New Classic Poems – Contemporary Verse That Rhymes

“The Gardener.” Artwork and poem by Jonathan Day.
1

Writing free verse is like playing tennis without a net.
– Robert Frost
2

New Classic Poems
Contemporary Verse that Rhymes
An Anthology
Compiled and Edited by
Neil Harding McAlister
Illustrated by Jonathan Day
3

New Classic Poems
Contemporary Verse that Rhymes
Published by:
McAlister, Neil Harding
11 Island View Court
Port Perry, Ontario, Canada
L9L 1R6
www.durham.net/~neilmac/travelerstales.htm
Digital design and production supervision by Arzina Merali
© 2005 Neil Harding McAlister. All rights reserved. The copyright of each poem in this collection is
owned by its author. By written agreement, poets have assumed personal responsibility for the original
authorship and clear copyright ownership of the works that bear their names. No part of this book may
be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including digital
information storage and retrieval devices and systems, without prior written permission of the publisher
and the copyright owner(s), except that brief passages may be quoted, with attribution, for reviews or
for scholarly purposes.
Published and printed in Canada.
ISBN 0-9737006-0-2
4

Contents
Index of Poems 6
Foreword: Is Poetry Dead 9
Everyday Pleasures 15
Love 29
The Dark Side 53
Then and Now 73
People and Places 93
Just for Fun 111
Family Matters 127
Poets’ Biographies 145
Appendix A:
on-line contest rules 155
Index of First Lines 159
5

Index of Poems
Everyday Pleasures 15
Coffee, Sally Anne Roberts 16
When the Sun Turns to Glass, Sally Anne Roberts 16
The Hole-in-the-Wall Café, Neil Harding McAlister 17
Composition, Peggy Fletcher 18
Mozart at Dawn, Sally Anne Roberts 18
Game Bird, Rick Ellis 19
Be Mindful of the Moment, Neil Harding McAlister 20
Playful Pups, James K. McAlister 21
The Storm, James K. McAlister 21
The Happy Trout, Keith Holyoak 22
Sonnet No. 5, Tim DeMay 22
Sonnet No. 6, Tim DeMay 23
Sonnet No. 1, Tim DeMay 23
Journeys, Angela Burns 24
Life, Tan Kar-Hui 25
Perfect Days, Alan DuMond 25
The Garden Party, Mary McIntosh 26
Inspiration, Angela Burns 27
Sylvan Song, Anya Corke 27
Morning Song, Wayne Leman 28
Epiphany, Angela Burns 28
Stars, Nancy Callahan 28
Love 29
Orange Blossoms, Anne Baldo 30
Sonnet, John Nause 30
I Can’t Imagine Why, Rick Ellis 31
The Sparrow and the Hawk, Peter G. Gilchrist 32
Almost Leaving, Karen Godson 36
Autumn Walking Summer Home, Karen Godson 36
Great Unanswered Questions of History, Richard Scarsbrook 37
The Guide, Peter G. Gilchrist 38
Dim Sum, Sharron R. McMillan 39
Lyric for an Irish May, Michael Moreland Milligan 40
Caution, Nigel Clive Bruton 41
Northern Light, Nigel Clive Bruton 42
Letters of Love, Patricia Louise Gamache 43
Men and Woman Are The Same, Mark Clement 44
Rules of Engagement, Neil Harding McAlister 45
Wind of Despair, Patricia Louise Gamache 46
How Like Unto a Longing Heart, Vincent W. Williams 47
The Maiden’s Tale, Gregory J. Christiano 48
Shadow of Bird, Vincent W. Williams 50
6

The Golden Lie, Frances McConnel 51
Amalthea, the Unicorn, Gene Dixon 52
The Dark Side 53
The Works of Poe, Sally Anne Roberts 54
Lady of Decay, Anne Baldo 55
Her Funeral Flowers Never Bloomed, Anne Baldo 56
Between Heaven and Earth, Anne Baldo 57
The Sea of Silence, I.B. Iskov 58
Snake in the Grass, Brenda Tate 58
Plague, David Anderson 59
The Great Equalizer, Pearl Watley Mitchell 60
Anger, Neil Harding McAlister 61
Ripples, Opal Michelle Norris 62
Gray Streaks of Dawn, Gene Dixon 62
Voices On the Wind, Gregory J. Christiano 63
Only Once! Gregory J. Christiano 64
Villanella Nervosa, Zachariah Wells 65
The Foundling, Cynthia K. Deatherage 66
Red Heart of Night, Irene Livingston 69
Echoes, Irene Livingston 70
Guilty Plea, Aaron Wilkinson 71
Crazy, Aaron Wilkinson 72
Then and Now 73
Winter Reflections, Peggy Fletcher 74
Incident at Stirling Castle, Wiley Clements 75
The Mile of Gold, Neil Harding McAlister 76
Warriors Dance, Chrissy K. McVay 77
The Odeon, Neil Harding McAlister 78
Dragon Days, Angela Burns 78
Toledo Cathedral, Neil Harding McAlister 79
The Loon: How the Loon Got His Spots, Eric Linden 80
Weaving, Angela Burns 81
Lighthouse Lament, Angela Burns 81
A Six Pack of Sonnets, Aaron Wilkinson 82
The Ballad of Trapper McGrew, Mary McIntosh 84
In This Court, Vincent W. Williams 85
Snow Flakes, Anne Maarit Ghan 86
Book of Life, Anne Maarit Ghan 86
The Voyage, Bob Stampe 87
The Plot, Bob Stampe 88
She Rocks Away, Irene Livingston 89
Old and New, Angela Burns 89
Playing Poet, Aaron Wilkinson 90
The Bagpipe Maker, D.L. Grothaus 91
Letter to Ezra Pound (1959), Wiley Clements 92
People and Places 93
The Gift, Peter G. Gilchrist 94
The Thinker, Jonathan Day 96
The Gardener, Jonathan Day 96
In the Ruins of Chichen Itza, Neil Harding McAlister 97
Passage to Point Barrow, Wiley Clements 98
7

Here Up North, Neil Harding McAlister 99
Jerusalem Engines, Michael Pollick 100
Urim and Thummin, Michael Pollick 100
The Ballad of Muktuk Annie, Eric Linden 101
Sonnet No. 4, Tim DeMay 104
Pens and Poems, Gene Dixon 104
An Easterner Looks West, Neil Harding McAlister 105
Addressing My Geography, Sam Samson 106
The Other Side, Adrienne Kurtz 107
Thirsty, Wayne Leman 108
Friends of Solitude, Anya Corke 108
Star Student, Brenda Tate 109
The Captain’s Missing, smzang 109
Jingle Bells, Neil Harding McAlister 110
Just for Fun 111
Plain Vanillanella, Neil Harding McAlister 112
Snoggle Sonnet, Vincent W. Williams 112
Optical Delusions, Neil Harding McAlister 113
To Mr. Blank, Poet of Pessimism, Wiley Clements 114
If Only, Neil Harding McAlister 115
Birthday Surprise, Bob Stampe 116
Must My Poetry Be Deep Nancy Lazariuk 118
The Ballade of the Bulge, Anne Maarit Ghan 119
Edinburgh, Albert Lawrance 120
To Her Apathetic Students, Vicki DuMond 121
A Chance to Just Be Me, Nancy Lazariuk 122
Guinea Pigs, Neil Harding McAlister 124
Christmas Tree, Angela Burns 125
In Concert, Wiley Clements 126
Family Matters 127
End of Season, Neil Harding McAlister 128
Her Lover’s Gone to War, Michael Moreland Milligan 129
The Skeleton in Rawhide, Neil Harding McAlister 130
The Runner, Neil Harding McAlister 134
Matrimony, Anne Maarit Ghan 135
The Waiting Game, Jonathan Levitt 135
Wish from a Rainbow’s Mist, Maria DiDanieli 136
Midlife Musings, Neil Harding McAlister 137
Prophet of Sod, Aaron Wilkinson 138
The Truth Of It Is, Bob Stampe 140
Girl 1951, Cathy Wilson 141
Dear Abby, Anne Maarit Ghan 142
Untitled, Anne Maarit Ghan 144
8

New Classic Poems
Is Poetry Dead
9

New Classic Poems
Is Poetry Dead
Foreword: Is Poetry Dead
I
s poetry dead If Alfred Lord Tennyson,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Edgar Allen Poe,
Robert Service, Emily Dickenson, Rudyard
Kipling, Lord Byron, Lewis Carroll – or any
authors of classic, formal poems had lived today,
they might have had difficulty getting published.
If Longfellow had presented The Song of
Hiawatha to an editor nowadays, he would have
been dismissed as an eccentric, academic crank,
and his manuscript as bloated and unmarketable.
Yet this work sold more than one million copies
worldwide in the poet’s lifetime, and catapulted
its author to financial success, international
acclaim and lasting recognition.
The world has changed; tastes have
changed. Electronic media have made mass
entertainment widely and cheaply available. The
reading of poetry, both in public dissertation and
for private pleasure, has declined
correspondingly. Busy, modern households have
many leisure time options and hopelessly
overbooked schedules. We find quaint the very
notion that Longfellow and the other “fireside
poets” wrote poems to be read aloud for
entertainment and moral enlightenment by
families gathered around the hearth.
Our lives may not be measured in
coffee spoons, as T.S. Eliot lamented; but too
often they are chopped into brief segments by
the staccato barking of television commercials. It
must be a comment on our brief attention spans
in the age of TV that we are astonished to find
The Pied Piper of Hamelin by Robert Browning, in
all its prolix entirety, included in a school
textbook entitled “Shorter Poems,” published in
1924. 1 Today there would seem to be too little
time to spare for the contemplative, insistent,
persuasive, repetitive – and occasionally lengthy
– structures of formal poetry.
By the early 20 th Century, poets were
seeking new directions. Abandoning the classical
styles that had embedded rich imagery, broad
metaphors and resounding, moralistic messages
in their work, innovative “modern” poets often
embarked on intensely personal journeys,
favoring the private over the public, the specific
over the general, the challenging and
confrontational over the familiar and affirmative.
Perhaps in reaction to a sometimes
stultifying, rigid formalism that had preceded
them, many poets abandoned rhyme and meter
altogether, eschewing the constraints of fixed
styles to grasp the seemingly unlimited
possibilities that free verse appeared to offer.
Inevitably, just as the great, classic poets
of earlier times had spawned legions of admiring
but untalented imitators who churned out singsong
doggerel, the brilliant innovators of free
verse inspired their own imperfect imitators. The
deceptive informality of free verse seemed to
offer an easy shortcut to many writers of limited
ability, who imagined that they could suddenly
write poetry simply because they had been
excused from the intellectual discipline of
making their thoughts conform to the previously
insurmountable constraints of formal style.
Agrammatical, quirkily-paragraphed
prose pushes the definition of “poetry” beyond
the breaking point for many of us. Robert Frost
once said that “writing free verse is like playing
tennis without a net.” For good or ill, however,
free verse has become the overwhelmingly
predominant style of contemporary poetry.
Opposing this trend is ranked little more than
the trite, predictable, rhyming clichés of popular
song lyrics.
This is unfortunate, because great lyrics
seldom make great poetry, or vice versa. A few
10

New Classic Poems
Is Poetry Dead
brilliant poet-songwriters such as Leonard
Cohen and Tom Waits have almost bridged this
chasm; but their performances are an integral,
inseparable component of their special art. Their
song-poems are generally appreciated as auditory
experiences rather than as words read from
printed pages.
Most readers now have little or no
exposure to well-written, contemporary, formal
poetry. In our modern world, poems that rhyme
are merely old-fashioned; something we were
exposed to during school days when the works
of dead poets were exhumed for dissection in
English literature classes.
This book was born of frustration with
this state of affairs. Just as a preponderance of
badly-written free verse in no way diminishes the
genius of accomplished poets who have
mastered that genre, a plethora of commercial,
rhyming doggerel does not reflect the ingenuity,
grandeur, emotional impact and intellectual
integrity of well-constructed, formal poetry.
Unfortunately, even the best of modern,
formal poetry may not reach a potentially
appreciative audience. The most casual survey of
the current books and journals where poetry
appears confirms that, except for a few
publications with a bent towards neoformalism,
there exists an almost universal prejudice against
poetry that scans and rhymes. Neoformalists
believe good poetry does not require its readers
to possess special education or arcane sensitivity
in order to appreciate it properly. Classical poets
always directed their work at a literate,
thoughtful, but general audience. By contrast,
obscurantism seems to have been elevated to the
cardinal virtue of free verse. The more
obstinately such a work refuses to divulge its
meaning to the general reader, the more likely it
is to find a home on the printed page.
At the same time, the free verse style of
poetry considered avant-garde in our
grandparents’ generation has grown rather
inward-looking and stale. Its audience has
shrunk proportionately. The anæmic sales of
poetry books in comparison to other fiction and
non-fiction stands as irrefutable evidence of the
book-buying public’s indifference towards
contemporary poetic expression. If money talks
in our modern world, the silence is deafening.
Having utterly lost touch with the kind
of mass readership that Longfellow enjoyed in
his lifetime, present-day poets direct their output
mainly towards each other, publishing on the
Internet, or – when they can get their works into
print at all – in thin chap books and special
interest journals. Total press runs typically range
from dozens to a few thousand copies for a
“best seller.”
Moribund it may be; but formal poetry is
not quite dead in the 21 st Century.
With fortuitous timing, modern
technology comes to the aid of this
ailing, traditional art form. Although the
democratic medium of the Internet
indiscriminately spreads literary drivel, it also
allows serious and talented poets of all genres to
address a potentially wide audience.
With this in mind, Contemporary Formal
Poetry decided to throw open its Internet site to a
contest for rhyming, metrical poems only.
Detailed guidelines for what would and would
not be acceptable were posted. (Appendix A.)
The very concept of a poetry competition is
inherently problematic. Which poem is the
“best” – The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The
Village Blacksmith, or Do Not Go Gentle Into That
Good Night Poet, teacher, editor and noted critic
John Ciardi once warned that “there will never
be a complete system for … ‘judging’ poetry.” 2
Therefore three equal prizes of CDN$ 50 were
initially offered for three works that would stand
out as being particularly praiseworthy in some
manner.
Poems in all formal “western” styles
were invited: sonnets, villanelles, odes, elegies
and epics, narratives, ballades, acrostics and so on.
Particularly welcomed were the longer works
that cannot get published elsewhere – the big
narratives that do not fit within the limited space
available in small periodicals, or inside the
cramped submission boxes on most of the postit-yourself
Internet competitions.
This contest immediately attracted an
untapped mother lode of poetic creativity. The
first entry, Peter Gilchrist’s polished narrative,
The Sparrow and the Hawk, appeared in the E-mail
in-box within hours of the contest’s
announcement. Several hundred entries were
11

New Classic Poems
Is Poetry Dead
received between April and October 2004, far
exceeding initial expectations, and threatening to
overload both in-box and web site.
By the time the contest had closed, a
remarkable on-line collection of well-crafted,
and mostly unpublished poetry by living writers
had been assembled. The realization that a
unique treasure so carefully amassed might soon
be consigned to digital oblivion with a click of
the “delete” button was almost unbearable; and
the idea to create a more permanent record –
this book – was born.
The Editor of this compendium claims
no scholarship in the study of literature.
However, it is hoped that readers will excuse
him for exercising his own imperfect judgment,
and for calling on that of family, friends and
poet acquaintances, to choose the works for this
personal collection, personally financed. Those
who dispute his taste are welcome to do so.
They are encouraged to back their artistic
convictions by publishing their own collections
of undiscovered poetic gems.
As Lao Tzu observed, a journey of a
thousand miles begins with a single step. This
book is one small effort to redeem a formal,
classical branch of poetic expression and awaken
the attention of the reading public. It’s goal is to
help re-emphasize poetry as a respectable
avocation, and to attract talent from both
amateurs and professionals.
New Classic Poems demonstrates the art
of poetry rather than the poetry-for-profit
criteria of modern publishers. Here you will find
excellent unpublished poets – new Byrons,
Tennysons, Poes and Longfellows awaiting
discovery. They are largely ignored by the
contemporary poetry “establishment” with its
myopic focus on unstructured verse.
People spend money freely on their
various hobbies and passions: why not do the
same for the publication of poetry Home
computers and word-processing have
democratized hard copy publishing. For a
reasonable financial outlay, the works of talented
poets can be committed to a book that will long
outlast the ephemera of the Internet.
A half century from now, the rhymes
and vivid imagery of these poems will live to
entertain and inspire a new generation of readers.
If this book serves no further purpose than to
transmit the well-crafted thoughts of a
contemporary poet to a grandchild yet to be
born, it will have served its purpose and be
judged a success.
The appeal of traditional poetry seems
to be almost genetic. Little children respond to
ancient nursery rhymes long before they
understand their meaning, and even though
most such jingles have lost their original,
historical significance. How many readers have
subconsciously memorized Lewis Carroll’s
Jabberwocky, and can still call it to mind after
years of neglect Its sheer sound - its rhyme and
rhythm and crazy words – made it memorable.
Memory is the key. Poetry that rhymes
and scans is inherently memorable; and herein
lies its remarkable power. Free verse, no matter
how brilliantly written, cannot easily insinuate
itself into the reader’s subconscious mind. By
contrast, those rhyming poems that our parents
read to us when we were children remain with us
for the duration of our lives.
It is said in common parlance that we
learn our favorite poems “by heart.” May the
cadences featured in this collection resonate in
the hearts of you, our readers, long after the
hearts of we, the poets, have ceased to agitate in
this world.
About the Poets
Works are included from poets who
reside in Canada, Germany, the
United States of America, Malaysia
and Hong Kong. For reasons unclear
to us, the great majority of submissions came
from Canadians, even though this contest was
advertised internationally via the Internet. We
Canucks appear to be a poetic nation. It is a
matter of personal regret to the Editor that he
lacks sufficient linguistic skill to evaluate poems
written in French, our country’s other official
language. A wealth of contemporary Canadian
poetry in French could not be accessed for this
collection.
Of the poets who chose to reveal their
ages, the youngest whose work is printed here
was 11, the most senior 84 years old.
While many of the poets with work in
this anthology are being introduced to readers
for the first time, we are also honored to
included poems by some published writers.
Several have won awards for their poems,
12

New Classic Poems
Is Poetry Dead
including Irene Livingston, who garnered
Canada’s prestigious Leacock Award for poetry
in 2001. Several of our poets are professional,
freelance writers. A couple of them were, or
remain, the editors of poetry and literary journals.
Homemakers, actors, university professors,
carpenters, doctors, hoteliers and students are
represented here. Several contributors have
exceptional personal accomplishments to their
credit: for example, we present a poem written
by one of the youngest Chess Grandmasters in
the world.
However, none of our writers currently
identify themselves as full-time poets. Affluent,
hereditary nobility with abundant leisure hours
in which to pursue their Muse, are uncommon in
our time. To refer to a poet as an “amateur” is
no insult, however. On the contrary, it is a badge
of honor, because the word derives from the
Latin verb, amare – “to love.” Our modern-day
poets obviously do love their craft; and in this
respect they are artists in the purest sense. In
common with the independently wealthy Lord
Byron of old, they are not in it for the money.
Brief biographies of our contributors are found
at the back of this book.
About the Collection
U
nless otherwise noted, the poems that
appear in this collection are previously
unpublished in print media. With a few
exceptions that were deliberately
solicited from several accomplished poets, these
poems were sent by their authors in response to
an Internet solicitation for entries for
Contemporary Formal Poetry’s first on-line contest.
Nearly all of the works in this book were
therefore posted electronically at one time on
our Internet web site.
Poetry was selected for inclusion in this
collection according to several criteria. Each
work must exemplify the formal style in which it
is written. Adherence to meter, strong, original
rhymes and convincing stanza structure (where
appropriate) were all considered essential. Each
poem is noteworthy for the way in which it
embodies its genre: perhaps with a strong and
moving narrative; a vivid, sustained metaphor; a
particularly chilling frisson of horror; or a
surprising, new application of a traditional style.
The anthology is somewhat arbitrarily
organized into broad categories of interest: love,
family, regional, gothic and so on. One
intentionally terrible poem that defied the
contest rules – Albert Lawrance’s deliberate
reworking of the notorious Wm. McGonagall’s
dreadful ode to the city of Edinburgh, Scotland
– was included just for fun. For further
amusement, it was tempting to print several
unintentionally bad entries in a special category of
dishonorable mentions for the “William Topaz
McGonagall Memorial Booby Prize for
Doggerel.” Inevitably, a number of touchingly
earnest but truly lamentable efforts are
submitted to any poetry competition. However,
such slipshod works were excluded from
publication in order to protect the identity of
beginning poets who may need more practice,
but whom we would never wish to discourage
by public ridicule.
New Classic Poems is an exercise in vanity
publishing only to the extent that it puts the
vanity of its compiler on public display.
Exercising a publisher’s prerogative, he has
included an immodest share of his own work, as
well as a couple of poems by his young son,
which he presents with paternal pride. The other
poets whose works appear in this collection
stand absolved from any accusation of vanity or
nepotism. A poet, like any other author, deserves
to be paid for his or her efforts. However, since
sales of this book are scarcely expected to
recover its costs of production, much less to
return a financial profit, our authors agreed to
accept recompense in the form of a free copy.
We hope that this book will shower gratitude
and recognition, if not riches, on all of our poets!
Acknowledgements
Sincere thanks to all of the poets who
contributed to Contemporary Formal Poetry’s
first on-line contest. Particular appreciation
goes to those authors who consented
subsequently to have their work reproduced in
this book. It should be obvious that the opinions
expressed in this Foreword are those of the
Editor, not of the individual poets: only their
own work can speak on their behalf.
Affection and gratitude goes to my
energetic sister-in-law, Arzina Merali, both for
13

New Classic Poems
Is Poetry Dead
her technical expertise, and for her practical help
to transform a collection of digital files into a
professionally printed and bound book. D. Jean
Taylor provided valuable technical assistance.
Love to my wife, Dr. Nazlin McAlister,
for tolerating the life of a computer widow on
far too many evenings while her eccentric
husband attended to both creative and
secretarial demands of his unusual avocation.
Our children, Zara and James, proved to be
willing sounding boards and helpful critics at
impromptu poetry readings over the course of
many months. Hilderic Browne’s astute,
humorous and occasionally pithy observations
concerning the broad field of poetry were
motivational and entertaining. Other friends and
acquaintances have been patient recipients of
unsolicited poetry in their E-mail throughout
this project; and they have been helpful with
their thoughtful comments.
Angela Burns (whose poems appear in
this collection) kindly donated her expertise as
an experienced editor to refine this Foreword
and to help with proof reading the manuscript.
Jonathan Day, also represented by his poems in
this anthology, spontaneously proposed to
illustrate the book, and generously contributed
all of the fine, original linocut artwork that
graces these pages.
The inspirational example of poet and
novelist Louise Murphy is noted with sincere
thanks. While flying to Toronto to receive the
2003 Shaunt Basmajian Award of the Canadian
Poetry Association, Ms. Murphy kindly shared
some of her poems with this Editor, a stranger
to her. 3 After reading some of the work that her
airline seatmate had written, the experienced
poet encouraged McAlister to reflect that a
private passion for poetry might be something
worth sharing with others.
Finally, but most importantly, hearty
thanks and congratulations are due to all of the
poets who labor, often in obscurity, to keep the
rhyme, beat and resonance of classic, metrical
poetry alive in this era of ubiquitous free verse
and vapid, pop song clichés.
____________________________________
References
1. Shorter Poems. Toronto: Minister of
Education for Ontario, 1924.
2. Ciardi, John: How Does a Poem
Mean In An Anthology of Verse, ed. Charlesworth,
Roberta A. and Lee, Dennis. Toronto: Oxford
University Press, 1964, p. 316.
3. Murphy, Louise: Pilgrimage. Toronto:
Micro Prose, 2003.
N.H.M c A.
Port Perry, Ontario, Canada
January, 2005
14

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
15

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Coffee
Sally Ann Roberts
C offee mild, but dark as toast.
O h healthy cup of robust roast,
F resh the smell of perking pot,
F avors senses while it’s hot.
E verlasting in every way,
E very morning, every day.
When The Sun Turns to Glass
Sally Ann Roberts
W hen the sun turns to glass, bright prisms will bow,
H aze colored rainbows, collect in a prow.
E niticing to enter, inviting to pass,
N ow stained into color and bonded in brass.
T angible gold embosses the floor,
H anging precisely where sun streams implore;
E xciting to ponder, too great to ignore.
S unbeams slice gently through stained colored glass,
U plifting performers delightfully dance;
N ectar in colors will surely enhance.
T asteful concoctions are put on display
U nder the sun in the eve of the day.
R ainbow reflections adhere to the light,
N urture`s in beauty before edge of night,
S uspended in awe, a form of delight.
T ouched by the breezes, another encore;
O nly the wind can add something more.
G reatness surrounds when curtains are drawn.
L ady Aurora the Goddess of Dawn,
A ll welcome her warmly before she is gone.
S pecial is she, through the window she casts,
S plashes of color, when the sun turns to glass.
16

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
The Hole-in-the-Wall Café
Neil Harding McAlister
At a big hotel that I know quite well
Is the Hole-in-the-Wall Café.
It’s a fine retreat when you’re feeling beat
At the end of a tiring day.
On the cluttered walls hang prints large and small,
And the skull of a longhorn steer,
While the cowboy hats, guns and lariats
Recall days of yesteryear.
When a hostess fair with impeccable hair
Comes to greet you at the door,
You’ll walk into a room that could use a broom
For the sawdust on the floor.
But this artful mess, groomed to look its best,
Makes you think of a bygone age –
You’re a traveler bold in the days of old
While you wait for the evening stage.
The place comes alive as the guests arrive,
Looking suave in a rustic way.
They like to be seen in designer jeans –
Not the togs of yesterday.
And the steeds they ride with such evident pride
Are neither cheap nor quaint:
Parked out back are the Cadillacs,
Where you’ll never see Old Paint.
In that cowboy club they serve fancy grub
That a wrangler might find strange:
Chuck wagon fare you won’t see there
Cookin’ on their kitchen range.
And the beer that’s sold is always cold!
Just order what you desire
From the deferent host when you drink a toast
By the natural gas campfire.
It won’t give a feel of what was real –
But a legend seldom does.
So raise a glass to a mythic past,
And the West that never was!
Overworked and tired Come get re-inspired
At the close of a hectic day,
And if you’re free, come along with me
To the Hole-in-the-Wall Café!
17

