NO MORE WARS

It’s been the blessing or the curse of many North American citizens that they have not experienced wars at home, nor seen the horrors of war personally. As such many rally with good intent behind the troops, supporting the government”s embroilment in far off military campaigns., never taking note how much affliction, pain and death is brought upon millions of innocent people.
I still have vivid memories of our life in Rotterdam, Holland in World War II. Since the city was an important international seaport it became the target of constant attack. In 1940 the Germans bombed out the center of the city. It gave instant employment to my father, who had been out of work in the Great Depression. But what a way to provide for your family, cleaning up the rubble from the bombing. Then in 1943 the West side of the city was bombed by the Allies. That was too close to home, only a few blocks from where we lived. Images of the ruined buildings, the flames, smell of smoke and chaos to this very day are still with me. One image particularly is most vivid, an image of a black-scorched toddler, lying in a wheelbarrow outside the local police station.
Many years later I joined the Canadian Army, was sent overseas to Germany. I spent there two years and had opportunity to visit various cities. Again, I was faced with images of bombed out sections of some cities . Among them Dortmund, Dusseldorf and Hamburg. Again what forlorn sites. It only reinforced my conviction that there must be better ways to assure world peace.
As I gained maturity I began to understand that much of the saber rattling has more to do with hegemonic ambitions and greed for profit than warding off assumed enemies. How else would one be able to explain military campaigns thousands of miles away from the home land? Never can one become convinced that these are purely waged for the defense of the nation.
It is my own experience coupled with the sad reports of the wars in the Mid East that prompted me to write the enclosed poem. I wrote it several years ago, but in light of a possible invasion of Iran it is just as relevant now as it was at the height of the Iraqi War.

NO MORE WARS

Refrain:
No more wars, no more pain, no more shame.
Never again will I feel the same.
All around, destruction, violent change.
Let good deeds, not evil range.

Watch those planes, high up in the sky.
They swiftly to their targets fly.
From thousand feet they drop their bombs
Upon innocents without qualms.

Screams are rent from searing pain
Search is made for the maimed and slain.
Women, children ,the aged, lie there
With horrific wounds and deathly stare.

Soldiers break through reinforced door,
Intent on settling wrathful score.
Buddies, killed by a roadside bomb,
Are painfully missed, but are gone.

In a corner, writhing in pain,
Lies a man in sorrow, he can’t contain.
His wife and children, he found dead.
Now he faces troops, in much dread.

With rifle butts slammed on his head
They cuss with words that can’ t be said.
“Dog, who killed our men, on that road?
We’ll squeeze your neck, you slimy toad.”

“I’m a teacher. How would I know?
Let me mourn. I’ve been brought down low.”
They kicked, and shot him full of lead.
And felt content that he was dead.

The blackened smoke trails in the sky.
Symbol of death, to those drawn nigh.
Burned out homes, a silent witness
To dubious war’s dirty business.

We’ve been baited too long by lies
Camouflaged in patriot’s guise.
Surging truth has opened our eyes.
No longer will we fall for lies.

Refrain
No more wars. No more pain. No more shame.
Never again will I feel the same.
All around, destruction, violent change.
Let good deeds, not evil range.

Village Peasant March 24, 2008 -

APPLES-THE POOR MAN’S FRUIT

Apples. Apples. What can I say about apples? Apples take me back to memory lane, to my childhood. It was shortly after World War ll. We had moved from the dangerous city of Rotterdam (which had been under constant attack) to a rural area in the South of Holland.

We were a large family of seven children, dirt poor but vibrant with love and ambition.  Even as young children we helped mother at harvest time in gleaning the fields for wheat, barley, peas and beans. This helped to fortify our meager food rations, but as you can imagine it made for a very bland diet. It was then to our great delight one fall that our father had been able to buy for five guilders the fruit of one big apple tree.  I still remember how much our small attic was taken up with those apples. We enjoyed them well into the winter. Ever since that time apples have become my favorite fruit.

It was an article that I read about the health benefits of apples which helped me to reminisce about those early years. It also prompted me to write this little poem below.
EATING APPLES

“An apple a day
Keeps the doctor away.”
That’s what my mother  said
Turned out true, I just read.
Recent studies do claim
That apples contain
Ingredients that heal
So we better will feel.

Vitamins and minerals
Flavonoids, phytosterols,
Beta-carotene, pectin
Wholesomely correcting
Grave ailments besetting
Our  health well protecting.
An apple, or two, each day
Does keep the doctor away.

