Roots On The Rock

Oh…
Newfoundland
Newfoundland
I’m here to see
My roots on
The Rock
Out here
On the sea
I’m Billy
From Boston
And happy
To be
Here in St. John’s
With my Newfie family

Oh…
Newfoundland
Newfoundland
I have to say
Your warmth
And your kindness
Make us want
To stay
We Drink
Of the screech
Then kiss a cod fish
I’m happy to stay
If that’s
All of your wish

Oh…
Newfoundland
Newfoundland
Grandpappy’s
Home
He left
You for Boston
When fish
Went to roam
He met
My grandma
A lass from Kilbride
Then both said "I do”
And became groom & bride

Oh…
Newfoundland
Newfoundland
I’m here to see
My roots on
The Rock
Out here
On the sea
I’m Billy
From Boston
And happy
To be
Here in St.John’s
With my Newfie family

Bill MacEachern March 12, 2023

It’s not marijuana in Newfoundland
In our fair Island we call it Product, b’ys
Son, have you been smokin’ Product again?
This is some **in’ great Producttttttttt, ohhhhh, mannnnnnn

Mr. Speaker, why is there a shortage
Of Product in the province, Mr. Speaker,
Not worried about the stocks of cod if we
Can get stocks of Product, Mr. Speaker

And if the shipment from the mainland stalls
They’ll beam us some Product from Muskrat Falls

She'll brew a *** of bliss and then she'll pour it in your cup
She'll dance around the room until the gloom is all drunk up
She's not your normal angel, boy and of that you should be glad
For she fills a parlour naked more than many girls do clad

She's an angel from Newfoundland and St. Andrews knew her well
She's certainly no Flatrock as Tickle Harbour's boys can tell
And Jackson's and Chapple's Arms they both have been in her's
She's even been to Merasheen don't tell the other girls

Her "H"s have an "H" in them and her voice a lilting sound
But if you want sincerity no better can be found
Her love's as pure as dynamite she'll blow you off the shelf
She'll make your whisker hairs stand up and your little man an elf

She's an angel now in Tor-onto, On-tar-i-ario
She moved there when her parents died and she didn't know where to go
Ah, Mississauga knows her well and so does Hamilton
But Toronto is the place to be when she is having fun

She says she works a fancy bar called the Iron Cross Cha-pel
Where pretty men come in all dressed up and cuss and kiss as well
She cannot find a boyfriend there but she has lots of dates
They give her lots of Ecstasy and tell her it's not ****

She's an angel from Newfoundland and St. Andrews knew her well
She's certainly no Flatrock as Tickle Harbour's boys can tell
And Jackson's and Chapple's Arms they both have been in her's
She's even been to Merasheen don't tell the other girls

When some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe
And storied urns record who rest below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth—
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven.
Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a Friend’s remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,—and here he lies.

i've tried to give myself every warning
i've planted signs and grown a lighthouse
but im standing too close to the rocks
(its not that i can't see them,
its just that i don't care)
and i'm going to slip and fall
and im going to break an arm
leg and all my ribs
just to go swimming in my heart
just to let go of my caution-tape mind
so im going to sew my thighs and calves
so i can dive far beyond the crashing waves
where i could find my courage to speak
to whoever this is who has murdered me
to whoever this is who is smiling at me

The Great Newfoundland novel (summation)

A young man brimming with
Townie **** and vinegar or
Bay boy brimming with obnoxious  bravado

Eventually he leaves and discovers
How people  treat fellow man
Seemingly beaten down
Genetic history Of Newfoundland Truck System

Alongside founders population variance,
Upward spike in heart disease, stroke, diabetes, cancers

Lurks engrained learned hopelessness
Smouldering in "Newfie" jokes
You'd better hope I let it slide
Unless you wanna find out
What a peat moss bog smells like
Or how it feels to freeze to death
Tied to a crucifix

Nothing to be gained but new land
Seven hours, easily more than I could stand
A journey across
A province that's lost
Its history left on the sand

Awake in a desolate place
With memories left to erase
New ones I am seeking
Without retreating
To a concrete city of mace

Perhaps I have been here before
Maybe in dreams, maybe in lore
A fleeting romance
And a ticket by chance
So my feet will land back on the shore

An American weather boy reports the storm
And all its tracks upon a glowing map
A hurricane by shape and scale and form
Roaring northeast through a low-pressure gap

There is nothing beyond holy New York City
Some unexplored land masses, it may be
Lost in the Atlantic (which is blue and pretty)
Where the hurricane will be harmless, you see

With a flip of his hand, they are dismissed:
Nova Scotia and Newfoundland do not exist

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                Peter­ Pan in Bowring Park

                 For Dan, who knows something of magic

                        “Do you want an adventure now,
                      or would like to have your tea first?”

