April in Alberta

Glowering grey clouds
hurl stinging icy missiles
cold wind knifes through
air bites –
winter’s last hurrah

Nursery catalogues –
winter’s antidote –
cover the kitchen table,
coffee cup in hand
I dream and plan
summer’s glory


#Poetry #Winter #Summer #Dreaming #Garden #MargaretGHanna

One of our poets is missing today . . .

One of our poets is missing today.
Was he abducted? Did he just run away?
Did he leave on a horse? On a bike? On a sleigh?
Or, in deep pensive thought, did he just go astray?

One of our poets is missing, but why?
We promised him everything, well, perhaps not the sky.
And daily we fed him our best pecan pie.
How could he leave without saying “Good-bye?”

Our poet is missing, our children are sad.
“Were all of our poems really that bad?
Did we do something horrid that made him real mad?
If he would come back, we would all be so glad.”

Our poet, who’s missing, has left us a note,
“I’m leaving for Portugal on a cruise boat.
I’m tired of wearing a big winter coat.
I’d rather sit in the sun, drink a cold orange float.”

“To the snow and the cold, I am saying ‘Adieu.’
To shoveling snow, and to each one of you.
‘Twixt cold icy winters and skies ever blue,
It’s quite easy to choose, so, so-long, too-da-loo.”

(I woke up one morning with the first line running through my head — no idea where it came from. What else could I do but write a few more lines to go with it.)

Visit my Publisher’s website at http://bookswelove.net

#Poem #Humour #Poetry #MargaretGHanna #BooksWeLove

No TV graced our home . . .

No TV graced our home when I was young,
‘Twas radio that took me everywhere.
I rode with Tonto and the masked Lone Ranger
To catch outlaws and rescue maidens fair.
I tromped through jungles, dark and dangerous,
To find lost mines of old King Solomon.
I sat in Howdy Doody’s Peanut Gallery
and roared in laughter at clown Flub-A-Dub.
I hunkered down in vault-like fallout shelters
While nuclear missiles whistled overhead.
And Foster Hewitt took me to the Forum
and painted scenes of hockey in my head.

Who needs TV with good old radio?
No telling where a youngster’s mind will go.

(What memories do you have of listening to radio programs? Leave me a note below)

#Poem #Sonnet #Radio #MargaretGHanna #ChildhoodMemories


They left her in the bleakest months,
the months of darkness and cold
when earth was dead and rock-hard.

Earth mined out with fire and pick-axe,
leaving a hole like the one in her life,
grudgingly yielding frozen clods
like the one where her heart should be.

Cold promises of heaven and resurrection
spoken on this little hillside,
this little Golgotha,
could not dispel looming loneliness,
days and nights now to be spent alone,
dreams forever unrealized.

Embraces could not console her.
Soft words could not dispel her grief.

Daughter put her arm around her.
She did not move.
She left.
Her body left,
but her heart remained behind in the cold hard ground.

#Bereavement #Grief #Mourning #MargaretGHanna #Poetry