I Remember

I remember... your teasing words... your smile...
the wink of your eye... your phone calls... your visits...
your kisses... your love... your gifts...
your fears and worries... your surgery... Your recovery...
your illness... your Death!...

by Fay Phillips

You Are Gone.

You are gone but still life goes on! How can that be?
It seems that everything should be standing still since that awful day when you went away.
The house still looks the same, but the most important part is gone away, We are here and you are not.
When will this terrible ache, begin to go away? My tears still flow, just about every day.
Perhaps if had had the chance to say "Goodbye" The pain wouldn't be quite so bad.
But there were no goodbyes, Just those terrible words, "I'm sorry, he's gone. There was no more that I could do."
No! NO! This cannot be!! Now what am I going to do? What are my little boys going to do? They need their Daddy so!
I called your name, but all in vane, for you were all ready Gone!
In a dream, I carried on praying that someone had made a dreadful error! You were gone.
Now I pray that you have found the rest and peace you need, And knowing how much we loved you I hope you are watching over us everyday.

by Fay Phillips

At The End Of The Day

Side by side we worked and struggled, At the end of the day you were there.
Raising our Children and helping them grow, At the end of the day you were there.
Seeing them grow and make lives of their own, At the end of the day you were there.
Retiring to town to make a new home, At the end of the day you were there.
We've spent wonderful days with family and friends, At the end of the day you were there.
Then suddenly, an illness, so short but so final, At the end of the day you were gone.
My memories, my love, my longing for you. I'll follow you soon.
And at the end of my journey, you'll be there...

by Marlene (Hodel) Purdue

"Some humour from Fay's House"
This is a true story that took place when my son Jamie was about 6 yrs. old.

My Son Jamie

Several years ago when my son was about six years old; the moderator of the United Church visited our community.
It was close to Christmas so the Church was full.
Jamie asked me "Mom, why are all the people here?" Thinking he wouldn't know what a moderator was, I answered: "Well, The boss of our church is visiting here tonight."
Jamie looked at me in wide eyed amazement and said in awe...
"You mean God is coming here tonight"!!??

by Fay Phillips

My Silent House

Here I sit in my silent house, Thinking how the years have passed in a flash; It's as quiet as a mouse As through the house you no longer dash.
Two busy little boys You came into my life; Bringing me many joys And sometimes a bit of strife.
Then one day it was off to school, You carried a bag of books You did not think it cool, You would rather play in your favorite nooks.
Before long you were a teen Dreaming of owning a fast car, And with your mom you mustn't be seen, Telling me "Don't worry we won't be far!"
Now you are young men Experiencing life on your own, To have you home again is my yen, But I have to let go for now you are grown.

by Fay Phillips

Indian Summer

Along the line of smoky hills The crimson forsest stands. And all the day the blue-jay calls Througout the autumn lands.
Now by the brook the maple leans With all his glory spread, And all the sumachs on the hills Have turned their green to red.
Now by great marshes wrapt in mist, Or past some river's mouth, Throughout the long,still autumn day wild birds are flying south.

by William Wilfred Campbell

The Legend of Qu'Appelle Valley

I am the one who loved her as my life, Had watched her grow to sweet young womanhood; Won the dear privilege to call her wife, And found the world because of her, was good, I am the one who heard the spirit voice, Of which the paleface settlers love to tell; From whose strange story they have made their choice Of naming this fair Valley "Qu'Appelle".
She had said fondly in my eager ear - "When the Indian summer smiles with dusky lip, Come to the Lakes, I will be the first to hear The welcome music of thy paddle dip.
I will be the first to lay in thine hand, To whisper words of greeting on the shore; And when thou would'st return to thine won land, I'll go with thee, thy wife for evermore."
Nor yet a leaf had fallen, not a tone Of frost upon the plain ere I set forth, Impatient to possess her as my own - This queen of all the women of the North.
I rested not at even or at dawn, But I journeyed all the dark and daylight through - Until I reached the Lakes, and, hurrying on, I launched upon their bosom my Canoe.
Of sleep or hunger then I took no heed, But hastened o'er their leagues of waterways; But my hot heart outstripped my paddle's speed And waited not for distance or for days, But flew before me swifter than the blade Of magic paddle ever cleaved the lake, Eager to lay its love before the maid And watch the love light in her eyes awake.
So the long days went slowly drifting past; It seemed the half my life must intervene Before the morrow, when I said at last - "One more days jounrney and I win my Queen." I rested then, and, drifting, dreamed the more Of all the happiness I was to claim, - When suddenly from out the shadowed shore, I heard a voice speak tenderly my name.
"Who calls?" I answered; no reply; and long I stilled my paddle-blade and listened.
Then Above the night wind's melancholy song I heard distinctly that strange voice again - A woman's voice, then through the twilight came Like a soul unborn- a song unsong.
I leaned and listened - yes, she spoke my name: And then I answered in quaint French tongue; "Que'appelle? Que'appelle?" No answer, and the night Seemed stiller for the sound, till round me fell The far off echoes from the far-off height -
"Qu'appelle?" my voice came back, "Qu'appelle? Qu'appelle?" This and no more; I called aloud until I shuddered as the gloom of night increased, And, like a pallid spectre, wan and chill, The moon rose in silence from the East.
I dare not linger on the moment when My boat I leached beside her tepee door; I heard the wail of women and of men - I saw the death-fires lighted on the shore.
No language tells the torture or the pain, The bitterness that flooded my life - When I was led to look on her again, That queen of women pledged to be my wife, To look upon the beauty of her face, the still, closed eyes, the lips that knew no breath; To look, to learn, - to realize my place Had been usurped by my one rival - Death.
A storm of wrecking sorrow beat and broke About my heart, and life shut out its light Till through my anguish some one gently spoke. And said,"Twice did she dall for thee last night.
I started up and bending o'er my dead, Asked when did her sweet lips in silence close. "She called thy name - then passed away" they said.
"Just at the hour whereat the moon arose."
Among the lonely lakes I go no more, For she who made their beauty is not there; The paleface rears his tepee on the shore, And says the vale is fairest of the fair.
Full many years have vanished since, but still The voyageurs beside the camp-fire tell How, when the moonrise tips the distant hill, They hear strange voices through the silence swell.
The paleface loves the haunted lakes, they say, And journeys far to watch their beauty spread Before his vision; but to me the day, The night, the hour, the seasons are all dead.
I listen heartsick, while the hunters tell Why white men named the valley the "Qu"appelle."

