Yearnings: More Reflections on Life, Love and Loss
ISBN: 978-1-7772699-0-6
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.
Foreword
Life is a continuous journey of wonder, amazement and mystery. Just when you think “you have seen everything” an event or an unexpected impression occurs that catches you by surprise. Like publishing a second book of poems in the ‘sun setting’ years of my life.
To be sure, life is an open door – you have two choices: go through that door; or choose to stay behind. Fortunately, I have had a plethora of open doors – some of these are the result of my intense curiosity to know more or my intrinsic drive to make the best of every situation; others are the result of being in the right place at the right time. But each door led me to another experience richer than the one before. And at every step along the way, I like all fellow human beings, experience both joy and sorrow. That too is all part of life’s rich tapestry.
I have been richly blessed. The reflections herein are a glimpse of that journey. Some of the writings were formed in my teenage years. Most have emerged more recently and arose in my thoughts quite unexpectedly. Perhaps these are a product of a long period of gestation like a good wine or scotch whiskey. It is up to you the reader to discern the differences between these two periods.
There are three people from my youth that inspired me and to whom I wish to dedicate these works:
• Sue Connell (nee Edwards) – my editor but more importantly my high school English teacher in Owen Sound. Susan brought an energy and enthusiasm to teaching that did not go unnoticed by her students, me included. More importantly, she introduced me to the beauty of poetry and the art of poetic expression. Needless to say, her introductions became my influences: Robert Frost, T.S. Eliot; Dylan Thomas, W.B. Yeats, William Carlos Williams…..
• Stuart Bergstra – my first cousin and my oldest, dearest friend. We were both Dutch immigrant kids growing up on struggling farms as our parents worked incredibly hard to make their way in their newly adopted country. Stuart was a precocious child with an incredible intellect. We would see each other every Sunday at church; we exchanged ‘summer holidays’ at our respective farms; and we went
to the same high school. It was from Stuart that I learned about existentialism, Russian literature, alternative rock and more poetry. And we never stopped laughing, no matter what we did.
• Morrison Reid – we met in high school, both from the same township (Sydenham) and from farms. And we both discovered that we could run and our love of running. As rural outsiders who did not have the opportunity to play team sports, we inspired each other, held each other to account and by the time we reached our last year of high school, we had become the two best high school runners in the country. Morrison went to the University of Iowa; I went to Villanova University.
Without these three individuals, my life would have been vastly diminished in both thought and experience. To them I am deeply grateful.
Jerry Bouma Edmonton, 2020
Part 1: Life is Mystery
Life is constant tension between reality and imagination. As much as we try to bring sense to it, the more one sees, the more one asks, the greater one’s awareness, the more mysterious it becomes. Life is mystery. And mystery is life.
“There are no answers, just questions.”
Jack Kerouac
Death, Heartache, Happiness….Life
Death is a common weed, It requires no rain1. No prepared seedbeds A sure recipe for pain.
Heartache is a sturdy thistle, Thrives amidst soil or stone. Some fields have few, some have many, Sure to hurt flesh and bone.
Happiness is a field of clover, Rich in texture, uplifts the heart. Thick, green and the occasional thistle, New hope, a brand new start.
Love is an elusive flower, Fuel to restore the soul. Requires much sun. And many’ a shower, Broken pieces, make them whole.
Life is a never-ending miracle. Full of mystery, no end of surprises. While the darkness may run deep, The sun surely rises.
1 Opening two lines attributed to Graham Green and his novel – The Honorary Consul, 1973
What If
What if..
The skies though dark and heavy grey Were to break And let the light shine through?
What if…
The fields though drenched with rain and mud Were to dry And let the flowers burst anew?
What if….
The woods, thick with growth and underbrush Were to open Hark: A path for me and you.
What if…
You and I, wounded and wise Were to love again Tired and tried; fresh and new.
What if…..?
For Whom the Bell Tolls - November 2nd 20192
For those who ask, for whom this bell tolls?