                                          -Peter Pan

Sweet little bunnies browse and squirrels climb
And tiny mice and fairies give delight
To all the little ones of Newfoundland
Who visit Peter Pan in Bowring Park

He plays his pipes for them, and they can hear
The joyful music of his magic world
Where they may celebrate their pixie-dreams
At this bright second star from Kensington

And sing in peace their happy morning hymn
For darling little Betty, who waits for them


...the history behind Bowring Park's Peter Pan statue? — Historic Sites Association of Newfoundland & Labrador

My father was born in an outport community of 2000
On the Avalon peninsula of Newfoundland
Around 1950, to a school headmaster and a homemaker
Attended Memorial University of Newfoundland (as did I)
Studied English, and eventually Education

He was a brilliant man, often quiet for long periods of time,
Then viscerally eloquent like Occam's Razor when he spoke
Remember him telling me how "taking their maidenheads"
From Romeo and Juliet act one, was about taking virginity
Always had an answer for my million questions
Rarely lost his temper

Taught me to accept others as they were, and to resist the temptation
To judge

A spiritual man, not religious, always taking care to differentiate the two

Without him I would never have access
To the home library in our den, my muse
Or all the gruesome movies he shouldn't have let me watch

Without my father I wouldn't know that
I like Jack Daniel's on the rocks with afternoon paper or
A Farewell to Arms with Spanish Rioja from earthenware cups,
Like Hemingway drank during the Spanish Civil War

I would not have wallowed with the downtrodden and the vilified
I would not have seen the base human weakness
The fundamental vulnerability that dwells within all of us
Had I not seen it in him first

Some four years ago, my father experienced weakness on one side
While on vacation in Europe
Flew back to Canada, diagnosed quickly with brain cancer
By the time I spoke to him, his mind was already rapidly fading
The spark of brilliance snuffed out like so much wick and wax

Died 6 months later in his sleep
We spread his ashes on his father's grave
And in the Bay St. George

Taught me what and how to believe,
Who to be
For better or for worse
Taught me how to ask the right questions
Showed me the books to read
Let me know it was OK
To be me

Sailors we're not, but here our souls roam
Beneath the cold seas, and the waves and the foam
We inherit the depths of the oceans and sea
Never to know of just what we could be
We are the dead, lying down in the dark
Our stories forgotten, our history stark
We're not in one place, we live where we went down
Not a monument stands for most in our towns
We went down in rought seas, in a storm or a battle
We died taking a trip or transporting our cattle
There's as many of us as there are in the earth
We've been taken at sea, since man first did give birth
Our souls walk the floor of the deepest dark places
No one knows who we are, not our names or our faces
We ended our lives on ships , sloops and on ketches
We are the dead, some rich, some poor wretches
We never will age, never again will see light
We're still waiting for more to join us in the night
The seas give us life and they take just as fast
It's a tomb for us all, it's where our breaths were our last
Unsinkable ships...fifteen hundred or more
Lost their lives to the ice just like many before
The water cares not, your soul's there to take
Whether ocean or sea, or on river or lake
We walk in the depths, beneath the lighthouse and rocks
Our home is the cold, down below all the docks
We lie just off the shore, we died within reach
Some of us drowned just a bit from the beach
The sea's a cruel master, it owns all who sail
It cares not one bit, who you are or your tale
Stories mean nothing to those down below
For when it is time, to the locker you'll go
We died fighting pirates, we gave up our lives
We left our young children, our husbands and wives
From the Cape of Good Hope to the cold northern seas
Where we were still alive as our bodies did freeze
In the Indian Ocean and off the Newfoundland coast
Some nights you might see us, in the fog...just a ghost
We're the ones who inhabit the dark of the seas
When you hear the wind howling, you are hearing our pleas
Don't forget who we were, when we lived and we died
Please remember the families who broke down and did cry
There are fish in the ocean, but we live here too
We're the lost souls of people who died on the  blue
Sailors we're not, but the water's our home
Down in the dark waters beneath the waves and the foam.