It’s more than just  rumors
That apples prevent tumors
Prevent gallstones and toxins quell.
Protect your fragile brain as well.
To life threatening cancers
Apples bring health-giving answers.
I will eat more apples each day,
Keep money in pocket and doctor away.

Village Peasant  – April 17, 2011

Reference. NATURAL NEWS An apple a day really does keep the doctor away
Wednesday, March 23, 2011 by: Megan Heimer

ADOLESCENT FANTASY

Movies and popular songs leave indelible impressions upon young minds. This is so today and it was no less so when I was a youngster. I was heavily influenced by such stars as Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. In my imagination I would identify with them, longing to ride the range as they did, singing melodic songs as they sang, and winning the admiration of some pretty girl, like they did. Fortunately, reality always won out, for necessity pulled me back to the job at hand.
In my early teens I was hired out to a local farmer where I did work with horses. These were not the riding kind, but heavy draft horses which pulled wagon or plow. I often did day dream about Gene and Roy but the only thing I may have had in common with them was that I too sang a lot. With nobody around in a wide open field, enjoying the rapport between man and beasts, it seemed natural to give way to joyful song.
I have often thought about those early years. Hard work? Yes. But there was something wholesome about life on the farm. I tried to capture a bit of my fantasies here in the poem below.

PLOW -BOY’S DREAM

Refrain
I’m a cowboy on the prairie
And I sing an age old song
About a girl I want to marry
Now I’m riding, bound for home.

He was a plow-boy, not a cowboy
Yet dreamed to ride the grand prairie
Like the famed cowboys Gene and Roy.
Of their songs he never grew weary.
And so he dreamed and sang:…
REFRAIN

He was a plow-boy. Barely fourteen,
Not much of the world he had seen.
But he had seen Roy Rogers and Gene
With guitar, singing on the big screen.
And so enamoured he sang:….
REFRAIN

He was no cowboy. Just a plow boy.
Who’d never been away from home.
The boss’ Clydesdales gave him joy
As they turned the sods to crumbly loam
And while he plowed he sang:…
REFRAIN

Plow boy he was, teamster at best.
The Clydes drew wagons topped with hay
He fed them oats, then let them rest.
It was his last chore of the day.
And walking home he sang:…
REFRAIN

The boy steadfastly faced each day
Feeding and harnessing the Clydesdales
So he could earn another day’s pay.
But remembering the songs and tall tales
He again dreamed and sang:…
REFRAIN

He was a plow-boy, not a cowboy
Yet he dreamed to ride the vast range
Like the famed cowboys Gene and Roy.
But loving the Clydes he dared not change
And sadly concluded:…

FINAL REFRAIN
I’d love to ride the grand prairie.
But the Clydes I can’t leave alone.
To see them makes me so merry
Only wished they both were my own.

Village Peasant April 23, 2010

LIFE IN THE BUSH

Here is a vignette, depicting life as a woodcutter. In the early fifties I worked in several logging camps One was in the vicinity of Hearst, Ontario. This was before the arrival of chain saws, which made life so much easier for those trying to make a living in the bush. As you may note, accommodations were very primitive, though I must say that the food was always good. Harsh winters and lots of snow made for a hard life and the pay was far from grand. Many of these workers had come as immigrants to Canada as single men and spoke very little English. It made communication difficult and life lonely. As it was, most of us were too tired to make much effort. A warm bed often seemed more inviting than to indulge in much small talk.

LIFE IN THE BUSH

Dire need drove him to cut pulpwood
With four pound ax and four foot saw.
Two, three foot deep, in snow he stood
Till spring would bring the early thaw.
His shabby clothes were always damp..
He’d dry them again each eve at camp.

He notched the trees with deadly blows
Then sawed them through above the notch.
They’d fall to lay in mute repose.
The standing woods could only watch.
He trimmed the trees with all his strength
Then sawed again at four foot length.

Through snow he lugged each four foot piece.
He piled them high to make a cord.
To earn his pay he could not cease.
He had at least to earn his board.
His cord was eight feet, four times four.
He’d pile no less, nor any more.

Repeating same, again, again
He logged and lugged from dawn til dark.
Lunch only broke the constant strain.
He’d boil his tea over birch’s bark
And ate his lunch without remark.
The blue jays did his interest spark.

At eve he walked his way to camp
And joined to eat a heavy sup.
In silence, by a sputtering lamp,
They ate their fill and then got up.
The cook had said: “Here is the deal.
No talking, if you want that meal.”