It tolls for victory,
It tolls for remembrance
It tolls for sadness
It tolls for loss
It tolls for the 1,116 Canadian Soldiers that lie in the cemeteries of Bergen Op Zoom
It tolls for the Winter of Hunger that was yet to come
It tolls for the 7,600 Canadian Soldiers that lie forever in the Netherlands
It tolls for the 18,000 Dutch people who died of starvation that cold harsh winter of 1945
It tolls for the 450,000 American and Canadian soldiers who died in both the Atlantic and Pacific theatres
It tolls for 5.7 million Poles
6 million Jews
10 million Chinese
20 million Russians
It tolls for the millions who lay dead in Korea; Vietnam; Cambodia; Angola Serbia; Iraq; Yemen
And now Syria
It tolls as a warning against tyranny and evil ideology.
And should we collectively or individually fail to stand up for justice
What is right, the ability to decide as a democratic people
Today, tomorrow or the years ahead
Then ask not for whom the bell tolls?
It tolls for you
And it tolls for me.
2 Address given in my role as the Honorary Consul for the Kingdom of the Netherlands to the 75th Commemoration Ceremony, Ringing of the Welberg Bell, November 2nd 2019. Welberg, a small town in the south of Holland, Province of Zeeland, was liberated by the Canadian Army in the fall of 1944. The Netherlands was not liberated in its entirety until May 5, 1945.
Which Path to Choose
Which path to choose, thick fog and dread The view glows dim in many ways. I wish there was clear light ahead But shapes and shadows appear instead And patience calls for clearer days.
Some say the future’s bright and bold While others’ views are less sanguine. You need not worry, I’m firmly told Smooth sailing ahead…..I’m not yet sold Deeply divided…. in thought again.
What fields or woods should then I greet? Is there a path beyond yonder hill? Perchance a place midst glass or street I turn my eyes, direct eager feet Whate ‘er the place, I’ll need strong will.
So what to choose, green field or furrow? Will destiny reward my toil? Will there be joy or there be sorrow? But one sure way to shape tomorrow, Seek, strive and till fertile soil.
My Cousin Stuart
I make him laugh
Sometimes he is the only one
He knows the nuances
The inferences
The philosophy
The theology
The cultural context
The unusual experiences
The peculiar juxtapositions
The graveled roads
The fresh cut hay or
The fences that need fixing
The car that won’t start
Or driving forward on a cold winter’s night
In an old Plymouth stuck in reverse! Really?
And we tried to drive home.
Not knowing if we were
Coming or going.
Or the aluminum siding
We installed
On unpretentious bungalows
That still looks good from the road
Sometimes the expressions
Are not yet formed
And he is laughing
The Father and Son are parodied Into Fascia and Soffit
And the Holy Ghost
Transposed to the Holy Siding
James Joyce had nothing on us
And we laughed
While bewildered journeymen
In other trades
On the same construction site
Have no clue
Why the laughter persisted
Shaking their heads
While writing us off And we still are laughing As I employ the full measure Of my intellectual reserve Without constraint.
Oh for those special moments When it did not matter What came before or after? We always found a way A word, a twisted word A thought; or even a half thought. But boy!! Could we laugh!!
I am looking forward Once again To hear his laugh!
Why is there Air?
Why is there air?
That we may breathe and sputter in despair.
Why is there light?
When we would rather shrink in dead of night.
Why is grass green?
Would blue not make a better scene?
Why are trees tall?
Does that not make for a farther fall?
Why is there hope?
When life is but a complex slippery slope. Why should we smile?
When the load we carry must go another mile.
Why write this poem?
While there be rhyme, does it deserve a ‘home’?
Why not this poem?
Though days be grim, you’re not alone.
Hidden Grief
We all carry
Hidden grief
Mostly it hides
In the form of quiet whispers
Deep in the recesses
Of somewhere
But then when most unexpected It roars in pounding waves
From a rising sea And crashes on the rugged shores
Of our weather beaten despair……
Deus Interruptus
A billion years hence It might be observed
That within the span of 15 billion years
A mere sliver of time
Some three million years in length
A miniscule period in which Mysterious forms emerged A Deus Interruptus?