Cold winter camping
Frigorific night huddled around fire
Many coyotes auspiciously howling nearby
"Don't worry, they're across the water"
Still I wait at the ready with coyot-basher

Tents in snow shielded from peninsula
By tarps lashed together with rope and ply
"You'd probably die out here" says Oscar
Here meaning Newfoundland
Here meaning the Northern Pen.
Agreeing monosylabically

Nearly hypothermic thinking
Not so bad
Maybe stay another night (says the voice)
Sneak down to water
And jump in ice fishing hole

All I ever learned
of nobility I learned from
my first Newfoundland

My Father’s Clothes

My father left a rack of suits
And on their cloth still hung cologne
Hand tailored navies, greys and mutes
And one plus-fours in herringbone

He had a drawer-full plump with ties
Rolled silks and regimental stripes
But none with matching handkerchiefs
For dad was not one of those types

He favoured good strong walking shoes
And walk he did with fancy cane
“If you look smart, then you are smart”
Was Duncan Baxter’s wise refrain

Some thought my dad a gentleman
He opened doors and doffed his hat
And rose when ladies entered rooms
Now why don’t people still do that?

Folks called him “sir” when he’d arrive
He had that bearing in his blood
Though widowed with a brood of five
He did the very best he could

He taught us rules are hard and fast
And manners make you who you are
And please and thank you always last
As first impressions take you far

Another thing he used to say
“To thine own self always be true”
Has helped me even to this day
When sometimes unsure what to do

Occasionally he’d raise his hand
To keep his errant sons in line
I didn’t understand it then
I wonder would it work on mine

We children could have had much more
Our aunts and uncles used to say
If he’d been wise enough to store
Some money for a rainy day


In truth he lived beyond his means
As men of taste are wont to do
And never realized his dreams
To live the life he wanted to

He moved among a group of friends
Who drank pink gins at social dos
And puffed on Turkish cigarettes
And daily scanned the racing news

He should have been a country squire
Perhaps what he was born to be
With open fires and hearty stews
A labrador beside his knee

To ride about in hunting pink
My brunette mother by his side
Alas there was no joy I think
For father after mother died

My mother left her darling ones
All spirited and out of hand
Three lovely daughters and two sons
On Valentine’s in Newfoundland

Now father lies in simple ground
Carnations flutter at his stone
Across the road, a pub he’d found
Where he would never drink alone

The day he left, the landlord’s flag
Was billowed half along its pole
And locals gathered, glass in hand
To send a tribute to his soul

And when I gaze at hillsides green
Or hear a Richard Tauber strain
Or think of places where we’ve been
I see his weathered smile again

My father left a rack of suits
Those things that last when you are gone
And life is short and love is rare
No matter what clothes you have on.

(Happy 150th, Canada!)


Canada Day -  Just One?

With love from an ‘umble Yank

But every day is Canada Day!

The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada

The Muskogee never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, complete
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada

Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway

Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest

The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?

To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada

Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”

Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read

The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada

A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada

Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not -
Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!

A nameless helmsman
Whose fallible hands
Duty calls to act god like
Guiding a ship of life
Off the coast of Newfoundland
Through a night of blue white ice halls,
Until their combined Neptune fate
Entombs nearly all
To an eternal Atlantic floor
Of dark and frigid sea.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                             I Met a Girl in Newfoundland

She was seated behind the courtesy desk
At the Costco in Saint John’s
All bundled up and shivering
On a drizzly morning in July

“Oh, it’s not that cold,” I laughed
“I’ve never been warm in my life,” she replied
“I’ve never been off this island
And I’ve never been warm in my life”

After a pause, I slunk away
To ponder my coldness that summer day

my ***** Little Secret, symbolized
by ***** words and little idiosyncrasies and
secret secret liaisons;
je c'adore,
laying Control alongside
cast off clothing and kicked off wet *******,
heartbeat aflutter beneath your
oh so deliberate ministrations and
thighs aquiver beneath your
oh so deliberate teeth.
my wrists chafe; bound by bitter steel to demure wood,
powerless
or rather
entirely in your power.
you've always loved it,
the thrill of exploration, of
Newfoundland, of
conquer and subjugation and ravishment;
your tongue flickering against my
**** like eiderdown,
fingertips tracing spirals and Möbius
Strips upon my *******.

