Alberta’s poem

Roots.

It’s the sound of the clogs that I remember so well.

The soul destroying sound that leads a man into hell.

trudging back slowly in the early light of the dawn,

his face black with coal dust, weary and worn.

I’ve watched miners silhouetted against a moonlit bright sky.

As they silently gathered to march to the mines.

Their faces told stories of the hard times they had.

But they would laugh and tell you.

It’s not all been so bad.

The tin bath that hung outside on the wall

Would be dragged to the fireside where the flames flickered tall.

Hot water, kettle boiled was on the gas ring nearby.

And a huge pit towel on hand his body to dry.

My grandfather earned seven shillings a week.

On a Friday my Grandma a clean pinny would seek.

And greeted the old man as from work he returned.

to hand over his wage that he had grafted so hard to earn.

All I can remember are grey drawn faces pitted black by the coal.

What makes men so desperate to go down in a hole.

To dig underground till they prematurely die.

I ask only this question In God’s name WHY.

                                                                 Alberta Cook

The Cricket field

Forlorn under a heavy coat of snow.

No deep voiced sounds echo round the hills.

Cold winds from Northern climes did blow.

The Cricket field lay dead and still.

An imagine cast in his minds eye

Brought back the youth of yesteryear

Who with a willow bat, knocked sixes by.

All dressed to kill in cricket gear.

Once with his son in Summer past.

Together hit a hundred fast.

One at each end the runs they scored.

The crowds stood up and cheered and roared.

They clapped them in when the game they won.

The well set man and his golden son.

He smiled at thoughts of long ago.

How they loved that field now under snow.

                                        Alberta Cook

Bluebell Woods.

Bluebell woods in early May.

Tend to take ones breath away.

Fragile flowers of vibrant hue.

Present a regal carpet of violet blue.

In the stillness of shaded dells.

Where the air is on fire with the fragrance of Bluebells.

to walk there on a Summers day.

Is to be dazzled with such a brazen display.

I take my Grandchildren every year.

To view a sight that I hold very dear.

Sometimes they sigh and whisper “Not again Nan.

but I’ll continue to take them as long as I can.

Trembling Grass.

 Do you remember trembling grass?

It grew in fields in Summer’s past.

I’d pick a stem and hold it high.

To see it shake, I knew not why.

But now ‘Ti’s no more it seems.

No more, no more in fields of green.

Thick ugly grasses now grow tall.

No trembling grass beside the wall.

But yesterday I found my grass.

It sits in splendor in cut glass.

All russet, yellow, violet too.

No longer frosted with early dew.

It’s sold in bunches in the store.

No wonder it grows wild no more.

But I go back to long ago.

When grasses in green fields did blow.

                           Alberta Cook

Alberta’s Bio

I will try and tell you a little about my background as you asked.

I was born in a small mining village called Thurnscoe in South Yorkshire.

By rights I should have been born in Kelty Scotland but my Mom returned from Scotland the day before I was born.

My Parents were married during the war.  My Father spent most of the war on submarines and was on the Thrasher which was awarded two Victoria crosses to two officers who dislodged two bombs which the Luftwaffe dropped.  It is very well documented.  They were so very lucky.

I seemed to have been an unwanted baby as after the war and until I married I was brought up by my Grandparents whom I loved unreservedly.

My Father never had any time for me and once told me that he had better things to do than being a father and would have put me in an orphanage after they were divorced.  My mother never contested the divorce and never fought for my custody so there I was.  My grandparents took me in at one year old and brought me up.

Funny though when my mom was diagnosed with cancer in the States I flew over and brought her home and we looked after her until her death. Also my Farther returned from Poland after splitting with his wife and was with us for nine years until last year when it became too much for us (he has senile dementia) and he is now in a home five miles from us.  Enough of self pity.