And so it began Slowly at first Languishing for a long while Before gaining momentum Then rapidly exploding Dominating all other forms ….. Before disappearing Into the mystery of The space-time fabric
Into places where time flourishes And in other places
Where it does not exist at all.
Meanwhile…. Life in whatever form it takes Continues
To find a way.
Part 2: Yearnings and More Yearnings
“Our lives are full in the infinite varieties of unrequited love”
W.H. Auden
Unsent Silence
Today I waited For a letter from you That did not come! So once again I wait And contemplate The unsent silence That is perhaps Intended silence sent.
Passing Thought
In the dust and grime Of threshing grain I sweat
And think of nice things.....
Apple blossoms
Morning dew
A gentle rain And you!
The Thought was There
The thought was there My mind was ready With voice prepared To pour out the words That had so long been held Deep inside Bursting to come out.
But you!
You who hold the key Don’t seem to see Or hear what I have to say For ears that cannot hear Are worse than having No ears at all!
Ode to William Blake
To catch the mere glimpse of blue sky above Or arrested by the unexpected waft of warm damp earth below
To touch one green shoot in fields beyond Or feel the warmth of a single ray of sunshine ….
Just one of these, my heart lifts
Just one of these, a good day makes.
The Grasshopper
With great indifference The unsightly pest Landed on her bare knee Blind to the Glorious splendour Of the domain That lay before it Before setting off again.
And I, in the wakening of my youth Observed with growing envy How this homely creature Could so casually Scan those meadows And be at home Where my hopes and dreams Would barely dare to roam.
Time to Say Hello
Who is the one person who stirs me deep in my consciousness and in my sub-consciousness deeper still?
And when she enters my dreams on a cold winter’s night with grace and serenity I know that it is time to say hello.
Padlocks and Keys
Life has a way, of sealing your heart
Dashed hopes, failed dreams, the coming apart. Padlocks are placed, no rooms left to let No fresh air in, no sun rays to set.
Walls moving higher, more bricks firmly placed Actions, inactions; more memories erased. New ways to deflect, even more to distract No moving forward and no coming back.
And so life unfolds, the defenses are laid Months, years go by, no feelings displayed. All appears well, what’s not good to see? And then unexpected, comes one with a key.
A question then rises, what path lies ahead?
Tear down thick walls, or keep them instead? No easy answers but do not despair Locks can be opened, sealed hearts can repair.
A Winter Night
Winter night steals softly
Across the sleeping land
Still and quiet
Darkness gathers Slowly, steadily …..
Country roads just slip away
The sea of white once bright Turns grey, Then to a darker grey
To dark and black.
There is a certain comfort
In this darkness and hidden warmth And unknown steps that lie ahead Seeking, searching But no rainbows to be found In this barren land
Nothing but forgotten colours And searching hands Reaching out for warmer sands
As darkness covers dreams and thoughts Will warmth and summer Ever come again?
Hello, I’m……..
No matter, never mind.
I am just a fence post
I have no feelings
Been serving faithfully for years
But, they’re moving me out
Just heard the other day
It’s all decided…all done!
Yes, even the new guys
Down the line
Seemed to know
That I was gone
I should have known
The surroundings around me
Started to change
A few days back
New arrangements, new looks
A lot of things
No input from me!?
But I have no eyes
I cannot see
I have no ears
I cannot hear
I am a fence post.
They’re digging now
My base – a little worn by time and wear
Is still strong
Perhaps they’ll flip me over
And set me in again – upside down
My base with new fresh air
Can do the job
And my top… now base
Will last at least another 20 years
Or more?
But I am a fence post
I have no feelings
I do not think
I do not see I do not hear
I’m being moved now Off to the side
It’s quite the ride
By the way
My name is….. Never mind.
Painting by my sister Marilyn Bouma. It depicts the farmhouse as seen upon returning from the ‘rough pasture’ to count the heifers and the dry cows that we pastured there each summer.
Enigma
Dare not choose the proper words
And write them on this page
Rhyme nor rhythm could capture her
Inspired thought, poetic sage
All found wanting on this page.
