A square building called Gilbert's Cove Lighthouse,
built way back in 1904 high above the water;
it was home to a man, children and spouse.
The cove calm but it could get white-water,
the red beacon guided boats of all shapes;
keepers kept them from the underwater.
Often rain would crash down like thick white drapes,
the children would huddle in real dread;
for 50 years the family enjoyed dreamscapes.
It was a lighthouse- a home white and red,
in time, it fell to decay and boarded up;
a Nova Scotia lighthouse and homestead.
But, a historical group did a huge cleanup,
now, museum and tea room pick-me-up !
A Gentleman.
An elderly gentleman sits on his porch rocking in a chair,
reminiscing the past and present times that really don't compare.
He fought for our freedom that today we all share,
that others have trouble accepting and weren't even there.
His life was not easy in his younger years,
and he worries today about the present-day fears.
He is proud of his family and the country he served,
but questions the greed and injustice that power has reserved.
He has always viewed killing and destruction as an arrogant feat,
that serves those conspiracy profiles that are willing to cheat.
His chair now empty, for he had since passed on,
as a tear is shared for this gentleman now gone.
Respect our elderly for your time will come, sharing memories of your achievements and a few that were dumb.
Peter J. Hurst. From Nova Scotia.
emerges from burrow
sunrays fade through graying clouds
early spring crocus
2/1/2022
Groundhog Day (Pennsylvania German: Grund'sau dåk, Grundsaudaag, Grundsow Dawg, Murmeltiertag; Nova Scotia: Daks Day)[1] is a popular North American tradition observed in the United States and Canada on February 2. It derives from the Pennsylvania Dutch superstition that if a groundhog emerges from its burrow on this day and sees its shadow due to clear weather, it will retreat to its den, and winter will go on for six more weeks; if it does not see its shadow because of cloudiness, spring will arrive early.
Mother Russia
Father Time
Uncle Sam's
a friend of mine
Chicken of the Sea
Polar Bear
Tropic of Cancer
don't want to live there
New York
New Jersey
Nova Scotia
what's new in this poem
~ I dunno
Through a Glass, Darkly
This first translation of an unwritten poem
By Jorge Luis Borges stands against
Invisible Spanish on the left-hand page
Sadly imperfect Anglo-Saxon reflex
Of pure anticipation fine suspension
Clear aperture though when this blurred mimesis
Of vision is erased the parable
Of vision will emerge like messages
We coded into lemon-juice as children
And held to candles where brown letters forming
Were artless alchemy but then these lines
That honour him who read in dark the volumes
Of an infinite library who will be writing
When his loved hourglass turns again to sand.
John Lingard
Sydney
Nova Scotia
2020
Portapiqué and all
Nova Scotia, you will hurt
For a long, long time
In deep sorrow of
What has happened in your lives…
Never knowing why.
Your burden is huge.
Yet, when you teeter…
We will bear you up.
W.C.Hull © 2020-24-4-H1374-
2484-I51-K51-6-L57-6
When fate’s hands joined together, pounding seas
A monstrous storm placed fishing boats at risk
I called to Billy, “Captain, listen please,
Turn ‘round, the seas are high and wind too brisk”
With six aboard who prayed they’d make it back
Tyne’s ship was seven hundred miles offshore
From Gloucester, Mass, where they’d begun their track
Much farther out than they had sailed before
October 28th I’d been at sea
But safe in Nova Scotia I then docked
The fate of Billy’s boat I could foresee
And rescue efforts we tried to concoct
With life jackets, the men were found adrift
And to safe harbor we gave them a lift
* Written December 11, 2018
For the “Movie Magic” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Gregory R. Barden
Written from the perspective of Linda Greenlaw, Captain of the fishing boat “Hannah,” to provide a new ending to the movie “The Perfect Storm.”
Wind ripped through the rigging blowing cold
Sheets with extended billows were stiff,
Unyielding, almost beyond their fold
Men struggled to reef them and knew if
Gale and mounting surge continued bad
There wouldn’t be quarter and peace as gift
For end of this wind they’d be most glad
Sleet, ice in halyards encrusted blocks
To survive, their skill was all they had
Again to see Halifax’s far docks
Tea for Scotia was stored in ship’s hold
Hands scambled down to deck from the tops
Wind ripped through the rigging blowing cold
Unyielding, almost beyond their fold
Place a pair of good eyes high, watch for distant freeze,
lifelines coated with ice, sails stiff unyielding sheets.
