beyond yearnings
Yet More Reflections…… Jerry Bouma
ISBN: 978-1-7772699-1-3
Copyright @2021
Jerry Bouma
Beyond Yearnings: Yet More Reflections……
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical means with the prior written consent of the author.
Cloud Publishing
Vancouver
Cover Photograph
This is a photograph of the ‘Big Stone’ in a 25-acre field on the farm we grew up on just outside of Leith, Ontario. It sat undisturbed in the middle of the field. Where it came from and how it got there, nobody knew. There were none like it and no field anywhere in the entire area had such a big stone. It sat undisturbed, regardless of weather, mood, or any other condition.
It was clearly in a state of “beyond yearning.”
Table of Contents
Foreword..........1
Part 1: Time and other Thoughts..........2
Part 2: Time of Year Series..........12
Part 3: Rhymes to the Sun and Seasons..........18
Part 4: Other Reflections..........24
About the Author..........38
Foreword
I was recently asked a simple question by my cousin who is also my oldest and dearest friend1: “why do you write?” It only took me a few seconds to formulate a response in my mind. A few days later I wrote this:
Why do I write? Let’s start by being inspired by my precocious cousin who started it all!! Then it followed by developing an appreciation for the rhyme, rhythm and cadence of good poetry. Then it was a realization that the imagery and “the economy” of words and a realization that great poetry is able to convey a mood or description better than any other artform. Who would not be moved by such provocative descriptions as: “Headpiece filled with straw”2 or the grating impression made by “Rat’s feet through broken glass”3? or “The only other sound’s, the sweep…. of easy wind and downy flake.”4 Or the stark imagery of the “red wheelbarrow and the white chickens5”. Or the desperate existential last cry of “do not go gentle into that good night.”6
Other lines capture a feeling and a personal resonance that propel you to a place of memory or imagination like “Swinger of Birches”7 being the “boy too far from town to play baseball…”
So why do I write? Because I can. Because I see and feel things that I can describe. And because I am able to describe such scenes or feelings, others can see and feel the same things. This effect was confirmed on my first reading – in October 2019 when 100 locals in the village of Leith came to hear me read the poems in “Beyond the Woodshed”. Most of these were written about my growing up years – I told the stories behind the poems, the places, the people, the struggles that are common to us all. And afterwards, many came forward to say “I know that place” or “So that is who you were talking about” or now I understand what you meant by “Pilers of Wood” or the challenge of “Counting Cattle”.
And so I write…..
1 Stuart Bergstra is that cousin who is also my oldest and dearest friend. Stuart was an amazing student. In high school, he was not only the top mathematics student, he was also the top English student. One of his writings entitled “Thanksgiving”, a piece that he wrote at the age of 18 is presented in this collection of poetry.
2 TS Eliot, “The Hollow Men”
3 Ibib
4 Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”
5 William Carlos Williams, “The Red Wheelbarrow”
6 Dylan Thomas “Do not go gentle into that good night”
7 Robert Frost, “Swinger of Birches”
1
Part 1: Time and Other Thoughts
When I was just a young teenager around 15 years of age, I was fascinated with the concept of time. I clearly remember one winter evening inside the barn, feeding the young cattle their nightly portion of hay. As usual I was thinking about something else, this time about time itself. It occurred to me that time was not merely some mechanical or clinical measure. Rather it seemed much more fluid or malleable. Perhaps it was because I had just started taking up running and was beginning to measure and time all my runs – the intervals, the repeat quarter miles, the half miles, the 220 yards etc. That same evening, I wrote this:
“Time is not merely a simple fraction of that which the earth requires to rotate around her ‘King’. Instead, time occurs and accelerates in direct proportion to the intensity of the activity that takes place within it. The more intense your activity, the faster it moves….”
This was well before I was introduced to the concept of relativity whereby Albert Einstein explains that all bodies have their own time coordinates. There is no such thing as absolute time – there are places and conditions in this universe where time is infinite and other places where time does not exist at all. I think I was onto something…...!