The bunkhouse was his home for now
Its center dwarfed by a barrel stove.
Around it wedged twelve beds somehow.
Not even the mice could freely rove.
Above the beds from wall to wall
Did hang damp clothes in endless sprawl.

The wet and sweat was rank in smell.
Socks, shirts, coats, hats and gloves hung out.
Layers of underwear as well.
The stove roared with tremendous clout.
The clothes would dry by early morn.
Were none too fresh as they were worn.

To speak with some was a wearing need.
Confusing were the tongues he heard.
Frenchmen, Fins, Poles, and one old Swede,
Made all attempts somewhat absurd..
His English bore a heavy brogue.
Just as well, he didn’t hear, nor spoke.

Ax was sharpened and saw was set.
Some notes penned, to a far sweetheart.
Soon all were sound asleep in bed.
The day had been too long and hard.
Midst the silence, a coyote’s howl,
And the camp dog’s bark and growl.

Each day began again at six.
Ablutions? Pumped water in a pan.
Relief? Pine rail, across a ditch.
Breakfast? Ample for every man.
At seven he was again at work.
Meager pay assured he would not shirk.

Survival drove him to cut more wood.
With four pound ax and four foot saw.
Two, three feet deep, in snow he stood
Till spring would bring the early thaw.
His time had come to take his pay.
He left convinced, ne’er to return this way.

Village Peasant Jan. 10, 2008

WASTING TIME

This is all tongue in cheek. Sometimes it pays to laugh at yourself and take life a bit less serious. Realistically, I do enjoy tooling around on my Honda diesel tractor, cutting our two acres of grass. I do love to grub around in the garden and keep the weeds to a minimum. But I also love to play around with words and if there is someone out there who loves to read my stuff, that I love too. Not a bad way to spend the days in the twilight years of my life. And who is to say what is more important? We need to work to feed our body, but we also need to work to feed our soul.

SENSELESS VERSE AND SILLY RHYME

I can not help but waste good time
With senseless verse and silly rhyme.
My garden plot is full of weeds
While lettuce spread their tiny seeds.

I love to tinker with words and sounds
Am not so eager with work that counts.
Pulling weeds is one big bore
Cutting grass an unending chore.

Vigilant wife calls down to me
“ Run to the garden. Look and see
What you can find, for next hour’s meal.
Bring some beets that I’ll cook and peel !!!”

Meekly I go and pull the beets
And a carrot or two within my reach.
Some chard and parsley as I go
My return is now much more slow.

Important, that we are fed well.
But feverish fury I can not quell.
I can not help but waste good time
With senseless verse and silly rhyme.

Village Peasant           Sept. 16, 2011

WASTING TIME

This is all tongue in cheek. Sometimes you have to laugh at yourself and take life a bit less seriously. I love to tool around on my Honda diesel tractor, cutting my two acres of grass. I love to grub around in my garden too, and…I love to play around with words. And… if there is someone out there who loves to read my stuff, then I love that too. All in all, not a bad way to spend the days in the twilight of your life.

SENSELESS VERSE AND SILLY RHYME

I can not help but waste good time
With senseless verse and silly rhyme.
My garden plot is full of weeds
While lettuce spread their tiny seeds.

I love to tinker with words and sounds
Am not so eager with work that counts.
Pulling weeds is one big bore
Cutting grass an unending chore.

Vigilant wife calls down to me
“ Run to the garden. Look and see
What you can find, for next hour’s meal.
Bring some beets that I’ll cook and peel !!!”

Meekly I go and pull the beets
And a carrot or two within my reach.
Some chard and parsley as I go
My return is now much more slow.

Important, that we are fed well.
But feverish fury I can not quell.
I can not help but waste good time
With senseless verse and silly rhyme.

Village Peasant Sept. 16, 2011

A VOTE FOR RON PAUL

The enclosed poem is a bit dated. But its message is still relevant. Most US presidential candidates seem intent to keep the perpetual wars going. Only one man has consistently voted against the wars and has pledged to end them and bring the troops back home. This man is Ron Paul. He deserves your vote. Make it count and do vote for him.

A WORD TO THE WISE

A wise man said: “Live by the sword,
Expect to die by that cruel  sword.”
Palin has heard this all  before.
And yet, she’s so intent on war.
Gung ho, she is for old McCain
Who loves a century more of  same.

Obama too is all for war.
Who’d send  more troops than e’er before.
To Afghanistan they will be sent.
Without thought of costs there spent.
More blood  must there be spilled.
It’s more crucial than at home to build.