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Composition
Peggy Fletcher
Allow yourself the privilege of a song
that catalogues the Earth's creative pace
dance to the rhythms nature plays online
create new century concerts, celebrate
our rapid times, our craving to be known
allow yourself the privilege of a song
on days when darkness overcomes insight
when dull and angry voices set the tone
dance to the rhythms nature plays online
forget the headlines, sway to notes unborn
hear music sweet as any ever played
allow yourself the privilege of a song
of building notes of grace to exercise
the mystery of this world, its errant ways
dance to the rhythms nature plays online
The timing carries weight, its lyrics paced
to sing the past, the present and beyond
allow yourself the privilege of a song
dance to the rhythms nature plays online.
Mozart at Dawn
Sally Ann Roberts
Grandeur crescendos
in metronome time,
symphonies sounding
as if right on cue,
break into dawning
like poets to rhyme,
and paint into beauty
on a canvas of blue.
Classic creations,
an ear’s form of art.
Magical mornings
awaken and yawn,
and bring with it pleasures
to place in the heart;
sunrise and coffee
and Mozart at dawn.
18

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Game Bird
Rick Ellis
The Owl sat
Pale and restless
Such a rare
And mindful bird
As he pondered
His existence
Weighing lies
He had procured
In that fading
Twilight glimmer
Setting suns
Which had no name
Vaulting blues were
Edging dimmer
Constellations
Danced aflame
Milky Way washed clean
His conscience
Shooting sparks
Betrayed his aim
Clever fowl
Maintained a silence
Voicing Truth
Delays the game
19

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Be Mindful of the Moment
Neil Harding McAlister
The here and now is all we hold through times of joy and sorrow.
We may watch fulsome years unfold – or may not see tomorrow.
Be mindful of the moment. Pay attention to each one.
The past has fled beyond our grasp, the future’s yet to come.
There is no way to measure what ensuing days might bring,
So seize the utmost pleasure found in every daily thing.
The road of life is far too short: no need to travel fast.
Investigate the wonders that lie strewn along the path.
The tender leaves on springtime trees, rough pebbles on the ground,
The snowflakes drifting on the breeze that fall without a sound,
Are all unique and precious, if we take the time to see.
No two have been identical in all eternity.
Is this not true of people too Be mindful, then, of each.
Both strangers and those close to you have useful things to teach.
The two of us part richer if we pass the time of day,
And don’t just brush each other off, then hurry on our way.
Preoccupied by urgent schemes of business, love or power,
By gambling on our future dreams, we lose the present hour.
A life is forged of moments linked together like a chain.
Live each in full – for down this road we shall not pass again.
20

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Playful Pups
James K. McAlister
Man’s best companion,
Adorable balls of fur,
Tumbling across the floor.
These pets prefer
To woof at the door!
Shoes they quickly fetch,
And bones they hungrily chew,
Wagging their short tails.
I haven’t got a clue
Why they scratch with their nails.
Expressions tell tales.
Prize possessions pets,
Paw prints on the snow,
Like ballerinas, they pirouette
For bits of Oreo.
As playful as children,
Their feet are on the go,
Wriggling their floppy ears.
The ball you throw
Is fetched with cheer!
Bounce and pounce on mice,
Chased by hissing cats,
At night when all is quiet
They sleep on pillows and mats,
Opposite of raucous riot.
The Storm
James K. McAlister
Wind rustled crunching leaves
That on the sidewalk lay.
There was a big storm coming
On a windy Autumn day.
Thunder rumbled overhead
And shook me through and through.
A jagged bolt of lightning struck!
The sky then cracked in two!
Rain washed down the dirty road.
It hissed, and gushed, and muttered.
The downpour swept dead leaves away
Into the bubbling gutter.
21

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
The Happy Trout
Keith Holyoak
The trout had much to celebrate—
Not just the lure with its tasty bait
But the way the restless ripples shone
With pearls cast down by the sun at dawn.
The line stayed slack, so the fish swam free
To plunge and leap in ecstasy,
Thrilled by the gift of life renewed.
The angler’s joy, though more subdued,
Revealed what the trout had overlooked:
That fish was well and truly hooked.
Sonnet No. 5
Tim DeMay
When close of day stands shortly knocking hard,
And wearied feet feel freshened freedom nigh,
When paths are beaten, trodden, finished far,
When breath in excitations quickened flies,
When low the lantern’s yellow oil falls,
And soft the brazen flickered flame flecks forth,
When darkness seeps into the cornered walls,
When to the silent sleep succumbing more,
When winter slowly flakes and tumbles out,
And cold rules harshly, biting with sharp winds,
When heavy lidded eyes sag farther down,
When death bestows thee one red fatal kiss,
Hark ye upon the western sky afire,
And east, another rising sun flies higher.
22

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Sonnet No. 6
Tim DeMay
“So esoteric!” cried the dismayed child,
A student learning physics formulas.
The teacher turned with chalk in hand and smiled,
“I know you know who Albert Einstein was,
And Schrödinger, and vectors, force and mass,
But look again and give its grace a chance.
See standards, absolutes since eons past,
See stars and planets caught in cosmic dance,
And space is not a stage but moving cloth,
A fabric warped and twisted, stretched and spry,
Each warp concordant with known physics laws,
Each twist a wonder to the learnèd eye.”
The student left the class with flooded mind,
Stark beauty shown when once he stumbled blind.
Sonnet No. 1
Tim DeMay
My soul flies fast through marble azure skies
Outpouring love, compassion, lust for life,
Rejoining other hearts in sun-flamed eyes,
And passing over, through, amidst like minds.
My soul soars over oceanic hills,
Low swiftly swimming through the flowing grain,
My soul weaves softly up the rolling rills,
And rides the breaking Rocky Mountain waves.
My soul leans close to palpitating hearts,
And whispers lightly, “comfort” in thy ear,
Intently hearing all you would impart,
And driving off all grievances and fears.
My soul excites when wonders does it find,
That it, like all, is kindred with mankind.
23

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Journeys
Angela Burns
I've danced in moonlight, dreamed in marble, walked a twisted road
Lived for now, looked back in sorrow, watched a fate unfold
Strummed a harp and piped the wind and heard the phoenix sing
Burned with magic, ached with joy, astride a dragon's wings.
I've sailed my ship in azure seas, swayed with yaw and roll
Rode on beasts and galloped wild where only sagebrush grows
Shivered in the frozen wastes and trudged through rainbow sand
Sought the secrets, found the answer, held it in my hand.
I've felt the chill of deep space voids and bathed in ancient light
Rolled in freefall, twisted Time and joined the comet's flight
Smelled the air of other worlds and watched auroras flare
Stalked moons of blue and suns of red in volumes everywhere.
I've found new history, modern myth, upon these paper shores
I studied and discovered truths, yet always look for more
While caught in chains of golden prose, I've never lost the thrill
Of paths unrolling into mist where treasure's hidden still.
I've known such folk, along the way, in present, future, past
I meet them there, we travel on, 'till we must part at last
For whether journey's long or short, the saddest rule I know
Is when the grand finale's reached, I must depart and close.
Each trip I take is like the first, each tale is quite unique
My soul addicted, slaves my heart and fires will speed my feet
To where the books sing siren calls that I will not deny
And banquets of delicious words await my hungry eyes.
24

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Life
Tan Kar Hui
Learn to make the most of life,
Lose no happy day.
Time can never bring you back
Chances swept away.
Leave no tender word unsaid,
Love while life shall last.
The mill will never turn again
With water that has passed.
Perfect Days
Alan DuMond
The morning sunlight shines upon me,
On the dew and through the fog;
The birds are singing loud and boldly,
With the croaking of the frog.
Oh, lovely morning to me bringing
Joyful sounds of Nature singing.
The noonday sun shines on me now.
Fields of flowers and grass I see.
The dew and fog have burned away
As quickly as they came to be.
Oh, Sun, be strong and keep on burning.
Earth, be strong and keep on turning.
The evening sun sets in the west,
And the blue fades from the sky,
As the sunlight goes to rest
For the night, but not to die.
Oh, perfect days like these that pass,
Dear God, let this not be the last.
25

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
The Garden Party
Mary McIntosh
"Did you know that she's left"...
"Is it going to rain"...
"Her husband has gone"...
"I have such a pain"...
I really do think it is going to rain.
"This cake is delicious"...
"Her baby is ill"...
"She stayed home today"...
"They've not read the will"...
The newspaper said it is going to rain.
"Did you see that long dress"...
"And what of her hat"...
"She's not serving butter"...
"They had quite a spat"...
I really am sure it is going to rain.
"Her daughter is pregnant"...
"She's not even married"...
"She bleaches her hair"...
"Don't she look harried!"...
My neighbor next door said it's going to rain.
"I must get on home now"...
"It's been a nice tea"...
"Glad you could come"...
"Drop by and see me"...
Here it is now, it has started to rain.
26

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Inspiration
Angela Burns
Detection, perception, reflection alone
Inflection, connection, allusion unknown
Decision, precision, conception sublime
Attention, expansion, revision betimes
Progression, submission, presumption inferred
Rejection, dejection, placation unheard
Distraction, libation, compunction restart
Duration, distinction, repletion of heart
Sylvan Song
Anya Corke
A savage sunset robed the silent wood
and sheathed each tree in raging folds of gleam,
igniting lichened stones that long have stood
near pools asleep in deep, eternal dream.
The pines began to whisper ageless calls
to rousing voices veiled within my soul,
my footsteps lured toward the sunlit halls
of woods where pealing bells of Elfland toll.
The glens resound as Zephyr strings his bow
through slender boughs of ancient poplar trees;
his lilt stirs logs where pale wildflowers flow
in dryad haunts of dreams and reveries.
The wood has locked sweet Nature’s legacy
and loving worship is my only key.
27

New Classic Poems
Everyday Pleasures
Morning Song
Wayne Leman
Morning dew glistens
as nature listens
to the music of the dawn.
Chipmunks chatter
and sparrows scatter
while the roosters crow their song.
The rising sun
says the day has begun.
I can't help but sing along
as the songbirds fly
and the dewdrops dry:
I'm alive, and I belong!
Epiphany
Angela Burns
In somber-hued cathedral halls
Lit by streaked, gold-spackled rays
Through ferny dells on leaf-soft ways
Where season's touch so lightly falls
Where insect buzz among the trees
Plays counterpoint to clear bird trills
With scents of earth these wonders fill
My soul with joy, my heart with peace.
Stars
Nancy Callahan
They call each star a sun,
yet half a cosmos’ worth
can't yield the warmth of one,
or shine a brighter light.
What lies they spread on earth
about the pinpricked night.
28

New Classic Poems
Love
29

New Classic Poems
Love
Orange Blossoms
Anne Baldo
You gave me orange blossoms when I was sixteen
Now they are dust, only dead wreaths
You told me you would never leave.
Dreaming, I pretend I was never deceived
Judas, Benedict, Burr and all traitors between
You told me you would never leave.
In glances of strangers I see your eyes gleam
This perished garden offers no reprieve
You gave me orange blossoms when I was sixteen
For a summer you promised me every dream
Then you were gone, a creature of steam
You told me you would never leave.
Some voids never fill, a heart like a sieve
In the end, it’s only faint memories gleaned
You gave me orange blossoms when I was sixteen.
And you were gone when the leaves faded from green
As you walked out the door, I still believed
You gave me orange blossoms when I was sixteen
You told me you would never leave.
Sonnet
John Nause
You see in me that fading time of year
When new horizons should have no allure:
I've known discovery, possessions, fear
Of loss, recovered and learned to endure.
I'd half convinced myself to live out life
In restful solitude, familiar faces,
Untrammeled by new paths or anxious strife,
And not seek out new climes or distant places.
But now I've found, for every man at last
One hill-crest will his fancy overlord
Unlike all others in his dappled past.
He knows this new landscape must be explored.
So calls she forth my hiding heart that I
Must know her love's secrets before I die.
30

New Classic Poems
Love
I Can't Imagine Why
Rick Ellis
Love is the child
Of delicate wants
Passive in passion
She uncertain, flaunts
Seductive, alluring
She tempts as she taunts
A masterful mistress
A framework that haunts
You hurt me in spite of
The love that I gave
And I can't imagine why
Misguided priorities
Lighted my way
False-colored signposts
The promise of day
The dream came up empty
The sky ashen gray
No flowers can grow
In the heat of the fray
You left me in spite of
The hours that I prayed
So I can't imagine why
What did you learn
In the fields on your walks
Tie not the hands back
Keep winding the clocks
No end of the rainbow
No ship at the docks
Stop looking for diamonds
In a landscape of rocks
You're happy in spite of
The plans that we made
But I can't imagine why
Heartstrings are highways
The road of the knave
From the end of the hallway
To the foot of the grave
Who'll sit beside me
And share in my laugh
Ponder these musings
Or my epitaph
31

New Classic Poems
Love
The Sparrow and the Hawk
Peter G. Gilchrist
They burst around the river bend upstream from where I stood
and side by side they leapt across a drop.
The morning sparked their helmets and reflected off the wood
of paddles arcing quickly through the chop.
They raced along the rapids with a reckless disregard
for boulders breaking white along the chute.
The smaller of the kayaks pulled ahead, but straining hard
the second cut the waves in close pursuit.
The gap between them widened as they raced around a rock
that curled the current back upon itself.
A sparrow darting swiftly from the talons of a hawk
they swooped across a little granite shelf.
They flew across an eddy line and let their kayaks run.
The sparrow threw her face towards the skies.
Exulting in her victory she stretched towards the sun
the joie-de-vivre erupting from her eyes.
The hawk drew in his wings and settled soft across her wake,
content to have his prey within his sight.
The ripples at her side reflected gilded rays to make
a filigree of hair and morning light.
That night as conversation murmured low around our fire
and whiskey made its way around the ring,
her eyes appeared as sapphires set in gold, and his desire
began to spread its avaricious wing.
They wrapped themselves in whispers by the warmth of glowing coals
and nestled in the privacy of night.
The moon traversed the sky above communicating souls
and quietly obscured itself in light.
They slept. The dawn declared itself in dandelion hues
that slipped across the camp with fluid grace.
A ray of brilliant yellow pierced the promenading blues
and kissed across the sparrow’s resting face.
We paddled many runs that year and camped along the shore
and through it all their laughter thrilled the streams.
Their love was so infectious that the summer seemed to soar
on mares’ tails held aloft by lover’s dreams.
That fall, when ice engaged the banks and frost appeared like mould
on upturned keels, I watched the hawk propose.
The sparrow cried and, crying, took his hand to have and hold.
It was, I thought, the perfect summer’s close.
32

New Classic Poems
Love
The winter passed as slowly as it always seems to do
when ice garrotes the streams and bleeds them white,
but such a death is transient and rivers run anew
when day sees fit to break the endless night.
The sun grew strong again. A gentle breath revived the lands.
A latticework of rivulets converged
across the ice to gurgle little channels through the bands
of white and hints of blue as Spring emerged.
The swelling rivers romped across their rumpled gravelled beds,
a noisy game of leapfrog in the sun,
contesting every bank along the ancient watersheds
in effervescent adolescent fun.
As if to answer reveille, canoes appeared on racks
and kayaks crowned a fleet of westbound cars.
We bounced up mountain roads and slid askew down muddy tracks
and bivouac’d beneath a billion stars.
The newlyweds arrived and nested in amongst our crew
encamped along the restless little stream.
They’d traded in their kayaks for a sixteen-foot canoe:
the partnership would paddle as a team.
A tandem boat’s attraction is the teamwork it requires,
the unison, the sharing and the trust.
but trust takes time to grow, no matter what the heart desires,
it’s hard for solo paddlers to adjust.
The sparrow liked to run along the river’s fastest course,
she knew her craft and read the current well.
The hawk would spur his vessel like a knight astride a horse
and joust with ev’ry surf encrusted swell.
It pained to watch them paddle through a technical approach,
she’d reach to draw the bow around a crest
but he would overpower her, and often would reproach
the choice she made. His way was always best.
She didn’t mind at first. She let him choose the line and pursed
her lips each time they banged beneath the white
or broached across a rock he didn’t see. But when he cursed
at her for dumping them, her jaw was tight.
A chill crept in around the evening fire. A silence loomed
like icy fog that creeps a lonely dock.
They sat apart, the sparrow’s bright, engaging smile entombed
beneath moist eyes averted from the hawk.
The mountain skies socked in and drenched our muddy camp
with unrelenting rain. We pulled our gear
above the highest waterline and settled in the damp
to wait, impatient for the skies to clear.
33

New Classic Poems
Love
A sodden figure stooped outside my tent and called my name.
I lifted up the flap to see the hawk.
He nursed a hot rum toddy and he offered me the same
and dripped inside to settle down and talk.
“I used to love the rain,” the hawk confessed. “We’d stay in bed
and snuggle out the cold. The rain would creep
across the nylon skin that trembled gently overhead
and we would drift through after-love to sleep.”
He stopped. We sat, not speaking, for a while. The mountains rained
a soft tattoo across the canopy.
“She’s changed. She never smiles. Our conversation’s always strained.
She doesn’t want to be alone with me.”
I watched the steam ascend above his battered coffee cup
and held my tongue. He rambled on about
the silly little things she did that got his dander up
and how when he corrected her, she’d pout.
I squirmed a bit at that. I’m not a man who likes to be
corrected much myself. I take the view
that rivers aren’t canals, to be contained. I’ve yet to see
two rivers run the same, and my canoe
would soon become irrelevant to me if that were so.
I searched, before I spoke, for kinder ways
to speak my mind with honesty. I tried. But I just know
one word with all the meaning it conveys.
“You are an ass, my friend!” I said. He flushed and looked surprised,
but candour’s worth the clarity it brings.
“You’re too intelligent a man to not have realized
that you have wounded her. You’ve clipped her wings
and now you question why she doesn’t soar the way she did.”
I gave him my analogy about
canals. He stared at me in disbelief. Confusion slid
across his face and I began to doubt
he ever really knew what he had done. “You want control”
I said, “but partnerships don’t work like that.
You can’t carve out a part of anything and have a whole.
She doesn’t need to change. You do!” He sat
and glowered through his brows at me, but didn’t interject
so I kept on: “and blame,” I said “is not
constructive. Don’t be blaming her when things go wrong. Expect
that things won’t always go the way you thought.
They don’t. That’s life. Get used to it!” He scowled and gripped his cup
so tight that all his knuckles seemed to glow.
He wouldn’t look at me, and didn’t speak. He just got up
and left without a word. I let him go.
34

New Classic Poems
Love
I should have shown more empathy, he’d been a friend of mine
for many years. I told him not to blame
and then disparaged him. It wasn’t right. I’d crossed the line.
My sanctimony slowly turned to shame.
I chewed regret until the taste was foul. I knew
apologies were due. I went outside
to find my friend. His truck was gone, and so was his canoe.
He’d up and left, and left behind his bride.
It rained relentlessly that night, but even through the rain
I heard the sparrow crying in her tent.
I cried as well, for nothing I could do would stop her pain.
The night poured out its own forlorn lament.
A cold grey mist diffused the night and drizzled into day.
The sparrow brought me coffee laced with rye.
Her eyes were red. She hadn’t slept a bit. We didn’t say
too much, just sat and let the day drift by.
In early afternoon the rain relaxed, and blue appeared
in patches here and there. The camp awoke
and paddlers craned their necks towards the west. A summit reared
above dispersing clouds. The weather broke.
We stood outside and watched a rainbow arc across the sky.
The sun poked through in shafts and slowly peeled
away the curls of steam that swayed across the well-worn fly
above my tent. And then the sparrow squealed.
With every fender rattling, that old truck chewed up the ground.
A pair of brand new kayaks rode the rack.
He must have cleaned out every single flower shop around
‘cause thirty dozen roses filled the back.
The hawk was all contrition when he skidded to a stop.
The sparrow didn’t wait for him to speak.
She flew across the puddles, gave a funny little hop,
and kissed him on his disconcerted beak.
The skies burst blue. The sunlight blazed and danced across the ground.
A laugh was joined and turned a summersault
around the camp. That night, across my sleeping bag, I found
an amber flask of ancient single malt.
The Sparrow and the Hawk was previously published in Karwacki P, Corbett K and Gilchrist PG:
Paddle Tracks. Edmonton, Alberta: Kakwa River Press, 2004.
35

New Classic Poems
Love
Almost Leaving
Karen Godson
There is a hint of storm upon the breeze;
a ring-around-the-rosy made of leaves.
A gentle kiss from Jack Frost on the land
and at my sides my lovers stroll,
each hand-in-hand-in-hand.
Beyond the path, where green grass meets gray sky
exists a place reluctant songbirds fly
into the setting sun, and lovers part.
Reality and sadness cast
a pall upon the heart.
Such silence hanging shapeless in the air;
so much to say yet neither of us dare
disturb the solace of this final hour;
and so we taste the honey while
we let the milk go sour.
Autumn Walking Summer Home
Karen Godson
August's heat bows to September's cool,
with green leaves threatening to turn
to vibrant red and Midas-gold;
the World pauses on the threshold
between two seasons; so we learn
that he who resists should be called " Fool".
For who can stop the sweet Autumn breeze
from gently walking Summer home
and leaving kiss on sun-warmed cheek
The whispering winds through bent boughs speak
of passing evenings when we'd roam
through fields of wildflow'rs with hearts at ease.
And so the dried leaves now are scattered
as we hesitantly shuffle
down the road that leads to goodbye.
Do not look back. Do not ask why.
As leaves are joyful in their scuffle,
just laugh and play as if naught mattered.
36

New Classic Poems
Love
Great Unanswered Questions of History
Richard Scarsbrook
I wonder if Shakespeare was ever eighteen
Did he work at a gas bar, tell stories for free
Did he hike to the East side to the beatnik cafe
To hide in the shadows and drink underage
I wonder when Plato got his first kiss
When she offered her lips, did he pucker and miss
Did he make up tall tales to tell loafers at school
Did he put on black leather, pretend to be cool
I wonder if Einstein ever worried about
The zits on his face, while he made out
Had the cops in the campground heard the noise in the tent
Had he saved enough money for his college rent
I wonder if Freud got weak in the knees
When a girl like you began to tease
Would you be there beside him when he woke up
Would you head for the sunset with him in his pickup truck
Here tomorrow, gone today
History seems to work that way
Here today, just you and me
As for History, we'll just wait and see
37

New Classic Poems
Love
The Guide
Peter G. Gilchrist
The clients’ rhythmic breathing relayed ‘round
the soft aortic pulse of glowing coals.
The camp was still. The only other sound
was water running over graveled shoals.
He drew the night around him like a down
duvet and strolled across the sandy beach.
The Sky put on her blackest sequined gown
and danced for him, but always out of reach.
The moon’s reflection seemed to skip along
the ripples running past the camp from crest
to crest, a xylophone of light and song
that played for him, the River’s favoured guest.
He shed his clothes across a rock and stepped
to part the silver shimmers of the moon.
He heard a sound from where his clients slept,
a zipper pulled along a down cocoon.
He knew. He’d seen her watching him all day
but every time he turned to meet her eye
she’d dropped her head and turned her face away.
He smiled as water curled around his thigh.
His shoulders squared, he faced Orion’s belt.
The moonlight etched his outline on the sky.
A wavelet kissed his copper curls. He felt
the velvet touch of her appraising eye.
She stood beyond the glow around the fire
and watched his splendid abluent display.
Propriety restrained her keen desire
to drop her clothes. The moment slipped away.
She longed to touch the curve above his waist,
to trail her fingers down his arms, and feel
the gentle power there. She ached to taste
the sweat that clung to him like dew to steel.
He dipped to wash his face and stood again,
the water running down his sculptured chest
in rivulets, like gentle summer rain.
She flushed across her lightly heaving breast.
Ashamed, she turned and softly crept away,
returning to her down cocoon to fold
her wanton wings and try to sleep. She lay
in misery. The night had now turned cold.
38

New Classic Poems
Love
She slept, ‘though intermittently, and dreamed
of butterflies on copper curls, and yet
when morning broke without a dew it seemed
the hair that framed her cheeks was soaking wet.
Dim Sum
Sharron R. McMillan
Little pieces near the heart
shared in quiet here
tiny portions of a soul
minute scraps of fear.
Crumbs that fall unnoticed
swept up with the dust
scanty words and compact thoughts
handed out with trust.
Do you hear the meagre words
crumbs that fall so faint
can you hear my heart’s voice speak
beneath its restraint
Do you care, these few small sounds
are thoughts of mine apart
and that to you I dare to give
these pieces near my heart
39

