Original rhyming poetry written by a soon to be famous Dave Johnstone

Click a following link to read a further selection of sample Rhyming Poetry by subject matter.

Begin With A Selection of Original Rhyming Poetry About The World In General

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"If these written words touch one wooden heart, or bring a tear to one dry eye, then I'll be happy."

I have always scribbled notes down about my thoughts, even in the dark hours of a morning, using a pen and pad beside the bed. Whether it was a line of code fixing a software program, or an appealing piece of lyrical verse for a new poem. My latest note for the start of a rhyme was "I smelt the smelts", after the wife complained about the smelts I was cooking, but no complaints from the dog. A poem about the smell of seafood cooking will follow later.

And then today while revamping my website and I desired to place the words Famous and Rhyme on the home page, and this popped into my head:

One day a famous poet me,
with famous rhymes that all can see,
will my signage advise vital,
will my delayed famous title,
reside a tomb beneath a tree.

Having a cynical attitude and a sense of irony, helps me navigate through a World we have made complicated through: Religions, societies, empires, democracies, dictatorships, organizations, companies, communities, schools of philosophies, and economic systems.

Upon reflection I actually believe that writing a software program and writing a poem take on the same mental structure, I use the same methodology for each. Get an idea or be provided a specification, plan out the task, write the task, test the task until satisfied with the end result.

As a semi-retired software developer and web-site designer, my verse compositions have been an enjoyable change of pace (no deadlines to face). My poetry verses are my poetic expressions of my observations of nature (which many people ignore), and their poetic nature convey my humour and empathy with my surroundings, from the sea, to the earth, to the cosmos, and all life-forms therein (including those in other worlds). The results of my exercises with rhyming poetry and my memoir writing project are published on Amazon (see below).

My habitat is in Ontario, Canada (Lat. 43.4500° N, Lon. 80.4833° W). The following are examples of my endeavors in poetry writing, and I present these poems free of any great pretensions, especially in comparison to "my favorite poets". My poetry sometimes seems to exceed my expectations, but I then read the great poets for a reality check. Chapter "6.0 Poetry by some favorite poets" in Poems About Anything.

The selections of rhyming poems shown on this website are samples that illustrate my philosophies and style and will hopefully encourage the reader to explore my poetry further in my Amazon publications. All my collections were originally written between 1990 and 2019.

My memoir writing project was a scary experience as I had never embarked on such a large writing project previously. Publishing the story took a while and it was mostly the insistence of a great mate that got me this far. The story covers a period spanning the 1980's and 1990's, and reminisces on my experiences with a tremendous bunch of football (Soccer) playing mates. The details needed to be written or forgotten entirely.

My complete writing endeavours, including all my rhyming poetry, can be found published on the following links:

My memoirs, "A Drink With Mick Jagger", is published here: www.amazon.com/dp/B07MCMJZKT

There is a collection of a series of rhyming poems written when I was living in Zealand, and they cover many aspects of my life down-under, these were written alongside my memoirs. It is published here:
"Hemispheres united by Poetry": www.amazon.com/dp/B073BWTT8F

This was later followed by a collection of rhyming poetry called "Poems About Anything" relating to my life living back in Canada and it is published here: www.amazon.com/dp/B07NDHVVHV

A Mixture of Original Rhymes to start off.

My Snow Man Woes
At 4 in the morning it started snowing
got up to pee and thought of plowing
At 8 o'clock I went outside with a plan
Spent some time to construct a snow man.

A few minutes later a feminist
Wanted a snow woman she did insist
Which I built with breasts and no testes
She wasn't pleased I had objectified her with breasts to the knees.

A nearby gay couple started a scene
I should build two snow men on which they were keen
About 8:30 a trans person asked
Why not a snow person with switchabble parts.

The vegans at the end of the lane did deplore
Saying the carrot for the nose is food not decor
Minutes later a passerby called me a hater
Because the snow couple is white so I'm a race baiter.

Shortly after a Muslim neighbour made a request
The snow woman wear a burqa so she is correctly dressed
The police then arrived saying more people were offended
All my hard efforts ended not quite as intended.

The feminist then claimed that the snow woman should change
Broomstick removed as domestic roles for women is an outrage
About 8 :45 the council equality officer arrived
Eviction was threatened but complaints were contrived

Then a TV news crew showed up to interview me
I was asked if I knew the difference between each effigy
The difference between snow men and snow women are snowballs
Then I'm a sexist pig I now hear the catcalls.

