Lions&Tigers, and Bears-Oh Yeah!

 

                    Gorillas and darkness, so, too-crocodiles.

With beady, red eyes, and big, toothy smiles

Tic-Toc-Tic-Toc, run away, Peter Pan

Run all your life, just as fast as you can!

 

Or until the crow’s feet and grey

Look out from the mirror,

And with age, my boys, you realize…

There’s no Never-Land, here;

It’s there in your heart, all along deep within you,

Yes, buried deep in the muscles and sinew!

Tinker bell always glimmers,

Just deep, deep within.

Still, with her wand,

Her light never will fade…

‘Til all those cruel childhood fears..

Are once, and finally allayed.

 

 She’s there to guide you

In the spirit of your Mom and your Dad,

Guardian-angels at the ready-

So, no need to be sad…

 

They stand by the door protecting you,

To keep all those

 childhood fears at bay;

And they will keep you safe and warm-

Until that last breath and final day

 

(she was a beauty..!)

  She was our sanctuary, our ‘party-room,

  She was our ‘Notre Dame..

So many nights, she’d watch over us, there,

And “Panique” was her name!

 

Big and strong yet still some sexy sloop

And below, oh! The secrets she would keep

Boys-all wanting to be men- in the bunks there,  fast-asleep

 

 Gorillas and Darkness and so, too, Crocodiles…

The best defence for the living:

A happy heart and warm smiles!

 

 

Below decks, the laughing..,

The cigarettes, the warm beer…

The giggling, farting and waiting

For the dawn to get here.

And “Panique”, she would guide us

Through the night’s violent storm

Down deep in her belly, below deck- safe and warm!

 

So, now, to the ‘ole girl’

To all her gleaming, curved lines

We remember her well

And all those good times!

To the secrets she kept, the farting and fear

To her, then, we raise a toast:

With one final, warm beer!                    Friday, Nov.2,2012

             ‘Lions and Tigers, and Bears, oh, yeah!’(Wizard of Oz)

                                            (O.OT.B,B.)

"Colonel Chivington"

 

 

For some more detailed background-information leading to the following piece, I refer you to my "OP-Ed's" page and the entry "SAND CREEK", the sight of yet another brutal massacre of Indians by U.S. troops in the post civil war era frontier days!

Oh!Colonel Chivington, ColonelChivington,

You practise what you preach (a Merthodist minister),

'Large or small, Kill them all;

Nits Make Lice, you know-

which became an army policy, motto,too-

Last directive for the troops,'No Survivors,You!

Which meant women and children would not be spared-

Unless they werewell-intended, "well-disposed"

But none ever were likely to be, so the discussion would be closed!His men,

All 700, most in a drunken stupor from the night before

Weren't satisfied with simply killing them-brought devilish butchery and gore:

wHEN i CLOSED MY EYES....(coins in every fountain...)

Through all those times I shut my eyes,

And squeezed them very tight...,

From Pompeii's cobblestones, and Roman ruins-

In Nice, Parisienne nights.

Through churling, white-capped waves, of Ulsses' seas

I begged and prayed- and just somehow knew that there would be more,

Through the time-worn seat of ole Democracy

And the home of the Minotaur;

From Tangiers white-washed buildings, walls,

To the old-stone ports of Crete,

Through every girl I ever   chanced to kiss,

And new friend that I'd meet;

Keep walking the path,  keep walking the path

I just knew what was in store-

That there would be a true and lasting love,

One day there,  knocking at my door!  (April28,2015-Kim P.)

REMEMBER THE GOOD OLE DAYS? ME,TOO..?

                        “Ode to Sentiment and Grandfathers”

 

I remember the good ole days when horse-power still required horses, and surfing required water…

I did, honestly, used to walk both ways to school

-and not see one mini-van on the horizon in any of my travels…

I remember Coca-Cola, in the old thick-glass bottles

That would make music when empty and blown into just right.