New Classic Poems
Love
Lyric for an Irish May
Michael Moreland Milligan
I’m sorry love about last night,
I’m so ashamed I could not bring
myself to you I have no right
to wed without a weddin’ ring.
The landlord says my rent is due,
I’ll be evicted from my land,
yer pa says I’ll not be marryin’ you,
‘til I offer more than my empty hand.
No hard feelings love, I understand,
I can not get yer papa’s will,
the bank has foreclosed on my land,
but bank be damned, I love ya still.
I'll meet tonight with a jug’a wine,
and hold ya close unto my heart,
a ring of yarn will make you mine–
nor pa, nor death, nor rent shall part.
Come away, come away sweet,
for like the darling buds of may,
we are creatures of today,
and tomorrow we can not stay.
Someday soon the silvery moon
will look and never find me,
and I will no more sing my tune,
but sail across this lonely sea.
I’ve got a ticket, I’m going soon
tomorrow mornin’ I’ll be gone–
come walk with me beneath the moon,
and hold my hand until the dawn.
Come away, come away sweet,
one last night we’ll love and play,
tomorrow before the break of day
I’ll be sailin’ towards the USA.
It’s been five years since Ellis Isle,
I found my fortune in the world new.
I’ll be comin’ home in a little while,
been savin’ for to marry you.
We’ll buy that land beside the stream
and build beneath the willow tree.
We’ll live the life the poets dream–
if only you will wait for me.
Far away, far away sweet–
every morning I shall pray
the Lord will let me see that day
when on the heather we shall lay.
40

New Classic Poems
Love
The famine came and married you,
I’m so sorry I took so long.
The vow that I would swear to you
has turned into this mourning song.
I finally bought that piece of land
beside the stream and willow tree,
where our two grave stones both shall stand–
your bridal bier my bed shall be.
Gone away, gone away sweet,
for like the darling buds of May
which grow in Spring about your grave
our love’s a thing that would not stay.
Caution
Nigel Clive Bruton
Better walk slow
Take heed where you pass
Love’s going to find you
Take you in its grasp
Reel you in slow
And spit you out fast
All while you’re thinking
This one will last.
41

New Classic Poems
Love
Northern Light
Nigel Clive Bruton
Mystery woman of northern spires
Fills the soul with man’s desires
Creeps through sleepy rolling eyes
And whiles away the daylight skies
Ever gently she does move
The wind behind sweeps up the gloom
Ahead the night does sparkle brightly
Creating shadows in darkness, lightly
Now and then disguised as one
Who could not melt under the sun
Her spell will cast a long, long way
Through time and space, through night and day
Until the one it’s aiming for
Opens up the mystery door
Like an arrow through the heart
The magic flows through blood so dark
The time is short she gives the man
Condensed forever in her hand
And passes it so sweetly over
Under covers and in the clover
But now she’s gone the door is closed
Just a dream he must suppose
And though the feeling will thin with time
And life’s routines will dull the mind
His heart and soul
Will remember when
The mystery woman
Danced with him.
42

New Classic Poems
Love
Letters of Love
Patricia Louise Gamache
I found some cards you sent me
So many years ago
I'd tied them with blue ribbon
Just wanted you to know
The message has not changed at all
Those words you wrote inside
They mean as much to me today
And yes, they made me cry
I've tied them very carefully
I'll keep them yet awhile
And when I find them one more time
I know they'll bring a smile
And as I hold them close again
Just as you'd want me to
I wonder where the cards have gone
I'd sent from me to you.
43

New Classic Poems
Love
Men and Women are the Same
Mark Clement
It is said that men and women are the same.
We struggle with that gender-neutral dance
and nature laughs and keeps on with its game.
Men always glance at any pretty dame
and woman’s lips are painted to enhance.
It is said that men and women are the same.
Women in pants are now like men of fame
while famous men are quiet in their stance
and nature laughs and keeps on with its game .
Men can recite each hockey player’s name
while women sniff at such a brutal dance.
It is said that men and women are the same.
Women on TV fight and often maim
while tender men can hardly look askance
and nature laughs and keeps on with its game.
Women juggle many bouncing balls and pain
while narrow men play their one game of chance.
It is said that men and women are the same
and nature laughs and keeps on with its game.
44

New Classic Poems
Love
Rules of Engagement
Neil Harding McAlister
Our conference is winding down.
Tomorrow we’ll fly out of town.
Before we leave for places far
We kill time in this hotel bar.
A cad will fuel his manly pride
With sneaky romance on the side.
To prove I'm not that kind of louse
I’ve talked about my kids and spouse.
But even though that line’s been drawn,
It’s fun to feel that old frisson
While chatting up the other sex,
Imagining what could come next.
We’ve been around; we know the rules.
Thank goodness we’re no longer fools
Of hormones that have ceased to rage
When people reach “a certain age.”
Or maybe we just choose to see
A virtue in necessity:
We stifle yawns. I should not stay.
Tomorrow is a busy day.
So thanks for spending time with me.
You’ve been delightful company.
This is my E-mail; here’s my phone.
(I doubt you’ll call when you get home.)
I hope it won't offend you much,
Or make you think you’ve lost your touch,
If I should pack it in so soon,
And fail to walk you to your room.
Far better we avoid tonight
An awkward choice of wrong or right.
Some fantasies are best unsaid
As pleasant dreams, alone in bed.
True, nothing ventured, nothing gained;
But if Life’s cup we have not drained,
We’ll shake hands now with conscience clear –
And share another drink next year!
45

New Classic Poems
Love
Wind of Despair
Patricia Louise Gamache
An angry wind blows over me
It fills me with despair
It twists and turns tumultuously
And chills me everywhere
It blows so cold I cannot stand
To have you far away
I try to reach the gentle hand
That touched me every day
And while the wind sings wearily
It makes my heart grow cold
I must pretend you're here with me
Your soul I try to hold
And as I strive to capture you
I reach but you're not there
And when alone I fall asleep
I'm filled with deep despair.
46

New Classic Poems
Love
How Like Unto a Longing Heart
Vincent W. Williams
How like unto a longing heart was I
When touch of hand or silent word be spoke;
Betimes I wakened to my Sorrow’s sigh,
As plaintive murmur did its woe invoke.
T’was then my thoughts recalled some happy day,
Some former moments smothered in a smile;
No longer did my spirit dare to play,
Nor claim a childlike pleasure to beguile.
But then celestial symphony’s surprise,
Inspiriting a heavenly desire,
Became the only vision for my eyes:
Became my life, and did my heart inspire.
O, panoply of sense, I pledge to thee,
My passion now and for eternity.
47

New Classic Poems
Love
The Maiden's Tale
Gregory J. Christiano
Once on a bright midsummer's eve
The moon in fullness shone,
I wandered to a garden near,
To meditate alone.
And as I thought of youthful days
That seemed to swiftly fly,
A manly youth and lovely girl
Unawares, then passed me by.
And as they thus in silence walked,
His arm around her thrown,
He gently drew her to a seat
And by her side sat down.
"Dear James," I heard the young girl say,
"This is a lovely eve,
Just such a moment when you told
The tale of Genevieve.
"And as your stories - be they true,
Or only fancy's flight,
Are all so full of interest,
Please tell me one tonight."
A saddened smile his face illumed,
He gently took her hand,
And paused a while in thoughtful mood
Then thus his tale began:
"Sweet girl, a wild and reckless bird
Was sweeping through the skies,
A serpent saw, and on him fixed
Its fascinating eyes.
"Alas, poor bird, he knew 'twas death,
And oft did he essay
To break the charm that drew him down,
To where the serpent lay.
"But all in vain, for none was there,
With kind and pitying eye,
To aid the efforts of the bird,
And he was left to die.
“Just then a maiden passing by,
The danger quickly posed
And banishing all other thoughts,
She to the rescue rose.
48

New Classic Poems
Love
"A few kind words discreetly urged,
In gentle, winning tone,
Quickly dissolved the charmed spell
That round him had been thrown.
"She raised him up, then with a cord,
Invisible but strong,
She firmly bound him to her side,
Then gaily tripped along.
"And now and then her head she turned,
Deliberately and slow,
With well-feigned wonder in her looks
That he should follow so.
"Sometimes, in light and laughing mood,
She'd with her captive play,
Then turn and in a pettish tone,
Would bid him go away.
"But ever if he turned to go,
Thinking the bond to spurn,
One glance from her would touch the cord
And force him to return.
"And thus the cruel maiden lives,
Toying from day to day,
Forever bidding him depart,
Yet forcing him to stay.
"Now, dearest Emma, need I say,
I am that silly bird,
Bound by the cords of love to you,
The kind but cruel maid
"Do not this fond and faithful heart,
To dark despair resign;
O grant me this and make be blest,
Say will you not be mine"
Of course she could not crush the love
So tenderly revealed,
And so he pressed his lips to hers,
And thus the bargain sealed.
49

New Classic Poems
Love
Shadow of Bird
Vincent W. Williams
Shadow of bird,
Feature of feathers:
No hint of hue–
and no whisper’s so soft:
Secret as sweet
as the scent of our loving,
Love that we share
winging weightless aloft.
Lovely, the song–
cadence of pleasure–
all time is ours
in a singular kiss:
Hearts that may know
in such exquisite measure
memory’s gift
in a moment like this.
Then, like the bird–
soft as a shadow–
one day the song
will be hushed in the air.
Only the shadow
of bird may remember
once upon memory’s
love that was there.
Shadow of bird,
Lost in the heavens:
Sadly it fades
with the dimming of light.
Only the dream
of tomorrow morn’s dawning
gives back the hope
as it takes back the night.
Shadow of bird:
Feature of feathers–
no hint of hue–
and no whisper’s so soft:
Secret as sweet
as the scent of our loving,
Love that we share
Winging weightless aloft.
50

New Classic Poems
Love
The Golden Lie
Frances McConnel
Love is a golden lie, a sacrificial rite;
You’re lost the moment that you think you’re found.
Don’t hold me close; don’t let my eyes shut tight.
Someone said always once; tradition made it trite;
Like dirty bills it passes round and round.
Love is a golden lie, a sacrificial rite.
Don’t tell me that my skin is petal sweet, the bright
Rays of my onyx eyes have struck you down.
Don’t hold me close; don’t let my eyes shut tight.
A new car blinds as well, a serial delight
That fades with its first dent—that dismal sound.
Love is a golden lie–the sacrificial rite
Mom used to teach us guilt and speed our flight.
Love is what Daddy dreads—the old shake-down.
Don’t hold us close, we beg, our eyes shut tight.
But still, we’ll bandage up the lacy bite
Gouged from our hearts. Come, lover, let us drown.
Don’t hold me close, don’t let my eyes shut tight
Is lovers’ golden lie, their sacrificial right.
51

New Classic Poems
Love
Amalthea, The Unicorn
Gene Dixon
Are you really light as air Can you truly fly
Does your graceful, spiral lance put stars into the sky
You walk in quiet beauty. Your name is world renowned.
Upon what silver pasture can the likes of you be found
Flowing soft from crown to nape you wear a cloudlike mane.
Your eyes have captured moonlight, you dance inside the rain.
You move as soft as silence, like shadows on the ground.
Upon what misty meadow can the likes of you be found
Your image lives in poet's dreams, a fragile flower, free.
In time you've touched the topaz sky and swum the emerald sea.
A carousel has been your world with children spinning 'round.
Among what rainbow visions can the likes of you be found
The mystery of your magic lives in every tale that's told
of princesses in peril, of knights whose hearts are bold.
In the eyes of kings and emperors your images abound.
Oh, where, in God's creation, can the likes of you be found
Immortals, frail and delicate, live mostly in our dreams.
Love, like truth and unicorns, is seldom what it seems.
Still we strain to feel its tender touch and tremble at its sound.
Within which lover's laughter can the likes of you be found
52

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
53

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
The Works of Poe
Sally Ann Roberts
Black and gothic,
expelling ink,
dark phantom brings
from feathered quill,
words of terror.
A telltale heart,
morbid mood swings,
grotesque and shrill.
Ravens knocking,
`ere go the chimes,
into the night
of bells, bells, bells.
Indigo shades
of rhythmic rhymes,
great depths of fright,
arabesque tales.
Melancholy,
the works of Poe,
great urgent need
by candlelight
expressed his thoughts,
exposed his woe,
for those who read
his tales of night.
54

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Lady of Decay
Anne Baldo
Lady of decay,
the junkyard bride,
tell me why the castle you rejected
so in the refuse heap you could reside.
Now you’re queen of the gutters
this sewage whore of mine
through the drains with bare white feet
both filthy and sublime.
My angel of the alleyways,
through the tenements you reign,
the derelicts you strew with gold
will forever call your name.
Rotten leaves in your red hair,
scars where broken bottles traced,
the royalty of waifs and strays,
sweet lady of the waste.
Oh your rusted mouth
oh your bleeding hands
believe me when I tell you
no one else could understand.
55

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Her Funeral Flowers Never Bloomed
Anne Baldo
Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom,
Married a day and buried in her wedding gown.
Her funeral flowers never bloomed.
She lies in a dim-lit yellow room,
Laid with lilies, pallid blue.
Her funeral flowers never bloomed.
There sits her melancholy groom,
Gazing at his shrouded bride.
Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom.
She never could accept what loomed,
The wedding-cake has fallen through.
Her funeral flowers never bloomed.
Incense and cedar-wood perfume,
Wrapped in gauze, dead ivory hue.
Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom.
The wedding home is but a tomb,
A funeral for their honeymoon.
Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom–
Her funeral flowers never bloomed.
56

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Between Heaven and Earth
Anne Baldo
She was caught between heaven and earth when she died
They say that’s the price of her suicide
I hope she sleeps now where the poppies bloom white.
She laughed with me only yesterday night
Wreathing her hair with sweet columbine
I hope she sleeps now where the poppies bloom white.
Like a bird on the sea-strand she went out with the tide
Flowers in her hair shone with searing sunlight
She was caught between heaven and earth when she died
Whispers of vampires haunted the night
Staked through the heart so she couldn’t rise
I hope she sleeps now where the poppies bloom white.
The dark bells at our church were forbidden to chime
At the crossroads she lies, as if marked by her crime
She was caught between heaven and earth when she died.
Light all the candles for Hades’ new bride
For the Asphodel Meadows are impassably wide
She was caught between heaven and earth when she died
I hope she sleeps now where the poppies bloom white.
57

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
The Sea of Silence
I.B. Iskov
Lost in an ocean filled with fear.
My thoughts immersed, like sunken ships.
Broken dreams and shattered hopes
Are locked within my frozen lips.
The sea of silence captures me.
An endless rhythm in my brain.
Chained to the waves of misery.
Groping for my life in vain.
A puppet in the hands of fate.
Glued to the strings of destiny.
Dancing to a demon's tune.
A cruel and heartless melody.
Like the wind, a careless breeze
Carrying all my memories.
Scattering leaves of shame and scorn
In swirling, falling pillories.
My screams engulfed in salty tears.
They fill the ocean of my soul.
A prisoner in the sunken ships.
No flag of hope upon the pole.
Snake in the Grass
Brenda Tate
My mower slices spine and then is still
beside his severed coil. He sprawls inert
with mortal burden, unavoided hurt
that I have dealt like God, but not through will.
He draws the white across his eye, until
I know that he is sightless, while a spurt
of serum bleeds against his fire. The dirt
awaits its quenching, as I watch him spill.
But this is not my pain, nor my concern,
he seems to tell me. Therefore, I must leave
him to such insect rites as may address
the purpose, never pause my work to learn
a little more of death. My carelessness
is his to suffer, but not mine to grieve.
58

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Plague
David Anderson
Arms like trees, back broad and long
I am a labourer by trade,
Though I don’t brag, of all my friends
I lift the most – it’s how I’m made!
There’s nothing I like more than when
They need me for a heavy crate,
Though now I see my gift of strength
Was not enough to fend off fate.
For one black day a judgment came
The heavens meted me a test,
A thing not heavy in dead weight
But from its pull I had no rest.
And me this thing rode many years:
I blocked all thought of that black seed;
A seed it was and grew it did
Roots in my back down through my knees.
The plague it brought weighed less than air
But heavily it dragged me down,
I fell (a giant of a man) to grief
And shrank into the ground.
As I quivered on my knees
My strength depleted by the weight,
I knew the size of a man's arms
Shows little of what he can take–
For during ten strong years alone
My good wife’s death had built my tomb.
59

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
The Great Equalizer
Pearl Watley Mitchell
Hey, I saw it
with my own eyes!
What a surprise
when I realized …
they were all gathered there,
some alone, some in pairs
lounging together, so diverse
brought together for good or worse
soldiers, lawyers, plumbers, teachers
waiters, doctors, unemployed speakers
secretaries, prostitutes, and preachers
laborers, writers, and illiterate creatures.
I never thought I’d see the days
all those people in just one place,
class status truly gone,
names and dates clearly shown.
I strolled through and greeted them all
the grass so green, the stones so tall
it occurred to me, there they were buried
in the great equalizer – the cemetery.
60

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Anger
Neil Harding McAlister
« La vie étant ce qu’elle est, on rêve de vengeance. » - Paul Gauguin
Against unyielding crag on storm-swept shore,
In useless fury smites the raging sea.
An angry heart so breaks for evermore
Upon the barren cliff of memory.
We hate the ones who kept us from our goal,
Abusing our sweet trust with lies or guile;
The faithless lover who once scarred our soul;
The false friend with the condescending smile.
Who would not burn, unnoticed and ignored,
When rivals steal the credit for his labor,
His contributions unacknowledged, scorned,
While others feast on fruit he worked to savor
A careless insult haunts us like a curse
That strikes us mute, not knowing what to say.
At night we fret and sleeplessly rehearse
Lost wars we might have fought another way.
Should we strive to be like our enemy,
Surpassing his deceit, if we are wise
It surely would be vile hypocrisy
To emulate the traits we most despise.
How could we fan to action and redress
A smoldering ire that fears to speak its name
When conscience counsels our uncertainness,
Revenge dissolves in bitter, silent shame.
And when crude vengeance cannot satisfy,
We fantasize that in some future days
Such glowing deeds our name may dignify
That old foes shall regret their callous ways.
Oh pointless Anger, must you learn so late
The lesson that we always should have known
The heart hurts but itself when, filled with hate,
It beats against a past that’s carved in stone.
We cannot rest while tempests blast the mind,
And never can we cross a wrathful sea
‘Til time may calm the waves and help us find
The deep, still waters of maturity.
61

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Ripples
Opal Michelle Norris
A tear for the sick
A tear for the dying
A tear for the orphans,
homeless and crying.
A tear for the hungry
A tear for world peace
A tear for the lost,
alone, or diseased.
A tear for the helpless,
maimed in the street
A tear for the children,
We may never meet.
A tear for the loved one,
we may never find
A tear for the chair-bound,
mute, deaf, and blind.
A tear for hatred,
that brought this world sorrow,
A tear for those,
who are gone with tomorrow.
Gray Streaks of Dawn
Gene Dixon
A breath before gray streaks of dawn
Begin announcing night has gone
And pastel colors tint the sky,
The time is right for such as I
To stand upon the wave-washed stones
And contemplate sea captive bones.
Those who sleep beneath the swells,
Those who heard the final bells
That tolled as ships so quickly slipped
Down to the depths as spirits ripped
Away their mortal coil, then drawn
Into the sky, gray streaks of dawn.
They seek me out each silent morn
To tell me of the life they've worn.
62

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Voices On the Wind
Gregory J. Christiano
Throw more logs on the fire,
We have need of cheerful light,
And close round the hearth to gather,
For the wind has risen tonight.
With the mournful sound of its wailing,
It has checked the children's glee
And it calls with louder clamor
Than the clamor of the sea.
Listen to what it's saying
Let us note to where its been;
For it tells, in its terrible crying,
The fearful sights it has seen.
It clatters loud at the casements
Round the house it hurries on,
And shrieks with redoubled fury
When we ask, "Where has it gone"
It has been on the field of battle,
Where the dying and wounded lie,
And it brings the last groan they uttered,
And the ravenous vulture's cry.
It has been where the icebergs were meeting,
And closed with a fearful crash;
On shores where no foot has wandered,
It has heard the waters dash.
It has been on the desolate ocean,
When the lightning struck the mast;
It has heard the cry of the drowning,
Who sank as it hurried past;
The words of despair and anguish
That were heard by no living ear;
The gun that no signal answered,
It brings them all to us here.
It has swept through the gloomy forest,
Where the lion was urged to its speed,
Where the howling wolves were rushing
On the track of the panting steed;
Where the pool was black and lonely,
It caught up a splash and a cry –
Only the bleak sky heard it,
And the wind as it hurried by.
63

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Then throw more logs on the fire,
Since the air is bleak and cold,
And the children are drawing nigher,
For the tales that the wind has told;
So closer and closer gather
Round the red and crackling light,
And rejoice (while the wind is blowing),
We are safe and warm tonight.
Only Once!
Gregory J. Christiano
Jar one chord, the harp is silent;
Move one stone, the arch is shattered;
One short clarion-cry of sorrow
Bids mighty armies to awake;
One dark cloud hides the sunlight;
One loose string and pearls are scattered;
Think one thought, faith may perish;
Say one word, a heart may break!
64

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Villanella Nervosa
Zachariah Wells
They say that it's a rage to order.
First chaos, like grains of sand, seeps in
Then troops are mustered at the border
To hold at bay the dark marauder:
It's as much what stays out as what one keeps in
That defines this particular rage to order.
Line up each bite on the plate like a soldier
On a white field he lives, fights and finally sleeps in
As he struggles to breach the enemy's border.
(In this bone house you are merely a boarder.
This is a dwelling that nobody weeps in:
It's against the rules of the rage to order.)
The so-called experts name it disorder
And mobilize wolves decked out in sheepskin
To harry the opposite side of the border.
Skin shrinkwraps bone tight at the shoulder
While head and gut conspire to heap sin
Upon sin. Please—surrender your rage to order,
Let peace-keepers trickle in over the border.
65

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
The Foundling
Cynthia K. Deatherage
From out the cold and under deep,
within the shadows of the Keep,
throughout the day, throughout the dark,
three Sisters at their weaving work.
Swifter than the eye can follow,
Patterns shape both high and hollow.
Lives, they say, are twined therein–
the paths men choose to live within.
The loom is fast, the weaver's beam
weaves a pattern without seam.
Endless, endless, ever growing,
knowing all, yet never showing.
None has seen it, none save one–
a foundling lad, a no-man's son.
From out the cold and under deep,
within the shadows of their Keep,
beneath the water's ceaseless sigh,
three Sisters heard a baby's cry.
Someone left a boy-child near,
crying loud with hungry fear.
Said Sister One to sisters two,
"Leave the weaving, warp and woof.
Let us find this little bird,
for in my heart his voice has stirred
a longing as I have not known
to weave his young life with our own."
So leaving all their weaving still,
they found the babe on grassy hill,
and Sister Two in plump, round arms
calmed the child with smiles and charms.
But Sister Three just mumbled low:
"We've left too long–our work is slow."
From out the cold and under deep,
within the shadows of the Keep,
three Sisters brought the foundling child
to raise him gently, raise him mild,
to give him love with love returned,
never lacking, never spurned.
And so he grew from babe to youth,
learning knowledge, knowing truth.
Nothing from the lad was hidden–
save the woven cloth forbidden
for a mortal's eye to see;
save only this–the rest was free.
66

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
It chanced upon a certain day,
the Sisters let their young charge stray
too close next to their weaver's loom,
and there, as if through misty gloom,
the young lad spied one golden thread;
one thread was all, and yet deep dread
fell on the weavers suddenly.
The Sisters shuddered heavily:
"Our son, alas! What have you done"
The child returned, "I saw but one."
Sister Two said, "Tell us, then,
was the thread a thick or thin"
"A thick one with a golden hue
and shining as with sun-bright dew–
and yet the more I gazed upon it,
the dimmer grew the sun-glow on it."
Said Sister One, "There's more to say"
"Well, then it changed from gold to grey.
The color blurred before my sight–
yet, once it gleamed with final light.
It filled me with a gloom and hope.
What does it mean I search and grope
to learn but cannot comprehend."
"It is not yours to know the end,"
Sister One said, soft, to him,
while Sister Three just nodded, grim.
"Alas, my dove," the eldest crooned,
"the time has come, the time of doom,
when you must leave our humble hollow,
follow ways that all must follow.
So the Master Weaver said,
and none can change his golden thread."
And so with sad farewell thus spoken,
Sisters three gave him a token.
"Choose from this our treasure store,
enchanted tools, and magic lore:
a sun-bright sword that none may vanquish;
cloak to cause yourself to vanish;
or if you will a trade to hold–
a hammer made of fairy gold,
and you will be a smith of fame
with none an equal to your name.
Or if you will–"
67

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
–"I'll none of those,"
the lad spoke up and half arose.
"If I leave, as leave I must,
a cloak will tear, a sword will rust,
a hammer fail and fame will fade
as with the name the glory made.
If gift you give, give none of these,
but yonder harp, if you so please.
And ever and withal I'll play
to keep you with me day by day."
The harp was old with carvings faint,
though once was bright, now dull the paint.
But strings were strong, and chords were deep
with haunting magic yet asleep.
Said Sister Two, "You've chosen fine.
Until your path and ours entwine,
receive this blessing from our hearts,
bound with all our love and arts:
"Eyes to see and ears to hear,
heart to feel but never fear,
roaming, ever roaming long,
throughout the land with harp and song,
until the golden thread–your Doom–
begin and end within our loom."
From out the cold and under deep,
from out the shadows of the Keep,
along the ways both smooth and hard,
three Sisters led a foundling bard,
until they stood on grassy hill,
beside a merry, flowing rill.
And there the lad with one last smile,
took his leave, began his mile.
And as the Sisters watched him go,
two wept; the Third just mumbled low:
"We've left too long–our work is slow."
68

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Red Heart of Night
Irene Livingston
Small black fears tap-tap on windows,
hungry bats. Bone-lonely walls
edge in closer. Forlorn ceiling
lowers as the darkness falls.
Children sleeping, clock tick-ticking.
Cupboard spreads itself apart,
tilts its handle down, alluring,
shows its warm red liquid heart.
She is weary of resisting.
Walls move forward, wanly shine,
push her slowly to the lustrous
ruby kisses of the wine.
Fluid ardor strokes her senses,
lubricates her frozen soul;
Still it fails to keep its promise:
sate her body, make her whole.
Now the drum of music pulses
in her breast, still uncaressed,
in her feet, still bound and danceless
throbbing with a joy repressed.
Streetlights hover near the windows,
stand obscenely peering in,
while the door falls slyly open
in a wide, salacious grin.
69

