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.

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?

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!!!

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.