On the 9 o'clock news I was depicted as suspect terrorist
As well as a racist, a homophobe and a sexist
I was blamed for stirring up trouble during difficult weather
But the snow was ideal sticky and light as a feather.

Later I was asked if I have any accomplices
Then my children were taken by social services
At 9 :30 far left protesters offended by anything
Marched down our street demanding my punishment for everything.

As I wonder what the moral is for this story
And why is it we have become so predatory
Using the doctrines of political correctness
The grievance culture uses this lever to suppress.
The Deer Mouse
When fall finally does arrive
We do the necessary to connive
So head off to the hardware store
Get some mousetraps for the garage floor.

With peanut butter the traps are set
By garage door where mice have crept
Each morning traps must have a check
Ofttimes a mouse trapped by its neck.

Pure white belly names a deer mouse
Now thrown to beneath tree in front of house
Where lawn maybe green or white with snow
But guess who spots meal a big black crow.

How they remembered this flock so free
From winters past they know this tree
Talking with hoarse, coos, rattles, and caws
Likely deciding who gets first gnaws.

They do remember as each day comes
To search for snacks to fill their tums
The white belly if upturned on green
Or brown back on snow shows fine cuisine.

The seed feeder swinging out back
Set for small birds that have the knack
The crows don't bother it's not for them
Wishing for meat beneath the bare tree stem.
The Shinny Hawk
Not many times will he hop upon the wood-pile,
not many moments before his short-time will end,
a shadow that bears down upon, scares, gives portend,
and moves, in deathly silence, with the reapers guile.

The Sun that shone and touched, withdrew its willing light,
those, with whom he played were quick borne, their gift, their eye,
saw the truth, and contrived a sly retreat, nearby,
voices of alarm passed from shade, did not incite.

Swift flows the wind, carrying the heedless message,
clasped in the fearful claws of the raptor, his death,
from the chilling axe is quick, under his last breath,
remembers: the sweet joys of fledge, remorseful rage.
Adjectives in their simplest form,
Like "big", "bigger", "biggest",
Display the standard norm,
With a rule so easy to digest.

But, for my intent and purpose,
This rule is simple to explain,
But as I dig beneath the surface,
Many exceptions just remain.

To plainly state a difference,
I simply add "er",
And highest qualities pose no hindrance,
Merely add "est", I can concur.

Common sense will suggest,
That the superlative form of "bad",
Is without a doubt the "baddest",
Not "worst", so I've just been had.

Now with "good", "better", "best",
Irregular grammar rules apply,
I suggest "gooder" and "goodest",
Their reasoning feels so wry.

While "small", "smaller", "smallest" is fine,
But "little", "less", "least" is odd,
And "many", "more", "most" makes me whine,
Although "dark", "darker", "darkest" gets my nod.

As I wonder now who made these rules,
Which confuse me and astound,
I am not suggesting they were fools,
But English grammar rules confound.
Now that April is here
Now that April is here,
I hear the robin's happy cheer,
I see the daffodils in swelled bud,
While the worms turn leaves to mud.

I hear the drumming of the flicker,
Woodpeckers claiming their new quarter,
I see the sparrows gather straw,
Building nests past March's thaw.

I see the sun now sets past eight,
And cast shadows dark the gate,
Icebergs still float the rain-barrel,
Like ice-cubes atop a cider ale.

I see the juncos moved back north,
Forsook their feeders from henceforth,
I hear a chipmunk's alarming cheep,
Now arose from his slumbers deep.

I see the buds on the maple swelling,
Soon its heavy seeds propelling,
I see the geese-brood side the road,
Do not go near do not goad.

I see neighbors raking lawn,
Soon to hear the mowers shorn,
I see the rabbit's twitching ears,
Always alert to hear her fears.

I hear the peepers vocalizing,
Their readiness for socializing,
I see the bleeding-heart emerging,
Within days it will be surging.

I see the barbecue now groomed,
Grilled meat the air makes perfumed,
T-shirt and shorts ignore slight chill,
I feel the sun which creates a thrill.

Now that April is here,
I hear the crowd's happy cheer,
I see the Stanley Cup road is now begun,
In June the hockey trophy will be won.
The But, And, So, of Poems
Some poems of a certain kind,
are abstract feelings of the mind,
while other poems you will find,
are real events now left behind,
consider this in every way,
that poets write words that have to stay,
the written verse lasts past a day,
and compels who'd read, feel the play.
The Shower Caress
The water hot
and hair now rinsed
with soapy bot
A caress was sensed.