I was reminded of these thoughts when one of my friends upon receiving my second book of poems, asked me: “Where to do you find the time?” My response is the first poem in this series.
2
Find the Time
How do you find the time to write? A friend once asked of me. I gave quick thought and then replied, The ‘rhyme’ finds time for me!
It comes in unexpected ways, A setting sun; a quiet breeze, The rhythm of a morning run, A fluttering leaf, the raging seas.
Each day new opportunities present, A sound, a scene, a conversation, So much fodder for the soul, The chance for new sensation.
A deeper question does then arise, Do we create or just uncover? Do these musings pre-exist? Our task, but to discover.
Me thinks that it’s a bit of both. The truth lies deep in yonder blue. Take pause each day just to reflect, And let the ‘rhyme’ find you.
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Nobody Knows....
Has every word been written?
Has every song been sung?
Has every thought been captured? Has every bell been rung?
Don’t let your heart run cold
Don’t let your soul be sold
Let the light shine bright and bold
Let the truth be freely told.
Has every rhyme been offered? Has every beat been struck? Has every web been woven? Have we all run out of luck?
Don’t let your heart run cold
Don’t let your soul be sold
Let the light shine bright and bold
Let the truth be freely told.
Are there hearts still left unbroken?
Has every race been run?
What sordid secrets lie unspoken?
Beneath the sinking sun?
Don’t let your heart run cold
Don’t let your soul be sold
Let the light shine bright and bold
Let the truth be freely told.
When will the clouds be parted?
When will the doves fly free?
When will the tears stop flowing?
It will be up to you and me!
Don’t let your heart run cold
Don’t let your soul be sold
Let the light shine bright and bold
Let the truth be freely told.
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Seamus Heaney and Gerry O’Reilly8
Now a true story: unique you might say, A memorable evening; to most, just a day. Two sons of Eire arrange a short meeting, The fusing of brothers upon first greeting.
From each emotes a calm emanation, Words flow forth without hesitation. One hails from a remote port of science, The other immersed in a crucible of violence.
The veil of differing paths no barriers create, Ideas to explore, no need for debate. Respect for the rhythm, respect for the rhyme Much to discuss and so little time.
Two sons of Eire bid farewell from the meeting, Reminded again that time flies all too fleeting. From each to ‘old sod’ flows a deep, deep devotion, The one through poetry; the other through motion.
8 Gerry O’Reilly is a personal friend who told me the story of this meeting. Gerry was a very accomplished athlete at Villanova University during the mid 1980’s. He comes from Count Meath, just outside of Dublin but was born in Uranium City, Saskatchewan where his parents worked in the early 1960’s. Seamus Heaney is one of Ireland’s most famous poets who passed away in 2013.
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Where Goes the Heart?
My brain feels dull and fuzzy I cannot clearly think My thoughts…. they run asunder From to soup to kitchen sink. I ask myself the questions, What makes my heart lift? And What makes my heart sink?
To grasp and shape tomorrow The past, I feel no link The days are getting blurry Time passes as in a blink! Again, I ask the questions, What makes my heart lift? And What makes my heart sink?
I group my shaken senses Push hope to the very brink I brace and press on forward This challenge, I shall not shrink. I’ll strive to meet the questions, Seek where my heart lifts! And Shun what makes my heart sink.
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I Did Not See the Flowers
Arrived home today, mid-afternoon
Walking briskly, head in a swoon. Oblivious to all, behind and before Emails to read; texts to ignore. Something on the table but I looked far beyond Plans for tomorrow, much need to respond Noise in my head, thoughts yet to form.
I did not see the flowers.
Many years ‘fore, lost in my domain
Every day different; but really the same. Proposals to develop, reports to review So much to chase, so much to do. A colleague stopped in, said this to me: What’s with that plant? What a pity! There in the corner with no signs of life.
I did not see the flowers.
