A distant steel hulk appeared into the sheer of its knell

Armored in steel
Shielded in black
It came closer
Charging
Under a flapping fiery red cross
Tearing towards each other
Boded under a black shield of flagging light
Bow
To bow
Bow
To spar
Steamed under a flagstaff of fear
Riveted in alarm
Threatening
It tears the veil off a placid sea
In its upheaval
The wavering waves lash out
Tears splash
And whip with churning rage
As the lowering bow cuts through the unlighted night

The opposing ship
Undaunted
Held its course
Unmasking the black night
With its veiled threat
It continued on course with its crusading
Vision
Time to tack
In time
It passed
Reprieved
Eluding the night
It disappears
Into an elusive escape
Leaving
Its spirited bowsprit
In a sea of antiquity

Lost

At sea
The sable night descends
Into lucent light
The ship sails
With its deliverance
The unbound ship sailed on
To its destined port

The Irish Boson

Rolling
Yawing
Pitching
Besotted with the bottle
The Irish Boson
Would anchor his hearty helm
Onto the heaving hatch hold
Buoyant with beer
Seaborne with spirit
He lurched
He tilted
He jigged with a brogue of blarney
Spinning a swaying yarn
Into a staggering story

His moods were like a changing
Weathercock
Vain
With Irish pride
This weather-beaten boson
Kept a weather eye on his ship and crew
When sober
His soundings were sound
But
If you did not gauge the depth
Of his spirited tank
Then you would head into a storm
Your dad
Misread the chart of his moody weathering
Failing to read the depth
Of his soulful soundings
He headed into his heady headwind

Joking and jesting
He called the Boson a soused scouse leprechaun
Dropped
Decked
On deck like a splayed salted starfish
Under a starry sky
Your dad learned a valuable lesson that night
Never pick-a-bone
With an old Irish sea-dog

Sailor, Petula Clark, 1961

The Butterfly of Messina

Lycia
A floating butterfly
Sailing under the sun
Pollinating the ports
With its pollen of cargo
A succulent vesicle
Scented with sweetness
Nectar
Traded
Under a floret of gold
It tramped the Aegean Sea
Like a tireless bee

Returning
To its hold with honey
Brown raisins
Filling the vessels sac
In a hold for honey
Brown raisins
To trade for money
Profiteers
Pollinating the ports
For a honey of a deal
The Lycia sailed across the Aegean Sea
Like a fertilized Queen Bee

The Greek Goddess from Kaliamai

One port
Gulf
One girl
Gulf
Of Messinia
Kaliamai
Vested with sun and sea
Grapes
And citrus
Flowers its fragrance on an olive flowered bay
Deep
With beauty
He met his Greek girl friend
In a small seaport
Kalamata
Nests in the crescent
Of the warm blue Gulf of Messinia

Dark
Almond eyes
In a shell of olive skin
She moved like a gazelle

Hair
Dark
Like a black epicurean olive
Sheen and smooth
Her hair splayed onto her olive skin
Shoulders
Slim and square
With the elegance of a regency chair

A smile
Shelled with sweetness
It would gather you in
Like a suckling to a young inviting breast
It was warm with nectar

Words
Scrambled
Like his mind
The feelings were there
But the language was not
Emotions
Took over
Where language could not
Lead
With a smile
He took her hand
She held onto his
Innocence
Lead
With a smile
She took him home
To meet her family

Down
A yellow citrus lane
A short walk
Enveloped the fragrance
Of the heady citrus groves
Scent
Swept
Form the blue sea gulf
It flowered into a wafting spray of ambrosia
Enticement
Escorted the sweetness of their stroll
Were the shadows of the sun
Followed the fragrance of their trail
Leaving
Laughter in the balm of the balmier

Afternoon

Arriving
With laughter
He was greeted with smiles
Her home
Clean
And simple
Like the warmth that welcomed him
Into her house
He tasted their traditions
Almonds
Raisins
Introduced with ouzo
And welcomed with water
Emotions
Entertained
Gracious hospitality
Was a host to their kindness
Language
Bridged the barrier
With laughter

He was escorted back to the cargo boat
With an evening invitation
To join her family and friends

That Evening

Prior to his invitation
He sat in a jail
Looking rather pale
Hoping to leave
Without posting bail

Why
In jail
Because of a policeman
Who combed the ship
For contraband
To his dismay
None was found

Searching his bunk
He removed some junk
On the sheets
Was a carton of Pall Mall
Give me some
And I will be your pal

Your dad refused
The policeman was not amused
So he left the ship
With a cursing lip

Time to see her family
All toffed up
Like a Christmas tree
Bearing a gift for the family tree

