Sunday, Sunday

Sunday, Sunday

Herbie and Mom for Sunday, Sunday

Sunday Mornings! UGH!!

After the flurry of action during the past month, I’m feeling’ kinda pooped.

Living with the memories of fifty years together while I talked about and performed the memories that are my book, “Chasing a Butterfly,” at book launches and signings, turned out to be both exhilarating and a lot tiring.
One seems to expend that much extra energy preparing and performing, and so much less time sleeping. For sleep comes in snatches when you’re on the go.However, I think the exhilaration wins out.
During this same time, there were meetings to go to, poetry groups to attend, new people to meet. I have met so many fine people during this time.
One such meeting was one I had wanted to attend for a long time, but its title put me off: Poetic Justice. I thought I would have to have a law degree to qualify for attendance. I thought I would have to be erudite and remarkable, while I am simply folk and I write for the people.
Besides, they meet in the morning. Ugh! Sunday! Ugh! SUNday!! Morning!! Double Ugh!!! Tripe Ugh!!!!


Well, I screwed up my courage and set myself the challenge. All for the cause. Whip than damned Alzheimer’s, any way possible.
I even wrote a poem about it to perform for them.
Turns out, it was a grand bunch who simply accepted me.
Anticipation. Don’t we wind ourselves up about that?
Turns out I had second thoughts about “Sunday, Sunday,” my poem. It wasn’t erudite enough after all. I read something else.
But here is “Sunday, Sunday,” because touting my book of memories about my love and my loss to acceptance has proved to be a positive experience. And it brought back memories of my childhood. “Sunday, Sunday” includes such memories.
It may be a bit on the rough, unfinished side, but sometimes the glitches are part of the performance.


H. W. Bryce

Sunday morning, bright and early,
Scrubbed and polished in Sunday suit,
Dragged unwilling, feeling surly,
Off to church in polished boot.

Sunday morning, Sunday morning,
Sunday morning reserved for church,
Little boy says more like mourning,
But he goes to avoid the birch.

Parents live like proper Christians,
Upbringing children is their mission.
Little boy not asked permission,
He wants to commit sedition.

Come hymn time, stand up for Jesus,
Our poor boy can’t sing a note,
Ribs are sore from father’s elbow,
Church ain’t gonna get his vote!

Foot gets itchy, drives him nuts,
Off with boot, scratch while elders smirk.
Now he’s for it, no ifs or buts,
No doubt his butt will meet the birch.

Father, mother both embarrassed,
Red-faced parents feel standing hit.
Little boy, though feeling harassed,
Remembers love is the Bible writ.

Sunday, Sunday sudden cloudy.
Sunday morning reserved for church.
Little boy’s feelings are quite dowdy,
Fearing for but never getting wicked birch.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday morning,
Reserved for church, not for sports
Where so many spend their scorning,
Priests and clerics feel faith’s aborts…

Sunday’s not for business meetings,
Nor for your guilty conscience test,
It’s for coffee’s deeply steepings
Sunday’s for a day of rest.

Goodnight now.

For your reading pleasure:



#dementia  #Alzheimers

PHOTO from the H. W. Bryce album

#Alzheimer’s  #Care Giving #Dementia

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Up Next: H. W. Bryce at World Poetry


NW Public Library poster

Up Next: H. W. Bryce at World Poetry
World Poetry Celebrates National Month!

New Westminster Public Library, 716 6th Ave., New West

     Jun 28, 6:30-8:30 pm

Tribute to Vera Manuel
Celebrate with us!

Welcome Chief Rhonda Larrabee
Poet Laureate: Alan Hill, Candice James – Poet Laureate Emerita.
Tony Antonias
Music: Lavana La Brey
National Aboriginal Month with a Tribute to Vera Manuel

*Book Launch Ahn Bong Ja
Book Launch Herb Bryce

Woven Word Tapestry Poem, Vera Manuel
*Open Mic
*Free raffle
*Food, Refreshments. Bannock, Cake!

Link to World Poetry Cafe, Co-op Radio: 604-526-4729

Hosts: Ariadne Sawyer and Wanda John-Kehewin

CREDIT: Poster and information thanks to New Westminster  Public Library

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Chasing a Butterfly Book Signing

Chasing a Butterfly Book Signing

I Remember

I remember the good times
When every season was summer
Because I was with you

I remember excitement
How my pulse coursed so hot
Because I was with you

I remember bad times
And how we survived
Because I was with you

I remember love times
Our forever love times
Because I’m always with you

Dignity Alphabet

Doing onto others
Igniting one’s worth
Giving freely
Never putting down
Intolerance put to rest
Yielding to the call of duty

The Queen of the Ball

When I met the lady
She was in her prime,
She was vivid, alive
and living with style,
She gave any place
Its warm pleasant clime,
And nobody else
Could match her sweet smile…

Much, much more in Chasing a Butterfly, the book,

See you there, Saturday, June 24, 2017.
1:00 p.m.
Haney Place Mall
Maple Ridge, BC

Or On line:


#dementia  #Alzheimers



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Featured Poet: H. W. Bryce

       Featured Poet: H. W. Bryce

Renaissance Books, New Westminster, BC

7:00 p.m. Hosted by Janene White

Readings and signings

Located at 712b 12th Street

Note: Partial proceeds to Alzheimer’s Society.