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Echoes
Irene Livingston
She sashays, cool and careless through my door,
throws off her backpack, sits, kicks off her shoes.
We talk of this and that. I let her choose.
Her hair’s a fountain, splashing curls galore.
I ask about her lover, sense some lies,
as nimble words go flitting, skirting all
the thorny topics, till they stumble, fall
on sore points. “I’m so furious!” she cries.
For life is shoving her against rough walls.
I hear, from hollow houses of the past,
a distant howl as childhood springs at last
and echoes in her throat. All pretense falls.
The years, a heavy habit, drop away;
face crumples, anguish flooding over pain–
shaped eyes. Contorted mouth cannot contain
hard-cornered, bitter words that rage and flay.
I reach out to her grief and hold her head
in shielding hands; I kiss her face and knead
child-shoulders, murmur mother-words, I feed
her tidbits of advice, like warm new bread
spread gently with compassion ’s butter knife.
Bowlfuls of comfort, cups of care, tea-hot.
My loving spoonfuls warm her but cannot
restrain or glove the callused fist of life.
70

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Guilty Plea
Aaron Wilkinson
I stand before you, humbled and dismayed,
The only counsel in my own defense,
Confessing sins that have not yet been named
And hope that in the telling one repents.
For starters let me say I’ve killed a man,
An evil monster, shot him in the head.
I wrapped him up and stuffed him in a van
Then slit his throat, ensuring he was dead.
He didn’t twitch and neither, friends, did I.
I knew I hadn’t made the least mistake.
We drove a while, I got a little high,
Then late that night I sunk him in a lake.
He floated for a minute, more or less,
Before the water took his empty shell.
I watched him sink without a hint of stress,
Imagining that he was bound for Hell.
Without a wit or wisdom scum attempt
To make the world as they would have it be;
A free-for-all of icy cold contempt
Degraded past a state of anarchy.
The wicked man I slew was one of such.
I don’t believe he even had a soul.
Perhaps I should have let him past my guard,
Instead, I sinned and lost my self control.
You miscreants, beware! You’re down by one,
Unless I’m counted in amongst your ranks.
I traded in my reason for a gun,
And, just to let the record show it, thanks.
71

New Classic Poems
The Dark Side
Crazy
Aaron Wilkinson
Am I a crazy man
There’s some might say it’s so.
I’ve never been a fan
Of those who think they know
What’s really going down
Behind the social show.
I’d shtick and play the clown,
To stay the angry blow
Delivered in the dark
Behind a warning frown
Despite “Algonquin Park,”
No matter where we’d go.
At times I’d want to run
Away for good and narc.
My youth was roughly won,
No pomp and bunting lark.
They went and missed the mark.
I went and bought a gun
To shoot inside ‘cause, Hark!
Thy first anointed son
Was greased upon his crown
To never bite but bark
And thought that skipping town
To head up North and shark
Would go against the flow
Enough as not to drown
In misery and show
His eyes were never brown.
My yes is often no.
I turned away and ran.
It’s dark behind the glow.
Am I a crazy man
72

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
73

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
Winter Reflections
Peggy Fletcher
Beneath blue sun-filled skies, tall white forms gleam
Bright beads of ice give way to watery hues
Loud winter sounds of ax and church bells ring
Creating time warp, bending years in two.
Those snowmen that we built in earlier days
Now stand in dreamy silence in my mind
Huge friendly figures, scarves and hats, wind-swayed
Brought laughter to young hearts, let pain subside.
And though shared moments fade, this pure escape
To childhood's frame of mind we gladly flee
Though games are brief, and good times melt away
The sharing warmed our words, left memories
That somewhere in the future, snow-folk wait
To fill cold worlds with joy, let dreams take shape.
74

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
Incident at Stirling Castle
(September 1842)
Wiley Clements
MacKim an I stuid furth that day,
in tairtan bleck an green;
the Bleckwatch baund begaud tae play
God Sauf oor Gracious Quean.
Victoria rade throu the yett,
a gret lord by her side.
"Which heroes do we decorate"
she askit, an he replied
wi a hauty glence at me an MacKim,
"Your Highness, these are they."
"How odd a phrase," she says tae him,
"Whose English is it, pray"
"Madam, it's Your Majesty's'."
"Not ours, my lord. We'd say
not 'these are they,' but they are these
we honour as best we may.
Let each be made a captain, please,
and paid a captain's pay."
Sae lown a quean, sae strang a wit,
the strangest o thaim aw;
MacKim an I wad ser her yit
gin muntains aw doun faw.
Scots Terms:
(in order of appearance in the poem)
stuid=stood
furth=forth
tairtan=tartan
baund=band
begaud=began
tae=to
sauf=save
oor=our
quean=young woman or girl (a sort
of pun on queen)
rade=rode
yett=gate
askit=asked
wi=with
glence=glance
sae=so
lown=calm, serene
strang, strangest=strong, strongest
wit=wisdom
thaim=them
aw=all
wad=would
ser=serve
yit=yet
gin=if, even if
muntains=mountains
doun=down
faw=fall
75

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
The Mile of Gold
Neil Harding McAlister
My wife and I came to this northern town
As Displaced Persons after World War Two.
Our country had been wrecked, our dreams shot down.
We turned our backs on everything we knew.
So beautiful was Anna! I, her man,
Was tall and strong, and proud that she loved me.
This new land would fulfill young lovers’ plans
For us and for our children yet to be.
In rocks of Kirkland Lake we drilled deep roots.
I got a good job working in a mine
Where dank and gloomy labyrinths we’d loot
To prize out all the gold that we could find.
And fate we cheated in a hundred ways
As rock bursts, floods and cave-ins we survived.
To see a sunset after sunless days
Had taught us what it meant to be alive.
Cold evenings at the hockey rink we’d spend
In bloody combat underneath the stars;
But we were always buddies once again
When, laughing, we would head back to the bars.
The main street shops had all the latest styles,
And every kind of luxury they sold.
On weekends folks would drive a hundred miles
To do their shopping on the Mile of Gold.
One time I damned near beat a man to death
Who looked upon my wife with lustful eyes.
A man must fight for what he loves the best,
And who would steal it from him, he’ll despise.
Then cancer took my Anna in her prime.
No other woman ever filled her place.
I carried on alone. From time to time,
I still imagine I can see her face.
When he had finished school, our son left home
To look for work in offices down south.
He found a better life than I have known –
A cushy job, a boat, a fancy house.
So one by one, the children left this place
To seek their fortunes where they could be found;
As years went by, there scarce remained a trace
Of fortunes that once lay beneath the ground.
76

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
The mines that gave us work when I was young
Played out and stood abandoned many years.
The riches that so dearly we had won
Had dwindled, and the jobs had disappeared.
Now dozens of our businesses have shut.
So many empty buildings can’t be sold,
When every second store front’s boarded up
Like broken teeth along the Mile of Gold.
A mining town can’t win, the big-shots say:
It’s boom and bust, not real prosperity.
Diversity will bring us better days –
A miracle I shall not live to see.
Cold water trickles off the granite knolls
Where ice is melting. Winter’s fading fast.
But cigarettes and rock dust took their toll:
The doctors fear this Spring may be my last.
I’ll die as I have lived in this small town.
I look ahead untroubled much by doubt.
A hard rock miner can’t be beaten down –
It’s Death alone who’ll finally knock me out.
And when he comes, I’ll shake the Reaper’s hand
With few regrets, now that I have grown old,
Content that as a youth I made my stand
In this tough town, when streets were paved with gold.
Warriors Dance
Chrissy K. McVay
Trails among the Navaho
riding sunset's dawn
Whisper tales of wounded souls
blessed by spirit songs
Bronzed by bitter winds of time
kneeling to dark guns
Is it beast or burden now,
fighting tortured sons
Empty dreams of buffalo
legends, lost by man
Holding fear through bloodied tears
strangers to wild lands.
77

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
The Odeon
Neil Harding McAlister
They say The Odeon went bust –
That graveyard of desire! –
Where unrequited teenage lust
Produced more smoke than fire.
Old movies blurred into the haze
Of all we’ve done and seen.
The remnants of our salad days
Reluctantly we packed away
In trunks of might-have-beens.
Now, half a lifetime later, greet
The friends whom once we’d known;
And in their ageing faces meet
Reflections of our own.
Now at long last we can set down
Worn baggage we have carried.
When we return to our home town,
It’s friendly handshakes all around
As someone’s Mom is buried.
Somewhere between the smiles and tears
A childhood gets misplaced:
The landmarks of our younger years,
Torn down without a trace.
Nostalgic hearts seek what is gone,
Reality explains.
She gently chides, the curtain’s drawn;
The show is over. Run along.
You can’t go home again.
Dragon Days
Angela Burns
In dragon days, on nightmare flights
They soared in hard-scaled, slit-eyed might
O'er lands of myth they burned their way
Yet only tales remain today
But now reports show brimstone breaths
Where plated forms shoot fiery deaths
Dark feral things patrol the skies
... Seems dragon days have been revived.
78

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
Toledo Cathedral
Neil Harding McAlister
Back in the New World outdated, old rubbish
Ends up on tables where “antiques” are sold.
Here in the gloom of Toledo’s cathedral,
We gaze on statues six hundred years old.
If they could have spoken, what would they have told
Humbling to think that Spain’s powerful monarchs
Trod these same flagstones in centuries past.
Costumed in elegant robes and rich jewels,
Down through the ages long shadows they cast.
For good or ill did their legacies last
Making a living from long faded glory,
Merchants in town hawk from souvenir stands.
One of these items must be to your liking –
Maybe a sword that was made in Japan
A full suit of armor would look truly grand!
Out in the plaza, admire modern fashion:
Girls wear hip-hugging jeans cut down to there,
Meant to entrance all the young caballeros –
Not three old tourists with thinning, gray hair.
Out of politeness we try not to stare.
Gone are the days when a pert señorita
Stirred thoughts of love in these middle-aged men.
Hard to believe that the years flew so quickly!
Times of our carefree youth won't come again;
But for this week we’re still three footloose friends.
In the café we remember the old times –
Keep them alive so the memories won’t pale!
Rest your sore feet while the world hurries past us,
Quaff your cervesa and tell us your tale,
Measured with shots of espresso and ale!
Don’t you recall when the world was a theme park,
Made for a young man’s amusement alone
Nowadays we aren’t such arrogant visitors,
Knowing we’re guests in these good people’s home.
They have agendas and lives of their own.
In a few days we’ll be boarding an airplane
Bound to where wives, kids and offices call,
Grateful once more to embrace the familiar,
‘Til we embark for adventures next fall.
Sublime and ridiculous, we’ve seen it all!
79

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
The Loon:
Eric Linden
How the Loon got His Spots
Back when the world was still quiet and peaceful,
Tesuniah, the brave one, walked over the land.
His lodge, on the shore of the shining, big water
Was simple and cozy, yet notably grand.
Tesuniah and family would fish and go hunting
And often they’d venture on trips to explore
The deep, scented forests of pines and tall cedars
That grew on the mountains and hills by their door.
The moons came and went and the seasons all followed
From one to another as time passed on by.
One day came great sadness – the wife of Tesuniah
Had joined with the spirits and gone to the sky.
Tesuniah was broken, he grieved and lamented;
He mourned for his wife who had left him alone.
Her last precious gift – white pearls on fine deerskin –
He cherished it dearly, so beautifully sown.
One night when the silence hung over the mountains
And starlight was twinkling, he sat woefully
By the edge of the lakeshore – the dark shimmering water
Resounded the call of the loon, mournfully.
The loon was as black as a night without moonlight.
Tesuniah spoke asking, “What makes you so sad”
They talked through the darkness, each telling his story,
And when the dawn joined them, Tesuniah was glad.
He knew what he needed to do at that moment;
He knew that the pearls were a gift for the loon.
He tossed him the band, but they broke on his feathers
To roll on his back and forever lie strewn.
80

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
Weaving
Angela Burns
My shuttle flies, my heartbeat knows
The weight of warp and weft is light
I weave from dawn 'till daylight goes
Then dream in hurried nights
My shuttle slows, I savor days
When warp and weft are rainbow-hued
And dreams discarded on the way
With new hope are imbued
My shuttle drags, the years past grow
What dreams I had are woven tight
Then twilight darkens, weaving slows
The last row waits just out of sight
Lighthouse Lament
Angela Burns
Secluded rocks in treacherous straits
Wind-blasted, sun-baked, rain-cleaned
Stalwart, strong, in calm they wait
Always vigilant, serene
Kissed by dawn, sunset-blessed
In dark of night their shining eyes
Are welcome as a dear caress
A light of hope that never dies
Friend of seabirds, hearths of stone
Beacon for what flies or sails
Where hearts of gold stand watch alone
Saviors brave in desperate tales
So many gone, their watches lost
For money-saving was the goal
But when a boat is tempest-tossed
Can automatics save a soul
Oh yes, that tower still shines bright
To break the black or pierce the storm
But now it's just a flashing light
Cold – for heart and soul are gone.
81

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
A Six Pack of Sonnets
Aaron Wilkinson
I
Remember back when, being young, you dreamed
Of growing up. No rules, no school, no sweat.
Then time went by the by and you’d forget
The play you made with smiles that brightly beamed
From faces bronzed beyond belief. It seemed
That only getting older ever set
You free. Now grown, and forty grand in debt,
The scarcity of Joy, where once it teemed
Unchecked across your face, is called “the norm.”
You’re old enough to reminisce and know
That summer holidays were luxury
And someone else’s wage once kept you warm.
A lesson learned by everyone If so,
Perhaps it means there’s something wrong with me.
II
At seventeen my life was figured out.
I’d get from out my mother’s watchful eye
(Immortal Youth forbade her son should die
Beneath her yoke) and write. Success without
A moment’s thought to polishing or doubt
That publishers would flock to me and buy
The rhymes thrown off my tongue to fly
Into their files while managing the rout
Of charlatans dismayed. The truer skill
Was mine. I’d take the world by storm and prove
This former Mormon boy need only choose
To leave his father’s God and drink his fill
Of liquid bliss to find the righteous groove.
Now all that’s left is nothing left to lose.
III
A muse can feed a mind with rhyme and song
But flesh is fed with meat and bread. Dismayed
That I might waste my gift by being paid
For common work it seemed there’d be no wrong
In crawling home to Mom where I belong;
The kid who only dreamed of getting laid,
Who thought he knew it all and had it made,
Who never hit the books before the bong.
I want to be a school-aged boy again
And realize that life is played for keeps.
Then maybe I could learn the rules I missed
For counting out a meter with my pen
And pay attention like the other sheep
Instead of wasting time and getting pissed.
82

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
IV
Then what about that night I gulped my crutch
And, shoeless, hobbled home, too drunken blind
To need to see Collisions in my mind
Ignored the pain from obstacles and such.
The alcohol had put me into touch
With tripping rhythm, leading me to find
My inspiration vomited behind
A helpless tree. It hurt me more than much.
Thus emptied out of bile and scores of shots
I felt compelled to piss advice in snow
That steamed the wintry air. I breathed it in
And staggered on with clearer thoughts
For yellow words: “Whichever way you go
Remember where epiphanies begin.”
V
The frozen track that guided me that night
Has led me close to being overawed.
I wasn’t spoiled for being spared the rod
But try forgiving those their need to smite,
Admitting grief instead of making light
Of loved ones lying low beneath the sod.
I’ve faced my demons (still denying God),
Acknowledged wrongs and tried to make them right.
I still wear scars from then upon my feet
As evidence of my humility.
I’ve learned a harder lesson, I would say,
Than most of you should ever have to meet.
At times I dream I’ve found tranquility.
That peed advice rings truer every day.
VI
The child I was would never recognize
The man I am, unless he heard my name.
But then again our eyes would be the same,
A truer blue than brilliant summer skies.
I’d wonder what small part of him belies
Assumption anyone could hope to tame
His poet’s heart. It can’t be right to blame
A wilder child like him not being wise.
Does wisdom come with age To some extent.
I’ve learned to quickly rise if I should fall,
To bend my will to force before it breaks,
And (short of being shod in wet cement)
Rely upon myself when troubles call.
The lessons learned from all my life’s mistakes.
83

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
The Ballad of Trapper McGrew
Mary McIntosh
The night it was dark, the moon did not shine.
The winter wind howled through the trees.
He groped through the storm to the light just ahead.
His breath came in gasps, then did freeze.
His clothes were the garb of a man from the north.
In the cold winter days he'd lived long.
His boots showed the scuff, of days that were rough.
His notched gun showed those he'd done wrong.
With one burst of strength, he pulled open the door
To the Fur Trap Saloon, for a brew,
Some warmth, and a bed, a song of good cheer,
And maybe old Trapper McGrew.
McGrew's face turned white as he put down his drink
And slowly he turned from the bar.
For there stood the man who had hated him most –
The man known as Jonathan Starr.
The man at the player-piano did stare,
And the barmaid stood still on the floor.
The bartender shouted, "Get out of here now,
Or I'll bust you right out of that door!"
The man known as Starr strolled quietly on,
And stood himself tall at the bar.
"Hey, barmaid!" he yelled, "bring me two beers.
Bring them quickly to Jonathan Starr!"
As Trapper was silently staring ahead,
He saw his sweet Lila Germain.
She walked toward Starr, with a frown on her face,
And said, "Do you have to remain"
Starr turned on his heels, with a look of surprise,
As Lila stood quietly there.
"Get out of my sight!" he yelled right in her face,
"You with the long flowing hair!"
Now Trapper did walk, while Starr still did talk.
He knew it had gone much too far.
He pulled on his beard, for what he most feared
Was fighting off Jonathan Starr.
Starr pulled out his gun, as Trapper did too.
'Twas time now to settle the score.
Shots sounded out loud, as they fired in the crowd,
And one of them fell to the floor.
84

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
When all of the smoke had settled around,
The bartender shouted, "I knew!"
For there on the floor, right next to the door,
Was the body of Trapper McGrew.
'Tis told now and then by some trappers up north,
When the wind howls down through the trees,
When snowdrifts are high, and dark is the sky,
And the temperature drops by degrees
That the ghost of old Trapper returns now and then
To seek Lila and Starr - those he knew.
Strange noises those nights, on the nights there are fights,
But it's only old Trapper McGrew.
In This Court
Vincent W. Williams
In this court, with mind entrammeled,
That his soul may work its will–
harb'ring wondrous wingéd lispings
whispered on the lips of skill–
Actor's dances speak their capers
in such accents dark and sweet!
Murder's Madness melts with Music
humming strains of Love's conceit.
Captured in this court of conjure,
Where his masque must rhyme his verse,
strides the maniac incarnate
doomed by Thespis' ancient curse.
Roaring now, or then in shadows
cast by mute Illusion's mime:
Actors fancy some immortal
trick is worked on mortal time.
In this court, behold magicians,
Priests of histrionic cant,
Hypnotists and mad musicians
hymning dithyrambic chant–
Transferred souls that pine and pant.
85

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
Snow Flakes
Anne Maarit Ghan
Swirling snow flakes
by my window
beckon me to join their dance:
"Drop the nonsense
of your hurries!
Come embrace this blessed chance!
"Come remember
all the secrets
you discovered as a child
"Traipsing through the
woods of wonder
on adventures strange and wild."
Life seems weary,
almost pointless,
if we're stuck within a mold;
Marching in an
endless rut and
doing things that we are told.
Come let's flee to
shrouded hillsides.
Let's make angels in the snow!
With our mouths we'll
catch some snow flakes,
smiling with our hearts aglow.
Book of Life
Anne Maarit Ghan
O, mortal man, please realize
each moment of the day
you are an author in disguise.
Don't write your life away.
The plot is mostly up to you–
this you must comprehend.
Your character has much to do,
so please do not pretend.
It's wise to pause and then take stock
of chapters of the past.
Be mindful of the ticking clock,
for time does travel fast.
Once in a while please take a look
if gracious poetry
is written in your precious book
or mournful tragedy.
You'd like to think it's destiny
that guides your pearly pen;
But you should know free agency
is granted to all men.
The cover of your book may be
all tattered and worn out,
but that is not what you should see
or really care about.
What matters are the contents of
your daily diary:
the underlying story of
your life's discovery.
Remember, then, when you awake
each morning, my dear friend,
the steps you take, each choice you make
all matter in the end.
86

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
The Voyage
Bob Stampe
When I was young I knew a man. He'd spent his life at sea.
Retired to dream of glories past, one day he said to me,
"I see you as a thoughtful lad. It's soon you'll be a man.
Will you be ready when you're called to be the best you can
"Some say life's but a voyage, and we each a sailing ship;
that fate controls our rudder as we cast off on our trip.
They say our destination is prescribed on life's passport,
and that our course is programmed in before we leave home port.
"They're wrong my boy, what's more they're fools, if that's their strategy.
We must stay in control of craft, or lose our ship at sea.
Why do our vessels have a wheel, if not to demonstrate
that we must guide it to that place where destiny awaits
"We know not what awaits us as we clear the harbor wall.
If we are keen and vigilant, the worst we can forestall.
Although our mast is tall and strong; our rigging stretched and tight,
we must be steady at the helm, our vision kept in sight.
"There will be little warning when the storm surrounds your ship;
the tumult that we all must face at some point on our trip.
You'll waver, doubt, and question, as the tempest takes control,
your ship careening wildly to the rocks of nearing shoal.
"It's then you must look deep within to lessons you've been taught.
If you're to stay on kismet's path, to falter you cannot.
With skill and strength of heart you must take hold of spinning wheel,
and take command to bring your vessel back on even keel.
"If you are going to make it to your destiny's home port,
you need to be determined to provide your ship support.
With God to guide you, you must be the rudder of your fate,
And if you're strong and steady, you'll arrive at fortune's gate."
87

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
The Plot
Bob Stampe
I've come to notice lately that around me things have changed.
I'm not sure when it happened, but I find it very strange
that every time I take a walk, it's uphill all the way,
and seems to be much farther than it was just yesterday.
They're building stairways steeper now than those they used to build.
My groceries seem much heavier, though bags are but half-filled.
And someone's hiding things of mine. They're always going astray.
Then strangely they show up again, within one or two days.
Why am I always stiff and sore This thing I can't explain.
Perhaps the kinds of food I eat are causing me this pain
Or maybe it's the water, full of chemicals and stuff
I'm taking twenty pills a day. Maybe that's not enough
You know the collar labels that are sewn inside our shirts
Well, mine now all read size eighteen. The truth of it sure hurts.
A fifteen would still fit my neck, however I must face
the fact that it would never fit around my bulging waist.
I've always been a stubborn sort. I don't always conform,
but now I'm more congenial, or so I am informed.
Not true. My nodding head is not a sign that I agree.
My glasses have five lenses, and I'm scanning just to see.
Why do some people drive so fast You know just yesterday,
I looked into my rear view mirror as I joined the freeway.
With honking horns, and screeching brakes, cars swerved to change their lanes.
You're risking life and limb these days. The world has gone insane.
Seems bathroom scales are being made with much less quality.
I don't believe the number on the dial that I see.
I'd call the factory if I could, and tell them what I think,
but I can't read the phone book with its tiny printed ink.
Most people seem much younger than I was when at their age.
I'm sure that I was more mature when I was at that stage.
Yet, friends of mine who've always been the same age as I am,
seem older now, and frailer; some no longer give a damn.
I saw an old friend just last week. She'd aged, her pallor grey.
She did not recognize me, and she looked the other way.
This morning as I washed my face, the mirror looked back at me.
Seems mirrors are not being made the way they used to be.
I think I know what's happening. I've got it figured out.
There's not too much that I can do. Of that I have no doubt.
Long life has schemed against me; a conspiracy; a plot.
It beats the other option though, so I don't want it stopped.
88

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
She Rocks Away
Irene Livingston
Miranda Jane is just the cutest thing.
Her Mamma sets her in her cradle-bed.
She rocks away and even tries to sing.
She’s now a lovely teen, no more to cling
To Daddy; she’s a wild one, it is said.
Miranda Jane is just the cutest thing.
The boys go dancing just to watch her swing
Her perfect body, toss her pretty head.
She rocks away and even tries to sing.
At last Miranda finds a job. Ka-ching!
She dances and she strips to earn her bread.
Miranda Jane is just the cutest thing.
She doesn’t hear the final curtain ring.
As years go by and heavy is her tread.
She rocks away and even tries to sing.
Tonight the nurse comes fondly in to bring
her cup of cocoa with her evening med.
Miranda Jane is just the cutest thing.
She rocks away and even tries to sing.
Old and New
Angela Burns
Where do myths and legends go,
When no one hears their tales
What lessons, truths will ne'er be told
Because our interest fails
What newer dreams will spring from old
What seeds be sown again
What tales of wonder will unfold
What memories remain
89

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
Playing Poet
Aaron Wilkinson
When I was born my only play
Were games my parents knew.
They entertained my early days
With Bounce and Peek-a-boo.
When Cradle games became too tame
Experience converged,
Imagination lent a hand,
A wilder child emerged.
Between a panicked throng of folk
And certain, utter doom
I vanquished scores of teddy bears
From safe within my room.
A cane became my trusty sword
Of keen enchanted blade
And I a knight of true renown
Who enemies dismayed.
The broom became my charger bold,
A true and noble steed,
To carry me to Antioch
And slay the Pagan seed.
My mother didn’t understand
What all the screaming meant.
She took my gear away from me
And left me to repent.
And thus bereft of cane and broom
For lack of some restraint
I took my hellish punishment
Without the least complaint.
I’d carry on the grand crusade
With pen and paper next
And vowed to play the cloistered monk
Illuminating text.
The end result was passing fair,
Or so it seemed to me.
In fact I still recall the lines
That passed for poetry:
“I may be here forever more
Forgotten, shut away,
But now, at least, I’ve learned enough
To silence when I play.”
90

