"scotia" poems
You know, there's always a song that takes me back
To a year, so long before
It's not always a top ten song
That hits my very core
It just grabs me and transports me
Back in time while standing still
It might take me to a good place
Release a memory I should ****
But, my soundtrack is different
It's not just music in my mind
There's sounds that make my playlist up
Sounds of a different kind
A baseball smacking leather
God, that sets me free
Some good, some bad, some coaching
Some involve my ******* up knee
The click on every eight track
When it switches channels to play on
Brings back those early mornings
when the house cleaning was done
But, music, yes the music
makes a large part of my list
Some take me back to dances
And the girls I never kissed
The good songs stretch my senses
Make me smell things from the past
The memories still linger
While the music didn't last
Sirens, car wrecks, yelling
Have their place on my list too
It's not music to most people
It made my list though, who knew?
A sound as small as raindrops
Take me back to a morning when
I stood on line with a hundred others
Brave women and brave men
Cornwallis, Nova Scotia
rain and U2 take me on a track
To basic training on the east coast
Wow, that's 25 years back
A car crash and a siren
Takes me to when I met my wife
This was on the television
when Princess Di, she lost her life
So, my soundtrack is eclectic
It's not just music fuels my trips
It might be a golf ball bouncing
That takes me through a time warp slip
A song, that's just too easy
Everyone has one of those
But, can you travel back, oh, 30 years
When someone blows their nose?
There's more sounds that effect me
But, those I think I'll hide
I will write about them later
And I will take you on that ride
In 50 years of living
Lots of sounds have hit my ears
We'll sit and chat about them
One day over a few beers....
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 5:05 PM UTC
In the cold, cold parlor
my mother laid out Arthur
beneath the chromographs:
Edward, Prince of Wales,
with Princess Alexandra,
and King George with Queen Mary.
Below them on the table
stood a stuffed loon
shot and stuffed by Uncle
Arthur, Arthur's father.
Since Uncle Arthur fired
a bullet into him,
he hadn't said a word.
He kept his own counsel
on his white, frozen lake,
the marble-topped table.
His breast was deep and white,
cold and caressable;
his eyes were red glass,
much to be desired.
"Come," said my mother,
"Come and say good-bye
to your little cousin Arthur."
I was lifted up and given
one lily of the valley
to put in Arthur's hand.
Arthur's coffin was
a little frosted cake,
and the red-eyed loon eyed it
from his white, frozen lake.
Arthur was very small.
He was all white, like a doll
that hadn't been painted yet.
Jack Frost had started to paint him
the way he always painted
the Maple Leaf (Forever).
He had just begun on his hair,
a few red strokes, and then
Jack Frost had dropped the brush
and left him white, forever.
The gracious royal couples
were warm in red and ermine;
their feet were well wrapped up
in the ladies' ermine trains.
They invited Arthur to be
the smallest page at court.
But how could Arthur go,
clutching his tiny lily,
with his eyes shut up so tight
and the roads deep in snow?
2.4k
We've got bagpipes and buskers,
cannons, and clip.
Lots of marijuana, and tons of tall ships.
Plenty of seafood, and point pleasent park.
It looks pretty lame, until the streets become dark.
Weve got the Citadel hill, and pavilion kids.
lockups, and lockdown. All things that we did.
Plenty of days, where we fell on our *** ,
smokin dope in the glade, and layin on grass.
With colt 45, and 151.
Alexander keiths, and malibou ***
Weve all jumped a fence, and swam chocolate lake.
No other province could handle the risks that we take.
Cause were crazy,obviously, were maritimers.
Dartmouth, and spryfeild.. Hell, our schools are the worst.
But its halifax, Nova scotia.
We do it our way.
Live like the east coast,
Cause i do everyday.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
I wish to go to Nova Scotia
And long to play in Breton fields,
Faraway and over the oceans,
For ever a bonnie soul shall lead.
I wish to row for Nova Scotia
And glide above the seas trembling,
Far beyond my earthly devotions,
Where ever a bonnie soul shall lead.
I see long oars in every tree,
In ocean swells, a boat for me,
A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
Beyond the wave is music and song.
I will follow a star to Nova Scotia
And suffer on seas of forgetfulness,
To play a fiddle with joyful Scotians,
For ever a bonnie soul has needs.
I see long oars in every tree,
In ocean swells, a boat for me,
A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
Beyond the wave is music and song.
