This past year-and-a-half has been a challenging time for everyone, and I am no exception. Different people have different methods with coping; like anyone has a choice.
On a personal note, this has been difficult in the fact I am unable to get together with friends and family or attend movies and theatre productions. Restrictions in restaurants have been lifted but dining out is still not the same. The Surrey International Writer’s Conference will be virtual again this year. I prefer the in-person conference, so I will not be participating.
driven by the desire to appropriate
you reel in a realtor ripened by experience
decisions discussed and duly noted
MLS - listings extensively explored
mortgages, taxes, interest rates
the more you learn, the less you know
New Brunswick is water
to rivers and bays
and the ocean, Atlantic.
It dribbles and floods,
gushes and spurts,
with a pause now and then
for catching its breath
before it starts coursing
all over again.
William James “Jim” Myles of Little Bay East, Newfoundland, son of William Albert and Hannah Jane (Green) Miles, was born September 1910 at Little Bay East. His great-greatgrandfather, the first James, had come to the island from Shaftesbury, Dorset, England, many years ago. His grandfather, William, and father were skilled carpenters and boat builders and that was how they earned a living. James of Little Bay East was also known as an excellent carpenter, a natural ability he obviously inherited from his ancestors.
I have had more trouble with myself than with any other person I have ever met.
- Dwight L. Moody
It is the summer of 1957 and the weather outside is pleasantly warm but I am sitting inside the Chief of Police’s office in my hometown of Wiarton, Ontario and I’m sweating bullets. I have just turned 13. A couple of my buddies have been “invited” to the Chief’s office as well. There are only two restaurants in our town and a couple of nights ago one of them was burglarized and some cash was stolen. The Chief says he knows we hang out on the main drag a lot and wonders if we saw anything. He is playing “good” cop routine with us no doubt hoping one of us is guilty and will be so nervous that we will confess. I am sweating because I have a wad of cash that I am holding tightly with my left hand in my pants pocket. If he sees the bulge and searches me I am going to be in big trouble.
Volume 24, Number 139, June/July 2021 Two Poems by Bob Boulton
Poem for Debbie and Mary
When there were still
when circuses were still a good thing
and I was still a boy
and I watched the acrobats swing
swing from that trapeze way up there
and I thought
I wish I could do that.
Volume 24, Number 138, April/May 2021 Three Poems by Stella Mazur Preda
a hallowed sanctum in a secluded wood
a gathering of the poets’ coven
incantations of poetics herald
the arrival of the Autumnal Equinox
we rejoice in the celestial changes
taste fruits of the autumn harvest
elicit pleasures of the Muse
Road weary after a three-day trip from Vancouver, I sit in the car clutching a homestead map from the Saskatchewan Provincial Archives and gaze at an undulating ocean of green prairie. I am at the end of a long journey that began with a story I heard from my mother-in-law, Mary Banks. When Mary, a war bride from Lancashire, England, boarded the Queen Mary to join her Canadian husband, she was following a trail blazed by a Banks family legend.