itself. 

A sparrow darting swiftly from the talons of a hawk 

they swooped across a little granite shelf. 

They flew across an eddy line and let their kayaks run. 

The sparrow threw her face towards the skies. 

Exulting in her victory she stretched towards the sun 

the joie-de-vivre erupting from her eyes. 

The hawk drew in his wings and settled soft across her wake, 

content to have his prey within his sight. 

The ripples at her side reflected gilded rays to make 

a filigree of hair and morning light. 

That night as conversation murmured low around our fire 

and whiskey made its way around the ring, 

her eyes appeared as sapphires set in gold, and his desire 

began to spread its avaricious wing. 

They wrapped themselves in whispers by the warmth of glowing coals 

and nestled in the privacy of night. 

The moon traversed the sky above communicating souls 

and quietly obscured itself in light. 

They slept. The dawn declared itself in dandelion hues 

that slipped across the camp with fluid grace. 

A ray of brilliant yellow pierced the promenading blues 

and kissed across the sparrow’s resting face. 

We paddled many runs that year and camped along the shore 

and through it all their laughter thrilled the streams. 

Their love was so infectious that the summer seemed to soar 

on mares’ tails held aloft by lover’s dreams. 

That fall, when ice engaged the banks and frost appeared like mould 

on upturned keels, I watched the hawk propose. 

The sparrow cried and, crying, took his hand to have and hold. 

It was, I thought, the perfect summer’s close. 

32


Love 

The winter passed as slowly as it always seems to do 

when ice garrotes the streams and bleeds them white, 

but such a death is transient and rivers run anew 

when day sees fit to break the endless night. 

The sun grew strong again. A gentle breath revived the lands. 

A latticework of rivulets converged 

across the ice to gurgle little channels through the bands 

of white and hints of blue as Spring emerged. 

The swelling rivers romped across their rumpled gravelled beds, 

a noisy game of leapfrog in the sun, 

contesting every bank along the ancient watersheds 

in effervescent adolescent fun. 

As if to answer reveille, canoes appeared on racks 

and kayaks crowned a fleet of westbound cars. 

We bounced up mountain roads and slid askew down muddy tracks 

and bivouac’d beneath a billion stars. 

The newlyweds arrived and nested in amongst our crew 

encamped along the restless little stream. 

They’d traded in their kayaks for a sixteen-foot canoe: 

the partnership would paddle as a team. 

A tandem boat’s attraction is the teamwork it requires, 

the unison, the sharing and the trust. 

but trust takes time to grow, no matter what the heart desires, 

it’s hard for solo paddlers to adjust. 

The sparrow liked to run along the river’s fastest course, 

she knew her craft and read the current well. 

The hawk would spur his vessel like a knight astride a horse 

and joust with ev’ry surf encrusted swell. 

It pained to watch them paddle through a technical approach, 

she’d reach to draw the bow around a crest 

but he would overpower her, and often would reproach 

the choice she made. His way was always best. 

She didn’t mind at first. She let him choose the line and pursed 

her lips each time they banged beneath the white 

or broached across a rock he didn’t see. But when he cursed 

at her for dumping them, her jaw was tight. 

A chill crept in around the evening fire. A silence loomed 

like icy fog that creeps a lonely dock. 

They sat apart, the sparrow’s bright, engaging smile entombed 

beneath moist eyes averted from the hawk. 

The mountain skies socked in and drenched our muddy camp 

with unrelenting rain. We pulled our gear 

above the highest waterline and settled in the damp 

to wait, impatient for the skies to clear. 

33


Love 

A sodden figure stooped outside my tent and called my name. 

I lifted up the flap to see the hawk. 

He nursed a hot rum toddy and he offered me the same 

and dripped inside to settle down and talk. 

“I used to love the rain,” the hawk confessed. “We’d stay in bed 

and snuggle out the cold. The rain would creep 

across the nylon skin that trembled gently overhead 

and we would drift through after-love to sleep.” 

He stopped. We sat, not speaking, for a while. The mountains rained 

a soft tattoo across the canopy. 

“She’s changed. She never smiles. Our conversation’s always strained. 

She doesn’t want to be alone with me.” 

I watched the steam ascend above his battered coffee cup 

and held my tongue. He rambled on about 

the silly little things she did that got his dander up 

and how when he corrected her, she’d pout. 

I squirmed a bit at that. I’m not a man who likes to be 

corrected much myself. I take the view 

that rivers aren’t canals, to be contained. I’ve yet to see 

two rivers run the same, and my canoe 

would soon become irrelevant to me if that were so. 

I searched, before I spoke, for kinder ways 

to speak my mind with honesty. I tried. But I just know 

one word with all the meaning it conveys. 

“You are an ass, my friend!” I said. He flushed and looked surprised, 

but candour’s worth the clarity it brings. 

“You’re too intelligent a man to not have realized 

that you have wounded her. You’ve clipped her wings 

and now you question why she doesn’t soar the way she did.” 

I gave him my analogy about 

canals. He stared at me in disbelief. Confusion slid 

across his face and I began to doubt 

he ever really knew what he had done. “You want control” 

I said, “but partnerships don’t work like that. 

You can’t carve out a part of anything and have a whole. 

She doesn’t need to change. You do!” He sat 

and glowered through his brows at me, but didn’t interject 

so I kept on: “and blame,” I said “is not 

constructive. Don’t be blaming her when things go wrong. Expect 

that things won’t always go the way you thought. 

They don’t. That’s life. Get used to it!” He scowled and gripped his cup 

so tight that all his knuckles seemed to glow. 

He wouldn’t look at me, and didn’t speak. He just got up 

and left without a word. I let him go. 

34


Love 

I should have shown more empathy, he’d been a friend of mine 

for many years. I told him not to blame 

and then disparaged him. It wasn’t right. I’d crossed the line. 

My sanctimony slowly turned to shame. 

I chewed regret until the taste was foul. I knew 

apologies were due. I went outside 

to find my friend. His truck was gone, and so was his canoe. 

He’d up and left, and left behind his bride. 

It rained relentlessly that night, but even through the rain 

I heard the sparrow crying in her tent. 

I cried as well, for nothing I could do would stop her pain. 

The night poured out its own forlorn lament. 

A cold grey mist diffused the night and drizzled into day. 

The sparrow brought me coffee laced with rye. 

Her eyes were red. She hadn’t slept a bit. We didn’t say 

too much, just sat and let the day drift by. 

In early afternoon the rain relaxed, and blue appeared 

in patches here and there. The camp awoke 

and paddlers craned their necks towards the west. A summit reared 

above dispersing clouds. The weather broke. 

We stood outside and watched a rainbow arc across the sky. 

The sun poked through in shafts and slowly peeled 

away the curls of steam that swayed across the well-worn fly 

above my tent. And then the sparrow squealed. 

With every fender rattling, that old truck chewed up the ground. 

A pair of brand new kayaks rode the rack. 

He must have cleaned out every single flower shop around 

‘cause thirty dozen roses filled the back. 

The hawk was all contrition when he skidded to a stop. 

The sparrow didn’t wait for him to speak. 

She flew across the puddles, gave a funny little hop, 

and kissed him on his disconcerted beak. 

The skies burst blue. The sunlight blazed and danced across the ground. 

A laugh was joined and turned a summersault 

around the camp. That night, across my sleeping bag, I found 

an amber flask of ancient single malt. 

The Sparrow and the Hawk was previously published in Karwacki P, Corbett K and Gilchrist PG: 

Paddle Tracks. Edmonton, Alberta: Kakwa River Press, 2004. 

35


Love 

Almost Leaving 

Karen Godson 

There is a hint of storm upon the breeze; 

a ring-around-the-rosy made of leaves. 

A gentle kiss from Jack Frost on the land 

and at my sides my lovers stroll, 

each hand-in-hand-in-hand. 

Beyond the path, where green grass meets gray sky 

exists a place reluctant songbirds fly 

into the setting sun, and lovers part. 

Reality and sadness cast 

a pall upon the heart. 

Such silence hanging shapeless in the air; 

so much to say yet neither of us dare 

disturb the solace of this final hour; 

and so we taste the honey while 

we let the milk go sour. 

Autumn Walking Summer Home 

Karen Godson 

August's heat bows to September's cool, 

with green leaves threatening to turn 

to vibrant red and Midas-gold; 

the World pauses on the threshold 

between two seasons; so we learn 

that he who resists should be called " Fool". 

For who can stop the sweet Autumn breeze 

from gently walking Summer home 

and leaving kiss on sun-warmed cheek 

The whispering winds through bent boughs speak 

of passing evenings when we'd roam 

through fields of wildflow'rs with hearts at ease. 

And so the dried leaves now are scattered 

as we hesitantly shuffle 

down the road that leads to goodbye. 

Do not look back. Do not ask why. 

As leaves are joyful in their scuffle, 

just laugh and play as if naught mattered. 

36


Love 

Great Unanswered Questions of History 

Richard Scarsbrook 

I wonder if Shakespeare was ever eighteen 

Did he work at a gas bar, tell stories for free 

Did he hike to the East side to the beatnik cafe 

To hide in the shadows and drink underage 

I wonder when Plato got his first kiss 

When she offered her lips, did he pucker and miss 

Did he make up tall tales to tell loafers at school 

Did he put on black leather, pretend to be cool 

I wonder if Einstein ever worried about 

The zits on his face, while he made out 

Had the cops in the campground heard the noise in the tent 

Had he saved enough money for his college rent 

I wonder if Freud got weak in the knees 

When a girl like you began to tease 

Would you be there beside him when he woke up 

Would you head for the sunset with him in his pickup truck 

Here tomorrow, gone today 

History seems to work that way 

Here today, just you and me 

As for History, we'll just wait and see 

37


Love 

The Guide 


The clients’ rhythmic breathing relayed ‘round 

the soft aortic pulse of glowing coals. 

The camp was still. The only other sound 

was water running over graveled shoals. 

He drew the night around him like a down 

duvet and strolled across the sandy beach. 

The Sky put on her blackest sequined gown 

and danced for him, but always out of reach. 

The moon’s reflection seemed to skip along 

the ripples running past the camp from crest 

to crest, a xylophone of light and song 

that played for him, the River’s favoured guest. 

He shed his clothes across a rock and stepped 

to part the silver shimmers of the moon. 

He heard a sound from where his clients slept, 

a zipper pulled along a down cocoon. 

He knew. He’d seen her watching him all day 

but every time he turned to meet her eye 

she’d dropped her head and turned her face away. 

He smiled as water curled around his thigh. 

His shoulders squared, he faced Orion’s belt. 

The moonlight etched his outline on the sky. 

A wavelet kissed his copper curls. He felt 

the velvet touch of her appraising eye. 

She stood beyond the glow around the fire 

and watched his splendid abluent display. 

Propriety restrained her keen desire 

to drop her clothes. The moment slipped away. 

She longed to touch the curve above his waist, 

to trail her fingers down his arms, and feel 

the gentle power there. She ached to taste 

the sweat that clung to him like dew to steel. 

He dipped to wash his face and stood again, 

the water running down his sculptured chest 

in rivulets, like gentle summer rain. 

She flushed across her lightly heaving breast. 

Ashamed, she turned and softly crept away, 

returning to her down cocoon to fold 

her wanton wings and try to sleep. She lay 

in misery. The night had now turned cold. 

38


Love 

She slept, ‘though intermittently, and dreamed 

of butterflies on copper curls, and yet 

when morning broke without a dew it seemed 

the hair that framed her cheeks was soaking wet. 

Dim Sum 

Sharron R. McMillan 

Little pieces near the heart 

shared in quiet here 

tiny portions of a soul 

minute scraps of fear. 

Crumbs that fall unnoticed 

swept up with the dust 

scanty words and compact thoughts 

handed out with trust. 

Do you hear the meagre words 

crumbs that fall so faint 

can you hear my heart’s voice speak 

beneath its restraint 

Do you care, these few small sounds 

are thoughts of mine apart 

and that to you I dare to give 

these pieces near my heart 

39


Love 

Lyric for an Irish May 

Michael Moreland Milligan 

I’m sorry love about last night, 

I’m so ashamed I could not bring 

myself to you I have no right 

to wed without a weddin’ ring. 

The landlord says my rent is due, 

I’ll be evicted from my land, 

yer pa says I’ll not be marryin’ you, 

‘til I offer more than my empty hand. 

No hard feelings love, I understand, 

I can not get yer papa’s will, 

the bank has foreclosed on my land, 

but bank be damned, I love ya still. 

I'll meet tonight with a jug’a wine, 

and hold ya close unto my heart, 

a ring of yarn will make you mine– 

nor pa, nor death, nor rent shall part. 

Come away, come away sweet, 

for like the darling buds of may, 

we are creatures of today, 

and tomorrow we can not stay. 

Someday soon the silvery moon 

will look and never find me, 

and I will no more sing my tune, 

but sail across this lonely sea. 

I’ve got a ticket, I’m going soon 

tomorrow mornin’ I’ll be gone– 

come walk with me beneath the moon, 

and hold my hand until the dawn. 

Come away, come away sweet, 

one last night we’ll love and play, 

tomorrow before the break of day 

I’ll be sailin’ towards the USA. 

It’s been five years since Ellis Isle, 

I found my fortune in the world new. 

I’ll be comin’ home in a little while, 

been savin’ for to marry you. 

We’ll buy that land beside the stream 

and build beneath the willow tree. 

We’ll live the life the poets dream– 

if only you will wait for me. 

Far away, far away sweet– 

every morning I shall pray 

the Lord will let me see that day 

when on the heather we shall lay. 

40


Love 

The famine came and married you, 

I’m so sorry I took so long. 

The vow that I would swear to you 

has turned into this mourning song. 

I finally bought that piece of land 

beside the stream and willow tree, 

where our two grave stones both shall stand– 

your bridal bier my bed shall be. 

Gone away, gone away sweet, 

for like the darling buds of May 

which grow in Spring about your grave 

our love’s a thing that would not stay. 

Caution 

Nigel Clive Bruton 

Better walk slow 

Take heed where you pass 

Love’s going to find you 

Take you in its grasp 

Reel you in slow 

And spit you out fast 

All while you’re thinking 

This one will last. 

41


Love 

Northern Light 

Nigel Clive Bruton 

Mystery woman of northern spires 

Fills the soul with man’s desires 

Creeps through sleepy rolling eyes 

And whiles away the daylight skies 

Ever gently she does move 

The wind behind sweeps up the gloom 

Ahead the night does sparkle brightly 

Creating shadows in darkness, lightly 

Now and then disguised as one 

Who could not melt under the sun 

Her spell will cast a long, long way 

Through time and space, through night and day 

Until the one it’s aiming for 

Opens up the mystery door 

Like an arrow through the heart 

The magic flows through blood so dark 

The time is short she gives the man 

Condensed forever in her hand 

And passes it so sweetly over 

Under covers and in the clover 

But now she’s gone the door is closed 

Just a dream he must suppose 

And though the feeling will thin with time 

And life’s routines will dull the mind 

His heart and soul 

Will remember when 

The mystery woman 

Danced with him. 

42


Love 

Letters of Love 

Patricia Louise Gamache 

I found some cards you sent me 

So many years ago 

I'd tied them with blue ribbon 

Just wanted you to know 

The message has not changed at all 

Those words you wrote inside 

They mean as much to me today 

And yes, they made me cry 

I've tied them very carefully 

I'll keep them yet awhile 

And when I find them one more time 

I know they'll bring a smile 

And as I hold them close again 

Just as you'd want me to 

I wonder where the cards have gone 

I'd sent from me to you. 

43


Love 

Men and Women are the Same 

Mark Clement 

It is said that men and women are the same. 

We struggle with that gender-neutral dance 

and nature laughs and keeps on with its game. 

Men always glance at any pretty dame 

and woman’s lips are painted to enhance. 


Women in pants are now like men of fame 

while famous men are quiet in their stance 

and nature laughs and keeps on with its game . 

Men can recite each hockey player’s name 

while women sniff at such a brutal dance. 


Women on TV fight and often maim 

while tender men can hardly look askance 


Women juggle many bouncing balls and pain 

while narrow men play their one game of chance. 

It is said that men and women are the same 


44


Love 

Rules of Engagement 


Our conference is winding down. 

Tomorrow we’ll fly out of town. 

Before we leave for places far 

We kill time in this hotel bar. 

A cad will fuel his manly pride 

With sneaky romance on the side. 

To prove I'm not that kind of louse 

I’ve talked about my kids and spouse. 

But even though that line’s been drawn, 

It’s fun to feel that old frisson 

While chatting up the other sex, 

Imagining what could come next. 

We’ve been around; we know the rules. 

Thank goodness we’re no longer fools 

Of hormones that have ceased to rage 

When people reach “a certain age.” 

Or maybe we just choose to see 

A virtue in necessity: 

We stifle yawns. I should not stay. 

Tomorrow is a busy day. 

So thanks for spending time with me. 

You’ve been delightful company. 

This is my E-mail; here’s my phone. 

(I doubt you’ll call when you get home.) 

I hope it won't offend you much, 

Or make you think you’ve lost your touch, 

If I should pack it in so soon, 

And fail to walk you to your room. 

Far better we avoid tonight 

An awkward choice of wrong or right. 

Some fantasies are best unsaid 

As pleasant dreams, alone in bed. 

True, nothing ventured, nothing gained; 

But if Life’s cup we have not drained, 

We’ll shake hands now with conscience clear – 

And share another drink next year! 

45


Love 

Wind of Despair 

Patricia Louise Gamache 

An angry wind blows over me 

It fills me with despair 

It twists and turns tumultuously 

And chills me everywhere 

It blows so cold I cannot stand 

To have you far away 

I try to reach the gentle hand 

That touched me every day 

And while the wind sings wearily 

It makes my heart grow cold 

I must pretend you're here with me 

Your soul I try to hold 

And as I strive to capture you 

I reach but you're not there 

And when alone I fall asleep 

I'm filled with deep despair. 

46


Love 

How Like Unto a Longing Heart 

Vincent W. Williams 

How like unto a longing heart was I 

When touch of hand or silent word be spoke; 

Betimes I wakened to my Sorrow’s sigh, 

As plaintive murmur did its woe invoke. 

T’was then my thoughts recalled some happy day, 

Some former moments smothered in a smile; 

No longer did my spirit dare to play, 

Nor claim a childlike pleasure to beguile. 

But then celestial symphony’s surprise, 

Inspiriting a heavenly desire, 

Became the only vision for my eyes: 

Became my life, and did my heart inspire. 

O, panoply of sense, I pledge to thee, 

My passion now and for eternity. 

47


Love 

The Maiden's Tale 

Gregory J. Christiano 

Once on a bright midsummer's eve 

The moon in fullness shone, 

I wandered to a garden near, 

To meditate alone. 

And as I thought of youthful days 

That seemed to swiftly fly, 

A manly youth and lovely girl 

Unawares, then passed me by. 

And as they thus in silence walked, 

His arm around her thrown, 

He gently drew her to a seat 

And by her side sat down. 

"Dear James," I heard the young girl say, 

"This is a lovely eve, 

Just such a moment when you told 

The tale of Genevieve. 

"And as your stories - be they true, 

Or only fancy's flight, 

Are all so full of interest, 

Please tell me one tonight." 

A saddened smile his face illumed, 

He gently took her hand, 

And paused a while in thoughtful mood 

Then thus his tale began: 

"Sweet girl, a wild and reckless bird 

Was sweeping through the skies, 

A serpent saw, and on him fixed 

Its fascinating eyes. 

"Alas, poor bird, he knew 'twas death, 

And oft did he essay 

To break the charm that drew him down, 

To where the serpent lay. 

"But all in vain, for none was there, 

With kind and pitying eye, 

To aid the efforts of the bird, 

And he was left to die. 

“Just then a maiden passing by, 

The danger quickly posed 

And banishing all other thoughts, 

She to the rescue rose. 

48


Love 

"A few kind words discreetly urged, 

In gentle, winning tone, 

Quickly dissolved the charmed spell 

That round him had been thrown. 

"She raised him up, then with a cord, 

Invisible but strong, 

She firmly bound him to her side, 

Then gaily tripped along. 

"And now and then her head she turned, 

Deliberately and slow, 

With well-feigned wonder in her looks 

That he should follow so. 

"Sometimes, in light and laughing mood, 

She'd with her captive play, 

Then turn and in a pettish tone, 

Would bid him go away. 

"But ever if he turned to go, 

Thinking the bond to spurn, 

One glance from her would touch the cord 

And force him to return. 

"And thus the cruel maiden lives, 

Toying from day to day, 

Forever bidding him depart, 

Yet forcing him to stay. 

"Now, dearest Emma, need I say, 

I am that silly bird, 

Bound by the cords of love to you, 

The kind but cruel maid 

"Do not this fond and faithful heart, 

To dark despair resign; 

O grant me this and make be blest, 

Say will you not be mine" 

Of course she could not crush the love 

So tenderly revealed, 

And so he pressed his lips to hers, 

And thus the bargain sealed. 

49


Love 

Shadow of Bird 


Shadow of bird, 

Feature of feathers: 

No hint of hue– 

and no whisper’s so soft: 

Secret as sweet 

as the scent of our loving, 

Love that we share 

winging weightless aloft. 

Lovely, the song– 

cadence of pleasure– 

all time is ours 

in a singular kiss: 

Hearts that may know 

in such exquisite measure 

memory’s gift 

in a moment like this. 

Then, like the bird– 

soft as a shadow– 

one day the song 

will be hushed in the air. 

Only the shadow 

of bird may remember 

once upon memory’s 

love that was there. 

Shadow of bird, 

Lost in the heavens: 

Sadly it fades 

with the dimming of light. 

Only the dream 

of tomorrow morn’s dawning 

gives back the hope 

as it takes back the night. 

Shadow of bird: 

Feature of feathers– 

no hint of hue– 

and no whisper’s so soft: 

Secret as sweet 

as the scent of our loving, 

Love that we share 

Winging weightless aloft. 

50


Love 

The Golden Lie 

Frances McConnel 

Love is a golden lie, a sacrificial rite; 

You’re lost the moment that you think you’re found. 