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 1:51 AM UTC
On Christmas Day we wake up
We've no stocking on our bed
We've got a plastic kit box
taking up space there instead
You see, we aren't at home with you
Even though you wish we are
We're celebrating Christmas
Over here in Khandahar
A big Merry Christmas to friends and family
of Cpl. Mike Cannandale of St. Louis, Missouri, USA
We have our turkey dinner too
Stuffing, taters, pumpkin pie
We all sit here telling stories
And it's hard just not to cry
so, we do, because we're not back home
Having Christmas like you all
But, we're over here in Khandahar
Because we all answered the call
Merry Christmas to all friends and family of Liuetenant James Mc Caskill
of Great Grimsby, Lincolnshire, England
We have a snowman by our tent
He's made of plywood, painted white
Thank god, we made no snowballs up
We'd get splinters in a fight
We go to church and pray for peace
And wish we could go home
But, over here at Christmas time
There's just no where to roam
Merry Christmas to friends and family of
Captiain John Watson, PPCLI, in Greenwood, Nova Scotia, Canada
We made our videos last week
To send you our best wishes
We'd all love to be back with you
Washing up those Christmas dishes
For now, we are one family
Joined in heart, and soul and mind
Having a Christmas meal in Khandahar
The best meal of it's kind
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to friends
and family, of Marine Master Sgt. Tim Wilcox, Plano, Texas, USA
Next year we will be home with you
Having Christmas as we should
Praying for peace, hope and prosperity
And all things that are good
for now though, we are over here
missing you this Christmas Day
We just hope you're thinking of us
As we keep the foe at bay
Merry Christmas to all the friends, family, co-workers and supporters
of all the soldiers in War Zones everywhere, who can't be at home this Christmas
May they all get home safe.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
~~~
*bathed by breezes of southern gentility,
sun soaped by eye-prickling,
star twinkling glints,
shampooed in delicious waves
of white sno caps,
my crazy wild hair,
conditioned by the foaming bay's riffles
dappled waters transformed into a
Van Gogh glow of
The Sower
sprinkling golden seed
upon fields of summer wheat glorious
my little yellow rubber duckies,
are now blue white snow geese alive,
down from Nova Scotia,
where August is already
emboldened colden,
so they non-stop honk
tho mere passerbys,
everybody is seeking a place in history,
the surety,
that this poem,
by their inclusion herein,
promises posterity
the grass blades wave with
endless swaying applause,
at yet another attempt of poetic tribute,
for once more,
spell bound
by the bounty of the moment,
enslaved happily to the idea
there is no satiation possible
from the earthly satisfaction of this place,
this sheltered isle
the leaves are cappuccino frothy performers,
unison shaking just like a roman legion of stadium fans,
they offer me untold numbers of
likes and reads,
and other candied goodies,
promises endless to root for my winter dream teams,
if their presence is here
prominently included,
until they too
fall silent, grounded,
shed by their rightful owners
every time I think the well is dry,
swept under by a rip tide
of drowning overwhelming gratitude,
for here I come to a place.
a station for repair,
where poems are bandied about,
summer fruits ripe for plucking
sunroom lace, summer curtains,
will hide out here in my absence,
the lace, turns into snowflakes crystalline,
by icy waters and gusts,
that will be both
untrodden and unadmired
for when the poet is clad in the
damask drapes of winter's inevitability,
will close his eyes and
will hide out here,
right here,
in this one of his never ending
prior~poem~prayers homages,
until next year's
can't-come- too-early spring arrives,
sparked by tendrils of meeting markers,
noting that
new poems have been fallow fallen,
winter seeded,
awaiting your
watering and writing,
of the appreciation
of the
simple majesty
of this small corner of the earth*
Aug 15, 2015
Aug 15, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
A place where people say goodmorn, and hum a happy tune.
Where neighbors say this rain is bad, i hope it gets nice soon.
A place where you can find the streets, and know which bus to take.
Yes every city has it's down's, but people here arent fake.
They may be mean and filled with greed but will always speak their mind.
And even in their shallow life, their heart you can still find.
We make an honest living, and help our dying earth.
We treat eachother with respect cause we know the human worth.
We drink alot I will admit, but thats how Scotia goes.
Will even drink on our death bed, that's somethin' you all know.
We love the sea and we'd agree, that fishing is the ****
A day upon the pretty rock while fishing is legit.
Im proud to be apart of this amazing ******* place,
and even some Canadians believe we're our own race.
But bottom line I'll call this home until my dying breath,
and even when it comes my time, im glad that here I'll rest.
