Wednesday, 25 April 2018

Adrian's Artwork

Her pre-school penciling  
That is preserved  
In the Courtenay newspaper; 
Her kindergarten painting  
Of a pumpkin  
With the added feature of eyebrows 
That hung by the front door  
Of the house in Smithers; 
Her doodles of dogs  
On the church bulletins in Victoria; 
Her sketches of musical artists 
As seen on their  
Compact disc covers; 
Her homemade Christmas cards 
That she gave out and sold; 
Her acrylic abstracts 
And the mural she painted  
On her bedroom walls  
In the townhouse in Ottawa; 
The painting to remember  
Her trip to Spain  
After her camera was stolen; 
The lion in Africa  
She hopes to one day see; 
The two swans she designed  
For my wedding invitations; 
The set for Grease at Hazelton High; 
The tiger, her work in progress, 
Like this poem, thus far  

Songs of West Song Walkway

The dawn chorus commence 
Bright morning birdsong begins 
The robins readily rejoice 
To not, is really a sin  
A crowd of raucous crows  
Join in with their jocund reply - 
Rejoinders from the rooftops, 
Treetops, parking lots, sky  
A hummingbird flicks its tongue 
At last night's leftover raindrops 
Squawking seagulls scramble for breakfast - 
Crabs smashed upon barnacled rocks  
A solo crow clangs its vociferous voice 
Before, his morning fare, is unearthed 
He takes off to a branch to munch 
On his moss-covered clump of wet dirt 
Swifts skitter and flit  
Above upside-down butts 
Of those foraging for food - 
The undignified, dabbling ducks   
Geese honk and holler  
Motors hum and drown  
Out daybreak's daily feature 
Of the feathered Gloria sound  
Chirps and cheeps echo 
Beyond the boisterous bay 
As furred and furious feet  
Pad the melodious pathway, 
The old lady with her 'bread crumb routine' 
"Good morning" through chattering teeth 
I head back home, heartened 
With the sun aglow on my cheek                 

Thursday, 12 April 2018

Ross Bay Cemetery

Skeletal trees  
stand as sentries  
around the centuries’  
long-buried bones  

Morning fog  

wafts through, ghostlike -
a host of sailors  

searching for home        

Shadows of Memory

The shadows of faded memory 
A muted melange 
Of mauve and wintergreen 
Dangles in the periphery 
Where mothballs preserve 
My daddy's childhood scene  
I see a geometric afghan 
On the nubby davenport 
A raggedy rug beneath my slippers  
A braided mat by the back porch  
Crystal doorknobs are at eye-level  
A pack of peppermints  
In grandma's purse, I spy  
Grandfather puffs upon a pipe 
The cherry smoke curls up 
Toward the rounded light 
The house is small  
No stairs to climb 
Beyond the blinds, 
A tree outside,  
Dims the room in summertime; 
Across the street 
A field for tag and playing  
"Go, go, go, go, go, go, stop" 
And swings that almost reach into  
The scary-high treetops; 
The backyard's where  
The family tent  
Has been unrolled 
A tepee for the children  
Dusty denim in mustard gold 
My parents sleep inside, 
But I can hear my daddy snore  
We tell tales with flash and fingers  
As shadows on the wall  
Mysteriously roar