These Men, these Woman

20 Years and Fire Again

I may be on hiatus, but I am not asleep.
Here is my poem about the Kelowna fire in 2003.

THESE MEN
THESE WOMEN

By H. W. Bryce

(written in 2003, year of the fire)

Our brave, brave men and women
who fought the flames,
the vicious flames of double 03
that ravaged our forests, ate our trees,
spurred by howling wind and burning sun,
a fiend that fed upon itself

like a rogue dragon spouting flame and eating all—

we tip our hats.

These men, the brave few four men
who got trapped inside four walls of flame
gobbling up the ground and all shelter for them,
they’re not to blame

for they fought for us!

“What shall we do?”
“What can we do?”
they cried one to another.
“There’s no place for us to run.”

“Hold!” cried one.
“We shall fight.
We’ll save whate’er we can.
We’ll fight, ’cause that’s what we do.
We’ll fight.”

And so they fought,
with pick and shovel,
tears and sweat,
till at last our good God
brought them reprieve

and the tongues of flames were stalled.

They saw a path, a narrow path
of blackened, charred and fallen trees,
a path of ash and smoke – and threat…

They ran, they grasped their tools and ran,
they fled the flames of hell.
They saw the face of death…

and they were spared.

Thank God.
We tip our hats to them.

Others stood back in the town
as Hell itself gathered melting hot upon the hill.
“We’ll give them that side of the street,”
the chieftain said,
“But here we’ll make our stand.”

And then they fought the vicious flames,
the greedy, greedy flames,
and saved half a street of homes,
even though some fighters lost their own…
and still they fought on,
and on…

We tip our hats to them,
O weary, weary men.

The people fled,
the lack of training banned them from the fight,
the danger far too great, the risk too high,
as was the heat – one thousand Fahrenheit.

And where the pines exploded
and their bark pieces flew
in glowing coals to ignite another fire—
two thousand degrees, incredible heat—
the rest of Nature herself retreated:
the bears, the snakes, the birds, the goats…

And the people watched,
the whole world watched;
they saw their homes destroyed,
taken down to ash in a very instant,
and knew that all was gone, their very past.

O! The heartbreak!

But yet they said, the people said,
“We shall rebuild.
It’s only things.
At least we’re all alive.”

We tip our hats to them.
Brave folks.

And so, too, were the animals,
alive.
The tame ones left behind were found;
the brave, brave SPCA folk went in,
and found them shelter,
till all could reunite.

And the wild ones, those of the forest,
the bears, the birds, the snakes,
all who had to flee to save their skins,
their homes, their food, their shelter:
all gone!

Only a greyed-out skeletal moonscape stood
where once so much life had thrived.

An entire town
dissolved
by that awful heat…

that holocaust!

The peoples’ livelihoods…
gone!
The mill.
Gone.
For good.

And flaming fingers touched the orchards
in that dry and desert land
where water turns the grasses green
and men and women grow fruit…

and where the verdant forest gave up some space
for ranches, farms, and towns—
places where people live—
all were touched,
all were scarred…

We tip our thankful, grateful, hats!

And each a story to tell,
a story of trial and loss,
of shared fight,
of victory, big and little,
of thanks to the Army who came,
the students who helped,
the firemen of distant towns,
and all the donors,
and all the rest…

the “victims,”
now rebuilding,
to them,
they tip their hats!

Hear their stories.
Help them heal.

— — —

Dedicated to all the brave men and women
fighting the current run of forest fires.
May God shield them.

Painting by my very good friend
Julia Schoennagel

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Rats and Snakes

 

