Poetry By
Richard L. Provencher
Published on: 1/17/2012
I Want
to be a child with good parents holding me tightly preparing lunch when I have needs taking me places where growth in mind and spirit satisfy me an inquiring child with new clothes to show off the DNA inside of me protection from nasty women and strange men as I get older. Then when I am in adulthood there will be enough lessons learned to share and especially how to make peanut butter and banana-sliced sandwiches my own survival plan.
Published on: 1/17/2012
Good Ole Farm Days
We came to visit the land where November winds were colder than a whisper of icicles a family home of fallen timbers weather-ravaged dropped into a neat package of crumpled newspapers and window shards a sanctuary for mice and other creatures sky peeking through apple trees pussy willows alongside a muddy bank - an album of memories. Our childhood swam in that creek after chasing cows feeding pigs minding the chickens helping momma and poppa busy with chores. Then we grew into city folk a long time ago.
Published on: 12/9/2011
A Slice of Lonely Night
I heard him cough once in a while a burp now and then, alone and fidgeting in the corner of his train seat. Later, I looked beyond his shuffle on the way to the can, cradling an arm. "Stroke?" I boldly asked. "Yes," he answered shyly. "I had one too," and our friendship began. "Going to Toronto," Selwyn says words tumbling quickly, "to my son's wedding. I'm from Yorkshire, you know, back in Great Britain. Great country, Canada though too huge to travel easily." The evening was a mix of good cheer and tall tales, yet fun to share. Tiredness soon captured his chatty voice. "Got to rest," he says, noticing the VIA attendant approach. Ordered a pillow and winked, "Good for hiding beer farts in the night." And I discovered, he's right.
Published on: 12/9/2011
A Lesson On Living
My daily walk brings me to a man on his knees, concentrating, task before him his paintbrush sweeping across the flower box, following a fine grain of wood wrist firm, strokes as feathers a smile teaching me. Cautious of his energy's reach shoppers hurry along the busy esplanade don't wish for any walnut stains splashing their fancy duds. His brushing continues, fingers strong with practice not caring about stares nor snickers and taunts intending to be mean, "Hey you missed a spot." Some comments dressed in nasty names cutting to the quick. I know better he's a worker been at it two hours, not even a coffee break. His flickering wrist creates its own pace, back and forth a mile a minute, that stain on his chin doesn't give a toot. Satisfied look on his face, he's happy. I'm jealous.
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