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Poetry

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Poetry

Never let go of your dreams..

“Mayday”

Today-
I shall embrace it for what it is.
For life offers you no more than
what you ask of it.
Sometimes it takes–
Sometimes it gives.
But, in the end
it becomes exactly
what you seek……

So I say to myself
as I do each morning,
now that i realize miracles
are made to be made–
“Carpe Diem, Pamela..
Your dreams will become
reality
ONLY if you never
let them go”…
Pamela -2013

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Poetry

A world without books would be colourless…

MORNING, y’all!!
A wee giftie for the readers in my circle.
A poem about books for you this lovely mid-month Sunday.

“Priceless…..
Awww yes..
Books…
Our saving grace when we are in despair. And need solace…..
Our teachers.
Our comedians when we need to laugh.
Our heat’s desire when we need to imagine great love and passion.
Our roadmaps to motivate and inspire us.
Our Angels when we feel to give up..
We all NEED books..
They are our companions in life..
And once read and taken into our soul, a thing that NO ONE can steal from us…
For we OWN the words then..
Forever and ever.””””
~~~~
Pamela–

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Poetry

Snowwalking on Spring Garden Road…….

Snowfall on a quiet Saturday night
Shhhh—
Listen!
…..the sound!!
It’s like shouting into an echoing canyon
and the already used, diminishing words
drop over and over, like raindrops, around you…
Or when the big fat cat walks across a high nap,
lazily flopping in the sunray-
and drags his tail, sensuously, as he smiles…..…
It’s like the nibbling on cotton candy
and last sizzles of the steak on the grill..sssssssssssss…
or running white beach sand through the sifter..or the pan..
It reminds me of
the pop-pop-pop of champagne bubbles.,
the whisper of a gentle breeze in fall russet
and the mare’s movement in the straw-bed
as she nudges her newborn to stand..
or the proud graduate
while she sits and paints her face
as her silvery gown rustles..
or the silk of ready-to-harvest corn
as it picks up the sands of time..
the thunder of your baby’s sigh
as she slumbers…
or the beating of your own heart
when your beloved touches your lips
with fingertips,
ever so gently…
Pamela Lee..
January, 2013..\

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Poetry

The loss of a mother can never be replaced…..

“Incredulously”

Who could have known?
Who could have guessed?
Who could ever think
that the most important soul
to us ALL
would be taken in violent murder in
five days, those many years ago?

1978!
Self-same day as the |Jonestown Massacre.

Who could believe, if someone said it was coming,
that the one
who we all assume will be there for us
’til our own end
will, instead, be stolen?

Wouldn’t we all pooh-pooh it if we
thought that Gramma would never again
bake her famous cookies
for your kids..
spoil them rotten with her devoted love of them?

Who could imagine she would
never again gladly provide an ear,
a non-judgemental ear for you
in the middle of the night
when you just ..needed her?
I couldn’t..
But it happened..
Pamela..
13/11/15
post script–My precious Momma was 49..I had just turned 29, 12 days before her death.

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Poetry

Collateral damage on ths shores of Halifax Harbour.

In Remembrance
Collateral Damage on the shores of the Halifax Harbour

They felt safe from the war,
here at home
on the shores of Halifax Harbour.

Mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers,
teachers and preachers;
left behind when the boys of Nova Scotia
crossed over the pond
from Pier 21.

As did the sons from other harbours.
From Musquodoboit to Sydney.
Lunenburg to Digby.
They came.

Boys.
Vital, virile young men.
Not yet sculpting the life they were destined to make
for their eternity.
Some hadn’t spilled blood shaving.
They spilled it instead on Flanders Fields.

With troops ships anchored row upon row,
down harbour in the Bedford Basin,
awaiting their next load of “My Soldier” men,
and long snaking trains bringing sons and brothers
from across the land,
the unthinkable happened one day in December
to thousands upon thousands of those
mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters,
teachers and preachers of the
boys of Nova Scotia,
who thought they were safe at home
on the shores of Halifax Harbour.

They watched from their windows,
not knowing the danger,
in awe of the scene.
They watched from the Mi’kmaq village in Tufts Cove,
All to be lost.
A tsunami.
In Halifax Harbour.

There was fire on the French vessel, Mont Blanc.
She was all the way up from New York.
Her hull loaded.
Munitions for war, bound for France.

At 8:45 that cold December 6 of ‘17,
with little brothers and sisters
lining for class,
the captains of Mont Blanc and the vessel S.S. Imao,
attentions distracted that early morning day,
allowed their ships to kiss steel upon steel
in the Narrows.

Mothers and fathers even brothers and sisters,
teachers and preachers
lined the streets of Richmond District
and all other shores,
both sides of the harbour.
Not knowing they were not safe from the war.

At 9:04, the stage set for such gore
Armageddon struck
those shores.

2000 gone, if not in an instant,
then the next day in the blizzard
that froze shattered limbs, the sockets of eyes.
No respite from the hell they had lived in, til now.

Tragedy upon tragedy.
The suffering,
magnificent in its entirety,
making stories for perpetuity.
As they lie dying or grievously wounded.

9000 injured. The walking dead
as Bostonians sped
to their rescue.

More injured than on Vimy Ridge
those past April days,
those sons lost to battle.

Now, as impossible to ponder,
here on the shores of Halifax Harbour,
where mothers and fathers,
and brothers and sisters,
and teachers and preachers
felt safe from the war.

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Poetry

November–my oxymoranic month…

I REALIZE YOU CAN’T like THIS POEM- PER SAY–
But I MADE A PROMISE TO MYSELF AND TO HER TO HONOUR MY MOTHER every November 1st —AND HER LIFE AND UNTIMELY DEATH when she was only 49–me 29–IN words–as a writer and poet….
I know my siblings feel the same..
ALL I CAN ADD IS THIS..
WE DON’T Always get along with our moms..but—
we must never take the lady who birthed us for granted..
or disregard her–
or fail to love and cherish her..
For we never know how or when she will leave our lives forever…