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 8:07 AM UTC
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit
to our island redoubt,
the snow geese come honking down,
in linear formation
warning itinerant human beachcombers
of their arrival on the beach runways
of our sheltered island
This TripTik recommended diversion,
is a pleasure long anticipated by them,
seen as an intellectual rest stop,
with excellent sea snacks cuisined,
flying down the Eastern Seaboard
keeping Interstate 95 on their right,
an avian version of GPS
Our birds,
follow a minor route,
commencing in Nova Scotia,
the farthest north of all the species,
never making it to Mexico,
ending their travelogue in Georgia,
lest their true species be confused
with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds
Sit by my side they do,
one by one in assigned seats,
on the now scrawny grass blanket,
their attention span famously long,
unless a school of striped bass
seen on radar in the vicinity
I, on my Adirondack throne,
a poetry reading to intone,
with more-than-occasional audience input,
considered their right most fair
Critics one and all,
animated animal devotees of the arts,
unafraid to express their thoughts,
oft in unison or in
unharmonious John Cage
cacophonies of disagreement
Sadly, I only speak local seagull,
thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms,
either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable,
their only "tell" is if
they stick around for
just one more...day...
That my poetry they did favor
was a conceit I feigned to believe,
loving their attention even if not deserved,
for in their service, and nature's too,
I am now trained to sit and wait,
a minor stitch in a famous tapestry,
for well I recall Milton's words:
*"God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
His state is kingly;
thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."*
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
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
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
I wish to go to Nova Scotia
And long to play in Breton fields,
Faraway and over the oceans,
For ever a bonnie soul shall lead.
I wish to row for Nova Scotia
And glide above the seas trembling,
Far beyond my earthly devotions,
Where ever a bonnie soul shall lead.
I see long oars in every tree,
In ocean swells, a boat for me,
A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
Beyond the wave is music and song.
I will follow a star to Nova Scotia
And suffer on seas of forgetfulness,
To play a fiddle with joyful Scotians,
For ever a bonnie soul has needs.
I see long oars in every tree,
In ocean swells, a boat for me,
A lull of melodies in seabirds call,
Beyond the wave is music and song.
May 21, 2015
May 21, 2015 at 3:29 AM UTC
This one's on the house, Theresa.
The unifying symbol
you've failed in any way to muster.
Here he is, look -
chain mail and charger,
leonic triptych
boldly bronzed.
You stirred yet?
Heart skipping a beat?
He gave
not one ****
about England.
***** and pillaged his way
through foreign fields.
Beggared a nation
to maintain his position.
"I'd sell London,
if I could find a buyer!"
Is this guy
a patron saint
or what?
When Churchill falters
or the Queen quails,
Tie Richard to the mast
and whip him into use.
I'm sure
your old Etonians
will be happy to assist.
Nocht tae dae wi Scotia, like,
but we're good
at falling into line.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 2:09 PM UTC
Often, one young in ripened youth will fall in love
With such a glowing heart to flutter at fair
Red lips, to meet and touch another sensitively enough,
To look and dream in eyes so rare,
Turning to take the others' hands
Floating as a stream into trickling tears
Like a flower with dew on finest strands.
Their golden hair, caught by the luminous moon, appears
Now mirrored like their own reflected faces
Beaming, following each other in each other's dream,
Understanding the beauty and innocence that graces
Where they meet in a startling gleam.
Entering a non-ageing youth of whispered time
The lovers' hearts entwine to rhyme.
©Jack Aylward
(Published in the Scotia Review magazine, no.24 edition, Summer 2001).
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 4:38 PM UTC
By twist and ties from ages past,
We are but Union bound
Ruled from afar by silver spoons,
'til hope and freedom found,
A fire in the belly of daughters and sons
Made a home in faces awash in blue,
With roaring thunder in voices loud, proclaim;
A Scot! Proud, free, canny and true.
Past leaders, past has-beens, past moguls and crooks,
The passion spreads, face to face,
Tangible static in the Square tonight,
The cone standing tall in it's place.
The fire of the people out in the streets,
Casting eyes to freedom's distant shores,
Their message clear and printed in bold,
With every paper passed through street-lit doors.
'Saor Alba! 'Alba gu Bràth!'
The spirit of Scotia is free.
'Bairns not Bombs!' 'Seize it with both hands!', they cry,
This Aye vote is for you, and for me.
With faith, with courage, with braw, gallus grace,
This word will nae weesht, but spread,
Not if but when, not now but again,
Independence is ne'er 'put to bed'.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC
Walking, talking, eating,
One lover only baking,
hum waking- up
Is anyone good
at loving?