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Aug 18, 2023
Rats and Snakes
H. W. Bryce Herb W Bryce
Seeds of Poetry
Seeds of poetry are planted in us when we are very young. The bad things that happen to us can scar us for life. But the good things can make us sing. These are some of the seeds planted in this poet’s early life. H. W. Bryce remembers some of each in this poetic volume, those that echo like ripples…
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Rats and Snakes
H. W. Bryce
I was just play riding my play horse,
Galloping across the room, telling him
To giddyap, when the sharp tongue of
Grandma stopped me. “How dare you
Interrupt us? I am trying to talk to my
Daughter here.” I froze. I felt the skin
On my face tighten. She ordered me
To open the trap door and “get down
There until you learn how to behave!
Down,” she said. “All the way down.”
She slammed the trap door on me.
I was terrified in the pitch dark of the
Root cellar. I could feel the rats and the
Snakes coming at me. I scrambled up the
Steps to the top and cowered against the
Trap door, trembling. I was too scared to
Even say sorry. I didn’t dare ask to be let
Out.
But terror of the dark and the scratching
And squeaking panicked me, and I did beg.
“Let me out. Let me out. Please. Please.”
It seemed forEVER befor the trap door
Squeaked open a crack and mom’s face
Peered down at me. I scrambled to safety
Before she could open the door any farther.
— —
Little Wounds, Big Scars – Sensitive soul
–from my new book Seeds of Poetry, a mini memoir in poems.
You can purchase your copy at:
Seeds of Poetry
BLURB.CA
Seeds of Poetry
Seeds of poetry are planted in us when we are very young. The bad things that happen to us can scar us for life. But the good things can make us sing. These are some of the seeds planted in this poet’s early life. H. W. Bryce remembers some of each in this poetic volume, those that echo like ripples…
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Seeds of Poetry poem

Seeds of Poetry

H. W. Bryce

Baby’s breath and first memories,
Tiger Lilies and Whiskey Jacks,
Wooden bridges and swimming holes,
These are the beginnings of this young life.

Nearly ninety and little lessons learned,
Memories of childhood revisited,
Awakening the empathy in the soul—
Forgiveness of the harsh self criticism.

Seeds planted early, innocent and open,
What we absorb in childhood molds us
With the beauty of nature, the sun, the sky,
Our nature, our personality, our cast of the die,

Little markers in a little life may well seem
Inconsequential in a world of hurt on the
World scale, but little wounds reverberate
As echoes in a spontaneous spirit stunted.

Our wee world of childhood spent in awe…
Are these the things that planted the poet
In the soul of the potentially poetic man?
Little imprintings on the inner soul…

Little reminders that we are human,
These seeds, that gew up as me: calm,
Accepting, friendly, helpful, anti-violence,
A poet not a rabble rouser rebel.

From my new book SEEDS OF POETRY, now available, here:

https://www.blurb.ca/b/11652756-seeds-of-poetry

For all of those of you who had asked, When are you going to write your biography, this is the introduction.

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Tear it Down

 

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One for Heritage!
Lest we forget our roots.
Carry on with the best.
Old schoolhouse saved after all – to be repurposed – as a schoolhouse. Bravo.
This is what I wrote when the decision was made to tear it down.
So this is frther to that, as featured the past few day on Facebook, however late I am with sharing it.
Tear It Down
H. W, Bryce
Red min comp of Feb 12-16
Rtn dec 8-16: sparked by global news sstory of old ylo scl ho to be torn down;
This the day after I posted my Forgotten Frontiers poem. The year Ann went into permanent care.
The Analogy (for those who don’t get the connection) is: ALZ tears down the brain
Fancy building, googaws trim,
Standing decades looking prim—
Need is bigger, better class,
Made of steel and window glass.
Tear it down!
Heritage house of old granddad,
Grew grand kids, was always glad,
Had a hand-hewn shingle roof,
Built to be destruction proof.
Tear it down!
Yellow schoolhouse standing proud,
Writin’,’rithmatic, readin’ loud…
Grammar’s gone, writin’ is pass’ay,
We’ve gone ’lectronic, more class’ay.
Tear it down!
Yeah, yeah, who cares now? Tear it down!
Yeah, yeah, who wants to go back now?
Tear it down!
Behind the times, your days are through,
Tear it down! Tear it down!
Get it outta here you old-fashioned fool,
Time marches on, change is cool.
Tear it down! Tear it down! Tear it down!
Outgrown its use, need more space,
Now it’s velcro, no more lace,
Must keep up with modern pace,
Give it up and give with grace.
Tear it down!
Judgement day the old court house,
Brick and mortar days are dead,
Old stone buildings cost too much,
No one cares ’bout stuff and such.
Tear it down!
So what we’re all over the place?
Designs do change and it’s a race
To meet the needs that also range.
’Course the look of the place will change.
Tear it down!
House of beauty standing proud?
Grandma lived there, never bowed?
Play the game, the field is plowed,
Gradma’s life no longer game.
Tear it down
— —
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Rain in the city