I remember pool-halls , even bars that played only background music from a jukebox, when people would gather and talk to each other, not be distracted continuously by wall-sized flatscreens where giant cars flew in surreal heavens;

I remember when the girls of” C&W” music had long hair in ponytails, a guitar and a stool, not bikinis or short-shorts that revealed gluteal-folds,

When wives doing the vacuuming, looked like wives, not eager centerfolds waiting to havesex with tired husbands returning from work.

I remember a time when beggars and street urchins were actually polite whether you added coin to their cup or not, not snarling sarcastic bipolars who felt “entitled”…

When tin foil was used to wrap leftover- food in for the fridge, not as curtains in the grow-op house down the street!

Ah, sure, the sugar was sweeter, the milkman he smiled,

When the shoreline divided the lake from the sand;

When if you met someone new.., you simply proffered your hand.

 When the drugees, the wino’s and prostitutes all, kept to their side of the tracks;

When people could distinguish between fiction and facts, between which- ran a small creek,

And that rumblin’ freight train separated them all clearly, three times each week!

 Another book, million-seller, ‘the Bucket’, lists of the “I Do’s and “I Don’t’s-

Train yourselves to think and say now, the “I will’s” and not “I won’ts”

For everything, there’s a formula… for all the good and the bad,

So, make acareful list ,now  , on what makes you happy, on what makes you sad..

 For therein lies the science, even in funny, strange, cubist best-selller art

and we, the people, will snap it up- because we people are none too smart!

 (2000, Vancouver-after seeing net feature on colors to avoid in interviews! But just saw another today: zinger –sentences to guarantee interview success! Ha.) …small enough to tape to our fridges. K.P.

WHAT IS IT ABOUT BAD-BOYS? -FERMONES..??

    “Bad Boy Blues”’

‘Daisy-Duke’ cutoffs,

Fishnet stockings, high-heeled boots-

Yes, she does what her man likes,,,;

She’s got them bad-boy blues

As a girl

She knew the rumors.., but she, herself, never made that news

But somewhere along the way, it seems

She’s picked up  those bad-boy blues

She saw lots of girls fall and win in-love

While, plenty more would simply lose-

Somewhere the innocence was lost and her heart steeled

Firsthand with them bad-boy blues!

 Like poor Noah with that ark;

They came in One’s when he asked for Two’s

The saddest song among the nice girls

Gotta be those bad-boy blues!

Like fireworks ,he lit up your skies,so blue-

Though put a sullenness in your eyes,there, too

Oh, my princess, you’ve lost your crown, and the slippers,too.

To them bad-boy blues!                      (Beijing, April l10, 2014-  Kim P)

David &GOLIATH... a fascinating tale..., and like Tom Brady's Patriots, little David left the Philistines only with deflated balls...-

                     The phrase serving as my title ,here, was borrowed from a line in Timothy Findlay's award-winning masterwork,"The Wars" in which one character was a superb stone-thrower“Peace  With Stones”Well, that got me thinking some and led me  directly to the biblical story of David&Goliath...!)Feb.10,2015,K.P.)

                            "Peace With Stones"

             Oh! There his hands, in truth, so delicate and small..

And yet they both were right and true-

Everywhere the boy went he was at home, and 

most comfortable, yes, every time he threw.

             So small and steady- yet so sure

             In their movements, just like a clock.

             Somehow those hands grew stronger, each time he threw a rock!

 

             Though his feet, they walked among giants,

             Above them his hands, so true and small,

             But when just one of then held the perfect rock,

             It made him feel ten feet tall!

 

             And on that day he listened- for just one of many signs;

              Intently he watched as a monster-soldier stepped forth

              from within the Philistines

              He glanced once more at his own army,

              Thought of the soldiers, their families, homes

Then stepped some further forward:

To make his  peace with stones!

 

The sound of silence lingered,

 before a multitude of cheers

 For with that dragon slain-

so, too, an army’s fears…

 

 And still that victory shout it lingers in the calm, dry desert air.

