IN THE LIGHT OF DAY - poetry chapbook

In the Light of Day
© 2004 Richard L. Provencher

Chapbook of Poetry

Dedicated to my wife, a caring
and loving person, Esther.

**

That Old Mill

is alive in the light of day

harsh wind grabbing
your windpipe, breath of winter-chill

icicle eyes staring dimly
at the scene, leftover pussy
willows as
stiff fingers beside river’s bank.

Within view an ancient mill
memories
dulled
by the passage of time.

Images of life return as a photo
album, deer
within shadows
cows flicking horse flies

kids painting the barn and
three dogs chasing.

Childhood is splashing in the
creek, pages from life
a long time ago.

**

A Good Man

The weather was a chill of numbing
in its creeping
from bone to muscle, no longer

bothersome, picked up reinforcements
a short while ago
in his closet, the best from
Salvation Army, selected
a woolen sweater
heavier jacket, scarf and
ear-flap hat, now back on the

street, two newspaper bags a-bouncing
arms marching by his sides

happy again, reddened cheeks
glowing
like a fireplace, same
as uncle’s cabin in the hills.

Only twenty-seven, full of steam,
yes-sir, used to call him
‘retarded’
in early school days, not now
“No-sir, No way”

‘cause he’s the boss of himself.
Heads down the street
to his first paper customer, looks
forward to shouting

“Good morning mister!”

**

A Moment, Again

Watch that young man, arm
across his girlfriend’s back
cuddling, feel
precious time return to
an image of days ago, forgetting hello’s
and I love you’s

here again, through
our children
we return to the moment

erase time as wrinkled fingers
reach across old paths, to
feel again.

Bless that young man, bless
that young girl
they’re mirrors of our past.

**

A Senior’s Ride

Watch them coming at me
on the sidewalk, must
think this is the Indiana 500

wheel chair rolling quickly
from his push of love

the man in track pants
leans forward, braces himself
exhausted from the wind

must be his wife in the seat
laughing, eyes dancing
head lolling crazily, enjoying
a headlong rush to somewhere.

I can see myself doing that
some day, perhaps I may be
the passenger.

**

Apartment View

Whew, 90 degrees by the sofa
a cup of tea should cool things off

perhaps another peek out the window
Sally might come along for a visit
or Harry, now that’s a handsome man.

Annie rests in her rocking chair
eyes dim from a busy bowel movement

medicine taking hold.

Maybe she’ll make a pan of cookies
peanut butter, the ones hubby used to like
he’s gone now, two years this August

sure liked Fall colours that man, and
trips to Cape Breton, nice then

children now far away in their own
lives, grandchildren all grown up.

The little old lady falls asleep in her
sweet dreams.

**

Bedouin

Thirst not an impediment
in a crawl across the Sahara

eyes of stars

breakfast among the dunes
waves of sand
challenging our camels

their throaty calls, eager
for a race through the desert

shifting, wailing
ridges of windy nudges, streaking
across the terrain, a

dust storm spirals from
the sky, creates a stamping
on the ground

sun’s anvil.

**

Bless the Children

swirling swords
behind snow forts, hands
activated with
walloping tosses

readying for a bold
frontal assault

days of the Round
Table alive, as
Knight’s charging across
our parking lot.

And in a Nursing Home
not so far away
an old Knight, Grandpa
remembers
his days of Camelot

fingering snowballs
in his dreams

joyful time replaced
by wheel-skids
from a rolling chair.
And dusty in a corner
of his room, the sword
from childhood days.

**

Cleaner, County Building

He comes each afternoon
mop in hand and a warm
bucket of water, nicely lathered
uses the old ways to keep
our floors spotless, gives them
a tired wash, his face appears
so drained of emotion,
same old job
same old floors
same old hi and lately
only grunting as we walk by
as if the effort to acknowledge
our passing grows less important.

**

D-Day, Normandy

Little food, enduring
smiles in spite of pain, these
soldiers
young men
from families far away, 10,000
casualties that
first day,
allies and American alike.

Victory in Paris, De Gaulle
and troops, women rushing into the
streets, kisses & flowers
the
hunger of joy.