Don’t hold me close; don’t let my eyes shut tight. 

Someone said always once; tradition made it trite; 

Like dirty bills it passes round and round. 

Love is a golden lie, a sacrificial rite. 

Don’t tell me that my skin is petal sweet, the bright 

Rays of my onyx eyes have struck you down. 

Don’t hold me close; don’t let my eyes shut tight. 

A new car blinds as well, a serial delight 

That fades with its first dent—that dismal sound. 

Love is a golden lie–the sacrificial rite 

Mom used to teach us guilt and speed our flight. 

Love is what Daddy dreads—the old shake-down. 

Don’t hold us close, we beg, our eyes shut tight. 

But still, we’ll bandage up the lacy bite 

Gouged from our hearts. Come, lover, let us drown. 

Don’t hold me close, don’t let my eyes shut tight 

Is lovers’ golden lie, their sacrificial right. 

51


Love 

Amalthea, The Unicorn 

Gene Dixon 

Are you really light as air Can you truly fly 

Does your graceful, spiral lance put stars into the sky 

You walk in quiet beauty. Your name is world renowned. 

Upon what silver pasture can the likes of you be found 

Flowing soft from crown to nape you wear a cloudlike mane. 

Your eyes have captured moonlight, you dance inside the rain. 

You move as soft as silence, like shadows on the ground. 

Upon what misty meadow can the likes of you be found 

Your image lives in poet's dreams, a fragile flower, free. 

In time you've touched the topaz sky and swum the emerald sea. 

A carousel has been your world with children spinning 'round. 

Among what rainbow visions can the likes of you be found 

The mystery of your magic lives in every tale that's told 

of princesses in peril, of knights whose hearts are bold. 

In the eyes of kings and emperors your images abound. 

Oh, where, in God's creation, can the likes of you be found 

Immortals, frail and delicate, live mostly in our dreams. 

Love, like truth and unicorns, is seldom what it seems. 

Still we strain to feel its tender touch and tremble at its sound. 

Within which lover's laughter can the likes of you be found 

52


The Dark Side 

53


The Dark Side 

The Works of Poe 


Black and gothic, 

expelling ink, 

dark phantom brings 

from feathered quill, 

words of terror. 

A telltale heart, 

morbid mood swings, 

grotesque and shrill. 

Ravens knocking, 

`ere go the chimes, 

into the night 

of bells, bells, bells. 

Indigo shades 

of rhythmic rhymes, 

great depths of fright, 

arabesque tales. 

Melancholy, 

the works of Poe, 

great urgent need 

by candlelight 

expressed his thoughts, 

exposed his woe, 

for those who read 

his tales of night. 

54


The Dark Side 

Lady of Decay 

Anne Baldo 

Lady of decay, 

the junkyard bride, 

tell me why the castle you rejected 

so in the refuse heap you could reside. 

Now you’re queen of the gutters 

this sewage whore of mine 

through the drains with bare white feet 

both filthy and sublime. 

My angel of the alleyways, 

through the tenements you reign, 

the derelicts you strew with gold 

will forever call your name. 

Rotten leaves in your red hair, 

scars where broken bottles traced, 

the royalty of waifs and strays, 

sweet lady of the waste. 

Oh your rusted mouth 

oh your bleeding hands 

believe me when I tell you 

no one else could understand. 

55


The Dark Side 

Her Funeral Flowers Never Bloomed 

Anne Baldo 

Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom, 

Married a day and buried in her wedding gown. 

Her funeral flowers never bloomed. 

She lies in a dim-lit yellow room, 

Laid with lilies, pallid blue. 


There sits her melancholy groom, 

Gazing at his shrouded bride. 

Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom. 

She never could accept what loomed, 

The wedding-cake has fallen through. 


Incense and cedar-wood perfume, 

Wrapped in gauze, dead ivory hue. 

Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom. 

The wedding home is but a tomb, 

A funeral for their honeymoon. 

Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom– 


56


The Dark Side 

Between Heaven and Earth 

Anne Baldo 

She was caught between heaven and earth when she died 

They say that’s the price of her suicide 

I hope she sleeps now where the poppies bloom white. 

She laughed with me only yesterday night 

Wreathing her hair with sweet columbine 


Like a bird on the sea-strand she went out with the tide 

Flowers in her hair shone with searing sunlight 


Whispers of vampires haunted the night 

Staked through the heart so she couldn’t rise 


The dark bells at our church were forbidden to chime 

At the crossroads she lies, as if marked by her crime 

She was caught between heaven and earth when she died. 

Light all the candles for Hades’ new bride 

For the Asphodel Meadows are impassably wide 



57


The Dark Side 

The Sea of Silence 

I.B. Iskov 

Lost in an ocean filled with fear. 

My thoughts immersed, like sunken ships. 

Broken dreams and shattered hopes 

Are locked within my frozen lips. 

The sea of silence captures me. 

An endless rhythm in my brain. 

Chained to the waves of misery. 

Groping for my life in vain. 

A puppet in the hands of fate. 

Glued to the strings of destiny. 

Dancing to a demon's tune. 

A cruel and heartless melody. 

Like the wind, a careless breeze 

Carrying all my memories. 

Scattering leaves of shame and scorn 

In swirling, falling pillories. 

My screams engulfed in salty tears. 

They fill the ocean of my soul. 

A prisoner in the sunken ships. 

No flag of hope upon the pole. 

Snake in the Grass 

Brenda Tate 

My mower slices spine and then is still 

beside his severed coil. He sprawls inert 

with mortal burden, unavoided hurt 

that I have dealt like God, but not through will. 

He draws the white across his eye, until 

I know that he is sightless, while a spurt 

of serum bleeds against his fire. The dirt 

awaits its quenching, as I watch him spill. 

But this is not my pain, nor my concern, 

he seems to tell me. Therefore, I must leave 

him to such insect rites as may address 

the purpose, never pause my work to learn 

a little more of death. My carelessness 

is his to suffer, but not mine to grieve. 

58


The Dark Side 

Plague 

David Anderson 

Arms like trees, back broad and long 

I am a labourer by trade, 

Though I don’t brag, of all my friends 

I lift the most – it’s how I’m made! 

There’s nothing I like more than when 

They need me for a heavy crate, 

Though now I see my gift of strength 

Was not enough to fend off fate. 

For one black day a judgment came 

The heavens meted me a test, 

A thing not heavy in dead weight 

But from its pull I had no rest. 

And me this thing rode many years: 

I blocked all thought of that black seed; 

A seed it was and grew it did 

Roots in my back down through my knees. 

The plague it brought weighed less than air 

But heavily it dragged me down, 

I fell (a giant of a man) to grief 

And shrank into the ground. 

As I quivered on my knees 

My strength depleted by the weight, 

I knew the size of a man's arms 

Shows little of what he can take– 

For during ten strong years alone 

My good wife’s death had built my tomb. 

59


The Dark Side 

The Great Equalizer 

Pearl Watley Mitchell 

Hey, I saw it 

with my own eyes! 

What a surprise 

when I realized … 

they were all gathered there, 

some alone, some in pairs 

lounging together, so diverse 

brought together for good or worse 

soldiers, lawyers, plumbers, teachers 

waiters, doctors, unemployed speakers 

secretaries, prostitutes, and preachers 

laborers, writers, and illiterate creatures. 

I never thought I’d see the days 

all those people in just one place, 

class status truly gone, 

names and dates clearly shown. 

I strolled through and greeted them all 

the grass so green, the stones so tall 

it occurred to me, there they were buried 

in the great equalizer – the cemetery. 

60


The Dark Side 

Anger 


« La vie étant ce qu’elle est, on rêve de vengeance. » - Paul Gauguin 

Against unyielding crag on storm-swept shore, 

In useless fury smites the raging sea. 

An angry heart so breaks for evermore 

Upon the barren cliff of memory. 

We hate the ones who kept us from our goal, 

Abusing our sweet trust with lies or guile; 

The faithless lover who once scarred our soul; 

The false friend with the condescending smile. 

Who would not burn, unnoticed and ignored, 

When rivals steal the credit for his labor, 

His contributions unacknowledged, scorned, 

While others feast on fruit he worked to savor 

A careless insult haunts us like a curse 

That strikes us mute, not knowing what to say. 

At night we fret and sleeplessly rehearse 

Lost wars we might have fought another way. 

Should we strive to be like our enemy, 

Surpassing his deceit, if we are wise 

It surely would be vile hypocrisy 

To emulate the traits we most despise. 

How could we fan to action and redress 

A smoldering ire that fears to speak its name 

When conscience counsels our uncertainness, 

Revenge dissolves in bitter, silent shame. 

And when crude vengeance cannot satisfy, 

We fantasize that in some future days 

Such glowing deeds our name may dignify 

That old foes shall regret their callous ways. 

Oh pointless Anger, must you learn so late 

The lesson that we always should have known 

The heart hurts but itself when, filled with hate, 

It beats against a past that’s carved in stone. 

We cannot rest while tempests blast the mind, 

And never can we cross a wrathful sea 

‘Til time may calm the waves and help us find 

The deep, still waters of maturity. 

61


The Dark Side 

Ripples 

Opal Michelle Norris 

A tear for the sick 

A tear for the dying 

A tear for the orphans, 

homeless and crying. 

A tear for the hungry 

A tear for world peace 

A tear for the lost, 

alone, or diseased. 

A tear for the helpless, 

maimed in the street 

A tear for the children, 

We may never meet. 

A tear for the loved one, 

we may never find 

A tear for the chair-bound, 

mute, deaf, and blind. 

A tear for hatred, 

that brought this world sorrow, 

A tear for those, 

who are gone with tomorrow. 

Gray Streaks of Dawn 

Gene Dixon 

A breath before gray streaks of dawn 

Begin announcing night has gone 

And pastel colors tint the sky, 

The time is right for such as I 

To stand upon the wave-washed stones 

And contemplate sea captive bones. 

Those who sleep beneath the swells, 

Those who heard the final bells 

That tolled as ships so quickly slipped 

Down to the depths as spirits ripped 

Away their mortal coil, then drawn 

Into the sky, gray streaks of dawn. 

They seek me out each silent morn 

To tell me of the life they've worn. 

62


The Dark Side 

Voices On the Wind 


Throw more logs on the fire, 

We have need of cheerful light, 

And close round the hearth to gather, 

For the wind has risen tonight. 

With the mournful sound of its wailing, 

It has checked the children's glee 

And it calls with louder clamor 

Than the clamor of the sea. 

Listen to what it's saying 

Let us note to where its been; 

For it tells, in its terrible crying, 

The fearful sights it has seen. 

It clatters loud at the casements 

Round the house it hurries on, 

And shrieks with redoubled fury 

When we ask, "Where has it gone" 

It has been on the field of battle, 

Where the dying and wounded lie, 

And it brings the last groan they uttered, 

And the ravenous vulture's cry. 

It has been where the icebergs were meeting, 

And closed with a fearful crash; 

On shores where no foot has wandered, 

It has heard the waters dash. 

It has been on the desolate ocean, 

When the lightning struck the mast; 

It has heard the cry of the drowning, 

Who sank as it hurried past; 

The words of despair and anguish 

That were heard by no living ear; 

The gun that no signal answered, 

It brings them all to us here. 

It has swept through the gloomy forest, 

Where the lion was urged to its speed, 

Where the howling wolves were rushing 

On the track of the panting steed; 

Where the pool was black and lonely, 

It caught up a splash and a cry – 

Only the bleak sky heard it, 

And the wind as it hurried by. 

63


The Dark Side 

Then throw more logs on the fire, 

Since the air is bleak and cold, 

And the children are drawing nigher, 

For the tales that the wind has told; 

So closer and closer gather 

Round the red and crackling light, 

And rejoice (while the wind is blowing), 

We are safe and warm tonight. 

Only Once! 


Jar one chord, the harp is silent; 

Move one stone, the arch is shattered; 

One short clarion-cry of sorrow 

Bids mighty armies to awake; 

One dark cloud hides the sunlight; 

One loose string and pearls are scattered; 

Think one thought, faith may perish; 

Say one word, a heart may break! 

64


The Dark Side 

Villanella Nervosa 

Zachariah Wells 

They say that it's a rage to order. 

First chaos, like grains of sand, seeps in 

Then troops are mustered at the border 

To hold at bay the dark marauder: 

It's as much what stays out as what one keeps in 

That defines this particular rage to order. 

Line up each bite on the plate like a soldier 

On a white field he lives, fights and finally sleeps in 

As he struggles to breach the enemy's border. 

(In this bone house you are merely a boarder. 

This is a dwelling that nobody weeps in: 

It's against the rules of the rage to order.) 

The so-called experts name it disorder 

And mobilize wolves decked out in sheepskin 

To harry the opposite side of the border. 

Skin shrinkwraps bone tight at the shoulder 

While head and gut conspire to heap sin 

Upon sin. Please—surrender your rage to order, 

Let peace-keepers trickle in over the border. 

65


The Dark Side 

The Foundling 

Cynthia K. Deatherage 

From out the cold and under deep, 

within the shadows of the Keep, 

throughout the day, throughout the dark, 

three Sisters at their weaving work. 

Swifter than the eye can follow, 

Patterns shape both high and hollow. 

Lives, they say, are twined therein– 

the paths men choose to live within. 

The loom is fast, the weaver's beam 

weaves a pattern without seam. 

Endless, endless, ever growing, 

knowing all, yet never showing. 

None has seen it, none save one– 

a foundling lad, a no-man's son. 


within the shadows of their Keep, 

beneath the water's ceaseless sigh, 

three Sisters heard a baby's cry. 

Someone left a boy-child near, 

crying loud with hungry fear. 

Said Sister One to sisters two, 

"Leave the weaving, warp and woof. 

Let us find this little bird, 

for in my heart his voice has stirred 

a longing as I have not known 

to weave his young life with our own." 

So leaving all their weaving still, 

they found the babe on grassy hill, 

and Sister Two in plump, round arms 

calmed the child with smiles and charms. 

But Sister Three just mumbled low: 

"We've left too long–our work is slow." 


within the shadows of the Keep, 

three Sisters brought the foundling child 

to raise him gently, raise him mild, 

to give him love with love returned, 

never lacking, never spurned. 

And so he grew from babe to youth, 

learning knowledge, knowing truth. 

Nothing from the lad was hidden– 

save the woven cloth forbidden 

for a mortal's eye to see; 

save only this–the rest was free. 

66


The Dark Side 

It chanced upon a certain day, 

the Sisters let their young charge stray 

too close next to their weaver's loom, 

and there, as if through misty gloom, 

the young lad spied one golden thread; 

one thread was all, and yet deep dread 

fell on the weavers suddenly. 

The Sisters shuddered heavily: 

"Our son, alas! What have you done" 

The child returned, "I saw but one." 

Sister Two said, "Tell us, then, 

was the thread a thick or thin" 

"A thick one with a golden hue 

and shining as with sun-bright dew– 

and yet the more I gazed upon it, 

the dimmer grew the sun-glow on it." 

Said Sister One, "There's more to say" 

"Well, then it changed from gold to grey. 

The color blurred before my sight– 

yet, once it gleamed with final light. 

It filled me with a gloom and hope. 

What does it mean I search and grope 

to learn but cannot comprehend." 

"It is not yours to know the end," 

Sister One said, soft, to him, 

while Sister Three just nodded, grim. 

"Alas, my dove," the eldest crooned, 

"the time has come, the time of doom, 

when you must leave our humble hollow, 

follow ways that all must follow. 

So the Master Weaver said, 

and none can change his golden thread." 

And so with sad farewell thus spoken, 

Sisters three gave him a token. 

"Choose from this our treasure store, 

enchanted tools, and magic lore: 

a sun-bright sword that none may vanquish; 

cloak to cause yourself to vanish; 

or if you will a trade to hold– 

a hammer made of fairy gold, 

and you will be a smith of fame 

with none an equal to your name. 

Or if you will–" 

67


The Dark Side 

–"I'll none of those," 

the lad spoke up and half arose. 

"If I leave, as leave I must, 

a cloak will tear, a sword will rust, 

a hammer fail and fame will fade 

as with the name the glory made. 

If gift you give, give none of these, 

but yonder harp, if you so please. 

And ever and withal I'll play 

to keep you with me day by day." 

The harp was old with carvings faint, 

though once was bright, now dull the paint. 

But strings were strong, and chords were deep 

with haunting magic yet asleep. 

Said Sister Two, "You've chosen fine. 

Until your path and ours entwine, 

receive this blessing from our hearts, 

bound with all our love and arts: 

"Eyes to see and ears to hear, 

heart to feel but never fear, 

roaming, ever roaming long, 

throughout the land with harp and song, 

until the golden thread–your Doom– 

begin and end within our loom." 


from out the shadows of the Keep, 

along the ways both smooth and hard, 

three Sisters led a foundling bard, 

until they stood on grassy hill, 

beside a merry, flowing rill. 

And there the lad with one last smile, 

took his leave, began his mile. 

And as the Sisters watched him go, 

two wept; the Third just mumbled low: 

"We've left too long–our work is slow." 

68


The Dark Side 

Red Heart of Night 

Irene Livingston 

Small black fears tap-tap on windows, 

hungry bats. Bone-lonely walls 

edge in closer. Forlorn ceiling 

lowers as the darkness falls. 

Children sleeping, clock tick-ticking. 

Cupboard spreads itself apart, 

tilts its handle down, alluring, 

shows its warm red liquid heart. 

She is weary of resisting. 

Walls move forward, wanly shine, 

push her slowly to the lustrous 

ruby kisses of the wine. 

Fluid ardor strokes her senses, 

lubricates her frozen soul; 

Still it fails to keep its promise: 

sate her body, make her whole. 

Now the drum of music pulses 

in her breast, still uncaressed, 

in her feet, still bound and danceless 

throbbing with a joy repressed. 

Streetlights hover near the windows, 

stand obscenely peering in, 

while the door falls slyly open 

in a wide, salacious grin. 

69


The Dark Side 

Echoes 


She sashays, cool and careless through my door, 

throws off her backpack, sits, kicks off her shoes. 

We talk of this and that. I let her choose. 

Her hair’s a fountain, splashing curls galore. 

I ask about her lover, sense some lies, 

as nimble words go flitting, skirting all 

the thorny topics, till they stumble, fall 

on sore points. “I’m so furious!” she cries. 

For life is shoving her against rough walls. 

I hear, from hollow houses of the past, 

a distant howl as childhood springs at last 

and echoes in her throat. All pretense falls. 

The years, a heavy habit, drop away; 

face crumples, anguish flooding over pain– 

shaped eyes. Contorted mouth cannot contain 

hard-cornered, bitter words that rage and flay. 

I reach out to her grief and hold her head 

in shielding hands; I kiss her face and knead 

child-shoulders, murmur mother-words, I feed 

her tidbits of advice, like warm new bread 

spread gently with compassion ’s butter knife. 

Bowlfuls of comfort, cups of care, tea-hot. 

My loving spoonfuls warm her but cannot 

restrain or glove the callused fist of life. 

70


The Dark Side 

Guilty Plea 

Aaron Wilkinson 

I stand before you, humbled and dismayed, 

The only counsel in my own defense, 

Confessing sins that have not yet been named 

And hope that in the telling one repents. 

For starters let me say I’ve killed a man, 

An evil monster, shot him in the head. 

I wrapped him up and stuffed him in a van 

Then slit his throat, ensuring he was dead. 

He didn’t twitch and neither, friends, did I. 

I knew I hadn’t made the least mistake. 

We drove a while, I got a little high, 

Then late that night I sunk him in a lake. 

He floated for a minute, more or less, 

Before the water took his empty shell. 

I watched him sink without a hint of stress, 

Imagining that he was bound for Hell. 

Without a wit or wisdom scum attempt 

To make the world as they would have it be; 

A free-for-all of icy cold contempt 

Degraded past a state of anarchy. 

The wicked man I slew was one of such. 

I don’t believe he even had a soul. 

Perhaps I should have let him past my guard, 

Instead, I sinned and lost my self control. 

You miscreants, beware! You’re down by one, 

Unless I’m counted in amongst your ranks. 

I traded in my reason for a gun, 

And, just to let the record show it, thanks. 

71


The Dark Side 

Crazy 


Am I a crazy man 

There’s some might say it’s so. 

I’ve never been a fan 

Of those who think they know 

What’s really going down 

Behind the social show. 

I’d shtick and play the clown, 

To stay the angry blow 

Delivered in the dark 

Behind a warning frown 

Despite “Algonquin Park,” 

No matter where we’d go. 

At times I’d want to run 

Away for good and narc. 

My youth was roughly won, 

No pomp and bunting lark. 

They went and missed the mark. 

I went and bought a gun 

To shoot inside ‘cause, Hark! 

Thy first anointed son 

Was greased upon his crown 

To never bite but bark 

And thought that skipping town 

To head up North and shark 

Would go against the flow 

Enough as not to drown 

In misery and show 

His eyes were never brown. 

My yes is often no. 

I turned away and ran. 

It’s dark behind the glow. 

Am I a crazy man 

72


Then and Now 

73


Then and Now 

Winter Reflections 

Peggy Fletcher 

Beneath blue sun-filled skies, tall white forms gleam 

Bright beads of ice give way to watery hues 

Loud winter sounds of ax and church bells ring 

Creating time warp, bending years in two. 

Those snowmen that we built in earlier days 

Now stand in dreamy silence in my mind 

Huge friendly figures, scarves and hats, wind-swayed 

Brought laughter to young hearts, let pain subside. 

And though shared moments fade, this pure escape 

To childhood's frame of mind we gladly flee 

Though games are brief, and good times melt away 

The sharing warmed our words, left memories 

That somewhere in the future, snow-folk wait 

To fill cold worlds with joy, let dreams take shape. 

74


Then and Now 

Incident at Stirling Castle 

(September 1842) 

Wiley Clements 

MacKim an I stuid furth that day, 

in tairtan bleck an green; 

the Bleckwatch baund begaud tae play 

God Sauf oor Gracious Quean. 

Victoria rade throu the yett, 

a gret lord by her side. 