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
And ever since those words composed
My first attempt to sin
The games are more elaborate
And I, most always, win.
The Bagpipe Maker
D. L. Grothaus
In a tiny shop at the alley door, amidst the shadows deep,
A craftsman works a magic spell, a history to repeat.
With darkened wood and elephant tooth and skin and reed and twine,
He carves and turns and binds and sews, with stitches strong and fine.
Each drone is turned and combed and smoothed, and checked for proper height.
The chanter carved of finest wood, and trimmed with silver, bright.
When all is done, the pipes are one, but one task left, is all.
He places in the bagpipe's heart, a piece of his own soul.
When the pipes then call, to a widow's heart, the tears give rise, then fall.
When the pipes give call, to the clansmen swords, with honor, they give all.
When the pipes give wail, at their maker's pall, his breath has rattled last.
His soul still lives in the piper's call, alive, and safe, and fast.
91

New Classic Poems
Then and Now
Letter to Ezra Pound (1959)
Wiley Clements
Dear Mr. Pound, I write
to say that I regret
I missed the chance you granted me
last year in Washington, D.C
I wish we'd met.
Yet I can truly say
I could not fathom why
the note I sent, although naïve
and importuning, should receive
so strange reply.
I wrote to you in fall:
you answered in the winter,
an envelope addressed to me
in your own hand, presumably,
but in it—no letter.
I saved it, souvenir
of you and your condition.
Months after, peering down inside
I saw what you had meant to hide:
this cramped inscription:
Next Saturday at 2pm—
They read my mail, you know.
But now I have a family,
and you are free in Italy
where I cannot afford to go.
92

New Classic Poems
People and Places
93

New Classic Poems
People and Places
The Gift
Peter G. Gilchrist
He shuffled through the dust on blistered feet
towards a stand of trees that seemed to drift
on endless waves of suffocating heat.
Each painful step he took was one more gift.
A salty crust patrolled the lines that mapped
his leathered neck and rimmed his bloodshot eyes.
An old hyena stopped to watch and snapped
the air behind him. Vultures filled the skies.
He hobbled on. In prison he had learned
that pain is just a fragile state of mind,
but every night his troubled dreams returned:
the maggots gorged on friends he’d left behind.
His only crime was one of faith. He taught
what he had learned: that men should live without
a master’s chains. The ruling class did not
condone that view. Their soldiers sought him out.
The beatings were routine. His ribs were cracked
so many times that pain became a friend,
a sharp, familiar stabbing pain that wracked
his wasting frame and never seemed to end.
His fellow inmates died in swollen mounds
of abject misery. He knew he’d meet
an equal fate. He sensed the coursing hounds
of Death pursuing him on padded feet.
And so he fled. One night when darkness swept
across the veld and clouds blocked out the light
he climbed the prison wall and slowly crept
beneath the waiting camouflage of night.
For months he traveled trails and dried-up streams
that led him south, towards Caprivi Strip.
Each crimson sunset bled from anguished screams
of Africa and stained her battered lip.
He crossed the Okavango after dawn
and walked towards a brilliant golden hand
that reached for him with every ray it shone.
A welcome spread across the glowing land.
He dared to dream of freedom now, and ached
to hear his children chase each other ‘round
the yard outside his home where sunlight baked
the grass that struggled through the trampled ground.
94

New Classic Poems
People and Places
He longed for Flora’s touch each time he slept
to soft cicada symphonies that filled
each lonely night. He prayed, and sometimes wept
in gratitude; the baying hounds were stilled.
By custom, most Umbundu men will break
the ground for garden plots. Their wives will then
maintain the crops. The fathers also make
a plot to give each child who reaches ten.
He wasn’t there to break the ground this year.
His hoe lay idle in the shade beneath
a baobab. A solitary tear
dropped gently into dust and formed a wreath.
A thousand miles, and maybe more, he walked
on feet that bled with every step. His face
was chapped and badly cracked. His mouth was chalked.
He hobbled slowly on in God’s embrace.
One heavy afternoon he saw a mist
ascend above a tall mopane tree.
He knelt and prayed. The smoke that thunders* kissed
the Rev’rend John Kapuka. He was free.
A painting hung within our home, of two
apostles at the tomb of Christ. ‘Though John
was first, it wasn’t he but Peter who
went in to find that Christ’s remains were gone.
In Dondi, Grandpa Sid received a note:
“Remember well the picture on our wall,
the first to come is here”, my father wrote,
and Flora wept when Grandpa came to call.
The months that followed must have dragged for John,
although he never let it show. He found
what work he could, and shortly after dawn
one day I watched him start to break some ground.
He danced across the soil. Each rhythmic swing
his borrowed hoe inscribed implied a hand
above an ochre drum. I heard him sing.
His words of thanks poured out across the land.
His friends had found a way to get his wife
and children out and ‘though he had to wait,
he knew they’d come. A vastly better life
awaited them. He danced to celebrate.
On Christmas Day, when church was done and all
the toys and gifts lay strewn across the floor,
our new adopted uncle came to call.
He stood and smiled and waited at our door.
95

New Classic Poems
People and Places
“I have a gift for each of you.” He said.
His empty hand stretched out to point the way,
and five excited children cheered. He led
our greedy throng to where the presents lay.
A hectare, more or less, of garden spread
in five symmetric plots that greened the land.
I understood. I leaned my tousled head
on Uncle John and gripped his calloused hand.
________________________________
* Mosi-oa-Tunya – “The smoke that thunders” – Victoria Falls
The Thinker
Jonathan Day
The Thinker – he who navigates
The seas that lie 'twixt What and Why
Knows often, in those trackless straits
To pause and look up at the sky.
The Gardener
Jonathan Day
To grow the Garden of the Mind
Requires, for green growth through the years,
A Gardener of a certain kind,
Who cultivates the volunteers.
96

New Classic Poems
People and Places
In the Ruins of Chichen Itza
Neil Harding McAlister
In the Mayas’ holy city
Tourists gawk at silent stones,
While a guide who’s bright and witty
Lectures in irreverent tones.
Shout! and hear the fading echoes
Ricochet off barren walls,
Now the home of sunning geckos
Living in these empty halls.
Children scale the sacred pyramid,
Scrambling up in playful glee,
Just as ancient kings and priests did
With profound solemnity.
Down those stairs the lives of victims
Drained in streams of pain and blood,
Driven by religion’s dictums,
Flowing in a crimson flood.
Carvings in this place of sadness
Tell of cruel depravity,
Founded in horrific madness,
Meted out with savagery.
Who could think that skulls of neighbors,
Caught for obscene sacrifice,
Could induce the gods’ good favors
In a holy edifice
Who could throw a trembling maiden
Down into a well to die,
With gold jewelry heavy laden,
Grace from wrathful gods to buy
Priests and scholars, kings and warriors
In these precincts so accursed,
Far from being mankind’s saviors,
Made men bow to what is worst.
Serving wicked superstition
Labored skilful engineers.
Their work came to what fruition
Nothing more than death and tears.
Break off from the tour guide’s chatter.
Contemplate this vista bleak.
Undistracted by his patter,
You can hear the mute stones speak,
97

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Whispering an age-old story:
Evil works must all decay.
Every tyrant’s pride and glory
Shall in ruins rot away.
Jungle vines shall twine together
Over towers and ramparts tall.
Blasted by the rain and weather,
Monuments erode and fall.
Who shall then fear priest or master
When the temple’s overthrown,
Leaving only mocking laughter
Echoing on crumbling stone
Passage to Point Barrow
Wiley Clements
Four cargo vessels plowing furrows forward
thru Bering swells serene as polished glass,
a pair of blowing whales appears to nor’ward
between the Diomedes and Seward plying.
The captains close at half-speed, not to pass
but make them sound, to see their great flukes flying.
As pride will suffer no leviathan
to sport with little men at their behest,
they sink, enormous, soundless, darker than
the continents that loom to east and west.
98

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Here Up North
Neil Harding McAlister
Here up north the air is cleaner.
Autumn wind blows cold and clear,
Making all the senses keener
As the waning days grow leaner,
And long winter nights draw near.
Here the moon is always bigger.
With rare beauty she’s endowed,
Cutting a majestic figure;
Sailing on, with grace and vigor,
Through the shoals of scudding cloud.
Here up north the magic’s stronger.
In the sky the Northern Lights
Glow in phosphorescent wonder.
Awesome spectacles they conjure,
Moving, dancing in the night.
Here up north the Spring’s more urgent;
Life explodes with pent-up might:
All the forms of life divergent,
Birds returning, flowers resurgent,
With the coming of the light.
Here the evenings last much longer
When the summertime has come.
Day by day the light grows stronger.
On the tundra, great herds wander,
Guided by the midnight sun.
Here up north the lines are sharper.
Icebergs pierce the azure skies.
Light’s more dazzling, shadows darker,
Choices clearer, contrasts starker.
Open vistas hide no lies.
Keep your crowded, southern highways
Where cars scuttle back and forth.
We prefer the unmarked byways
Underneath our clear, blue skyways,
Drinking deep from Nature’s source.
Life is better, here up north!
99

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Jerusalem Engines
Michael Pollick
The city walls pulse with the knowledge of soldiers' fears,
I have no hint of weaponry: nay, not one;
The torch lights swagger with the threat of daughters' tears,
I have no sense of history: nay, not one.
She appears to me with the promise of sweeter days to come,
I have no time for leniency: nay, not now;
She comforts me with the dulcimer, the psaltery, the drum;
I have no room for sympathy: nay, not now.
Death is now my brother, and my brother calls me out by name,
I no longer have a soul to speak of: nay, not one;
Men will lay in linen by my hand, their eyes will speak my shame,
I no longer have a land to return for: nay, not one.
She returns to me with the solace of unbroken dreams to be,
I have no fear of redemption: nay, not now;
She anoints me with her oils, she soothes me with her mystery,
I have no cause to lose her love: nay, not now.
We built engines in Jerusalem to darken our fallen land–
In my house, it shall be said, love dared to show its hand.
Urim and Thummin
Michael Pollick
Your tattooed stigmata are showing, my dear–
That spot of willful blood lies dormant;
While greedy hosts of Angels draw illicit lots,
And seek redemption in performance.
I may cast off now into more uncertain seas,
Now that the winds have finished their shift;
I sing the shanty songs of unbroken sailors,
Now that my heart is allowed to drift.
You have no hold on me, my tortured mercury dancer,
Now that our final sails have failed us;
For if Fate were a captain, and we were the sea–
The poor Bloke should never have sailed us.
100

New Classic Poems
People and Places
The Ballad of Muktuk Annie
Eric Linden
There‘s many a tale of the Great White North
And you thought you’d heard them all,
But there’s one more story that needs to be told,
And it isn’t a barroom brawl.
It’s of Muktuk Annie who owned that joint –
She’d headline the show now and then,
With those ptarmigan feathers on her behind
She danced like an Arctic hen!
‘Way back in the days when she was young
And headed for Montreal,
The government sent her to learn drivin’ truck
But Annie enjoyed a pub-crawl.
There weren’t many roads in Pangnurtung,
The prospect of getting some – small.
So drivin’ a truck Up in Pangnurtung
That didn’t make sense at all!
She really wanted to sing and dance –
Become a great opera star.
But drivin’ a truck – there wasn’t a chance…
Just look how she strums a guitar.
She packed up her things in a sealskin bag,
Her mittens and mukluk boots,
Then boarded a plane leavin’ Montreal
She headed back home to her roots.
At first she built an igloo up there
In Pangnurtung’s downtown core.
She called it “Big Annie’s Bar & Grill”,
Rejecting “The Musk Ox Matador”.
Her booze she ordered from Newfoundland,
That genuine homebrewed “Screech”,
And drummers came by from miles around,
As far as the word could reach.
On opening night the place was packed,
There wasn’t a seat to be had.
The floorshow began at 9 P. M.
Big Annie was driving them mad!
She took up the stage like an opera star,
Proceeded to take off her clothes,
Except for her ptarmigan feathered behind
And the seal flippers worn on her toes.
101

New Classic Poems
People and Places
She grunted and puffed across the whole stage,
All hundred and sixty five pounds.
At 5 foot 4 she wasn’t too tall,
Her pirouettes twirled round and round.
The people applauded in frantic rage,
Their yelling and screaming was loud –
They never had witnessed ballet like this,
Not one of them in that big crowd.
Pt 2
Like wildfires ravishing trees down south,
The word of Big Annie flew
Across the vast lands of the Great White North,
And her stature and fame simply grew.
So often you’d hear the call of the wolves
As they howled her name out loud –
It was “Annie, Big Annie,” in the still of the night
To the moon or a passing cloud.
Each inuksuk guarding ravines and draws
Heard the call and they passed it on;
Every hunter who traveled the barren lands
Knew Annie was Queen of the Dawn.
They came from the islands and far-flung bays,
They came from the ends of the world,
They came to witness how Annie danced –
How her ptarmigan feathers twirled.
One day when the ice still covered the bay
And the darkness was spread everywhere,
Still long before the sun would be back
To the land of the Arctic Hare,
Big Annie was closing the Bar and Grill
When a thought sauntered through her mind…
She decided to sell her famous place
And leave this town behind.
She placed a sign at the igloo door –
Which said that the place was “For Sale”.
In Pangnurtung the story spread –
You could say it was more like a wail…
From preacher man to the common man
The people were stunned – one and all!
They’d come to know ballet performed
By their very own Muktuk doll.
102

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Pt 3
It didn’t take more than a bat of an eye
Till “For Sale” was transformed to “For Sold.”
That final performance Big Annie would give
Will forever be rated as gold.
Her audience screamed at the top of their lungs
You’d swear crystal icicles cracked;
She strutted her ptarmigan feathered behind
And oh, how they loved her last act.
Next day, though, she gathered her outfits and rings,
Her seal flipper slippers and fins,
Those endless mementos so dear to her heart –
Stone carvings and ivory pins,
A walrus head trophy from Repulse Bay,
A narwhal tooth – rare and refined,
And several more treasures. For a moment she wept,
It was almost too much for her mind.
A west wind was blowing the morning she left
But it blew from the west every day.
In mukluks and mittens, a parka with hood
She was ready to get under way.
All Pangnurtung came; they waved long goodbyes
To the Muktuk, their Queen of the Dawn.
Like frozen inuksuks – immobile and numb
They watched till her light was long gone.
Her komatik held almost all she possessed
Wrapped snug and securely tied down.
Up front was a brand new Skidoo which she bought
From the snowmobile dealer in town.
Big Annie’s new goal lay in Frobisher Bay *
Where the lights twinkled shiny and bright.
Her mind was made up: it was politics now,
And she smiled at the thought of a fight.
* renamed to Iqaluit, now the capital of the Territory of Nunavut.
Author’s note: “Muktuk Annie” has been around the Arctic for many years, becoming folklore. Credit must be given to Ted
Wesley and Bob Ruzicka, singer and songwriter, upon whose song this epic is based.
103

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Sonnet No. 4
Tim DeMay
Call me a zealot for my strong beliefs,
I call you coward for your lack of one.
When from this earth our time it is to leave,
You’ll die with nothing deeper than vain “fun.”
Call me close-minded as I know what’s right,
I call you vapid for your lack of thought.
Indeed, some things are truly black and white,
Some issues can’t change into what you want.
Call me a fool for faith in the unseen,
I call you blind for missing blatant truth.
Things aren’t always exactly as they seem,
We don’t live life alone under this blue.
Call me brainwashed by hopes of love and peace,
I say it’s better than the wars we seek.
Pens and Poems
Gene Dixon
We are the souls who dance on fallow page;
Who hide behind dark droplets from a quill.
Attempting to fit ranting to the rage,
Manipulating ink quite as we will.
We balance paragraphs on thinnest sheet.
Some call us clever verbal acrobats
Who tightrope walk upon iambic feet
While wearing varied anapestic hats.
The thickened plot we ladle out like soup,
Ranging wide from mystery to mirth.
From moon to sun to moon, 'til eyelids droop,
We seek the fullest measure of word's worth.
For just reward we ask no more than this:
A coin, a laurel wreath, a lover's kiss.
104

New Classic Poems
People and Places
An Easterner Looks West
Neil Harding McAlister
The West is more than just a place.
It was a time, a frame of mind
In black and white; a state of grace
Where good and bad were well defined.
The spunky gals, the stalwart sons,
The Westerns on the silver screen,
The psychopaths who toted guns –
All icons of what once had been.
Vague legends of some bad guy’s crimes
Become an epic, moral tale
Of conflict back in simpler times,
Compared to which our lives look pale.
This theatre of the Old West
Speaks of a mythic day gone by
When heroes faced life’s toughest test
With steady nerve and steely eye.
The wild, wild West was soon constrained
By fences, laws and railroad lines
‘Til little of that world remained –
But for the past, the heart still pines.
In city canyons made of steel,
Our complex days are rushed and stressed.
We yearn for things more plain and real,
And dream of vistas ‘way out west
Where spires of red rock touch the sky,
Instead of towers of sterile glass;
Where open range beguiles the eye,
Not urban wastes where taxis pass.
And so we don blue jeans and boots,
And with our little ones in tow
Vamoose by lesser-traveled routes
To see some county rodeo.
And no one even thinks it’s strange
To emulate as best we can
The cowpokes who still work the range,
As if the clothes could make the man.
It seems we need our cowboy tales;
So we their image still embrace
While speeding down our asphalt trails.
The West is more than just a place.
105

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Addressing My Geography
Sam Samson
My skin is brown and leathered from your sun
that perches like a woman on the sand
in linen. And whenever I should stand
beside a Sir from Minsk, Toronto, London
I become the dusty cactus nigh a lake
or palm fronds slick in snow. I can not fight
your southern air that bleaches my hair white
as a serpent, white as February flake.
My Bible Belt, my candy store of Blues
of cotton, corn and swine, you color me
as if I was your canvas, languidly
lapping at the bottoms of my shoes.
From where do you think up such tawny creams
or rouges like a ripe, unopened peach
And does your paint brush dry off by the beach
of Carolina Lauderdale It seems
my nosiness your answers may alight.
If you're Van Gogh, am I a starry night
106

New Classic Poems
People and Places
The Other Side
Adrienne Kurtz
A lady of great beauty sits,
with pale slim hands she softly knits,
as knights of valor seek her hand
from desert plain across the land.
Light sigh escapes, “Oh, what I’d be,
if fate had laid no claim on me!”
A warm breeze teases jet black hair,
as visions form of all she’d dare.
With her charger, fight for right
make her rough camp for the night.
She’d frighten evil at its core
and live adventures ever more.
A woman of the sword stood by,
steel eyes observed how land did lie,
then yelling she went down the mount,
foul foe to add unto her count.
Sharp words pour forth, “Oh what I’d be,
if fate had laid no claim on me!”
A cold wind whips her jet black braid,
as visions form of plans she’d made.
To walk in peace through sun swept lands,
reap golden fields with work worn hands.
With family she’d make a life
away from fame and harsh war strife.
A farm maid stands to crack her back,
then bends once more to seed-filled sack.
At dusk she leaves the planted row,
sets dinner on, then starts to sew.
Soft whisper sounds, “ Oh what I’d be,
if fate had laid no claim on me!”
A draft caresses jet black strand
as visions form of all she’d planned.
With courtiers who sought her heart
she’d flirt and study; growing smart.
There’d be no work unless she pleased,
and knights would swear upon their knees.
The grass is always greener
on another’s lawn
as we can’t see what lies ahead
past the morning’s dawn.
107

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Thirsty
Wayne Leman
Yes, lead me to the water,
but please don't make me drink.
I need some time to check it out,
some time to feel and think.
And while we're at the water,
where I realize I thirst,
it would be a help to me
if I saw you drink first.
Friends of Solitude
Anya Corke
As bugle winds entice with songs of lore,
empyrean stars are shining down on me.
The restless shadows of an ancient shore
befriend the lonely, roaming wharves so free.
Few earthly bonds could ever be more dear
than laughing wavelets, crisping up the sands;
or calm, cold Dawn—so soft, so sweetly clear,
transforming pastel seas with golden hands.
Like supple silk, the soothing ocean rolls;
with whispers, I confide in healing Night;
the hillside murmurs solace to my soul;
a sage moon shares her gift of lambent light.
Elusive echoes peal; the silver horns
of elves who sound entrancing symphonies.
A goss’mer sunrise glistens, spun by fauns;
how wonderful are treasures such as these!
She brings us panoplies of purple sights,
this Nature who forever bursts anew
to paint each day with luminous delights
and nourishes with friendships staunch and true.
108

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Star Student
Brenda Tate
He’s always been distractible and loud,
a laugh’s-breadth from expulsion. He'll harass
with jokes and pokes to get attention, proud
of office calls. He never skips my class,
although he seldom concentrates. He twists,
pretends to study, skims but scarcely reads
his role in Superstar, while he insists
on opening the windows, whines and pleads
to be excused. “But, Miss, I have to pee!”
or later, “Geez, my robes are in the can,”
impenitent as Cain, a six-foot-three
tenth grader, terrified to act the man.
By June, he owns the stage – a costumed Christ
whom I forgive as he is sacrificed.
The Captain's Missing
smzang
Tonight the moon is high, the water’s calm
beneath the boat that nods beside the quay,
It waits the missing captain at the helm;
no place to go, no one to guide the way.
The wicker basket’s ripe with wine and cheese,
the green light’s glowing steady through the fog.
No stars tonight, the gods won’t be appeased,
Clouds crowd a worried sky with monologue.
Where is the helmsman that would steer this craft
Did he fall to plague – lose himself in song
or maybe 'questered deep amidst the chaff,
he failed to notice shadows growing long
A boat without a captain is mere shell
at risk with ev’ry passing ocean swell.
109

New Classic Poems
People and Places
Jingle Bells
Neil Harding McAlister
Holguin, Cuba, Dec. 2004
Back home the north wind howls and blizzards blow.
The temperature is seventeen below;
But here we’re safe from Old Man Winter’s reach.
While “Jingle Bells” floats on the tropic breeze,
Vacationers swill rum and take their ease
Relaxing on this sunny Cuban beach.
Incongruous, these songs of northern climes
That speak of other places, other times,
To visitors who come from far away.
No doubt they’re meant to make us feel at home –
Though old songs are the closest thing we’ve known
To riding “in a one horse open sleigh.”
The seaside’s not the place to act demure:
Large matrons with more cleavage than allure
Expose their bosoms, trying to catch some rays.
Their purpose here is not to trap a man.
They want to get at nice midwinter tan
To advertise their Christmas holidays.
But soon a rain squall makes us run indoors,
Wet flip-flops sliding on terrazzo floors.
The weather’s not so great, but do we care
They’ve got the longest bar you’ve ever seen,
Resplendent now with plastic evergreen,
Fake mistletoe and tinsel everywhere.
The sun peeks out once more, to our delight.
We rush back to the beach while it shines bright,
For no one can predict how long it stays.
Some newlyweds go strolling hand in hand,
And little tykes build castles in the sand
Beneath their doting parents’ watchful gaze.
The singles lounge in deck chairs by the pool,
Where young men flex their muscles, looking cool
And hoping to attract the roving eyes
Of women who are scantily attired,
In hopes their hearts with romance are inspired
By humid nights and stormy tropic skies.
A week soon passes, and we have to go
To face a driveway filled with drifting snow.
Yes, all good things must end, that much is clear.
We say goodbye to our new hotel friends:
Improbable we’ll ever meet again.
So Feliz Año – have a good New Year!
110

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
111

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
Plain Vanillanella
Neil Harding McAlister
A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa –
O wretched ice cream stand, so soon sold out! –
“The only thing that’s left is plain vanilla!”
Why can’t he keep in stock, that big gorilla,
The flavors that we cannot live without
A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa.
He cares for what we want not one scintilla,
And now we’re faced with this, a dreadful drought.
The only thing that’s left is plain vanilla.
Must we decamp to far-away Manila
To find the flavors we are mad about
A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa.
Alas and woe, ‘tis true, my dear Priscilla,
It matters not how you may cry and pout.
The only thing that’s left is plain vanilla.
The children rage as angry as Godzilla,
Perseverating as they whine and shout.
A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa,
“The only thing that’s left is plain vanilla!”
Snoggle Sonnet
Vincent W. Williams
Creation snoggles all my deeper think,
Associating this with sometimes that,
As vainly I explore each logic link
discovering the why of is and at.
How nincompoople mad I'd grow to be
if nothing ever led to something more,
Or if each item that my brain could see
were pompousness and puff and nothing for;
If when were seldom ever, not were is,
and nothing seen were all our eyes could view,
How deeply clear while in a whirling diz
would be my thoughts, and maybe I’d be you.
So, just be happy things is as they am,
And not the way they might be, honey lamb.
112

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
OP
TIC
AL DE
LUSIONS
Neil Harding McAlister, M.D.
When John was just a little guy
He was the apple of her eye –
Or so his Mommy, Iris, said
Before she tucked him into bed.
Instead of goofing with his buddies
This lad focused on his studies.
Ever the eccentric pupil,
Classmates’ efforts he’d quadruple.
In science class he proved so bright
That he began to study light
With such success that, on reflection,
This became his life’s direction.
Making an astute decision
This far-sighted man of vision
Set his sights on a degree
At the university.
Students at his college rumored
That he lacked a sense of humor.
He had no propensity
For jokes of high intensity.
While horny room-mates teased their dates
He played with diffraction grates.
A lonely spectacle he made,
But cum laude he passed his grades.
A graduate with cap and gown,
John hung his shingle in our town:
An earnest, young physician, he,
Who practiced ophthalmology.
Our learned friend, perceived to be
A man of high acuity,
Worked hard until he made his name.
A famed eye surgeon he became.
113

