Not young men with families,
not young ladies with college degrees,
just boots on the ground.
Not souls, not intellects, not creative hands,
not doctors, not scientists, not keepers of the land.
What’s that sound, Captain?
Boots on the ground, my son.
How many are there, Captain?
Ten thousand outward bound.
What becomes of them, Captain?
Some are lost and never found.
Who are they really, Captain?
Boots on the ground.
One fine morning in July
(I’m sorry I cannot specify)
Puffs of clouds will saunter by
Through a wide, untroubled sky
Try to savour it while you may
This could be the very best day
To paint the barn or cut the hay
or find a stream and drift away
from Puffs of Breath
when Neil walked on the moon
he had found
a stainless steel dinner spoon?
Would that have been enough
to make mankind swoon?
And would we,
in our intellect, make room
for a singular, sandy lunar spoon?
from Puffs of Breath
I was told you were killed near Kandahar
while I skied at Lake Louise.
A roadside bomb awaited you
as I cruised among glades and trees.
Your body parts, they gathered and lay
in a coffin sealed so tight.
They brought you home in the cargo hold
beneath our flag of red and white.
Remember those times (not long ago)
we skied together at Lake Louise?
The same old mountains gathered ’round
to watch us do as we pleased.
Your tour of duty became Kandahar;
mine continued at Lake Louise.
How can there be on the very same Earth
two places such as these?
On my final descent from Top of the World
regret will accompany me
and two young men will disappear
among the ghostly trees.
from Poet on a Cargo Plane
A black and white photograph of Mom
on the dock at Lake Minnewanka—
shy smile, stylish dress, young legs.
I like to think she and Dad arrived by train,
Roy’s CPR pass in his breast pocket.
I like to think they held hands in the day coach,
anticipating their future,
excited to be a couple.
This is years before life began to take its toll—
before children, the War, a return to work,
before accidents and other setbacks.
That bright summer day near Banff,
if I had been a stranger strolling nearby,
I would have thought,
What a pretty girl.
What a glorious world.
Heading toward the adjacent rink,
I feel I am confronting her.
We are foreigners:
she with her hijab and long black dress,
me—helmet, visor—full equipment.
I smile; she smiles back.
Our common ground—skates on ice.
She pushes a training aid for balance,
hardly lifting her blades,
as though afraid the surface will crack.
I turn to watch her journey—
elegant in its awkwardness.
from After the Flood: Hockey Poems
VIEWPOINT- Keith Worthington, letters and artwork by Renate Worthington, from PUFFS OF BREATH,©2007
POEM SEARCH- Keith Worthington,lettered by Renate, from PUFFS OF BREATH ©2007.
WINTER’S TIME: words by Keith Worthington, built-up capitals and artwork by Renate Worthington, from PUFFS OF BREATH, © 2007