I have had a good marriage and have had three children, two daughters and one son.  We lost Alan at 43.  He had a wonderful charisma about him full of life and so very witty, very handsome too.  Alas he became an alcoholic and for 25 years his life was great at times but so very sad at other times.  One day I will write a book about him but now his loss is still too raw.  He died two years ago.  I was away at the time so my life at times is full of a great guilt that shakes my whole being, but I am learning that with a loving family guilt will recede but will never, never fade.

We have had a good life, living in America for 15 years and then returning to England and buying The Village Store in this tiny hamlet that we call home.  We also built a Restaurant that we ran for ten years.  We turned it into our home and now reside beside a stream that changes every day and see the Herons fish and kingfishers shine their iridescent glow and ducks that wake us in the mornings.  We also overlook the cricket ground that my husband and son played on.  I hope you will not be bored Werner, but find below my poem about them.  I leave you feeling sad as I write but hope that you understand.

A few of Gerry’s Poems

SAM’S SUDS

 Some people think that it is fine

To have a daily glass of wine.

There’re many others who refrain,

From alcohol that’s made from grain.

There are some drinkers ‘round about,

That will not touch a drink of stout.

And other rather careful folk,

Who only drink a pop or coke.

There are some people I recall,

Who say it spoils the alcohol,

When any drink you’re trying to fix,

Calls for some water or some mix.

The people of teetotal ilk

Will tend to stay with tea or milk.

But mostly all the folks ‘round here,

Prefer to have their daily beer.

It helps their mood and appetite

No matter if it’s day or night,

In fact it’s clear my friends all think,

Beer’s much more than a breakfast drink.

One of my best employees and one of my best friends was Sam Schulz who worked with me as a first class driver for many years.  Sam looked forward to enjoying a beer on Friday night with two of my other great drivers, Charlie Daly and Ron Lightfoot.  Sam would leave the office at the end of the day on Friday with a goodbye and a smile, saying, “time for Sam to have some suds”.  This is dedicated to the three of them.  They were a pleasure to work with and a pleasure to know.

THE EMPEROR’S CLOTHES

An Emperor in days gone by,

Was well-known for his need to try

On different kinds of fancy clothes.

What was the reason, no-one knows.

His courtiers all expressed their awe

At every new outfit they saw,

In velvet, wool and even silk,

All pleased the sycophantic ilk.

Then one day, appeared a vision,

The Emperor, was it derision?

Attended at a big State Ball,

With not a stitch of clothes at all.

The sycophants showed no surprise

On seeing their leader in this guise.

They shouted out, “Olay! Olay!

Just see how well he’s dressed today.”

Until a boy in innocence,

To whom these actions made no sense,

Shouted in a voice so loud,

The bravest one in all the crowd.

“Our leader is plain naked, stark,”

Then all the dogs began to bark

And with no further ifs or buts,

The crowd began to shout, “he’s nuts.”

“Oh look, oh look, how sad, how sad,

It seems our leader has gone mad.”

‘Tis sad, none of his faithful minions,

Could express their true opinions.

They took the Emperor away,

And placed him in the Royal sick-bay,

Where he was locked up safe and sound,

With only padded walls around.

It is a fact, still true today,

Most people are afraid to say,

What’s really on their thoughtful minds?

Instead they sit on their behinds.

So we should not be scared to shout,

If in our hearts we have some doubt,

About the things our leaders say,

In trying to lead us day by day.

Inspired by a story by Hans Christian Andersen, famous Danish writer (1805-1875)

 CARRYING ON

It’s been a few weeks now,

But his presence is everywhere.

As the first rays of daylight

Glint through the bedroom curtains,

She wakes and reaches out

To his side of the bed.

It’s cold.

Cold as the realization

That he is not there anymore.

His masculine presence is still there,

In every corner of the room,

In every corner of the house.

His clothes and boots

Are still in the cupboard.

The essence of his manly presence

Still hangs in the air,

Reassuringly.

It’s everywhere in the house,

Always was, always will be.

From his seat at the kitchen counter

To his tool-box in the car-port.

And his Harley, his pride,

Beside his self-built bike

That took so long to build.