 There it is-if you listen- outyonder, still on the dunes  it drones…

 Ever since that day when David, first  made his peace with stones!

 

He knew in his heart

With that silent, faithful trust,

He would stand on that battlefield…

And see  a giant in the dust!

 

 And still off there in the distance,

He heard a thunder and a drone

With one long, final look at his enemy,

He made his peace with stones

 

(Beijing, Fall2012 from a Tim Findlay line)

"For Iris.-in memory of gentle lost souls...."

Recently, here in China, they celebrated70 years(albeit quietly)since the defeat  of the invading Imperialist armies of Japan. While Hitler's Holocaust in Western Europe dominated much of the international press at the close of the war, Japan's atrocities throughout most of SouthEast Asia were largely overlooked.However, a courageous, young American-Chinese woman and author, Iris Chang, would  change that considerably with the publication of her seminal, meticulously-documented account of the massacre in Nanjing titled, "The Rape of Nanking" I've read it cover-to cover three times and have trouble putting it down.It is spellbinding, horrific and haunting and proved inspiration enough for three poems from me, one  of which I share with you here....

     

”Twelve Hundred Tons”

 

 

Legend says twelve hundred tons,

Twelve hundred tons of blood…

By sword, by gun, by bayonet

Soaked into Nanking’s mud.

 

They say twelve hundred tons,

A red river, in a sea of blues

Co-mingled, twice as much in sobbing tears,

So many lives to lose....

 

Twelve hundred tons, twelve hundred tons,

Crazed wolf among the sheep,

So many slaughtered cruelly,

Before release, there- eternal sleep.

 

Twelve hundred tons is heavy,

In truth, we can never weigh such cost,

Of so many souls there silenced,

And of so much spirit lost.

 

Twelve hundred tons, first they shouted

Sons, daughters, husbands, wives –

Soon hushed whispers, then mere echoes

To remember these good lives.

 

Twelve hundred tons, twelve hundred tons,

Forever Nanking, it cries,

No legend was its cruel history,

But still crueler are the lies!            ( Fall, Beijing, 2012; in her book, she details how one researcher calculated the weight of the bood spilled in the city in 1937 by Japanese soldiers-and that based onthe lesser estimate of300.000 lives!)

           (ON CENSORSHIP..) “Leave Well Enough and Pipes, Alone!”

                 (on censorship, really AND DEFENDING Frosty's or Santa's right to pollute their lungs with nicotine smoke.... sharing in that stupid addiction, as I do..)

 

Oh, what to do with you…?

With you, and your censoring type:

He HAD BEADY eyes,

Loved small children,

And he SMOKED A CORNCOB PIPE!

Truth to tell, no one really knows,

So, just leave it and walk away-

His ruddy complexion, red cheeks and red nose

Came easy with three rum and nogs per day.,

Yes, even the famed ho-ho-ho’s!

 

In the back- forty, way out there by the shed

Were his great team of reindeer, well-slept and, yes, well-fed.

Yet Donner and Blitzen, not pleased at all those two with their names

Knew well Kris’ night-prowls

And OH Dear! A few special X-reindeer games

This, too, was close to the little ones,

Always toiling, those pointy-eared  elves

Of course they had their stories, too

And knew of ‘pre-dawn’ raids,  themselves!

 

Even he though  never smoked, while out back there, near the barn,

Never wanting his “deer”, ever, to come to any -harm!

Himself a rep, card-carrying member of Reindeer-Keepers Four-Twelve.

Though he wouldn’t abide talk or union himself, for those little elves…

 

Little-known was that most came from Africa, India, and  such faraway places,

 Pointy ears, yes, big white smiles in dark faces;

Oh, yes, to a one, at Santa’s beck and call

Happy in their  straw beds, no benefits-those Immigrants, all!

 

 You, there, with your whiteout like some stupid magic-wand

 You like life-its good parts- of those-oh , yes!- you’re  fond.