Remember Jerry 'cross the street?
He never said much
But I've placed my life in his hands
Time and time again
He's no longer a boy, Ma
But I don't know how to say
He'll never be a man

And Thomas, who stayed with us last summer
He was part of my squad
Was as straight-laced as ever
But we were knee-deep in wickedness
I hope he met God

And Andy was my partner
Always making me feel small
So I had a man's resentment for him
But he was truly very kind
Putting my safety first
Because he left me behind
to re-wrap my bandages
to stop my stump from bleeding, right?
Oh, and we fought
see, my pride was hurt
I was no pantywaist, I still had a leg
But he just laughed, said he'd come back
so, I've been lying in bed alert
'cause I'm still waitin' for that
man lying face-down in the dirt

But Ma, I'm coming back to Canada
And I only want you cryin' happy tears
But know that I won't visit our little town
Not for a long, long while
And maybe never our street
Not that home-road of the twelve ambitious young men
and little Peter, sneaking into the bustle
While only fifteen

Mother, please believe me
I love Newfoundland
But I'm heading over
to Alberta
So try to pretend I'm fully gone as well

Please don't tell ~
the only one to survive the shell
was your boy
who's gone through hell

I hope the rest were sent to heaven.

Dear salient Moon , how was twilight over Asia
Across the bazaars of Istanbul , the mountains -
of Pakistan , the midnight Sahara , the fishing -
villages of Portugal
Speak of the mighty Atlantic with crashing -
waves , the Isle of Bermuda , the tranquil -
Bahamas , the shores of Newfoundland , the hills
of Scotland
Sir Luna must be quite bored with Hill Country , I would surmise ,
after all he has witnessed on the good Earth tonight

Fog Happens

Yup. Not profound, even Jung, Kant and Freud,
wouldn’t deny their eyes, would no doubt disagree
with symbolic, philosophical implications, and the
head banging ramifications for the immediacy of
the spiritual impact while driving in this grey ****.

Fog differs every time, and on an island, that’s for
**** sure. Today’s incarnation, the fog comes over
the water, but respects the man-made, timbered,
bulkhead, so the yard, with its circus of ravens, crows,
and other invisible birds, insects, rabbits, is visible,
but absent the inhabitants who are smarter-than-humans,
they remain aboded thinking, only stupid humans believe
they can navigate and forage, in a fog penetrating  in air
that is 97% humidity and 100% peas soup thick skinned.

The time? Of course.

It’s 7:36 AM on the East Coast, and beyond the lawn lies a brackish bay that will lead you to the Atlantic and north to the Titanic, direction Newfoundland. Not enough info to geo tag me, but those who know me, knowledgeable in my early mornings  scribblings, know my whereabouts, my telephone number. Do you?

Fog Happens to everyone and at random intervals, Nope. Not thinking of the brain clouds of ordinary Lethologica  and Lethonomia. (Sunday lazy so just look it up and say out loud, gotta remember them words and laugh out loud cause you ain’t gotta a prayer.)

Fog Happens

in the heart, spreading north to the consciousness, and the lethargy of movement impeded by the lighthouse bells tolling “danger is about,” our light stolen, but you need to know, you’re perilously close to danger. Any action taken when heart-fogged can have awful consequences so stick close to bed, yank out your tablet, write a poem, listen to sad love  songs on that Pandora Station, or send GIPHYs and emojis to your six year old granddaughter who is 108 miles to the west of where you both hide beneath coverlets, and laugh out loud with her like the bells chiming outside, and that helps move that heart~fog hanging low, out to sea.

