Poetry for the Basses

 Don't worry--- coming soon,  Poetry  'shorts' by Charlotte Broadfoot 

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Oh look! Finally! A couple of 'mopes', I mean poems,  have washed up on the beach . I'm afraid the rocks will continue to be littered with further 'refuse'  but look at it like beachcombing for interesting driftwood---you might actuallly find a good 'driftword' amongst the flotsam ...

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This one is an homage to the 100th anniversary of the end of WWI, in which some of my extended family served...

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A Day at the Beach

 

Old Black and White images

Curiously well defined

A sunny day , the characters lined up in a row

On shore

There my Mother , aged 10 I think

Cockily holding a stick staff

With her Mother and Father

In the background looking young-old

They are all in swimming costumes

Of the early 20’s

And the sandy strip is Woodland Beach

On Georgian Bay, not far from Wasaga

Few cottages in those days

But theirs,

A square cut log one with French Windows

Enjoyed afterwards down the generations to the 1960’s

When sand was traded for Muskoka rock.

But in this timeless moment

Fresh faced boys seem hardly touched by

The Great War just past .

And yet , one is missing an arm

And the other , also in the trenches

Skeletal , missing body bulk

(And in fact  a life time alcoholic)

My mother’s sister demurely in the shadow

Of her handsome American cavalry soldier

He the old married curmudgeon by the time I knew him

But an attractive man without a care on that beach

In that time

All happy to be alive,  no doubt

Except the wounded one

Bearing inward scars with his evasive expression

One of the group but private sorrow

Ostracizing him

(Twenty years down the road though,

A successful land developer

In Etobicoke, home in ‘toni’ Rosedale)

My mother’s younger brothers

Youthfully insensitive, caught forever laughing

Untouched by war

At home , while their elders were off,

Away in Hell.

This family photo seems incongruous

A bright day at the beach

Sun bathed sandy shores

No hint of evil except in the

Vague and haunted eyes of some

Who can’t forget.

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Currently in March, this one is an ode to frustration!

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March, In Like a Lion

 

Snow may be melting  but still the Wind howls

It’s not done yet

Tormenting , shaking the ruff of its mane instead

Bending the trees and waking the dead

Winter’s debt

Not fully collected, ask the fowls

Floating in the icy shallows.

 

Buds are too afraid to open

Branches whip and knock their bark

Animals  seek refuge close to ground

None make any sound

Warmth and calm is all they pray

The back of Winter may be broken

But Spring is hardly yet bespoken.

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Here's a wry look at Life in General , in  5-7-5 rhythm . Each stanza can pretty much stand alone...

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Devil in the Detail                                                                      

 

As an Elder now                                                                      

Looking back is more frequent                                           

Than looking forward.                                                           

 

Obituaries                                                                       

Are scarce a paragraph long                                                 

But years in the script                                                           

 

Important events                                                              

Stand out against the fog of                                               

Diminishing thought                                                          

 

But see the devil                                                               

In the mound of minutiae                                                 

Cocooning the crux                                                     

 

Of our true being --                                                                

Days and years of routine toil                                    

Forgotten and blank.                                                           

 

Surely each moment,                                                           

Witness to longevity                                                         

Deserves like recall ?                                                           

 

But only a fraction                                                               

Of worthwhile  events present                                       

Bursting forth like Stars 

                                                      

In our firmament                                                                    

A life’s flotsam  receding                                                

With the speed of light                                                                 

Current- borne away                                                              

Far from deep introspection                                              

Unremembered   

 

 

'Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know'---- Lord Byron couldn't have been all 'Cad'; he wanted to be buried with his dog ! So, move over Lord B! In the same vein as your Ode to Boatswain (a Newfoundland  Dog) here's one  for a (or many) best beloved(s) too:

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ODE TO TRAVIS-- PURE BLACK SHEPHERD X:                                     Companion and Sentinel

 

 

O SHADOW  of my every pace,

Stargazer ever inward of my face,

Full of LOVE and full of GRACE,

Lighting e'en a sunless place...

 

I crave resign-ed-ly a longer taste—

The Angelic qualities personified

In all your race.

Alas, the years depart in haste,

And time alone, is such a waste.