Dressed like Lord Nibs
He hid the cigarettes in his coat
Leaving
The boat
He stepped onto the pier
And who do you think should appear

Stop
I’m going to search you
Taking the cigarettes from his coat
He tossed the cigarettes
Back onto the boat

The carton
Would be confiscated
According to legislation
If he took the Pall Mall ashore
It would be against the law

In a flash
The crew was there
Catching the cigarettes
As they flew in mid air

Not amused
The policemen grabbed him by the coat
And marched him to the police station
Like an unwilling Billy goat

Upset
And despondent
Release was requested
His demands were denied
So he sat in prison
Waiting to be tried

Time
For his date
Now he feared he would be late
Locked behind bars
Looking forlorn
Hoping to be out
Before the rise of dawn

An emissary was sent
To the local jail
Communicating the problem
Was like following a snail

Communication
Was open to interpretation
In the end
A solution was found
Let the boy out
He had made an honest mistake
This innocent boy
Was not a criminal on the make

Out of the prison
He was out of the gate
Bolting ahead
He feared he would be late
His heart pounded
For his anticipated date

Still there
With black silken hair
She stood under a shawl of a sinking sun
While his heart lapped
To the wave of his run

Watching
She waved
With the wind in her hair
Embraced
By the sea
He held onto her

Telling his tale
On the way
He held her hand
As the sun shortened it shadow across the land

After
His visit
With the family of Greece
He told her brothers
About the cigarettes and police

Always
In view
He kissed her goodnight
Next time
The family would be out of sight

Back to the ship
Under a sea of stars
His face shone
Like the planet mars

He goes to his cabin
Finding the Pall Mall
He leans over the ship
And shouts to his pal

Overboard
Cigarettes fly
High in the sky
Hands reach out
The brothers left
With a thankful cry

They had caught the carton
Like a wicket keeper
They had stumped the police
With their little caper

The next day
He would tell his tale
Once the ship was in full sail
He told the crew
About his time in the little Greek jail

Passing
The Greek Islands with caprice
He knew he had fallen in love
With a beautiful goddess from Greece

In time
Letters
Of communication
Were greeted with celebration
But the gulf
Was not open
For interpretation
Leaving
Their love
In state of separation

Footnote

An old shipmate of the Lycia
Told him this tale

In time
The Lycia returned
Without my son
To the sleepy little seaport
On the Gulf of Messinia
Standing
In sweetness
She stood in the shade of the sensuous sun
Waiting
For his return

Watching

The Lycia fade into the melting sun
Tears
Flowed
Onto an ebbing pier
Dressed in a vestal white dress
She braided the waterfront
With the heady waft of citrus
Standing
Alone
On its weeping wharf
She stood in the shadow of the sinking sun
Leaving
Her vestigial shadow in the wake of its wailing wash
She waved
Goodbye

He Never Returned

To the Lycia
He went to the R.M.S. Caronia
The Green Goddess
Before we go on board
Let’s go back to shore
Because this tale will tell us more

About the S.S. Caronia

And the Burns Family

A few houses down the road from our house
Lived a large catholic family
Seven children
All spawning red freckles
Spotted on sallow skin
Marrow thin
With ribs that cave in
Like Aushwic Jews
Their hungry heart was imprisoned
Into the gage of their ribbed skin

Gaunt in cheek
But eyes alive
In pallid pockets
With wafer thin skin
They ran around the street
Like Huckleberry Finn

The children’s father was often on the dole
While the mother stayed at home
Her husband was a Docker
Tall
Frail and thin
With the pallor of parchment skin
His life was scripted from within
Mrs. Burns
Served a smile
On tapioca skin
Red freckles would muster
Onto her steep narrow chin

Too poor for social life
So she read a lot
Evred Avenue Library was her saving grace
And Agatha Christie was her mystery

Her husband died many years ago
But not before he saw one of his boys
Go to college and university
Which is a rarity
From people who come from poverty

Her eyesight is weak
But freckles still abound
On pink tapioca skin
She still serves a smile
From cheek to chin

She still lives
In the same tenement house
Two doors down from us
Changes have been made
The house is clean within
Not filled with the clutter
And the din of seven freckled children
Now on her own
But never alone
Her children visit her every day
And she can’t keep her devoted grandchildren
Away
Because all they want to do is stay
And play with Grandma Burns all day

Her eldest two boys
Were Teddy and Jimmy (the college boy)
And his other mates in the street were
John and Ronny
All older than your dad
And Charley and his younger brother
Tiny
A bunch of boys
A flora of freshness
Flowered with florid faces
Blossoms
Of blooming mischief
But I do digress

Teddy

The oldest boy
And very handsome
Pitch jetty hair
Framed his freckled face
But I must admit
He had few
And none were out of place
Unlike his family
Where the reds run rampant
To form a camouflaged face