Now years have passed and better days come I watch the sun rise, no longer feel numb. Finally, some time and much less to do Now time for me and now time for you. No need to rush here, no need to rush there. A relaxing repose, at last time to spare. So goes each day, with much life ahead.
I finally see the flowers.
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The Early Morning Call
So much can be read into the early morning call made not too early and be the cause for the rising but not too late and be the casualty of the non-response.
So it is placed carefully timed precipitated, crystallized…. by the unexpected sighting from the evening before. A view of grace, beauty, intrigue accentuated by the glow of evening summer sun.
Sitting….but not alone with another potential suitor. The biting sting and sudden realization of what might take place? or worse! Taking place before my anxious eyes. Oh no, what have I done?
It begins - the causal hello the gentle probe the seemingly benign ante and easy exchange seeking all the time to discern whether the early morning response might be receptive to more than just this early morning call?
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But Why?
I drag my tired body
Arise from my deep, warm bed
I grab my gear for running
And embrace the dark ahead
But why?
The quietness of the morning embraces me
The smell of harvested wheat drifts toward me to my left
A rhythmic click of the freight train awakes me to my right
The sweeping majesty of the black spruce guards me from above
The firmness of the earthen path provides steady assurance below
The expanding glow of the eastern sky beckons me from beyond
The first signs of a gentle breeze assure me of a fine day ahead
A growing warmth of my body informs me that all is well within
My awakening brain is flooded with memories and new ideas
The reassuring strength of a strained muscle issues no further call
A quickening pace now flows with growing ease
The half-way point soon appears and reached And time to turn for home.
I return with re-charged mind and body
My room now filled with light
No questions or search for reason
The ‘why’ no more in sight.
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All Things Must Pass
Days pass, alas….
Weeks pass, alas……
Months pass, alas……. Soon another year, alas……
Send me your ……. address. I will send you my ……. redress. Alas.
And soon, alas That too …….will pass.
And It came to pass….
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Picking Stones or…. My Daily Struggle
Some fields grow the finest wheat, Flour for bread and scones. Other fields struggle to produce, Naught but thorns and stones.
Each spring they mysteriously emerge, Was there an ‘evil’ call? No matter how we cleared and picked, Last year before the fall.
Some you lift and some you drag, All leave reluctantly. We toil for days and days to clear, These fields to be stone-free.
This task so bland, such small reward, What meaning to be found?
To wit: these stones now rest in peace, And you have gained some ground.
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Part 2: The Time of Year
To everything there is a season
Some say that there are only four. But what I’ve seen of morning sun rays, I’d say that there are many more!
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Crop Season 2020
It was a season, not before seen First endless rain, then endless green. The south saw yields that have never been better The north saw fields that have never been wetter. From unseeded acres to bumper crops Hailed out canola, but excellent hops. Claims already paid, claims to be withdrawn Adjusters working from dusk to dawn. Or should that be from dawn to dusk? No matter! We have seen both boom and bust! Time to meet and review this past year Agronomics, forecasts, a quick cold beer?
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Fall
Although fall whispered softly Hiding inside the warm breezes She frightened The blackbirds
And the wild geese. Shaking the leaves And shrinking the bushes In the evening of the year.
Late Fall
A brooding silence lingers
Over the last remains Of falling leaves Cast randomly On the wet path. The cold drizzle
Gives no relief As the gathering darkness Overtakes the silence And awaits.
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Early Winter
The first snow fall
Glitters and gently covers The weary and forlorn ground
Like a newborn’s blanket
Giving a freshness And an invitation To be the first To leave your footprints behind.
Winter
Drifting, sifting snow
Pushed by icy winds
Skips across the The sea of white
Like the surf of a curling wave While the cedars shudder And a solitary branch Taps impatiently On the frozen windowpane.
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Early Spring
A glittering morning sun Emanates a warmth And breaks the frozen solitude. The maples awake And send their emissaries Searching and seeking Upward. The taps and pails Are soon to follow.