Hopeless is my quest it seems Liken to the Trojan rage
If I found the proper words
No more strife would mankind wage!
Enigma – Part 2
Be prepared to move with caution
And to place your steps with care
Rhyme nor reason may not please her Best to leave your sweet words here.
Alter now your intended motion
Rather choose a deeper notion And go forth.
Fret not friend if words seem wanting
Inner thoughts are often haunting
Need you then a better reason
Ne’er will come a better season?
Inspiration in her movement.
Enigma – that’s the word!
Part 3: Precious Memories
“Humans, not places, make memories.”
Ama Ata Aidoo
A Runner’s Life
A day most dreary with streaks of fading light
Cedars groaning, shadows full in flight
Maples bending, against the deepening grey Yet I went running on that very day.
Sheets of rain and brooding thunder clouds Biting winds, fast forming icy shrouds Drifting snow; so hard to find the way Yet I went running on that very day.
Heat on heat, sun burning bright above The sky is still; no sign of lark or dove. No one said go; for surely you must stay Yet I went running on that very day.
When the call comes for the ‘finals’ in the sky It will come. Ask not the reason why. I know not when, nor have I much to say, ….. But I’ll go running on that very day.
A Poem for Viola Rose
With grit and force, each task is faced Squarely…. But one at a time.
While broadly cast, each matter placed Neatly…. All in perfect line.
Each step is set with purpose and resolve Clearly…. On truth it does revolve.
A light to those who know and love her Dearly….. A blessing for us all.
In Regards to the Intelligent Woman
A whisper, a sigh, a gesture unseen. No words are expressed what could that look mean? A glance to the side, a slight furrowed brow. What mysteries affront us - to unravel but how?
An approach too direct, would be a high risk And yield no warm breezes….instead they’ll be brisk. More thought need be given, more tact be applied And draw on all acumen that God has supplied.
So let’s think again, this puzzle to please An approach not too strong, nor one ill at ease. Methinks a sure thing, one’s haste best to swallow Seize patience and wisdom….the rest’s sure to follow.
Ode to the Finest
An ode to the finest To a lady of class Whose heritage is Irish Perchance to lift a glass?
To satisfy this lady Be sure – no easy task We search with deepest earnest And seek a special cask.
To wit! The perfect bottle ‘Tis Irish to the core Hail the finest whiskey Aged eighteen years. No more!
Twice as Hard, Half as Fast
There was a time
When 4 minute mile pace
Was embedded deep in our flesh and bones. Every 200; every quarter mile
The occasional half mile repeats And the critical ¾ mile time trials.
We approached every repeat With bounce and lift And sometimes, we even floated In pursuit of dreams And glories yet to come
Enduring those 2 minute ¼ mile jogs in between That seemed slow.
Now all these years later
Those 2 minute ¼ mile jogs
Are deeply embedded in our flesh and bones
Though our wills and memories Move at twice that speed
As our all too temporal bodies Are fixed at speeds that are Twice as hard and half as fast.
So we are gripped
With our new realities and realizations
That the precise measures of time And the focus of faster, better, more… No longer hold sway
On our fading physical forms. But are replaced by the bonds of brotherhood Built on seared memories
Of shared goals and experiences
That supersedes the markers Of what was once so important
Including position, balance sheets or public adoration.
Twice as Hard, Half as Fast
We grow in thought and full realization That the emblems of times and records
The days of youthful DNA And superior muscle memory Now pale in comparison To those glory days. And though the run today Is twice as hard and half as fast the bonds between us Are more than twice as strong Than in the past
Elevating our slowing pace To be a celebration of our Shared experience.
It Rises Up Again
You would think that After 50 years of running And 40 years since You last seriously competed You would have learned to relax And smell the roses
As our Coach used to say. But what happens When you are out for a solo run? You turn a corner And suddenly In front of you Is another runner Or on that same corner You spot another runner Coming down the road On which you turned Is just behind and heading The same direction as you. What do you do?
Your choices are three: First slow down And let the runner Move a comfortable gap away Or second, stop And set out in another direction. And find peace (and roses to be smelled) Or third……you meet the challenge.