Her mind goes back

To her part-time after-school job

At the local Shell Gas Station.

Hot summer days in tee-shirt

And tight jean shorts.

The roar of a Harley

Pulling up to the pumps.

“Dawn, you have a customer”

Said Bill the Manager.

She raced to the pumps,

“Fill`er up” said the biker.

“And would you like your windows cleaned?”

Said she.

He laughed.

She liked this tough-looking

Curly-headed stranger

With the twinkle in his eye

And a lamb at heart.

“Is there any place a guy can get a beer `round here?”
“Lots of places, well one for sure” said she.

“It’s just a little town.”

After her shift they went for a hamburger,

Their first meal together.

The first of many.

Then two great reliable and attentive kids,

And more recently a lovely grandchild.

Then a sudden sickness,

Incurable.

Constant visits by caring friends and family,

His passing in the local hospital.

And the largest attendance ever seen

At a funeral service in our Town.

The whole town came to say good-by,

A send-off he well deserved.

Dedicated to my long-term friend Dawn Harilstad and her family, on the passing of her husband, Mel.

 About Gerry’s and His Poems

 One of the more prominent business members of our community is His Worship Gerry Furney, our mayor.  While Gerry’s roots are in Ireland, he can speak of the old days of Port McNeill, old days that go back to when our town was a logging camp.  He and his wife Carmel, with their daughter Lisa and their son James seem to have a special spot in their hearts for this community.  They’ve all made it their home and are involved in various visible ways in the community.

There are many things the citizens of our town admire about Gerry.  Not only is he a thinking man, and a persuasive one at that, but he’s also endowed with a good touch of common sense, and he has never lost his common touch.  There are few people in town he does not recognize, and it is doubtful that there are any who don’t recognize him.  He can be seen at the local arena cheering on his grandchildren or admiring them at school concerts.  He is officially recognized at ice carnivals, school graduation ceremonies, and many other local events.  There are several of the town’s improvements that have benefitted from Gerry’s ideas and involvement.  One of our elementary school’s gymnasiums is just one example.  Instead of a typical small elementary gym, we have a fabulous multipurpose facility that is used by old and young for all kinds of sporting events, by touring art groups, by choirs, by many other groups and even by federal and provincial elections.  There is no question this superb facility came about through his foresight and involvement with the local school board.  Respect for Gerry goes well beyond this town of close to three thousand.  Among government and business people in the province he is highly regarded.

With this background in mind, who would suspect that Gerry is also a poet, and a good one?  His style of poetry has been influenced by some of the leading eighteenth century writers most notably the Anglo-Irish dramatist, writer and poet Oliver Goldsmith.  Gerry’s poems extol the common man and many things we enjoy, but take for granted.  One of his poems, The Eating Place, can be read in one of our local eateries.  It speaks of the pleasure of enjoying a coffee and a good bite in a local place.  In honor of one of his faithful employees who loved to tip a pint back on Friday after work and who embodies many of our locals’ taste, Gerry wrote Sam’s Suds.  The poem gives us the flavor of Gerry’s humor.  Hans Christian Andersen and most people’s reluctance to speak the obvious inspired him to write, The Emperor’s Clothes which he concludes with these thoughts:

“It is a fact, still true today,

Most people are afraid to say,

What’s really on their thoughtful mind?

Instead they sit on their behinds.

So we should not be scared to shout,

If in our hearts we have some doubt,

About the things our leaders say,

In trying to lead us day by day.”

After the passing of a friend he wrote for his widow a special poem, “Carrying On”.  It was a kind and thoughtful thing to do, and I know it took him hours longer than it would have to sign a card and with it pass on his condolences.

To me it would be a shame if many people could not enjoy Gerry’s poetry, his humor and his observations of man’s follies, and so I’m pleased that he would give us a taste of these on my website.  The world will also soon be able to read his complete works in a book of poetry Gerry is getting published.  In his unique style he has called it Popcorn for Breakfast.