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 commences  

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                 

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