By E. Pauline Johnson

I Love Old Things

I love old things: Streets of old cities Crowded with ghosts And banked with oranges, Gay scarfs and shawls That flow like red water.
I love old abbeys With high,carved portals And dim, cool corners Where tired hearts pray: I join them in silence And repair my soul.
I love old inns Where floors creak eerily And doors blow open On windless nights, And where heavy curtains Dance a slow waltz.
I love old trees That lift uptheir voices High above the grasses. They do not sing At the light wind's bidding: They chant alone to storms.
I love old china, Knowing well the flavour Of great, strong men and fair, sweet women Lurks at the rim Of each deep brown bowl.
I love old books Frayed from the searching Of truth-hungry fingers: Their warm, soft vellum Leads me through sorrow Like a dear friend's hand.
I love old men And old, dear women Who keep red cheeks As the snows of winter Keep the round red berry Of the winter-green.
(This verse to be chanted) I love old things: Weather-beaten, worn things, Cracked, broken, torn things, The old sun, the old moon, The old earth's face, Old wine in dim flagons, Old ships and old wagons- Old ships and Old wagons (softly) Old coin and old lace, Rare old lace.

by Wilson MacDonald

Trees

In the Garden of Eden, planted by God, There were goodly trees in the springing sod,- Trees of beauty and height and grace, To stand in splendor before His face.
Apple and hickory, ash and pear, Oak and beech and tulip rare, The trembling aspen, the noble pine, The sweeping elm by the river line; Trees for the birds to build and sing, The lilac-tree for a joy in spring; Trees to turn at the frosty call And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall; Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, Trees for the cunning builder's trade; Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, The keel and the mast of the daring sail; He made them of every grain and girth For the use of man in the Garden of Earth.
Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes From the gift to the Giver of Paradise, On the crown of a hill fro all to see, God planted a scarlet maple-tree.

by Bliss Carmen

Just A Clerk

Lord, I am but a little clerk, That scratches with a pen; I rise and eat and toil and sleep, Just as all other men.
The only colours in my life Are drabs, and duns, and greys, Yet on the whole I am content To tread the beaten ways.
But sometimes when the mid-spring mist Floats in the scented night, Strange spirits whisper in my ear, And visions cross my sight.
I see myself a gracious youth, In purple and bright steel; The golden spurs of knightly worth Are glistening on each heel.
I ride into the a world of dreams, And with my pennoned lance I pierce the mystic viel that hides The land of high romance.
But as i pass through Galahad's glades, Adventuring on my way, A ghost is ever at my back, The ghost of every day.
And soon or late its horrid hand, That never yields or stays, Will hurl me from my land of dreams, Back to the beaten ways.
O Lord, some pray to Thee for gold, Some for a woman's smile; But all I ask is a breath of life Once for a little while.
Grant me, before I pass beyond, One chance to play a part, To drop the guise of the little clerk And show the man at heart.

by Hugh John Maclean

You'll Love Me Yet

You'll love me yet! - and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing: June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing.
I plant heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yeild--what you'll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like.
You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave's one violet: Your look? --that pays a thousand pains, What's death? You'll love me yet!

by Robert Browning.