Then it continues, bombings
air battles, tanks
rushing
men fierce in their pride,
the Manfried Line is death
revulsion
of mind and spirit.

V-E Day
now kiss me, my darling.

**

Edmonton Centre Plaza

Pausing in her search
for change
she throws the chip-wagon man
a shy grin

"Three regulars please,"
and nudges her growing tummy
against the wagon
for support

two kids growling for
lunch, another on the way.

**

Ethiopia of my Soul

Caught up in
famine the voice in
a young woman
recovers memories of 1984

once she was a child as lives
loosed
in abundant numbers older
ones too weak
making the trek to food centers

but so glad to be a child then
nurtured by love cared for with last
bits of flour rain
vacant across the land.

Grown up now she is a child
of yesterday
her older journey prepares
this trek to another
place
horror of famine smothers
anyone who walks
in tiredness.

Holy water spray on crops, return
the sky oh rain.

**

Fisherman’s Son

Moonbeam flashlight
covers the

little boy and his
dog, Sandy.

Sitting on
papa’s dory this time
of night is neat

one day he’ll fish
for cod too.

Sky is darker than a
wet blanket, an
owl’s hoot
coyotes singing.

“Sleepy time!”
is mama’s thunder

and feet explode
on the dock.

“Coming!”

**

From Day to Day

Gray-haired gentleman
hanging onto specs, morning
paper on lap

porch canopy handy when 32 C
visits your trailer-home site.

His flowerpots sprinkle the lot,
Impatiens and
Gladiolas colouring his view

Muffins asleep at his feet, Ida
stares from the sofa, cruel
Alzheimer's taking root.

From the next trailer children
singing, "Old MacDonald’s Barn,"
verses changed, voices full of
laughter and carrying on

a smile warms his crinkled face
memories of canoeing, long
walks with his wife and
family growing older,
recollections of back then.

Their front lawn is still a
WELCOME of printed names
Ida, John and Muffins.

**

Full Circle

Cars move as
brooms, sweeping across
his view as he
enters the intersection

Helmeted, nice bike
new Adidas, briefcase
in the carrier-basket

crosses old railway
tracks, rusty
fingers sneaking
through summer weeds

passes moms, baby
carriages, and older kids
trying for attention

sets his eyes on the
building ahead,
graffiti in various shapes
and colours

some words not so
nice, other 'tags' kind
of neat-

a few years ago, his
were “boss.”

**

General Welfare Assistance

i hear the lonely
afternoon
disquieting cries
pleading
on the other end of the phone
silent despair
unable to speak out
at first
feeling so helpless
being unmasked
a proud figure, well dressed
beautiful home
new car in driveway,
sobs her discontent her lack
of fulfillment
her broken marriage,
lost ideals
can’t admit it, but
everything
is coming to an end

**

Generation Gap

During early years Tom Mix and
Roy Rogers were heroes to emulate
cap-bang guns and “Hi Ho Silver!”
words of command, sufficient conversation
as we leapt to protect friends, young
girls joining us in games of chase
hiding in nearby woods from desperadoes
helping us protect towns as we boldly fought
for goodness, riding on our youthful range.

Now the villains are mostly in TV disguise, ad
man’s voice soothing with promise, programs
full of accepting violence, childhood from olden
day now replaced with velvet eyes, growing
up young ladies receiving all the attention, hiding
in woods no longer needed, just a little shade
unseen by prying eyes, kisses more like pretty
blossoms among the greening.

**

Goodbye Young Russians

Summer’s fun was hikes and
camping days that melted away-

At Halifax, welcoming crowds
pointed to young children from
Belarus, Chernobyl victims

“Lucky to visit Nova Scotia, get
away from that awful
radiation,” everyone said.

The children made new friends,
fished in the Stewiacke River
held huge ice cream
cones, and visited the zoo-

But I remember quiet sobs beside
a maple tree, where
Elena, brave with sad thoughts
held onto you, Igor.

"Don't cry," you said, brotherly
arms surrounding, as she
watched a family of loons playing
on a quiet morning bay.

At the airport six weeks later, tears
and hugs. "Come again," voices
carried from the waiting room.

Closing my eyes I still see Elena's
hair, golden across the field
brother Igor shouting
"Friend!" to me, and smiling.