Make right, steer clear and take no chance our side berg meets,
Queen beats eastward across cold and rough ocean seas.
Ice floes play this rout I'm thinking - sure they don't please.
Great tea merchantman ties-up soon at iron cleats.
Most fleet, a new record time that far Scotia seeks.
She makes way where there lies frigid prevailing breeze.
Mate knows shifting box cargo's bad but pleased to see
hold's shipshape and here no danger lurks close this night.
Wheel's keen helmsman with eyes focused on compass face
keeps close view to retain course with ship running free.
Mean waves, easy as she goes, things are fine, all's right!
They'll be docking in nine days if ship keeps this pace.
When you're topside in the gallants
and you're lookin' up at waves,
the wind's ascreemin' madness
intent on many graves.
The mate has said: "Lay aloft!",
and Third was on his way,
you scrambled up the shrouds windward
and laid to right away.
Now it's one hand for yourself
an' one hand for the ship,
oft hangin' on by eyelash
to last this windswept trip.
We be iron men from Denmark
an' seamen everyone.
We bring this ship to Scotia,
no loss for anyone.
Now it's one hand for yourself
an' one hand for the ship,
oft hangin' on by eyelash
to last this windswept trip.
“700”
We stood upon a windy hill
The sky a greying growling mass
Amid a motely gathering
Of Knights and weathered fighters
Warriors old who stood wi Wallace
And led by Moray,s standard.
They wept when both had passed
Now ready at The Bruce,s side.
Hearts filled with nationalistic pride
They brought their tools of trade
Sickles and hammers alongside
Swords and pikes and targes
To fight and die glorious nameless
For the taste of freedoms wine.
The cry of freedom echoes
From village to distant hill
As The Bruce roars out a command
Raising the sword from Wallaces hand
Towards the massed ranks of heavy horse
Floundering in scotia,s mud
The burn it flows on turned red
With warriors life and blood.
...................................
Seven hundred years have flown
And as we stand again upon a hill
A choice has to be made
Whether to grow and flourish
To stay under anothers hand
Once again the banners fly
Under a greying, growling sky.
(to commemerate the 700th anniversary of Scotlands fight to be a kingdom)
BEAUTIFULLY BOLD
The purple angel facing the sun, so fair to look upon
has a tenacious grip on the moors; it roots secured.
With its head held high, it sways at ease in the breeze;
yet for puncturing thorns, surely, it will be scorned.
Never trained for battles, its winter seed pods rattle
defying each foe, flowering even in spring's white snow.
Its sharp spines bring tears, pricks equals to a sharp spear
to Scotia a dauntless brave, for their land was saved!
Like a woman defending her virtue, to any, she is bold to face,
yet, the angel as a lion-heart. Her words full of art,
bloom despite the pain, a greater beauty she attains.
Where ever she may live, this heavenly thistle will thrive.
This humble weed will prosper in the rich faithful soil she seeds
before the sun she and Royal Scotland have plighted their troth
__________________________________________________________________
***Inspired by the painting Thistle in a Field, by Fidelia Bridges 1875
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
January 19, 2015
~~This a late post because I have no internet connection for almost 5 days...
Hidden past the highway bend,
a bench clings to a shallow cliff
above a beach where banks extend
across the bay in sandy drifts.
When tides are low, the sea withdraws,
to flaunt the treasured ocean floor,
and anyone can walk across
the sand to reach the other shore.
With green paint peeling like old flesh,
the bench is baked in salt and sun.
Remember when the paint was fresh,
and in your arms I came undone?
From here, we watch the water snag
in grooves of sand like buried mirrors.
The sky is pink as sunlight fades.
Come close, my love, I need you nearer.
*This poem is based on the green bench (yes, it really exists!) at Sand Dollar Beach, located in the Rose Bay area of Nova Scotia, Canada
The way you look, you appear out of order.
I would like to see you go back across the border.
I don’t care if you’re from Quebec or Ontario.
You are a woman I just don’t want to know.
So go back to your town in Saskatchewan or Alberta.
Hit the road and return to New Brunswick or Nova Scotia.
Please just leave without causing any fuss.
This town is just not big enough for the two of us.
I know after you leave, there will be better smelling air.
Whatever your destination will be, I really don’t care.
Sing
not of man,
but bear and salt,
legend and deep voyage,
ancestral water,
frost and voice.
Hail Caledonia!
and you,
in Scotia style
reveal words
in smoke and wood,
that breathed
the same air as me.
whisper
for the return glance
proclaims
its prayer
of time
without consequence.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.