To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup And I'll not look for wine.
The thrist that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine.
I sent the late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be; But thou thereon didst only breathe And snt'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but of thee!

by Ben Johnson

She Came And Went

As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred;- I only know she came and went.
As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my sould that moment's heaven;- I only know she came and went.
As, one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchard's full bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintery sleeps;- I only know she came and went.
Oh, when the room frows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went.

by James Russell Lowell

Ode to the Last Mountain

By Danny Adams 7 June 2004

Tonight while watching the fire on the mountain Hafiz tapped my shoulder And asked in silken English, "Do you have wine?" There was none to be found Amid the pale orange glow before us, So I offered him a soda.
"That will do," he told me.
The mountain rose in a poem of light Splitting earth from sky In a long aurora across the peak's spine, Surrounded by a hundred glowing points Paying reverence, And we sipped quietly.
Each of us read our own meaning into the fire's verse While pillars of smoke shooed away the stars.
"The moon and wine are most important," Hafiz said (In Persian -- I nodded as if understanding) He stirred my soda into space with his finger And the ice cubes into stars.
"It is no business of mine what you do with your Earth -- Or the magic of flutes, Or the songs of birds, Or the salt of your oceans, Or the ships you will build powered by the sun's furnace -- I am not so wise to instruct you.
But tend to the fire on your mountain Before the world falls asleep.
You people today -- who could fly so high The center of the galaxy would be your belt, Who would be as God -- But it is no business of mine." He drank another drink.
The ice cubes melted and I shook centuries out of my head To see Earth upturned, the sky burning, This last mountain washed in a cool wind While I reached through the smoke And caught the stars -- for once -- Looking back at us in wonder.
Hafiz invited me to join him for a sip of wine.

With express permission from Danny Adams
Copyright © 2004 Danny Adams

When Tomorrow Starts Without Me

When tomorrow starts without me And I'm not there to see, If the sun should rise and find your eyes All filled with tears for me.
I wish so much you wouldn't cry The way you did today, While thinking of the many things We didn't get to say.
I know how much you love me, As much as I love you, And each time that you think of me I know you'll miss me too,
But when tomorrow starts without me Please try to understand That an angel came and called my name And took me by the hand;
And said my place was ready In heaven far above And that I'd have to leave behind All those I dearly love,
But when I walked through heaven's gates I felt so much at home When God looked down and smiled at me From His great golden throne;
He said, "This is eternity And all I've promised you Today for life on earth is past But here it starts anew.
I promise no tomorrow For today will always last, And since each day's the same way There's no longing for the past.
So when tomorrow starts without me Don't think we're far apart, For every time you think of me I'm right here in your heart.

Unknown

Submitted by "cousin" Pat

The Computer's Swallowed Grandma

The computer swallowed grandma. Yes, honestly it's true. She pressed 'control' and 'enter' And disappeared from view.
It devoured her completely, The thought just makes me squirm. She must have caught a virus Or been eaten by a worm.
I've searched through the recycle bin And files of every kind; I've even used the internet, But nothing did I find.
In desperation, I asked Jeeves My searches to refine. The reply from him was negative, Not a thing was found 'online'.
So, if inside your 'Inbox,' My Grandma you should see, "Please 'scan' 'copy' and 'paste' her in an e.mail back to me"!.

**This poem was written by Valerie Waite, who lives in Derbyshire, England, UK. It was originally published in the English National newspaper 'The Daily Mail' on July 2, 2004. (Peterborough page.). The poem is contained in her second book of illustrated poems 'Little Gems'. It was set to music by Eileen Lowry of Bristol, UK, and is a free e-card on...Happy Day Cards...(with her permission)...and is printed here with permission from Valerie Waite.

Sent in by "cousin" Pat

The Colours of Spring

Green is a blanket of sprouting grass So wonderous to grow and see, After the solitude of winter passes It brings new hope to me.
Daffodils and tulips burst into bloom Bringing a starburst of colour and light That vanishes darkness to make room For a happier summer in sight.
Green is our tall spruce tree Just outside my front door Where robins nest with glee And crow surveys them more and more.
He waits until the blue eggs hatch All open mouths and bodies thinner, Black eyes always on the watch Then swoops down for dinner.
Then the purple martins have returned fussing In their bird house with busy dries, Then soar above the budding lilcs To drifting clouds smearing the skies.
Happy is the colour of fresh faces Of children playing in the warm sun, Hands waving, rubber boots splashing Water and mud from feet on the run.

by Vera Gyorfi

Encounter With St. Peter

I dreamt I met St. Peter With a golf club in my hand; I told him I wasn't finished yet, My ball was in the sand.
He said by shooting straighter You'll not end up in a trap, Stay on the straight and narrow And you will not pay the rap.
I reminded St. Peter This was golf and was not a life, That I needed more time To overcome this strife.
St. Peter looked at me and said, Go back from whence you came, No punishment in hell Can compare with your game.

by Agnes Ullman

These two poems were taken from the book "Hearts and Memories"...The ladies who wrote the poems are members of the Novie Nibs Writers Group.

Please note if any of my Poems or written material are known to anyone or copywrited...please contact me and I will give you credit or remove it..whichever you prefer..."Thank-you".

Fay

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