Spring
The siren call Of the meadowlark Leaves no mistake That the full force Of nature Is fully awake. And the urgency To replenish life Begins again.
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Early Summer
The smells of freshness
Abound on all fronts. The rising vapours
Of a quick thunder shower
Unquestionably accentuates
The expanding bouquet of Apple blossoms, Ripening blackberries And fresh cut hay.
Summer
Amidst the sweltering heat
The elongating stalks Of growing corn
Look upward for more, While the leaves
Of the majestic line of maples
Along the adjacent fence line Seek cover and endure
Like a sleeping dog With no sign of motion.
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Part 3: Rhymes to the Sun and Seasons
“Keep your face to the sun and you will never see the shadows.”
– Helen Keller
The following is collection of thoughts and impressions – most of which are formed when driving about Alberta. Some are quite whimsical and ‘in the moment.’ Others lend themselves to a deeper reflection or not. Such as this opener:
Cold on cold, Grey on grey. Oh, dear sun, Come and stay!
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Spring
The sun has crossed the ‘centre’ line, More light, more heat, more days sublime. The nurturing warmth prepares the earth And seeds soon stir... new life bursts forth.
Getting worried yesterday
The icy wind, bare trees asway, Much cloud, no sun, a sky that’s grim Dear spring! That’s no way to begin.
Ah! A ray of sunshine
Breaking through the gloom Might be just enough To make the flowers bloom.
All is bright, all is shine, Dear sun is working overtime Green and glory, every way Clearly the work of dear ‘soleil.’
It’s bright, it’s clear, it’s calm, it’s blue, The day bursts forth with life anew Which way to go? Which field to seed? A busy day for the sun indeed!
The sun is high, the sky is blue The fields are filled with a glorious hue. Spring is here. The earth doth shout. It would appear, that you’re about.
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Summer
So tomorrow is the longest day Oh how I wish that it would stay But then we’d miss the autumn glow Still winter nights, soft falling snow.
Sparkling sun and endless blue Perfect day to start anew! Another day of glorious sun Can hardly wait for another one!
The freshness of a morning dew The perfect robe to start anew. The sweetness of a sunshine smile No need to bother for a while.
Some say the truth is like the sun Clearing the darkness for everyone! Carpe Diem, Carpe Dum Always a good day with a bit of sun.
A field that runs and runs Forever……..
May there be no bounds to our present Endeavour…….
The fields are shimmering And the breezes warm The bins are filling
As combines swarm.
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Fall
Today dear sun doth cross a line
Twice a year! Yes it’s true.
Seasons shrink like the morning mist
The warmth of summer shall be missed.
The day is bright, the sun doth shine
Tomatoes ripening on the vine
Malting barley in the bin
The cold and wind will soon begin.
Now that you are headed to Capricorn
Will there be news for the weathered worn? Those left to face the lengthening night
As the glorious sun shines out of sight.
Alas September is about to pass
The turn of heat, the dying grass
Sunrise, sunset converge to noon
The swirl of flake arrives too soon!
The week behind with mist and grey
Will sun appear for just for one day?
I wait and wait. What’s this? Oh no! This can’t be real! We’re in for snow.
Shakespeare wrote that April is the month most cruel, It is my view: November would win that duel. Dark skies. A break! A shaft of light distant. Could this have stirred an inspired Rembrandt?
Each day the sun is setting lower
Will glorious rays e’er shine so bright?
And cause for mind and body getting slower
Just two more days and less of night!
One more day to sun’s nadir
While days are short, there’s much to cheer
Then each day will bring more light
More of day and less of night!
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Winter
As I brave the wind and cold
I search the sky, no break I’m told No moon, no stars, no sun in sight A feeling of eternal night.
The day ekes slow and painfully along No elevated prose, no poetry, no song Tedious reports, dense charts on display Oh for some sun to cheer up the day.
