School of Hard Knocks

Another One-sided Conversation

2010-11-30T16:24:00.003-05:00

- Mate!.... It's like this... Transition to the civilian world is really quite simple... Think of it as a challenge....You adapt and overcome..... You have to start with your core being... What you really believe.... Take an analytical point of view... Are you thinking clearly? .. .Or do pre-conceived notions occupy your thinking? Think about past challenges and the strategies that helped you overcome them... Weaknesses, strengths, positions... All that shit! And you release it... Believe me, it's for the best. It's an accomplishment! ... Then you can look back at life and make an assessment. Did you achieve? Or did you fail? Did you let insurgent thoughts creep into your head? ... Or did you suppress them and complete the mission?....... Ya hearin me?

- Uhhhh,,, Yeah!

- Bartender! Whatever my friend is drinking.... On me!

- Thanks, Dude!

- No worries! ... I don't like to preach...But just remember... All you have to do is let go of old mindsets... Too easy! Conquer yourself!

Mine, All Mine!

2010-11-23T00:50:00.000-05:00

I spoke on the phone with my father today and at one point mentioned this blog. He had forgotten about it because of my long hiatus from writing. Immediately, I sensed that I should have kept quiet about it, as it may may disturb those close to me, especially if their beliefs differ from mine.

A few hours later, Mom emailed to ask for the url to my blogsite. I dithered for a while, sensing perhaps that this might be a stumbling block because of a self-conscious doubt that previously led me to write about things I cared little about, or when I wrote humour just to show that I could be clever with words, without taking any risks, staying within my realm of safety. But this type of writing loses its flavour quickly. I'd rather take the risk! So I sent the url with an accompanying warning.

I started writing poetry by accident, when I read a lyric or two from a young musician I know. It triggered a thought and 15 minutes later I had something on paper. Though the poem would surely be considered the work of an amateur, I was amazed at how quickly the thoughts entered my head, creating a chain reaction to make Oppenheimer proud. The pen seemed connected directly to my mind, as if no fingers were needed to do the deed. At first, I thought this was a fluke. But the next time I sat down to write the same thing happened. This has been borne out now over a few poems, the main body of which is usually completed in 30 minutes or less.

For the simple virtue of honesty contained within, and nothing more, I can now say that this is, to date, my best writing. It's only been a few weeks, so I believe it will mature, yet hopefully not mellow. I've received some very kind remarks, while others have gone completely silent or even questioned if something is wrong with me. This brings a wry smile to my face. It is to be expected, if only because it challenges many notions about me, built up over time, which may be negative or positive in nature. It certainly isn't what people are used to, no matter what light they previously saw me in.

All of this is not to say that this poetry is especially good; I have absolutely no idea of format. I've never studied the subject. Yet, what I've found in years of reading is that my favourite authors seemed not to consider what the reader would think; to do otherwise would make the endeavour seem contrived. When a book has any goal other than the author's desire to express something, it starts to sound like a sales pitch, although some are more clever than others at the art of disguise. I've discarded many a book upon finding even the slightest intonation of dishonesty. It doesn't take much.

As I stated previously, all of the work to date has been banged out in a matter of minutes; I've often re-read them after posting and thought, "I should have kept from posting that one for a bit longer.", in order to fine-tune it. But it's exciting to write this! The urge to hit the "Publish" button is very strong, so please forgive my childish self-indulgence.

I haven't received much feedback on my writing. Maybe I never will. But I derive a deep sense of satisfaction in knowing that, whatever the quality, these exact words have never been written before, making this 100 percent mine.

The Blessed

2010-11-20T14:05:00.003-05:00

Is it bad analogy?
Or is it only me?
The sniper slows
His heart down
To clearer target see

Balanced metal
Cold, blue steel
Never ventures thought
But blood is warm
Like mine, the norm
To think of what is wrought

A softer role
Must seem so droll
To those who brave the dark
But I'm no rock
From lesser stock
A tree of rotting bark

My weaker heart
Upset the cart
Of apples in my head
I left the scene
Unfit, unclean
To lie awake instead

If it's true
That what we do
Leaves no hole
In the chest
Hats off to you!
Your aim stay true
Surely, you are blessed!

Lady Velvet

2010-11-19T17:11:00.000-05:00

Woman fine
Blissful time
Floating
On a cloud

Touch on things
To make him sing
Out of tune
Aloud

No self-conscious
Thoughts occur
Accepted
Wrong or right

Spirits lift
Venus' gift
Raises man
In flight

Waxy wings
Melting drops
A vacuum
Fall to earth

No parade
Illusion fades
A fleeting sense
Of worth

Sugar, spice
All that's nice
Suddenly
Taste bland

When at the door
The gifted whore
Reveals
An outstretched hand

The Fool

2010-11-19T14:16:00.000-05:00

On death's bed
The fool now lies
No tiresome
Tales of woe

No defiant fight
Embraces night
Long sleep
Comes too slow

Lived it large
Quixote's charge
On limping horse
Aback

Yet came to see
That nothing's free
No rival
To attack

Tunnel vision
Beam so bright
A loving God?
The One?

Looks to it
Then turns away
One last song
Unsung

The Drunken Man

2010-11-19T11:32:00.004-05:00

A drunken man
Once said to me
Be careful
Where you go
For sober men
Who rule the den
See not
A kindred soul

Still to go
And play a part
With many
Always rife
Driving need
To have em heed
The story of a life

Decision made
'Gainst plans
Well laid
Intent is truly good
Yet matters not
When haunting thought
Stokes a fire
Adds wood.