So what happens? It’s almost always the third. Without thought The chin comes down, Facial features are firmed Arms and legs quicken And a new pace is set. A lesson is about to be taught.
And the teaching begins. Even now
The teacher is rarely schooled.
50 years of running
And nothing has changed
The instant response
The call of competition
The intense focus
And quiet satisfaction
That all the allure
That drew you into the sport
Has never left and Rises up again.
Part 4: Quixotic Impressions
“Nothing is ever as it seems nor is what you see, really all that is there.”
Stuart Bergstra
The Hitch Hiker’s Song3
The rain that falls upon the window pane
The rain that falls upon the weather beaten shack
Looked once, then twice and shook its head with disbelief
At one so coiled and crouched in quiet discontent.
How I wish that I could leave my shack
With boots and thumbs and weary travelled pack. But rain keeps falling on the window pane Still rain keeps falling on the window pane.
It must be time! It must be time!
Though good at first, it’s no longer fine!
E’er should the rain stop falling on the window pane
This place shall be more; I’ll ne’er be here again!
3 Written while waiting out a storm on one of my many trips as a hitch hiker in my youth, travelling to track meets in which I competed.
Whales Watching Whales
30,000 pounds of Poor food choices
Over 30 years Packed into 300 sad And sedentary pounds On a Maui beach Leering at 30,000 pounds Of magnificent beauty Breaching and moving swiftly In search of today’s 300 pound meal. And every day For the next 30 years.
Bookends of contrast
Calculus of coincidence? Or nature’s cruel irony? Evolution and devolution All in one morning’s walk.
Inspired Leadership – A Tribute to a Failing Leader
Verse 1: November 29, 2019
The Prime Minister is Bad, bad, bad!
I am right, right, Right! Don’t be Sad, sad, sad.
I will Fight, fight, FIGHT!!
Verse 2: November 30, 2019
I want to Lead, lead, lead. Please don’t say No, no, No!!
And so I Plead, plead, plead I’m born to Go, go, go!!
Verse 3: December 12, 2019
I’m not having Fun, fun, fun!
And so I’m Done, done, done!
Do not ask Why, why, why As I say, Bye, bye, BYE!!
Many Voices, One Decider
So many With much to say Do this!
Do that!
Some wise
Some earnest
Some for information And some …. Just noise.
But when voices grow quiet
There is but one decision maker. And no one
In the same pair of shoes
Her path…. Her place…. Her life…..
Many voices
One decider.
March to Mediocrity
23,000 bewildered fans
Cheering but not believing Clad in dated paraphernalia
From a more noble past
And the marked absence of a new generation.
50 frustrated players
Each skilled in their own way
But playing different rhythms
Like an out-of-tune orchestra
As the losses pile up.
15 beleaguered coaches
Grim faced with heels dug in Planning new plays in retreat
Voices not heard while seeking Wins that seldom come.
12 Directors firmly barricaded
Closeted in their lounges of leisure And bastions of self importance Wielding no vision or purpose Or connection to community.
They wallow in the stew
Of their own moral bankruptcy
Hoping for victory in their time
Spewing empty rhetoric for wins That do not come.
And offering nothing but The presence of absence. Or should that be The absence of presence Of any hope or plan forward.
Labour Day Tragedy
Each year new hopes
Of touchdowns and field goals
Blocked plays and interceptions
But it’s always the other team!
Instead….
We get
Failed plays
Dropped passes
Blocked runs and predictable offense
Feuding players on the sidelines
Bickering coaches
A general manager with bulging eyes And cowering Directors
Inside their insulated board rooms and boxes
Hoping for a different outcome That never comes.
Noise
I am surrounded by noise
Noise from the streets
Noise from the sidewalks
Noise from the unfinished projects
Noise from desk
Noise from screens
Noise in my head!!
I long for solitude
The sounds of stillness
The majesty of a blazing red maple
The magnificence of a sparkling sunset
The silence of a dark forest
The quiet emanations of green pastures
The gentle emotion of still waters.