YUP.
Fog Happens
Fog Passes

warm and fuzzy like a big blanket
all draped like a Newfoundland flag
over homespun homesick ** Chi Minh
shoulders, shell shocked soul soldier
mmm '** yes 'tis truly the seed of Morpheus
lo good old blowhard old god of dreams
tho I sleep not
thru barely eye opened
lucid reverie

i was sitting at the edge of the world
pondering the ocean and how i could fall off the end
time passes, and i thought of you

wide open spaces are how i remember you now
even if memories consist of tight spaces lying naked in your basement bedroom

blue eyes come home to mine
i was told i was the runner but i only ran away to you
blue eyes come home to mine
lets spend hours in wide open spaces
you know we could love forever if once again
your blue eyes saw mine


and in these wide open spaces i love you
in these wide open spaces i begin to wonder
what it could of been like if you wouldve stayed
i can see you and me in theses wide open spaces


and of i go to college when the leaves turn shades of brown
i wonder where you are in these big wide open spaces of mine
and sometimes i think id like to be in these big wide open spaces with you

blue eyes come home to mine
i was told i was the runner but i only ran away to you
blue eyes come home to mine
lets spend hours in wide open spaces
you know we could love forever if once again your blue eyes saw mine
i just want your blue eyes home with mine
blue eyes come home to mine


newfoundland, summer 2010

Everybody said we were erstwhile, rather quaint
and could never pay our back rent ?
You listen to the silence of seashells
I grow colchicums for nurseries.
I often inquired what was your favourite animal
You always replied "Ursine"
something to do with Bears ?
Perhaps we should voyage to Newfoundland
and see them face to face,
recalling the word "Reseverez Vite"
Would that be any quicker ?
and dry your eyes
I love talking to you in the cyan light.
Often I thought a cup of Guayacanera
could tide our differences.

Perilous voyages of small watercraft at sea , amphibious landings on well defended beachheads , Clipper ships whaling on distant oceans , military vessels in armed conflict , night of relentless cannon fire , explosive reflections across shark infested waters , treasure maps and chest laden with gold , rubies and pieces of eight , the cry of Viking warriors on the rugged coast of Newfoundland .. Pirates just off the shores of the Carolinas ..  Forts Pulaski , Sumter and Jefferson on the Dry Tortugas ..
Oil platforms racked by ferocious winds on the Gulf of Mexico ..
Union and Confederate battles on Mobile Bay , Riverboats traversing the Mississippi ..Tending barges along the Ohio ..On high alert through Georgia's intracoastal waterways ....

your breakfast will be shining stars on a silver platter.
in your lunchbox I will pack sunshine
each tear you cry, I will catch.
when you’re scared you know where I am
I’ll hold you like three months
sing you to sleep or smiles

days and days and days.

I know that you’ll be lost sometimes
I won’t always have a map
but on the table you’ll find food
and in the bed a safe place for you
to rest your eyes and count the sheep
quietly prancing behind closed eyes

months and months and months

you’ll love and lose and be alone,
but always even when your last friend folds
you know when you open the door
I’ll hear the creak and rush to hold you at arms length
and with one glance I’ll know your pains
pull you closer and tell you

tales of when long ago my last friend folded
tales of when the fire licked my toes
tales of when the sun danced on my skin
and then and there you’ll know
all along I loved you
so much more than time can tell
so much more than words can say
so much more than letters can spell
and so much more than sounds can make

I’ve loved you more than wind in my hair
I’ve loved you more than dirt between my toes
I’ve loved you more with each painful moment

with each jab she made, my love grew
every tear watering the flower
long before I knew it existed
Each snark comment that cut my skin
leaving me bleeding and aloney
fed the flower ever growing
and if you ever come along

you’ll know from the moment you feel my touch
that I will dance with you until the sun comes up
I’ll catch your tears all night long
I’ll give you ice cream
and listen to your angel voice soft against my ears

I’ll cradle you until you’re my size
then I’ll cradle you some more
I’ll hold your laugh in my heart
and when I’m crying I’ll let it out
like Pandora and her box
but your laugh will infect all things with good
make them shine like gold and silver

I will not keep you from mistakes
it’s not my place to live your life
I’ve already been living mine,
but if you need help, ask.
When you need support I’ll be there
Do the things that make you smile
that smile will make me happier
happier than any gold medal,
happier than and sum of money
could ever make me.