Like Ronny
He was a ladies man
The birds and bees
Flew away with the stork
Unlike your dad
He was still looking
Under the cabbage patch leaf

Teddy Burns
Loved birds
Both species
He dated a beautiful tall college girl
And her father races homing pigeons
So Teddy
Had the best of both worlds
Of course
The homing pigeon was in a coop
And his daughter was free to fly
A ravishing college girl
With a wee bit of a roving eye

Often
Teddy would take the pigeons out to fly
Often
Your dad would accompany him
On a red double decker Ripple bus
Much cleaner and smarter than the green buses
Faster too
And fewer stops
On the way
The pigeons cooed
In a wicker basket
Under the bay of a Leyland Ripple red bus

Sitting in front
Top deck
High in the sky
Lords of the land
Touring the countryside
On a red double decker bus
All expenses paid
For a half hour drive
Sixpence for the errand
Two pence for the ride
Watching grayness turn to greenery
Along the countryside
With Teddy
Is hero
Sitting
Side by side

Arriving
At Speak Airport
Teddy placed the wicker pigeon basket on the ground
Note the time
Pick up the pigeon
Cup it in your hand
And thrust your arm straight out
Let it go
Watch it fly

Home

Pigeon
Lands on its loft
Grab the bloody bird
Fast
Strip the ring from its leg
Fast
Pop the ring into the wooden clock time box
Note the time
It returned
From flying from its freedom
It is now cooped into conformity

The father clocked the pigeon in
While the daughter cooed for Teddy’s return
Between flights
Cooing took place
Like two love doves on a high wire
Your dad made a coup
He had ringed the father’s daughter

Coo

Teddy saw the ring doves
Bill and coo
He clipped your dad’s wings that bloody day
And sent him to Coventry for many a day

What’s this got to do with the R.M.S. Caronia
Well the father of the beautiful college girl
Worked in the Cunard Office Building
Educated
With the stature of a toff
He lived on Southport Road
In a bay window house
Detached with a large garden
Back and front
Making our house feel like a runt

Mr. Foulks
Took to your dad
And he knew he was in the Merchant Marine
So he told him about the R.M.S. Caronia

The Green Goddess

Wore a dress of four shade of pale green
It was a sailor’s dream
To sail on this grand cruising liner
She was the only one in the Cunard fleet painted
Green
With envy
Other merchant navy men would die to sail on her
Why
Because it was the only Cunard liner that sailed

Around the world

In ninety days
He would be back
To thank Mr. Foulks
And his lovely daughter

The Lion Sleeps Tonight, Tokens, 1962

Top Bunk

Again
Seven new cabin mates
Same job
But a different ship
One filled with the filthy
Rich
Passengers
Lived in opulence
Cruising the world in luxury
Living the Life of Riley
Not me
Your dad would say
He waited on them
Hand and foot
Dawn to dusk
Wealthy passengers would sail
On a sea of solvency
The novae rich and the moneyed class
Jews
Circumnavigated the world on the sea of plutocracy

David

Befriended your dad
A youthful mush from Southampton
He was also waiter on the Caronia
A few years older than your dad
Much more mature
Sharp with vintage taste
His svelte body wore a label of classicism
A palatable character
Not unpleasant
Sweet
With a tang
He was bold and rich
With vibrancy
His piquancy enhanced his game
For new sensations
Steeped
In knowledge
He brewed with curiosity
Distilled with experience
He decanted learning in a flute of crystal
I met him once
And he tickled my fancy

To your dad
He was a sommelier
Who taught him to taste and smell
The palatable experiences
That life had to offer
Through heightened awareness he could see clarity
While savoring the sample of life’s tasting cup
To enhance and appreciate the seasoning of life’s palate
He must first

Use the Palate

To garnish life with color
Discriminate its rancid bitterness
And to relish its aromatic fragrance

Use the Pallette

To mix life with richness
Dilute its darkness
And squeeze its color into strokes of boldness

Use the Pallet

To store and your shape your sweet dreams
Then move the dreams into reality
Do not let them die a palliative death

Toast the touchstone of its celebration
Not the tombstone of its commemoration

The Wanderer, Dion, 1962

Take the Trip and Turn the Tube

His brave new world
Became an odyssey
A kaleidoscope
Of existing experiences
A turning tube
Inceptive to change
It funneled his life
With unsorted pieces
Odorless
A medley of untrodden experiences
Fall
Like loose pieces
Into a deep-reaching cylinder
Mosaic
Into an angular curvature
Light
Enters its porthole
Like a proverbial beacon
It guides the providential pieces
Into its circular passage
Finding its bearing
It creates
A patterning motif
From its spangled light
A motley of merging pieces integrate
Into an intricate tapestry of introspection
Abstract
In shape
Its form is examined
In life
Each piece is experienced
Time to time
The turning tube
Turns our time
Leaving
Life’s pieces to rearrange itself
From its established pattern
We create change
To survive
The present
We must turn off the past
And reuse our pieces
To build a new pattern for the future

