New Westminster Heritage Page: Poetry by Don Benson

Poetry by Don Benson
City of New Westminster Poet Laureate
Don's Biography

INDEX

The Day Before the Fire of '98
Golden Memories of New Westminster
A House for the Millenium
If the Unknown Soldier was a Hometown Lad
Mr. May Day
New West in May
New Westminster's Historic Downtown, Theatre Row
Ode to the Samson V Maritime Museum
Queen of the May
River Song
Ode to Colonel Bill
Welcome New Canadians
Tall Ships
A Golden Rule
Candle Power
City Sounds
Salmon Song

Don's Biography

Born in 1933, writer/poet Don Benson grew up in New Westminster’s rough-and-tumble waterfront district during the Great Depression and World War II. In 1953 he married his high school sweetheart Evelyn Sangster, daughter of a former mayor. Two of their grandsons represent the fifth consecutive generation to reside in the same New Westminster home.

In 1991, Don Benson’s book Wire Song became the first book in Canada to be catalogued as both poetry and history. When Wire Song was produced as a successful video poem, he turned his hand to producing most of his poetry for cable TV, which reaches a vast audience compared to published works.

Early in 1999, he was named New Westminster’s poet laureate. He served eight one-year terms before stepping down so the city could look for a new voice. In 2007, he was appointed by city council as New Westminster’s poet laureate emeritus, a first in Canada. That post is a lifetime appointment carrying honorary status in the community.

Also in 2007, he became the first New Westminster citizen to be awarded the British Columbia Community Achievement Award. The award was presented at Government House in Victoria by the Premier and the Lieutenant Governor for contributions to athletics, the performing arts and the written arts. On that occasion, his poem Unknown Soldier was read into Hansard as a permanent record of his poetic works in the province.

An accomplished athlete, Don Benson won the outdoor pentathlon gold medal at the 2004 Canadian Masters Championships, and placed fifth in the same event at the World Masters Games in 2005. Don and Evelyn Benson summer at Keats Island on the Sunshine Coast.

The Day Before the Fire of '98

I'd sailed to all the ports of call from Boston to Bombay,
Always yearning for a place to settle down;
Then I found the Royal City, and knew that I would stay;
It seemed to me the perfect frontier town.

For it had a river ambience - a flavour all its own,
It faced south on a wooded, sun-lit knoll;
Downtown were sights and sounds and smells, like none I'd ever known,
And that became my favourite place to stroll.

I'd walk along the waterfront to watch the paddle streamers
Loading passengers and firewood and freight,
I'd mingle with the miners, gamblers, showgirls, drunks and dreamers,
Who were headed for the 'Trail of Ninety-Eight'.

On Columbia were clopping horses, clanging streetcar bells,
Shouts and barking dogs and squeaking wheels,
A mix of baking bread, saloon, and livery stable smells,
And characters like Irving, Edmonds, Peale.

We'd had a vintage summer, as townsfolk will remember,
And were getting set to host our big fall fair;
I recall that when I strolled downtown that 10th day of September,
The birds were still, and smoke hung in the air.

A sailing man, I should have seen these omens as a warning,
But didn't guess at fate's destructive scheme;
For the rivertown I'd come to love had vanished by next morning -
Had vanished . . . like a half-remembered dream.

The fire had burnt to ashes the toil of forty years,
But there wasn't time for sadness or self-pity;
It was time to prove our townsfolk had the stuff of pioneers -
Time to build a bigger, better Royal City.

Top

Golden Memories of New Westminster

Visit with a citizen whose hair is silver now,
And ask about our city's yesterday;
The stories that unfold will shine like burnished gold;
Treasure them, before they fade away.

Winston Churchill visiting our Queens Park PNE;
To get to Chilliwack you take a tram;
Fraser River canning is a booming industry;
The Salmonbellies win at Amsterdam.

Jumping freights and riding rods, dodging railroad dicks;
Working in relief camps; killing time;
Stew in hobo jungles; eat it with a stick;
Mister, can you space just one thin dime?

Piggly Wiggly, Collisters; Spencers smells of spices;
Boots are bought from Percy Copp or Johnson;
The Farmer's Market offers home-made goods at basement prices;
Sporting goods are bought from Oscar Swanson.