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
Patients from the globe around
Flocked to touch his very gown.
A noble Irish Lord, begorra!
Sought his cure for Gloccamora.
You think this tale is corny, huh
He’s now in California
Removing nasty cataracts
From moguls who drive Cadillacs.
All Hollywood knows who to call
When they start bumping into walls,
And pop stars strive with earnest hearts
To reach the bottom of his charts.
He’ll fix a starlet’s poor refraction
So she can act when she hears, “Action!”
Celebrities’ myopia
Has financed John’s Utopia.
Reflect, then, e’er ye dare deride
A bookish nerd who takes in stride
Short-sighted peers who laugh and scoff
Because the boy will not slack off.
Who knows what someday he may do
He might just operate on you!
To Mr. Blank, Poet of Pessimism
Wiley Clements
Though a poem may be satirical,
unlike Shelley's light and lyrical
lark that lifts the sunken spirit
up to heaven's gate or near it,
better a bit of bitter funning
than a dreary dirge devoid of cunning.
So if you must indulge this habit,
making verse the way a rabbit
fills a warren full of bunny,
try, at least, to make it funny.
114

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
If Only
Neil Harding McAlister
If only I could spend my time in leisure,
And never work to earn my daily bread.
If only I had found a buried treasure,
A sybaritic life I would have lead.
Or what if I had been that treasure’s owner
A pirate bold, on distant, tropic seas,
With a bright, green parrot perched upon my shoulder,
And a buxom wench ashore to wait for me!
If only I had such a girl to love me!
If only I were charming, rich, or fair!
If only I could be a few years younger.
If only I still had a head of hair.
If only I had held my tongue when angry!
If only I had spoken up in time!
If only I had run a little faster!
If only I’d been standing first in line!
If only I’d been born to wealth and power,
I know I could have been a mighty king,
With bags of pearls and rubies in my coffers,
And fingers all bedecked with golden rings.
You’d find me living in a gorgeous palace
With lofty towers climbing to the sky,
And I’d be the master of a thousand servants –
If only pigs had wings, and cows could fly!
115

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
Birthday Surprise
Bob Stampe
It's funny about humor, and the things that make us smile.
To some, what is amusing, is to others coarse and vile.
This is a story guys might like. Some girls might take offence.
They just don’t see the humor when one speaks of flatulence.
This story's of a friend of mine. Some parts of it are true.
It's tragic, and yet funny. It depends your point of view.
It talks of love and sacrifice, temptation, and surprise,
and how our fortune can unfold when we open our eyes.
At school he was one of the boys. To strangers he was Art.
We called him by his nickname though. To us he was 'The Fart'.
He'd earned this nickname aptly, and he liked it. He was proud
of how his special talent made him stand out from the crowd.
When very young he'd learned to love molasses home-baked beans.
He ate at least one serving every day throughout his teens.
He knew if he ate just enough, his stomach would react,
and how when he recycled them, to all of us distract.
His sphincter was a fine tuned tool. It had distinctive tone.
With volume, pitch, and timbre, he could make it sigh or moan.
Sometimes we’d see him rise up on one cheek, but hear no sound.
Sometimes he'd rip it, bark, or quack, the smell always profound.
He was a hero to us guys. No one else had his skill.
He was a party favorite. He could perform at will.
He had a little problem though. He couldn't get a date.
The girls just didn't understand, nor did they 'preciate.
He could have had a girlfriend if he'd just stopped with the beans.
But so far he had still not met the lady of his dreams.
So he kept up his artistry, his analgesic voice.
It was his thing. It's who he was. No girlfriends were his choice.
Then one fine day it happened, and she came into his life.
He knew as soon he met her that someday she'd be his wife.
He gave up beans and courted her, proposed, and she agreed.
As long as he could guarantee from his bane he'd been freed.
They wed, had kids, a boy, a girl; joined church, and PTA.
He often dreamed of home-baked beans, but never went astray.
They prospered. He worked in the bank. They bought a home in town.
His boyhood nickname long forgot; his repute was renowned.
It seemed that all was going great. His life was a success.
But life sometimes plays tricks on us. It lies in wait, I guess.
We all have weaker moments, and sometimes our guard comes down.
That's when the Devil laughs at us, and turns our smile to frown.
116

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
The day that Art turned twenty-eight, with some boys from the bank,
they went out to a pub for lunch. Three jugs of beer they drank.
Some beans were placed in front of him. He never had a chance.
The smell too much, he wolfed them down. His gut began its dance.
Within an hour of back to work, a smell reeked through the place.
The like of which took breath away, its source they could not trace.
By three the bank had closed its doors, the staff not feeling well.
They were sent home, the fire hall called to source the pungent smell.
Though Art knew well whence came the smell, the truth he would forsake.
Though guilty, he would not admit; his repute was at stake.
His stomach spoke as he walked out, a rumbling of ripe gas.
He knew, though, that within two hours this flatulence would pass.
As Art had left for work that morn, his wife had been precise,
"Do not come home till five P.M. Your dinner's a surprise."
So he set out the long way home. A two-hour walk he'd take.
By then he should be over the results of his mistake.
All the way home he spread good will. No one walked close behind.
By five, when he at last arrived, his farting had declined.
His wife met him at their front door with blindfold he must wear.
She led him in, and sat him down upon dining room chair.
Something smelled good. He knew it well, the scent of fresh baked beans.
Had his wife, for his birthday, cooked the soul food of his dreams
She moved to pull the blindfold off. The phone rang in the hall.
She made him promise not to peek while she answered the call.
As he sat there sniffing the air, he felt his stomach churn.
He felt a big one coming on, and had no-where to turn.
He shifted, moved up on one cheek, and let go a great RRIIIPPPP.
It cut the air. The smell was bad. His nose began to drip.
He had to dissipate the stink. He waved his arms around.
This movement brought the urge again, and one more loud, rude sound.
He stood and flailed his arms around. He had to clear the air.
He heard his wife hang up the phone, so sat back in his chair.
"And now for something special, dear. I hope you’ll be surprised."
"I’ve made you suffer long enough." She uncovered his eyes.
He was surprised, and mortified. Her secret, you might guess.
Around the table, trying to breathe, were eighteen dinner guests.
117

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
Must My Poetry Be Deep
Nancy Lazariuk
Must my poetry be deep
to circumvent
the rubbish heap
Must my poetry be wise
to make its way
to others’ eyes
Or can it just be
silly fun:
I love a rhyme,
a joke,
a pun.
It seems there’s so much blood and gore,
pestilence,
and death and war
that rhyming poems can bring a smile,
even though
they’re out of style!
118

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
Author’s note: A ballade is not to be confused with a ballad. There are three 8-line stanzas rhyming ababbcbC, followed by a 4-line envoi
rhyming bcbC. The capital C's stand for a refrain which is used to end each stanza. The envoi of a ballade is customarily used to address a
patron. Today, however, it is frequently addressed to Prince, generally understood to be the Prince of Darkness. Most ballades are either
in iambic tetrameter or iambic pentameter.
The Ballade of the Bulge
Anne Maarit Ghan
I'm getting fat, this is no lie.
I wish by eating I'd weigh less.
By looking for an alibi
I try to hide my foolishness.
It seems my lack of willingness
to use control with food and drink
Is bringing me to great distress.
It's pushing me towards the brink.
Alas, I do identify
myself with those who so obsess
about their need to satisfy
a hunger that is limitless.
Where is the pill that can suppress
an urge so huge (at least I think)
It wins the lead in viciousness;
It's pushing me towards the brink.
I follow fads, because I try
to learn to cut away excess.
The books on dieting I buy
but reading them brings no success,
instead a fearful emptiness.
My future seems as black as ink.
My choice does not yield happiness.
It's pushing me towards the brink.
Prince, you're behind this loneliness
that makes me drown, that makes me sink.
It seems no power I possess.
You're pushing me towards the brink.
119

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
Editor’s note: Mercifully, the following doggerel is in a category all by itself. It violates most of the cardinal rules for rhyming, metrical
poetry. However, this is in fact a clever, intentional revision of an infamous “poem” (we use the term loosely) by a fellow who was, in his time,
a walking parody of a serious poet – the (almost) inimitable William Topaz McGonagall.
Edinburgh
Albert Lawrance
Oh! Beautiful City of Edinburgh,
There, one may drown their sorrow.
Viewing monuments and statues rare,
basking in the sun of summer fair.
I'm sure it wills the spirit to cheer,
Sir Walter Scott's monument is near.
Standing tall, on East Prince Street,
Amidst flowery gardens, color replete.
Edinburgh Castle is magnificent to see,
It’s beautiful walks and trees esprit.
Below rocky basement, like a fairy dell,
There’s our favorite, St. Margaret’s Well.
Where tourists may drink when feeling dry,
Have fish and chip dinners or a special meat pie.
Try a tour of the castle, from bottom to high,
It appears so lofty straight up to the sky.
Nelson's Monument stands there on Calton Hill.
With great esteem, your heart will fill.
Salisbury Crags most beautifully seen,
Especially in June when grasses are, green.
To the south of Salisbury Crags below,
Is beautiful scenery from the valley below
Observant, the little loch beneath they sight,
Wild ducks about and beautiful swans white.
Arthur's Seat, must surely be seen,
With rugged rocks and pastures green.
Wooly sheep grazing around all sides
lazily walking with leisurely strides.
Oh! Beautiful City of Edinburgh
There, one may drown their sorrow,
You bask in the sun of summer fair.
Proudest city in Scotland, we do declare!
“This beautiful city was defiled and thrown onto a trash heap by the Baird of Rubbish, William McGonagall, Scotland’s worst poet.”
120

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
To Her Apathetic Students
Vicki DuMond
Had we but world enough and time,
Your apathy would be no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To while the semester away.
You, by the student center's side,
Could parties find, while in my untried
Classroom, I complain. I could
Instruct you ten years before the flood,
And you could, if you please, refuse
'Til the conversion of the Jews.
Your vegetable minds could grow
Vaster than empires and more slow.
A hundred years could go to raise
A fuss and out the window gaze,
Ten thousand years to take each test,
And thirty thousand just to rest,
An age, at least, to every part,
And the last age should make you smart,
For, students, you deserve such state,
Nor could I teach at a lower rate.
But at my back, I always hear
Time's winged shuttle hurrying near,
And yonder, all before us, lie
Deserts of vast stupidity.
Your talents shall no more be found,
Nor, in your marble vaults, shall sound
My echoing song, then worms shall try
Your long-preserved vacuity.
And your poor minds shall turn to clay,
And into ashes all I say.
The grave's a fine and quiet spot,
But a classroom it is not.
So, therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin, like morning dew,
Though your unwilling souls transpire
At every pore with instant ire,
Yet, let us study while we may,
And now, like wise birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish here another hour.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our energy into one ball
And tear at knowledge with rough strife
Through the labyrinths of life.
Thus, though we cannot make your hind
Sit still, yet we shall fill your mind.
121

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
A Chance to Just Be Me
Nancy Lazariuk
Every year, around this time,
My old heart fills with glee,
For finally I get a chance:
A chance to just be me.
So long I’ve hidden who I am
‘Neath makeup and nice clothes,
But now at last I can reveal
This big wart on my nose.
I’ll let loose all my dark grey hair:
It’s long and thick and wild.
Atop it all I’ll place a hat,
Designed to scare a child.
Upon my feet go worn old boots
Made from the skin of bats.
I’ve dyed them black and laced them with
The braided tails of rats.
My dress is long and dank with age;
It needs a few deft stitches.
My cape is still a masterpiece:
The envy of all witches.
And finally, I’ll get my broom;
It’s hidden in the shed.
Don’t think I plan to sweep the porch.
I’ll fly the skies instead!
Oh, cloudy night with slivered moon.
Oh, leafless, windless scene.
I yearn to mount my trusty broom.
I yearn to be real mean.
I yearn to scare the kiddies
As they all go, “Trick or treat.”
They mock the eve of Halloween
For all they do is eat.
Those silly tots don’t realize
That Halloween is scary.
We witches, warlocks, bats and wolves
Just love to be contrary.
For once a year we get to show
Our scary, ugly faces.
It’s such a joy to make kids scream
In all our favorite places.
122

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
We roam the darkened alleyways;
In graveyards we do prance;
We haunt an empty house or two
Whenever we’ve a chance.
We stir up broths of feet and hair
Of cats who’ve gone astray,
With just a dash of vampire blood
To keep the chill away.
Oh, Halloween’s a lovely time
For danger, death and warring,
But when the next day rolls around
It’s back to being boring!
123

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
Guinea Pigs
Neil Harding McAlister
Soft and lazy
Balls of fur.
Guinea Pigs
Will hardly stir.
Exercise
They cannot bear it,
Unless to fetch
A nice, fresh carrot.
Twitching noses,
Shining eyes,
Looks of
Permanent surprise
Greet the day
With peals of glee
When each morning
They see me.
Do they really
Miss their masters
Maybe it’s just
Food they’re after.
Piggies’ brains
Are very small.
Maybe they
Can’t think at all,
And life’s just
One scary muddle
‘Til they get
Their evening cuddle.
Questions only
Cause us grief.
I’ll suspend
My disbelief,
And pretend
Dependency
Is a sign
These pets love me.
124

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
Christmas Tree
Angela Burns
Oh Christmas tree the perfect size
....A bit lopsided to my eyes
We got you home, at no small price
We’ve shaken off the snow and ice
We wrestled with the blasted stand
Now you’re erect – well mostly, and...
Rotate the worst where no one cares
And don’t forget the water... there...
Someone says “forgot the sheet!”
Lift, grunt, put plastic underneath
Now plug the lights in for a test,
Darn there’s a dud, where are the rest
Ah, rob the others, we’ll make do
We never liked those strings of blue
Then round the tree, the lights are strung
Every which way, bulbs are hung
Give up on art just ram them on
Contortions till the job is done
Now hurry up, before we faint
To decorations re-acquaint
These baubles seen in broad daylight
A motley crew they seem alright!
Never mind, they have the charm
Of years of use, surviving harm
So gradually the gauds are placed
On branches in the utmost taste
We take a drink and in the lag
Reset things which hide or sag
A little crowded there I fear
Move some more, what’s that we hear
A rustle from the stand below
The tree is tilting ... oh so slow...
Grab it there! A mad revise
It’s straight amid exhausted sighs
But, oh dear, an ancient ball
Shattered while we saved it all!
Well, now the icicles are next
We carefully pull them from their nest
In twos and threes we place with care
On ends of branches, silver hair
And then the final touch of class
The tree top gets a star at last
Then underneath our special tree ...
The gifts arranged in festive glee.
125

New Classic Poems
Just For Fun
For now the smell of sap is clear
And needles drop on Christmas cheer
Don’t mind the mess, for as we know
No plastic tree can challenge so
Now lights turned on, let’s just admire
And praise ourselves as we retire
A Toast to Christmas Trees inside!
That warmth we feel is surely pride!
In Concert
Wiley Clements
Segovia, guitarist widely praised,
always kept his right foot slightly raised.
He never let his gripping thumb appear
above the neck; and if we chanced to hear
a scrape or screech like chalk across a board
whenever the master slid from chord to chord,
we told ourselves, "Where genius abounds
the music may be better than it sounds."
126

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
127

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
End of Season
Neil Harding McAlister
In loving memory of Zerakhanu Kassam, 1927 - 2003
The sunset shatters on the lake.
Its shards impale our dazzled eyes,
As into myriad pieces break
Reflections of the fiery skies.
A chill foreboding rides the wind.
The nervous birch and poplar shiver,
While all along the shoreline’s bend
The fading water lilies wither.
The glory shall be quickly lost
That crowns the flaming maple trees.
Wise refugees from early frost,
A vee of geese now southward flees.
A vacant chair waits on the lawn
That slopes down gently to the shore,
Recalling summers come and gone.
She cannot stay to greet one more.
Another circuit ‘round the sun
Has traced another passing year.
Our seasons vanish, one by one –
And all too soon, December’s here.
How is it, in these dying days,
That evening skies should burn so bright
Too brief this desperate, Autumn blaze
That heralds Winter’s solemn night.
128

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
Her Lover's gone to War
Michael Moreland Milligan
The diamond drops of tulip sweat
from velvet petals dripping down
upon the tombs where moths beget
themselves cocooned in silky brown,
are like the tears she shed that day
for Johnny gone to war so stern,
Not tears, nor prayers, could make him stay–
nor tears, nor prayers, return.
O’er their simple blessed bed
the remnants of the silken gown
she wore the golden day they wed
into a bedspread soft was sewn.
Their love that night before he left
to grimly follow drum and fife,
t'was short, t'was sweet, t'was then bereft–
t'was short, t'was sweet- his life.
His body in its funeral bed
upraised upon his comrade’s arms
is wrapped within a banner red
to hide his wounds in honor’s charms.
A babe in arms, the dead man’s son,
bewails his unknown father’s fate,
though by his loss the battle’s won,
though by his loss, made great.
The tulips by his modest grave
are watered daily by her tears,
as if by weeping she could save
herself from wilting through the years.
Not water from her longing eyes,
nor sun light from the sullen gloom,
will ever make her lover rise,
will ever make him bloom.
The brook, she flows with murmuring moan,
the wind, she wails around the dale,
but not a sorrow will prevail
upon the silent stone.
129

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
The Skeleton in Rawhide
Neil Harding McAlister
( With a tip of the Stetson to Mr. Henry Wadsworth Longfeller )
Speak! speak, you ghostly guest,
Who, like a cowpoke dressed,
In chaps and leather vest
Comes here to bug me!
In this nice restaurant
Six-guns and spurs you flaunt!
Why pick on me to haunt
They must have drugged me!
My head was feeling queer
After too many beer.
I would have run in fear –
But was unable.
Slouching to where I sat,
He hung up his lariat,
Pushed back his Stetson hat,
And slumped at my table.
Then from those limpid eyes
Red streaks there seemed to rise
Like when the stormy skies
Flash in Montana.
But, when the phantom spoke,
All he could do was croak.
He cleared his dusty throat
And loosed his bandana.
“I wuz an old cowhand.
I had adventures grand!
But no Zane Grey in this land
E’er told my story.
Though I wuz schooled a mite,
Maybe I ain’t too bright:
I never larned to write.
You do it for me.
“Call yonder waitress near!
Order us two more beer!
You’re gonna set and hear
‘Bout my days of glory.
You do just like I said,
Or like me, you’ll be dead
‘Cuz I’ll fill ya full of lead.
Then you’ll be sorry!
130

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
“When I wuz young and wild
I loved a rancher’s child.
Purdy wuz she, and mild –
A jewel among wimmin.
Gettin’ hitched wuz my goal:
I’d loved Sal, heart and soul,
Since down by the fishin’ hole
I spied her swimmin’.
“We loved each other true.
Her Pa, Jake Pedigrue,
Said, ‘No, this just won’t do.
Hit the trail now, boy!
I own a big, ol’ spread
With a few thousand head.
No gal of mine will wed
A no-account cowboy!’
“Though her Pa had been cruel
My sweetheart weren’t no fool.
She couldn’t larn in school
What I could teach her!
When Jake was not around,
With her Ma’s weddin’ gown
We high-tailed into town
To visit the preacher.
“We spent our honeymoon
In the most fancy room
Up above Nell’s Saloon.
Sal wuz a honey!
Went to it with a will,
Then ate and drank our fill,
Fixin’ to pay the bill
With her Pa’s money.
“Early the followin’ day
Knockin’ disturbed our stay,
Promptin’ my bride to say,
‘What’s the commotion’
We could have slept a spell,
But it wuz the owner, Nell,
With some bad news to tell,
I had a notion.
“ ‘Hate to disturb you dears,
But Sally’s Daddy’s here.
He’s mighty riled, I fear.
Better skedaddle!’
Jake caught us unprepared.
Grabbin’ our underwear
We run down the back stair
And hit the saddle.
131

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
“Over the hills did ride
Me and my blushin’ bride.
We traveled far and wide
Tryin’ to outrun him.
Down by a shallow draw
Then Sally’s ornery Pa
With twenty men we saw.
I couldn’t outgun ‘em.
“There stood that varmint Jake,
Mean as a rattlesnake.
My knees begun to shake –
I wuz a goner.
Pity to die that way,
But I turned to Sal to say
I still would bless the day
I clapped eyes on her.
“Sal cried, ‘I chose this man!
See this here weddin’ band
Love placed it on my hand;
Death won't remove it.
Pa, spare my husband’s life!
Save me a widder’s strife.
I am his lovin’ wife,
And this ring proves it!’
“Jake stood and scowled a while,
Then gave a little smile.
‘Boy, I don’t like yer style –
I oughta plug ya!
But, from what I just saw,
You’re my true son-in-law;
And that makes me yer Pa.
Guess I should hug ya.
“ ‘Fact is, I’ve got a mind
Havin’ a son is fine.
I’ve worked hard in my time,
But I ain’t crazy.
Don’t aim to labor ‘til
I'm up on ol’ Boot Hill,
Listenin’ to whippoorwills
And pushin’ up daisies.
“ ‘If’n a son I’d sired
I would have long retired.
I'm old and uninspired
Ranchin’ alone now.
I love my daughter dear –
But she can’t rope a steer.
Now you’re my son, ya hear
You kids, come home now!’
132

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
“Picked up my droppin’ jaw,
Shook hands with my new Pa,
Grateful that on the draw
I wuz not quicker.
Some sez that in the West
Blood kin is always best.
It seemed that in this test
Water wuz thicker.
“We rode back into town.
Smiles had replaced our frowns.
This cowboy settled down,
And we wuz happy.
Soon, if you follow me,
As it wuz meant to be,
Twigs on our family tree
Called Jake ‘Grand Pappy.’
“Reckon my yarn is done.
Can’t spin another one:
Yon comes the risin’ sun.
I got to mosey.
You’ve been a nervy host,
Seein’ as I'm a ghost!
Let me propose a toast
To finish yer poesy.
“Pardner, as you can see,
With love and charity
Even an enemy
Might be befriended.
‘We’ll choke on spite,’ said Pa,
‘If it sticks in our craw.’
Here’s to the West! Yee-haw!”
– Thus the tale ended.
133

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
The Runner
Neil Harding McAlister
Your urgent, crunching footfall down the cinder running track
Grows fainter as you disappear into the setting sun.
Your painful gasps I almost feel, as twilight skies fade black,
But you will practice breathlessly ‘til many laps are done.
I shield my burning eyes to watch your small, lithe silhouette
Dash silently along the course as nightfall swallows day.
The moon hangs in the sky, although the sun has not quite set,
And child, I feel afraid, because you seem so far away.
When you were only five years old I jogged right by your side
Just slow enough to let you win the race and share your fun.
Then you grew tall and strong; and soon it filled me with such pride
To watch you speed ahead and fly as I had never run!
You traded in your booties for an athlete’s running shoes.
Someplace I’ve got new shoes I bought the day that you were born.
While you rush forward, I look back, amazed at how you grew:
A father’s coming sundown is his daughter’s brilliant morn.
When was the last time that you took my hand to cross the street
Or ran to me in glee when you were playing on our lawn
The childhood firsts come scampering on noisy, little feet;
But last times creep up quietly – then quietly, they’re gone.
Could this young, graceful runner, who will be a woman soon,
Have been the helpless baby whom I cradled in one hand
Now, heedless of the gathering dark, beneath this autumn moon
You pound a firm, determined pace while night enfolds the land.
Someday when my skies darken, perhaps thoughtless men could say,
“He was not famous, rich or wise. What great things has he done”
From mortal limitations we can never run away;
But when I squint with failing eyes into that setting sun,
And see you running in Life’s race,
No matter who might claim first place,
I’ll know that I have won.
134

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
Matrimony
Anne Maarit Ghan
So wild and free
and glad to be
alone
We ran through fields
of lofty yields
full-grown
From seeds of love
that God above
had sown
A wedding band
adorned my hand
to show
The reason for
why ever more
love's glow
Would kiss my face
in each embrace
and grow
The Waiting Game
Jonathan Levitt
This child that grows inside my wife
Is the piece I've been missing for all of my life
I'm counting the days til my baby is born
Until I can comfort, and love, and keep warm
It seems like forever I've wanted this gift
The love of a child, a love that I've missed
My words simply speak of a feeling so strong
To finally make good of my childhood wrong
To love and protect this brave little soul
Who knows not my need for one simple goal
To be the best father I truly can be
And give him the things I wanted for me
135

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
Wish from a Rainbow's Mist
Maria DiDanieli
An arc extends across the sky's expanse
and calms the Northern summer's blust'ring dance.
It sends a greeting down of many lights –
a timely gift before the dark of night.
A home a-buzz with children's laughing din...
when sun breaks through the rain and ventures in.
The elders call my young ones to the glass,
"Come see the rainbow's hues before they pass!"
The love my children feel within this place
will last beyond the rainbow's fickle grace.
The rooms, herein, hold stories of their past –
the links to moulds from which their lives were cast.
Like them, I watch the rainbow's hazing spree
and wish, like their's, my past was known to me.
136

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
Midlife Musings
Neil Harding McAlister
Now that we’re middle aged,
We stop for breath and look around.
What glorious deeds our lives have crowned
By which we shall be gauged
Have we yet reached our goals
The door is closing, year by year.
Sometimes we’re panicked by that fear
While time relentless rolls.
Unruly waistlines spread.
With shock we find such banal cares
Have crept up on us, unawares –
We’re more than halfway dead!
They mock us as they flee,
Those fading dreams of vanished youth!
The time has come to face hard truth:
They may not ever be.
What do we call “success”
Along the way our plans have changed,
Priorities we’ve rearranged.
Old longings we suppress.
Ahead we fear to stare.
Will Father Time, the patient one,
Forgive us for work left undone
Or will he even care
No need to feel depressed:
Life makes us wise as we grow old.
By those who slave for power or gold
No longer we’re impressed.
Could we, as youths, have known
The sights we’d see, the things we’d do,
Our joys, and loves, and children too,
When we to men were grown
As hard-fought seasons mount,
Who tells us if we’ve lost or won
Through toil, reflection, pain and fun
We’ll make each new day count,
And savor every breath!
Put down boys’ dreams and be a man
‘Til ageing steps no longer can
Outpace advancing Death!
137