"Which heroes do we decorate" 

she askit, an he replied 

wi a hauty glence at me an MacKim, 

"Your Highness, these are they." 

"How odd a phrase," she says tae him, 

"Whose English is it, pray" 

"Madam, it's Your Majesty's'." 

"Not ours, my lord. We'd say 

not 'these are they,' but they are these 

we honour as best we may. 

Let each be made a captain, please, 

and paid a captain's pay." 

Sae lown a quean, sae strang a wit, 

the strangest o thaim aw; 

MacKim an I wad ser her yit 

gin muntains aw doun faw. 

Scots Terms: 

(in order of appearance in the poem) 

stuid=stood 

furth=forth 

tairtan=tartan 

baund=band 

begaud=began 

tae=to 

sauf=save 

oor=our 

quean=young woman or girl (a sort 

of pun on queen) 

rade=rode 

yett=gate 

askit=asked 

wi=with 

glence=glance 

sae=so 

lown=calm, serene 

strang, strangest=strong, strongest 

wit=wisdom 

thaim=them 

aw=all 

wad=would 

ser=serve 

yit=yet 

gin=if, even if 

muntains=mountains 

doun=down 

faw=fall 

75


Then and Now 

The Mile of Gold 


My wife and I came to this northern town 

As Displaced Persons after World War Two. 

Our country had been wrecked, our dreams shot down. 

We turned our backs on everything we knew. 

So beautiful was Anna! I, her man, 

Was tall and strong, and proud that she loved me. 

This new land would fulfill young lovers’ plans 

For us and for our children yet to be. 

In rocks of Kirkland Lake we drilled deep roots. 

I got a good job working in a mine 

Where dank and gloomy labyrinths we’d loot 

To prize out all the gold that we could find. 

And fate we cheated in a hundred ways 

As rock bursts, floods and cave-ins we survived. 

To see a sunset after sunless days 

Had taught us what it meant to be alive. 

Cold evenings at the hockey rink we’d spend 

In bloody combat underneath the stars; 

But we were always buddies once again 

When, laughing, we would head back to the bars. 

The main street shops had all the latest styles, 

And every kind of luxury they sold. 

On weekends folks would drive a hundred miles 

To do their shopping on the Mile of Gold. 

One time I damned near beat a man to death 

Who looked upon my wife with lustful eyes. 

A man must fight for what he loves the best, 

And who would steal it from him, he’ll despise. 

Then cancer took my Anna in her prime. 

No other woman ever filled her place. 

I carried on alone. From time to time, 

I still imagine I can see her face. 

When he had finished school, our son left home 

To look for work in offices down south. 

He found a better life than I have known – 

A cushy job, a boat, a fancy house. 

So one by one, the children left this place 

To seek their fortunes where they could be found; 

As years went by, there scarce remained a trace 

Of fortunes that once lay beneath the ground. 

76


Then and Now 

The mines that gave us work when I was young 

Played out and stood abandoned many years. 

The riches that so dearly we had won 

Had dwindled, and the jobs had disappeared. 

Now dozens of our businesses have shut. 

So many empty buildings can’t be sold, 

When every second store front’s boarded up 

Like broken teeth along the Mile of Gold. 

A mining town can’t win, the big-shots say: 

It’s boom and bust, not real prosperity. 

Diversity will bring us better days – 

A miracle I shall not live to see. 

Cold water trickles off the granite knolls 

Where ice is melting. Winter’s fading fast. 

But cigarettes and rock dust took their toll: 

The doctors fear this Spring may be my last. 

I’ll die as I have lived in this small town. 

I look ahead untroubled much by doubt. 

A hard rock miner can’t be beaten down – 

It’s Death alone who’ll finally knock me out. 

And when he comes, I’ll shake the Reaper’s hand 

With few regrets, now that I have grown old, 

Content that as a youth I made my stand 

In this tough town, when streets were paved with gold. 

Warriors Dance 

Chrissy K. McVay 

Trails among the Navaho 

riding sunset's dawn 

Whisper tales of wounded souls 

blessed by spirit songs 

Bronzed by bitter winds of time 

kneeling to dark guns 

Is it beast or burden now, 

fighting tortured sons 

Empty dreams of buffalo 

legends, lost by man 

Holding fear through bloodied tears 

strangers to wild lands. 

77


Then and Now 

The Odeon 


They say The Odeon went bust – 

That graveyard of desire! – 

Where unrequited teenage lust 

Produced more smoke than fire. 

Old movies blurred into the haze 

Of all we’ve done and seen. 

The remnants of our salad days 

Reluctantly we packed away 

In trunks of might-have-beens. 

Now, half a lifetime later, greet 

The friends whom once we’d known; 

And in their ageing faces meet 

Reflections of our own. 

Now at long last we can set down 

Worn baggage we have carried. 

When we return to our home town, 

It’s friendly handshakes all around 

As someone’s Mom is buried. 

Somewhere between the smiles and tears 

A childhood gets misplaced: 

The landmarks of our younger years, 

Torn down without a trace. 

Nostalgic hearts seek what is gone, 

Reality explains. 

She gently chides, the curtain’s drawn; 

The show is over. Run along. 

You can’t go home again. 

Dragon Days 

Angela Burns 

In dragon days, on nightmare flights 

They soared in hard-scaled, slit-eyed might 

O'er lands of myth they burned their way 

Yet only tales remain today 

But now reports show brimstone breaths 

Where plated forms shoot fiery deaths 

Dark feral things patrol the skies 

... Seems dragon days have been revived. 

78


Then and Now 

Toledo Cathedral 


Back in the New World outdated, old rubbish 

Ends up on tables where “antiques” are sold. 

Here in the gloom of Toledo’s cathedral, 

We gaze on statues six hundred years old. 

If they could have spoken, what would they have told 

Humbling to think that Spain’s powerful monarchs 

Trod these same flagstones in centuries past. 

Costumed in elegant robes and rich jewels, 

Down through the ages long shadows they cast. 

For good or ill did their legacies last 

Making a living from long faded glory, 

Merchants in town hawk from souvenir stands. 

One of these items must be to your liking – 

Maybe a sword that was made in Japan 

A full suit of armor would look truly grand! 

Out in the plaza, admire modern fashion: 

Girls wear hip-hugging jeans cut down to there, 

Meant to entrance all the young caballeros – 

Not three old tourists with thinning, gray hair. 

Out of politeness we try not to stare. 

Gone are the days when a pert señorita 

Stirred thoughts of love in these middle-aged men. 

Hard to believe that the years flew so quickly! 

Times of our carefree youth won't come again; 

But for this week we’re still three footloose friends. 

In the café we remember the old times – 

Keep them alive so the memories won’t pale! 

Rest your sore feet while the world hurries past us, 

Quaff your cervesa and tell us your tale, 

Measured with shots of espresso and ale! 

Don’t you recall when the world was a theme park, 

Made for a young man’s amusement alone 

Nowadays we aren’t such arrogant visitors, 

Knowing we’re guests in these good people’s home. 

They have agendas and lives of their own. 

In a few days we’ll be boarding an airplane 

Bound to where wives, kids and offices call, 

Grateful once more to embrace the familiar, 

‘Til we embark for adventures next fall. 

Sublime and ridiculous, we’ve seen it all! 

79


Then and Now 

The Loon: 

Eric Linden 

How the Loon got His Spots 

Back when the world was still quiet and peaceful, 

Tesuniah, the brave one, walked over the land. 

His lodge, on the shore of the shining, big water 

Was simple and cozy, yet notably grand. 

Tesuniah and family would fish and go hunting 

And often they’d venture on trips to explore 

The deep, scented forests of pines and tall cedars 

That grew on the mountains and hills by their door. 

The moons came and went and the seasons all followed 

From one to another as time passed on by. 

One day came great sadness – the wife of Tesuniah 

Had joined with the spirits and gone to the sky. 

Tesuniah was broken, he grieved and lamented; 

He mourned for his wife who had left him alone. 

Her last precious gift – white pearls on fine deerskin – 

He cherished it dearly, so beautifully sown. 

One night when the silence hung over the mountains 

And starlight was twinkling, he sat woefully 

By the edge of the lakeshore – the dark shimmering water 

Resounded the call of the loon, mournfully. 

The loon was as black as a night without moonlight. 

Tesuniah spoke asking, “What makes you so sad” 

They talked through the darkness, each telling his story, 

And when the dawn joined them, Tesuniah was glad. 

He knew what he needed to do at that moment; 

He knew that the pearls were a gift for the loon. 

He tossed him the band, but they broke on his feathers 

To roll on his back and forever lie strewn. 

80


Then and Now 

Weaving 

Angela Burns 

My shuttle flies, my heartbeat knows 

The weight of warp and weft is light 

I weave from dawn 'till daylight goes 

Then dream in hurried nights 

My shuttle slows, I savor days 

When warp and weft are rainbow-hued 

And dreams discarded on the way 

With new hope are imbued 

My shuttle drags, the years past grow 

What dreams I had are woven tight 

Then twilight darkens, weaving slows 

The last row waits just out of sight 

Lighthouse Lament 

Angela Burns 

Secluded rocks in treacherous straits 

Wind-blasted, sun-baked, rain-cleaned 

Stalwart, strong, in calm they wait 

Always vigilant, serene 

Kissed by dawn, sunset-blessed 

In dark of night their shining eyes 

Are welcome as a dear caress 

A light of hope that never dies 

Friend of seabirds, hearths of stone 

Beacon for what flies or sails 

Where hearts of gold stand watch alone 

Saviors brave in desperate tales 

So many gone, their watches lost 

For money-saving was the goal 

But when a boat is tempest-tossed 

Can automatics save a soul 

Oh yes, that tower still shines bright 

To break the black or pierce the storm 

But now it's just a flashing light 

Cold – for heart and soul are gone. 

81


Then and Now 

A Six Pack of Sonnets 


I 

Remember back when, being young, you dreamed 

Of growing up. No rules, no school, no sweat. 

Then time went by the by and you’d forget 

The play you made with smiles that brightly beamed 

From faces bronzed beyond belief. It seemed 

That only getting older ever set 

You free. Now grown, and forty grand in debt, 

The scarcity of Joy, where once it teemed 

Unchecked across your face, is called “the norm.” 

You’re old enough to reminisce and know 

That summer holidays were luxury 

And someone else’s wage once kept you warm. 

A lesson learned by everyone If so, 

Perhaps it means there’s something wrong with me. 

II 

At seventeen my life was figured out. 

I’d get from out my mother’s watchful eye 

(Immortal Youth forbade her son should die 

Beneath her yoke) and write. Success without 

A moment’s thought to polishing or doubt 

That publishers would flock to me and buy 

The rhymes thrown off my tongue to fly 

Into their files while managing the rout 

Of charlatans dismayed. The truer skill 

Was mine. I’d take the world by storm and prove 

This former Mormon boy need only choose 

To leave his father’s God and drink his fill 

Of liquid bliss to find the righteous groove. 

Now all that’s left is nothing left to lose. 

III 

A muse can feed a mind with rhyme and song 

But flesh is fed with meat and bread. Dismayed 

That I might waste my gift by being paid 

For common work it seemed there’d be no wrong 

In crawling home to Mom where I belong; 

The kid who only dreamed of getting laid, 

Who thought he knew it all and had it made, 

Who never hit the books before the bong. 

I want to be a school-aged boy again 

And realize that life is played for keeps. 

Then maybe I could learn the rules I missed 

For counting out a meter with my pen 

And pay attention like the other sheep 

Instead of wasting time and getting pissed. 

82


Then and Now 

IV 

Then what about that night I gulped my crutch 

And, shoeless, hobbled home, too drunken blind 

To need to see Collisions in my mind 

Ignored the pain from obstacles and such. 

The alcohol had put me into touch 

With tripping rhythm, leading me to find 

My inspiration vomited behind 

A helpless tree. It hurt me more than much. 

Thus emptied out of bile and scores of shots 

I felt compelled to piss advice in snow 

That steamed the wintry air. I breathed it in 

And staggered on with clearer thoughts 

For yellow words: “Whichever way you go 

Remember where epiphanies begin.” 

V 

The frozen track that guided me that night 

Has led me close to being overawed. 

I wasn’t spoiled for being spared the rod 

But try forgiving those their need to smite, 

Admitting grief instead of making light 

Of loved ones lying low beneath the sod. 

I’ve faced my demons (still denying God), 

Acknowledged wrongs and tried to make them right. 

I still wear scars from then upon my feet 

As evidence of my humility. 

I’ve learned a harder lesson, I would say, 

Than most of you should ever have to meet. 

At times I dream I’ve found tranquility. 

That peed advice rings truer every day. 

VI 

The child I was would never recognize 

The man I am, unless he heard my name. 

But then again our eyes would be the same, 

A truer blue than brilliant summer skies. 

I’d wonder what small part of him belies 

Assumption anyone could hope to tame 

His poet’s heart. It can’t be right to blame 

A wilder child like him not being wise. 

Does wisdom come with age To some extent. 

I’ve learned to quickly rise if I should fall, 

To bend my will to force before it breaks, 

And (short of being shod in wet cement) 

Rely upon myself when troubles call. 

The lessons learned from all my life’s mistakes. 

83


Then and Now 

The Ballad of Trapper McGrew 

Mary McIntosh 

The night it was dark, the moon did not shine. 

The winter wind howled through the trees. 

He groped through the storm to the light just ahead. 

His breath came in gasps, then did freeze. 

His clothes were the garb of a man from the north. 

In the cold winter days he'd lived long. 

His boots showed the scuff, of days that were rough. 

His notched gun showed those he'd done wrong. 

With one burst of strength, he pulled open the door 

To the Fur Trap Saloon, for a brew, 

Some warmth, and a bed, a song of good cheer, 

And maybe old Trapper McGrew. 

McGrew's face turned white as he put down his drink 

And slowly he turned from the bar. 

For there stood the man who had hated him most – 

The man known as Jonathan Starr. 

The man at the player-piano did stare, 

And the barmaid stood still on the floor. 

The bartender shouted, "Get out of here now, 

Or I'll bust you right out of that door!" 

The man known as Starr strolled quietly on, 

And stood himself tall at the bar. 

"Hey, barmaid!" he yelled, "bring me two beers. 

Bring them quickly to Jonathan Starr!" 

As Trapper was silently staring ahead, 

He saw his sweet Lila Germain. 

She walked toward Starr, with a frown on her face, 

And said, "Do you have to remain" 

Starr turned on his heels, with a look of surprise, 

As Lila stood quietly there. 

"Get out of my sight!" he yelled right in her face, 

"You with the long flowing hair!" 

Now Trapper did walk, while Starr still did talk. 

He knew it had gone much too far. 

He pulled on his beard, for what he most feared 

Was fighting off Jonathan Starr. 

Starr pulled out his gun, as Trapper did too. 

'Twas time now to settle the score. 

Shots sounded out loud, as they fired in the crowd, 

And one of them fell to the floor. 

84


Then and Now 

When all of the smoke had settled around, 

The bartender shouted, "I knew!" 

For there on the floor, right next to the door, 

Was the body of Trapper McGrew. 

'Tis told now and then by some trappers up north, 

When the wind howls down through the trees, 

When snowdrifts are high, and dark is the sky, 

And the temperature drops by degrees 

That the ghost of old Trapper returns now and then 

To seek Lila and Starr - those he knew. 

Strange noises those nights, on the nights there are fights, 

But it's only old Trapper McGrew. 

In This Court 


In this court, with mind entrammeled, 

That his soul may work its will– 

harb'ring wondrous wingéd lispings 

whispered on the lips of skill– 

Actor's dances speak their capers 

in such accents dark and sweet! 

Murder's Madness melts with Music 

humming strains of Love's conceit. 

Captured in this court of conjure, 

Where his masque must rhyme his verse, 

strides the maniac incarnate 

doomed by Thespis' ancient curse. 

Roaring now, or then in shadows 

cast by mute Illusion's mime: 

Actors fancy some immortal 

trick is worked on mortal time. 

In this court, behold magicians, 

Priests of histrionic cant, 

Hypnotists and mad musicians 

hymning dithyrambic chant– 

Transferred souls that pine and pant. 

85


Then and Now 

Snow Flakes 

Anne Maarit Ghan 

Swirling snow flakes 

by my window 

beckon me to join their dance: 

"Drop the nonsense 

of your hurries! 

Come embrace this blessed chance! 

"Come remember 

all the secrets 

you discovered as a child 

"Traipsing through the 

woods of wonder 

on adventures strange and wild." 

Life seems weary, 

almost pointless, 

if we're stuck within a mold; 

Marching in an 

endless rut and 

doing things that we are told. 

Come let's flee to 

shrouded hillsides. 

Let's make angels in the snow! 

With our mouths we'll 

catch some snow flakes, 

smiling with our hearts aglow. 

Book of Life 


O, mortal man, please realize 

each moment of the day 

you are an author in disguise. 

Don't write your life away. 

The plot is mostly up to you– 

this you must comprehend. 

Your character has much to do, 

so please do not pretend. 

It's wise to pause and then take stock 

of chapters of the past. 

Be mindful of the ticking clock, 

for time does travel fast. 

Once in a while please take a look 

if gracious poetry 

is written in your precious book 

or mournful tragedy. 

You'd like to think it's destiny 

that guides your pearly pen; 

But you should know free agency 

is granted to all men. 

The cover of your book may be 

all tattered and worn out, 

but that is not what you should see 

or really care about. 

What matters are the contents of 

your daily diary: 

the underlying story of 

your life's discovery. 

Remember, then, when you awake 

each morning, my dear friend, 

the steps you take, each choice you make 

all matter in the end. 

86


Then and Now 

The Voyage 

Bob Stampe 

When I was young I knew a man. He'd spent his life at sea. 

Retired to dream of glories past, one day he said to me, 

"I see you as a thoughtful lad. It's soon you'll be a man. 

Will you be ready when you're called to be the best you can 

"Some say life's but a voyage, and we each a sailing ship; 

that fate controls our rudder as we cast off on our trip. 

They say our destination is prescribed on life's passport, 

and that our course is programmed in before we leave home port. 

"They're wrong my boy, what's more they're fools, if that's their strategy. 

We must stay in control of craft, or lose our ship at sea. 

Why do our vessels have a wheel, if not to demonstrate 

that we must guide it to that place where destiny awaits 

"We know not what awaits us as we clear the harbor wall. 

If we are keen and vigilant, the worst we can forestall. 

Although our mast is tall and strong; our rigging stretched and tight, 

we must be steady at the helm, our vision kept in sight. 

"There will be little warning when the storm surrounds your ship; 

the tumult that we all must face at some point on our trip. 

You'll waver, doubt, and question, as the tempest takes control, 

your ship careening wildly to the rocks of nearing shoal. 

"It's then you must look deep within to lessons you've been taught. 

If you're to stay on kismet's path, to falter you cannot. 

With skill and strength of heart you must take hold of spinning wheel, 

and take command to bring your vessel back on even keel. 

"If you are going to make it to your destiny's home port, 

you need to be determined to provide your ship support. 

With God to guide you, you must be the rudder of your fate, 

And if you're strong and steady, you'll arrive at fortune's gate." 

87


Then and Now 

The Plot 

Bob Stampe 

I've come to notice lately that around me things have changed. 

I'm not sure when it happened, but I find it very strange 

that every time I take a walk, it's uphill all the way, 

and seems to be much farther than it was just yesterday. 

They're building stairways steeper now than those they used to build. 

My groceries seem much heavier, though bags are but half-filled. 

And someone's hiding things of mine. They're always going astray. 

Then strangely they show up again, within one or two days. 

Why am I always stiff and sore This thing I can't explain. 

Perhaps the kinds of food I eat are causing me this pain 

Or maybe it's the water, full of chemicals and stuff 

I'm taking twenty pills a day. Maybe that's not enough 

You know the collar labels that are sewn inside our shirts 

Well, mine now all read size eighteen. The truth of it sure hurts. 

A fifteen would still fit my neck, however I must face 

the fact that it would never fit around my bulging waist. 

I've always been a stubborn sort. I don't always conform, 

but now I'm more congenial, or so I am informed. 

Not true. My nodding head is not a sign that I agree. 

My glasses have five lenses, and I'm scanning just to see. 

Why do some people drive so fast You know just yesterday, 

I looked into my rear view mirror as I joined the freeway. 

With honking horns, and screeching brakes, cars swerved to change their lanes. 

You're risking life and limb these days. The world has gone insane. 

Seems bathroom scales are being made with much less quality. 

I don't believe the number on the dial that I see. 

I'd call the factory if I could, and tell them what I think, 

but I can't read the phone book with its tiny printed ink. 

Most people seem much younger than I was when at their age. 

I'm sure that I was more mature when I was at that stage. 

Yet, friends of mine who've always been the same age as I am, 

seem older now, and frailer; some no longer give a damn. 

I saw an old friend just last week. She'd aged, her pallor grey. 

She did not recognize me, and she looked the other way. 

This morning as I washed my face, the mirror looked back at me. 

Seems mirrors are not being made the way they used to be. 

I think I know what's happening. I've got it figured out. 

There's not too much that I can do. Of that I have no doubt. 

Long life has schemed against me; a conspiracy; a plot. 

It beats the other option though, so I don't want it stopped. 

88


Then and Now 

She Rocks Away 


Miranda Jane is just the cutest thing. 

Her Mamma sets her in her cradle-bed. 

She rocks away and even tries to sing. 

She’s now a lovely teen, no more to cling 

To Daddy; she’s a wild one, it is said. 


The boys go dancing just to watch her swing 

Her perfect body, toss her pretty head. 


At last Miranda finds a job. Ka-ching! 

She dances and she strips to earn her bread. 


She doesn’t hear the final curtain ring. 

As years go by and heavy is her tread. 


Tonight the nurse comes fondly in to bring 

her cup of cocoa with her evening med. 



Old and New 

Angela Burns 

Where do myths and legends go, 

When no one hears their tales 

What lessons, truths will ne'er be told 

Because our interest fails 

What newer dreams will spring from old 

What seeds be sown again 

What tales of wonder will unfold 

What memories remain 

89


Then and Now 

Playing Poet 


When I was born my only play 

Were games my parents knew. 