Gentle and cool
how faint the touch
fate is cruel
it promised much.

But warm air lifts
the curtain drape
with flimsy shifts
around my nape.

The Feather light
PVC caress
A touch so slight
the shower jests.
Rusting Cans
Detritus covers,
condom wrappers
from young lovers
rusting cans,
forgotten bike,
and waste from others.
Decaying boards,
skateboard junk,
worm-holed trunk,
broken cinder blocks,
tired chain saw mocks,
distracting eyesore.

Snow covers scrub,
past mistakes,
by mating fakes,
this ugly view,
un-inherited traits,
a deceased hub.
Masking jealous lies,
which irritate,
and imitate,
social norms,
destroyed by storms,
abnormal look.

New spring's veil,
with natures growth,
shiny jewel weed,
blackberry seed,
plus other Fall's feed,
hides quite a tale.
Shed long crashed,
rubble of years,
sheds no tears,
as attitudes change,
isn't it strange,
no body cares.
Mingle and Relax
I like to drink to mingle and relax
And forget about my life's small cracks
The pub breaks down a daily tedium
And thus provides a special medium
To socialise and get a little high
So easily done without a sigh
The only cost is a pricy beer
But the end result is a welcome cheer.
Gonna Wanna
I hafta write this verse
I gotta make it terse
And then I thought
I'mma gonna be distraught
If poems too long
Then I kinda done it wrong
And I'll wanna make amends
So lemme see how it trends
But I dunno how this issue ends.

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* Poems Concerning Nature

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A full selection of my poems relating to Nature as I see it can be found here:
Autumn Snow Flakes
Through the window I did spy
the first snow flakes,
those lazy wisps from veils on
above cool shakes,
that deceives with small white
and sells vain fakes.

From where the sun and clouds vie
with flush that bakes,
and coldness that will never shy
of Winters wakes,
while watching with duped eye
what ice veil makes.

The ground quick changes from
with shallow lakes,
the residue of this veils
as Autumn takes,
these gimmicks and melts on
to waste her baits.

This early warn went awry
as Autumn slakes,
our ancient desire to deny
the Winter breaks,
a thing mortals do decry
and speak-out for all our sakes.
It's snowing in the middle of May
It's snowing in the middle of May,
It's rare some folks do say,
My eyes don't deceive,
Is it a summer reprieve,
It's been doing this most of the day.

It's snowing hard after a fashion,
But now after much reflection,
My eyes have been deceived,
It's no early summer reprieve,
It's the parachute seeds of the dandelion.
Flying, highest, furthest, slowest and fastest,
Diving, deepest, steepest enduring the harshest,
Swimming, running, pursuing their prey,
Hopping, flapping and mating their way.

Squawking, talking, softly and loudly,
Plumage drab, lustrous, shown off most proudly,
Eating, drinking, with a diet most round,
Nesting with structures simple, profound.

Living, hottest, coldest, lands for the insane,
Laying, smallest, biggest, egg sizes inane,
Audacious, timid, gregarious and lonely,
Versatile, flexible, doing most ably.
Snow: melt, melt, melt, away
down the drain to the stream,
from the stream to the bay,
there you're seen another way,
and now the fish within you play.
Night Patterns
How do you know, what do they do,
Through the dark to scrounge and pose,
From ringlet tail to twitching nose,
Only they knew,
Why they came on cue.

How do you know, what they do think,
As they rummage by the cat who sat,
By back-door as if wanting to chat,
Only to hoodwink,
With a furtive slink.

How do you know, what did befell,
One of the clan that hops on three legs,
Unlike others neither climbs nor begs,
Only to quell,
What he'd like to tell.

How do you know, why they do keep,
Covered by darkness while they cannot rest,
From dusk to dawn they follow their quest,
Only to reap,
While the night does creep.

How do you know, what patterns are met,
With their routine walks in the neighborhood,
Around dark houses and through damp wood,
Only to fret,
If their lives are beset.

How do you know, where they do place,
Their tired bones during daylight hours,
Missing the hues of the fragile flowers,
Only to pace,
In that special space.
Now that April is here
Now that April is here,
I hear the robin's happy cheer,
I see the daffodils in swelled bud,
While the worms turn leaves to mud.