~~~November –The Trickster
Oh, November. You are back.
The month of oxymoron and counterfeit happiness.
Oh, yes I well remember the giddiness of it all
when I was a kid; all pig-tailed, naive excitement.
Childish dreams painted pictures in my fertile mind then,
those decades ago.
Dreams of the MOST
fabulous gift ever in THIS birthday..
for FABULOUS was my word of the month
when I was, say
nine on this day.
November 1st.
My middle-brother and I share this month, birthday-wise.
But he was and is such a giving soul
That he always let me be singular in my cake selection.
Momma used to make me a fancy, coconut covered bunny
with quarters and dimes and nickels
stealthily wrapped in
waxed paper so the searchers for treasure
didn’t bite down and chip our teeth.
And we never did!
OHHH, I shiver as I remember the glorious mystery!!
Who would get the QUARTER?!
And ME? I was beside myself.
So dramatic I was back then
and yet so appreciative of what she would choose THIS year.
It was always PERFECT! Exactly what I needed for that moment
on the anniversary of my birth. Our most important battle together
my Momma and I..
Yes, the gift was ALWAYS perfect.
Giddy I was.
Then the robber of happiness came along.
WE all remember that day, me and my siblings.
The day we learned never to assume that the right things in life
don’t necessarily stay right.
I had just celebrated my 29th. No bunny cake but sweet memories of them.
We had laughed about that memory when my mother called on my birthday, she and I.
The rest of her family, her blood joined us in incredulity that day
when blood coursed outside her body in violence and homicide.
Not inside where it belonged.
Birthdays?
First week.
My bro-retired now. On the 2nd.
Second week.
Me. Retired now, an author. The 6th.
Third week.
Her taking . The 18th.
But that was a death day.
A most horrific new-made anniversary.
The rest of November, 1978?
Who knows?
For I do not remember
the eleven-month.
The 30Day month.
The Scorpio, chrysanthemum and topaz month
of ’78.
Our mothers.
The ONLY being in every human condition
who we alllll have to be taken away from us.
Or we would not exist to
miss her.
November 1st, 2015

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Poetry

The gifts of autumn….

The beauty of autumn…
This time of golds and reds and soft edges..
of collected family and football and way too much food…
of thankfulness and Charlie Brown’s Pumpkin.
This time is
a time of decision.
A time of clarity and focused ascension.
It is a time where that thing, intent..
that abstract description of an operation to be performed…. becomes necessary again.
Stirred and shaken awake again..
For we MUST begin once again to perform for,
unless we were born of silver spoons
and the privilege of lazy entitlement…
The fact is—Nobody ELSE is gonna do it for us, oui?
Still, it has been a slice, this past season, has it not?
Now that we are of an age,
summer seemed to fly by as we allowed ourselves to play
and be distracted by the sunshine and lollipops.
Forgetting for whole weeks at a time that we must thrive..not just survive..
Don’t we all love those meager weeks of childhood irresponsibility that takes us all over and we forget that
we must soon be adult and responsible once more?
Aww–the beauty of autumn.
We fight it but it is, alas…
our rap of the knuckles.
Our-“HEY, you. pay attention!
Chop-chop..”
Reality is HERE.
Get back to it!
Like–YESTERDAY!”
Pamela Lee
October, 2015

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Poetry

Fall-the season of readiness.

“Fallout””

Isn’t it true we find ourselves often waiting for happenstence when the month of orange arrives in our lives?

That season when the undeniable urge to ready ourselves for-whatever- is undeniably there first and foremost upon awakening each shorter day??

Summertime exhausted us in outdoor play and bold attitudes..

Winter—oh, la, that time of struggle and sad remorse about who-knows-what. That dirty word comes across our minds unbidden quite often on those cold and wet autumn afternoons when we think to ourselves “At LEAST it’s not snow!”

Yes, it is true that in quiet moments before daily life begins- in that gloomy-day coffee time when we are alone among many, we tend to reflect more.

To question, to doubt.

To begin the uphill battle of thriving over the harshness of the many hibernal days we northerners embrace..or abhor. finding it more and more difficult as more and more years add up.

In sourcing trendy quotes and words and fascinating tidbits on ‘coping’ when darkness descends.. . it dawned on me that we need not seek the soulwords of others to express our emotions on October One each year… for we feel the anxiety and angst of overwinter knocking on our door already.. Do we not? P. Lee.. October 1, 2013www.pamelaleeauthor.com

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Poetry

I write today—because I can..

It hurts WHEN I CAN’T WRITE!!!!

I feel bereft.

Like I am missing something vital to me.

Like I feel when I am not in love.

So my sad heart is soothed today

for I can..

In normal circumstances it has been my habit each day to be aware–

To listen–

To read–

To observe–

To focus and then pick words out of the air–like fireflies,

that sparkle all around me.

I collect words—sound-bites to my soul.

—–and then put them to page.

So today–I write…….

Because I can.

Pamela

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Poetry

Truth–a most valuable possession..

“To say or not to say”

Today I struggle
one more time..
to tell the story
so very sublime
that it catches one’s breath.
Or…
It makes one sigh
and cry
and smile
at the mystery
of the destiny
of the lady in waiting
of the final answers
to it all..

Pamela
September 11, 2013
@BoomerNovel