Always
giving
metals
The modern
love robot
((ATM))
machine
There is
no
place
Oh! Yes
Lend me all
lovers
at my home
The ((OZ)) fame
Artsy Auntie
(EM) so lame
Listening to
(REM)
Headrush
Makeup
blush also
*** in-between
My break up___
My lunch hour
All over again
throwing
cash
way off the street
look out I almost
crashed____
That Casanova
racer
slim
reducer
My
((ATM))
Sexter machine
Pixstar diet
Laughing to
the bank
You are
better
But in the
least seeing
Her for what
she is
The beauty
she is making
up the beast
He is the
Eight personalities
Burnt money
Miss French fries
Baby blue eyes cry
My cash went dry
Henry the eighth
The love affair in
September Goth
Just recently shot
Lord of the rings
Be sure you don't get
the blues
She-devil jeweler
Saphire I
got rushed
She fires out!!
She Forgets **
The finest
champagne
candles
On the tenth
Cash reminder rush
I cannot recall
how I
got here?
I will be back
for the cash!!
That gave her
Total recall
Over there
someone
left more
cash
Someone
overloaded trash
What cash potential
her best clothes
He looked like
moon dancer
Jacksons five
black glove
Casanova the
best climate
For Cash
Australian mate
Jumping
Jack Flash
You cant always
get what
you want
But if you try
sometimes
You might get
what you need
Don't rush
your life away
With that
Casanova
Don't rush your
stars of
the Nova Scotia
May 16, 2018
May 16, 2018 at 2:30 PM UTC
If you're going to ride my ***
you could at lease pull my hair.
She was pushin' 55 when
the bumper sticker caught my eye,
she was at the controls of
a disturbed yellow Datson
with Nova Scotia plates,
a combination of rust red and bright yellow
sliced down the middle with one wide strip of black,
heel to toe, and tinted windows to boot.
1970 Northern Canada, hundreds of kids
thumbin' from East to West and from West to East.
I shared the Impala with two young ladies from Ontario,
and the driver was friendly as hell, as well as being deaf...
The Datsons bumper sticker now a pleasant memory..
Today there are fewer travelers and many being unemployed ex-cons and dyed in the wool Hobos harboring severe alcohol and drug problems... you could say that it's no longer safe.
My travelling days are over..
I left them 30 years in the dust.
I really have seen the last of those,
today when I go, it's not long before I want back..
I miss the ocean, and the Atlantic is my choice.
The Pacific smells of dank wood with all the tall furs
and the logging industry. Give me my camp fire on the beach,
I'll wash the salt away before I jump in the sheets at the days end.
My skin being golden brown from a close enough Star.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
my dearest will,
you've always brought out the worst in me.
and i kind of have to love you for that.
you know my deepest secrets,
the dark ones and the embarassing ones.
you know i'm a sucker for anything romantic,
but keep the shakespeare to a minimum.
you know i'd give anything to share your bed,
with you, your cat, and a bottle of ***
you've taken me back three times now,
and i kind of think you shouldn't have.
you know i love you in my own way,
the way no one else will, hopefully.
you know i'm not in love with you,
but i love the way you bite your lip.
you know i'd keep you up all night,
with just me on my hands and knees.
you know i can only talk this way with you,
the words just fall before i can stop them.
you've forever been my ***** little secret,
and i kind of think you like it that way.
you've told me so many times you love me,
but i've laughed them all away.
you know i'd like to say it back,
'with wisdom and conviction beyond my years'.
but this is all you can have of me,
the pieces nobody else wants.
i'm sorry, let's meet up one day.
we can tour nova scotia.
i'll let you kiss my tears away,
and i'll erase your scars.
"how do i say goodbye to you, christmas?"
"you don't, william. we never said hello."
Apr 7, 2011
Apr 7, 2011 at 5:54 PM UTC
Sometimes Silence is a Lie.
it drains the lake, it does... it siphons the symphonies.
it bleaks the speech, unbridled
from a long mute, to a mutiny. the mute in me ~
would rather, but we'd rather knot.
null reprisals, highly prize super nova
in the Scotia of our scathing
plight.
no other might. but...
we'll do what the light won't
in the dark night.
we'll trouble the cube. each of us, the rube
in tomorrow's ****
the Thumb
in the oyster of an ill quiet
where the Lord of Prayers
Errs the attempt
to split Heirs.
We inherit the wind
and a breeze.
And a breeze will ****
a Windmill
straight fair.
but not for the lack of peace.
but the fog of war.
at the very least.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 1:48 AM UTC
With all this glacial melting, and our own East Coast meltdown from our latest blizzard, I wonder how many Neolithic mummies might be found entrapped within ice sheets floating along our Jersey shore? And could these preserved remains just be displaced homeless, men and likely women as well, whose failed luck at Atlantic City Casinos left them in strange circumstance of frozen time encapsulation, only to become part of a future archeological find? To whom and to what advanced scientific methods, or perhaps retrogressive scientific methodology, will these corpses be subjects of, if found a thousand years from now? Can we predict no mix up of modern and long former species of man?Just say for instance, some pristine specimen of iceman 3,000 years or older is floating in an iceberg, down from Western Greenland and past Nova Scotia in a tidal melt that finally brings it to a flooded non-moppable place ignored by a present day, though barbaric governor. Then said governor is ambushed by its distressed and recently homeless victims mobbing and mopping on icebergs and struck by mop heads, just as this Neolithic berg is floating by with its' ancient hunter/gatherer Popsicle in tow. Who might know the difference? What future generation might be able to clarify the difference between the two, or might they even care?