 

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I know I am on hiatus, but this memory peopped up in my “mailbox.” Trending!
Memories
Settings
We hope you enjoy looking back and sharing your memories on Facebook, from the most recent to those long ago.
On this day
5 years ago
Herb W Bryce
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RAIN IN THE CITY
We got rained on at Poetry in the Park recently, so we took shelter in the band shell.
“…Into each life some rain must fall,…”
True. In every life some rain will fall.
How we deal with that is how we are.
Henry Wadsworth Longellow concluded his poem “The Rainy Day” with the line
“…Some days must be dark and dreary.”
A helluva lot of rain falls on Alzheimer’s people and other disease-stricken folk,
and makes their days dark and dreary.
This to caregivers everywhere.
And to the rest, just a refreshing bit of fun.
RAIN IN THE CITY
H. W. Bryce
Weather News Flash!
Heat wave extended.
Keep yourself hydrated.
Streets are coolant dependent….
Rain in the city!
The fresh scent of damp upon the air,
The crackle of the dry spell
Washed away like a tear.
Rain falling in the city,
Relief coming from the clouds.
Running through the puddles
Just for the fun!
People scurry for shelter,
Laughter in the rain,
Kiddies dashing helter skelter,
The city cooled with rain.
Lovers stop, embrace and kiss,
They’re swaying in the rain,
Fresh droplets wash away
Their tears of recent pain.
It’s raining in the city,
People caught surprised,
Smiles and laughter breaking out,
People dancing in the rain.
Puppies in the park
Leaping to catch rain drops,
Adults stop to dance,
Raindrop music in the ears.
The welcome sound of raindrops
Splish-splashing through sweet aromas
Of the flower beds,
Bouncing happily upon the city streets.
End of drought. Ahhhhh…
Celebrations to the beat
Of refreshing drops of rain,
Pitter patter, tapping feet,
Rain falling in the street.
Welcome rain, wash away our grief,
Though your visit may be brief,
We welcome you upon this date,
Gentle rain, you coulda brought a greater fate….
And thank God for sweet, brief relief from the onuses of life.
I was inspired to write about rain while watching violinist Lucia Macarelli’s concert on PBS during the beginnings of our hot spell.
She also performed Spring Can Hang You Up the Most, a haunting, melancholy tune, much as she had performed it on Treme, the PBS drama series.
To read the poems of Alzheimer’s and poems for everybody, go to:http://bit.do/ereuU
Note: these entries on Facebook are from my actual blog, which is at hwbrycewrites.com
IMAGE from Pixabay
You’re All Caught Up
Check back tomorrow to see more of your memories!
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All the Flowers Have Died

 

ALL THE FLOWERS HAVE DIED
H. W. Bryce
Today, Saturday, July 8th, 2023, marks the 500th day
Of the Unkrainian invasion by Russia.
Dedicted to all Ukrainians:
— —
The wasteland lay smouldering,
Smoke wisps floating up like balloons
From the rubble where there are no tunes.
And all the flowers have died.
From the day when tornadoes hailed down
Destroying this peaceful, flowering land,
Its rhythm is an an unsynchopated band,
And all the flowers have died.
The trees have been smothered by ashes,
From fires with unrelating power,
The air reeks like acrid gunpowder,
And all the flowers have died.
Men women and children are dead now,
Grandmothers, and sisters and babies,
Stricken by missiles on wind, ravaged like rabies,
And all the flowers have died.
The monsters came, the monsters destroyed,
Replicating the war of the worlds,
Hurricanes chewed up all of the words
And The Word was shot out of the air.
Daffodils wilted, roses died on the vine,
The flower of her father is trampled down,
The grass of the land has all turned brown,
And all the flowers have died.
The dancing girls are dancing no more,
The Maypole has been blown down,
They no longer play queen with a crown,
For all of the flowers have died.
And all the flowers have died.
Forever to the end we shall defend,
Forever will shine the sun, the sun will shine
Again in the flower, our beloved flower,
And the sunflower will rise again,
AND THE SUNFLOWERS WILL RISE AGAIN.
— —
Image via Pixabay
May be a black-and-white image of 1 person and child
Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Caring, Fatigue, Fear, Flowers, Grief, Heroism, Loss, Peace | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment