The rink is cold, the morning gray,A hockey dad starts his day.Boots crunch in snow, the frost bites deep,But we’re here for the game, no time for sleep. The air is thick with that ammonia’s sting,A frozen blast from the ice maker’s ring.Locker rooms smell like a butcher’s stall,Where pads are piled in a heap…
The Cove Patrick Meade I must go down to the cove again and the salty seaside sky murmuring mist rattling hiss whales that meander by I must go down to the cove again to the lull once hewn where the grey wing sways in russet haze with the mermaids and the moon …
For ten long years, a love that burned but did not heal,Her blonde hair wild, a flame that I could not feel. She wore her sins like jewels, lustful, divine,My vestal virgin in whose arms I could not kneel. We danced in shadows where the gods’ eyes turned away,Our love a riot, too brazen for…
Black Friday is a fever dream in a fluorescent-lit store. The air’s too hot, a thick pressure of bodies pressing against one another like a mass of swollen insects. Everyone’s crammed in, huffing and puffing, reaching for the same useless junk, pretending this is a race worth winning. The buzz of cellphones fills the air,…
Did you hear? Did you hear?It’s your mother, darling, oh come nearI’ve got some news, and I’ve got the time,To fill your ear with bits of rhyme. Your Aunt Baby’s sick, the poor dear thing,Doctor says she’s so weak—might not see this spring.And then the old man Barrett—do you know?Twenty cats now roam around the…
By Phalma Hobbs In memory of her son Donal Wlmer Hobbs Born June 6, 1954, Died June 15, 1954 Dear Donald, For such a little while I held you in my arms, smelled your sweet baby fragrance, touched your downy soft skin, and felt your goodness and your strength. I looked into your eyes and…
by the late Phalma Hobbs, my mother. There is a house that stands alone upon a hill. Its roof outlines the horizon, its walls stand straight and still. How I loved that house; it was my childhood home. That house once knew happiness, love and laughter, the patter of children’s feet, the knowing smiles of…
Tribute to my grandfather, James May & Uncle Hubert Hillier – True Newfoundland Doreymen Doreymen harken to my call And crest once more the waves In ships of wood with canvas sails And the freedom mankind craves Bold denizens of foggy morns And dewy summer dusks With smudge pots and hand lines And…
Please Mr. Santa won’t you bring us some peacePull on your beard and make the wars ceaseYour army of elves spread joy aroundThe Ho Ho I hear is such a sweet sound Bring us a gift of freedom and graceWipe all the tears away from our faceSome have been naughty, most have been niceOn Christmas…
Cold mud seeps into skin,gravelly and thick,a slippery grasp that pulls you deeperwith each reluctant step. The rain doesn’t stop.It is the kind of wetthat stays with you,soaks through your bones,clings to your uniform like a second skin. Above, the sky is a murky bruise,the shriek of shells tearing through it,a constant rhythm of whizz-bangsand…