Take the Tube and Turn:

Around the World in Ninety Days

east asia yellow neptune hot wild life mediterranean europe barcelona iceland
canal date line poverty equator bondi beach segregation swimming battleship prostitute midnight sun
panama international junk dance brown safari dead sea communism st. marks square scandinavia
jamaica surf hong kong beautiful aboriginals africa bethlehem october crisis venice white cliffs
apple Hawaii bars carvings sydney bridge indian ocean camel russia adriatic sea casablanca
america pacific yokohama bali australia sea-plane pyramid bosporus dubrovnik braltar
atlantic cable car kami-dana volcano great barrier milford sound red sea istanbul acropolis purpose
eighteen golden gate Buddhism Cantonese port moresby islands black belly dance motorbike bullfight
World Opportunity Religion Language Diversity Pacification Ethnic Art Culture Education


Hands shake
Shattered shards
Pieces of porcelain
Splinter and spatter
Parting
Hiding
Farting fragments
Shrapnel
Pieces of plate
Lost at sea
Search and rescue
Flax
On deck
Under tables
Under chair
My god
On passengers too

Sorry sir
Tripped over the bloody chair

Oops

Picking up the Pieces

By the captain’s chair
The tiger began to roar at him
While the passengers began to stare

With a smile and a whim
Washington’s face was in front of him
Green to the touch and with a grin
A portly passenger befriended him

Back to work
Dressed in a jacket of white
Into the busy galley
What a sight

Rustle hustle and bustle
Pots and pans
The noise of the galley
Is louder than a marching brass band

Face ashen and feeling blue
The chef starts to scream at you
Get that order out of sight
And make bloody sure you have it right

Sweat beads and streams
On a red hot face
Make sure that entrée
Gets to the right place

Top the quail
With a silver hat
Check the grayling
But don’t cover that

Plate on plate
Like a house of cards
Balancing entrees
On the palms of your arms

Passing through a swinging door
With trays that anchor you to the floor
In and out and out of sight
Making sure that the bloody order is right

Bowls of waldorf balanced on each hand
A fitting performance for a Royal Command
There goes the swinging door
Oops he’s stretched out on the galley floor

Waldorf dressed his oily head
Decked to the floor by a swinging door
Leaving
The sous-chef with his echoing roar

Horsd’oeuvre
Followed with clear consommé
Leave
The calamari for another day

Peking duck
What luck
Follow that duck
With chocolate soufflé

Fruit
Cheese and sweet ginger too
Top it down
With a brandy or two

Coffee tea
Liqueur or me
Tired joke
Silly me

Time to clean the table
And set it up for the morning
Do it quick
Before the body goes into mourning

Close to his table
Dressed to the nine
The portly passenger and his wife
Were in conversation while sipping white wine

Winking his blue eyes
He invites your dad over
Where he patted him on the back
As if he was his dog Rover

The portly man
Pressed him a dollar
As the obedient wife
Adjusted her white collar

Tipping his head
With a tip in hand
He left the passengers
To the Lombardo Band

In the course of their meals
They had course to see him
Of course he served them with a smile
Through a course of mayhem

Conversed with humor
And bottled with joy
They took this cheeky boy in
Like a tonic of Beefeater gin

Cruise almost over
The portly passenger wrote down his address
Pocketing the piece of paper
He placed it into his fluffy flotsam nest

Leaving
Him with a hearty handshake

Capsule of Life

Chance

Could a broken piece of porcelain plate
Change the course of one’s life

Chance

Could a providential piece of printed-paper
Survive in a pocket of forgotten flotsam

Experience and Explanation

Could an insignificant event
Become a sequential piece
That would significantly change
The pattern of one’s own life

Reason and Result

And if that chance came
Could you make the right choice
Knowing that change may mean taking a risk

Regrets or Revelation

And if that resolute choice is wrong
Do you have regrets
Or are you a reformative redeemer
Who resurrects from its reflective revelation

And you know what grandma says about regrets
Yes grandma
Regrets are the tombstones of the heart

Children
It saddens me to say
That your dad has too many regrets
Of yesterday

Let’s take the tube
And pick up the pieces

I Remember You, Frank Ifield, 1962

Picture postcards
Pretty pennants
Priceless photos
Plumed from the pillar box to my post
Box
Of mementos
Once linked
The memory
Box
Oh his trip around the world in 1962