That smile will make me dance
and sing and and live longer than anything
because in your smile
there’ll a little part of me.
Nothing big or great,
because I’m neither,
but something small and subtle.

Everyone will know your smile
and you will always remember
every day when you wake up

that my love for you overflows every ocean
that my love for you stands taller than any crane
that my love for you outweighs any killer whale
that my love for you runs deeper than the grand canyon
deeper even than the Mariana Trench
higher than seven Mt. Everests and an Eiffel Tower

And when you wake up and feel my love
where ever you are
be it Paris, Rome, Milan, Idaho
be it Iceland or Greenland or Newfoundland,
you will smile.
You will know when your eyes open to start each day
that my love is wrapped around you tight always
where ever you go
you will smile and everyone will know
you. are. loved.

Shhhhh - Titanic was Sunk by a Bilderberg

Albino rabbis, the Illuminati,
Protocols of the Elders of Zion -
The evidence seemed a little spotty
‘Til a radio guy had us wonderin’ and sighin’

Fluoridation by the New World Order
Backed by the Trilateral Commission
A scheme to open our southern border
To crop circles – that’s his suspicion

Area 51, the Templar Knights
FEMA lurking in the Bohemian Grove
Perfidious Rothschilds through menace and fright
Guarding a Jewish-Viking treasure trove

Poor Newfoundland is Occupied by ****** rats
Who scheme in secret tunnels beneath St. John’s
Brewing magic potions in Macbethian vats
In Rodentian rituals from the Age of Bronze

The Priory of Sion, runes, swastikas, the Vril
Roswell and the Thule Society
No wonder the air is darkly chill:
We all live in a conspiracy!

Canada Day?  Just One?

With love from an ‘umble Yank

But every day is Canada Day!

The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada

The Muskogee 1 never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, completing
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada

Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway

Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest

The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?

To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada

Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”

Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read

The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada

A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada

Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not –

Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!

Eros

Eros was named after the Greek god
He was large, black, and hairy
He was a Newfoundland
and a new-found love
to everyone he met
He weighed 155 pounds,
half of which surely was heart
There was no creature that displayed more love
or more character than Eros
He loved most everything and everyone
But more than anything,
he loved a cat
He followed that cat everywhere
He would have done anything for that cat
But the cat showed no love in return
She would turn her cold nose up at the sight of Eros
She dreaded his clumsy stride
Always followed by a wet tongue
dripping drool and a heavy tail
But Eros loved her nonetheless
He followed his heart wherever it led him
And the world was a better place because of him
Eros' heart never failed anyone but himself
Because of a heart defect
he died at the age of eight
Seemingly everyone mourned the loss of Eros
Everyone but the cat
The cat went about her business
The same cold, finicky cat
that Eros loved unconditionally
It seemed that the cat felt no loss at all
Don't be fooled
Late at night, once in a while
The cat can be seen and heard
perched atop a window sill
Looking off into the darkness
In the distance,
a dog barks
and her ears focus
Listening for the clumsy footsteps
and swooshing tail
of a ******* dog
With a long wet tongue
and a big bad heart

In 1492,
Columbus had a few
Things to do
Before he sailed the ocean blue.
He needed some green,
If you know what I mean,
So he went to see the King and Queen
Of Portugal, England, and France:
They laughed, shook their heads and said, “No chance.”
While his Homies back in Italy
Said, “Christabo, you gotta be kiddin’ me.
You want to do WHAT!? And you want US to pay?
We think you're a nut, now go on, go away."
But he didn’t give up and he didn’t complain,
He shook it off and took off for Spain
Where Ferdinand and Isabella,
Thinking him a righteous fella,
Told him they would float his boat,
If their country he’d promote,
Plant their flag on lands discovered, and
Bring them riches he uncovered, so
They all signed on the dotted line, and
Columbus said, “The pleasure’s mine!”
Then he smiled and bowed and said, “I’ll see’ya!”
And hopped aboard the Santa Maria.
See Christopher knew the Greek Geeks found,
That instead of flat, the earth was round,
So he thought he knew, or at least he guessed,
That it might be best
To get Far East by sailing west.
He pulled up anchor, set the sail
Told ninety men, success or fail,
West, they’d go, and west they went
Seventy days, provisions spent,
When land was spotted, dead ahead,
Columbus planted the flag and said,
“I claim this land for the King of Spain,
In doing so increase his reign,
And underneath this flag, unfurled,
Declare New Spain, a brand new world!”
What Columbus didn’t anticipate
He was 500 years or so too late,
For Eric the Red, and Leif, his son,
Long ago discovered Newfoundland.
Now when history tells North America’s story,
There’s room for both to share the glory.
But another fact, it’s become quite clear,
There were thousands of people already here,
See life in Asia wasn’t so great,
Some folks decided not to wait,
They just walked across the Bering Strait,
So Chris and Leif both got here late!
Phil Lindsey 1/27/17

