Rhymes, Rants & Accolades from North Central BC

Archive for December, 2016

THE LUSTY MONTH OF MAY (silly poem # 58)

The Lusty Month of May

‘Twas in the lusty month of May
When green buds they were swellin’
We planted seeds in a garden box
Outside of where we’re dwellin’.

We sowed some turnips, onions, peas,
Some carrots, cabbage, greenery,
And flowers with their colours bold
To brighten up the scenery.

Imagine our surprise when on,
The birth date of The Queen,
We spotted ‘mongst the seeded rows
New species in between!

Hybrids flourishing like weeds
With veggies, flowers mating,
Sweet pea and onion were entwined,
in casual copulation.

Clumps of turnip-marigolds
And infant bean-azaleas,
Disturb the earth as they thrust up
In energetic flurry!

Now that the lusty month has passed
Our plants have all been sorted
The compost pile has grown somewhat
From seedlings we’ve aborted.

THE MAGIC OF THE SEASON by Bruce Ray (2014)

I love this hymn-poem that my son wrote a few Christmases ago. The pastor at his church wants to set some of Bruce’s hymn-poems to music.

The Magic of the Season

How we remember a babe
Who was born for freedom
To set us free from our cages
In the magic of the season

Even now we do not hear
Even now we cannot see him
But on this day – it’s all clear
In the magic of the season

There’s a light upon his brow
It shines before you gleaming
To see this light even now
In the magic of the season

This is the time to forgive
All wrongs that you are keeping
Hidden in your heart
To cause you pain
In the magic of the season

A FLOCK OF GEESE (silly poem #57)

A Flock of Geese

Yesterday I saw a flock of Canada geese,
Hovering over the ice-packed, snow-frosted lake,
A few had stopped to investigate.
They huddled below,
On the wind-sculpted snow
Commenting ’bout their fate

The flock circled above in travel formation
While the landed birds debated.
“Should we wait for Spring
To do our thing
‘Cause it’s kind of cold for a mating?”

Then, from up in the sky came a honking cry
“There’s a river just ahead
And there’s water running
With foliage for funning,
Let us all go there instead!”

A POEM ABOUT FEBRUARY AND/OR MARCH (Silly poem #56)

A POEM ABOUT FEBRUARY
AND/OR MARCH

Wishy, washy, wintry weather,
Creative thoughts I cannot gather,
As I don boots of fur-lined leather,
Barefoot on a beach I’d rather!

Down the road I shhlop and slither,
Then fall upon my ass and quiver,
Hungry crows are in a dither
If I am dead they want a sliver!

With ear unto the ground I listen,
To bugs ‘n earthworms I am missin’
Before I cease my reminiscin’
I dream that it’s green grass I’m kissin’

A GREYHOUND BUS TRIP AT NIGHT (silly poem # 55)

A GREYHOUND BUS TRIP AT NIGHT

My back aches
and
my knees quake
If only I was shorter
or thinner.

We cannot sleep
on the bus
Some grey-haired ladies
are telling stories
Interesting stories
about magpies
picking at the eyes
of pigs
and chickens

A baby cries
A young mother moves
up front
It is warmer there
than at the rear
of the bus

The driver says it used to be
too warm
on the bus
Someone fixed the thermostat
and now it is
too cold

The driver and the young mother
talk
They talk about love and life
and death and strife
They talk about
sex
What a thing to discuss
on the bus

They talk and the snow
falls
The driver says the road is like
ice-cream
His headlights are on low beam
Who can sleep on the bus?
Not us…

My Third Eye (serious poem #2)

My Third Eye (1990)

My third eye is like a camera
It has to be focused
Sometimes manually
Sometimes it just clicks in
automatically
My third eye enables me
to peer into
my own soul
My super-conscious mind
My higher self

Its telescopic lens zooms past
useless particles
of pride and guilt
and anxiety
It zeros in on
The real me

My third eye is geared
to stop the action
of negative thoughts
and feelings
Sometimes
it allows me to focus in on
certain basic truths
that are seen through a curtain
A curtain
of free flowing emotion
The emotion is
Love

Love is the lubricant
that flows over the surface
of my third eye
It cleanses the lenses
of everyday worries
and self preoccupation
It enables me to perceive
a little
of what I was born knowing
But somehow forgot

THE CROCODILE (silly poem #54)

The Crocodile

I’ve never met a crocodile
Who wasn’t smiling all the while
A sense of humour I am feeling
In crocodiles, is unappealing.

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