Poetic Licence

Gone But Not Forgotten

Sam Whelan; of Happy Valley, NL. Gone But Not Forgotten I am one of the many, who are gone but not for-gotten, I'd Rather be one of the any; for-gotten but not gone. Sipping cold beer, on a hot day; watching my children laugh and play. A-las you're there, and I am here; Gone But Not For-gotten. The posters hung on all the walls; Reminding me to heed the call, and How could I stay so far behind; with So many others on the front line? So I signed my name in the space provided, And left my home with a heart decided. A-las you're there, and I am here; Gone But Not For-gotten. Much much later my choice sank in, When I saw first hand, the damage to men; Sometimes I've wondered, about that pen, How many times was it used that day? How many lives were signed away? Does it matter where my death took place, The desert and dust of Afghanistan, or a Field in Belgium called No-Man's Land? Either way, the task was the same; Do your best, to kill and to maim... Do your best, to kill and to maim... A soldiers currency is their life, it's Paid with blood and sacrifice, but What of those who make it home, To manage their pain all alone? Friends and family cannot escape, The pain for all is much too great. A-las you're there, and I am here; Gone But Not For-gotten. All our days, a debt is owed One to reap and never sow, for All their days, left on the earth; Sorrow, Sadness, pain and loss; Proof of what our wars can cost. I am one of the many who are gone but not for-gotten; I'd Rather be one of the any; for-gotten but not gone. Sipping cold beer on a hot day, watching my children laugh and play. A-las you're there, and I am here; Gone But Not For-gotten A-las you're there, and I am here; Gone But Not For-gotten

A Funny Bunny

There is a little bunny who goes around each year Who brings us little queer shaped eggs for all of us to cheer We all get up in the morning, our eyes are heavy like bags If the bunny could really see us all looking and feeling for eggs. The bunny hops from house to house in his little coat of red They usually call him Peter, but this guy's name is Fred This Fred is a little fellow whose feet is like a kangaroo's He said I wish it was Christmas so I could get a tight pair shoes. He is so very clumsy, the clumsiest one around But when he goes from house to house you don't even hear a sound The eggs are different colours, but he only sees black and white When we gather them together, oh what a lovely sight. Cause when we celebrate Easter, we think of it as one day but when Christmas comes around it's done a different way We only think of the eggs and what they really taste like and nothing about the bunny, his name is Fred, or is it Mike? When Easter rolls around again, try thinking of the bunny Forget about the eggs and laugh at him, he's funny If we could only see him and let him see our smile Don't worry about the eggs boys, we're sure to get a pile. Herman West Howley, NL

My Memory Chest

As my thoughts wing back to yesterday, When I was but a girl, I unlock mem'ry's treasure chest to reveal a gleaming pearl. A place that is more dear to me Than anywhere on Earth - Old St. John's in Newfoundland, The city of my birth. I listed to a mournful foghorn Piercing shrouded night. I gaze upon the Southside hills, When dawns the morning light. I smell the ocean's tangy scent and breathe the salty air My feet are drawn to childhood paths, The beauty that is there. I see the railway station, Where we would often play. I hear the Newfie Bullet's roar as she gets underway. I climb to the path that takes me to the top of Signal Hill, While from a distance come the toll of great cathedral bells. I bide a while on Pleasant Street, for there I spent my youth playing hop-scotch, dolls and dress-up with my young cousin Ruth. And just down at the corner is Mr. Monty's store. In hard, hard times he often left provisions at our door. At a red-topped, wrought iron table in Power's candy store, I eat the sisters' fine ice cream and then I ask for more. Of this wonderful confection I can never get enough. But I still have room for bulls' eyes and the homemade fudge I love. Bannerman Park is special. There we played on slides and swings. Such thoughts, like these of long ago, A sweet nostalgia brings. Bowring Park and Peter Pan and swans that glide with grace - All these things I see, once more, but with an older face. When we lived on Bond Street, We'd take an evening walk to a colour-changing fountain which back then was all the talk. No more do sprightly waters surge into the nighttime air. I see them in my memory chest but they're no longer there. Come Saturday I take a bus that goes to Topsail Beach. I run on sands to catch a wave that's just beyond my reach. More hearty souls than I would dare to test Atlantic seas. I'd rather sit beside the fire and drink my switchell tea Out at Quidi Vidi, in August's morning sun A voice breaks through the hubbub "Are you ready, number one?" A shot rings out and all hands cheer as rowers pull away. It seems as if all Newfoundland is at the pond today. I take my shiny bucket when September rolls around to pick some berries at a secret place that I have found. I bring them home for mom to make a partridgeberry pie, and on our radio play Lukey's Boat and I'se da B'y. I love to eat the homestyle food I had when I was small - Fish n' brewis n' scrunchions, enough for one and all. Scraps we got from Mammy's home-bakes lassy bread, Fruitcake made by loving hands, and syrup, cherry-red. At Christmastime the raffle bells invited, "come in, b'y." Here you might grab the big one if your luck was running high. One cold December night my father won a turkey and a goose. While many another hearty lad went out to get his moose. Yes time's brought alterations to the city that I love. But there's one thing that stays the same, I thank the Lord above. The kind and gentle people that you nowhere else will find, is the thing that I remember most When St. John's comes to mind. The can tear down all the buildings there, Close up all the schools, Relocate whole families and make up brand new rules. But they cannot change the folk who make St. John's a special place. For they're the cream skimmed off the top of the whole human race. Cynthia Gullage Toronto, ON Formerly of St. John's, NL