I hear the drumming of the flicker,
Woodpeckers claiming their new quarter,
I see the sparrows gather straw,
Building nests past March's thaw.

I see the sun now sets past eight,
And cast shadows dark the gate,
Icebergs still float the rain-barrel,
Like ice-cubes atop a cider ale.

I see the juncos moved back north,
Forsook their feeders from henceforth,
I hear a chipmunk's alarming cheep,
Now arose from his slumbers deep.

I see the buds on the maple swelling,
Soon its heavy seeds propelling,
I see the geese-brood side the road,
Do not go near do not goad.

I see neighbors raking lawn,
Soon to hear the mowers shorn,
I see the rabbit's twitching ears,
Always alert to hear her fears.

I hear the peepers vocalizing,
Their readiness for socializing,
I see the bleeding-heart emerging,
Within days it will be surging.

I see the barbecue now groomed,
Grilled meat the air makes perfumed,
T-shirt and shorts ignore slight chill,
I feel the sun which creates a thrill.

Now that April is here,
I hear the crowd's happy cheer,
I see the Stanley Cup road is now begun,
In June the hockey trophy will be won.
Hurricane Hugo (1)
Dark clouds scurry,
People in a hurry,
Hills turn to slurry,
The rain is the worry.

White capped seas heave,
Cars and people leave,
Hugo will thieve,
Belongings to retrieve.

Tall trees tumble,
Thunder clouds rumble,
Lampposts crumble,
Hugo leaves a jumble.

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Poems Concerning The Cosmos

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A full selection of my poems relating to the Cosmos as I see it can be found here:
A Rapid Cosmic Tour
Why on Earth do our motions cede,
while heavenly stars move so fast,
we cannot reach their greatest speed,
a very distant last.

Our fastest craft we can but boast,
ten-times the speed which our Earth turns,
while around our Sun we fast coast,
alas swiftness that yearns.

We can watch Milky-Way's bright light,
and watch therein our starry dream,
around its hub is one more flight,
each star in turn to gleam.

For we are bound within this sphere,
while we rush reckless past the stars,
a notion that gives thoughts of fear,
cause many shameless scars.

And while these speeds make our minds whirl,
one new dimension sees us soar,
our galaxy through space does hurl,
in a rapid cosmic tour.

A Rapid Cosmic TourFootnote: Regarding the movement of Me
At the equator the Earth rotates
at approximately 1000mph (1675km/h).

The Earth moves around the Sun at
approximately 67,000mph (107,000km/h).

The Sun wanders around our local part of
the Milky Way at approximately 43,000mph (70,000km/h).

The Sun is also rotating around the Milky Way
galaxy at approximately 483,000mph (792,000km/h).

The Milky Way is also moving through space at
1.3 million mph (2.1 million km/hr).

Plus or minus the speed of my motion,
whether by foot, car, train, or plane.
They shine among the brightest stars
though a different path they trail,
through ever present cosmic czars
while around their Sun's they sail,
among ten thousand lights on view
upon celestial spheres,
watch universes unseen glue
cement them with their peers.

Our life star's remnants gave for birth
the eight cool planets built from dust,
they failed to reach that reasoned girth
then naturally combust,
gravity's force played out it's role
within interstellar clouds,
while nurture be it's routine goal
accretions formed in crowds.

Formed five billion years now past
when our cool Sun began it's shine,
born out of cosmic gas and
swirling disk spawned out our line,
from microscopic grains so fine
colliding seeds mostly stick,
these accretions are well-worn signs
planets get this starting kick.

Spread across interstellar space,
this special force is not just ours,
accumulations leave their trace
greedy gravity devours,
from gaseous to rocky dense
planet growth is viewed as norm,
around hot stars, small to immense
while molecules transform.

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A Mixture Of Poems About All Sorts Of Stuff

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A full selection of my poems relating to the World as I see it can be found here:
Majestic tree - For Mom, Mark
Majestic tree most branches bare,
others with leaves abundant spare,
brittle and frail the dried leaves grip,
awaiting that last gracious trip.
The wind becomes the pruning knife,
terminating a fragile life,
as summer fades and fall arrives,
with taproot deep life may survive.
The buds of spring promised vigor,
what diseased pest was the trigger,
untreatable the pith withers,
layer upon layer by slivers.
Life's energies on the wane,
what memories within remain,

Epilogue: (for Mark)
The "Harvest moon" waxed,
unseen enemy taxed,
The "Cold moon" waned,
long dark winter nights drained.
Welcome; you snow so clean and bright
to start your time on earth,
wither field, bush, or road-side curb
your volume is not dearth,
we know not where your essence lands
imperiled by the wind,
your family of pure white flakes
be on this land now pinned.