**

Homeless on King Street

Towers of glass are monuments of
Commerce to society
with national name banks and
other products

ten or twelve floors below garbage
piled higher
than an ice cream cone laying
on the sidewalk, Tim Horton cups

leapfrogging over Subway
wraps and cigarette butts that
no one seems to notice.

Stores busy with shoppers, others
home watching kids or snacking in front
of video action movies

bleak voices on the street asking
any leftover passerby,
“Change for a coffee, mister?”

Nothing much in their pockets but lint,
shoe leather worn thin. Now
begins the hustle of another day.

**

Horseyback

Young Colin feels tall
as a mountain on grandpa's
shoulders

today is November 11.

"Grampy? How come that lady’s crying?”
the boy asks, staring
at the cenotaph and all the people
standing

then grandpa’s tears make him
turn away.

“One day I'll tell you stories,” grandpa
finally answers, “about Adelard,
your Great-Grandpa.”

Later he reads out markings
in stone-
Hill 70, Canal-du-Nord, and Cambrai.

“Where Canadians marched for
freedom. Years and years
ago,” grandpa says.

“Neato,” Colin answers.

**

I Lost A Friend

When told
tiny lips quiver
only six
and a heartbeat quickens

little man of substance
sad but grandpa
has passed
away.

Can’t be
he can’t be gone,
I still have things to tell him.

**

Inside These Walls

Headlights pierce the
darkness

past a parking lot cage
rushing passengers to new
appointments
others clench hands
in warm coats like November
colours passing swiftly
across the asphalt

playing catch-up to friends
and dinner dates
somewhere to go a place
to hide
anywhere at all

on the sixth floor
behind hotel’s curtain shy
fingers peer their
owner adopting the scene
below no one to wait
for no one
to share.

**

Jo-Anne

Eyes of dark glow
Irises
swallowing me
listening
heartbeat thrumping

a world of books, away from
life’s pain
and mother and
dad

hoping their daughter will
go out and play
with boys and…

they don’t realize her world
is fun and games,
books are her
toys.

**

Journey to Sudan

The train is calling like an
echo of wind
sad whistle, a lament

railway tracks are footprints
hurrying
me along steel paths

crawling up rocky inclines
through forests of
green sash

as fine cloth from
the markets in Khartoum.

Leaving Canada once again
for a faraway land

where crowded streets
shun the diseased, lesions
on their faces of leprosy.

I am anxious to see
the Mission, where children
and parents await
treatment,
their medicines of hope.

For Claudua I bring a pair
of sandals.

**

Kite Flying

Wooden main brace
paper-painted tail,
string attached to the
bevel

line ready, sky's impatient
everyone shouting
and eager.

Letting out the line
we're licking our lips,
watching the wind catch our prize
line running taut

kite takes off, sluggish at first
the wind is a helper, a friend.

Now the wind owns the kite,
takes it to places often dreamed of
and I am its only passenger.

**

Lady of the Eyes

She sees with the sensuous of a lady
a smoldering look, dark pools
within ochre skin, her burqa tightened just
above the eyebrows, a gift from mama

but this is not the look of a young girl
from the brightness of Paris, or the
scented gardens in Spain, it is the barren
lands of Afghanistan, arid, without grass

dust storms welcoming any traveler, famine
tired people worn thin from war, hoping for a
chance to simply shop in the marketplace.

The Mujahedeen have withdrawn to mountain
strongholds, proud of their victory against
invaders from the sky, Taliban oppression now
erased from their puritanical treatment of women
once treated as chattels, to be sold and denied

human rights, schooling, choices of dress, to
enjoy rights advocated by their sisters in the
Revolutionary Association of Women from
Afghanistan, true fighters who won freedom
for mothers, young girls and future leaders.

**

Looking Out for #1

Winter break rushes along
the
sidewalk,
meandering
between stubborn snow banks

time for a quick
Tim Horton’s caffeine fix.

Returning, a satisfied look
adds an easy sway to his walk
coffee in one hand,
cigarette dangling from the
other, ah the good life.

