A temporary dwelling, built for my family and me
How could I build it, barely able to see
A palm-frond provided with sharp-needled stalks
How could I buy one, I no longer walk
Delicious meals prepared by my wife’s loving hands
How can I help her, I longer stand
Sweet, festive songs sung to melodious tunes
How can I sing, my hearing’s in ruins
I am so grateful, though dependent on others
My caring, devoted Jewish sisters and brothers
________________________________________________________________________
Notes:
In Israel and the world over, Jews eat, recreate, and sleep in tempor-
ary huts called 'sukkot' for seven days during this festival. The holiday
is named 'Sukkot' after these huts.
We wave/shake palm-fronds, myrtle and willow leaves in synagogue,
as part of prayers for rain (in Israel) in its season - i.e., after(!) the festival.
On Christmas Eve, we rushed to bed,
talking of a picnic on the front lawn
and cooling in the sprinkler.
As we drifted off, we dreamed
of mysterious presents on our beds.
I woke as the sun began to rise—
the room was cool;
an eerie glow spilled past
my windowpane.
Outside, the world was upside down:
a white scene lay where green should be.
My squeal woke my whole family.
We ran outside to build a snowman.
As the sun climbed higher,
his carrot nose slid to the ground.
For a little while, we saw
what lived on Christmas cards.
My childhood was both sour and sweet,
Sour because I lived with two mothers who were immiscible liquids,
Sour because of sibling conflict and strife,
Sweet because my brother and I enjoyed the company of communal friends.
Growing up on Apple Avenue was a memorable experience,
There was a large field at one end,
It housed a public school,
There were vendors on the field who sold indigenous confections,
My brother and I were their loyal customers,
There was a tree on the field that barely had leaves even during the rainy season,
We were told different mystical tales about the tree.
The highlight of one of the evenings was a bicycle race,
Chopper versus BMX,
The race was about which bike was faster,
In the maiden race, my brother was a few metres ahead,
The Chopper rider committed a foul,
He collided with the rear wheel of my brother’s bicycle,
My brother’s bicycle tumbled and he sustained injuries,
It resulted in a fight between rival groups.
The bicycle race was on hold for a long time.
September 25, 2026.
On a lustrous November night
Along each gliding way;
The thrill of my childhood beckoned
Into the woods that day--
Where in the hush so intricate
That pulsed lithesome yet clear,
I heard a dulcet voice singing
Only those pure may hear-
A jingle through fall's pewter leaves
A quiver through the boughs ...
Till a maiden fey drifted by
My, that was long ago
Did some young magic enthrall me?
I'll really never know !
1st place
The blue hills from the hazy horizon
undulated gently down the emerald gradient
of the rhythmic waves of the luring landscape
that carved the contours of the charming hamlet joyful
where my endearing home was once cradled,
nurturing me in the bounty of beguiling nature.
The fairy flotilla of the cotton clouds,
making seraphic celestial panorama, slid silently
upon the curved canvas of the sapphire sky,
where my childhood joy soared to great heights
with the colorful kites I loved to fly.
A gleaming stream of shining liquid pearls
flowed with flamboyant facade of silvery splendor,
bedecked our house with an ornate garland
of a lilting loop of embracing meander.
On its water I floated rainbow-tinged paper boats
that sailed with my mariner mind
to a distant dreamland of teenage fantasy.
The boats have disappeared with the ebb of time,
I live lonely with the reflections of childhood.
years of elder age,
youth memories and childhood
float up with neat ease!
I often reflect on my childhood days,
most days were spent quietly and quite alone;
my sisters death had left me in a daze and haze,
I smiled sweet- I did not speak, groan or moan.
I spent hours with dolls and teddys in my room,
writing fantasy stories nom de plume;
I often reflect on my childhood days,
my sisters death had left me in a daze and haze.
With sorrow and pen a poet was born,
time healed me ... though grief has ever been my thorn;
most days were spent quietly and quite alone,
I smiled sweet- I did not speak, groan or moan.
I spent hours with dolls and teddys in my room,
with sorrow and pen a poet was born;
writing fantasy stories nom de plume,
time healed me ... though grief has ever been my thorn.