I am a pilgrim of divine , rugged convocations with my maker . Longing to trek the swaying fields of Newfoundland ..
At the rock encrusted deliverance with countenance eastward , overlooking the living waters of Norse legend , with mirrored thoughts of exploration and homeward voyage .

Wet skies
Grey dawn
Blankets the coast.
Black rocks
Sea foam
Triggers the most
Atlantic applause,
An encore to those
Just hearty enough
To make a life on The Rock.

And to answer the call,
Between stone cracks,
Moss roots,
And squalls,
A garden was planted
Where nothing
Had grown
Before.

Before...

Before the Gardener came
The coast was a love-lettered painting,
A bouquet to the sun,
Orange, red, and yellow flattery
Through living imitation.

"Seek ye first the kingdom of God,"
Said the sign
On the gate
At the edge of St Johns.
"But I think I've finally found it,"
Said the man
Creeping silent
With his too sharp sheers
Cutting flowers
Uninvited. -
- Everyone's front lawn
A memory
Of what united
Them for two score years.

****** hands dropping pedals on his way to the shore,
"Don't worry," said the man,
"I don't want to come back,
With any luck," he said again,
"I think this should be enough."
As he placed in the arrangement
A note that read,
"Je suis
Désolé.
Bitte fragen Sie nicht
Für mehr."




100 years ago, July 1st, 1916, the entire Newfoundland and Labrador regiment was killed at Beaumont-Hamel, during the Battle of the Somme in World War I. Of 780, only 68 reported for roll-call the next day.
After 40 some years of having no military of their own, they had mustered up a unit of volunteers to support the war effort. 90% of them never made it through their first engagement.
Canada Day isn't just about celebrating.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                             I Met a Girl in Newfoundland

She was seated behind the courtesy desk
At the Costco in Saint John’s
All bundled up and shivering
On a drizzly morning in July

“Oh, it’s not that cold,” I laughed
“I’ve never been warm in my life,” she replied
“I’ve never been off this island
And I’ve never been warm in my life”

After a pause, I slunk away
To ponder my coldness that summer day

tired of poverty
yet spend too much
tow the company line
is it really buying in
how much on offer
stable, bored, isolated
empty vase, limestone deposit

don't want to die anymore
coward in younger eyes
he's gone but i'm still here
what's been made of it

sometimes i wonder
how decomposed he's gotten
grave in central Newfoundland
worm eyed dream coil shuffle
left him there alone
place he hated most
i won't forgive myself
i won't forget

when blurry vision cleared
choppy alcoholic verse stymied
white waters to clear
how i miss sea waves

how do i read
believe it was an accident
if i'm lost at sea
slipped overboard
or climbed

icy atlantic water numb
sinking back to you

As it happens I did not buy this book
of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or
Charlottetown, P.E.I.  I didn’t pick it up
in Yorkville on a long weekend in Toronto,
nor was I delighted to spot it in a window display
on a stop I didn’t make for coffee in Kamloops, B.C.  
No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores,
none of which I’ve visited on the road
to North Sydney to catch the ferry to Newfoundland,
where one imagines happening upon a salt cured,
weather beaten mom and pop clinging to life
quayside in St. Johns.  
The border with sleep lies just up ahead
where soon I’ll be borne across
on thoughts of the boats of these poems
lifted on the rising tide of the U.S. dollar,  
Billy Collins buttoned up for the night
inside a tent pitched upon the calm seas
of my chest.