But the rest, in those shadows, the not so-happy-fare

Those, you try to conceal lest the children might be scared

So, life is all sunrise, there’s no setting sun…

But  darkness comes to us all, my friend:

That, you simply can’t outrun.

 

 So you there, with your whiteout, go paint your nails and then your knees!

Just stop trying to change our history; stop changing fact there, if you please

(This one  one sort of erupted on hearing that one independent female Canadian publisher edited/revised the favourite traditional Christmas lyric, ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’  to omit Santa’s nicotine addiction/filthy smoking habit!! Come on! Get another cat; Fall, 2012, Beijing!)

Go! Take it elsewhere., whatever Please-Just Leave

 

Stop trying to change our history; stop changing fact, if you please!

(On hearing that one independent female Canadian publisher edited/revised the favourite traditional Christmas lyric, ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’  to omit Santa’s nicotine addiction/filthy smoking habit!! Come on! Get another cat; Fall, 2012, Beijing!)

WatcHING A MOTHER DIE....?

                             Forgive Me

 

I wanted to put a pillow over your pursed, crooked mouth,

your barely-registering breath, that cruel hint of a smile,

and moisten your chapped, bloodied lips with a

Heaven’s ointment –

  • but He would not permit it, would not grant

  •  such a reprieve, though I asked, again…

  • and again in squeezed, hot tears…

     

    I wanted to press your face to my breast

    and suffocate what fighting will and spirit

    were still there – warriors to the end – into dust,

    so you would not feel –

              Only child.

              Afraid of the darkness? No.

              Rather, instead, a profound, abiding preference for the

              light…which I did not recognize, at first.

     

    I knew the best of you was there with me,

    dying under paralysis, pain and frustration,

    laboured breath, and screaming legs.

    The good-hearted nurse saying, “Eat now, this is your son, for

    Your son,” but we both knew it was not enough to change

    The course, your will…or fate. Take of this bread, for it is my flesh.

     

                    I miss you.

     

    I miss you, like the air – which I sometimes gulp at, like

    a fish held out of its watery element – no longer in the

    refuge of parental love.  You are me, and

    to watch you at less than what you really were

    was hard.

     

    Forgive me, for some moments not grieving enough,

    And in others for grieving too much.

    It was such a stormy night – and it lasted

    For months… and I could not,

     

    Could not comfort you, or take away your fear,

    as you did for me so often as a child.

    That was a hard lesson to learn, the hardest

    you ever taught your son.  The hardest.

     

    To see you, the Texas rose, wilt and grow crooked

    before my eyes –

    and know she was wilting, was so hard.

    but, you did it because it was expected of you,

    asked of you, and because you knew no other path.

     

    Some lesson, Mom :  Live it.  Grab it.  Suck it.

    Chew the knuckle, and get the marrow.

    Get every mile out of this life that you can.

     

    And carry your demons and teddy-bears along every

    inch of that road.

     

    Forgive me, Mom – I wanted to shorten your marathon

    in this world, without realizing that you had to finish

    this race in your own time…,

    and in your own way.

     

    Forgive me.(Kim.) June 15/03..                              Duff(a family nickname..)

By mid-August, I had made my way to China where I would teach at a Sino-Canadian international high school for one year before moving down to the capital..)

1937-jAPANESE IMPERIAL TROOPS ENTEREDTHE STORIED, WALLED ANCIENCT CITY OF NANKING and unleashed/embarked on a 6 week campaign of terror!

 Rape of Nanking(2)

       

        The bells are all broken;

You can hear no voices sing

An eerie silence-like a fist

Is all that grips Nanking!

 

Where once there was a choir,

Joyous, singing hymns..,

In the aftermath, quiet tears

…The only music in Nanking.

 

Yes, the bells are badly broken

So, too, the angels’ wings

And , now, that silence-like a fist

Still there, trying to muffle voices

Of the dead and dying in Nanking     Oct 19/20.2012(Beijing)

Close to 300,000 souls ruthlessly and cruelly slaughteedr by invading army whose credo was 'The 3 All's:Kill All, Burn ll, Destroy All

"tHE pRODIGAL chilldren..?"