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
*Hot buttered biscuits , homemade strawberry jam
Cool November mornings I've felt through a pane of glass
The beaches of Nova Scotia to the lighthouse on Tybee Island
Mother ocean , she pulls at my feet as the tide draws away
Good morning Savannah dancer* .....
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 9:06 AM UTC
the grey against the blue sky,
metal bars,
power coursing,
it pokes high above the horizon,
tall,
mighty,
human,
nova scotia's hills don't rise up nearly as far,
flat in all directions,
textureless, and
so, so wide,
large trucks drive beside the tower,
small,
pathetic,
a bigger truck comes by, washed in red,
loud,
bright,
blaring,
the smell of smoke upon the suits of the
brave,
the daring,
the big, blue, cloud-filled, wonderful sky,
blue no longer,
their hope,
lost in minutes,
no death, yet so much smoke,
smoke,
like the swirl of sand in water,
the water sitting near the strong metal bars,
the telephone tower,
still tall and mighty,
the water with the highest tides in the world,
rippling hard,
against the rocks on shore,
orange buoys float roughly in the harbour,
a line to never,
ever cross,
kids will boat out there with their paddles,
the breeze knocking them,
side,
to side,
and the world breathes in, for it holds all,
good or bad,
and it is full,
full despite everything.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 4:22 PM UTC
Everyone hates this hyperbole
"Get A Job" Such an intrusion
You pull down a ski mask
Moving across the floor
Your movements become words
"You wouldn't if I didn't"
Pile of sticks on the staircase
Close enough for me to see
Such a disclosure you defend
I weep for you and myself
Becoming an object fixed in place
Empty, hopeless, confused
My absence is my entrance
Wet dreams and apartments locked
The keys hang up on the Christmas tree
You taste the water knowing I'll always be me
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
*When
our bed devours
what
is only Ours
and the night
sinks -
Deep
into our
hot skin, cooling moonbeams
that glaze your thighs
as our limbs
fetch the
Other
from our last drab
things...
We
moisten the burl
of our Life's
Tree...
as we lay planted
gasping.
I see
the furthest world
rising
from the
depths between...
Betwixt -
the
Haunting of Ourselves
and a wet
Dream.*
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 12:16 AM UTC
In the North we had the cold war. Sirens screamed; we crouched under desks, thin arms covering thinner heads. We were post Pompeii petrifies waiting for a future dig. We never left an atomic shadow.
This sums up all life-threatening fears of the Boomers, the Echoes, the A's through Z's. Of course, Boomers then were too young to worry.
We've never had planes or bombs fall from our skies (there was the Arrow disaster).
We've never had a crop blight, famine or drought.
Food has never been rationed.
Hurricanes, cyclones, typhoons or tornados don't happen here;
We get snowfalls we plow through till they melt.
We're non-tsunami. Flooding is seasonal, geographically isolated, and dealt with.
We've had no great fires or earthquakes like San Fran or London.
We've never been drafted, and only go to wars of our own choosing.
We have not been invaded or occupied;
P.E.I. has no extermination crematoriums.
We avoided Inquisitions, Salem witch hunts and Small Pox blankets.
We've had no Race Riots, but a few barricades have gone up and down.
Death comes to us as to all. Car accidents, ******* accidents, and even ****** Though never expected, always anticipated. We grieve, some longer than others. It's not easy, but we manage the shock.
When the glaciers glide past the coast of Nova Scotia, on the way to New York, my generation (and probably yours) will have been replaced.
But now! We're asked to Social Distance and wash with soap and water. In Canada we have plenty of both. I'll occupy my three square feet of space for several weeks (knowing there are only 52 in a year). No complaints. No asinine TP runs. Just behaving myself, HUMANELY.
Mar 18, 2020
Mar 18, 2020 at 5:44 PM UTC
The flutter of lashes
smash through the air,
cuts to the chase and
she knows
I'll be there.
The smile says it all,
as I fall,
and her eyes liquid blue
cut to the chase.
Face touching face we
cut to the chase
and the lights go down
in Halifax.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 10:01 PM UTC