Cape Spear

When Cousin Ruth is feeling blue, She goes out to Cape Spear. In sunshine or in rain and fog, Most any time of the year. Once she even told me, Before this rhyme took form, The last time that she drove out there Was in a winter storm. She goes to that most eastern point Turns her back on the sea, And looks on North America, She's even facing me. She meditates and gazes At an ever changing scene. Sometimes it's wild and turbulent And sometimes it's serene. She never tires of going back And looking at the view And when I go to visit her She even takes me too. To contemplate the beauty there Can give me quite a thrill. The only fault that I have found Is climbing up that hill. For my cousin Allison Ruth Horwood Best April 29, 1949 - September 18, 1982 Cynthia Gullage Toronto, ON Formerly St. John's, NL

Two B'ys Making Bread

Two b'ys in St. Anthony Were making up some bread. They didn't have a cookbook What to do was in their heads. They mixed it up and kneeded it, Then set it on to rise. Came back two hours later, Could not believe their eyes. The dough filled up the kitchen, They couldn't see the floor. At six-o-two a news flash said "We've dough in Labrador." "I must have erred," the first b'y said. "I think I did, at least. Instead of just two tablespoons, I used two pounds of yeast." Cynthia Gullage Toronto, ON formerly St. John's, NL

The Rose

I walked along a sandy beach that was endless The sea and sky were that sacred blue I loved. Below my feet I saw some rose petals Where did they come from? There were no houses near. I reached to pick the broken stem, its thorn was sharp A small amount of blood reminded me that even beautiful things can hurt. Did God still care for the broken rose, although not the way He made it? Tossed about like it mattered not, torn from storm and wind I held one petal in hope at lease its scent remained But wind and sea had robbed even that Like age changes a lot of things. I walked a longer path with reeds of tall grass and a pond that boasted of lily pads Purple iris lined the edge, but no hint of even a wild rose anywhere. White daisies led up the path to a small cottage, but still no roses. On the deck a rocking chair swayed gently in the wind, bidding a summer rest. Ivy had spun its way up the rail. I moved closer, I had to know who lived inside. Then she came out, frail, yet with the sweetest smile I blurted out about the mystery rose, her eyes spoke volumes back to me "Yes," she said, "He gave it to me on a moonlit walk to remind me of the fight I had been through." We both took petals and smelled their love and tossed them playfully In thanks for each ray of hope that came from God Who never left us, though he hid at times. We broke the stem to honour the one broken more for us than we for Him We broke it for the days we nearly gave up and He was there with us. "Come, my dear," she said to me. And there inside, her husband sat behind a table covered in a crocheted cloth. On top, a vase held eleven roses still intact. Ruth Boone CBS, NL

View from my Kitchen Window

Frost on the rooftops Birds flitting by Smoke from Bernice's chimney Ascending to the sky The fish plant now dormant Another season gone Boats lying on the slipway Awaiting springtime's call The hills across the harbour Mirrored in the sea If only there was someone To view the scene with me Trees of every colour Red, green, gold, and more The shed across the water Attuned to the decor The house across the meadow Vacant now and still Once friends and neighbours gathered there And children played at will Cars scurrying by Ever in a rush The last roses of summer A-bloom on the bush Elizabeth Croft Aquaforte, NL

Garden of Delight

Whisper of wind in the trees chirp and buzz of birds and bees Flowers and trees are tended with care Mommy's garden, her private lair Flowers, trees in every nook tips were gleaned from garden books Applied and altered in some ways waiting now for suns warm rays A special place, the Maple Room gaze in awe, watch the flowers bloom A bench to sit, think and ponder the power of a garden, its healing wonder Roses, Daises and Ireland's Bell Marigold, Holly Hock and Aster as well Sunflowers reach for the sky colours dazzle, catch your eye Sit, relax and have a swing enjoy the scents the breeze will bring Erase the stresses of the day listen to the fountain spray Every day brings a new surprise nothing required, only open eyes Tinkling chimes bring forth a laugh flitting creatures enjoy the bath A painters palate could not compete with riotous colour of this retreat This special garden is like no other cause it was made by my mother. I wrote this poem as a Christmas gift for my Mom, Anna Dalton in 2002 in honour of her beautiful garden.