Yours Truly, "K.P."on a marvellous trek to ancient city of LiJiang with my wife!

With this latest eco-environmental conference in Rio on Greenhouse gases and what we're going to do about them, the country-partipants hit rather a big snag when the poorest nations began pointing the finger at the wealthier, developed ones, saying in essence,"It was YOU who got us into this mess, so it should be YOU footing the lion's share of the clean-up! So, just write us a blank cheque, and we'll go home and take care of business. None of them particularly known for their deftness at budgeting or finance, of course- and those more powerful mostly western nations demanding(the NERVE!) SOME LEVEL OF ACCOUNTABILITY... Hmmm...?One big ,happy fanily-takes a village to destroy a planet!    (K.P.)

PROTECTING THE 'DOG'

iT'S NOT MY foul-mouthed friend, Zeke...., but a normal cousin, I guess.

                                     “In Defense of Doggerel”

                                    Come now, it’s not all THAT bad

                             Much more than mere limmerick;

                               Sure, so it’s not Donne, Marlow, or the Bard-

                              But ..so much more than greeting cards.

                           For every ‘pervert’ out there…

                           To balance, there’s a prude:

                         The one who laughs at bawdy,and the   one who winces at the rude;

                         Some hear a fart and crease their faces so in disgust,

                         While others turn a deaf ear, say,”If you must,  you must.”  (June24, 2013, Beijing)K.P.

COLOUR-SHADINGS..

This one is an oldie but favorite among friends, even myself and evolved at an English teachers’ I.B. conference in Montezuma, New Mexico where I and my American roomie debated the pronunciation of several words (Canadian vs, American-MINE RHYMES WITH "oF" or "love(either way, it works..)-not "stove"... .so there!   “I Only Wear Mauve”

       When the sun sets so sadly in that cinnamon sky,

    When there’s so much to live for, and you just want to die;

   When the shy coyote howls beneath a pale, summer moon,

 When time moves infant-slowly, and slowly’s too soon,

 

   When miles of tufted sagebrush is a welcoming sight,

   When there’s twin rainbows shimmering in the late afternoon light,

   When the wind-steady- blows through that Ponderosa Pine;

  When I know you’re his, but still wish you were mine,

  When magenta-edged clouds shift lazily through the night,

 And burnt sienna grasses sway in darkened fright,

When where you are coming from ..is all just where you are..,

 When the sunset saddens you- but then there’s a shooting star!

 

When spruce and cedar scents waft through those evergreen woods,

When you’re filled with “I can’t’s, and maybe some “should’s;

When the people around you , all start to look the same..,

When the rose is still a rose, but then only in name;

 

When there’s six shades of purple and they all seem to fuse,

 When there’s jazz in your head- but your heart’s got the blues,

When that smooth adobe red helps paint that cinnamon  shade,

When the last vestige of sun sets on dusty-green sage;(completedVancouver, 1999)

Ahh-those were the days, weren't they...?

                          “Ode to Sentiment and Grandfathers”

 

I remember the good ole days when horse-power still required horses, and surfing required water…

I did, honestly, used to walk both ways to school...

-and not see one mini-van on the horizon in any of my travels…

I remember Coca-Cola, in the old thick-glass bottles

That would make music when empty and blown into just right.

I remember pool-halls , even bars that played only background music from a jukebox, when people would gather and talk to each other, not be distracted continuously by wall-sized flatscreens where giant cars flew in surreal heavens;

I remember when the girls of” C&W” music had long hair in ponytails, a guitar and a stool, not bikinis or short-shorts that revealed gluteal-folds,

When wives doing the vacuuming, looked like wives(after shopping and cleaning all day), not centerfolds waiting to have sex with husbands returning from work.(Although the French-maid outfit... will always stir the pot!)