Can one be found, in this land so free,
Who has the wisdom to clearly see
That war is hell, for friend and foe?
It kills, it wastes., it brings more woe.
Build bridges, seek peace, good will to all.
It helps us stand more proud and tall.

What good can come from bloody hawks,
In spite of smiles and bombast talks?
Their deeds will fall on America’s head.
Instead of joy, wars  bring more dread.
Your vote must go to  those alone,
Who’ve vowed to bring all  troops back home.

Village Peasant            Oct. 30, 2008

THE BUSKER

THE BUSKER
-Harbinger of Tough Times-

He plays
A stately minuet
And fills
The air with sounds sublime
He pulls
The bow across the strings
His voice
With quiver sings.

With hurried feet
They pass him by.
Nary a glance
Is sent his way.
Their thoughts are set
To do the tasks
For which
They had not asked.

His case was placed
On cobbled stone.
Two coins, there lay
Unseemly lost.
A mug of coffee
He could not buy.
Four coins
That would him cost.

His past had seen
A brighter day
As first string
On symphony’s stage
His art so fine
Had first been hit
When deep recession
Roared its rage.

The thoughtless
Should have well foreseen
That soon
They’d join him too.
Their pink slips
Have been printed out
The expected drop
Of the other shoe.

Village Peasant July 18, 2008

THAT’S HOW IT USED TO BE.

THAT’S HOW IT USED TO BE

He had walked alone all day
Had no place where he could stay.
Had to stop to get some rest.
A tall cold beer now seemed best.

Thumping music kept the beat
Shiniest floor helped nifty feet
Minds were far from homeward bound
As young and old danced one more round

Refrain:
Yes. That’s how it used to be
Between Sally and poor me.
Holding each other e’er so tight
As we danced away the night.

Worn out vet. Burnt and scarred
Useless discard. Then discharged.
Sally skipped. The house was gone.
High on pot, he had pressed on.

Dancing stud whispered into ear,
All that she ever loved to hear.
He could have done so much worse
She knew too well that he’d be hers

Refrain:

Flushed with beer, yet still reposed.
On his back were all his clothes.
Wondered where he‘d go from here.
All was gone that he’d held dear.

The house lights dimmed. The music slowed.
Couples smooched. Their faces glowed.
Said she:
”Hold me tight. Then take me home.
Tonight I will not sleep alone.”

Refrain:

He turned out into misty cold.
By the day he had grown old.
Shivering now he hit the road.
On his back were all his clothes.

Where to, would he go from here?
All was gone, he’d held so dear.
What he’d give, to turn back the clock.
Never again, he’d fight for naught.

Final Refrain:
We used to dance away the night.
But something, did not, just go right.
If we all could turn, back that clock
None would fight, a fight for naught.

Village Peasant September 23, 2011

I DRIFTED ON LIFE’S RESTLESS SEA

This poem may not appeal to everyone. It does tell you a little of the ups and down in my own life, the religious upbringing I had, the life I lived as a youth, living mostly on my own, the return to faith in my more mature years.  If you enjoy it I am happy,  if it does some good it will make me even happier.

I DRIFTED ON LIFE’S RESTLESS SEA

I drifted on life restless sea.
Wild storms did toss me all around.
So dark it was, I could not see.
How I wished I were homeward bound.

My wayward ship pitched stem to stern.
Swells surged and heaved it side to side.
What costly lessons one must  learn.
It seemed my past I could not hide.

Like Jonah who to Tarshish fled,
I fled the God, I knew at home.
Refused all wisdom, that was said.
Would sail my ship, just on my own.

With youthful joy, I did set sail.
Enjoyed the balmy breeze and sun.
My faith I covered with a veil.
Could only think of friends and fun.

The balmy breeze soon came to end.
So did the fun and friendships too.
Mistakes, some grave, so oft I made.
Then angst, confusion,  in me grew.

I thought of times, when still a child
I sat with awe on mother’s knee.
She sang of Jesus, meek and mild,
Of  God who loved a child like  me.

I took that song. Made it my own.
What peace and joy it brought my heart.
The good my mother had so shown
From it, I thought, I’d never part.

What folly the alluring world
Imposed upon my artless mind.
Dazzling pleasures around me swirled
And made me so naively blind.

Forgetting  the good,  I had known
I thought to sail my ship alone.
My heavenly Pilot would have shown
The treacherous shoals, to me unknown.

No longer will I sail my ship alone.
An unfailing Guide, I deeply need.
My God will bring me safely home.
Humbly, to Him my will I cede.

VP         Aug. 9, 2008