Glisten; as cool sunlight pours down
to make your white forms glare,
intensity that does excite
dark shadows are not spare,
with piercing colours that defy
any palette that's so cloyed,
in the mind of shying artists
most eyes are quite devoid.

Gloomy; in non-winter seasons
warm rains wash spoils away,
wither field, bush, or road-side curb
the pristine held the sway,
all foolish man-made discharges
that harms natures estate,
are quick-borne to far flung places
while washed down through the grate.

Darkness; winter time's pollution
is caught within your pores,
these intricate fragile structures
now stuck within these shores,
but stealthy is sour carpet laid
turns white's to drabbest grey's,
disturbs a surreal winter scene
dull colours seek our gaze.

Helpless; the gloom absorbs more heat
melts that which used to gleam,
and whatever man disposes
drips slowly to the stream,
your pureness long since passed on by
slow-mixed with vented bane,
to confront the five great bodies
where wildlife will be slain.
If that was sleep
it was well done
from starlit midnight
'til the rising sun,
if that was sleep
it now has gone
from Tuis first flight
'til Moorporks first song.
Stormy seas heave,
bow waves hurry to leave,
ash gray cedes to emerald green,
froth precedes a disquieting scene,
pregnant sails beat,
wind whistles song complete,
seagulls add a shrieking chorus,
engine drone supports harmonious.
The Towel
The dog pissed on my towel, as on the line it hung,
Above was blue and below was green
And around his neck, my hands clung,
As fate, played out this comic scene.

The dog pissed on my towel, as on the line it hung,
I cleaned the stain of his straight hit
To purify the odium,
So relieved, as fate could have served a shit.

The unsoiled towel was re-hung, on the line again,
But a different place I get
Above was grey and below was rain
How crazy, as fate made my dry eyes wet.

The sky pissed on my towel, as on the line it hung,
A sodden, soggy cotton flag
And firmly my hands around it wrung,
As fate decides, not today to dry this rag.
Roadside Signs
"Road works" the sign did cry
The truth came clear on passing by
Slowing down and squeezing left
'cos a ragged hole the road did cleft.

So who approved the sign on view
If they traveled past the words they knew
That "road works" means that roads do flow
'cos ragged holes made the roads go slow.

If roads are meant to speed us by
not quite so fast as when we fly
then ragged holes fail travelers all
'cos "road works" signs imply "no crawl".

So next time a "road works" sign you spy
Don't take it seriously it promotes a lie
And no profanities from your mouth be spoken
'cos the road you travel you know is broken.

"Expressway" the sign displayed
Travel on it you'll be dismayed
At certain times it's but a crawl
'cos speed's so slow it will appall.

Who designed these "carriage-ways"
If they travelled on without delays
It must have been a midnight run
'cos a rush hour drive ain't no fun

If "carriage-ways" are meant to speed us by
not quite so fast as when we fly
then fast lanes fail travelers all
'cos "Expressway" signs imply "no crawl".

So next time an "Expressway" sign you spy
Don't take it seriously it promotes a lie
And no profanities from your mouth be spoken
'cos the road you travel is just a token.
The Cottage Window
The Internet is down: all is quiet.

The morning advances to display a carpet white,
the Winters first storms fall-out fright,
and cars, rocks, plants and most life hidden.

Everywhere branches clothed with new forged glass,
display miniature rainbows powered by sun's pale pass,
in the distance, crystal tipped skeletons glisten.

A rabbit's signature enters from the right,
disappearing under the porch planking's invite,
the soft snow footprints are filled with darkness.

Hillside slopes dappled by winter shadows,
only to disappear up the cottage wall boughs,
for the sun and trees now cast obscure outlines.

Dancing wind blown billows fight the bitter air keenly,
blue sky cloaks the still quiet most serenely,
the ghostly movements of graceful smoke plumes.

The silver sun reflects off snowflakes drifting,
incongruous like a Winter mosquito swarming,
from distant unseen clouds that bore them.