I remember a time when beggars and street urchins were actually polite whether you added coin to their cup or not, not snarling sarcastic bipolars who felt “entitled”… to handouts

When tin foil was used to wrap leftover- food in for the fridge, not as curtains in the grow-op house down the street!

Ah, sure, the sugar was sweeter, the milkman he smiled,

When the shoreline divided the lake from the sand;

 

When if you met someone new..,

you simply proffered  your hand.

 When the drugees, the wino’s and prostitutes all, kept to their own side of the tracks;

When people could distinguish between fiction and facts, between which- ran a small creek,

And that rumblin’ freight train separated them all clearly, three times each week!

 Another book, million-seller, ‘the Bucket’, lists of the “I Do’s and “I Don’t’s-

Train yourselves to think and say now, the “I will’s” and not “ won’ts”

For everything, there’s a formula… for all the good and the bad,

So, make a careful list ,now  , on what makes you happy, on what makes you sad..K.P.

APPROPRIATE...??

 THIS CAME OUT Of my thinking about the contentious issue in some literary circles about 'misappropriation' of voice. Can a white man write of the black experience? Can a man write of the woman's experience? Yes to both of course, recognizing only the obvious that it is not "authentic" because it is not his own; if only then as third-party observer, not narrator-participant.. The following poem eked its way out into the open..., after me watching the wonderfully powerful, award-winningl Steve McQueen film, "Twelve Years a Slave,"and

reading some of one of my all-time favorite poets, Maya Angelou, and having re-read "Uncle Tom" just last year.For the writer, you needn't have fought in the Civil war, to set your story in that time... Unless offence is taken by some when re-evaluation is warranted.

JUST ANOTHER BOY IN THE FIELD.”

THE WHITE-HOODED MEN

CAME IN THE NIGHT, AGAIN, YOU SEE-

AND LEFT ALL THEIR FEARS HANGING ON THE EDGE OF THE FIELD, IN JAMES WILLOUGHBY,

OVER YONDER- HANGING FROM THAT THAR OAK TREE..

NOT YET EIGHTEEN,JUST A BOY, JUST A BOY,

HIS EYES ROLLED BACKWARDS,HIS TONGUE LOLLING OUT,

OUT OF THE CORNER OF HIS MOUTH-

RIGHT THAR, ON THE FRINGES OF THIS HERE FIELD

THAT SAW HIM TOIL BOTH NIGHT AND DAY,

‘TIL THE LASH-WOUNDS ON HIS BACK..

THEY GOT IN THE WAY,

WHEN HE COULDNA BEND NO MORE-THOUGH HIS FINGERS WERE GAME-

AND A FRIEND WHO SAW IT ALL, SAYS IN FINAL BREATH, HE WHISPERED GOD’S NAME

FOR SHAME, FOR SHAME…

Just another boy in the field, just another boy in the field-,(Oct,2014?-Kim P.)

"My Best Poem!"

My Better two-thirds, Hairong, and me with umbrella hat in Vancouver.  

"eVERYTHING sTARTS sMALL, rIGHT?"

My Best Poem Ever-wife ,Hairong at our Vancouver'Selling a Life Sale Yard Sale'!

“Don’t Sweat the small Stuf-ha!f”(Canto I-missing'f'-small.))

Platitudes are nice and all-

But even empty, are not so small;

We often spout the words they have

But rarely do we heed their call:

Listen! Listen!

Baby-steps are rather small,

But without

‘em, we don’t walk at all…

So Mom and Dad are there, eagle-eyed and always ready..

With hands of encouragement to keep our good ship steady;

And, Ken says in his “Civil War”, more died…

From bacterial infection, than ever from  outright wounds,

And tiny notes begat our history’s finest  tunes;

So said his friends to Goliath, as he stepped forth..

To face the boy- soldier with stones in his hand.

       “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff (CantoII)

What of the oncologist who ignores some cancerous cells,

Or the parent who misses a few little yelps or some tiny yells…

Yes, it’s a nice, little platitude, we recite to all our friends

But few follow it daily, time and time and again

The Great Wall- and those pyramids! Started all with small blocks and bricks

What we most recall from childhood are memories of verbal stones and sticks!