 

Down the millennia

I might have chased,

Through all the universe

And galaxies of space,

But in the end, this IS the case---

All eternity cannot efface

Nor other ‘loves’ equally chaste,

The Treasured memories, erase.

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And now, for 'Something Completely Different'  (a la Monty Python)  :)

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A Love of My  Own                

 

                                                       

The annual family picnic,

Fashionistas milling around--

Alas uncles, cousins, kiddies,

And abominable in-laws abound.

Uncoupled I am, Single White Female

A target ripe for abuse:

“Where’s the boyfriends,“  they cattily rail;

“Came to their senses? Cut ya loose?”

I go on the attack, smirking away;

“I do have a love as it happens,” I say.

An eyebrow cocks, a giggle or two

A hee-haw, a guffaw, a chorus: “Yeah, WHO?”

Quick to think on my feet, I don’t miss a beat.

“Sag N. Hammock,” I reply (without batting an eye);

“A tree hugger type, we clicked at random

Swept off my feet, swingers in tandem.

A blessing (confessing my questing’s complete),

So aptly suited—so dreamy, so sweet!

Strong fiber…umm…character (I quickly revise),

The wind in my sails,” I smugly advise.

“Whether choosing to snooze,

Or carousing with booze,

Doesn’t ask much of me in return

But together, whenever, we do a slow burn.”

Mouths agape, questions flowing

I demurely resist, refrain from crowing,

Walking away with a bounce in my step--

That ought to hold ‘em for this year, Aye Yep.

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It is hard to believe that my father died over 40 years ago yesterday, July 11th. Here is an

In Memorandum based on a real incident...

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The Power of a Book

                                                                                                    

 

I was five,

Barely alive,

But six decades later, I still recall

The dawning of my love for books

And how I perched on sofa’s edge,

Beguiled and enthralled

Thoroughly hooked on,

John James Audubon.

 

I was dimly aware

That my father sat quietly,

His facial expression,  rare and bare;

Watching me intently, settled back in His Chair,

Newspaper in hand but momentarily forgotten.

I’m sure he could see what the book had begotten--

A sense of wonder, what imagination had wrought

Just from a book that he’d casually bought.

 

Lost in my fascination,

Running my small hand o’er the pages

The large heavy book balanced on my knees.

‘Be careful with that' urged my father’s pleas;

'Turn the page from the corner,

Slowly, and mind,

If you rip it when you flip it

That will be the only time,

Until you’re older and able.’

 

How that stung my youthful ears

To hear my father’s fears.

I wasn’t a child, in my thoughts at least

To infer such, even in jest …?

Well, determined was I, to put that to rest.

 

The words were stern as he sometimes was

But he didn’t come over and remove it because

I practiced turning the leafs as he said.

He, satisfied, nodded to ‘go on’ instead.

And I, I felt imbued with a new feeling- respect-

As I slowly turned from one sheet to another

Basking in the approval of my father.

 

My eyes focused minutely on the pages

Took in every detail

The wonder of creativity, fetal;

Storing in my brain and

In my small childish heart

The kernel of a lifetime’s love for art.

And in the corner of my eye

My father’s cardigan, a whispered sigh

As he left me to my maiden voyage.

 

Amazing it was,

The colours, the hues

The drama portrayed

In scenes oft times scary

(Dead rabbits and things)

Or bright and airy,

Graceful birds on the wing.

It was dazzling to see

And I sensed as I pored,

Totally absorbed,

That my father was proud of me.

 

Tracing the artist’s own lines with my fingers,

Not able to read any of the text

I couldn’t wait to see what was next.

The pictures told a thousand words;

My interest captured, merged and surged.

Perhaps I wondered even then

If I might myself, in future rend

Some art akin.

 

With this one episode,

I stepped upon the road

To discoveries of every kind,

The amazing expansion of my mind.

And yes, attempts at various arts

Perhaps not as masterful, but from the heart.

And when my father passed

That book came to me at last

Older, spine a little worn

In other ways a bit forlorn

But nary any pages torn.

 

For  James Sydney Broadfoot   

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'Tis the season,  December 2018....

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Late Haying on Christmas Eve

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The cold has a grasp

That would make your lungs gasp--

The wind a hellish banshee.