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
Prophet of Sod
Aaron Wilkinson
My Grandpa told me 'fore he died,
"The greatest sin of man is Pride.
Best never see the city, son,
Don't ever leave the mountainside.
It's yours since you became a man
So make your way as best you can,
'Cause someday this'll all be gone.
A sacrifice to Babylon."
Now owing he's a proper fan
Of God and all His Ten Commands
The parish loaned him resting ground
On proper consecrated land.
Some folks begrudge his tiny grave
(Which others think befits a slave's)
But it'll grow as green a lawn
As ever grew in Babylon.
I'll credit him for dying brave,
He never bitched and wouldn't cave
When life was tough. But he was strict;
And now it's time to misbehave.
I'm gazing on a sea of green,
The finest crop you've ever seen.
The guy who showed me how's a con
Who shat some time down Babylon.
I'm more than used to living clean
Which mostly means you’re living mean.
Now working through the harvest time
I wonder how it could've been.
My ladies bloomed a pound apiece
Of buds with some to spare for grease.
I bummed a ride from cousin John,
And trucked the lot to Babylon.
We talked about our newest niece
And kept an eye out for police.
Instead a pack of bikers showed
And took us for some lambs to fleece.
The city steamed from off a way.
It's skyline's shroud was coffin gray.
I knew that I'd become a pawn
To all the sins of Babylon.
138

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
The wicked men held us at bay.
I warned them there'd be Hell to pay,
"Repent yourselves! Desist or else
You'll never see another day."
Their guns were drawn, the crop was found,
I prayed to him whom I'd been bound,
"Send lighting Grandpa! Cast it on
These scavengers from Babylon."
They might have given us a round
'Cept just then, straight from out the ground
A rumbling rose beneath our feet
And lightning from the sky unwound.
It made the wicked men explode
To rain down dead upon the road.
Towards the sun that brightly shone
We made our way from Babylon.
I never sold the mother lode.
Instead we used the grass to goad
Our simple minds along a course
Towards examples Grandpa showed.
Some strength of will is all it takes
To learn from all your life's mistakes.
And now I needn't scrape or fawn
For broken meats from Babylon.
There's nights I dream, right racked with shakes,
Of needing truths while stuck with fakes,
Until my newfound balance sets,
Then, stilled and calm, my soul awakes
To visions of the other side
Where Grandpa's eyes burn righteous pride.
Consider, friends, next risen dawn,
What price you pay to Babylon.
139

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
The Truth Of It Is
Bob Stampe
An episode in one of life's greatest adventures … (marriage)
A painted moon hung full and high, it's blush subdued, yet bright.
A darkened car, with headlights blurred, rushed through the lonely night.
The occupants, myself, my wife, were speaking of our speed.
Upset, she griped, "Please slow it down. There isn't any need."
I pushed the pedal even more. "Why don't you just relax"
I'm doing fine, and I'm just driving slightly more than max."
The party had been fun that night, and I was feeling fine.
Why did she have to spoil it now Why did she have to whine
As I looked in my rear view mirror, I saw some flashing lights.
"That's great," I said. "Here come the cops." The siren pierced the night.
"I told you so. You've done it now," her scold, more like a wail.
"We can't afford a ticket. Worse, they might throw you in jail."
I pulled onto the shoulder with the police car just behind.
How would I get out of this mess Then something came to mind.
I would deny, plead ignorance. I couldn't help but smile.
I thought I might just pull this off if I could use some guile.
The officer came to our car. I rolled my window down.
"What's up" I asked. "Is something wrong" He looked at me and frowned.
"I'll need to see your license, and your registration please."
"No problem," I responded. I was trying to seem at ease.
The cop looked at his paperwork, then took it to his car.
I turned, looked at my wife, and said, "I'm doing fine so far."
With manner stern, the cop returned. "You were going much too fast.
Your speed was over ninety when your vehicle went past."
"That's crazy. There's no way," I said. "You've made a big mistake.
I'm always careful of my speed. The law, I never break."
My wife leaned forward, "What a line. You always drive too fast.
I've told you that a hundred times. Your luck's run out at last."
I couldn't quite believe my ears. She was out of control.
The cop had heard the whole thing, just when I'd been on a roll.
"Excuse me. Let me handle this," I snapped back at my wife.
"Just sit back please, and shut your mouth." My words cut like a knife.
The officer looked in the car. His flashlight's beam was bright.
"I see you have no seatbelt on. For that, I too must cite."
"I must have just removed it, Sir," more sheepishly this time.
"I swear. I always wear my belt." I buckled up in mime.
140

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
"Hah, what a joke," my wife spoke up. "You never wear your belt.
When I ask you to buckle up, you say it leaves a welt."
"That's it, you stupid woman! We will settle this at home.
Why can't you keep your big trap shut" My mouth began to foam.
The cop then motioned, "S'cuse me, M’am, would you please step outside.
You wait here Sir. We won't be long." When out, the policeman pried.
"Are you all right If you would like, I'll throw him in the clink."
"No, I'll be fine. He's harmless. He's just had too much to drink."
Girl 1951
Cathy Wilson
We never questioned whether we should wed
Or if we even knew what it would mean
To vow and bed and bear and then to dread
The choke of morning sickness pale and green,
The slam of bathroom door. To wear the mask
Of Nice and Acquiescent and Demean
Concealed the question we never dared to ask
The priest, our mothers, surely not ourselves:
What is there, anything, besides the task
Of householding, of cleaning drawers and shelves,
Our body turning something else instead:
New life – and scars Oh, be the one who tells
The truth, the words that no one ever said
To us, determined early to be wed.
141

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
Dear Abby
Anne Maarit Ghan
Part I
Dear Abby tell me what to do.
My sex life sucks, my husband's blue.
The trouble is, we have no time.
We have five kids, so sex sublime
Will have to wait till they are grown
And once again our lives we own.
But what to do till they are gone
My husband wakes before it's dawn
And wants to play Mustaf the Sheik
While children through our doorway peek!
I'm scared to breathe while we make out;
I think they'll hear without a doubt.
We turn the music up way high
So I'd relax and dare to sigh.
Yet still my mind remains next door,
So hubby fears he is a bore.
But that of course is not the case.
He’s really hot, he's quite an ace.
Now, tell me if we celibate
Next eighteen years, what is our fate
Perhaps we'll turn as cold as stone
And wish we both just lived alone.
Dear Abby tell me what to do
Before my husband thinks we're through.
142

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
Part II
Well, here I go and write a again.
I bought the book called "Love and Zen.”
I acted out all of those tricks
And spiced them up just for the kicks.
However he was not enthused,
Although I think he looked amused.
So now I ask for more advice.
(I hope I may write to you twice.)
By chance you know some other book
Affordable and worth a look
My hubby has torn down the wall
Between our room and upstairs hall.
He says he needs to insulate
Our bedroom walls so my debate
Will end up as a closed up case,
And so we could resume the chase
That lovers do when they have fun.
(I hope by then I'm fit to run!)
Dear Abby tell me what to do
I think we've cooked up quite a stew.
143

New Classic Poems
Family Matters
Untitled
Anne Maarit Ghan
Two wedding bands
Quite thin and old
Adorn your hands
Which now are cold
And rest upon your chest
I see they shine
With brassy gleam
Almost divine
They now do seem
Right here, as I stand near
Could they be gold
The purest kind
For I've been told
T'was hard to find
Such measure of that treasure
Perhaps beneath
That golden look
If tried with teeth
A person would
Reveal just cheap old steel
Now who's to blame
If that's the case
This is no shame
No judge you'll face
For cheap is poor man's keep
You did not need
An outward sign
To prove a creed
Of love sublime
On earth among our dearth
144

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
145

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
Poets’ Biographies
David Anderson lives in Prince Edward Island,
Canada's smallest province. He writes poetry and
short stories, and he has almost finished a novel.
He informs us that Plague is one of a few
classical poems that he has attempted. However,
they are very satisfying to write, he says; and he
hopes to compose more. Anderson placed
second in the 2000 Atlantic Poetry Contest, and
he was a finalist in the national CBC radio-play
contest for Vancouver in 2001. Some of his
work has also been published in Quills Canadian
Poetry Magazine.
Anne Baldo, at the age of 18, has already
developed a mature and notable flair for Gothic
genre poetry. Visitors to our web site
complimented her as “a modern Edgar Allan
Poe.” Ms. Baldo, who has lived in Ontario,
Canada all her life, is now a student at the
University of Windsor, where she studies
English and Creative Writing. She says, “I'd like
to thank my family, especially my mother, father,
sisters and Aunt Mary Lou, and my high school
creative writing teacher, Ms. Morga, for taking
the time to be so helpful and encouraging.”
Nigel Clive Bruton has been writing poetry
seriously for about one year. He was born in
Bristol, England, and he moved frequently with
his family around the Southwest, where most of
his clear memories of childhood were formed.
His adventures with his older sister and his
brothers are now finding themselves reborn in
the pages of a series of short stories entitled Sid
and Fred. Between owning a restaurant in
Ontario, Canada, with his wife Debi, writing
short stories, and trying to complete a novel, he
was inspired to write Northern Light. The poem
Caution came about during his roaming twenties:
he says it describes love as seen though cynical
eyes. He avers that now he finds writing to be a
morale booster and a long-term goal. Nigel
hopes that his words may be read and pondered
over for a long time to come.
Angela Burns, whose poetry is well represented
in this collection, has much experience in the
publishing industry. Her voluntary work proofreading
this entire manuscript was invaluable.
After decades of writing and editing for trade
magazines and community newspapers, Ms.
Burns (who is now in her 52 nd year) joined a
writer’s group in 2003 and was inspired to write
poetry – a format she finds best for compressing
and condensing thoughts and ideas. She likes to
write observations and commentary about the
world: her political poems have appeared in
newspapers from time to time. Ms. Burns says
that she loves islands. She was born in England
and came to Canada at the age of four to the
island of Montreal and watched it grow. Another
island, Hong Kong, gave her six years of unique
and rewarding experience, both professionally
and personally. She now lives on Vancouver
Island, leaving it only to visit smaller islands.
Nancy Callahan, age 26, is a graduate of
Harvard College. She lives in scenic Cape Cod,
MA, USA. She is a freelance writer who has also
worked as a librarian, teacher, editor and tutor.
Her non-fiction, fiction and poetry have
appeared in a wide variety of publications
including The New Formalist and New Millennium
Writings. Information about Ms. Callahan may
be read at www.geocities.com/nancy_callahan .
Gregory J. Christiano describes himself as a
born and bred city dweller living in the country.
146

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
Raised in 1950's Bronx; he graduated from
Central University of Iowa in 1969. His
profession is a Claims Adjuster. He has written
short stories, book and movie reviews, essays,
poetry, editorials, a two-act play and four
novellas. He says that he prefers traditional styles,
from romance to gothic poetry. Christiano has
won first prize awards on various websites for
best short stories and poetry. He is published in
several anthologies and nostalgia magazines. He
won the Carl & Nettie Halpern Memorial
Award for best narrative in the Fall 2002 issue of
The Bronx County Historical Society Journal. He
enjoys collecting antique maps, prints, books,
ephemera and historical newspapers. Mr.
Christiano and his wife have twin girls, age 23
and a son, 16.
Mark Clement was born in Winnipeg,
Manitoba, Canada, and raised in various towns
in Ontario. He informs us that he currently
resides in Toronto, “where he lives a clandestine
life as a poet and earns money as a technocrat
for a large U.S. firm.” He has two self-published
chap books to his credit: Along the Path, and A
Poet’s Lament.
Wiley Clements has written an outstanding
example of respectful and entertaining use of a
dialect in formal poetry. His Incident at Stirling
Castle, Letter to Ezra Pound and Passage to Point
Barrow all appeared in the recently-published
Anthology of the Alsop Review (Alsop Press).
Clements now lives in retirement in Lewisburg,
Pennsylvania, USA after a long and fascinating
career, first as a military journalist and later as a
developer of health maintenance organizations
(HMOs). Taught to write verse as a child by his
grandmother, he has written and sporadically
published poetry throughout his nearly 76 years.
Clock and Rose recently published his book of
poems, Yesterday, or Long Ago. He says that he
prefers lyric and narrative verse. His other
interests include oil painting, chess, U.S. Civil
War history, and translating Japanese literature
into English.
Anya Corke is 14 years old. She was born in
California, USA, but moved to Hong Kong,
China at an early age. She started writing poetry
at nine, and has since won several competitions
including the Potato Hill Poetry Award, Writers’
Forum Young Writers Competition and Poem
Kingdom’s Absolute Write-Off Contest. She
likes to write formal, lyric poetry, mostly about
nature. Her delightful poem, Friends of Solitude,
was previously published by Potato Hill Poetry,
2002. This remarkable young lady’s poetic talent
is matched, if not exceeded, by her extraordinary
prowess in chess: Ms. Corke is a Woman
Grandmaster – currently the second youngest
holder of this title in the world. She won the
British Junior Championship in her age group
three years running (2002, 3 and 4). She was the
2004 Hong Kong National Champion and the
Asian Under-14 Girls Champion. She played on
the Hong Kong “men’s” team in the Chess
Olympiad held recently in Spain.
Jonathan Day, artist and poet, has contributed
both of his skills to this anthology. The elegant
linocut illustrations that grace this volume and
unify its chapters by their common theme are
entirely the products of his own inspiration. A
self-described “army brat,” he was born in
Austria in 1954, grew up in Alaska, and moved
to Oregon in 1972. Day had a varied career,
working as a janitor, construction worker, welder,
art instructor, cook and baker (among other
things) before graduating as an electrical
engineer in 1995. He is currently pursuing a
Ph.D. in Physics at Oregon State University. His
hobbies include astronomy, zoology, reading and
science of all sorts. This artist’s personal website
is found at www.thedaydomain.net; and he can
be reached via E-mail at the following address:
jday74@comcast.net . He is married to ceramic
artist Fay Jones Day.
C. K. Deatherage, Ph.D. informs us: “I wrote
The Foundling almost two decades ago as I
studied under poet and author Lloyd Kropp,
and Dr. Roberta Bosse at Southern Illinois
University at Edwardsville. While there, I was
asked to give poetry readings, including a
reading of The Foundling. Originally, as my studies
were in Old and Middle English, The Foundling
used the archaic ‘thee/thou’ structure with
appropriate ‘-est/-eth’ verb endings. With a
nostalgic sigh, I revised the poem to modern
English – mostly. I taught freshman
composition at various colleges for nine years
before pursuing a Ph.D. in Old and Middle
English Language and Literature at Purdue
147

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
University. My studies, as my writing and
reading habits, have been strongly influenced by
my love of King Arthur, Robin Hood, and the
enchanted realms of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R.
Tolkien. As for my own creations–when writing
formal poetry, I prefer to tell a tale, sometimes
humorous, sometimes . . . haunting.”
Ted DeMay is already a master of the sonnet at
17 years of age. He says that many poets have
inspired him, including Shakespeare, Whitman,
T.S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas. He enjoys
reading and writing many different kinds of
poetry, as he believes new experiences help one
to mature as a person and as a writer.
Maria DiDanieli is a freelance writer who has
recently ventured from medical writing into
other genres such as fiction and children’s
educational literature. Before beginning her
writing career in 2003, Ms. DiDanieli had an
extensive background in publication of nonfiction.
She is now working with a group of
colleagues to develop a literary magazine; and
she is currently piecing together a book of
poems about being an adoptee. Her children
Julia and Emily now inspire her to look beyond
the constraints of the word “realistic” into
worlds where possibilities are endless. She lives
with her family in Oakville, Ontario, Canada.
Gene Dixon is a long-time resident of New
Jersey in the USA. His poetry, which covers all
genres from free-verse to formal, has been
published in several small magazines and on-line
"e-zines." Dixon has won numerous awards for
poems from a variety of publications and
organizations, most notably Writer's Digest
magazine and the New York Poetry Forum which
named him "Contemporary Poet of the Year"
for his poem, Amalthea, the Unicorn.
Alan DuMond, (Vicki’s husband), who lives in
the State of Arkansas, USA, is a carpenter,
mechanic, landscape artist and for the past
couple of years, a poet. He says that he is
inspired by three things: nature, his wife and the
music of Donovan. His other interests include
playing the guitar, chess, pool, traveling and flea
marketing.
Vicki DuMond (Alan’s wife) has been writing
poetry for 43 years. She taught English at the
University of Central Arkansas and the
University of Arkansas. She is now the
Editor/Publisher of Reflections: a Journal of Poetry
and Art, which appears quarterly. Her poems in
lyrical, dramatic, humorous, monologue and
nature genres, have appeared in numerous
literary or what she modestly refers to as “little”
magazines. Ms. DuMond shares most of her
husband’s hobbies, and she also enjoys dancing
and swimming.
Rick Ellis is a freelance recording mixer in
Toronto, Canada. When not listening to the
universe he observes, writes about and tries to
make sense of it. He is affiliated with the
Academy of Canadian Cinema and Television,
the Motion Picture Sound Editors Guild, the
Royal Astronomical Society of Canada and
the International Society of Authors and Artists.
Peggy Fletcher was born in St. Johns,
Newfoundland, and now lives in Sarnia, Ontario,
Canada. She taught creative writing and English
at Lambton College; and she was formerly the
Family Editor for a newspaper, the Sarnia
Observer. She has written six books of poetry, one
of short stories, and her work appears in
anthologies and magazines in Canada, England,
Australia and the USA.
Patricia Louise Gamache likes all types of
poetry, and she writes about many subjects. She
has published poetry with Noble House in the
U.K.. At 67 years of age, she was widowed
recently. She has been retired for one
year. Gamache is a Canadian who has lived in
British Columbia all her life, except for two
years in Alberta. She says that she started two
novels, but that “through sheer laziness they
remain unfinished.” However, has been writing
poetry and short stories since grade
school. While in grade eight, she relates, she
won a pound of jelly-beans in a short story
contest. She blames this for the fact that she has
had a sweet tooth ever since!
Anne Maarit Ghan grew up in Finland as the
youngest of 7 children. During college she
148

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
married her American pen-friend, Scott, and
moved to rural USA. The following years she
spent raising their three children and writing
humorous stories about family life and living
abroad. Ms. Ghan and her family currently
reside in Germany. Although she had always
been fond of poetry, she began writing in this
genre only recently. Most of her work is
either inspirational or humorous. Her poem,
The Ballade of the Bulge, was one of the three cowinners
in Contemporary Formal Poetry's on-line
contest in 2004.
Peter G. Gilchrist is a lawyer who resides in
Edmonton, Alberta, Canada with his wife, son
and daughter. He describes himself as an avid
canoeist, poet, soccer player and soccer coach.
He most enjoys writing rhyming, narrative
poetry. His poetry has previously been published
in a variety of Internet and hard copy media.
The Sparrow and the Hawk was previously
published in Saucy Vox Review xii. The Guide was
published in Saucy Vox Review and Literati. Both
poems were also published in the book, Paddle
Tracks (Edmonton: Kakwa River Press, 2004), a
collection of paddling poetry by Peter Gilchrist,
Peter Karwacki and Ken Corbett. Gilchrist has
won awards for poetry and photography in the
Net Poetry and Arts Competition. His moving
narrative, The Gift, which appears in print for
the first time here, was another one of the three
co-winners in our on-line contest.
Karen Godson says that she is a 40-year old
poet from Toronto, Canada. “Having survived
breast cancer seven years ago, she is now living
life to its fullest and using the power of her
words to make a difference. Karen writes about
love and life as a lesbian. Her anti-war and
women’s rights poems speak with conviction,
while her environmental poems shake their fists
at the ignorant abuse of the planet.”
D.L Grothaus is a police officer in Boise, Idaho,
USA. After a career in law enforcement for 30
years, he says he can think of nothing he likes
better than being a “street cop.” He writes: “In
my work I meet people from every segment of
society. I find each comes from different
circumstances, but struggle with nearly the same
difficulties in life. All are equally interesting.
My wife of 31 years, Shirley, and I have a small
farm at the desert’s edge, where we raise cattle,
most recently Highland Cattle. My heritage
includes Scottish culture. I play Highland
bagpipes in two pipe bands, including the City of
Boise Police Pipe and Drums, which I helped to
form. I write about the people and things that I
see from my own experiences. In my poetry, I
strive to paint a complete picture in the mind’s
eye of my reader, in 14 or so lines.”
Keith Holyoak, Ph.D., is a professor of
psychology at the University of California, Los
Angeles. He has published over 150 papers and
books. He received a Guggenheim Fellowship,
and is a Fellow of the American Association for
the Advancement of Sciences and the American
Psychological Association. His poems have
been published in literary magazines including
The London Magazine, Envoi, Candelabrum Poetry
Magazine, The Lyric, Red Rock Review and Edge City
Review. The Happy Trout first appeared in The Lyric,
2003; 83:2:58. Prof. Holyoak says that in
addition to Yeats, Frost and the landscape of the
Pacific Northwest, he has been influenced by the
classical Chinese poetry of Li Bai and Du Fu,
which he has translated.
I.B. (“Bunny”) Iskov is Editor of the Outreach
Connection newspaper, sold by the homeless and
unemployed in Toronto, Canada. She is the
founder of the Ontario Poetry Society.
(www.mirror.org/tops) Her work has been
published by the Canadian Mental Health
Association, and it has appeared in numerous
literary journals and anthologies. Her most
recent collection of women’s poetry (co-edited
with Katherine L, Gordon and Misty Elliott) was
published by Black Moss Press. Iskov says that
her other interests include needlepoint and Tarot
card reading. The Sea of Silence, which appears in
this collection, was inspired by reading Obasan by
the celebrated Canadian novelist, Joy Kagawa. It
was previously published in After the Rain, ed. by
Vanna Tessier, Snowapple Press, 2000.
Tan Kar-hui is a 22 year old student who lives
in Malaysia. Our most distant correspondent to
have his work included in this Canadianpublished
collection has been writing poetry for
about two years. He says that he prefers to write
about romantic and nature subjects. His other
interests include swimming and archery.
149

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
Adrienne Kurtz is another 22 year old college
student, who lives in the State of Maryland, USA.
She says, “I started writing poetry in the sixth
grade. Nature is my inspiration. My future goals
include working in the U.S. park service, where I
can spend time outdoors and write poetry on the
side. My poem, The Other Side, came from the
realization that people often aren’t satisfied with
what they have achieved, looking towards others
for the perfect, unattainable life.” This poem
first appeared in a self-published collection in
2001.
Albert Lawrance, Ph.D. is a respiratory
therapist who holds a doctorate in Physiology.
He has traveled extensively, practicing his skill in
the far corners of the world. He has been
writing as a hobby for many years. “Poems
about heartache came naturally,” he says, “as I
seemed inclined to meet such a fate on more
than one occasion. However, as with my poetry,
there is hope for discovery and recovery …”
And, we should say, a good chance for laughter,
too. Dr. Lawrance’s wry sense of humor shines
in his deliberately terrible Edinburgh – a clever
parody of a typically wretched work by
Scotland’s infamous 19 th Century “Baird of
Rubbish,” William Topaz McGonagall.
Nancy Lazariuk is a yoga teacher, who says
that she loves rhyme. She has been
concentrating on children’s poems lately, of
which her Halloween poem, A Chance Just to Be
Me, is an excellent example. She writes: “Had a
few months free last autumn, so I sat down in
front of the computer and started typing. A
children’s novel popped out (Amy Sylvester and the
Fairly Wisdom) along with several short stories.
Then came poems and more poems. I try too
write out of joy and fascination rather than from
external influences and pressure.
Wayne Leman says, “I grew up in a commercial
fishing family in Alaska. Both my father and
mother gifted me with a family environment that
focused on words – words in different languages,
attentive word usage, and word play. Since 1975
I have used that verbal heritage working as a
linguist for the Cheyenne Indians of Montana
and Oklahoma. From time to time I write poetry.
I like what poetry does to me, calming me,
helping me see beauty in life that I might
otherwise miss because I work too hard. I prefer
writing poetry in a neoformal style. My wife and
I have four children, who came as two sets of
twins. We have five grandchildren.” His poems
were previously printed in a self-published chap
book, Morning Song.
Jonathan Levitt, who was born and raised in
Montréal, Québec, Canada, usually writes his
poems and short stories under the nom-deplume
“Max Waxman.” However, because he
had become the proud father of newborn son
Lucas by the time this anthology went to press,
Mr. Levitt (Sr.) preferred to use his real name
for his family-oriented poem, The Waiting Game.
His other hobbies include photography and
visual media production.
Eric Linden writes: “The year 2004 will see 58
bones in the bag, still slim and fit. British
Columbia, Canada has been home for most of
my life After high school I roamed and rambled
a few years before getting my trades qualification
in the electrical field. This career has provided a
variety of experiences in diverse regions of
Canada’s Provinces and Territories. Writing
poetry started seriously in 2001, following a
fascinating trip to Hong Kong. Before that, I
had written advertising and travelogues, having
acquired some writing knowledge from seminars
and courses at colleges. My work is featured on
the Internet, in the UK (Poetry Life and Times),
and in several Canadian publications produced
by Richard Vallance of Ottawa. Soon, I hope to
have a book in print, containing sonnets, ballads
and more.”
Irene Livingston is one of the most
“decorated” poets in this collection: in 2001 she
received Canada’s prestigious Leacock Prize for
Poetry; and she has won and placed in many
other poetry contests in Canada. She says that
she was a teacher in her younger years. She is
the mother of three daughters. She began
writing for children in 1996, and in 2003 Tricycle
Press published her picture book, Finklehopper
Frog, which won the Oppenheim Gold Book
Award. In 1998 Ms. Livingston began writing
adult poetry and prose, which has now been
published in Canada, the USA, England,
Australia and New Zealand. She has completed
a novel, Naked in a Glass-Blue Lake, a poetry
150