 The universe, itself, and each within us, there, ourselves

Is filled with gazillions of microscopic, little cells-   Some of those are helpful, and some  we know are bad,

 but we must attend to  all, my friendsl-Whether they be happy or even sad.   (June19, 2013, Beijing)l

"I Only Wear Mauve"

This one is an oldie but favorite among friends, even myself and evolved at an English teachers’ I.B. conference in Montezuma, New Mexico where I and my American roomie debated the pronunciation of several words (Canadian vs, American)   “I Only Wear Mauve”

       When the sun sets so sadly in that cinnamon sky,

    When there’s so much to live for, and you just want to die;

   When the shy coyote howls beneath a pale, summer moon,

 When time moves infant-slowly, and slowly’s too soon,

 

   When miles of tufted sagebrush is a welcoming sight,

   When there’s twin rainbows shimmering in the late afternoon light,

   When the wind-steady- blows through that Ponderosa Pine;

  When I know you’re his, but still wish you were mine,

  When magenta-edged clouds shift lazily through the night,

 And burnt sienna grasses sway in darkened fright,

When where you are coming from ..is all just where you are..,

 When the sunset saddens you- but then there’s a shooting star!

 

When spruce and cedar scents waft through those evergreen woods,

When you’re filled with “I can’t’s, and maybe some “should’s;

When the people around you , all start to look the same..,

When the rose is still a rose, but then only in name;

 

When there’s six shades of purple and they all seem to fuse,

 When there’s jazz in your head- but your heart’s got the blues,

When that smooth adobe red helps paint that cinnamon  shade,

When the last vestige of sun sets on dusty-green sage;

DECEITFUL HEARTS 

 This ballad stemmed from research I was doing for an essay on the Canadian seal-hunt for a Human Geography course at U of Toronto way back in 87/88 Long fascinated by the sealing industry, the men involved in those early years and the wave after wave of controversy it has provoked over generations, and a certain hypocrisy I found at the center of it all, this came out, "inspired!"

 

They say,” The sea is made from mothers’ tears,”

 

And I know dearly mothers’ fears,

 

But I been swilin’ for years and years…,

 

I’ll cut a heart for you.

 

 

 

The wooden walls plough through the deep,

 

With greasy jackets below, a sleep,

 

‘til the shepherd’s watch does spy the sheep…

 

And tonight, there’ll be seal stew.

 

 

 

The shout of “Whitecoats!” fills the air,

 

But soon eyes meet an icy glare –

 

The weather, she’s no longer fair…,

 

But below, I think of you.

 

 

 

That storm, she blows over,

 

Then our eagle-eyed rover

 

Spots the dotted floes…

 

How many white coats

 

Will be taken this week,

 

No one really knows.

 

 

 

With gaffs in hand,

 

We take to this land’,

 

Of floating ice and snow

 

The pups’ soulful eyes

 

Are no disguise though,

 

As we men put on a show.

 

 

 

Copying from floe to floe,

 

Nimble, light-of-foot, you know.

 

Can’t move too fast, can’t move too slow,

 

Death, she waits so wet and blue.

 

 

 

I’ll sharpen me knife, and don me cap,

 

Wipe hands on me bloody lap,

 

Then return with me sculps to take a nap..,

 

Sculpin’s the thing to do.

 

 

 

The journalist within our midst

 

Is shocked by what we do;

 

But he’ll never know just what it means:

 

I’ll cut a heart for you.

 

 

 

“A quivering stomach’s a terrible sight,”

 

This he writes by his seal-oil light.

 

When a childless mother may weep this night;

 

He just don’t know our ways.

 

He writes that I don’t feel a thing,

 

While on the floes, he hears me sing…

 

Thinks I feel just like a king-

 

But he don’t know our dreams

 

 

 

I’d gladly take to other work

 

To keep my family fed,

 

But as