David
And your dad
Swimming in the dead
Sea
Sand
Drifted dunes
Scroll across a scriptural sea of sand
Tracks
Of laughter mix with salt and sand
As two bold young men sail across the Holy Land
Leaving
The camel in the hump

Mounting the motorbike
Near the Aegean
They roar to Athens
Unlike Spartan slaves they were free
To sight see
The Black Sea
Caught in a crises with Gastro and Cuba
October was no fun
Sight seeing under a Russian gun

Leaving
The Balkans with a triumphant run
Chasing the bulls
Under a Spanish sky
Drinking rum and getting high

Riding waves on a tropical island
Crossing the date line under a trident fork
Climbing a mountain to reach to the sun
Sailing the Sound with eyes on the run

Watching the volcano spew to the sky
Look at the porpoises passing by
Under the straits of Gibraltar they swim
Following the wake with a ship on their fin

Under a bridge built with gold
You follow the yellow brick road
Looking at junks in a sea of poverty
You sip green tea in the lap of luxury

Into the bars in Yokohama
Where geishas practice Karma
You see segregation in Botswana
Where hunters kill their lama

Passing the barrier
In a lagoon of laughter
You surf the sea
Under the golden gate of Sydney

Watch the beautiful girls dance
On the island of Bali
They carve out dreams for you
And me

In Casablanca

… I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship


Love swept the sand
Under the shade of the afternoon sun
Smiles would surf onto their face
As Jewish girls stretched onto the sand with grace

Time elapsed
With laughter and fun
Time to get back to the ship
Because shore leave was about done

But the sweet girls had a party that night
And it sounded like more fun
Two of his mates went back to the ship
While your dad and David partied on

As time goes by
With laughter and fun
Time to get back to the ship
Because the ship was about to sail on

Out on the dark horizon
Like a floating Christmas tree
The green goddess waited patiently
As the sea craft set out to sea

In a cab with ten minutes to go
Almost there
One minute left and nothing to spare
Out of the cab and run to the pier

The last sea craft had left the dock
And was heading out to sea
Two feet off the pier with nothing to spare
The grew shouted jump if you want to get there

Jumping on the sea craft
With two feet in the air
Just clearing the deck
With not an inch to spare

Made it
With a wave and a smile and a hoot and a holler
The green goddess blows her horn
Waiting for the sea craft to be seabourne
Once on board
The third officer said
No more shore leave for a while
As he turned to his crew with a whale of a smile

Stranger on the Shore, Acker Bilk, 1962

Aside

The brass band played
Under the spangled spray of a paper parade
The green goddess had arrived
In it’s Port of Call
The passengers would embark on a land excursion
To visit the castle that crowned the hill

A Side Trip: On the Boardwalk of Life

On the quiet knell of knob hill
Overlooking the Tory blue bay
The old castle shouts out
To the dawn of a new day

A castle of the past
Restored to the present
It resorts to the rich
By keeping out the peasant

Shade checkered the white board
As the ship berthed the crowd roared
When two elderly gentlemen disembarked the green liner
The warm weather could not have been any finer

Arriving at the historical castle gate
Under a clear blue sky
Two old men settled into a chair in the white-hot square
With a whisky and rye

Drinks almost over
Their order was taken
One left for a pee
While the other gazed out to sea

The brass table had been set
With a checkered cotton cloth
Where two soup bowls sat
With hot steaming broth

At this time
The impoverished eye could see
Two rich men sipping soup
Under a checkered canopy

Looking past the castle wall
Out towards the inlet sea
Two minds once filled with strategy
Now inlaid with pageantry

Sitting like two old rooks
On a crumbled castle wall
Who has pawned in their youth
For a crystal ball

Sitting in a suit of white cotton
Eating portion less prawn
On a table top of marquetry
Tasting life with a toast of Chablis

The king has left the castle
The black night begins to fall
Watching rookie men wrestle
While their summers turn to fall

Passing the cobbled square
While drinking Chinese green tea
The black bishop passes by
While they stare out to sea

In a Queen sized bed
Their wife’s sit and wait
Dessert is now over
Now is the time to contemplate

Cheque
Mate

Telstar, Tornados, 1962

Stories
Galore
But I am too tired to tell you
The grandchildren would implore

More

Tales
Sink and float
In fathoms of ice
Rising to the surface
On rum and coke
Toasted
With friendship
It’s palatable with hope
Dissolved
With laughter
It twists with lemon
Stirred
With spirit
It mixes with emotion
Distilled
In time
It pours with myth
Leaving
The memory to sink
Into a sediment of sanctum