They entertained my early days 

With Bounce and Peek-a-boo. 

When Cradle games became too tame 

Experience converged, 

Imagination lent a hand, 

A wilder child emerged. 

Between a panicked throng of folk 

And certain, utter doom 

I vanquished scores of teddy bears 

From safe within my room. 

A cane became my trusty sword 

Of keen enchanted blade 

And I a knight of true renown 

Who enemies dismayed. 

The broom became my charger bold, 

A true and noble steed, 

To carry me to Antioch 

And slay the Pagan seed. 

My mother didn’t understand 

What all the screaming meant. 

She took my gear away from me 

And left me to repent. 

And thus bereft of cane and broom 

For lack of some restraint 

I took my hellish punishment 

Without the least complaint. 

I’d carry on the grand crusade 

With pen and paper next 

And vowed to play the cloistered monk 

Illuminating text. 

The end result was passing fair, 

Or so it seemed to me. 

In fact I still recall the lines 

That passed for poetry: 

“I may be here forever more 

Forgotten, shut away, 

But now, at least, I’ve learned enough 

To silence when I play.” 

90


Then and Now 

And ever since those words composed 

My first attempt to sin 

The games are more elaborate 

And I, most always, win. 

The Bagpipe Maker 

D. L. Grothaus 

In a tiny shop at the alley door, amidst the shadows deep, 

A craftsman works a magic spell, a history to repeat. 

With darkened wood and elephant tooth and skin and reed and twine, 

He carves and turns and binds and sews, with stitches strong and fine. 

Each drone is turned and combed and smoothed, and checked for proper height. 

The chanter carved of finest wood, and trimmed with silver, bright. 

When all is done, the pipes are one, but one task left, is all. 

He places in the bagpipe's heart, a piece of his own soul. 

When the pipes then call, to a widow's heart, the tears give rise, then fall. 

When the pipes give call, to the clansmen swords, with honor, they give all. 

When the pipes give wail, at their maker's pall, his breath has rattled last. 

His soul still lives in the piper's call, alive, and safe, and fast. 

91


Then and Now 

Letter to Ezra Pound (1959) 


Dear Mr. Pound, I write 

to say that I regret 

I missed the chance you granted me 

last year in Washington, D.C 

I wish we'd met. 

Yet I can truly say 

I could not fathom why 

the note I sent, although naïve 

and importuning, should receive 

so strange reply. 

I wrote to you in fall: 

you answered in the winter, 

an envelope addressed to me 

in your own hand, presumably, 

but in it—no letter. 

I saved it, souvenir 

of you and your condition. 

Months after, peering down inside 

I saw what you had meant to hide: 

this cramped inscription: 

Next Saturday at 2pm— 

They read my mail, you know. 

But now I have a family, 

and you are free in Italy 

where I cannot afford to go. 

92


People and Places 

93



The Gift 


He shuffled through the dust on blistered feet 

towards a stand of trees that seemed to drift 

on endless waves of suffocating heat. 

Each painful step he took was one more gift. 

A salty crust patrolled the lines that mapped 

his leathered neck and rimmed his bloodshot eyes. 

An old hyena stopped to watch and snapped 

the air behind him. Vultures filled the skies. 

He hobbled on. In prison he had learned 

that pain is just a fragile state of mind, 

but every night his troubled dreams returned: 

the maggots gorged on friends he’d left behind. 

His only crime was one of faith. He taught 

what he had learned: that men should live without 

a master’s chains. The ruling class did not 

condone that view. Their soldiers sought him out. 

The beatings were routine. His ribs were cracked 

so many times that pain became a friend, 

a sharp, familiar stabbing pain that wracked 

his wasting frame and never seemed to end. 

His fellow inmates died in swollen mounds 

of abject misery. He knew he’d meet 

an equal fate. He sensed the coursing hounds 

of Death pursuing him on padded feet. 

And so he fled. One night when darkness swept 

across the veld and clouds blocked out the light 

he climbed the prison wall and slowly crept 

beneath the waiting camouflage of night. 

For months he traveled trails and dried-up streams 

that led him south, towards Caprivi Strip. 

Each crimson sunset bled from anguished screams 

of Africa and stained her battered lip. 

He crossed the Okavango after dawn 

and walked towards a brilliant golden hand 

that reached for him with every ray it shone. 

A welcome spread across the glowing land. 

He dared to dream of freedom now, and ached 

to hear his children chase each other ‘round 

the yard outside his home where sunlight baked 

the grass that struggled through the trampled ground. 

94



He longed for Flora’s touch each time he slept 

to soft cicada symphonies that filled 

each lonely night. He prayed, and sometimes wept 

in gratitude; the baying hounds were stilled. 

By custom, most Umbundu men will break 

the ground for garden plots. Their wives will then 

maintain the crops. The fathers also make 

a plot to give each child who reaches ten. 

He wasn’t there to break the ground this year. 

His hoe lay idle in the shade beneath 

a baobab. A solitary tear 

dropped gently into dust and formed a wreath. 

A thousand miles, and maybe more, he walked 

on feet that bled with every step. His face 

was chapped and badly cracked. His mouth was chalked. 

He hobbled slowly on in God’s embrace. 

One heavy afternoon he saw a mist 

ascend above a tall mopane tree. 

He knelt and prayed. The smoke that thunders* kissed 

the Rev’rend John Kapuka. He was free. 

A painting hung within our home, of two 

apostles at the tomb of Christ. ‘Though John 

was first, it wasn’t he but Peter who 

went in to find that Christ’s remains were gone. 

In Dondi, Grandpa Sid received a note: 

“Remember well the picture on our wall, 

the first to come is here”, my father wrote, 

and Flora wept when Grandpa came to call. 

The months that followed must have dragged for John, 

although he never let it show. He found 

what work he could, and shortly after dawn 

one day I watched him start to break some ground. 

He danced across the soil. Each rhythmic swing 

his borrowed hoe inscribed implied a hand 

above an ochre drum. I heard him sing. 

His words of thanks poured out across the land. 

His friends had found a way to get his wife 

and children out and ‘though he had to wait, 

he knew they’d come. A vastly better life 

awaited them. He danced to celebrate. 

On Christmas Day, when church was done and all 

the toys and gifts lay strewn across the floor, 

our new adopted uncle came to call. 

He stood and smiled and waited at our door. 

95



“I have a gift for each of you.” He said. 

His empty hand stretched out to point the way, 

and five excited children cheered. He led 

our greedy throng to where the presents lay. 

A hectare, more or less, of garden spread 

in five symmetric plots that greened the land. 

I understood. I leaned my tousled head 

on Uncle John and gripped his calloused hand. 

________________________________ 

* Mosi-oa-Tunya – “The smoke that thunders” – Victoria Falls 

The Thinker 

Jonathan Day 

The Thinker – he who navigates 

The seas that lie 'twixt What and Why 

Knows often, in those trackless straits 

To pause and look up at the sky. 

The Gardener 

Jonathan Day 

To grow the Garden of the Mind 

Requires, for green growth through the years, 

A Gardener of a certain kind, 

Who cultivates the volunteers. 

96



In the Ruins of Chichen Itza 


In the Mayas’ holy city 

Tourists gawk at silent stones, 

While a guide who’s bright and witty 

Lectures in irreverent tones. 

Shout! and hear the fading echoes 

Ricochet off barren walls, 

Now the home of sunning geckos 

Living in these empty halls. 

Children scale the sacred pyramid, 

Scrambling up in playful glee, 

Just as ancient kings and priests did 

With profound solemnity. 

Down those stairs the lives of victims 

Drained in streams of pain and blood, 

Driven by religion’s dictums, 

Flowing in a crimson flood. 

Carvings in this place of sadness 

Tell of cruel depravity, 

Founded in horrific madness, 

Meted out with savagery. 

Who could think that skulls of neighbors, 

Caught for obscene sacrifice, 

Could induce the gods’ good favors 

In a holy edifice 

Who could throw a trembling maiden 

Down into a well to die, 

With gold jewelry heavy laden, 

Grace from wrathful gods to buy 

Priests and scholars, kings and warriors 

In these precincts so accursed, 

Far from being mankind’s saviors, 

Made men bow to what is worst. 

Serving wicked superstition 

Labored skilful engineers. 

Their work came to what fruition 

Nothing more than death and tears. 

Break off from the tour guide’s chatter. 

Contemplate this vista bleak. 

Undistracted by his patter, 

You can hear the mute stones speak, 

97



Whispering an age-old story: 

Evil works must all decay. 

Every tyrant’s pride and glory 

Shall in ruins rot away. 

Jungle vines shall twine together 

Over towers and ramparts tall. 

Blasted by the rain and weather, 

Monuments erode and fall. 

Who shall then fear priest or master 

When the temple’s overthrown, 

Leaving only mocking laughter 

Echoing on crumbling stone 

Passage to Point Barrow 


Four cargo vessels plowing furrows forward 

thru Bering swells serene as polished glass, 

a pair of blowing whales appears to nor’ward 

between the Diomedes and Seward plying. 

The captains close at half-speed, not to pass 

but make them sound, to see their great flukes flying. 

As pride will suffer no leviathan 

to sport with little men at their behest, 

they sink, enormous, soundless, darker than 

the continents that loom to east and west. 

98



Here Up North 


Here up north the air is cleaner. 

Autumn wind blows cold and clear, 

Making all the senses keener 

As the waning days grow leaner, 

And long winter nights draw near. 

Here the moon is always bigger. 

With rare beauty she’s endowed, 

Cutting a majestic figure; 

Sailing on, with grace and vigor, 

Through the shoals of scudding cloud. 

Here up north the magic’s stronger. 

In the sky the Northern Lights 

Glow in phosphorescent wonder. 

Awesome spectacles they conjure, 

Moving, dancing in the night. 

Here up north the Spring’s more urgent; 

Life explodes with pent-up might: 

All the forms of life divergent, 

Birds returning, flowers resurgent, 

With the coming of the light. 

Here the evenings last much longer 

When the summertime has come. 

Day by day the light grows stronger. 

On the tundra, great herds wander, 

Guided by the midnight sun. 

Here up north the lines are sharper. 

Icebergs pierce the azure skies. 

Light’s more dazzling, shadows darker, 

Choices clearer, contrasts starker. 

Open vistas hide no lies. 

Keep your crowded, southern highways 

Where cars scuttle back and forth. 

We prefer the unmarked byways 

Underneath our clear, blue skyways, 

Drinking deep from Nature’s source. 

Life is better, here up north! 

99



Jerusalem Engines 

Michael Pollick 

The city walls pulse with the knowledge of soldiers' fears, 

I have no hint of weaponry: nay, not one; 

The torch lights swagger with the threat of daughters' tears, 

I have no sense of history: nay, not one. 

She appears to me with the promise of sweeter days to come, 

I have no time for leniency: nay, not now; 

She comforts me with the dulcimer, the psaltery, the drum; 

I have no room for sympathy: nay, not now. 

Death is now my brother, and my brother calls me out by name, 

I no longer have a soul to speak of: nay, not one; 

Men will lay in linen by my hand, their eyes will speak my shame, 

I no longer have a land to return for: nay, not one. 

She returns to me with the solace of unbroken dreams to be, 

I have no fear of redemption: nay, not now; 

She anoints me with her oils, she soothes me with her mystery, 

I have no cause to lose her love: nay, not now. 

We built engines in Jerusalem to darken our fallen land– 

In my house, it shall be said, love dared to show its hand. 

Urim and Thummin 

Michael Pollick 

Your tattooed stigmata are showing, my dear– 

That spot of willful blood lies dormant; 

While greedy hosts of Angels draw illicit lots, 

And seek redemption in performance. 

I may cast off now into more uncertain seas, 

Now that the winds have finished their shift; 

I sing the shanty songs of unbroken sailors, 

Now that my heart is allowed to drift. 

You have no hold on me, my tortured mercury dancer, 

Now that our final sails have failed us; 

For if Fate were a captain, and we were the sea– 

The poor Bloke should never have sailed us. 

100



The Ballad of Muktuk Annie 

Eric Linden 

There‘s many a tale of the Great White North 

And you thought you’d heard them all, 

But there’s one more story that needs to be told, 

And it isn’t a barroom brawl. 

It’s of Muktuk Annie who owned that joint – 

She’d headline the show now and then, 

With those ptarmigan feathers on her behind 

She danced like an Arctic hen! 

‘Way back in the days when she was young 

And headed for Montreal, 

The government sent her to learn drivin’ truck 

But Annie enjoyed a pub-crawl. 

There weren’t many roads in Pangnurtung, 

The prospect of getting some – small. 

So drivin’ a truck Up in Pangnurtung 

That didn’t make sense at all! 

She really wanted to sing and dance – 

Become a great opera star. 

But drivin’ a truck – there wasn’t a chance… 

Just look how she strums a guitar. 

She packed up her things in a sealskin bag, 

Her mittens and mukluk boots, 

Then boarded a plane leavin’ Montreal 

She headed back home to her roots. 

At first she built an igloo up there 

In Pangnurtung’s downtown core. 

She called it “Big Annie’s Bar & Grill”, 

Rejecting “The Musk Ox Matador”. 

Her booze she ordered from Newfoundland, 

That genuine homebrewed “Screech”, 

And drummers came by from miles around, 

As far as the word could reach. 

On opening night the place was packed, 

There wasn’t a seat to be had. 

The floorshow began at 9 P. M. 

Big Annie was driving them mad! 

She took up the stage like an opera star, 

Proceeded to take off her clothes, 

Except for her ptarmigan feathered behind 

And the seal flippers worn on her toes. 

101



She grunted and puffed across the whole stage, 

All hundred and sixty five pounds. 

At 5 foot 4 she wasn’t too tall, 

Her pirouettes twirled round and round. 

The people applauded in frantic rage, 

Their yelling and screaming was loud – 

They never had witnessed ballet like this, 

Not one of them in that big crowd. 

Pt 2 

Like wildfires ravishing trees down south, 

The word of Big Annie flew 

Across the vast lands of the Great White North, 

And her stature and fame simply grew. 

So often you’d hear the call of the wolves 

As they howled her name out loud – 

It was “Annie, Big Annie,” in the still of the night 

To the moon or a passing cloud. 

Each inuksuk guarding ravines and draws 

Heard the call and they passed it on; 

Every hunter who traveled the barren lands 

Knew Annie was Queen of the Dawn. 

They came from the islands and far-flung bays, 

They came from the ends of the world, 

They came to witness how Annie danced – 

How her ptarmigan feathers twirled. 

One day when the ice still covered the bay 

And the darkness was spread everywhere, 

Still long before the sun would be back 

To the land of the Arctic Hare, 

Big Annie was closing the Bar and Grill 

When a thought sauntered through her mind… 

She decided to sell her famous place 

And leave this town behind. 

She placed a sign at the igloo door – 

Which said that the place was “For Sale”. 

In Pangnurtung the story spread – 

You could say it was more like a wail… 

From preacher man to the common man 

The people were stunned – one and all! 

They’d come to know ballet performed 

By their very own Muktuk doll. 

102



Pt 3 

It didn’t take more than a bat of an eye 

Till “For Sale” was transformed to “For Sold.” 

That final performance Big Annie would give 

Will forever be rated as gold. 

Her audience screamed at the top of their lungs 

You’d swear crystal icicles cracked; 

She strutted her ptarmigan feathered behind 

And oh, how they loved her last act. 

Next day, though, she gathered her outfits and rings, 

Her seal flipper slippers and fins, 

Those endless mementos so dear to her heart – 

Stone carvings and ivory pins, 

A walrus head trophy from Repulse Bay, 

A narwhal tooth – rare and refined, 

And several more treasures. For a moment she wept, 

It was almost too much for her mind. 

A west wind was blowing the morning she left 

But it blew from the west every day. 

In mukluks and mittens, a parka with hood 

She was ready to get under way. 

All Pangnurtung came; they waved long goodbyes 

To the Muktuk, their Queen of the Dawn. 

Like frozen inuksuks – immobile and numb 

They watched till her light was long gone. 

Her komatik held almost all she possessed 

Wrapped snug and securely tied down. 

Up front was a brand new Skidoo which she bought 

From the snowmobile dealer in town. 

Big Annie’s new goal lay in Frobisher Bay * 

Where the lights twinkled shiny and bright. 

Her mind was made up: it was politics now, 

And she smiled at the thought of a fight. 

* renamed to Iqaluit, now the capital of the Territory of Nunavut. 

Author’s note: “Muktuk Annie” has been around the Arctic for many years, becoming folklore. Credit must be given to Ted 

Wesley and Bob Ruzicka, singer and songwriter, upon whose song this epic is based. 

103



Sonnet No. 4 

Tim DeMay 

Call me a zealot for my strong beliefs, 

I call you coward for your lack of one. 

When from this earth our time it is to leave, 

You’ll die with nothing deeper than vain “fun.” 

Call me close-minded as I know what’s right, 

I call you vapid for your lack of thought. 

Indeed, some things are truly black and white, 

Some issues can’t change into what you want. 

Call me a fool for faith in the unseen, 

I call you blind for missing blatant truth. 

Things aren’t always exactly as they seem, 

We don’t live life alone under this blue. 

Call me brainwashed by hopes of love and peace, 

I say it’s better than the wars we seek. 

Pens and Poems 

Gene Dixon 

We are the souls who dance on fallow page; 

Who hide behind dark droplets from a quill. 

Attempting to fit ranting to the rage, 

Manipulating ink quite as we will. 

We balance paragraphs on thinnest sheet. 

Some call us clever verbal acrobats 

Who tightrope walk upon iambic feet 

While wearing varied anapestic hats. 

The thickened plot we ladle out like soup, 

Ranging wide from mystery to mirth. 

From moon to sun to moon, 'til eyelids droop, 

We seek the fullest measure of word's worth. 

For just reward we ask no more than this: 

A coin, a laurel wreath, a lover's kiss. 

104



An Easterner Looks West 


The West is more than just a place. 

It was a time, a frame of mind 

In black and white; a state of grace 

Where good and bad were well defined. 

The spunky gals, the stalwart sons, 

The Westerns on the silver screen, 

The psychopaths who toted guns – 

All icons of what once had been. 

Vague legends of some bad guy’s crimes 

Become an epic, moral tale 

Of conflict back in simpler times, 

Compared to which our lives look pale. 

This theatre of the Old West 

Speaks of a mythic day gone by 

When heroes faced life’s toughest test 

With steady nerve and steely eye. 

The wild, wild West was soon constrained 

By fences, laws and railroad lines 

‘Til little of that world remained – 

But for the past, the heart still pines. 

In city canyons made of steel, 

Our complex days are rushed and stressed. 

We yearn for things more plain and real, 

And dream of vistas ‘way out west 

Where spires of red rock touch the sky, 

Instead of towers of sterile glass; 

Where open range beguiles the eye, 

Not urban wastes where taxis pass. 

And so we don blue jeans and boots, 

And with our little ones in tow 

Vamoose by lesser-traveled routes 

To see some county rodeo. 

And no one even thinks it’s strange 

To emulate as best we can 

The cowpokes who still work the range, 

As if the clothes could make the man. 

It seems we need our cowboy tales; 

So we their image still embrace 

While speeding down our asphalt trails. 

The West is more than just a place. 

105



Addressing My Geography 

Sam Samson 

My skin is brown and leathered from your sun 

that perches like a woman on the sand 

in linen. And whenever I should stand 

beside a Sir from Minsk, Toronto, London 

I become the dusty cactus nigh a lake 

or palm fronds slick in snow. I can not fight 

your southern air that bleaches my hair white 

as a serpent, white as February flake. 

My Bible Belt, my candy store of Blues 

of cotton, corn and swine, you color me 

as if I was your canvas, languidly 

lapping at the bottoms of my shoes. 

From where do you think up such tawny creams 

or rouges like a ripe, unopened peach 

And does your paint brush dry off by the beach 

of Carolina Lauderdale It seems 

my nosiness your answers may alight. 

If you're Van Gogh, am I a starry night 

106



The Other Side 

Adrienne Kurtz 

A lady of great beauty sits, 

with pale slim hands she softly knits, 

as knights of valor seek her hand 

from desert plain across the land. 

Light sigh escapes, “Oh, what I’d be, 

if fate had laid no claim on me!” 

A warm breeze teases jet black hair, 

as visions form of all she’d dare. 

With her charger, fight for right 

make her rough camp for the night. 

She’d frighten evil at its core 

and live adventures ever more. 

A woman of the sword stood by, 

steel eyes observed how land did lie, 

then yelling she went down the mount, 

foul foe to add unto her count. 

Sharp words pour forth, “Oh what I’d be, 


A cold wind whips her jet black braid, 

as visions form of plans she’d made. 

To walk in peace through sun swept lands, 

reap golden fields with work worn hands. 

With family she’d make a life 

away from fame and harsh war strife. 

A farm maid stands to crack her back, 

then bends once more to seed-filled sack. 

At dusk she leaves the planted row, 

sets dinner on, then starts to sew. 

Soft whisper sounds, “ Oh what I’d be, 


A draft caresses jet black strand 

as visions form of all she’d planned. 

With courtiers who sought her heart 

she’d flirt and study; growing smart. 

There’d be no work unless she pleased, 

and knights would swear upon their knees. 

The grass is always greener 

on another’s lawn 

as we can’t see what lies ahead 

past the morning’s dawn. 

107



Thirsty 

Wayne Leman 

Yes, lead me to the water, 

but please don't make me drink. 

I need some time to check it out, 

some time to feel and think. 

And while we're at the water, 

where I realize I thirst, 

it would be a help to me 

if I saw you drink first. 

Friends of Solitude 

Anya Corke 

As bugle winds entice with songs of lore, 

empyrean stars are shining down on me. 

The restless shadows of an ancient shore 

befriend the lonely, roaming wharves so free. 

Few earthly bonds could ever be more dear 

than laughing wavelets, crisping up the sands; 

or calm, cold Dawn—so soft, so sweetly clear, 

transforming pastel seas with golden hands. 

