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Index of poems:
There’s been a day or two of nippy frost. The stately trees along the riverbank Took cue from this and donned their autumn shades Of vibrant colors – yellows, brilliant reds. The Sumac stands in brightest scarlet, small And twisted, crooked, bent and dwarfed. In grand Profusion, golden birch and cottonwoods Contrast in yellow, several tints of orange. All up the mountain, hemlock, pine and spruce Still proudly wear their coats of evergreen. They’ve grown so tall to reach into the sky And touch the sun, the clouds, or stars at night. All Nature’s scene is one kaleidoscope, A changing vista everywhere you turn.
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Like candles on a birthday cake they stand Aflame in autumn’s brilliant sapphire gold. Short days ago the aspens thru the land Were clad in green, their leaves still rich and bold. Then chilly winds blew down from northern plains, A touch of frost has landed here and there. The emerald shades washed off with harvest rains And time of season-change is in the air. When winter hides the grass beneath the snow The elk and deer will nibble on the bark To find the juices flowing just below. The scars will heal but leave a telltale mark. The aspen trees are subjects photographed Throughout the seasons – assets of the craft.
Cha Ma, Thailand
© Eric Linden
The oleander quivered in the breeze. Along the beach, high tide had been and gone while slowly stars were dimming with new dawn and morning sun was waking Taiwanese. A bright red ball appeared above the ridge as light descended onto Thailand Bay. Polluted air clung fast all night and day to sea and land, to each apartment ledge. Horizons lie obscure – a fuzzy haze does not define beginning nor an end. Two shades of blue, the sea and heaven blend into a cloudy wall of dirty grays. Oh, Mother Earth, what have your children done? Stale, murky air salutes your morning sun.
The Ballad of Muktuk Annie
© Eric Linden
There‘s many a tale of the Great White North And you thought you’d heard them all, But there’s one more story that needs to be told, And it isn’t a barroom brawl. It’s of Muktuk Annie who owned that joint – She’d headline the show now and then, With those ptarmigan feathers on her behind She danced like an Arctic hen! ‘Way back in the days when she was young And headed for Montreal, The government sent her to learn drivin’ truck But Annie enjoyed a pub-crawl. There weren’t many roads in Pangnurtung, The prospect of getting some – small. So drivin’ a truck? Up in Pangnurtung? That didn’t make sense at all! She really wanted to sing and dance – Become a great opera star. But drivin’ a truck – there wasn’t a chance… Just look how she strums a guitar. She packed up her things in a sealskin bag, Her mittens and mukluk boots, Then boarded a plane leavin’ Montreal She headed back home to her roots. At first she built an igloo up there In Pangnurtung’s downtown core. She called it “Big Annie’s Bar & Grill”, Rejecting “The Muskox Matador”. Her booze she ordered from Newfoundland, That genuine homebrewed “Screech”, And drummers came by from miles around, As far as the word could reach. On opening night the place was packed, There wasn’t a seat to be had. The floorshow began at 9 P. M. Big Annie was driving them mad! She took up the stage like an opera star, Proceeded to take off her clothes, Except for her ptarmigan feathered behind And the seal flippers worn on her toes. She grunted and puffed across the whole stage, All hundred and sixty five pounds. At 5 foot 4 she wasn’t too tall, Her pirouettes twirled round and round. The people applauded in frantic rage, Their yelling and screaming was loud – They never had witnessed ballet like this, Not one of them in that big crowd. Part 2 Like wildfires ravishing trees down south, The word of Big Annie flew Across the vast lands of the Great White North, And her stature and fame simply grew. So often you’d hear the call of the wolves As they howled her name out loud – It was “Annie, Big Annie,” in the still of the night To the moon or a passing cloud. Each Inukshuk guarding ravines and draws Heard the call and they passed it on; Every hunter who traveled the barren lands Knew Annie was Queen of the Dawn. They came from the islands and far-flung bays, They came from the ends of the world, They came to witness how Annie danced – How her ptarmigan feathers twirled. One day when the ice still covered the bay And the darkness was spread everywhere, Still long before the sun would be back To the land of the Arctic Hare, Big Annie was closing the Bar and Grill When a thought sauntered through her mind… She decided to sell her famous place And leave this town behind. She placed a sign at the igloo door – Which said that the place was “For Sale”. In Pangnurtung the story spread – You could say it was more like a wail… From preacher man to the common man The people were stunned – one and all! They’d come to know ballet performed By their very own Muktuk doll. Part 3 It didn’t take more than a bat of an eye Till “For Sale” was transformed to “For Sold”. That final performance Big Annie would give Will forever be rated as gold. Her audience screamed at the top of their lungs You’d swear crystal icicles cracked; She strutted her ptarmigan feathered behind And oh, how they loved her last act. Next day, though, she gathered her outfits and rings, Her seal flipper slippers and fins, Those endless mementos so dear to her heart – Stone carvings and ivory pins, A walrus head trophy from Repulse Bay, A narwhal tooth – rare and refined, And several more treasures. For a moment she wept, It was almost too much for her mind. A westwind was blowing the morning she left But it blew from the west every day. In mukluks and mittens, a parka with hood She was ready to get under way. All Pangnurtung came; they waved long goodbyes To the Muktuk, their Queen of the Dawn. Like frozen inukshuks – immobile and numb They watched till her light was long gone. Her komatik held almost all she possessed Wrapped snug and securely tied down. Up front was a brand new Skidoo which she bought From the snowmobile dealer in town. Big Annie’s new goal lay in Frobisher Bay * Where the lights twinkled shiny and bright. Her mind was made up: it was politics now And she smiled at the thought of a fight. * renamed to Iqaluit, now the capital of the territory of Nunavut. Back to topThe Valley
© Eric Linden
If we look back a hundred years ago, Or even further yet, a hundred more, There was a breed of men all looking for Great wealth and fame, – we called them sourdough! They staked their claim if anything would show Potential riches, gold, or silver ore. That was the dream of every prospector Who combed each mountain, stream, and flat plateau. The minerals were taken from the hills, And slowly miners moved along again. But those that settled on this little plain Would find new fortune from their other skills. Now orchard crops and vineyards in the fields And vegetables, that’s what this valley yields.Back to top
On moist and fertile ground it fell one day, How many years ago we’ll never know. Perhaps when Richard went to fight his foe, The infidel, far continents away. A giant tree would grow from that small seed – Eight hundred years or so have passed, they say. Some experts think the wind will make it sway, Come crashing down, town councilors agreed. They want to cut it down. The ancient tree Is getting far too old and soon may die. And if it happens as they prophesy, By falling it could cause an injury. It seems so sad to see nobility Reduced to just a liability.Back to top