Embarked
Into an embrace
David disembarked
With sadness
He left for Southampton
And your dad returned home
To me
With gifts
Of love
He gave me the world

I Can’t Stop Loving You, Ray Charles, 1962

Home for the holiday
Two weeks of shore leave
Bronzed
And slim
With the body of a Rodan
He dressed like a Yankee
Looked right handsome in a North American way
Into rock and roll
More than before
Now that the Beatles
Had opened the door

Mates
Pubs and Parties
Reveled and revolved into a revolutionary
Year
Ended
With cold and ice
Time to go back to sea
Shore leave
Over
To the Cunard Office Building
To sign back onto the R.M.S. Caronia
This time he wanted a different job
Excited
Another world cruise
But different ports of call
All pepped up and feeling tall

Line up
Sign up
The new job was available
Sign here
Pausing
Your dad left the line
Speaking to his school
Mate
Are you crazy
Get back in line and sign up for the sodden job
Hesitating
He returned to the long line
Speaking to the office
Clerk
Sorry mate the jobs been copped
Without hesitation
He quit the navy on the spot
That was his lot
No job
No money
No plan
No honey
Nothing
Like this had even happened to him
Before
He closed the hatch on the Merchant Navy
Door
Of opportunity
Would open several times more
But not before
He joined the long line to sign

On the Dole

God bless him
He still gave me part of his dole pay
From day one
He was never a selfish one with his moneyAnd he always worked very hard
Not to be idle
He joined the City Council work crew
More pay
If you work the day

That year
The dank bitter breath of winter
Frosted the pavements with cold crusts of ulcerated ice
Unlike Canada
This anomaly would be considered

The Icing on the Cake

Your dad would meet his work mates
At the work yard at:
8:55 a.m.
Onto the lorry and ready to go at:
9:00 a.m.
Arrived on the job site at:
9:30 a.m.
Started work at:
9:45 a.m.
Time for tea at:
10:15 a.m.
Started work at:
10:45 a.m.
Left for lunch at:
11:30 a.m.
Lunch at noon
Left on Lorry at:
1:00 p.m.
Arrived on the job site at:
1:30 p.m.
Started work at:
1:45 p.m.
Time for tea at:
2:30 p.m.Resumed work at:
3:00 p.m.
No lorry pick up
3:45 p.m.
So the weary workmen all walk back to the work yard at 3:45
With tools on their shoulders
They looked like straddling wartime soldiers
Finish work at:
4:30 p.m.

Now your smart children
You do the bloody arithmetic
See how much time they actually
Work
It was a strain
Just to watch them
Pick up their bloody work tools
Never mind using them
All they did was lean on them
And let the divine power wash away their ice

Huddled
Together
And not in prayer
But in a brotherly ring of steam and smoke
Drudging their plodding day
With back breaking news
What are the odds
Today
They were not talking about labor
Reform
Because they had all their backhanded answers
Down pat

Right

Jack
Took to your dad
He had a handle
Not just the brush handle either
Which he always seemed to wangle first
Never a spade or a pick for our
Jack
A calculating father of eight doting children
Loves the children
Allowance
A bricky by trade
Loves the seasonal work
It allowed him to taxi
Into a winter haven
Where he could dole out
His assets with fool’s gold
Jack
Played the Joker
On the work gang he fooled around
With his tomfoolery he was fool proof
Besides
The fact he loved to lean on his idolized brush
He did actually use it
Once
To brush the ice from an old lady’s front step
Charmed
With his kind reverent smile
She rewarded him with a hot cup of Tetley tea

Our artful
Jack was all right
To work overtime at night
It was time and a half
He was on the gravy train
And to report to work at six
Time to trade in the old trick
Our guileful
Jack was still in no rush
But he made bloody sure he picked up the brush
Brushing his way to the old Crown and Thrush
In the dark it was a lark
With a knavish grin and a solidified wink
The workers would soldier on to the brink
To get to the local for a black and tan drink

Each pub on the block
Was appended with the tools of the trade
Outside on their bricked façade
There were appendages of picks and spades
Leaning on the wall
Was the ever ready
Brush
Back the cold of the night
And sweep into the warmth of the local
While the supervisor was out of sight

Knock
Back a few
The night shift is almost over
Time to leave the Red Rover
Pick up the pick
And carry the spade
Use the brush like a baton
And follow the parade

Every man
Arm in arm
Unified
Under a sweatband of nationalization

From a Jack to a King, Ned Miller, 1963

A Piece of History Pulled from

Pockets
Of change
Pulled from the past
A piece
Of paper was still in his old navy blue trouser pocket
By chance
It was the portly passenger’s home address

A thought
Out of the blue
What did he have to lose
What did he have to risk
What did he have to gain
A choice
A decision