Snowy grains like sea-side sands swirled,
colour change mirrors a beach scene unfurled,
the dunes formed against involuntary obstacles.

Giant white mushrooms sit atop the hill,
rocks musing over Winters low sun chill,
are silent sentries watching the hibernating valley.

Stark rows of flesh-bare fingers protrude the crust,
markers of a winding path long since trodden with trust,
across the slope from harvested garden to the house.

As the sun's warmth filters through the battens,
so much is viewed through randomly glazed patterns,
these etchings by Jack Frost melt on the window pane.

I spy a workman in bright orange danger-ware,
the phone rings, begging to be answered; the snare,
The junction box by the roadside fence-line is working.

The Internet is back up: busy again.
A Twighlight Beer At Sylvia
Blue turns to silver,
green turns to gold,
stars start shining,
the sun grows old.
Leaves stop quivering,
birds become still,
dogs start howling,
moon starts to fill.
Clouds start to fade,
warm turns to cool,
crickets chirping,
lava flies the pool.
Hedgehog rustles,
others turn to bed,
moorpork hooting,
prey scurrys with dread.
Silence is broken,
nighttime evolves
life grows bolder,
with a rhythm to solve.
The Firewood Tree
It's vigor never vain for sixty years,
Before the cuss made way for tears,
Withstood the Jays that sang their song,
The grand old tree that lived so long.

Now, under perches dead and dying,
Sat Louis looking up and sighing,
For he'd surveyed his firewood cord,
And eyed this tree as it's landlord.

His fire wood store from winter past,
Was rot and scarce and would not last,
Another winter like that just played,
And forlorn Louis was quite dismayed.

But soon his temper much improved,
The diseased elm had him soon moved,
To his trusty chain-saw and his tools,
To chop the giant by his own rules.

Stood seventy feet and girth most round,
Fuel to warm when on the ground,
But first a plan to fell it down,
From stoutly base to brittle crown.

A dexterous climb secures a rope,
Ensures its fall is down the slope,
At the other end a truck was tied,
If it fell askew then he'd have cried.

The wanted crushed with its great weight,
Man-made forms in a dreadful state,
So at last the fateful moment came,
The chain-saw cuts the tree to maim.

A wedge out front a slice at back,
And Louis thought of that massive stack,
Of firewood to last next year,
And fill his hearth with warmth and cheer.

With awing snap the giant cracked,
And fell in place where they had tracked,
All guided by the rope and truck,
It settled down 'mongst dust and muck.

Down the slope between some trees,
From seventy feet to about his knees,
The dried and brittle branches broke,
With a thousand sounds which awoke.

Those watching from stands above,
Saw the perch of the Turtle-Dove,
Surrender to the chain-saws mirth,
They heard the crack and felt the earth.

Neighbors in near house and lea,
Knew Louis had his want for free,
Yet hard labor was still to come,
For trunk and branch were mostly one.

It could not be moved 'twas no surprise,
So it was planned to hew to size,
And logs were hewn that each cut brings
A clearer view of the annular rings.

The tree preceded Louis birth,
And sixty rings lived in that girth,
What history was parallel,
Who was born and who did fell.

The chain-saw sliced with specious bellow,
Sawdust spat and turned grass yellow,
Thoughts were spare this enduring day,
For the roost where Owls once gave sway.

The log pile grew higher and higher,
As Louis efforts made him perspire,
At last the pyre was all cut through,
And the heating source was now anew.

But amongst strewn bark and sawdust lay,
Memories of that distant day,
When the tree stood proud, grand, and strong,
Before the pest did so much wrong.

And after all those decades flee,
Fire and smoke the vain memory,
And soon the last that will remain,
Be ash; for a new tree to sustain.
The Chickadees from Chicoppee
The Chickadees from Chicoppee
descend from nearby tree,
the smallest are the bravest,
it's a flock that feeds for free.

But birds that are much larger,
are quite far from the braver,
but their fear is overcome,
as it's free feed for the gorger.

While filling up the feeder
landing close to the seeder
cheeping a "hurry up"
or "thank you" from the 'dees.

The chickadees from Chicoppee
make nests in nearby tree,
in heat or cold they live close-by,
for their breakfast, lunch and tea.

They pull the hair from our dogs brush
material that makes nests so lush,
by mistake they've also tried my hair,
as graying locks would suit their lair.