Like supple silk, the soothing ocean rolls; 

with whispers, I confide in healing Night; 

the hillside murmurs solace to my soul; 

a sage moon shares her gift of lambent light. 

Elusive echoes peal; the silver horns 

of elves who sound entrancing symphonies. 

A goss’mer sunrise glistens, spun by fauns; 

how wonderful are treasures such as these! 

She brings us panoplies of purple sights, 

this Nature who forever bursts anew 

to paint each day with luminous delights 

and nourishes with friendships staunch and true. 

108



Star Student 

Brenda Tate 

He’s always been distractible and loud, 

a laugh’s-breadth from expulsion. He'll harass 

with jokes and pokes to get attention, proud 

of office calls. He never skips my class, 

although he seldom concentrates. He twists, 

pretends to study, skims but scarcely reads 

his role in Superstar, while he insists 

on opening the windows, whines and pleads 

to be excused. “But, Miss, I have to pee!” 

or later, “Geez, my robes are in the can,” 

impenitent as Cain, a six-foot-three 

tenth grader, terrified to act the man. 

By June, he owns the stage – a costumed Christ 

whom I forgive as he is sacrificed. 

The Captain's Missing 

smzang 

Tonight the moon is high, the water’s calm 

beneath the boat that nods beside the quay, 

It waits the missing captain at the helm; 

no place to go, no one to guide the way. 

The wicker basket’s ripe with wine and cheese, 

the green light’s glowing steady through the fog. 

No stars tonight, the gods won’t be appeased, 

Clouds crowd a worried sky with monologue. 

Where is the helmsman that would steer this craft 

Did he fall to plague – lose himself in song 

or maybe 'questered deep amidst the chaff, 

he failed to notice shadows growing long 

A boat without a captain is mere shell 

at risk with ev’ry passing ocean swell. 

109



Jingle Bells 


Holguin, Cuba, Dec. 2004 

Back home the north wind howls and blizzards blow. 

The temperature is seventeen below; 

But here we’re safe from Old Man Winter’s reach. 

While “Jingle Bells” floats on the tropic breeze, 

Vacationers swill rum and take their ease 

Relaxing on this sunny Cuban beach. 

Incongruous, these songs of northern climes 

That speak of other places, other times, 

To visitors who come from far away. 

No doubt they’re meant to make us feel at home – 

Though old songs are the closest thing we’ve known 

To riding “in a one horse open sleigh.” 

The seaside’s not the place to act demure: 

Large matrons with more cleavage than allure 

Expose their bosoms, trying to catch some rays. 

Their purpose here is not to trap a man. 

They want to get at nice midwinter tan 

To advertise their Christmas holidays. 

But soon a rain squall makes us run indoors, 

Wet flip-flops sliding on terrazzo floors. 

The weather’s not so great, but do we care 

They’ve got the longest bar you’ve ever seen, 

Resplendent now with plastic evergreen, 

Fake mistletoe and tinsel everywhere. 

The sun peeks out once more, to our delight. 

We rush back to the beach while it shines bright, 

For no one can predict how long it stays. 

Some newlyweds go strolling hand in hand, 

And little tykes build castles in the sand 

Beneath their doting parents’ watchful gaze. 

The singles lounge in deck chairs by the pool, 

Where young men flex their muscles, looking cool 

And hoping to attract the roving eyes 

Of women who are scantily attired, 

In hopes their hearts with romance are inspired 

By humid nights and stormy tropic skies. 

A week soon passes, and we have to go 

To face a driveway filled with drifting snow. 

Yes, all good things must end, that much is clear. 

We say goodbye to our new hotel friends: 

Improbable we’ll ever meet again. 

So Feliz Año – have a good New Year! 

110


Just For Fun 

111


Just For Fun 

Plain Vanillanella 


A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa – 

O wretched ice cream stand, so soon sold out! – 

“The only thing that’s left is plain vanilla!” 

Why can’t he keep in stock, that big gorilla, 

The flavors that we cannot live without 

A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa. 

He cares for what we want not one scintilla, 

And now we’re faced with this, a dreadful drought. 

The only thing that’s left is plain vanilla. 

Must we decamp to far-away Manila 

To find the flavors we are mad about 

A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa. 

Alas and woe, ‘tis true, my dear Priscilla, 

It matters not how you may cry and pout. 

The only thing that’s left is plain vanilla. 

The children rage as angry as Godzilla, 

Perseverating as they whine and shout. 

A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa, 

“The only thing that’s left is plain vanilla!” 

Snoggle Sonnet 


Creation snoggles all my deeper think, 

Associating this with sometimes that, 

As vainly I explore each logic link 

discovering the why of is and at. 

How nincompoople mad I'd grow to be 

if nothing ever led to something more, 

Or if each item that my brain could see 

were pompousness and puff and nothing for; 

If when were seldom ever, not were is, 

and nothing seen were all our eyes could view, 

How deeply clear while in a whirling diz 

would be my thoughts, and maybe I’d be you. 

So, just be happy things is as they am, 

And not the way they might be, honey lamb. 

112


Just For Fun 

OP 

TIC 

AL DE 

LUSIONS 

Neil Harding McAlister, M.D. 

When John was just a little guy 

He was the apple of her eye – 

Or so his Mommy, Iris, said 

Before she tucked him into bed. 

Instead of goofing with his buddies 

This lad focused on his studies. 

Ever the eccentric pupil, 

Classmates’ efforts he’d quadruple. 

In science class he proved so bright 

That he began to study light 

With such success that, on reflection, 

This became his life’s direction. 

Making an astute decision 

This far-sighted man of vision 

Set his sights on a degree 

At the university. 

Students at his college rumored 

That he lacked a sense of humor. 

He had no propensity 

For jokes of high intensity. 

While horny room-mates teased their dates 

He played with diffraction grates. 

A lonely spectacle he made, 

But cum laude he passed his grades. 

A graduate with cap and gown, 

John hung his shingle in our town: 

An earnest, young physician, he, 

Who practiced ophthalmology. 

Our learned friend, perceived to be 

A man of high acuity, 

Worked hard until he made his name. 

A famed eye surgeon he became. 

113


Just For Fun 

Patients from the globe around 

Flocked to touch his very gown. 

A noble Irish Lord, begorra! 

Sought his cure for Gloccamora. 

You think this tale is corny, huh 

He’s now in California 

Removing nasty cataracts 

From moguls who drive Cadillacs. 

All Hollywood knows who to call 

When they start bumping into walls, 

And pop stars strive with earnest hearts 

To reach the bottom of his charts. 

He’ll fix a starlet’s poor refraction 

So she can act when she hears, “Action!” 

Celebrities’ myopia 

Has financed John’s Utopia. 

Reflect, then, e’er ye dare deride 

A bookish nerd who takes in stride 

Short-sighted peers who laugh and scoff 

Because the boy will not slack off. 

Who knows what someday he may do 

He might just operate on you! 

To Mr. Blank, Poet of Pessimism 


Though a poem may be satirical, 

unlike Shelley's light and lyrical 

lark that lifts the sunken spirit 

up to heaven's gate or near it, 

better a bit of bitter funning 

than a dreary dirge devoid of cunning. 

So if you must indulge this habit, 

making verse the way a rabbit 

fills a warren full of bunny, 

try, at least, to make it funny. 

114


Just For Fun 

If Only 


If only I could spend my time in leisure, 

And never work to earn my daily bread. 

If only I had found a buried treasure, 

A sybaritic life I would have lead. 

Or what if I had been that treasure’s owner 

A pirate bold, on distant, tropic seas, 

With a bright, green parrot perched upon my shoulder, 

And a buxom wench ashore to wait for me! 

If only I had such a girl to love me! 

If only I were charming, rich, or fair! 

If only I could be a few years younger. 

If only I still had a head of hair. 

If only I had held my tongue when angry! 

If only I had spoken up in time! 

If only I had run a little faster! 

If only I’d been standing first in line! 

If only I’d been born to wealth and power, 

I know I could have been a mighty king, 

With bags of pearls and rubies in my coffers, 

And fingers all bedecked with golden rings. 

You’d find me living in a gorgeous palace 

With lofty towers climbing to the sky, 

And I’d be the master of a thousand servants – 

If only pigs had wings, and cows could fly! 

115


Just For Fun 

Birthday Surprise 

Bob Stampe 

It's funny about humor, and the things that make us smile. 

To some, what is amusing, is to others coarse and vile. 

This is a story guys might like. Some girls might take offence. 

They just don’t see the humor when one speaks of flatulence. 

This story's of a friend of mine. Some parts of it are true. 

It's tragic, and yet funny. It depends your point of view. 

It talks of love and sacrifice, temptation, and surprise, 

and how our fortune can unfold when we open our eyes. 

At school he was one of the boys. To strangers he was Art. 

We called him by his nickname though. To us he was 'The Fart'. 

He'd earned this nickname aptly, and he liked it. He was proud 

of how his special talent made him stand out from the crowd. 

When very young he'd learned to love molasses home-baked beans. 

He ate at least one serving every day throughout his teens. 

He knew if he ate just enough, his stomach would react, 

and how when he recycled them, to all of us distract. 

His sphincter was a fine tuned tool. It had distinctive tone. 

With volume, pitch, and timbre, he could make it sigh or moan. 

Sometimes we’d see him rise up on one cheek, but hear no sound. 

Sometimes he'd rip it, bark, or quack, the smell always profound. 

He was a hero to us guys. No one else had his skill. 

He was a party favorite. He could perform at will. 

He had a little problem though. He couldn't get a date. 

The girls just didn't understand, nor did they 'preciate. 

He could have had a girlfriend if he'd just stopped with the beans. 

But so far he had still not met the lady of his dreams. 

So he kept up his artistry, his analgesic voice. 

It was his thing. It's who he was. No girlfriends were his choice. 

Then one fine day it happened, and she came into his life. 

He knew as soon he met her that someday she'd be his wife. 

He gave up beans and courted her, proposed, and she agreed. 

As long as he could guarantee from his bane he'd been freed. 

They wed, had kids, a boy, a girl; joined church, and PTA. 

He often dreamed of home-baked beans, but never went astray. 

They prospered. He worked in the bank. They bought a home in town. 

His boyhood nickname long forgot; his repute was renowned. 

It seemed that all was going great. His life was a success. 

But life sometimes plays tricks on us. It lies in wait, I guess. 

We all have weaker moments, and sometimes our guard comes down. 

That's when the Devil laughs at us, and turns our smile to frown. 

116


Just For Fun 

The day that Art turned twenty-eight, with some boys from the bank, 

they went out to a pub for lunch. Three jugs of beer they drank. 

Some beans were placed in front of him. He never had a chance. 

The smell too much, he wolfed them down. His gut began its dance. 

Within an hour of back to work, a smell reeked through the place. 

The like of which took breath away, its source they could not trace. 

By three the bank had closed its doors, the staff not feeling well. 

They were sent home, the fire hall called to source the pungent smell. 

Though Art knew well whence came the smell, the truth he would forsake. 

Though guilty, he would not admit; his repute was at stake. 

His stomach spoke as he walked out, a rumbling of ripe gas. 

He knew, though, that within two hours this flatulence would pass. 

As Art had left for work that morn, his wife had been precise, 

"Do not come home till five P.M. Your dinner's a surprise." 

So he set out the long way home. A two-hour walk he'd take. 

By then he should be over the results of his mistake. 

All the way home he spread good will. No one walked close behind. 

By five, when he at last arrived, his farting had declined. 

His wife met him at their front door with blindfold he must wear. 

She led him in, and sat him down upon dining room chair. 

Something smelled good. He knew it well, the scent of fresh baked beans. 

Had his wife, for his birthday, cooked the soul food of his dreams 

She moved to pull the blindfold off. The phone rang in the hall. 

She made him promise not to peek while she answered the call. 

As he sat there sniffing the air, he felt his stomach churn. 

He felt a big one coming on, and had no-where to turn. 

He shifted, moved up on one cheek, and let go a great RRIIIPPPP. 

It cut the air. The smell was bad. His nose began to drip. 

He had to dissipate the stink. He waved his arms around. 

This movement brought the urge again, and one more loud, rude sound. 

He stood and flailed his arms around. He had to clear the air. 

He heard his wife hang up the phone, so sat back in his chair. 

"And now for something special, dear. I hope you’ll be surprised." 

"I’ve made you suffer long enough." She uncovered his eyes. 

He was surprised, and mortified. Her secret, you might guess. 

Around the table, trying to breathe, were eighteen dinner guests. 

117


Just For Fun 

Must My Poetry Be Deep 

Nancy Lazariuk 

Must my poetry be deep 

to circumvent 

the rubbish heap 

Must my poetry be wise 

to make its way 

to others’ eyes 

Or can it just be 

silly fun: 

I love a rhyme, 

a joke, 

a pun. 

It seems there’s so much blood and gore, 

pestilence, 

and death and war 

that rhyming poems can bring a smile, 

even though 

they’re out of style! 

118


Just For Fun 

Author’s note: A ballade is not to be confused with a ballad. There are three 8-line stanzas rhyming ababbcbC, followed by a 4-line envoi 

rhyming bcbC. The capital C's stand for a refrain which is used to end each stanza. The envoi of a ballade is customarily used to address a 

patron. Today, however, it is frequently addressed to Prince, generally understood to be the Prince of Darkness. Most ballades are either 

in iambic tetrameter or iambic pentameter. 

The Ballade of the Bulge 


I'm getting fat, this is no lie. 

I wish by eating I'd weigh less. 

By looking for an alibi 

I try to hide my foolishness. 

It seems my lack of willingness 

to use control with food and drink 

Is bringing me to great distress. 

It's pushing me towards the brink. 

Alas, I do identify 

myself with those who so obsess 

about their need to satisfy 

a hunger that is limitless. 

Where is the pill that can suppress 

an urge so huge (at least I think) 

It wins the lead in viciousness; 


I follow fads, because I try 

to learn to cut away excess. 

The books on dieting I buy 

but reading them brings no success, 

instead a fearful emptiness. 

My future seems as black as ink. 

My choice does not yield happiness. 


Prince, you're behind this loneliness 

that makes me drown, that makes me sink. 

It seems no power I possess. 

You're pushing me towards the brink. 

119


Just For Fun 

Editor’s note: Mercifully, the following doggerel is in a category all by itself. It violates most of the cardinal rules for rhyming, metrical 

poetry. However, this is in fact a clever, intentional revision of an infamous “poem” (we use the term loosely) by a fellow who was, in his time, 

a walking parody of a serious poet – the (almost) inimitable William Topaz McGonagall. 

Edinburgh 

Albert Lawrance 

Oh! Beautiful City of Edinburgh, 

There, one may drown their sorrow. 

Viewing monuments and statues rare, 

basking in the sun of summer fair. 

I'm sure it wills the spirit to cheer, 

Sir Walter Scott's monument is near. 

Standing tall, on East Prince Street, 

Amidst flowery gardens, color replete. 

Edinburgh Castle is magnificent to see, 

It’s beautiful walks and trees esprit. 

Below rocky basement, like a fairy dell, 

There’s our favorite, St. Margaret’s Well. 

Where tourists may drink when feeling dry, 

Have fish and chip dinners or a special meat pie. 

Try a tour of the castle, from bottom to high, 

It appears so lofty straight up to the sky. 

Nelson's Monument stands there on Calton Hill. 

With great esteem, your heart will fill. 

Salisbury Crags most beautifully seen, 

Especially in June when grasses are, green. 

To the south of Salisbury Crags below, 

Is beautiful scenery from the valley below 

Observant, the little loch beneath they sight, 

Wild ducks about and beautiful swans white. 

Arthur's Seat, must surely be seen, 

With rugged rocks and pastures green. 

Wooly sheep grazing around all sides 

lazily walking with leisurely strides. 

Oh! Beautiful City of Edinburgh 

There, one may drown their sorrow, 

You bask in the sun of summer fair. 

Proudest city in Scotland, we do declare! 

“This beautiful city was defiled and thrown onto a trash heap by the Baird of Rubbish, William McGonagall, Scotland’s worst poet.” 

120


Just For Fun 

To Her Apathetic Students 

Vicki DuMond 

Had we but world enough and time, 

Your apathy would be no crime. 

We would sit down and think which way 

To while the semester away. 

You, by the student center's side, 

Could parties find, while in my untried 

Classroom, I complain. I could 

Instruct you ten years before the flood, 

And you could, if you please, refuse 

'Til the conversion of the Jews. 

Your vegetable minds could grow 

Vaster than empires and more slow. 

A hundred years could go to raise 

A fuss and out the window gaze, 

Ten thousand years to take each test, 

And thirty thousand just to rest, 

An age, at least, to every part, 

And the last age should make you smart, 

For, students, you deserve such state, 

Nor could I teach at a lower rate. 

But at my back, I always hear 

Time's winged shuttle hurrying near, 

And yonder, all before us, lie 

Deserts of vast stupidity. 

Your talents shall no more be found, 

Nor, in your marble vaults, shall sound 

My echoing song, then worms shall try 

Your long-preserved vacuity. 

And your poor minds shall turn to clay, 

And into ashes all I say. 

The grave's a fine and quiet spot, 

But a classroom it is not. 

So, therefore, while the youthful hue 

Sits on thy skin, like morning dew, 

Though your unwilling souls transpire 

At every pore with instant ire, 

Yet, let us study while we may, 

And now, like wise birds of prey, 

Rather at once our time devour 

Than languish here another hour. 

Let us roll all our strength and all 

Our energy into one ball 

And tear at knowledge with rough strife 

Through the labyrinths of life. 

Thus, though we cannot make your hind 

Sit still, yet we shall fill your mind. 

121


Just For Fun 

A Chance to Just Be Me 

Nancy Lazariuk 

Every year, around this time, 

My old heart fills with glee, 

For finally I get a chance: 

A chance to just be me. 

So long I’ve hidden who I am 

‘Neath makeup and nice clothes, 

But now at last I can reveal 

This big wart on my nose. 

I’ll let loose all my dark grey hair: 

It’s long and thick and wild. 

Atop it all I’ll place a hat, 

Designed to scare a child. 

Upon my feet go worn old boots 

Made from the skin of bats. 

I’ve dyed them black and laced them with 

The braided tails of rats. 

My dress is long and dank with age; 

It needs a few deft stitches. 

My cape is still a masterpiece: 

The envy of all witches. 

And finally, I’ll get my broom; 

It’s hidden in the shed. 

Don’t think I plan to sweep the porch. 

I’ll fly the skies instead! 

Oh, cloudy night with slivered moon. 

Oh, leafless, windless scene. 

I yearn to mount my trusty broom. 

I yearn to be real mean. 

I yearn to scare the kiddies 

As they all go, “Trick or treat.” 

They mock the eve of Halloween 

For all they do is eat. 

Those silly tots don’t realize 

That Halloween is scary. 

We witches, warlocks, bats and wolves 

Just love to be contrary. 

For once a year we get to show 

Our scary, ugly faces. 

It’s such a joy to make kids scream 

In all our favorite places. 

122


Just For Fun 

We roam the darkened alleyways; 

In graveyards we do prance; 

We haunt an empty house or two 

Whenever we’ve a chance. 

We stir up broths of feet and hair 

Of cats who’ve gone astray, 

With just a dash of vampire blood 

To keep the chill away. 

Oh, Halloween’s a lovely time 

For danger, death and warring, 

But when the next day rolls around 

It’s back to being boring! 

123


Just For Fun 

Guinea Pigs 


Soft and lazy 

Balls of fur. 

Guinea Pigs 

Will hardly stir. 

Exercise 

They cannot bear it, 

Unless to fetch 

A nice, fresh carrot. 

Twitching noses, 

Shining eyes, 

Looks of 

Permanent surprise 

Greet the day 

With peals of glee 

When each morning 

They see me. 

Do they really 

Miss their masters 

Maybe it’s just 

Food they’re after. 

Piggies’ brains 

Are very small. 

Maybe they 

Can’t think at all, 

And life’s just 

One scary muddle 

‘Til they get 

Their evening cuddle. 

Questions only 

Cause us grief. 

I’ll suspend 

My disbelief, 

And pretend 

Dependency 

Is a sign 

These pets love me. 

124


Just For Fun 

Christmas Tree 

Angela Burns 

Oh Christmas tree the perfect size 

....A bit lopsided to my eyes 

We got you home, at no small price 

We’ve shaken off the snow and ice 

We wrestled with the blasted stand 

Now you’re erect – well mostly, and... 

Rotate the worst where no one cares 

And don’t forget the water... there... 

Someone says “forgot the sheet!” 

Lift, grunt, put plastic underneath 

Now plug the lights in for a test, 

Darn there’s a dud, where are the rest 

Ah, rob the others, we’ll make do 

We never liked those strings of blue 

Then round the tree, the lights are strung 

Every which way, bulbs are hung 

Give up on art just ram them on 

Contortions till the job is done 

Now hurry up, before we faint 

To decorations re-acquaint 

These baubles seen in broad daylight 

A motley crew they seem alright! 

Never mind, they have the charm 

Of years of use, surviving harm 

So gradually the gauds are placed 

On branches in the utmost taste 

We take a drink and in the lag 

Reset things which hide or sag 

A little crowded there I fear 

Move some more, what’s that we hear 

A rustle from the stand below 

The tree is tilting ... oh so slow... 

Grab it there! A mad revise 

It’s straight amid exhausted sighs 

But, oh dear, an ancient ball 

Shattered while we saved it all! 

Well, now the icicles are next 

We carefully pull them from their nest 

In twos and threes we place with care 

On ends of branches, silver hair 

And then the final touch of class 

The tree top gets a star at last 

Then underneath our special tree ... 

The gifts arranged in festive glee. 

125


Just For Fun 

For now the smell of sap is clear 

And needles drop on Christmas cheer 

Don’t mind the mess, for as we know 

No plastic tree can challenge so 

Now lights turned on, let’s just admire 

And praise ourselves as we retire 

A Toast to Christmas Trees inside! 

That warmth we feel is surely pride! 

In Concert 


Segovia, guitarist widely praised, 

always kept his right foot slightly raised. 