See you there.

H. W. Bryce is a former journalist, editor and teacher,

Published poet in anthologies in Canada and the U.S.

Poetry Judge at 6th Rabindranath Tagore Awards International 2017

Books available also at:

http:www//     #dementia

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Hey there, my fellow wanderer


fellow wanderer

Hey there, my fellow wanderer

Hey there, my fellow wanderer,
Dream on and do what you can do,
That magic Some Place new of dreams
Is waiting yonder there for you.

Happenings happen if you make them,
Don’t wait around for happenstance,
Just you get up and join the dance,
The dance will lead you to your dreams.

Hey there, so glad to hear your voice
Across the naked wilderness.
We’re lost together separately,
We grope our way to find each other.

Hey there my fellow wanderer,
Keep the signal lamp a-shining bright,
This barren path, it needs the light
To lead us to our destiny

From desperation that we have
To keep connections that we have,
And keep in touch with our souls
We seek a home within ourselves.

Hey there my fellow wanderer,
I know you’re feeling lost out there,
You’re feeling lonely inside too,
Keep calling out, I’m here for you.

Out there inside your loneliness
I hear your voice, keep calling out.
I’ll be your voice, I’ll call for you,
We are collective strings of souls.

Hey there my fellow wanderer,
Don’t give up, I have faith for two.
Come toward my voice, I’ll be here.
Come back my fellow wanderer…

But if the calling grows too strong,
Come, let us kiss a fond farewell;
I’ll gladly share your wilderness.
Hey there, my fellow wanderer.

Now be still, I will hold your hand,
I’ll lead you from this wilderness.
Together we will march right to
That magic Some Place new of dreams.

fellow wanderer, holding hands

CREDITS: fellow wanderer, in the forest wilderness –

Holding hands photo by H. W. Bryce

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Be the Phoenix: Rise from the ashes


Be the phoenix

Be the Phoenix: Rise

Rise from the ashes

Rise from the ashes of your life,
Kiss the grief goodbye and fly, fly, fly,
Soar on high, soar with eagles,
Be the Phoenix, touch the sky.

Be more than your enemies,
Bring love down from the sky,
Let your former life die,
Rise like the Phoenix,
Touch the sky.

Build a new life, don’t just try,
Never mind if sometimes you cry.

Create yourself anew,
Be a better gal or guy.

Soar with eagles, touch the sky,
Be the Phoenix until you die,
And you will live up in the sky.
Be the Phoenix, fly, fly, fly…

And when you next get shot down,
Be the Phoenix, rise from your ashes
And fly, fly, fly.
Be the Phoenix, touch the sky.

Don’t be afraid,
Your wings will get you there,
Your Phoenix soul will tell you so
And fear will die.
And your soul will grow
In the field of love, where kisses grow –
It’s there you’ll learn, and then you’ll know

In the field of love is where you’ll find
Your kindred heart of lo-o-o-o-o-o-ove.
You’ll find your spot
In the field of love,
Be the Phoenix! Fly! Fly! Fly!

Lines written upon waking up from a dream of “Jill” (Kat?) singing.
Sometimes it’s just not worth messing with what is written
in a dream state.
“It is what it is.”
Sometimes in messing with it, you wind up with technical instead of passionate, missing the essence.
It’s no matter if the poem is still a “rough gem.” Sometimes.

CREDITS: Phoenix in fire –
Phoenix in the sky –


Posted in Alzheimer's, Care Giving, Dreams, Phoenix, Poetry, Rise up | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Time Out: Sometimes it’s Time


Picture for Time Out

Time Out

Sometimes it’s Time

Sometimes you just have to stop and think,
Time out from the race that is life,
Time when you feel less than in the pink
And everything you do brings strife.

It’s time like this you need to pause,
Rewind the clocks to start again,
Think about the basics of your cause,
Count up your losses and your gain.

For if you continue to plummet on
In an ever-spinning spiral,
Sooner than later it will don,
You’re dangling from a ticking dial.

Life has a habit of speeding up,
Catching you inside a whirlwind
Where you see life as an empty cup,
Stopped in your track by its headwind.

That’s the time to stop and think,
Catch your breath with a good time out,
Clear your eyes with a blink, blink, blink,
Gather your strength for life’s next bout.

You’ll need to be thinking very clear
To chart a new course to inner peace,
To steer ahead and never veer,
Dump your burdens with a quick release.

Give up the burdens that you carry,
Not all of them are truly needed.
Sort the duties from those that harry,
Travel lighter with the dross now weeded.

Time for time out, call a time out,
Your life is going down the spout,
Can’t fnd any way to get out,
Got so scared you can’t even shout.

What to do? What to do?
Can’t see, you can only blink,
Time to take a time out,
Time to stop and think.

Stop and try to meditate,
Catch your breath and breathe,
Still your heart, think of your mate,
Start again, in self believe.




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