The Flin Flon Writers Guild usually celebrates National Poetry Month with a poetry night at the Flin Flon Public Library, co-hosted with the Flin Flon Toastmasters.
Of course, with COVID-19 measures in place this year, such a gathering was out of the question, so we opened up our website to any local writers who wish to share their work. Here is what they shared. All works are property of the authors.
by Linda Ducharme
Vermillion band along horizon
introduces warmth, spreads.
becomes pumpkin and strawberry.
Vibrant magenta dances above,
tickling cloud bases,
to pallid pink, a pastel blush,
warm shades fade.
Clear, clean, cobalt replaces radiant hues.
Sol emerges in eastern sky.
How to Define a Cat
copyright 2020 Glenda Walker-Hobbs
(with input from Farley, Yanni, Glory and Blake)
A cat is a stylist who licks your locks.
A cat is an animal snoring under a chair.
A cat is a mooch who desires your chicken.
A cat is a hunter who brings home mice.
A cat is an alarm clock at dawn.
A cat is an escape artist who bolts outside.
A cat is a heat pack that warms your feet.
A cat is a fur ball curled up on the couch.
A cat is a neighbourhood supervisor at the window.
A cat is a sympathizer who comforts your tears.
A cat is a dive bomber on the cardboard scratcher.
A cat is a slumster who drinks from the toilet.
A cat is a friend who shares your lap and life.
This poem has been published in Village Square, Spring 2020.
Poetry page: gwalkerhobbs.angelfire.com
End of the Season
by Harry C. Hobbs
the docks are empty now
only memories remain of:
motor boats chugging on the lake,
fisherman excitedly reeling in their catch,
toasting each other with amber beer,
their paddles swooshing in rhythm,
children clip clopping along the boards,
playing on endless summer nights
island sits motionless,
trees on distant shore
nod their heads,
await refreshing sleep.
This poem was used as part of the Water and the Wild Project and is on display with the exhibit
My Piano – 1919
Copyright Myrna I. Guymer 2020
My inherited piano – a MacLean Weber was born from death,
The death of my grandfather Guymer, (you never had
A grandfather Guymer, Dad said).
Gramma Guymer bought a piano, not
because that grandfather died, but because
Gramma loved music, had artistic grace she expressed as a former dancer all those years
before her life turned bleak sending
her off to Winnipeg to study
embalming and how to operate a funeral home.
She purchased the solid oak upright, with matching long compartment
bench, all delivered to The Pas in a huge wooden crate dismantled by a hired hand
a playhouse for her youngest children.
Gramma, who I remember with busy dancing eyes—or was it her mouth?—that seemed to say
she had many things on her mind,
or maybe she had a trick up her long English sleeve,
with hopes that after the Spanish flu stole
her husband possibly
one of her five children would master the
88 keys and fill her funeral parlor home with gladness.
Letter to my Great-Great Grandchild
Libby Stoker-Lavelle, April 2020
Inspired by J.P. Grasser, Letter to my Great-Great Grandchild
How I wish for your happy existence.
How I wish for a world that continues to blossom and bloom
For birds that flit by the window to rest on the feeder
For the red tulips, with bright yellow tips, that open in the vase on the harvest table
And glow warmth as the sun shines through them
For watching the ice in the lake turn to water, how it cracks and sinks and makes a whooshing sound in the night
For waiting for the loons to arrive, the nesting pair that have come every year. Is it even the same pair? How can we tell?
For gliding in a canoe, swatting away mosquitoes, grateful for the wind that whisks them away
For fingers trailing in the water, feeling the sweet ripples of cold water run through your hands
For the squish and squelch of mud underfoot, as the crunchy, crystallized snow makes its swift descent into the ground in April, clearing space for spring’s awakening
For the warm sun on your face, the heat and the gentle embrace that wakes up your winter-softened body, brings new blood to your legs, a desire to move your feet.
For the feeling of dancing, the lift in a fiddle’s reel or a joyful drum beat that makes you want to twirl and swing and shake your bottom to let it move through you.
For the feeling of a hug from someone you missed, who holds you longer, and longer, even as you try to pull away, the happiness running through your veins and bringing you closer.
For the serenity of a moment to yourself, with a cup of tea, watching the water, seeing the day rise up to meet you, spreading its expansive wings in a beautiful embrace
For the intimacy of laughter with your closest friends, when a glance is all you need, when your minds are aligned, in sync, even after months, years apart
For, in times when you are down, the blessing of a hug, or a word of compassion that gives you what you were seeking, makes you feel seen, and heard, and known.
Copyright Libby Stoker-Lavelle