So your dad sent a letter to the portly passenger
A man he hardly knew
Lived in Canada
Within three weeks
He received a response
Plus
A one-way ticket to Canada
All expenses paid for by the portly passenger
From the R.M.S. Caronia
Your Dad
Became a passenger on his old ship the S.S. Carinthia
His first ship
In which he slew the Minotaur

Now
Like Britannia
He would rule the waves
As he sailed on a crown crest of golden opportunity
He had made his choice
Thanks
To a serendipitous piece
Of paper and a broken piece of porcelain

Your dad would sail to Canada
As a landed immigrant
He had three weeks to pack up his life
In Liverpool
It was bleak
With little opportunity
For the working class hero

Aside

Enter Into

My revolving door
Barked the brass hat
First floor
The circus floor
Pane
Opaque
Glass smoky doors
Close the commoner
Into a circle of collectivism

One by one
The herd walks into a ring of compliance
Pushing the brass rail
The enclosed circle turns on inertia
One by one
The commoners exit
Into a malleable corridor of controlled conformity

Enter

Into
The ring
Master greets you with his perfidious smile
He will orchestrate the performance
From his commanding loop
He will train his pliant herd to jump like sheep
Through his demagogic hoop
Tipping his pellucid hat with chicanery
He orders the brass band to play with sophistry

Masks
Paint a red smile
On whitewash skin
A masquerade that struggles
With a lion-hearted grin
The herd jumps through hoops of red white and blue
With eyes half shut they avoid looking at you

In chorus
The crowd sways
To the bleat of the band
Putting on their act
The herd jumps to the mediocre clap of the metronome hand

The act is now over
The herd bows to the acquiescent audience
Left
Standing under a limpid spotlight
The herd feigns a smile to the obedient crowd
As the audience roars their approval
With a commanding encore

Your father
Would not become
A common clown in a circus of charade
Nor would he compromise his convictions
For the sake of conformity and commonality
The metronome of his life
Would not adjust to servitude
Nor would it click into collectivism
His pendulum would swing to the sounds
Of individualism and independence

Of course
Authentic freedom
Would come at a cost
Because the looters in the loop
Would sabotage your dad’s career in the future
But that is another story
And I don’t have the time to take you back to the future
You will have to discover that in your own time

Your dad
Seeks his existence
And in his search for it
He hopes to find happiness

Grandmas
Smile settled
Into the white wicker chair
She rocks with the rhythm of her time

My
The pages of my winter
Have flipped ahead of my spring
Let’s fall back
To the summer of his youth

When he sailed into spring

End of March
Just after Granddad’s birthday
Three weeks to go
Much to do
Before he goes

We would give him a farewell party
Besides we thought he would not be here
For his traditional twenty-first birthday party
So we thought we may as well
Give him his birthday bash now
Much to the delight of him and his mates

In the final weeks
Questions floated onto my thoughts
What made him
Not take the job on the R.M.S. Caronia
After all
He did want to go back onto that ship
And why did he still keep that piece of paper
What are the odds
That it survived in his trouser pocket
And that it would bring him to Canada

Pieces
Of paper
And porcelain plates
Piecing the puzzle to picturesque

Gates

Open
To chance and change
We make the choice to turn

Its handle

Will either lock or unlock
The entrance to your future
The decision is yours to enter or exit its revelation

I

Believe
Because
He was naively innocent
Idealistic
Intuitive
Instinctive
Intelligent
And at times
Impulsive
I
Think
That
I
Became before

U and I

And
I
Know your dad had these attributes
And like youth
There is no true authentic reflection
In a mirror imaged with illusion
I
Know exactly what George Bernard Shaw meant
When he said that youth is wasted on the young
My thoughts about him
Leaving
Were not questioned
And therefore they were never answered
And my emotions were never revealed to him
He left
Me
Alone
With his fatalistic father
A tear crystallized
From the softness of her fathomless eyes
She stared into the starless sky
Your dad in his illusive world of idealism
Would in time lose his moment of happiness

We planned for his party
And oh what a party it was
All nightlong
A barrel of beer
Keged with laughter
It was spirited with gaiety

Our little home
Hopped with music and dance
Beer poured
Into a fountainhead of youth
Where we tasted their spirit
With a toast of dreams

The next morning
Out spotless house
Was a blotto of bottled memories
Upstairs
In his tipsy bed
Thirty toes stuck out of one end
While twenty-nine toes hung from the opposite side
Asleep
Under a downy duvet of dulcet dreams
Awake
Under a tartan teacosy of Tetley Tea
Sunny side up
After
The cheeky boys offered to clean up the house
With wit chatter and clatter
I
Washed the dishes
With a dish cloth of tears
I filled the sink with memories