He never let his gripping thumb appear 

above the neck; and if we chanced to hear 

a scrape or screech like chalk across a board 

whenever the master slid from chord to chord, 

we told ourselves, "Where genius abounds 

the music may be better than it sounds." 

126


Family Matters 

127



End of Season 


In loving memory of Zerakhanu Kassam, 1927 - 2003 

The sunset shatters on the lake. 

Its shards impale our dazzled eyes, 

As into myriad pieces break 

Reflections of the fiery skies. 

A chill foreboding rides the wind. 

The nervous birch and poplar shiver, 

While all along the shoreline’s bend 

The fading water lilies wither. 

The glory shall be quickly lost 

That crowns the flaming maple trees. 

Wise refugees from early frost, 

A vee of geese now southward flees. 

A vacant chair waits on the lawn 

That slopes down gently to the shore, 

Recalling summers come and gone. 

She cannot stay to greet one more. 

Another circuit ‘round the sun 

Has traced another passing year. 

Our seasons vanish, one by one – 

And all too soon, December’s here. 

How is it, in these dying days, 

That evening skies should burn so bright 

Too brief this desperate, Autumn blaze 

That heralds Winter’s solemn night. 

128



Her Lover's gone to War 

Michael Moreland Milligan 

The diamond drops of tulip sweat 

from velvet petals dripping down 

upon the tombs where moths beget 

themselves cocooned in silky brown, 

are like the tears she shed that day 

for Johnny gone to war so stern, 

Not tears, nor prayers, could make him stay– 

nor tears, nor prayers, return. 

O’er their simple blessed bed 

the remnants of the silken gown 

she wore the golden day they wed 

into a bedspread soft was sewn. 

Their love that night before he left 

to grimly follow drum and fife, 

t'was short, t'was sweet, t'was then bereft– 

t'was short, t'was sweet- his life. 

His body in its funeral bed 

upraised upon his comrade’s arms 

is wrapped within a banner red 

to hide his wounds in honor’s charms. 

A babe in arms, the dead man’s son, 

bewails his unknown father’s fate, 

though by his loss the battle’s won, 

though by his loss, made great. 

The tulips by his modest grave 

are watered daily by her tears, 

as if by weeping she could save 

herself from wilting through the years. 

Not water from her longing eyes, 

nor sun light from the sullen gloom, 

will ever make her lover rise, 

will ever make him bloom. 

The brook, she flows with murmuring moan, 

the wind, she wails around the dale, 

but not a sorrow will prevail 

upon the silent stone. 

129



The Skeleton in Rawhide 


( With a tip of the Stetson to Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfeller ) 

Speak! speak, you ghostly guest, 

Who, like a cowpoke dressed, 

In chaps and leather vest 

Comes here to bug me! 

In this nice restaurant 

Six-guns and spurs you flaunt! 

Why pick on me to haunt 

They must have drugged me! 

My head was feeling queer 

After too many beer. 

I would have run in fear – 

But was unable. 

Slouching to where I sat, 

He hung up his lariat, 

Pushed back his Stetson hat, 

And slumped at my table. 

Then from those limpid eyes 

Red streaks there seemed to rise 

Like when the stormy skies 

Flash in Montana. 

But, when the phantom spoke, 

All he could do was croak. 

He cleared his dusty throat 

And loosed his bandana. 

“I wuz an old cowhand. 

I had adventures grand! 

But no Zane Grey in this land 

E’er told my story. 

Though I wuz schooled a mite, 

Maybe I ain’t too bright: 

I never larned to write. 

You do it for me. 

“Call yonder waitress near! 

Order us two more beer! 

You’re gonna set and hear 

‘Bout my days of glory. 

You do just like I said, 

Or like me, you’ll be dead 

‘Cuz I’ll fill ya full of lead. 

Then you’ll be sorry! 

130



“When I wuz young and wild 

I loved a rancher’s child. 

Purdy wuz she, and mild – 

A jewel among wimmin. 

Gettin’ hitched wuz my goal: 

I’d loved Sal, heart and soul, 

Since down by the fishin’ hole 

I spied her swimmin’. 

“We loved each other true. 

Her Pa, Jake Pedigrue, 

Said, ‘No, this just won’t do. 

Hit the trail now, boy! 

I own a big, ol’ spread 

With a few thousand head. 

No gal of mine will wed 

A no-account cowboy!’ 

“Though her Pa had been cruel 

My sweetheart weren’t no fool. 

She couldn’t larn in school 

What I could teach her! 

When Jake was not around, 

With her Ma’s weddin’ gown 

We high-tailed into town 

To visit the preacher. 

“We spent our honeymoon 

In the most fancy room 

Up above Nell’s Saloon. 

Sal wuz a honey! 

Went to it with a will, 

Then ate and drank our fill, 

Fixin’ to pay the bill 

With her Pa’s money. 

“Early the followin’ day 

Knockin’ disturbed our stay, 

Promptin’ my bride to say, 

‘What’s the commotion’ 

We could have slept a spell, 

But it wuz the owner, Nell, 

With some bad news to tell, 

I had a notion. 

“ ‘Hate to disturb you dears, 

But Sally’s Daddy’s here. 

He’s mighty riled, I fear. 

Better skedaddle!’ 

Jake caught us unprepared. 

Grabbin’ our underwear 

We run down the back stair 

And hit the saddle. 

131



“Over the hills did ride 

Me and my blushin’ bride. 

We traveled far and wide 

Tryin’ to outrun him. 

Down by a shallow draw 

Then Sally’s ornery Pa 

With twenty men we saw. 

I couldn’t outgun ‘em. 

“There stood that varmint Jake, 

Mean as a rattlesnake. 

My knees begun to shake – 

I wuz a goner. 

Pity to die that way, 

But I turned to Sal to say 

I still would bless the day 

I clapped eyes on her. 

“Sal cried, ‘I chose this man! 

See this here weddin’ band 

Love placed it on my hand; 

Death won't remove it. 

Pa, spare my husband’s life! 

Save me a widder’s strife. 

I am his lovin’ wife, 

And this ring proves it!’ 

“Jake stood and scowled a while, 

Then gave a little smile. 

‘Boy, I don’t like yer style – 

I oughta plug ya! 

But, from what I just saw, 

You’re my true son-in-law; 

And that makes me yer Pa. 

Guess I should hug ya. 

“ ‘Fact is, I’ve got a mind 

Havin’ a son is fine. 

I’ve worked hard in my time, 

But I ain’t crazy. 

Don’t aim to labor ‘til 

I'm up on ol’ Boot Hill, 

Listenin’ to whippoorwills 

And pushin’ up daisies. 

“ ‘If’n a son I’d sired 

I would have long retired. 

I'm old and uninspired 

Ranchin’ alone now. 

I love my daughter dear – 

But she can’t rope a steer. 

Now you’re my son, ya hear 

You kids, come home now!’ 

132



“Picked up my droppin’ jaw, 

Shook hands with my new Pa, 

Grateful that on the draw 

I wuz not quicker. 

Some sez that in the West 

Blood kin is always best. 

It seemed that in this test 

Water wuz thicker. 

“We rode back into town. 

Smiles had replaced our frowns. 

This cowboy settled down, 

And we wuz happy. 

Soon, if you follow me, 

As it wuz meant to be, 

Twigs on our family tree 

Called Jake ‘Grand Pappy.’ 

“Reckon my yarn is done. 

Can’t spin another one: 

Yon comes the risin’ sun. 

I got to mosey. 

You’ve been a nervy host, 

Seein’ as I'm a ghost! 

Let me propose a toast 

To finish yer poesy. 

“Pardner, as you can see, 

With love and charity 

Even an enemy 

Might be befriended. 

‘We’ll choke on spite,’ said Pa, 

‘If it sticks in our craw.’ 

Here’s to the West! Yee-haw!” 

– Thus the tale ended. 

133



The Runner 


Your urgent, crunching footfall down the cinder running track 

Grows fainter as you disappear into the setting sun. 

Your painful gasps I almost feel, as twilight skies fade black, 

But you will practice breathlessly ‘til many laps are done. 

I shield my burning eyes to watch your small, lithe silhouette 

Dash silently along the course as nightfall swallows day. 

The moon hangs in the sky, although the sun has not quite set, 

And child, I feel afraid, because you seem so far away. 

When you were only five years old I jogged right by your side 

Just slow enough to let you win the race and share your fun. 

Then you grew tall and strong; and soon it filled me with such pride 

To watch you speed ahead and fly as I had never run! 

You traded in your booties for an athlete’s running shoes. 

Someplace I’ve got new shoes I bought the day that you were born. 

While you rush forward, I look back, amazed at how you grew: 

A father’s coming sundown is his daughter’s brilliant morn. 

When was the last time that you took my hand to cross the street 

Or ran to me in glee when you were playing on our lawn 

The childhood firsts come scampering on noisy, little feet; 

But last times creep up quietly – then quietly, they’re gone. 

Could this young, graceful runner, who will be a woman soon, 

Have been the helpless baby whom I cradled in one hand 

Now, heedless of the gathering dark, beneath this autumn moon 

You pound a firm, determined pace while night enfolds the land. 

Someday when my skies darken, perhaps thoughtless men could say, 

“He was not famous, rich or wise. What great things has he done” 

From mortal limitations we can never run away; 

But when I squint with failing eyes into that setting sun, 

And see you running in Life’s race, 

No matter who might claim first place, 

I’ll know that I have won. 

134



Matrimony 


So wild and free 

and glad to be 

alone 

We ran through fields 

of lofty yields 

full-grown 

From seeds of love 

that God above 

had sown 

A wedding band 

adorned my hand 

to show 

The reason for 

why ever more 

love's glow 

Would kiss my face 

in each embrace 

and grow 

The Waiting Game 

Jonathan Levitt 

This child that grows inside my wife 

Is the piece I've been missing for all of my life 

I'm counting the days til my baby is born 

Until I can comfort, and love, and keep warm 

It seems like forever I've wanted this gift 

The love of a child, a love that I've missed 

My words simply speak of a feeling so strong 

To finally make good of my childhood wrong 

To love and protect this brave little soul 

Who knows not my need for one simple goal 

To be the best father I truly can be 

And give him the things I wanted for me 

135



Wish from a Rainbow's Mist 

Maria DiDanieli 

An arc extends across the sky's expanse 

and calms the Northern summer's blust'ring dance. 

It sends a greeting down of many lights – 

a timely gift before the dark of night. 

A home a-buzz with children's laughing din... 

when sun breaks through the rain and ventures in. 

The elders call my young ones to the glass, 

"Come see the rainbow's hues before they pass!" 

The love my children feel within this place 

will last beyond the rainbow's fickle grace. 

The rooms, herein, hold stories of their past – 

the links to moulds from which their lives were cast. 

Like them, I watch the rainbow's hazing spree 

and wish, like their's, my past was known to me. 

136



Midlife Musings 


Now that we’re middle aged, 

We stop for breath and look around. 

What glorious deeds our lives have crowned 

By which we shall be gauged 

Have we yet reached our goals 

The door is closing, year by year. 

Sometimes we’re panicked by that fear 

While time relentless rolls. 

Unruly waistlines spread. 

With shock we find such banal cares 

Have crept up on us, unawares – 

We’re more than halfway dead! 

They mock us as they flee, 

Those fading dreams of vanished youth! 

The time has come to face hard truth: 

They may not ever be. 

What do we call “success” 

Along the way our plans have changed, 

Priorities we’ve rearranged. 

Old longings we suppress. 

Ahead we fear to stare. 

Will Father Time, the patient one, 

Forgive us for work left undone 

Or will he even care 

No need to feel depressed: 

Life makes us wise as we grow old. 

By those who slave for power or gold 

No longer we’re impressed. 

Could we, as youths, have known 

The sights we’d see, the things we’d do, 

Our joys, and loves, and children too, 

When we to men were grown 

As hard-fought seasons mount, 

Who tells us if we’ve lost or won 

Through toil, reflection, pain and fun 

We’ll make each new day count, 

And savor every breath! 

Put down boys’ dreams and be a man 

‘Til ageing steps no longer can 

Outpace advancing Death! 

137



Prophet of Sod 


My Grandpa told me 'fore he died, 

"The greatest sin of man is Pride. 

Best never see the city, son, 

Don't ever leave the mountainside. 

It's yours since you became a man 

So make your way as best you can, 

'Cause someday this'll all be gone. 

A sacrifice to Babylon." 

Now owing he's a proper fan 

Of God and all His Ten Commands 

The parish loaned him resting ground 

On proper consecrated land. 

Some folks begrudge his tiny grave 

(Which others think befits a slave's) 

But it'll grow as green a lawn 

As ever grew in Babylon. 

I'll credit him for dying brave, 

He never bitched and wouldn't cave 

When life was tough. But he was strict; 

And now it's time to misbehave. 

I'm gazing on a sea of green, 

The finest crop you've ever seen. 

The guy who showed me how's a con 

Who shat some time down Babylon. 

I'm more than used to living clean 

Which mostly means you’re living mean. 

Now working through the harvest time 

I wonder how it could've been. 

My ladies bloomed a pound apiece 

Of buds with some to spare for grease. 

I bummed a ride from cousin John, 

And trucked the lot to Babylon. 

We talked about our newest niece 

And kept an eye out for police. 

Instead a pack of bikers showed 

And took us for some lambs to fleece. 

The city steamed from off a way. 

It's skyline's shroud was coffin gray. 

I knew that I'd become a pawn 

To all the sins of Babylon. 

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The wicked men held us at bay. 

I warned them there'd be Hell to pay, 

"Repent yourselves! Desist or else 

You'll never see another day." 

Their guns were drawn, the crop was found, 

I prayed to him whom I'd been bound, 

"Send lighting Grandpa! Cast it on 

These scavengers from Babylon." 

They might have given us a round 

'Cept just then, straight from out the ground 

A rumbling rose beneath our feet 

And lightning from the sky unwound. 

It made the wicked men explode 

To rain down dead upon the road. 

Towards the sun that brightly shone 

We made our way from Babylon. 

I never sold the mother lode. 

Instead we used the grass to goad 

Our simple minds along a course 

Towards examples Grandpa showed. 

Some strength of will is all it takes 

To learn from all your life's mistakes. 

And now I needn't scrape or fawn 

For broken meats from Babylon. 

There's nights I dream, right racked with shakes, 

Of needing truths while stuck with fakes, 

Until my newfound balance sets, 

Then, stilled and calm, my soul awakes 

To visions of the other side 

Where Grandpa's eyes burn righteous pride. 

Consider, friends, next risen dawn, 

What price you pay to Babylon. 

139



The Truth Of It Is 

Bob Stampe 

An episode in one of life's greatest adventures … (marriage) 

A painted moon hung full and high, it's blush subdued, yet bright. 

A darkened car, with headlights blurred, rushed through the lonely night. 

The occupants, myself, my wife, were speaking of our speed. 

Upset, she griped, "Please slow it down. There isn't any need." 

I pushed the pedal even more. "Why don't you just relax" 

I'm doing fine, and I'm just driving slightly more than max." 

The party had been fun that night, and I was feeling fine. 

Why did she have to spoil it now Why did she have to whine 

As I looked in my rear view mirror, I saw some flashing lights. 

"That's great," I said. "Here come the cops." The siren pierced the night. 

"I told you so. You've done it now," her scold, more like a wail. 

"We can't afford a ticket. Worse, they might throw you in jail." 

I pulled onto the shoulder with the police car just behind. 

How would I get out of this mess Then something came to mind. 

I would deny, plead ignorance. I couldn't help but smile. 

I thought I might just pull this off if I could use some guile. 

The officer came to our car. I rolled my window down. 

"What's up" I asked. "Is something wrong" He looked at me and frowned. 

"I'll need to see your license, and your registration please." 

"No problem," I responded. I was trying to seem at ease. 

The cop looked at his paperwork, then took it to his car. 

I turned, looked at my wife, and said, "I'm doing fine so far." 

With manner stern, the cop returned. "You were going much too fast. 

Your speed was over ninety when your vehicle went past." 

"That's crazy. There's no way," I said. "You've made a big mistake. 

I'm always careful of my speed. The law, I never break." 

My wife leaned forward, "What a line. You always drive too fast. 

I've told you that a hundred times. Your luck's run out at last." 

I couldn't quite believe my ears. She was out of control. 

The cop had heard the whole thing, just when I'd been on a roll. 

"Excuse me. Let me handle this," I snapped back at my wife. 

"Just sit back please, and shut your mouth." My words cut like a knife. 

The officer looked in the car. His flashlight's beam was bright. 

"I see you have no seatbelt on. For that, I too must cite." 

"I must have just removed it, Sir," more sheepishly this time. 

"I swear. I always wear my belt." I buckled up in mime. 

140



"Hah, what a joke," my wife spoke up. "You never wear your belt. 

When I ask you to buckle up, you say it leaves a welt." 

"That's it, you stupid woman! We will settle this at home. 

Why can't you keep your big trap shut" My mouth began to foam. 

The cop then motioned, "S'cuse me, M’am, would you please step outside. 

You wait here Sir. We won't be long." When out, the policeman pried. 

"Are you all right If you would like, I'll throw him in the clink." 

"No, I'll be fine. He's harmless. He's just had too much to drink." 

Girl 1951 

Cathy Wilson 

We never questioned whether we should wed 

Or if we even knew what it would mean 

To vow and bed and bear and then to dread 

The choke of morning sickness pale and green, 

The slam of bathroom door. To wear the mask 

Of Nice and Acquiescent and Demean 

Concealed the question we never dared to ask 

The priest, our mothers, surely not ourselves: 

What is there, anything, besides the task 

Of householding, of cleaning drawers and shelves, 

Our body turning something else instead: 

New life – and scars Oh, be the one who tells 

The truth, the words that no one ever said 

To us, determined early to be wed. 

141



Dear Abby 


Part I 

Dear Abby tell me what to do. 

My sex life sucks, my husband's blue. 

The trouble is, we have no time. 

We have five kids, so sex sublime 

Will have to wait till they are grown 

And once again our lives we own. 

But what to do till they are gone 

My husband wakes before it's dawn 

And wants to play Mustaf the Sheik 

While children through our doorway peek! 

I'm scared to breathe while we make out; 

I think they'll hear without a doubt. 

We turn the music up way high 

So I'd relax and dare to sigh. 

Yet still my mind remains next door, 

So hubby fears he is a bore. 

But that of course is not the case. 

He’s really hot, he's quite an ace. 

Now, tell me if we celibate 

Next eighteen years, what is our fate 

Perhaps we'll turn as cold as stone 

And wish we both just lived alone. 

Dear Abby tell me what to do 

Before my husband thinks we're through. 

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Part II 

Well, here I go and write a again. 

I bought the book called "Love and Zen.” 

I acted out all of those tricks 

And spiced them up just for the kicks. 

However he was not enthused, 

Although I think he looked amused. 

So now I ask for more advice. 

(I hope I may write to you twice.) 

By chance you know some other book 

Affordable and worth a look 

My hubby has torn down the wall 

Between our room and upstairs hall. 

He says he needs to insulate 

Our bedroom walls so my debate 

Will end up as a closed up case, 

And so we could resume the chase 

That lovers do when they have fun. 

(I hope by then I'm fit to run!) 

Dear Abby tell me what to do 

I think we've cooked up quite a stew. 

143



Untitled 


Two wedding bands 

Quite thin and old 

Adorn your hands 

Which now are cold 

And rest upon your chest 

I see they shine 

With brassy gleam 

Almost divine 

They now do seem 

Right here, as I stand near 

Could they be gold 

The purest kind 

For I've been told 

T'was hard to find 

Such measure of that treasure 

Perhaps beneath 

That golden look 

If tried with teeth 

A person would 

Reveal just cheap old steel 

Now who's to blame 

If that's the case 

This is no shame 

No judge you'll face 

For cheap is poor man's keep 

You did not need 

An outward sign 

To prove a creed 

Of love sublime 

On earth among our dearth 

144


Poets’ Biographies 

145




David Anderson lives in Prince Edward Island, 

Canada's smallest province. He writes poetry and 

short stories, and he has almost finished a novel. 

He informs us that Plague is one of a few 

classical poems that he has attempted. However, 

they are very satisfying to write, he says; and he 

hopes to compose more. Anderson placed 

second in the 2000 Atlantic Poetry Contest, and 

he was a finalist in the national CBC radio-play 

contest for Vancouver in 2001. Some of his 

work has also been published in Quills Canadian 

Poetry Magazine. 

Anne Baldo, at the age of 18, has already 

developed a mature and notable flair for Gothic 

genre poetry. Visitors to our web site 

complimented her as “a modern Edgar Allan 

Poe.” Ms. Baldo, who has lived in Ontario, 

Canada all her life, is now a student at the 

University of Windsor, where she studies 

English and Creative Writing. She says, “I'd like 

to thank my family, especially my mother, father, 

sisters and Aunt Mary Lou, and my high school 

creative writing teacher, Ms. Morga, for taking 

the time to be so helpful and encouraging.” 

Nigel Clive Bruton has been writing poetry 

seriously for about one year. He was born in 

Bristol, England, and he moved frequently with 

his family around the Southwest, where most of 

his clear memories of childhood were formed. 

His adventures with his older sister and his 

brothers are now finding themselves reborn in 

the pages of a series of short stories entitled Sid 

and Fred. Between owning a restaurant in 

Ontario, Canada, with his wife Debi, writing 

short stories, and trying to complete a novel, he 

was inspired to write Northern Light. The poem 

Caution came about during his roaming twenties: 

he says it describes love as seen though cynical 

eyes. He avers that now he finds writing to be a 

morale booster and a long-term goal. Nigel 

hopes that his words may be read and pondered 

over for a long time to come. 

Angela Burns, whose poetry is well represented 

in this collection, has much experience in the 

publishing industry. Her voluntary work proofreading 

this entire manuscript was invaluable. 

After decades of writing and editing for trade 

magazines and community newspapers, Ms. 