In this land of frost and snow Should I stay or should I go? I need some heat for frozen bones But ne’er get close to Bridget Jones!!
So Cupid’s day is on the cusp Thus, careful choice of word and sound, While all the world seems gripped in frost, May warmth and peace for all abound
Dull and dreary, not much fun February is gathering speed Will clouds dissolve, will there be sun? Shine forth, shine long, my hope indeed?
The snows do come, the sun doth go Hope for bright days, beginneth slow The snow doth go, the sun doth stay At last we have a pleasant day!
On this day of grim and grey Will the sun come out today? Gone is light, gone is bright Naught but fog and frost in sight!
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Part 4: More Reflections
This section includes more reflections plus pieces that have been written by several close friends including:
• Stuart Bergstra, my cousin and my oldest friend. We have known each other since birth. Stuart was a voracious leader and introduced me to a diverse selection of both literature and music.
• Morrison Reid, my high school running partner. Together we ran many miles together but more importantly, inspired each other to achieve results that otherwise would not have been possible.
• Brad Morley, another high school running friend who carried on the track tradition that Morrison and I had begun. Brad went on to teach high school English in Owen Sound.
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A Poem for Tom Thomson
Oh noble grave, what lies beneath? What secrets lie unstirred? What threads of flesh rest in this ground, Whose bones are here interred?
Across those fields, it all began. Harsh west wind, sifting sand, The lonesome pine, the autumn hue, Curious eye, steady hand.
We too have seen this pristine birch, Heard smack of pounding waves, Felt light of spring, the gloom of fall, The rustle of the leaves.
But you have captured sight and sound, Entwined in scenes sublime. While life is but a temporal state, Your works transcend all time.
Each passing year your spirit grows More praise and yet some chatter. The mystery of where your body lies, But does that really matter?
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Ode to a Keith9
We searched skies above, probed deep realms beneath To find the right words to describe that man Keith. Such quest we assure you is no minor matter
But struggle we did; ignored flack and chatter.
He’s handsome, he’s strong, he’s quiet, he’s deep. At home on the heather with haggis and sheep.
Alas words yet elude us, that fine man called Keith A man whose roots span from Glasgow to Leith.
These ‘pipes’ in September: to what do we owe?
And why now this wail? What might they bestow?
Ah yes! A tribute to four score great years
May much Scotch abound and many ‘a beers!
Happy Birthday!!
Toast to Track & Field10
May the Track metered and measured rise up to meet us
May the Field level and green, await to greet us
May the Achievements we witness this weekend inspire us
May the Bonds of Friendship forged by this sport forever sustain us.
9 A birthday greeting to a friend called Keith
10 A toast written and given by myself as the Chair of the 2016 Canadian Athletics Olympic Trials – the opening press conference.
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Thanksgiving
The autumn air is clear and silent.
I see the land, my sustenance and pride. I see the spoil, the bounty and endless tide Of material: rain, sun, soil and heaven sent. The air is clear. I see more and more and more.
I will build barns, not four but forty times four. I build barns. I store and store and store.
The autumn air is clear and silent.
The air is clear. I see a skinny ugly beast. The size of a man’s hand. He eats and eats. He does not grow but the land is barren.
I cry and curse and spit and rage and roar. I am not comforted: my soul was lost before.
Stuart Bergstra, 1969
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Two Sailing Ships
Two sailing ships meet On the great inland sea, No crossing of wake For a half century.
Years and years passed Two different routes sailed, Some journeys succeeded And some journeys failed. One travelled east and one travelled west, No matter the purpose Both sought for the best.
No talk about cargo, Big storms or how fast. All focus on present Some threads of the past.
The timbers still strong And likewise the mast The sails somewhat worn Where strong gales had passed.
Could journeys have crossed In times come before? There’s no way to forecast What life has in store.
Two sailing ships meet On a grey autumn day The universe full knowing It would happen that day.
So what can be taken From this breath of presence? That circumstances alter But never the essence.
