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Bits and Pieces

by Barrie Hopkins

Little things

Some days I don’t feel poetic,

But today I just happen to do.

So I think I am going to list a few things, That are important, yes to me and to you.

Having lived my life near completion, With most of my learning self-taught. I now hover well in my 80s, But this, I have not given much thought.

“My Little Lady,” she read the bible, Three score years, plus ten, was the quote. I suppose when you reach the low 80s, It is an age of noticeable note.

She lived by the ten commandments, Which she quite often quoted in voice. It was she, who coined the unpopular phrase, “The commandments are not multiple choice.”

I too, coined a phrase, not yet popular, After I thought of it some. “Books carry the seeds of thought, Across deserts of generations yet to come.”

We lived a life we thought simple,

But in truth it was the school of hard knocks. Clasping hands we stood at two gravesides, If you picture that romantic, it was not!

Two and a half years between gravesides, One mid-20s, the other mid-teens. The question why, has never been answered, Somewhere, we went wrong, it seems.

We both loved trees, birds and flowers, Every bird song, if possible, that could be heard. To think that we loved much to travel, Would be utterly, on your part, absurd.

Of the trips that we took on occasion, Whether north, south, east or west. The trips that we took back home again, Were the trips that we loved the best.

We saw the east and west coasts of Canada, At Panama Canal we saw the same. It was the turning of the 2000 century, Celebrations there, I can assure, were not tame.

Canal control was returned to Panamanians, That was something worth giving a shout. Not happy with whom they called Green coats, Who for years, had been bossing them about.

Having both been raised in the country, She and I loved the simple things. The day that we were married, Both slipped on gold bi-coloured rings.

We loved seeing fireflies in early evening, Conversations heard round a pond. Often hearing multiple spring peepers claim, “Knee-deep, knee-deep” waters beyond.

From across the pond among the cattails, Booms a bullfrog’s authoritative voice. “Better go round” he bugles, You really have no other choice.

We loved the flame of fire pits in the evening. While crickets, in chorus, see-sawed their song. We sometimes felt quite often guilty, Thinking, grasshopper’s sing-song too long.

But that is the way of Mother Nature, She keeps giving her all and her all. It makes to her, little difference, Whether spring, winter, summer or fall.

I am pleasantly pleased with the seasons, That here in Canada we enjoy. It brings back many fond memories, Of when I ran, barefoot as a boy.

I remember humungous black willows, Their roots anchored deep in the swale. After those rough barked big leaning trees, Our gardens were named Willowdale.

I loved the course bark on those willows, Easy to climb on, when in bare feet. There I played hours, with my pet goat Nanny, Climbing from limb to limb, it was neat.

I recollect the tall stately white pine tree, That stood stalwart guarding our gate. Night time breeze whispered through its needles, While whippoorwill’s repeated calls, often late.

Now I could go on listing fond memories, Forever, plus an ever, plus a day. Before my tongue tip recedes from poetic, There is something I really must say.

If I had my life to live over, And I would, if I could there’s no doubt. If all pics were possible on the world wide web. There’s just a single one that I would pick out.

She was known well as “My Little Lady,” Listed now, for eight years, as the late. For I know, when I go, I‘ll be seeing, Her out stretched arms, at the pearly gate.


Take care, ‘cause we care.




Vol 49 Issue 30


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