Pauses outside his
retailer’s door, watching shoppers
in their scramble for holiday
attention

one last drag, tosses the butt
then back to work
carrying his real treat.

**

Mister Gray Hair

Finally awake in the
Senior’s Home,
morning sun higher
than a wind-blown kite

time to dress, then climb
into your wheel-chair

used to crazy-leg
dance at the Legion Hall
too many years ago

only fancy steps left
are skid marks on the
polished floor.

You don't fool me with
stares and wrinkled
skin. That mind beats
with a song

smiles of memory still
dancing the night away.

**

Neighbours

some windows are broken, three on one
side and two on the other
it’s a faded worn down building,
the garbage
always late for pickup
easy pickings for the strays,
neighbours always complaining
papa toils for just enough
to get by
and yet his children are
so cheerful
and without worries
not caring they’re so poor
living their lives each day
having fun and all

**

Observations

Black kerchiefs hide
foreheads
as ladies sit gracefully
at picnic table’s edge, their
humble nature
accepting husbands
passing out
the basket of foodstuffs

children silent, waiting
for the ritual to end-

The Mennonites, natural
in caring one
for another, sisters, brothers.

Peter’s proud of little Anna
hoists her to shoulder-height
a smile of pride
from his young eyes.

A family together, God’s
perfect plan.

**

Our Neighbour Hattie

Her man is ailing, heart problems
they say, now she
carries the flag
taking in washing’s her thing

a wind freshens up her line
friend Sally’s skirt flaps
in the breeze
John’s pants, torn yesterday
in the woods

Hattie’s proud of her work
best lady
in town for washing
and mending.

Look, there’s young Bill’s green socks
says Grandma picked
them out. Notice Nancy’s pretty
towels, a wedding present
two years gone by.

Yes, Hattie’s pleased with her work
gray hair tossing
in the wind. Can’t talk right now
through a mouthful of clothespins, her
smile says it all.

Something special in her heart --
friends say, “God’s love.”

**

People-Watcher

the little boy
watches the tourists,
each week-end
he sits beneath
the pines
and throws pebbles
into colpoy bay,
some of the visitors
even get a suntan

remember small one
someday
you’ll have your turn
to play the big shot
and spend your
money
in far away places

**

Road Guardian

Red helmet, frayed
rubber boots
and mustard on the shirt

a belly bulge
strains his leather belt

hand monitoring in
slow motion, a swagger in
the stance

swivels a rusty STOP sign,
proud of his job
waited a long time for
this opportunity

besides, he needs the cash.

Today’s construction
is a hubbub of dusty trucks,
noisy Cats and

impatient tourists.

**

Sea Gypsies

are content sailing off the
islands of Burma

wanting no material
things happy in their ancient
rituals handmade
boats living day to day

seeking crab spearing fish
gatherers of mollusks
lobsters mussels
and oysters each day of life

a celebration.

**

Resident, Home for the Aged

head hanging to one side
limp, lifeless in the chair,
asleep
belt tight across
her belly
couldn’t take another fall

it’s almost noon and
soon
the r-n-a will come
and wheel her to the table,
gently wake her up,
then feed
and care for her

she’ll come alive
eyelids flickering
trembling of lips
loose folds of skin,
quivering

somewhere back there
across well waxed floors
down one hall
and then another,
her room

over to one side
beside the other
beds,
some old pictures
one in particular
on her dusty table,
her children

innocent faces
full, joy and life
looking up at momma
never dreaming one day
she would be old,
and lonely

**

Sleepover in Toronto

From the exhaust of a bitter cold
day, Go-Bus passengers
stare at a mixture
of overnight sleeping bags in
random scuffle –

they’re scattered along
the sidewalk, a pile of insulation
zipper-open for quick return.

Hiding our thoughts, we pray those
vagabond warriors are
gathering at local soup kitchens
sturdy and alive
in the wind of snowfall

later chasing loonies alongside
Yonge and Bloor Street, or
maybe visiting a friendly bench at
City Hall Square.

No matter, evening’s chill will remind
the homeless, their only
escape for comfort awaits within
the cloth of snow-bank winter.

**

Soldier Boy

Just a child in military
fatigues, pants too long
your AK-47
looking long and mean

boy, did you really kill in
your morning of manhood?