It was the Christmas of all Christmas's!
Our great Canadian sanctuary;
Northeast Arms cabins up in Newfoundland
Wreathed in perfect white rustic winter charms.
In the crackeling of the fireplace
A warming glow and ambiance lingered.
Our family was whole and so merry
As we lived a great northern Christmas dream.
In a single room, our beds surrounding
A modest tree and not a gift in sight.
Then by Christmas morn there were gifts galore
A Rockwellian glow and children glad.
Though very young, the memory lingers
Beyond all others from those early years.
That Northeast Arms Christmas is clear as glass
A nostalgic reflection, crisp and dear.
Childhood anecdotes
will always be flawlessly polished.
A journey defined by growth,
actions, and ambitions.
Mentorship marked by love,
wisdom, and faithfulness.
Fleeting reflections on a time
we can never reclaim.
Reflections of boyhood horse rides upon the farm
homeward bound when we turned the horses head
The thundering of hooves as we galloped on the flat
the joys of pretending we were jockeys on a bay mare thoroughbred
The eyes were full of water
as the horse galloped, creating rushing air
Could also feel the turbulence
as it ruffled up the hair
We are coming close to home
we're full speed up a hill
Can hear the rapid breathing of the horse
Exhilaration! Another ride, never tire of the thrill
Suddenly our destination, we dismount
remove the saddle and bridle from the mare
She is relieved as she rolls from side to side upon the earth
Many riding stories throughout childhood I could share
Written: September 22, 2026, for a contest sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
*************
We were young enough to trust the light,
Courtyard dust and sea-salt sang at night.
Monsoon rain stitched alleys into sight,
Grandmothers folded dusk with quiet might.
Doorways breathed bread, bells rang in delight,
The world was vast yet wonder made it bright.
Time has taken barefoot hours in flight,
Still they bloom beneath the years in spite.
A vanished garden lingers in our sight,
Long after children forget their own light.
I sigh, remembering moments in time
Enjoying life in my younger years, just being a child.
I remember times living out in the country,
Surrounded by rows of young plants emerging from loose soil
And orange tree groves around our home.
I loved to sit or climb on their cool, dense, shaded limbs,
Extending and bending out like roots in the sky.
Temptation never failed to pull, peel, and enjoy the sweet, juicy oranges.
Or wash a freshly green top, an orange crisp carrot pulled from the soil.
The sun-glowing sea slowly moved toward the horizon,
Disappearing into the deep blues of the evening and the twilight hours.
A delightful flurry of fireflies would appear.
They drifted, glowing, an ethereal presence
With a delicate, rhythmic wing motion that made them appear
To float and twinkle among the foliage in the night,
Landing and perching among the foliage or on the ground.
I would run out into the high grass, in joyous excitement,
With a glass jar in hand to chase a whimsical scene.
I loved the feeling of joy watching them glow in flashes up close.
Whispers as I hurriedly pass them by.
Whispers that could really make me cry.
Those whispers filled my head with doubt.
I didn’t realize what being poor was all about.
Whispers about the clothes that I wore.
Whispers as if it was a crime to be poor.
Rumors were rife in the school yard.
Those whispers really did make life hard.
Invited to parties, I didn’t want to go.
All snickering. Did they think I didn’t know?
I knew bringing a gift of a potted plant wasn’t right.
Their whispers didn’t even wait till I was out of sight.
Whispers continued when I was a young teen.
The rumors got worse, the whispers were mean.
Slowly but surely, I overcame their sneers.
Learning to be proud of who I am, over the years.
Now and always in my heart I will keep,
Whispers from my Dad "We love you" each night as I fell asleep.
Reflections of reading poetry SK
At eight years old I read the famous lines
and spellbound, read each word again,
then I was there: I stood in snowy woods,
no longer seeing school and constant rain.
Finding a place to belong
in childhood's lonely song,
up on grandma's swing,
I fly high and sing.
Sailing in the clouds of blue,
finding joy so true,
supported by a walnut tree,
I am finally free.
As my friendless soul escapes
by the tangerines and grapes,
I sail from earth to heaven,
a boy of only seven.
Birdy, please, a quill to pen,
for when I'm back on earth again.
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