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Night Run
Winter could be very tough
The cold and dark make it rough
Easy to stay in safe and warm
Not outside where the worst fears swarm
Maybe it was just me
Others would have no beef
I preferred to run when I could see
Running at night gave me grief
A young boy’s brain is a complex brew
Conceit, impulses fears, quite a crew
At night the demons inside come out to play
Time to go which way today?
In rural places the dead are near Cemeteries were my greatest fear
Homes of the dead every mile
Passing them was an awful trial
I need to run hills, that means McLean’s And yonder graveyard that screws my brains
My ancestors there are lain
And others, a sad refrain
The hill is crested, known as Cathraes
In the hollow the headstones peer
Outlined by a full moon’s rays
This place must be put to the rear
A mind in fear provides great speed
A need to escape a dead man’s greed
At school today we studied Irving
The Headless Horseman, quite a thing
I am running a hollow
Will the horseman surely follow?
The race is on, no one to see
Farm light ahead, just past the tree
The light is gained, no horseman to see
The rest of the run is lighting fast
The boy puts fear in the distant past
Someday it might be understood
This is how he became pretty good.
Morrison Reid, 2020
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Odysseus Bound
Odysseus sits weeping Day after day-Weeping for home.
Or for the journey. One threatened, the other threatening. And while the king ‘s away, Young suitors, unsuited to their trust, Deplete the storehouse Laugh into their wine.
Too blinded by the inward eye To see beyond the table laid before them, They do not see What the blind beggar sees: The spilled wine, the toppled chair.
They eat themselves out of house and home, Mortgage their futures with appetite Engorge themselves as arrows fly, And spear points glisten.
The great bow is bent Even as distant trees are felled And Calypso’s offer comes to naught.
Brad Morley, 2012
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A Covid Christmas
It was a Christmas unlike those before seen No bustle, no crowds, the streets strangely clean. The year started fresh with much hope ahead And now in December, we’re counting the dead. From south to the north, from west to the east The ravage continues; the growls of the beast. More locks on the doors, and shutters tight closed. More ways to contain, less contact proposed. What lies up ahead? Yet none of us know, But frost, ice and cold with plenty of snow. Let’s hope clouds lift soon and new light shines through. But in the meantime, so glad I’m with you.
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Kisses11
The kiss of death has come to town In robes sublime, a spiky crown. He struts about like no tomorrow. He laughs and mocks our deepest sorrow.
The kiss of love has gone away, So hard to find, holds little sway. She wrings her hands, she holds her head Just up for coffee, then back to bed.
The kiss of life is up a tree, With eyes closed tight so she won’t see What’s going on in scenes below What seems to ail the sunset glow?
The kiss of baby heals the day, Unwitting hare still wants to play. The plague runs rampant but soon be gone, And I’ll embrace both dance and song.
The kiss of future awaiting us, Just like the jiggly 84 bus. That runs ‘long Broadway, always semper, Steered by Joe of even temper.
The kiss of crazy ridic’lous dancers, Kept spirits high with grins and prances. That kiss transforms the ominous clouds, Green grass, blue oceans will shred all shrouds.
Written by Susan Edwards; edited by Jerry Bouma.
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Kisses Cont’d
The new day kiss, subsume us all! Alone, together…. we rise and fall. To dreams and hope, much joy, relief, We shall march on, above our grief.
Perchance to pass, while on a walk, We’ll kiss, sit down on yonder rock. Puppies will grow and people will play This dream I hold, God bless you today.
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Dangerous Places
There’s danger on the roughest seas Where waves like foothills crash Both aft and stern are crushed to dust And hopes and dreams are dashed.
There’s danger in the mountain tops Where air and breath are thin Soft breeze can change within a flash To gales that take you in.
There’s danger in the jungle deep Beneath the seas of green Strange sounds and shapes are all around And light can scarce be seen.
There’s danger in the deserts stark Where heat like torches burn No shade or dew to give relief All life sees naught but scorn.