Their friendliness is legend,
and every day they will descend,
while we barbecue our food we crave,
to their special bowl to bathe.
Squeezing cuddles, soft, delicious,
Prelude to dreams, tiredness, wishes,
Fondling all those forgotten places,
Back to backs and face to faces,
Legs entwined and arms embracing,
Nibbling lips are tickling, tracing,
Breasts and loins in unison,
Two at once become as one.
A Soul Without A Purpose
Like the heat with no direction,
Swirling plasma from a fire,
A soul without a purpose,
Like a flame doomed to expire.

Like a book with no beginning,
The story fails to unfold,
A soul without a purpose,
Is a plot that can't be told.

Like the sail that has no anchor,
Flapping aimless in the air,
A soul without a purpose,
Will drift and start to tear
Autumn In The trees
Confetti golden in showy drift,
Usurping blue sky with colour shift,
By disquieting, lifting, probing breeze,
Forced by expected autumnal sneeze,
Clothed branches, persisting, pointing bow-like,
Crudely sculptured to form a softened spike.

Leaves blasted to form a trailing wake,
Casting images like cymbal shake,
By covert prompting of unseen force,
Effects so arranged to nature's course,
Separating new from old in quick divorce,
Always aggressive showing no remorse.

Summers shade-cloth carpeting the earth,
Softly to feather nature's rebirth,
By eddying wisps that twirl and swirl,
Funnels of debris falling unfurl,
Gold swept into dunes randomly created,
Patterns of protection while winter's sated.

Skeletons shaped by seasons past,
Bent, arched, stripped from first to last,
By piercing winds defied by structures grand,
Whistling tunes whose harmony withstands,
This early sign of winter's prized intent,
Nature's caution has been chillingly sent.
Act your age
We were told as kids
As we turn each page
And go on the skids.

When we've aged
Can we turn back time
With feelings un-caged
Back into our prime.

Act your age
Life's passing us by
Youth is not the rage
Each age is worth a try.
It Cannot Last
He found a girl who became his wife,
They were in love supposed for life,
They made a vow in front of people,
In a building with a steeple,
The oath was sacred from their creed,
Not to be broken only heed.

Many years pass with some temptation,
Their honour is kept with elation,
With empty nest the syndrome starts,
The crisis was she broke his heart,
That something else she was searching for,
In another's arms the chance she saw.

The bond is frail sometimes it breaks,
The marriage vow is what's at stake,
Is there more to life than all of this,
Nothing achieved but marriage bliss,
The grass is never greener that's for sure,
Hope starts anew with fresh adore.
The pressures of life are much too strong,
Romance can't last twenty five years long.
The little waves
Have bigger waves
Underneath to ride on,
But bigger waves
Ride bigger waves
Caused by wind and sun.
Untimely Death
You lived so near
Now thoughts travel far
Fond memories
Distance cannot mar,
Your epitaph
A heavenly star
And in my soul
A jagged scar.
You lived so near
Until the bizarre.
Vanity we play your game,
Age is passing by,
Furtive glances,
Touching chances,
Youth now tempts a try.

Mini skirts and sexy clothes,
Blemishes no more,
Uplifted tits,
Hide saggy bits,
Youth again restore.

Single bars and places,
Where others can be met,
At first a wink,
Then bought a drink,
Youth again to get.

Exchanging looks across a room,
There find some welcome smiles,
At first a struggle,
Then a kiss and a cuddle,
Youth again beguiles.

The ego was uplifted,
To one-self we've lied,
It won't last,
It's in the past,
Youth again was tried.

Vanity we played your game,
Age has passed us by.
Youth no more,
That we'd adore,
Each age should temp a try.
Opinions Today (2018)
The silent tongue does lose one sleep,
From dusk 'til dawn the time does creep,
While the empty hours are filled with dreams,
Push back boundaries explore new seems.

Contriving diverse as active minds will,
The sense that's there can never be still,
Then how will anyone truly explain,
The meaningful thoughts within one's brain.

But silence has one convincing trait,
That truth divulged will encourage hate,
So silence therefore comes from fears,
That speaking out will increase more tears.

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A Selection of Poems by Some of My Favourite Poets

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A full selection of my poems relating to the everything and anything can be found here:
Agreeable Quotes:
They that but now, for honor and for plate, Made the sea blush with blood, resign their hate. --- WALLER.