Tall Tales Tavern

Tall Tales Tavern, it sits on the hill Between the gardens of Robert and Bill It's where the crowd goes for rest and relaxation But, more importantly than that, beers and conversation They'll all show up at half past eight However, Zach and I are usually fashionably late There's Paul, my dad, and my pop Gerard And my uncle Robert from across the yard Great uncle Cyril, once the postmaster Who couldn't suck down the Pepsi any way faster Then Steve Crane, an in-law of sorts One for Philadelphia, when talking of sports Bill Merrigan is there, with his cans of Bud Light Who could tell the best stories when the timing is right Mike Griffin shows, when he's not away for work He lives on the south side, just up from Ken Burke His brother Larry comes by when home from away He'll never take that chair, and hasn't to this day There's Bill Lawton, he's from the mainland He always leaves early, cause he's a good husband Uncle Mark shows up, when he's not in the woods I've been in his cabin, he's packin' the goods Old Harold Earle is here in the summer A professor, certainly no carpenter or plumber Don Emerson is there just to start a racket He better be careful, or he'll jump from his jacket Les Butt is there every once in a while Everyday, you see, he walks two or three mile Then Zach and I, the youngest of the bunch When we're there, we make sure there's a munch So here we are, the b'ys from Irishtown Road Who have come together to get on the load We drink to the memory of old crooked Peter And his father James, who was off the crooked meter The beers are cracked, and the fridge is full Then they start talking, most of it's bull But we also discuss all the local rumours Might be sad or dark, but for sure it humours There's always a mention of the weekly obits We speak of their memories, we goes into fits There's no trouble to tell when a story's a yarn Could be knit on the spot, or halfway down from the barn Some stories are true, no doubt about that You could listen so long, Cyril's Pepsi goes flat My favourites, of course, are the ones about fairies From up in the woods while picking berries Tales from their youth, of days spent in the grove And many a time they had grandfadder drove There might be a few about a scattered game of ball Or how they used to entertain the family in late fall Then we talk about cousins, and wonder where they are Or ask about the condition and mileage on someone's car There's always one about a day hunting moose Or from their teenage years, out on the loose Grandmudder usually sends down some food When it's a bowl of toutons, shed's in a good mood In winter the fire emits sweltering heat But don't get up, you might lose your seat In the corner the empties are piled up high And the return on the bottles gives you more to buy Its late, and one by one they call it quits But once they stand up, the liquor sure hits Robert will try and keep ya for one more round So they'll sit back down and not make a sound But pretty soon after the beer runs out And it's guaranteed, without a doubt Just a week away 'til we meet once more And at Tall Tales Tavern there's an open door

Come Home Year 2022

We took a trip to Newfoundland It really was quite fun We landed first in Halifax Before our flight was done. When we arrived upon the Rock The luggage followed too Despite the horrors of the past All bags were checked right through! The sun was shining brightly It was a lovely day Come Home Again the signs all said No need to stay away! We visited friends and family So good to see, no doubtin' We ate our favorite foods again Like Fish and Brewis and Toutons! We can't forget the Cod Tongues and Cheeks that filled out bellies Of course there's sweet Molasses Bread and Homemade Jams and Jellies! Oh Me Nerves, Is what I said we'll blow up like a puncheon and then they tried to tempt us more with yummy fried Pork Scrunchions! We'll have to pay for extra weight when we get on that plane Some Shockin' Good, is all we said T'was worth it all the same!

Fiona

You beat our shores like never before. In a hundred years that passed. An island braced for all your fury. You came and swept too fast. Houses rocked and trees fell freely. In your path of leveling. Your might was very impressive. Your will and tenacity unwavering. Calm is now restored, tears are fresh, reluctant surveyors count the pain. Lives are scarred, seeing a reset. A lifetime of work in vain. For five hundred years and five hundred more, mark this day with candor. Never forget or underestimate, the perseverance of a Newfoundlander!

Honey from The Rock

If you "come from away" You may want to stay When on the very first day A complete stranger May call you "honey" But when you are here for a while You will just have to smile When someone without guile A person unknown to you Calls you "my love" But please have no fear For where you are here You'll find everyone Will call you "my dear" Sometimes you may get lucky And even be called "ducky" But don't be alarmed And don't be in shock Just sit back and enjoy The "Honey from the Rock" -Edward Wakeham St. John's, NL