It’s My Party, Lesley Gore, 1963

In two days
We taxied to the Pierhead
Waiting
Like a lady
She anchored the stage
With the presence of a princess
She lauded the stage
In a state of solemnity

Stepping aboard
We toured the Cartesian corridors
Of this Benthamite ship
Searching
Finding his cabin
Diminutive
Two bunks
Of course
Again
Your dad had the top one
The bottom bunk was already occupied
With a white welcoming smile
The young black man greeted us
Much to the chagrin
Of one of your dad’s mates

Later
On in a letter
We learnt that this young black gentleman
Was a civil engineer
Who had procured an engineering position in Montreal
He had befriended your dad
Throughout the entire voyage
He stuck to your dad like a Velcro strap would to a young Child’s shoe
Frank
Your dad’s prejudicial mate
Thought this man was a numberless nigger
Without prejudice
Your dad thought he was a noetic Nigerian

In this tiny cabin
We toasted his trip with tears
And laughter
Spun around the cabin
Like the lyrics
From his portable record player
A precious purchase from his preceding passage to Hong Kong
Bolstered in spirit
His mates sang with the Beatles

Records
A collection of classics
Would be his constant companion
As he crossed the cold Atlantic Ocean
Sounds of youth
Echoed with song
His mates belched with mimicry
As they sang to the words of Little Peggy March’s hit song
I Will Follow Him

With a winking smile
Their eyes met
Pat
At the time
Was your dad’s girlfriend
But only In Dreams
Would she follow him

A record
A cherished gift
A sandman
Of solace and somnolence
Roy Orbison would rock your dad to sleep
On those long lonely summer evenings
In a southern Ontario town
Were he would now sleep in a mansion of dreams

Awakened
Tossed in thought
I can’t get use to losing you

A record
A cherished gift
A sandman
Of solace and somnolence
Andy Williams would serenade Pat to sleep
On those long lonely summer nights
In a northern Lancashire city
She would sleep in a tenement of dreams

Cries
Chilled
For all visitors to leave the ship

The boys hugged their last hurrah
While Pat embraced her last kiss
Granddad
And I
Watched
With withdrawal
We withdrew
With weeping
I
Worded
We love you
Son
In a wake of tears
We left
Him

Alone

For a little while
Pat remained with us
As we stood on the tide line
Of Princess Landing stage
Watching
Widows on a wharf
Waiting
Unable to tear away
The tides of tears
Pat
Welled onto her luminous skin
As she wiped away the shadows of her diluvian sadness
She left
Me with her winsome smile
And with an endearing hug
We touched each other
With a knowing smile
We knew we would not see each other again
Academic and attractiveness
Attracted your dad’s amatory arrows for winning woman
Pat had both
And much more
She had
Love
For your dad
He was left

Alone

On a crowded deck he watched us
The luxury liner decked the night with lights of holly
Dusk descended
Into the dampness of the April evening
Tears
Tissue into mist
While veils of darkness
Drifted into a lace of emptiness

Rain
Drizzled
Into the deathless dusk
Where it pattered the pierhead
With its dappled gray dimness
George
Watched the gloaming
While the Liver Birds shed tears of luminance

Slowly
The steel stern
Pulled away from its metallic darkness
Leaving
The white wake
To separate from its moorings
Casting away
Its black transit bow cut into the transitory river
Where it headed towards the Irish Sea

Leaving

The white wake
Trailing towards the weeping wharf
As the cold bow headed towards the open ocean

Standing
Together
In the lull of the still night
Granddad
And I
Watched the ocean liner
Fade into the fog
With a midst of tears
I
Turned towards your granddad
And I sorrowfully asked him
Did you ever tell him
You loved him

Ferry Cross the Mersey, Gerry and the Pacemakers, 1965

A sudden shout from the kitchen
Shattered the silence of their soundings
The door is still open
And the air conditioner is still running
Someone did not close the door properly
I will make sure it’s closed tight

The music stopped
As the open french door closed

Leaving

The grandchildren’s mother

Inside

Outside

Under sundial shadows
Three young children
Silhouetted the storyteller
As they sat silently together
In the shifting shadows of the declining sun

The lights went out
Darkness descended into a declivity of demise
The white porch is once again
Empty
The poaching prospector
Pulled away from the pollarded shadows
Of the polymorphic porch

Leaving

His own stateless shadow
To touch the moonlit porch
Tears
Tilled his thoughts with a tome of timeless
Memories
A reliving tomb
Scripted and scrolled

Regrets are the tombstones of the heart

The road
Remote with warmth
Paved the way with its mellowing moonlight
Turning
To the security of its shadow
He retreated into the rising
Son