The time wasteth night and day. --- CHAUCER

"Nobody has ever noticed a place except at a time, or a time except at a place." --- MINKOWSKI

O loss of sight, of thee I most complain! --- MILTON.
The half-moon westers low,
(A. E. Housman)
The half-moon westers low, my love
And the wind brings up the rain
And wide apart lie we, my love
And seas between the twain.

I know not if it rains, my love
In the land where you do lie
And oh, so sound you sleep, my love
You know no more than I.
The Convergence Of The Twain
(Thomas Hardy)
In a solitude of the sea
Deep from human vanity,
And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.
Steel chambers, late the pyres
Of her salamandrine fires,
Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.
Over the mirrors meant
To glass the opulent
The sea-worm crawls - grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.
Jewels in joy designed
To ravish the sensuous mind
Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.
Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear
And query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?"
Well: while was fashioning
This creature of cleaving wing,
The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything
Prepared a sinister mate
For her - so gaily great -
A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.
And as the smart ship grew
In stature, grace, and hue
In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.
Alien they seemed to be:
No mortal eye could see
The intimate welding of their later history,
Or sign that they were bent
By paths coincident
On being anon twin halves of one august event,
Till the Spinner of the Years
Said "Now!" And each one hears,
And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.
The Darkling Thrush
(Thomas Hardy)
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fevourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
The Charge of the Light Brigade
(Alfred Lord Tennyson)
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
No Man's Land
(James H. Knight-Adkin)
No Man's Land is an eerie sight
At early dawn in the pale gray light.
Never a house and never a hedge
In No Man's Land from edge to edge,
And never a living soul walks there
To taste the fresh of the morning air;
Only some lumps of rotting clay,
That were friends or foemen yesterday.

What are the bounds of No Man's Land?
You can see them clearly on either hand,
A mound of rag-bags gray in the sun,
Or a furrow of brown where the earthworks run
From the eastern hills to the western sea,
Through field or forest o'er river and lea;
No man may pass them, but aim you well
And Death rides across on the bullet or shell.

But No Man's Land is a goblin sight
When patrols crawl over at dead o' night;
Boche or British, Belgian or French,
You dice with death when you cross the trench.
When the "rapid," like fireflies in the dark,
Flits down the parapet spark by spark,
And you drop for cover to keep your head
With your face on the breast of the four months' dead.

The man who ranges in No Man's Land
Is dogged by the shadows on either hand
When the star-shell's flare, as it bursts o'er head,
Scares the gray rats that feed on the dead,
And the bursting bomb or the bayonet-snatch
May answer the click of your safety-catch,
For the lone patrol, with his life in his hand,
Is hunting for blood in No Man's Land.
The Soldier
(Rupert Brooke)
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
The Tyger
(William Blake)
Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wing dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

On what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart
And when thy heart began to beat?
What Dread hand? And what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp?
Done its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger Tiger burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
(Edward Lear)
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat;
They took some honey, and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,

"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl,
How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh! let us be married too long we have tarried;
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the bong-tree grows;
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Do not go gentle into that good night
(Dylan Thomas)
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
The White Birds
(William Butler Yeats)
I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.
A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose;
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam: I and you!
I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore,
Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more;
Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be,
Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea!.
Home From Sea
(A. E. Housman)
Home is the sailor, home from sea
Her far-borne canvas furled
The ship pours shining on the quay
The plunder of the world.

Home is the hunter, home from the hill
Fast in the boundless snare
All flesh lies taken at his will
And every fowl of air.

'Tis evening on the moorland free
the starlit wave is still
home is the sailor from the sea
the hunter from the hill.
Maud Muller
(John Greenleaf Whittier)
AUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadows sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."
He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleasant surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away,
Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah, me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!
"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
"My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.
"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
"And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:
"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
"But low of cattle, and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go:
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain,
"Ah, that I were free again!
"Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: "It might have been!"
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!
18th Sonnet
(William ShakesPeare)
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
In Flanders fields
(John McCrae)
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead, short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields In Flanders fields
And now we lie In Flanders fields

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch, be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields In Flanders fields
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields In Flanders fields

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Kitchener/Waterloo, Ontario, Canada.

My memoirs, "A Drink With Mick Jagger" is published here: www.amazon.com/dp/B07MCMJZKT
A full collection of my poems "Poems About Anything" is published here: www.amazon.com/dp/B07NDHVVHV

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