Cap on tight, a
grimness in those eyes
“Killing almost easy as
planting vegetables,”
you said.

Happy to be in this rebel
army, mama proud of
her little man, survived
the madness of war

news at the front
alarming, yet hopeful
the Liberian president has
finally left the country

new orders are to march
mission accomplished
an ending to these
games of death –

Nigerian and American
peacemakers finally here.

**

Swimming in Sentiment

My heart is a lyre for plucking
news stories from TV’s
medium of anguish-

Taliban ferment in Afghanistan
Rebels in the Congo,
Terrorists on Malaysian soil
a sniper
in Maryland, USA
and havoc
within the cities of Iraq.

Within this older frame of muscle
bone and heart
tormented people are
not diminished

their lives a testament to my
thoughts.
Yes, I feel anguish within
their tortured faces:

victims of Columbia drug wars
failures in food shortages
and escape from
Ethiopia’s anvil of drought.

I know their tired souls possess
a passion for survival;
capturing mice for food
on the barrens of Afghanistan,
fish in the harsh distance of
Arctic north, yet

seizing life from my hopeful smile.
I am in bondage to their spirit.

**

Thank You, Lady

Kiss her cheek, I kissed
her cheek
a small thank
you for the ‘baby tears’
for my wife.
“A gift for her,”
she said
“for Christmas, I want to thank you
for your kindness.”

She’s a happy lady, that
old woman in a Home for the Aged,
she has simple pleasures and
her appreciation is great.

For one brief moment my lips
touched her cheek
that soft wrinkled flesh,
for one brief moment
I was her son.

Thank you, lady.

**

The Mennonite

Melvin rises early
listens to the quiet

his little son curled up
alongside his wife
touches her lovingly

the cat carefully stretches
readies herself
for outside adventures.

He spends most of the morning
preparing an abundance of ‘chop’
then feeds the pigs
cleans the barn

and walks the horses.

Lunch is a restful pause
then back to work

tractor needs fixing

Dora wants a ride into town
three year old Bud cries
to go for a walk

a little trading with two pigs
brings in needed clothing.

As the day slips into
early evening
there is satisfaction
a comfortable feeling

this land, his loved ones
woman and son
it’s all here, wipes his brow
emotion eases down his cheeks.

Sun is burning the western sky
and shadows drift across the trees
God is up there somewhere
smiling.

**

Train to Sudbury

Saw him Friday
spoke for an hour
about problems and alcoholics
talked about life, its struggles

gave him
twenty-five bucks and wished him
the best –
thanked me, said I was a pal

hours later the radio report,
unidentified man discovered dead
of natural causes, on a train
on a train to Sudbury.

**

The Miner

Wears a cotton protective mask,
bleached cotton scraping
tenderness of skin

only twenty years old, man-child
sharing a paycheck with
mom and family

trudges two miles across quiet
streets, listens to the breath
of early morn, silence is

behind those windows, even
cars and bicycles
stationary in
layers of contentment

humming mine continues to draw
him into its yawn of smelter

tall stacks, molten copper awaiting
preparations of shaped moulds

splashing heat anxious to
become square-shaped anodes.

**

The Pick-Up Man

Unshaven, grimy from
morning’s workout

looks and bends, picking
up someone else’s
left over treats

hasn’t missed a roadside
curb or street litter
box since 6 am

discarded cans
and bottles are his
game.

A grin of satisfaction as he
steadies his bicycle

checks the balance of
noisy, bulging bags
hanging from his bike trailer

pauses a moment, then
heading off to the Bottle Depot
returns my wave.

**

The Wooden Ramp

His front porch provides
background
for a front lawn choking
with ragweed

clusters of dandelions
joining peeled paint pass
as landscape

wheelchair ramp at an
extreme angle,
fingering the open doorway.

Gulf War arms need two
smoking tries to roar up the
incline, sometimes

three painful tumbles are part
of the plan,
deserved bruises.

Remembers how it
used to be, wife and kids
picnics of fun

and laughter. Now it's
these useless legs and
lots of booze

son, Harry probably now ten,
Joan's arms just a dream
storm clouds

the only activity around.

- The End -