My Valentine

There was this close encounter with death,
On the road through a trillion trees.
A frigid cold like none on earth,
The two of us in a place where all things freeze.

One moment was all it took to feel,
The crush of eighteen tires.
God's hand reached down and found us,
Among the metal, glass, and wires.

In New Brunswick, the wind and snow still blows.
From the mountains come frozen air.
Brave travellers pass the snow filled ditch,
No sign that we were there.

On this day when lovers proclaim in verse,
Their love to sweetheart or wife.
I raise a brandy and toast our love,
My darling, you saved my life.

You smile and love is there,
And here, inside my heart.
You are my soul, and so it is
From day to day, throughout my space and time,
You are my valentine.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
February, 2005.

A Stake of Gold

I crouched in the door of The Last Drop Cafe,
When out of the freezing cold,
Came a man of strength, who took my arm,
And spoke of finding gold.

'Come', he said, 'Stand tall my friend.
Look north with eyes that see.
If it is only the past you live,
Then the future can never be.

You can die as quick on a southern beach,
As under a frozen tree.
It isn't the beach that warms the soul,
It's God's love for you and me.'

I looked in his face as he spoke my name,
I felt warmth instead of cold.
By looking at things in a different way,
I found my stake of gold.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
February, 2002.

The Aging Old Birch

From out of the blue two swallows came flying,
Their songs were of mating as winter lay dying.
From below, the old birch, white arms blunt and old,
Reached out with promise of protection from the cold.

A colourless bird house with small wooden perch,
Clung to the bark of the majestic old birch.
The swallows cavorted in the sky overhead,
Then flew to the birch as winter lay dead.

The kindly old tree spread its leaves with a sigh,
A battered old soldier, yet not time to die.
New life in the birdhouse, sounds shrill and new.
The old birch stood guard as the young swallows grew.

One day the parents climbed high in the blue,
Chasing a feather as tree swallows do,
Then away flew the fledglings, without a goodbye.
Last vestige of youth, time now to die.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
October, 2003.

Grandma's Rose

Your grandma wants to tell you
In her own quite special way,
That she sits here and is remembering
Seventeen years ago today.

In all that time, you've never lost
The soft and caring touch.
Which is why so many, including her
Keep loving you so much.

I too love and think of you,
As this day comes and goes.
Proud that in our garden
Is a magnificant, blooming rose.

Grandpa, October, 2003.
GWB, Gordon William Bain.

Lure of the Spider

I walked in the morning, my feet wet with dew,
The gardens in splendour with things that they grew.
Respite from big business, its smiles made of paste,
No tolerance in nature for chameleon waste.
I smiled with thought, then stopped at a bed.
At my feet was a spider, she was building a web.

Three silken lines were first put into place,
Circular strands made a hammock in space.
Around and around went the weave and the wrap,
She crossed in the middle and finished the trap.
The sun glinted down, the wait then began,
To lure the unwary at the heart of her plan.

Breathtaking beauty, gentle wind and the sky,
From out of the bushes along came a fly.
It casually landed, then tried to move,
Advantage the spider, its victim would lose.

How close seem the life games of nature and man,
Was my thought as I turned, my briefcase in hand.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
November, 2003.

Growing Up With Dad

Father image of stories told,
Arms that would not give.
I was young, and he was old,
I wanted free to live.

No matter the place, nor what I did,
His shadow followed me.
To him, I would always be a kid.
He could not set me free.

Sadly then, I rang the bell
And we began to fight.
I slipped away from his magic spell
And into my silent night.

I didn't know that when we fought
It would all turn out so bad.
I know now that what I sought
Was to be just like dad.

GWB, Gordon William Bain
October, 2003.

The Dog That Climbed The Tree

There is a story told
By young and old,
Of a dog that climbed a tree.
The old and wise,
With failing eyes,
Say that could never be.

But children smile,
And all the while,
Retell it as thought the truth,
It happened they say,
On a sunny day,
In a tree of ripening fruit.

Buddy barked long
At the birds of song,
And all that would steal the fruit.
Until a flash of red
From the forest bed
Shrilled like a piper's flute.

With the gauntlet down,
They crowded around,
Forest people wanted to see,
How Buddy would fare,
From up in the air,
If a dog can't climb a tree.

'Oh no,' said the badger,
And shook his head,
'Dogs can't climb,
Buddy will soon be dead!'

'Ah,' said the rabbit,
'If I were him,
I would run away,
At the slightest whim!'

'No,' said the fox,
'He must use his mind,
If ever an answer,
He's going to find.'

The squirrel leaped high,
In a move to fly
Past Buddy the mighty pup.
The threat was huge,
As the predator moved,
But the dog would not give up.

The wind had blown,
When the tree had grown,
In time it had learned to lean.
Buddy just glared,
His teeth were bared,
He ran with a mighty scream.

Buddy ran the slant,
Althought dogs just can't,
He was suddenly up the tree.
And there was his foe,
With nowhere to go,
Just as surprised as he could be.

People say,
That on that day,
The enemies made a deal.
For a total reprieve,
The squirrel could leave,
If he never again would steal.

The story here
Is one of mirth,
But the moral is there to see.
Face up to trouble,
And don't give up,
Because dogs can climb a tree.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
2002 or 2003? Precise date unknown

An Ode to a Cook Stove

Pause gentle stranger, and stay a spell.
Imagine the story I have to tell.

You see my door, and note its name.
And wonder if it is one of fame.
The richness here is what I've baked,
And the happy people who sat and ate.
For I was a part of a hundred lives.
Ten thousand times,
I worked for them, and heard their sighs.
A life begins, another dies.

They are the people you now call old.
For them I strived to break the cold.
I cooked their meals
And warmed their night.
When all else failed,
I brought them light.

Pause gentle stranger and shed a tear,
For the forgotten memories buried here.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
February 2002.

Trains, Trails, and Creosote Stains

Long swaths cut through a forest green.
Railroad engines powered by steam.
But no rails now in wait for trains,
Charging through with wood and grains.
Occasional trestle, overgrown ties,
Creosote stains where memory dies.

For some who walk and remember when
Steam engines pounded the wood and glen.
Nostalgia comes, old eyes form tears
Happy memories of former years.
Beautiful island of reddened shale,
Now boasts long miles of nature trail.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
October 2003.

A Blade of Grass

I sat on a bench as the world rushed past.
Aware of the dew, and a blade of grass.
The warming sun had begun its climb.
The grass, the dew and a need for time.

From out of the morning, a sudden breeze.
Played hide and seek among the trees.
The grass blade trembled, the wind went slack.
Dewdrops were moving along its back.

Then down they went along the stem.
Where thirsty roots were awaiting them.
High in the sky the sun looked down.
Dewdrops now safely underground.

It stood there proudly in its cloak of green.
I was in awe of what I had seen.
How infinitely wonderous is nature's task.
The sun, the dewdrops, and a blade of grass.

GWB, Gordon Bain
October, 2002.

Permission to Dream

White clouds in my window, a backdrop of blue.
The scent of red clover, the shimmer of dew.
I breathe deeply, and watch; purple finch are at play.
I'm in love with the picture. It's a beautiful day.

A far distant rumble, I turn with a start.
Blackness is tearing my picture apart.
Flashes of yellow cut through a dark sky.
Two forces move closer, so like you and I.

Rain begins falling, the threatening storm.
Now a canvas on which a new picture is born.
Beautiful rainbow of gold, red and green.
Symbol of hope, permission to dream.

Framed by my window, now etched in my mind.
Mother Nature the painter -- one of a kind.

GWB, Gordon William Bain,
September, 2003.