Crimson flash
Words so brash
Loose the rage within
That comes about
Of this, no doubt!
From prior
Mortal sin

Eyes so red
Should be in bed
Not wandering
Far from home
Tomorrow wakes us
Up too soon
Bad memories
Alone!

Get ye back
To wife and kin
Note this wisest thing
In loving lies
Of woman wise
You're not a fool
A king!

Hero

2010-11-10T23:36:00.069-05:00

Stand I steely
Proud and tall
A soldier still
Inside the wall

I come to you
My heart aflame
To test our mettle
Are you game?

I challenge you
Nay, the screen
My honour now
I find it lean.

Popcorn!
Peanuts!
What? No clowns?
Bring on the games!
No time for frowns

A button pushed
Streak of light
Click of hellfire
Say Goodnight!

A cheer goes up
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We got em good!
On wide-screen saw

Common good!
Is what they say!
No shame!
Tis duty!
Let it lay!

Still the sweats
They wake me up
At night
And ask this lad
Did you fight?

Of course! I say
But is it true?
No trench
No gun
To me my due?

A "hero" called
Yet I can't feel
The word hits hard
A bitter pill

Sticks in the throat
When I look and see
The vets of old
Who set us free

Leads to wonder
What did I do?
To stand here medal'd
Next to you

Remembering Keats

2010-11-10T14:55:00.000-05:00

In 2004, I had the honour of going over to the 60th anniversary of D-day events being held in Normandy. We set up an operations centre at Juno Beach and slogged our way through the millions of requests and phone calls from people trying to find out where everything was happening. The entire Normandy region was basically shut down by French military and police for fear of terrorist attacks.

On the day of a ceremony at one of the Canadian war cemeteries a chap showed up with his son. In a panic. he told me that his father, Keats, was supposed to be at this ceremony and had no means of getting there. Prince Charles was presiding over the event so there were roadblocks everywhere. I didn't have the mandate to wisk him around as I was supposed to be manning the ops centre for the ceremonies at Juno. "To hell with it! Let's go!", I said, and grabbed the keys.

Stepping out, I met Keats, a little old fellow in full-dress medic's uniform. We hopped in the car and started off to navigate the myriad roadblocks leading to the cemetery. Between stops, I was able to speak with him and get his autograph in my book. He wasn't the most talkative person. His replies were short and to the point, as if my questions were a distraction.

Every stop presented a new challenge. Every guard refused to let us through. I babbled in my broken Saskatchewan french about the need to get this fellow to the cemetery. The urgency in my voice and his son's panic were countered by Keats' reserve. Throughout it all, he sat calmly looking forward, never speaking to the guards nor even looking at them. He wasn't about to explain himself; didn't need to. This was my task now. Or maybe he simply knew that he was going to get there, with or without me.

One by one, the guards demurred, until all that remained was the final roadblock about a kilometer from the cemetery. As much as I tried, I knew that this was our last stop. Nobody was allowed past this point as the dignitaries had already arrived. I translated the guard's words and wondered what was next. I could see the disappointment in his son's and grandson's eyes. "Thanks for the lift.", was all Keats said. He opened the door and stepped out, adjusted his uniform, threw back his shoulders and began the long, hot walk to the cemetery.

I just sat there in the car and grinned, watching him go, this frail old man with the brisk, calculated step of a soldier. It was hot that day and father and son were worried about Grampa, but something in Keat's cadence told me he'd be just fine. I looked at the guard's incredulous expression and smiled. He knew he wouldn't stop the man.

It's a bit odd, when I consider the places that I've been, but I don't think I've ever felt such a sense of urgency or satisfaction as I did on that day. There was no danger; no lives on the line. No pomp and ceremony that is so often confused with greatness. Keats demonstrated the dignity that no dignitary could have. His last words to me were, "Thanks for the lift!" ... I could have said the same.

Fallen's Oath

2010-11-10T00:28:00.004-05:00

On this ground
Above me still
I stood here once
To devils kill

Guns ablaze
To right the wrongs
Of evil men
Who goad the throngs

This I thought
For I was told
Never a task
As just or bold

Seduced was I
By words so fine
To end the scourge
Of unlike minds

And do the thing
Called right and just
Unknowing
Of the hidden lust

That warps the minds
Of wicked men
Who off to war
Us marching send

Empty hearts
Kill more than few
Flanders' boys
Old and new

Rape the world
Of all its' good
Laid me here
Where once I stood

Where are ye, Satan?
Truth be told
I saw you here
Within my soul

Hunted you far
In another's hide
But you were here
My vengeful pride!

Preach me not
You vaunted heads
For I have trod
Where angels dread

Your call to arms
Deaf ears find
To heed you not
A second time

Leave me here
In peace to lie
No skies asmoke
Nor fervent cries

Don't call on me
To teach of peace
I'm out of time
No second lease

Those who've lived
Long past me
Can show the truth
For all to see

It falls to you
Those not yet dead
Reveal my folly
In my stead

by Denis Bonneau

Untitled

2010-11-04T17:29:00.005-04:00

The winds of the world
Care nothing for me
They toss me like foam
My tears not to see
They heed not my cries
See not my face
No solace for me
Only fear to embrace

Is it true what they say?
Or is it all lies?
That Neptune is dead?
Was never alive?
Surrender and founder
Or pray to a god
That never existed
Nor gave me a nod

All that I have
A ragged old cloth
Tattered and frayed
Eaten by moths
Yet still I can hoist her
Hold firm to the lines
For the sail is mine!
The sail is mine!