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Poetry By
  Richard L. Provencher

Published on: 1/17/2012
I Want

to be a child
with good parents
holding me
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
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
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
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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