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
collection Invitation to the Trance, and a short story
series, Me and Frankie Down at the Bar. Every day
she’s out on her bicycle enjoying the mountains
and trees of beautiful Vancouver, Canada.
James K. McAlister is the youngest poet whose
works appear in this book: he is 11 years old.
He started writing poems at the instigation of his
Grade Six teacher at Trinity College School in
Port Hope, Ontario, Canada. Besides writing
poetry from time to time, James enjoys
mathematics, competitive swimming, making
music on the cello, violin and saxophone, and
playing with his sister Zara and his Guinea Pig,
“Coffee Bear.”
Neil Harding McAlister, M.D., Ph.D. (father
of James K., above) lives in Port Perry, Ontario,
Canada. He is a Fellow of the Royal College of
Physicians and Surgeons of Canada, who
practices Internal Medicine along with his wife,
Nazlin, a Family Physician. Co-author of five
books (with H. Dominic Covvey), McAlister has
published both non-fiction and humor in
professional and commercial journals,
particularly The Medical Post. Although trained in
science, he retains a love of the arts in his
hobbies: composing music and writing rhyming,
metrical poetry. Travel has been inspirational for
much of his work. A particular admirer of
Longfellow, McAlister maintains the Internet
site, Traveler’s Tales: Contemporary Formal Poetry.
He is the Editor and Publisher of this anthology.
Frances McConnel, Ph.D. holds her
Doctorate in English Literature. Recently retired
from the University of California at Riverside,
she devotes herself to writing. She was born in
Providence, Rhode Island, USA, and has lived in
other places including Alaska and Tennessee.
She now resides in California. She published her
first poem at age 15. Narrative and lyric poems
are her favorites, but she has recently begun to
write surrealistic prose poems as well.
Prolifically published, Dr. McConnel has two
books of poetry: Gathering Light, Pygmalion
Press, 1979; and A Selection of Haiku, Bucket of
Type Printery, Anchorage, Alaska, 2004. She has
published poems widely in such journals as The
Atlantic Monthly, The Nation, The Alaska Quarterly
Review, Solo, Mudlark, and others too numerous
to list. She also publishes short stories and essays.
Last year she won the Oneiros Press Broadside
Poetry Contest with When You Walk the Curtis
Tungsten Mine Road. Besides writing, Frances
loves to swim, watch movies with her husband,
John Peavoy (who teaches English at a college),
and hike with friends. Presently, Dr. McConnel
is working on a family memoir about growing up
in the chill of the cold war.
Mary McIntosh, at 84 years of age, is proud to
inform us that she holds another kind of record:
she is the most senior writer whose poetry
appears in this anthology. Born in England, she
has been a U.S. citizen for most of her adult life.
She now lives in Florida, where she says that “I
like it fine except for the hurricanes!” Ms.
McIntosh lived in Alaska for three years, where
it seems she acquired a taste for Robert Service’s
poetic style from the Canadian Yukon, located
right next door. And she does it so well! Service
himself would have been proud to have written
her rowdy narrative, The Ballad of Trapper McGrew.
Sharron R. McMillan informs us: “I am a
writer, and I run a Bed and Breakfast called
Hard-To-Come-By. I was born and raised in
Alberta and now live in Sechelt, British
Columbia, Canada. I have written poetry, plays
and stories for as long as I can remember. I
write about nature, social issues, my own
skewed view of things. In the 1970’s I suggested
that the local newspaper editor print a little
culture with the news. To my surprise he
accepted. This first effort inspired me to risk
sharing more. I have since had my writings
published in magazines and newspapers; and I
have won a few writing contests. I live on five
acres of forest with my husband, Ken, who is an
artist/photographer; and with our two goldfish
and two chickens. I have six grandchildren
under the age of six. I crochet, read, garden and
enjoy living a quiet, simple life.” Dim Sum was
first printed in Time for Rhyme in 1995, “a small
hand-bound booklet for a very limited
distribution.”
Chrissy K. McVay is the mother of a son and
three stepsons. She has been writing poetry
since the age of 14. When not writing, she is the
painter for her husband’s handyman business.
Their family recently moved to the mountains of
North Carolina, USA. Her first novel, Why the
151

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
North Wind Whispers, will be released by Neshui
Publishing in 2005. Ms. McVay’s other interests
include mountain biking, hiking, collecting
Native American crafts and attending powwows.
Michael Moreland Milligan is a
Shakespearean actor who has performed at
festivals all around the USA. He has also
performed for Shakespeare and Company, The
Cincinnati Playhouse, St. Louis Rep, The
McCarter Theatre, The Studio Arena Theater,
Charlotte Rep, The Manhattan Ensemble
Theater, and the Poor Box Theatre.
Favorite roles include: Hamlet, Benedik
Mercutio, Mark Antony, Romeo, Krishna, Tom
Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie (with two time
Tony winner Penny Fuller), and Murray Burns in
A Thousand Clowns. Michael’s children’s plays
have been produced at Circle in the Square in
New York. He has written several full length
plays including an adaptation of Jack London’s
The Sea Wolf. He is a graduate of the Juilliard
School where he received the John Houseman
prize. Michael was born in Westerville, Ohio,
USA; and he currently resides in Brooklyn. By
moonlighting as a Shakespearean actor, Milligan
hopes to achieve his dream of one day becoming
a full time professional dilettante.
Pearl Watley Mitchell is the eldest of 10
children, raised in the Southern United States.
She is a retired schoolteacher who taught every
grade from one through twelve. She says that
she taught “all subjects,” especially English and
Math, Adult Education, English-as-a-Second-
Language and Business College. She has three
children and six grandchildren. She was
widowed after 30 years of marriage to a loving
plumber named Pete. Mitchell’s hobbies are
reading, writing, grandchildren, sports, church
and mission trips to South America. She is the
author of Don’t Run for President with Skeletons in
Your Closet (Publish America: 2003). She has
been writing poetry since childhood, and she has
published some of it from time to time. She likes
to experiment with all forms, but prefers
conventional, rhyming poems.
John Nause, Ph.D. recently retired as a high
school Principal after a career of more than 35
years. His first volume of poetry, The Valley, was
published by Borealis Press in 1973. It was
followed in 1976 by The Last Snows of Winter, The
First Breath of Spring, a collections of poems and
short stories. He has published other poems
and short stories in a variety of magazines, and
he recently completed a novel, tentatively titled
Betrayal of Trust. Dr. Nause became involved
with theater as a high school student. He has
performed on Canadian amateur stages in
Ontario and Nova Scotia, directed plays and
written three dramas. John and his wife Dawn-
Marie live in Overton, Nova Scotia, by the
Atlantic Ocean.
Opal M. Norris is a freelance writer, stage
manager and professional storyteller. She was
born in North Carolina, USA in 1982, where she
currently resides while she works towards her
Master’s degree in Fine Arts. Her work has been
published in Tracing the Infinite, Expressions,
Voicenet Anthology 10 and Great Poems of the
Western World.
Michael Pollick’s work has been featured in
Mosaic, HART, Elk River Review, The Iconoclast
and Midwest Poetry Review, among other
publications, and in the political poetry
anthology, Will Work for Peace, edited by poet
Brett Axel. Writers who have influenced him
include ee cummings, William Carlos Williams,
Raymond Carver and Bob Dylan. Born in
Akron, Ohio in 1964, Pollick now lives in the
deep south of the USA with his wife Amy. He
currently writes content for an on-line content
provider service, and he hopes to continue his
poetry career with readings and workshops.
More of his work can be found at
www.angelfire.com/al/collateraldamage .
Sally Anne Roberts says of herself that she “is
a stay-at-home Mom with one daughter, Sarah
Jean. Her husband has been her loving soul
mate for 14 years. Sally has been writing for 30
years. Her accomplishments include over 20
creative certificate awards and ribbons for
writing. In 2003 Ms. Roberts had over 90 of
her poems edited and published in a chap book
called Confetti Leaves (Shadows Ink Publications,
(where all of her poems that appear in this
anthology were first printed.) All the hours, days
and years of writing to become a published poet
152

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
seem worthwhile as those memories blend into
her dwelling and she reads her writing to those
whom she loves.”
Sam Samson is a 17 year old student born and
living in Tampa, Florida, USA. She has already
been writing poetry for at least seven years. Ms.
Samson is the managing Editor of Synapse, the
literary magazine at Blake High School of the
Fine Arts, where she is a senior majoring in
Creative Writing. A chap book of her poetry,
Exit 44, will be published shortly by Yellow
Jacket Press. Her other interests include painting,
costume design and photography.
Richard Scarsbrook, of Toronto, Canada,
teaches, plays music and writes both fiction and
poetry. His novel, Cheeseburger Subversive, (where
Great Unanswered Questions of History first appeared)
was published by Thistledown Press in 2003,
and was short listed for the 2004 Canadian
Library Association Book of the Year Award,
and the Ontario Library Association White Pine
Award. Scarsbrook’s poems and stories have
been published widely in literary journals,
magazines and anthologies, and they have won
several awards including the Hinterland Award
for Prose, two New Century Writer Awards, the
Cranberry Tree Press Poetry Chapbook
Competition, and many others. More about his
writing can be seen at
www.richardscarsbrook.com.
smzang (pen name of poet Sarah M. Zang)
lives in the State of West Virginia, USA. She
began writing poetry early in childhood. She has
been published in an anthology, Poet’s Ink, and in
local journals. She won an award from W.V.
Writers for her collection Roots and Wings.
Robert Stampe is a 61 year old, born and bred
Canadian. He has been writing poetry, short
stories and magazine articles for several years.
Over a 35 year career in the world of aviation
electronics, he has lived in every geographical
area of Canada. A private pilot, avid golfer, poet,
and observer of human nature, Bob has a wealth
of experience, and a myriad of personalities to
draw upon for his writing. He is now semiretired,
living in the Okanogan Valley of British
Columbia, Canada. In recent years his work has
been published in literary journals, in magazines,
and on the Internet. In 2003, one of his short
stories The Chicken Express won the Larry Turner
Award, and was published in the literary journal
The Grist Mill. Notwithstanding his other writing
endeavors, he most enjoys writing rhyme and
meter (R&M) poetry. To say that his poem, The
Birthday Surprise, stinks is no insult! It was the
hands-down favorite of the Editor’s children.
Brenda Tate says: “I am a recently retired
English/Drama teacher living in Nova Scotia,
Canada, with a love of literature, music and good
jokes. I also enjoy writing and directing plays
for young actors. My artistic side is balanced by
an interest in fossil collecting, working with
horses and exploring the natural curiosities of
my home province. I’ve written poetry off and
on since my teenage years, especially formalist
work and narrative pieces. I was a finalist in the
Winnipeg Writers War Poetry Contest in 2003,
and Glimmer Train Poetry Open, Spring 2002;
earned honorable mention in the UAS
Explorations Contest 2002; and won the
Interboard Poetry Competition in May 2004.”
Zachariah Wells is a prolific reviewer and
essayist. His fortnightly literary column, The
Zed Factor, appears at www.maisonneuve.org. He
was born and raised in the Province of Prince
Edward Island, Canada. He has lived in Ottawa,
Montreal and Nunavut, where he worked for
seven years as an airline freight handler and
agent. He now resides in Halifax, for the second
time in his life, where he works for VIA rail as
an onboard service attendant. Wells is the
author of Fool’s Errand (Saturday Morning
Chapbooks, out of print) and Unsettled (Toronto:
Insomniac Press, 2004), a book of Arctic poems.
Aaron Wilkinson is the author of another of
our on-line contest co-winners, Prophet of Sod.
Wilkinson, who lives in North Bay, Ontario,
Canada, states, “I believe that the reign of free
verse should be overthrown. It's heartening to
see there are like-minded individuals who can
appreciate the value of ‘real’ poetry – and I'm in
the mood for a revolution! I remember the day,
in seventh grade, when understanding how to
measure feet in poetry kicked me in the head.
Ever since, poetry has been stumbling peglegged
through my head, and usually in formal
attire. I wrote Prophet of Sod after listening to a
153

New Classic Poems
Poets’ Biographies
Bob Marley concert and daring myself to stick
with the rhyming pattern the poem follows.” He
confides, “Truth be told, I was worried about
how it would be received by respectable folk. My
favorite poets are William Shakespeare for his
sonnets, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Samuel Taylor
Coleridge for Kubla Khan, Robert Frost for
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening and Alan
Ginsberg for Howl.”
Vincent W. Williams, poet, actor and artist,
writes: “I was born 67 years ago (as,
coincidentally, was my twin sister Kay). I am
married (as, coincidentally, is my wife Patricia).
We reside in Dubuque, Iowa, USA. After 31
years teaching theater and speech arts in college
and high school, my life has settled to a pretty
focus which finds me writing, acting and
painting. During Christmas seasons, my acting
partner and I perform my original script A
Christmas Dickens. Nestled amongst playful
banter, together we act Dickens’s A Christmas
Carol. In 2004, I acted the ship’s captain for the
History Channel’s docu-drama Ship Ablaze, The
General Slocum Disaster. I am also a professional
oil painting artist, having completed a ninepainting
series visually expressing the Biblical
beatitudes. I have written poetry throughout
most of my life, especially enjoying creating art
that would seem ‘out of reach’ and
‘impossible.’ ”
Cathy Wilson is the mother of nine children,
who has authored three published books of non
-fiction. She lives on three acres with her
husband, four children still at home, four
chickens, a horse, a goat and a dog. She likes to
write, paint, garden, cook, read, build things and
learn new things too.
154

New Classic Poems
Appendix A
Appendix A
On-line Contest Rules
155

New Classic Poems
Appendix A
Appendix A
“Contemporary Formal Poetry” on-line contest rules
M
ost of the poems that appear in this collection
were submitted in response to the following
invitation, posted on the Internet between
April and October 2004, soliciting entries for
Contemporary Formal Poetry’s first on-line contest. The
contest closed on 31 October 2004. Only one in six
(approximately) of the many submissions received
complied with all of the contest rules. The remaining
majority of poems that we received did not qualify for
inclusion in this contest, and were therefore declined,
even though some of them were potentially worthy
works within their own genres.
Poetry Contest
Formal Poetry only!
IS POETRY DEAD
If Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Robert Service, Keats,
Shelley, or Alfred Lord Tennyson were alive today, they
might have trouble getting a masterpiece published. Of
course there are brilliant exceptions, but frankly, we
think that the predominating free verse genre,
considered avant-garde in our Grandparents’ generation,
is getting pretty stale. We’re tired of pretentious free
verse that leaves the reader struggling to figure out what
the author was really trying to communicate. We dislike
choppy prose masquerading as “poetry.”
Purely to encourage the noble tradition, resonance and
grandeur of classical, formal poetic form, “Contemporary
Formal Poetry” is pleased to announce our first on-line
poetry contest. You may get a place to post your own
masterpiece with us on the Internet; you might even
win some money.
YES, PLEASE
• If it rhymes and scans perfectly, is easy to read, and
sounds good when read aloud, then this contest is
for you!
• AIM FOR A HIGH STANDARD. By way of
examples, we’re looking for the next great poet in
the formal, “Western” tradition – the next
Wordsworth, the next Shelley, the next Longfellow,
Rudyard Kipling, Edgar Allan Poe, or Coleridge.
• Within reason, we also welcome “longer” poems –
300 words or more.
• Ballads, narrative poetry, elegy, sonnets, epigrams,
villanelles, epics, odes, rondeaus, sestinas, alphabet
poetry, acrostics and other formal genres all
welcome.
• The genre may range from children’s bedtime
poems to gothic; from heroic to nonsense verse;
from “fireside poetry” to “cowboy poetry” – as
long as the work is formal in structure.
• If you expect to win anything, use formal
punctuation.
• If your poetry is serious, have something serious to
say. Think of Longfellow and the other “fireside
poets.” Aim for the big picture, the moral of the
story.
• No special consideration for youthful poets, but all
ages are welcome.
• Poems in English only. Contest open to persons of
all nationalities.
• Previously published and simultaneous submissions
welcome. In such cases it is the poet’s
responsibility to ensure that he or she has the right
to allow us to post their work on the Internet.
156

New Classic Poems
Appendix A
• Submit early, submit often! (Up to 6 poems.)
HOW IT WORKS
NO, THANK YOU
Poetry that is perfectly acceptable within its own genre
may not be right for this particular contest. Before
submitting, please check:
• No free verse. No blank verse.
• No “experimental” styles. No irregular stanzas. We
want only traditional poems in this contest.
• No haiku or other specialized “non-Western”
formats.
• Blank lines are for stanza breaks only. Entries that
are entirely double spaced, or written entirely in
CAPITALS LETTERS will be rejected.
• No doggerel. No maudlin, sing-song, “greeting
card” verse.
• No limericks; nothing scatological or vulgar.
• Stanza structure required, as dictated by the poem’s
formal type. Naïve, long series of rhyming couplets
without stanza breaks will be rejected, except when
such a format looks specifically appropriate (which
is rare.)
• Sloppy, irregular scanning will usually be rejected.
This is a contest for formal, metrical poetry – not
song lyrics.
• No forced rhymes or disruptive, clumsy
enjambments. No silly neologisms unless you
aspire to be the next Lewis Carroll. We want a new
Tennyson, not a new William McGonagall!
• Unless you are imitating a particular dialect,
ordinary spelling and grammar errors will be
rejected. Either APS or English spelling is
acceptable.
• Weird work that is that is simply incomprehensible
(and we have received some!) will be rejected. You
have to communicate.
• No erotica.
• Nothing racist, sexist or libelous.
• No religion, politics, or chest-thumping,
nationalistic bombast.
• No more “9/11” poetry please.
• No lyrics, hymns or rap.
• True, Robert Service used the occasional cussword.
But use sparingly and tastefully. No
obscenity.
• Confessional, “I – you” love poems may flatter
your partner, but we are not interested in your
personal love life.
• Please incorporate your poem into the body of your
email. We cannot open attachments.
• Entries that fail to adhere to the guidelines will be
rejected.
• Kindly identify yourself. No anonymous
postings. Postings by poets only: for copyright
reasons, no submissions by third parties are
accepted. Include your postal address. (In case you
win, we need to know where to send your prize.)
Please be sure that your return E-mail address (the
one that people use when they hit “reply”) actually
works! We have received several entries that lack
valid E-mail addresses to respond to!
• Avoid reliance on “fancy” fonts for artistic effect.
We convert everything to Arial font prior to
posting.
• If it is deemed appropriate for this contest, your
entry will be posted on this website until we decide
to delete it after the contest closes. There is no
“hard copy” publication.
• No entry fee. It is our privilege to receive your
submissions.
• You keep full copyright to your own work.
• We will neither critique your poetry nor explain our
decisions. Rejection does not necessarily imply
criticism: an entry may simply be inappropriate for
this contest.
• We agree: a poetry “competition” is silly. So lets
compromise: I’ll pay $50 (Canadian dollars) for
each of three winning poems. (Three different
poets – only one prize for any one winner.)
• Kindly be patient. If accepted, your work will be
posted here eventually. But this website is only my
hobby: I need my day job to earn the money to pay
for your prizes!
HELPFUL HINTS
Your poem MUST have a strong and consistent
rhyming scheme to be accepted.
Good scanning separates winners from
losers. Read your poem aloud: if you stumble over
an awkward, irregular beat, it needs work. Many
poems that contain good ideas are spoiled by
sloppy scanning.
157

New Classic Poems
Appendix A
Formal poetry generally requires formal
punctuation.
Most metrical poems need stanza structure, just as
short articles require paragraphs. The poet’s ability
to package related thoughts within stanzas separates
the wheat from the chaff.
A poem’s title should bear a meaningful
relationship to its content.
To learn how to write formal poetry, read formal
poetry. It doesn’t happen by accident.
Love inspires many amateur poets. Alas, many fail
miserably. We reject love poems that contain the
usual, trite clichés and boring, predictable rhymes
that have been worked to death by popular songs.
If you submit a love poem, please say something
original, say it skillfully, and don’t say it in the first
person.
SUBMIT!
Please SUBMIT your poems to the contest Webmaster,
neilmac@durham.net
Kindly include the password “wordone” (leaving out the
quotes) in the SUBJECT of your email, to get past our
spam filter. If it doesn’t get through the first time, please
try again!
All submissions that we receive will be acknowledged.
Thanks for your poems!
Contest closes 31 October, 2004.
Final entries will be posted, and winners will be
announced shortly thereafter.
158

New Classic Poems
Index of First Lines
Index of First Lines
A breath before gray streaks of dawn 62
A cry ascends from beach to seaside villa – 112
A lady of great beauty sits, 107
A painted moon hung full and high, its blush subdued, yet bright. 140
A savage sunset robed the silent wood 27
A tear for the sick 62
Against unyielding crag on storm-swept shore, 61
Allow yourself the privilege of a song 18
Am I a crazy man 72
An angry wind blows over me 46
An arc extends across the sky’s expanse 136
Are you really light as air Can you truly fly 52
Arms like trees, back broad and long 59
As bugle winds entice the songs of lore, 108
At a big hotel that I know quite well 17
August’s heat bows to September’s cool, 36
Back home the north wind howls and blizzards blow. 110
Back in the New World, outdated, old rubbish 79
Back when the world was still quiet and peaceful, 80
Beneath blue sun-filled skies, tall white forms gleam 74
Better walk slow 41
Black and gothic, 54
Call me a zealot for my strong beliefs, 104
Coffee mild, but dark as toast 16
Creation snoggles all my deeper think, 112
Dear Abby tell me what to do. 142
Dear Mr. Pound, I write 92
Detection, perception, reflection alone 27
“Did you know that she’s left” 26
Every year, around the time, 122
Four cargo vessels plowing furrows forward 98
From out the cold and under deep, 66
Grandeur crescendos 18
Had we but world enough and time, 121
He shuffled through the dust on blistered feet 94
Here up north the air is cleaner. 99
He’s always been distractible and loud, 109
Hey, I saw it 60
How like unto a longing heart was I 47
159

New Classic Poems
Index of First Lines
I found some cards you sent me 43
I stand before you, humbled and dismayed, 71
I wonder if Shakespeare was ever eighteen 37
If only I could spend my time in leisure, 115
I’m getting fat, this is no lie. 119
I’m sorry love about last night 40
In a tiny shop at the alley door, amidst the shadows deep, 91
In dragon days, on nightmare flights 78
In somber-hued cathedral halls 28
In the Mayas’ holy city 97
In this court, with mind entrammeled, 85
It is said that men and women are the same 44
It’s funny about humor, and the things that make us smile. 116
I’ve come to notice lately that around me things have changed. 88
I’ve danced in moonlight, dreamed in marble, walked a twisted road 24
Jar one chord, the harp is silent; 64
Lady of decay, 55
Learn to make the most of life, 25
Little pieces of the heart 39
Lost in an ocean filled with fear. 58
Love is a golden lie, a sacrificial rite; 51
Love is the child 31
Man’s best companion, 21
MacKim and I stuid furth that day, 75
Miranda Jane is just the cutest thing. 89
Morning dew glistens 28
Must my poetry be deep 118
My Grandpa told me ‘fore he died, 138
My mower slices spine and then is still 58
My shuttle flies, my heartbeat knows 81
My skin is brown and leathered from your sun 106
My soul flies fast through marble azure skies 23
My wife and I came to this northern town 76
Mystery woman of northern spires 42
Now that we’re middle aged, 137
O, mortal man, please realize 86
Oh! Beautiful City of Edinburgh, 120
Oh Christmas tree the perfect size 125
Once on a bright midsummer’s eve 48
Our conference is winding down. 45
Remember back when, being young, you dreamed 82
Secluded rocks in treacherous straits 81
Segovia, guitarist widely praised, 126
Shadow of bird, 50
She sashays, cool and careless through my door, 70
She was caught between heaven and earth when she died 57
Small black fears tap-tap on windows, 69
“So esoteric!” cried the dismayed child, 23
So wild and free 135
160

New Classic Poems
Index of First Lines
Soft and lazy 124
Speak! speak, you ghostly guest, 130
Swirling snow flakes 86
The city walls pulse with the knowledge of soldiers’ fears, 100
The client’s rhythmic breathing relayed ‘round 38
The diamond drops of tulip sweat 129
The here and now is all we hold in times of joy and sorrow. 20
The morning sunlight shines upon me, 25
The night it was dark, the moon did not shine. 84
The owl sat 19
The sunset shatters on the lake. 128
The Thinker – he who navigates 96
The trout had much to celebrate– 22
The West is more than just a place. 105
There is a hint of storm upon the breeze 36
There’s many a tale of the Great White North 101
They call each star a sun 28
They burst around the river bend upstream from where I stood 32
They say that it’s a rage to order. 65
They say The Odeon went bust – 78
This child that grows inside my wife 135
Though a poem may be satirical, 114
Throw more logs on the fire, 63
To grow the Garden of the Mind 96
Tonight the moon is high, the water’s calm 109
Trails among the Navaho 77
Two wedding bands 144
Unhappy fate, so veiled with gloom, 56
We are the souls who dance on fallow page; 104
We never questioned whether we should wed 141
Well, here I go and write again. 143
When close of day stands shortly knocking hard 22
When I was born my only play 90
When I was young, I knew a man. He’d spent his life at sea. 87
When John was just a little guy 113
When the sun turns to glass, bright prisms will bow; 16
Where do myths and legends go, 89
Wind rustled crunching leaves 21
Yes, lead me to the water, 108
You gave me orange blossoms when I was sixteen 30
You see in me that fading time of year 30
Your tattooed stigmata are showing, my dear – 100
Your urgent, crunching footfall down the cinder running track 134
161