While peril lies on every front Good cause to not begin
The greatest danger lies not here But in the hearts of men.
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Sailing to Armageddon
This is no country for the honourable young. Where spirits falter; where truth hides its head, Bluster on bluster, more lies upon lies, Erosion of honour, the absence of good. Each day in its passing, finds darkening skies, The service of self, no matter who dies.
Where lies the virtue of peoples before? Where stand those who erased shackles of class? Who laid careful pathways, and once walked with pride, When law was embodied in one single soul And birthplace determined where one would reside. Now truth has no measure and justice? Denied!
How can this country now find itself here? The land of lost promise, there’s nothing for sure. Vote counts are debated; and who be the cause? Yes those over there! They have taken what’s ours! They differ in race. We will not endure. Our premise is false, but we shall secure!
This is our country; this is our fore view! No rules, nothing matters, the strong man now wins, No matter the reason, we do what we’ve done, The boots of suppression, does anyone speak? Away with the Father; to hell with the Son! Together we sail to Armageddon.
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Perfection
I know that No-one walks on earth with, Perfection.
That be no cause To cease this personal, Reflection. Too many Are those days filled with doubt and, Rejection.
So let my thoughts Be lifted up and soar, irrespective of, Projection.
And allow you to wander Freely in my mind, in an ever state of, Perfection!
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Why we run12?
……. so I would like to finish by asking the rhetorical question: Why did we run? Why did we do it? Why did we persevere – those cold nights on the football field or doing repeats on the Arboretum Road in the pitch black of night?
To be sure – we all came with a considerable running history - some started by joining a club; or being part of a high school culture that featured track; or someone along the way who recognized our talent and encouraged us. Or in my case – it was the only sport I could do on my own time and place. But that was the starting point? Why did we continue and pursue a sport that seem so lonely, forgotten and without support? Why did we run? Why do we run? Simply – we loved to run. And, we love to run. We loved the feeling of moving fast, And the special feeling which occurred every once in a while,
When mind and body connected – fused into a higher form. Like a transcendent state……. And you would just fly – without effort, like a whisper through a silent crowd. Or a leaf that floated upwards instead of heading for the ground. Those precious moments of perfection. Sometimes this feeling happened in a workout –sometimes in a race. Sometimes in the morning. Sometimes at night.
But when it happened – it was a wonderful feeling. That deep love of running.
So in the end – it is love of running - the experience and the spirit that binds us. And brings us here today. Thanks and keep on running!!!
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12 This excerpt is the closing remark of a speech I gave upon being inducted to the University of Guelph, Wall of Fame in 2010.
About the Author
Jerry Bouma grew up on a farm just northeast of Leith, Ontario. The village is located 5 miles from Owen Sound, on the south shore of Owen Sound Bay which joins Georgian Bay. His education began in a one-room school in Euphrasia Township, Grey County. When the family moved to Leith, he ‘graduated’ to a 2-room school. Jerry attended West Hill Secondary School in Owen Sound and then went on to completing a B.Sc. Mathematics at Villanova University and a M.Sc. Agricultural Economics at the University of Guelph. Jerry has spent his professional life as a management consultant in the agri-food sector. He currently lives in Edmonton, Alberta and is married to his wife Vi Becker. Together they have three children and seven grandchildren.
Jerry subscribes to the notion that we are all artists – some disguise it better than others but we are all artists whether we heed the call or ignore it. That is why he is most pleased to feature the works of his friends in this edition of poetry. He challenges all of us to discover the artist within and explore how that artistic talent can be expressed.
Jerry’s real love is poetry – he grew up on a country road where “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” could have been written. He was a “Swinger of Birches” before he ever read the poem. He could immediately relate to the riveting imagery and rhythm of Dylan Thomas’ Under the Milkwood. And he felt the full measure of the gloomy fall evening before he discovered the same sentiment in the beauty of James Joyce’s narrative in the Portrait of the Artist as Young Man.
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