A place where I can lie down.
Things we Don’t Need
16 lanes of traffic
20 suits – all dark
40 dress shirts
60 pairs of shoes
10,000 square feet of living space
Endless realms of retail space
Manufactured landscapes and synthetic parks
Bicycle lanes and no bicycles
Entitlements without obligations
Dividends without investment
Rights without duties
Political rhetoric without consequence
Vacuous leaders without leadership
Loud voices with many words
But saying nothing.
Penn Relays 20204
We ‘ran’ Penn Relays two weeks ago
In ways never before done
No races, no handoffs
No dropped batons, no exciting finishes
No stars, no straining octogenarians5
No fans, no bad food
Served in the sweaty concrete bowels
Of Franklin Field.
This time we ‘ran’ Penn Relays
In virtual form
Each in our own corner
Of the continent
And in places across the seas
Connected with new technologies
But cemented in old memories
And even deeper relationships.
It was a bit awkward at first
Halting words and phrases
Fits and starts stuck first in superficial greetings
But the familiar rhythm and banter
Soon emerged
And 40 years and 4,000 miles
Dissipated in the fog of irrelevance
As the bonds of brotherhood surged.
And so the “baton exchange” continued
The stars just a little more to the rear
The horseman a little more to the fore
4 Penn Relays, short for the University of Pennsylvania Relay Carnival in Philadelphia is the largest relay track & field meet in the world. Each year, the best schools (universities, colleges and high schools) in North America assemble to compete in a variety of relay events. The major races which include the 4 mile relay (now 4 by 1,500 meters); the 4 by 800 meters, the 4 by 400 meters, the Distance Medley, the Sprint Medley and the 4 by 100 meters. are called Championships of America. Villanova University has an unparalleled history at this event having won over 150 such championships. Every year, Villanova Track Alumni return to support the current cohort of athletes and to support the tradition and the friendships built as teammates.
5 Each year Penn Relays features a 100 meter race for 80 year olds plus. As former track aficionados and ‘purists’ we are not amused and see this more of a circus event.
And the oft maligned ‘walk-ons’6 Who endured workouts that punished them more than ‘us’ And psychological hazing that would bruise the strongest Now equals in the foray
As we all reveled in the wealth of our shared experience.
Stories told and stories retold
Memories of victories past and present Watches counted and recounted Some 12, some 8, some 3, some 1 And some, none at all
But it does not matter Watches do not a brotherhood make.
As we eagerly await Penn Relays 2021.
6 The Villanova Track Team was comprised mostly of scholarship athletes (typically 5 per year) and usually the very best athletes from high schools across the USA, Ireland and Canada. But every year usually two or three athletes who were not on scholarship would join the team for workouts. These were referred to as ‘walk-ons’. While most of these’ walk-ons’ did not make any of competitive teams, they became an important part of the team and the team culture.
About the Author
Jerry Bouma was born on a farm in southern Ontario and now lives in Edmonton, Alberta. He calls himself the “quintessential Canadian” –born of immigrant parents, raised in rural Ontario, starting his education in a one room school, entering high school in Owen Sound with more than 1,000 students (a shock that took a month to overcome), spending 4 years at small private US College (Villanova University), returning to Canada to complete a graduate degree at the University of Guelph and during his professional career as an agricultural management consultant split his time between the ‘east’ and the ‘west’. Over that time period, he has worked in every province and territory (excepting the Yukon) as well as numerous countries including Ireland, the UK, the Netherlands, Germany, Italy, India, South Africa, Jamaica, Venezuela, Mexico and the USA.
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. He has always been a prolific reader – growing up meant going to the Owen Sound library every Saturday, loading up and then returning a week later for another haul of books. While he did his first degree in mathematics, he is ever thankful for the liberal arts approach to education provided by the Augustinian fathers at Villanova – it allowed him to indulge in English and American Literature, French Existentialism, Russian History, Quantum Mechanics and numerous other courses in philosophy and religion.
But 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’s Under Milk Wood. 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.
These poems are but a pale reflection of those influences, sentiments, observations and yearnings.