Burns (who is now in her 52 nd year) joined a 

writer’s group in 2003 and was inspired to write 

poetry – a format she finds best for compressing 

and condensing thoughts and ideas. She likes to 

write observations and commentary about the 

world: her political poems have appeared in 

newspapers from time to time. Ms. Burns says 

that she loves islands. She was born in England 

and came to Canada at the age of four to the 

island of Montreal and watched it grow. Another 

island, Hong Kong, gave her six years of unique 

and rewarding experience, both professionally 

and personally. She now lives on Vancouver 

Island, leaving it only to visit smaller islands. 

Nancy Callahan, age 26, is a graduate of 

Harvard College. She lives in scenic Cape Cod, 

MA, USA. She is a freelance writer who has also 

worked as a librarian, teacher, editor and tutor. 

Her non-fiction, fiction and poetry have 

appeared in a wide variety of publications 

including The New Formalist and New Millennium 

Writings. Information about Ms. Callahan may 

be read at www.geocities.com/nancy_callahan . 

Gregory J. Christiano describes himself as a 

born and bred city dweller living in the country. 

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Raised in 1950's Bronx; he graduated from 

Central University of Iowa in 1969. His 

profession is a Claims Adjuster. He has written 

short stories, book and movie reviews, essays, 

poetry, editorials, a two-act play and four 

novellas. He says that he prefers traditional styles, 

from romance to gothic poetry. Christiano has 

won first prize awards on various websites for 

best short stories and poetry. He is published in 

several anthologies and nostalgia magazines. He 

won the Carl & Nettie Halpern Memorial 

Award for best narrative in the Fall 2002 issue of 

The Bronx County Historical Society Journal. He 

enjoys collecting antique maps, prints, books, 

ephemera and historical newspapers. Mr. 

Christiano and his wife have twin girls, age 23 

and a son, 16. 

Mark Clement was born in Winnipeg, 

Manitoba, Canada, and raised in various towns 

in Ontario. He informs us that he currently 

resides in Toronto, “where he lives a clandestine 

life as a poet and earns money as a technocrat 

for a large U.S. firm.” He has two self-published 

chap books to his credit: Along the Path, and A 

Poet’s Lament. 

Wiley Clements has written an outstanding 

example of respectful and entertaining use of a 

dialect in formal poetry. His Incident at Stirling 

Castle, Letter to Ezra Pound and Passage to Point 

Barrow all appeared in the recently-published 

Anthology of the Alsop Review (Alsop Press). 

Clements now lives in retirement in Lewisburg, 

Pennsylvania, USA after a long and fascinating 

career, first as a military journalist and later as a 

developer of health maintenance organizations 

(HMOs). Taught to write verse as a child by his 

grandmother, he has written and sporadically 

published poetry throughout his nearly 76 years. 

Clock and Rose recently published his book of 

poems, Yesterday, or Long Ago. He says that he 

prefers lyric and narrative verse. His other 

interests include oil painting, chess, U.S. Civil 

War history, and translating Japanese literature 

into English. 

Anya Corke is 14 years old. She was born in 

California, USA, but moved to Hong Kong, 

China at an early age. She started writing poetry 

at nine, and has since won several competitions 

including the Potato Hill Poetry Award, Writers’ 

Forum Young Writers Competition and Poem 

Kingdom’s Absolute Write-Off Contest. She 

likes to write formal, lyric poetry, mostly about 

nature. Her delightful poem, Friends of Solitude, 

was previously published by Potato Hill Poetry, 

2002. This remarkable young lady’s poetic talent 

is matched, if not exceeded, by her extraordinary 

prowess in chess: Ms. Corke is a Woman 

Grandmaster – currently the second youngest 

holder of this title in the world. She won the 

British Junior Championship in her age group 

three years running (2002, 3 and 4). She was the 

2004 Hong Kong National Champion and the 

Asian Under-14 Girls Champion. She played on 

the Hong Kong “men’s” team in the Chess 

Olympiad held recently in Spain. 

Jonathan Day, artist and poet, has contributed 

both of his skills to this anthology. The elegant 

linocut illustrations that grace this volume and 

unify its chapters by their common theme are 

entirely the products of his own inspiration. A 

self-described “army brat,” he was born in 

Austria in 1954, grew up in Alaska, and moved 

to Oregon in 1972. Day had a varied career, 

working as a janitor, construction worker, welder, 

art instructor, cook and baker (among other 

things) before graduating as an electrical 

engineer in 1995. He is currently pursuing a 

Ph.D. in Physics at Oregon State University. His 

hobbies include astronomy, zoology, reading and 

science of all sorts. This artist’s personal website 

is found at www.thedaydomain.net; and he can 

be reached via E-mail at the following address: 

jday74@comcast.net . He is married to ceramic 

artist Fay Jones Day. 

C. K. Deatherage, Ph.D. informs us: “I wrote 

The Foundling almost two decades ago as I 

studied under poet and author Lloyd Kropp, 

and Dr. Roberta Bosse at Southern Illinois 

University at Edwardsville. While there, I was 

asked to give poetry readings, including a 

reading of The Foundling. Originally, as my studies 

were in Old and Middle English, The Foundling 

used the archaic ‘thee/thou’ structure with 

appropriate ‘-est/-eth’ verb endings. With a 

nostalgic sigh, I revised the poem to modern 

English – mostly. I taught freshman 

composition at various colleges for nine years 

before pursuing a Ph.D. in Old and Middle 

English Language and Literature at Purdue 

147



University. My studies, as my writing and 

reading habits, have been strongly influenced by 

my love of King Arthur, Robin Hood, and the 

enchanted realms of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. 

Tolkien. As for my own creations–when writing 

formal poetry, I prefer to tell a tale, sometimes 

humorous, sometimes . . . haunting.” 

Ted DeMay is already a master of the sonnet at 

17 years of age. He says that many poets have 

inspired him, including Shakespeare, Whitman, 

T.S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas. He enjoys 

reading and writing many different kinds of 

poetry, as he believes new experiences help one 

to mature as a person and as a writer. 

Maria DiDanieli is a freelance writer who has 

recently ventured from medical writing into 

other genres such as fiction and children’s 

educational literature. Before beginning her 

writing career in 2003, Ms. DiDanieli had an 

extensive background in publication of nonfiction. 

She is now working with a group of 

colleagues to develop a literary magazine; and 

she is currently piecing together a book of 

poems about being an adoptee. Her children 

Julia and Emily now inspire her to look beyond 

the constraints of the word “realistic” into 

worlds where possibilities are endless. She lives 

with her family in Oakville, Ontario, Canada. 

Gene Dixon is a long-time resident of New 

Jersey in the USA. His poetry, which covers all 

genres from free-verse to formal, has been 

published in several small magazines and on-line 

"e-zines." Dixon has won numerous awards for 

poems from a variety of publications and 

organizations, most notably Writer's Digest 

magazine and the New York Poetry Forum which 

named him "Contemporary Poet of the Year" 

for his poem, Amalthea, the Unicorn. 

Alan DuMond, (Vicki’s husband), who lives in 

the State of Arkansas, USA, is a carpenter, 

mechanic, landscape artist and for the past 

couple of years, a poet. He says that he is 

inspired by three things: nature, his wife and the 

music of Donovan. His other interests include 

playing the guitar, chess, pool, traveling and flea 

marketing. 

Vicki DuMond (Alan’s wife) has been writing 

poetry for 43 years. She taught English at the 

University of Central Arkansas and the 

University of Arkansas. She is now the 

Editor/Publisher of Reflections: a Journal of Poetry 

and Art, which appears quarterly. Her poems in 

lyrical, dramatic, humorous, monologue and 

nature genres, have appeared in numerous 

literary or what she modestly refers to as “little” 

magazines. Ms. DuMond shares most of her 

husband’s hobbies, and she also enjoys dancing 

and swimming. 

Rick Ellis is a freelance recording mixer in 

Toronto, Canada. When not listening to the 

universe he observes, writes about and tries to 

make sense of it. He is affiliated with the 

Academy of Canadian Cinema and Television, 

the Motion Picture Sound Editors Guild, the 

Royal Astronomical Society of Canada and 

the International Society of Authors and Artists. 

Peggy Fletcher was born in St. Johns, 

Newfoundland, and now lives in Sarnia, Ontario, 

Canada. She taught creative writing and English 

at Lambton College; and she was formerly the 

Family Editor for a newspaper, the Sarnia 

Observer. She has written six books of poetry, one 

of short stories, and her work appears in 

anthologies and magazines in Canada, England, 

Australia and the USA. 

Patricia Louise Gamache likes all types of 

poetry, and she writes about many subjects. She 

has published poetry with Noble House in the 

U.K.. At 67 years of age, she was widowed 

recently. She has been retired for one 

year. Gamache is a Canadian who has lived in 

British Columbia all her life, except for two 

years in Alberta. She says that she started two 

novels, but that “through sheer laziness they 

remain unfinished.” However, has been writing 

poetry and short stories since grade 

school. While in grade eight, she relates, she 

won a pound of jelly-beans in a short story 

contest. She blames this for the fact that she has 

had a sweet tooth ever since! 

Anne Maarit Ghan grew up in Finland as the 

youngest of 7 children. During college she 

148



married her American pen-friend, Scott, and 

moved to rural USA. The following years she 

spent raising their three children and writing 

humorous stories about family life and living 

abroad. Ms. Ghan and her family currently 

reside in Germany. Although she had always 

been fond of poetry, she began writing in this 

genre only recently. Most of her work is 

either inspirational or humorous. Her poem, 

The Ballade of the Bulge, was one of the three cowinners 

in Contemporary Formal Poetry's on-line 

contest in 2004. 

Peter G. Gilchrist is a lawyer who resides in 

Edmonton, Alberta, Canada with his wife, son 

and daughter. He describes himself as an avid 

canoeist, poet, soccer player and soccer coach. 

He most enjoys writing rhyming, narrative 

poetry. His poetry has previously been published 

in a variety of Internet and hard copy media. 

The Sparrow and the Hawk was previously 

published in Saucy Vox Review xii. The Guide was 

published in Saucy Vox Review and Literati. Both 

poems were also published in the book, Paddle 

Tracks (Edmonton: Kakwa River Press, 2004), a 

collection of paddling poetry by Peter Gilchrist, 

Peter Karwacki and Ken Corbett. Gilchrist has 

won awards for poetry and photography in the 

Net Poetry and Arts Competition. His moving 

narrative, The Gift, which appears in print for 

the first time here, was another one of the three 

co-winners in our on-line contest. 

Karen Godson says that she is a 40-year old 

poet from Toronto, Canada. “Having survived 

breast cancer seven years ago, she is now living 

life to its fullest and using the power of her 

words to make a difference. Karen writes about 

love and life as a lesbian. Her anti-war and 

women’s rights poems speak with conviction, 

while her environmental poems shake their fists 

at the ignorant abuse of the planet.” 

D.L Grothaus is a police officer in Boise, Idaho, 

USA. After a career in law enforcement for 30 

years, he says he can think of nothing he likes 

better than being a “street cop.” He writes: “In 

my work I meet people from every segment of 

society. I find each comes from different 

circumstances, but struggle with nearly the same 

difficulties in life. All are equally interesting. 

My wife of 31 years, Shirley, and I have a small 

farm at the desert’s edge, where we raise cattle, 

most recently Highland Cattle. My heritage 

includes Scottish culture. I play Highland 

bagpipes in two pipe bands, including the City of 

Boise Police Pipe and Drums, which I helped to 

form. I write about the people and things that I 

see from my own experiences. In my poetry, I 

strive to paint a complete picture in the mind’s 

eye of my reader, in 14 or so lines.” 

Keith Holyoak, Ph.D., is a professor of 

psychology at the University of California, Los 

Angeles. He has published over 150 papers and 

books. He received a Guggenheim Fellowship, 

and is a Fellow of the American Association for 

the Advancement of Sciences and the American 

Psychological Association. His poems have 

been published in literary magazines including 

The London Magazine, Envoi, Candelabrum Poetry 

Magazine, The Lyric, Red Rock Review and Edge City 

Review. The Happy Trout first appeared in The Lyric, 

2003; 83:2:58. Prof. Holyoak says that in 

addition to Yeats, Frost and the landscape of the 

Pacific Northwest, he has been influenced by the 

classical Chinese poetry of Li Bai and Du Fu, 

which he has translated. 

I.B. (“Bunny”) Iskov is Editor of the Outreach 

Connection newspaper, sold by the homeless and 

unemployed in Toronto, Canada. She is the 

founder of the Ontario Poetry Society. 

(www.mirror.org/tops) Her work has been 

published by the Canadian Mental Health 

Association, and it has appeared in numerous 

literary journals and anthologies. Her most 

recent collection of women’s poetry (co-edited 

with Katherine L, Gordon and Misty Elliott) was 

published by Black Moss Press. Iskov says that 

her other interests include needlepoint and Tarot 

card reading. The Sea of Silence, which appears in 

this collection, was inspired by reading Obasan by 

the celebrated Canadian novelist, Joy Kagawa. It 

was previously published in After the Rain, ed. by 

Vanna Tessier, Snowapple Press, 2000. 

Tan Kar-hui is a 22 year old student who lives 

in Malaysia. Our most distant correspondent to 

have his work included in this Canadianpublished 

collection has been writing poetry for 

about two years. He says that he prefers to write 

about romantic and nature subjects. His other 

interests include swimming and archery. 

149



Adrienne Kurtz is another 22 year old college 

student, who lives in the State of Maryland, USA. 

She says, “I started writing poetry in the sixth 

grade. Nature is my inspiration. My future goals 

include working in the U.S. park service, where I 

can spend time outdoors and write poetry on the 

side. My poem, The Other Side, came from the 

realization that people often aren’t satisfied with 

what they have achieved, looking towards others 

for the perfect, unattainable life.” This poem 

first appeared in a self-published collection in 

2001. 

Albert Lawrance, Ph.D. is a respiratory 

therapist who holds a doctorate in Physiology. 

He has traveled extensively, practicing his skill in 

the far corners of the world. He has been 

writing as a hobby for many years. “Poems 

about heartache came naturally,” he says, “as I 

seemed inclined to meet such a fate on more 

than one occasion. However, as with my poetry, 

there is hope for discovery and recovery …” 

And, we should say, a good chance for laughter, 

too. Dr. Lawrance’s wry sense of humor shines 

in his deliberately terrible Edinburgh – a clever 

parody of a typically wretched work by 

Scotland’s infamous 19 th Century “Baird of 

Rubbish,” William Topaz McGonagall. 

Nancy Lazariuk is a yoga teacher, who says 

that she loves rhyme. She has been 

concentrating on children’s poems lately, of 

which her Halloween poem, A Chance Just to Be 

Me, is an excellent example. She writes: “Had a 

few months free last autumn, so I sat down in 

front of the computer and started typing. A 

children’s novel popped out (Amy Sylvester and the 

Fairly Wisdom) along with several short stories. 

Then came poems and more poems. I try too 

write out of joy and fascination rather than from 

external influences and pressure. 

Wayne Leman says, “I grew up in a commercial 

fishing family in Alaska. Both my father and 

mother gifted me with a family environment that 

focused on words – words in different languages, 

attentive word usage, and word play. Since 1975 

I have used that verbal heritage working as a 

linguist for the Cheyenne Indians of Montana 

and Oklahoma. From time to time I write poetry. 

I like what poetry does to me, calming me, 

helping me see beauty in life that I might 

otherwise miss because I work too hard. I prefer 

writing poetry in a neoformal style. My wife and 

I have four children, who came as two sets of 

twins. We have five grandchildren.” His poems 

were previously printed in a self-published chap 

book, Morning Song. 

Jonathan Levitt, who was born and raised in 

Montréal, Québec, Canada, usually writes his 

poems and short stories under the nom-deplume 

“Max Waxman.” However, because he 

had become the proud father of newborn son 

Lucas by the time this anthology went to press, 

Mr. Levitt (Sr.) preferred to use his real name 

for his family-oriented poem, The Waiting Game. 

His other hobbies include photography and 

visual media production. 

Eric Linden writes: “The year 2004 will see 58 

bones in the bag, still slim and fit. British 

Columbia, Canada has been home for most of 

my life After high school I roamed and rambled 

a few years before getting my trades qualification 

in the electrical field. This career has provided a 

variety of experiences in diverse regions of 

Canada’s Provinces and Territories. Writing 

poetry started seriously in 2001, following a 

fascinating trip to Hong Kong. Before that, I 

had written advertising and travelogues, having 

acquired some writing knowledge from seminars 

and courses at colleges. My work is featured on 

the Internet, in the UK (Poetry Life and Times), 

and in several Canadian publications produced 

by Richard Vallance of Ottawa. Soon, I hope to 

have a book in print, containing sonnets, ballads 

and more.” 

Irene Livingston is one of the most 

“decorated” poets in this collection: in 2001 she 

received Canada’s prestigious Leacock Prize for 

Poetry; and she has won and placed in many 

other poetry contests in Canada. She says that 

she was a teacher in her younger years. She is 

the mother of three daughters. She began 

writing for children in 1996, and in 2003 Tricycle 

Press published her picture book, Finklehopper 

Frog, which won the Oppenheim Gold Book 

Award. In 1998 Ms. Livingston began writing 

adult poetry and prose, which has now been 

published in Canada, the USA, England, 

Australia and New Zealand. She has completed 

a novel, Naked in a Glass-Blue Lake, a poetry 

150



collection Invitation to the Trance, and a short story 

series, Me and Frankie Down at the Bar. Every day 

she’s out on her bicycle enjoying the mountains 

and trees of beautiful Vancouver, Canada. 

James K. McAlister is the youngest poet whose 

works appear in this book: he is 11 years old. 

He started writing poems at the instigation of his 

Grade Six teacher at Trinity College School in 

Port Hope, Ontario, Canada. Besides writing 

poetry from time to time, James enjoys 

mathematics, competitive swimming, making 

music on the cello, violin and saxophone, and 

playing with his sister Zara and his Guinea Pig, 

“Coffee Bear.” 

Neil Harding McAlister, M.D., Ph.D. (father 

of James K., above) lives in Port Perry, Ontario, 

Canada. He is a Fellow of the Royal College of 

Physicians and Surgeons of Canada, who 

practices Internal Medicine along with his wife, 

Nazlin, a Family Physician. Co-author of five 

books (with H. Dominic Covvey), McAlister has 

published both non-fiction and humor in 

professional and commercial journals, 

particularly The Medical Post. Although trained in 

science, he retains a love of the arts in his 

hobbies: composing music and writing rhyming, 

metrical poetry. Travel has been inspirational for 

much of his work. A particular admirer of 

Longfellow, McAlister maintains the Internet 

site, Traveler’s Tales: Contemporary Formal Poetry. 

He is the Editor and Publisher of this anthology. 

Frances McConnel, Ph.D. holds her 

Doctorate in English Literature. Recently retired 

from the University of California at Riverside, 

she devotes herself to writing. She was born in 

Providence, Rhode Island, USA, and has lived in 

other places including Alaska and Tennessee. 

She now resides in California. She published her 

first poem at age 15. Narrative and lyric poems 

are her favorites, but she has recently begun to 

write surrealistic prose poems as well. 

Prolifically published, Dr. McConnel has two 

books of poetry: Gathering Light, Pygmalion 

Press, 1979; and A Selection of Haiku, Bucket of 

Type Printery, Anchorage, Alaska, 2004. She has 

published poems widely in such journals as The 

Atlantic Monthly, The Nation, The Alaska Quarterly 

Review, Solo, Mudlark, and others too numerous 

to list. She also publishes short stories and essays. 

Last year she won the Oneiros Press Broadside 

Poetry Contest with When You Walk the Curtis 

Tungsten Mine Road. Besides writing, Frances 

loves to swim, watch movies with her husband, 

John Peavoy (who teaches English at a college), 

and hike with friends. Presently, Dr. McConnel 

is working on a family memoir about growing up 

in the chill of the cold war. 

Mary McIntosh, at 84 years of age, is proud to 

inform us that she holds another kind of record: 

she is the most senior writer whose poetry 

appears in this anthology. Born in England, she 

has been a U.S. citizen for most of her adult life. 

She now lives in Florida, where she says that “I 

like it fine except for the hurricanes!” Ms. 

McIntosh lived in Alaska for three years, where 

it seems she acquired a taste for Robert Service’s 

poetic style from the Canadian Yukon, located 

right next door. And she does it so well! Service 

himself would have been proud to have written 

her rowdy narrative, The Ballad of Trapper McGrew. 

Sharron R. McMillan informs us: “I am a 

writer, and I run a Bed and Breakfast called 

Hard-To-Come-By. I was born and raised in 

Alberta and now live in Sechelt, British 

Columbia, Canada. I have written poetry, plays 

and stories for as long as I can remember. I 

write about nature, social issues, my own 

skewed view of things. In the 1970’s I suggested 

that the local newspaper editor print a little 

culture with the news. To my surprise he 

accepted. This first effort inspired me to risk 

sharing more. I have since had my writings 

published in magazines and newspapers; and I 

have won a few writing contests. I live on five 

acres of forest with my husband, Ken, who is an 

artist/photographer; and with our two goldfish 

and two chickens. I have six grandchildren 

under the age of six. I crochet, read, garden and 

enjoy living a quiet, simple life.” Dim Sum was 

first printed in Time for Rhyme in 1995, “a small 

hand-bound booklet for a very limited 

distribution.” 

Chrissy K. McVay is the mother of a son and 

three stepsons. She has been writing poetry 

since the age of 14. When not writing, she is the 

painter for her husband’s handyman business. 

Their family recently moved to the mountains of 

North Carolina, USA. Her first novel, Why the 

151



North Wind Whispers, will be released by Neshui 

Publishing in 2005. Ms. McVay’s other interests 

include mountain biking, hiking, collecting 

Native American crafts and attending powwows. 

Michael Moreland Milligan is a 

Shakespearean actor who has performed at 

festivals all around the USA. He has also 

performed for Shakespeare and Company, The 

Cincinnati Playhouse, St. Louis Rep, The 

McCarter Theatre, The Studio Arena Theater, 

Charlotte Rep, The Manhattan Ensemble 

Theater, and the Poor Box Theatre. 