Snow’s three feet deep

But ‘late haying’ won’t keep

The duty’s left up to me…

 

On the hot fender though, I wiggle a toe—

Little inclined to get up and go.

Cosy and warm by the fire I am,

But two horses, a goat, thirty sheep, and a curly horned ram,

‘Fore bed, are wanting a flake or two.

No puttin' off tending that crazy, damned Zoo!

 

Have to wait on a hot cuppa tea…

First though should go and take a quick pee.

Then belting my pants, I calls to the hound

Winds my muffler ‘round and ‘round.

I throws on the ole woolen jacket and mittens,

(‘Membered soft food for them tiny barn kittens.)

 

It’s a wintry blast

That greets us at last

As I open the mud room door

(Pooch cowering on the bare wooden floor).

“C’mon you mangey beggar” I say;

“We got’s to give  'em that last bit of hay”.

 

Mow’s 400 watt bulb normally see,

But the swirling flakes  a-blinded me

I followed my feet well used to the route

Only afraid I might overshoot.

(A blizzard’s not something to fool with, folks know;

Been dozens of corpses found under the snow.)

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Old Shep runs ahead, disappears in the dark

Bounding o’er drifts, with a wag and a bark.

I struggle, head down, one foot ‘front  t’other

Asking myself : ‘Oh, why did I bother?

They’d surely last fine ‘til come early morn,

Could’ve fed ‘em at dawn on the day Christ was born…’

 

Frost done forming on the tip of my lip,

Fingers and toes tingly despite the short trip.

At last the snow- buried barn I spy

Relieved I was, no word of a lie.

A pinprick of light that gave me hope--

Confess to a snifflle; (what a dope!)

 

Impatient now, I fumbles the latch

Damned thing’s caught on the rusty old catch

A little more wheedling, door gave with a whine

(I must have secured it with a small piece of twine…)

Stumbling in, I stamp my feet

To the welcoming tune of a neigh and a bleat.

 

With their body heat and hepped up beds,

They seemed a’right, bobbin' their heads.

Sheep wanting grass and the horses some mash

I forgot ‘twas the night of their annual ‘bash’.

Shep shook hisself, circled,  then lay on a sack.

I found the makin’s behind the tack rack.

 

Mo-lasses, carrots and bran went into a pail;

Some oats and corn oil, all fresh-- nothing stale.

Whipped out the knife, cut big apple hunks

Then for good measure, some alphapha chunks.

Stirred in hot water from the one working tap,

Fine fettle indeed, (and the kittens got pap).

 

The stock  ‘peared happy with their Christmas Eve din

But I was ruing the trek back to the house agin.

On striking out though, now fully stoked --

Surprised to find the storm had broke.

Breath inhaled  , crisp and cold:

That at least hain’t got old.

 

I ploughed ahead,  Shep wove in and out

O Silent Night, birthin' doubt ...

I cast my eye to the heavenly sky

The twinkling Stars drew forth a sigh:

‘Am I truly one of a kind in this whole universe?

What be it then, blessing or curse?’

 

Finally I see ahead my house

No family waits, no kids or spouse.

The moonlight  pale as the coat of my goat

Led me safely back , to hang up my coat .

Hot drink in my hand,  hunched  by the fire

Nothing at this point seems particularly dire.

 

Shep’s all wet and smells a touch

Sleepy , settling on the couch.

I drowse a bit as midnight tolls;

And playing, Caroling tunes for tired souls.

No sugar plums loaf in this old head

Just an old saying that somebody said :

 

Where there is nature and beauty

Surrounding a home,

One can never, ever , be totally alone .

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Tax Time approaching ....

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Anxiety

 

Nails bitten to the quick

Feeling off and sick

Stomach churning

Forehead burning

Hair uncombed, unwashed

Skin saggy, red and splotched

Eyes narrowed, dull caste

Heart rate? Beating fast.

 

 

Tightness in the chest

 

Sleep less and no rest

What to do

Not a clue

Mind spins a mile a minute

Really, there’s no percentage in it!

Take a breath, relax, be calm

Unclench your teeth, your knees, your palms,

Deep breaths, NOW carry on.

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