Favorite roles include: Hamlet, Benedik 

Mercutio, Mark Antony, Romeo, Krishna, Tom 

Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie (with two time 

Tony winner Penny Fuller), and Murray Burns in 

A Thousand Clowns. Michael’s children’s plays 

have been produced at Circle in the Square in 

New York. He has written several full length 

plays including an adaptation of Jack London’s 

The Sea Wolf. He is a graduate of the Juilliard 

School where he received the John Houseman 

prize. Michael was born in Westerville, Ohio, 

USA; and he currently resides in Brooklyn. By 

moonlighting as a Shakespearean actor, Milligan 

hopes to achieve his dream of one day becoming 

a full time professional dilettante. 

Pearl Watley Mitchell is the eldest of 10 

children, raised in the Southern United States. 

She is a retired schoolteacher who taught every 

grade from one through twelve. She says that 

she taught “all subjects,” especially English and 

Math, Adult Education, English-as-a-Second- 

Language and Business College. She has three 

children and six grandchildren. She was 

widowed after 30 years of marriage to a loving 

plumber named Pete. Mitchell’s hobbies are 

reading, writing, grandchildren, sports, church 

and mission trips to South America. She is the 

author of Don’t Run for President with Skeletons in 

Your Closet (Publish America: 2003). She has 

been writing poetry since childhood, and she has 

published some of it from time to time. She likes 

to experiment with all forms, but prefers 

conventional, rhyming poems. 

John Nause, Ph.D. recently retired as a high 

school Principal after a career of more than 35 

years. His first volume of poetry, The Valley, was 

published by Borealis Press in 1973. It was 

followed in 1976 by The Last Snows of Winter, The 

First Breath of Spring, a collections of poems and 

short stories. He has published other poems 

and short stories in a variety of magazines, and 

he recently completed a novel, tentatively titled 

Betrayal of Trust. Dr. Nause became involved 

with theater as a high school student. He has 

performed on Canadian amateur stages in 

Ontario and Nova Scotia, directed plays and 

written three dramas. John and his wife Dawn- 

Marie live in Overton, Nova Scotia, by the 

Atlantic Ocean. 

Opal M. Norris is a freelance writer, stage 

manager and professional storyteller. She was 

born in North Carolina, USA in 1982, where she 

currently resides while she works towards her 

Master’s degree in Fine Arts. Her work has been 

published in Tracing the Infinite, Expressions, 

Voicenet Anthology 10 and Great Poems of the 

Western World. 

Michael Pollick’s work has been featured in 

Mosaic, HART, Elk River Review, The Iconoclast 

and Midwest Poetry Review, among other 

publications, and in the political poetry 

anthology, Will Work for Peace, edited by poet 

Brett Axel. Writers who have influenced him 

include ee cummings, William Carlos Williams, 

Raymond Carver and Bob Dylan. Born in 

Akron, Ohio in 1964, Pollick now lives in the 

deep south of the USA with his wife Amy. He 

currently writes content for an on-line content 

provider service, and he hopes to continue his 

poetry career with readings and workshops. 

More of his work can be found at 

www.angelfire.com/al/collateraldamage . 

Sally Anne Roberts says of herself that she “is 

a stay-at-home Mom with one daughter, Sarah 

Jean. Her husband has been her loving soul 

mate for 14 years. Sally has been writing for 30 

years. Her accomplishments include over 20 

creative certificate awards and ribbons for 

writing. In 2003 Ms. Roberts had over 90 of 

her poems edited and published in a chap book 

called Confetti Leaves (Shadows Ink Publications, 

(where all of her poems that appear in this 

anthology were first printed.) All the hours, days 

and years of writing to become a published poet 

152



seem worthwhile as those memories blend into 

her dwelling and she reads her writing to those 

whom she loves.” 

Sam Samson is a 17 year old student born and 

living in Tampa, Florida, USA. She has already 

been writing poetry for at least seven years. Ms. 

Samson is the managing Editor of Synapse, the 

literary magazine at Blake High School of the 

Fine Arts, where she is a senior majoring in 

Creative Writing. A chap book of her poetry, 

Exit 44, will be published shortly by Yellow 

Jacket Press. Her other interests include painting, 

costume design and photography. 

Richard Scarsbrook, of Toronto, Canada, 

teaches, plays music and writes both fiction and 

poetry. His novel, Cheeseburger Subversive, (where 

Great Unanswered Questions of History first appeared) 

was published by Thistledown Press in 2003, 

and was short listed for the 2004 Canadian 

Library Association Book of the Year Award, 

and the Ontario Library Association White Pine 

Award. Scarsbrook’s poems and stories have 

been published widely in literary journals, 

magazines and anthologies, and they have won 

several awards including the Hinterland Award 

for Prose, two New Century Writer Awards, the 

Cranberry Tree Press Poetry Chapbook 

Competition, and many others. More about his 

writing can be seen at 

www.richardscarsbrook.com. 

smzang (pen name of poet Sarah M. Zang) 

lives in the State of West Virginia, USA. She 

began writing poetry early in childhood. She has 

been published in an anthology, Poet’s Ink, and in 

local journals. She won an award from W.V. 

Writers for her collection Roots and Wings. 

Robert Stampe is a 61 year old, born and bred 

Canadian. He has been writing poetry, short 

stories and magazine articles for several years. 

Over a 35 year career in the world of aviation 

electronics, he has lived in every geographical 

area of Canada. A private pilot, avid golfer, poet, 

and observer of human nature, Bob has a wealth 

of experience, and a myriad of personalities to 

draw upon for his writing. He is now semiretired, 

living in the Okanogan Valley of British 

Columbia, Canada. In recent years his work has 

been published in literary journals, in magazines, 

and on the Internet. In 2003, one of his short 

stories The Chicken Express won the Larry Turner 

Award, and was published in the literary journal 

The Grist Mill. Notwithstanding his other writing 

endeavors, he most enjoys writing rhyme and 

meter (R&M) poetry. To say that his poem, The 

Birthday Surprise, stinks is no insult! It was the 

hands-down favorite of the Editor’s children. 

Brenda Tate says: “I am a recently retired 

English/Drama teacher living in Nova Scotia, 

Canada, with a love of literature, music and good 

jokes. I also enjoy writing and directing plays 

for young actors. My artistic side is balanced by 

an interest in fossil collecting, working with 

horses and exploring the natural curiosities of 

my home province. I’ve written poetry off and 

on since my teenage years, especially formalist 

work and narrative pieces. I was a finalist in the 

Winnipeg Writers War Poetry Contest in 2003, 

and Glimmer Train Poetry Open, Spring 2002; 

earned honorable mention in the UAS 

Explorations Contest 2002; and won the 

Interboard Poetry Competition in May 2004.” 

Zachariah Wells is a prolific reviewer and 

essayist. His fortnightly literary column, The 

Zed Factor, appears at www.maisonneuve.org. He 

was born and raised in the Province of Prince 

Edward Island, Canada. He has lived in Ottawa, 

Montreal and Nunavut, where he worked for 

seven years as an airline freight handler and 

agent. He now resides in Halifax, for the second 

time in his life, where he works for VIA rail as 

an onboard service attendant. Wells is the 

author of Fool’s Errand (Saturday Morning 

Chapbooks, out of print) and Unsettled (Toronto: 

Insomniac Press, 2004), a book of Arctic poems. 

Aaron Wilkinson is the author of another of 

our on-line contest co-winners, Prophet of Sod. 

Wilkinson, who lives in North Bay, Ontario, 

Canada, states, “I believe that the reign of free 

verse should be overthrown. It's heartening to 

see there are like-minded individuals who can 

appreciate the value of ‘real’ poetry – and I'm in 

the mood for a revolution! I remember the day, 

in seventh grade, when understanding how to 

measure feet in poetry kicked me in the head. 

Ever since, poetry has been stumbling peglegged 

through my head, and usually in formal 

attire. I wrote Prophet of Sod after listening to a 

153



Bob Marley concert and daring myself to stick 

with the rhyming pattern the poem follows.” He 

confides, “Truth be told, I was worried about 

how it would be received by respectable folk. My 

favorite poets are William Shakespeare for his 

sonnets, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Samuel Taylor 

Coleridge for Kubla Khan, Robert Frost for 

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening and Alan 

Ginsberg for Howl.” 

Vincent W. Williams, poet, actor and artist, 

writes: “I was born 67 years ago (as, 

coincidentally, was my twin sister Kay). I am 

married (as, coincidentally, is my wife Patricia). 

We reside in Dubuque, Iowa, USA. After 31 

years teaching theater and speech arts in college 

and high school, my life has settled to a pretty 

focus which finds me writing, acting and 

painting. During Christmas seasons, my acting 

partner and I perform my original script A 

Christmas Dickens. Nestled amongst playful 

banter, together we act Dickens’s A Christmas 

Carol. In 2004, I acted the ship’s captain for the 

History Channel’s docu-drama Ship Ablaze, The 

General Slocum Disaster. I am also a professional 

oil painting artist, having completed a ninepainting 

series visually expressing the Biblical 

beatitudes. I have written poetry throughout 

most of my life, especially enjoying creating art 

that would seem ‘out of reach’ and 

‘impossible.’ ” 

Cathy Wilson is the mother of nine children, 

who has authored three published books of non 

-fiction. She lives on three acres with her 

husband, four children still at home, four 

chickens, a horse, a goat and a dog. She likes to 

write, paint, garden, cook, read, build things and 

learn new things too. 

154


Appendix A 

Appendix A 

On-line Contest Rules 

155


Appendix A 

Appendix A 

“Contemporary Formal Poetry” on-line contest rules 

M 

ost of the poems that appear in this collection 

were submitted in response to the following 

invitation, posted on the Internet between 

April and October 2004, soliciting entries for 

Contemporary Formal Poetry’s first on-line contest. The 

contest closed on 31 October 2004. Only one in six 

(approximately) of the many submissions received 

complied with all of the contest rules. The remaining 

majority of poems that we received did not qualify for 

inclusion in this contest, and were therefore declined, 

even though some of them were potentially worthy 

works within their own genres. 

Poetry Contest 

Formal Poetry only! 

IS POETRY DEAD 

If Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Robert Service, Keats, 

Shelley, or Alfred Lord Tennyson were alive today, they 

might have trouble getting a masterpiece published. Of 

course there are brilliant exceptions, but frankly, we 

think that the predominating free verse genre, 

considered avant-garde in our Grandparents’ generation, 

is getting pretty stale. We’re tired of pretentious free 

verse that leaves the reader struggling to figure out what 

the author was really trying to communicate. We dislike 

choppy prose masquerading as “poetry.” 

Purely to encourage the noble tradition, resonance and 

grandeur of classical, formal poetic form, “Contemporary 

Formal Poetry” is pleased to announce our first on-line 

poetry contest. You may get a place to post your own 

masterpiece with us on the Internet; you might even 

win some money. 

YES, PLEASE 

• If it rhymes and scans perfectly, is easy to read, and 

sounds good when read aloud, then this contest is 

for you! 

• AIM FOR A HIGH STANDARD. By way of 

examples, we’re looking for the next great poet in 

the formal, “Western” tradition – the next 

Wordsworth, the next Shelley, the next Longfellow, 

Rudyard Kipling, Edgar Allan Poe, or Coleridge. 

• Within reason, we also welcome “longer” poems – 

300 words or more. 

• Ballads, narrative poetry, elegy, sonnets, epigrams, 

villanelles, epics, odes, rondeaus, sestinas, alphabet 

poetry, acrostics and other formal genres all 

welcome. 

• The genre may range from children’s bedtime 

poems to gothic; from heroic to nonsense verse; 

from “fireside poetry” to “cowboy poetry” – as 

long as the work is formal in structure. 

• If you expect to win anything, use formal 

punctuation. 

• If your poetry is serious, have something serious to 

say. Think of Longfellow and the other “fireside 

poets.” Aim for the big picture, the moral of the 

story. 

• No special consideration for youthful poets, but all 

ages are welcome. 

• Poems in English only. Contest open to persons of 

all nationalities. 

• Previously published and simultaneous submissions 

welcome. In such cases it is the poet’s 

responsibility to ensure that he or she has the right 

to allow us to post their work on the Internet. 

156


Appendix A 

• Submit early, submit often! (Up to 6 poems.) 

HOW IT WORKS 

NO, THANK YOU 

Poetry that is perfectly acceptable within its own genre 

may not be right for this particular contest. Before 

submitting, please check: 

• No free verse. No blank verse. 

• No “experimental” styles. No irregular stanzas. We 

want only traditional poems in this contest. 

• No haiku or other specialized “non-Western” 

formats. 

• Blank lines are for stanza breaks only. Entries that 

are entirely double spaced, or written entirely in 

CAPITALS LETTERS will be rejected. 

• No doggerel. No maudlin, sing-song, “greeting 

card” verse. 

• No limericks; nothing scatological or vulgar. 

• Stanza structure required, as dictated by the poem’s 

formal type. Naïve, long series of rhyming couplets 

without stanza breaks will be rejected, except when 

such a format looks specifically appropriate (which 

is rare.) 

• Sloppy, irregular scanning will usually be rejected. 

This is a contest for formal, metrical poetry – not 

song lyrics. 

• No forced rhymes or disruptive, clumsy 

enjambments. No silly neologisms unless you 

aspire to be the next Lewis Carroll. We want a new 

Tennyson, not a new William McGonagall! 

• Unless you are imitating a particular dialect, 

ordinary spelling and grammar errors will be 

rejected. Either APS or English spelling is 

acceptable. 

• Weird work that is that is simply incomprehensible 

(and we have received some!) will be rejected. You 

have to communicate. 

• No erotica. 

• Nothing racist, sexist or libelous. 

• No religion, politics, or chest-thumping, 

nationalistic bombast. 

• No more “9/11” poetry please. 

• No lyrics, hymns or rap. 

• True, Robert Service used the occasional cussword. 

But use sparingly and tastefully. No 

obscenity. 

• Confessional, “I – you” love poems may flatter 

your partner, but we are not interested in your 

personal love life. 

• Please incorporate your poem into the body of your 

email. We cannot open attachments. 

• Entries that fail to adhere to the guidelines will be 

rejected. 

• Kindly identify yourself. No anonymous 

postings. Postings by poets only: for copyright 

reasons, no submissions by third parties are 

accepted. Include your postal address. (In case you 

win, we need to know where to send your prize.) 

Please be sure that your return E-mail address (the 

one that people use when they hit “reply”) actually 

works! We have received several entries that lack 

valid E-mail addresses to respond to! 

• Avoid reliance on “fancy” fonts for artistic effect. 

We convert everything to Arial font prior to 

posting. 

• If it is deemed appropriate for this contest, your 

entry will be posted on this website until we decide 

to delete it after the contest closes. There is no 

“hard copy” publication. 

• No entry fee. It is our privilege to receive your 

submissions. 

• You keep full copyright to your own work. 

• We will neither critique your poetry nor explain our 

decisions. Rejection does not necessarily imply 

criticism: an entry may simply be inappropriate for 

this contest. 

• We agree: a poetry “competition” is silly. So lets 

compromise: I’ll pay $50 (Canadian dollars) for 

each of three winning poems. (Three different 

poets – only one prize for any one winner.) 

• Kindly be patient. If accepted, your work will be 

posted here eventually. But this website is only my 

hobby: I need my day job to earn the money to pay 

for your prizes! 

HELPFUL HINTS 

Your poem MUST have a strong and consistent 

rhyming scheme to be accepted. 

Good scanning separates winners from 

losers. Read your poem aloud: if you stumble over 

an awkward, irregular beat, it needs work. Many 

poems that contain good ideas are spoiled by 

sloppy scanning. 

157


Appendix A 

Formal poetry generally requires formal 

punctuation. 

Most metrical poems need stanza structure, just as 

short articles require paragraphs. The poet’s ability 

to package related thoughts within stanzas separates 

the wheat from the chaff. 

A poem’s title should bear a meaningful 

relationship to its content. 

To learn how to write formal poetry, read formal 

poetry. It doesn’t happen by accident. 

Love inspires many amateur poets. Alas, many fail 

miserably. We reject love poems that contain the 

usual, trite clichés and boring, predictable rhymes 

that have been worked to death by popular songs. 

If you submit a love poem, please say something 

original, say it skillfully, and don’t say it in the first 

person. 

SUBMIT! 

Please SUBMIT your poems to the contest Webmaster, 

neilmac@durham.net 

Kindly include the password “wordone” (leaving out the 

quotes) in the SUBJECT of your email, to get past our 

spam filter. If it doesn’t get through the first time, please 

try again! 

All submissions that we receive will be acknowledged. 

Thanks for your poems! 

Contest closes 31 October, 2004. 

Final entries will be posted, and winners will be 

announced shortly thereafter. 

158


Index of First Lines 


A breath before gray streaks of dawn 62 

A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa – 112 

A lady of great beauty sits, 107 

A painted moon hung full and high, its blush subdued, yet bright. 140 

A savage sunset robed the silent wood 27 

A tear for the sick 62 

Against unyielding crag on storm-swept shore, 61 

Allow yourself the privilege of a song 18 

Am I a crazy man 72 

An angry wind blows over me 46 

An arc extends across the sky’s expanse 136 

Are you really light as air Can you truly fly 52 

Arms like trees, back broad and long 59 

As bugle winds entice the songs of lore, 108 

At a big hotel that I know quite well 17 

August’s heat bows to September’s cool, 36 

Back home the north wind howls and blizzards blow. 110 

Back in the New World, outdated, old rubbish 79 

Back when the world was still quiet and peaceful, 80 

Beneath blue sun-filled skies, tall white forms gleam 74 

Better walk slow 41 

Black and gothic, 54 

Call me a zealot for my strong beliefs, 104 

Coffee mild, but dark as toast 16 

Creation snoggles all my deeper think, 112 

Dear Abby tell me what to do. 142 

Dear Mr. Pound, I write 92 

Detection, perception, reflection alone 27 

“Did you know that she’s left” 26 

Every year, around the time, 122 

Four cargo vessels plowing furrows forward 98 

From out the cold and under deep, 66 

Grandeur crescendos 18 

Had we but world enough and time, 121 

He shuffled through the dust on blistered feet 94 

Here up north the air is cleaner. 99 

He’s always been distractible and loud, 109 

Hey, I saw it 60 

How like unto a longing heart was I 47 

159



I found some cards you sent me 43 

I stand before you, humbled and dismayed, 71 

I wonder if Shakespeare was ever eighteen 37 

If only I could spend my time in leisure, 115 

I’m getting fat, this is no lie. 119 

I’m sorry love about last night 40 

In a tiny shop at the alley door, amidst the shadows deep, 91 

In dragon days, on nightmare flights 78 

In somber-hued cathedral halls 28 

In the Mayas’ holy city 97 

In this court, with mind entrammeled, 85 

It is said that men and women are the same 44 

It’s funny about humor, and the things that make us smile. 116 

I’ve come to notice lately that around me things have changed. 88 

I’ve danced in moonlight, dreamed in marble, walked a twisted road 24 

Jar one chord, the harp is silent; 64 

Lady of decay, 55 

Learn to make the most of life, 25 

Little pieces of the heart 39 

Lost in an ocean filled with fear. 58 

Love is a golden lie, a sacrificial rite; 51 

Love is the child 31 

Man’s best companion, 21 

MacKim and I stuid furth that day, 75 

Miranda Jane is just the cutest thing. 89 

Morning dew glistens 28 

Must my poetry be deep 118 

My Grandpa told me ‘fore he died, 138 

My mower slices spine and then is still 58 

My shuttle flies, my heartbeat knows 81 

My skin is brown and leathered from your sun 106 

My soul flies fast through marble azure skies 23 

My wife and I came to this northern town 76 

Mystery woman of northern spires 42 

Now that we’re middle aged, 137 

O, mortal man, please realize 86 

Oh! Beautiful City of Edinburgh, 120 

Oh Christmas tree the perfect size 125 

Once on a bright midsummer’s eve 48 

Our conference is winding down. 45 

Remember back when, being young, you dreamed 82 

Secluded rocks in treacherous straits 81 

Segovia, guitarist widely praised, 126 

Shadow of bird, 50 

She sashays, cool and careless through my door, 70 

She was caught between heaven and earth when she died 57 

Small black fears tap-tap on windows, 69 

“So esoteric!” cried the dismayed child, 23 

So wild and free 135 

160



Soft and lazy 124 

Speak! speak, you ghostly guest, 130 

Swirling snow flakes 86 

The city walls pulse with the knowledge of soldiers’ fears, 100 

The client’s rhythmic breathing relayed ‘round 38 

The diamond drops of tulip sweat 129 

The here and now is all we hold in times of joy and sorrow. 20 

The morning sunlight shines upon me, 25 

The night it was dark, the moon did not shine. 84 

The owl sat 19 

The sunset shatters on the lake. 128 

The Thinker – he who navigates 96 

The trout had much to celebrate– 22 

The West is more than just a place. 105 

There is a hint of storm upon the breeze 36 

There’s many a tale of the Great White North 101 

They call each star a sun 28 

They burst around the river bend upstream from where I stood 32 

They say that it’s a rage to order. 65 

They say The Odeon went bust – 78 

This child that grows inside my wife 135 

Though a poem may be satirical, 114 

Throw more logs on the fire, 63 

To grow the Garden of the Mind 96 

Tonight the moon is high, the water’s calm 109 

Trails among the Navaho 77 

Two wedding bands 144 

Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom, 56 

We are the souls who dance on fallow page; 104 

We never questioned whether we should wed 141 

Well, here I go and write again. 143 

When close of day stands shortly knocking hard 22 

When I was born my only play 90 

When I was young, I knew a man. He’d spent his life at sea. 87 

When John was just a little guy 113 

When the sun turns to glass, bright prisms will bow; 16 

Where do myths and legends go, 89 

Wind rustled crunching leaves 21 

Yes, lead me to the water, 108 

You gave me orange blossoms when I was sixteen 30 

You see in me that fading time of year 30 

Your tattooed stigmata are showing, my dear – 100 

Your urgent, crunching footfall down the cinder running track 134 

161

New Classic Poems – Contemporary Verse That Rhymes

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