Stooped longshoremen trudging slowly homeward from the docks;
Rope slings, gaff-hooks, cargo-nets and pikes;
Hiring halls and spareboards, hand-carts, wooden blocks;
Scabs and goons and bitter, bloody strikes.

War bond drives and blackouts; the Eighth Street army camp;
Air raid sirens wailing in the night;
Canteens and commandos, zombies, ration stamps;
The air raid warden shouting, "Douse that light!"

You may have gone to high school at Trapp Tech or Connaught,
And snake paraded on St. Patrick's Day;
And sang and cheered your team on when the Sangster Cup was fought,
In the big gym at the old YMCA.

Crescent Shows at Moody; duck ponds in Queens Park;
Asking HER to dance at May Day Ball;
Shirley Temple, Chaplin, Singer Buddy Clark;
Teen Town dances at the Tatra Hall.

Soap Box Derby racing down the Tenth Street Hill;
Rocketing down Sherbrooke on a sleigh;
Royal City characters like "Ice Cream Eddie" Mills;
Hanging out with pals at Spots Cafe.

Shooting pool at John Bones; Zeiglers double cones;
The Edison has vaudeville and King Kong;
A show at Fox Theatre; a Roxy mud bath later;
A nickel juke box croons your favorite song.

Milk shakes at Drakes Dairy, The Platters and Chuck Berry;
Hot rods and the dawn of rock and roll;
Girls babysat for free if they could watch TV;
Saddle shoes and jiving at the Bowl.

So, visit with a citizen whose hair is silver now,
And ask about our city's yesterday;
The stories that unfold will shine like burnished gold;
Treasure them, before they fade away.

Top

A House for the Millennium

Most Fraser River captains were a rough and ready breed,
Who'd never dodge a fight or drink of rum;
They'd tamper with a safety valve to gain a knot of speed -
But William Irving heard a different drum.

He'd sailed the seas and loved the far horizon in the dawn,
And the sudden surge when canvas was unfurled;
He used to say with reverence, "The day that sail is gone,
Something magic will have vanished from the world."

Then, he came to pilot steamboats on the rivers of the West,
As sails could never match a river's force;
He learned to master steam, and snags, and sandbars with the best,
And to memorize the Fraser's steeplecourse.

High up on the hillside, when New West was brand new,
He hiked the trails and staked a plot of land,
Where he built a family home with a great commanding view;
For extra strength its nails were forged by hand.

The ceilings were high-vaulted, like a sea-sky high above;
Each craftsman was selected for his skill;
Then, one day he brought his family to fill the house with love,
And their furniture was back-packed up the hill.

He was famous on the Fraser for being cool and unafraid,
And was mourned along the river when he died;
Captain Irving sailed the world, then found our town and stayed;
Today we point to Irving House with pride.
Top

If the Unknown Soldier were a Hometown Lad

He's with us as we gather on the plaza this November;
The longing for his native soil is past;
He's with us as we gather on the plaza to remember;
He's come home to rest in Canada at last.

Did he play for Salmonbellies at the oval in the park?
Was he rover, or assigned to guard the net?
Or was the local drama club the place he made his mark?
Did he learn to fish and swim in the Brunette?

Did he dance around the Maypole? Was he in the Boy's Brigade?
Did a New Westminster girl say she would wait?
Did he lie in bed and listen to the sounds the river made?
Was the frozen Fraser where he learned to skate?

Did he labour on the green chain down at Royal City Mills?
Did he plan to log for Gilleys, or to teach?
In the winter, did he ride his sleigh down Sixth or Sherbrooke Hills?
Did he spend his summers down at Crescent Beach?

Did he hang out down on Front Street near the taverns and docks,
And take a drink, and charm the girls, and brawl?
Did he still-fish on the sand bars, or take solitary walks?
Was he quiet? Did he hear the poet's call?

Was the telegram delivered to a mansion on the hill?
Or a humble Lulu Island fishing shack?
Was his graduation picture sitting on the windowsill?
Did his dog sense he was never coming back?

Tonight he'll hear their voices when they sing out bold and strong,
Where the Westies put their elbows to the test;
When they raise a glass to toast him, and sing the soldier songs,
With Morgan and McKinney and the rest.

When we wear the blood-red poppy, or say a silent prayer,
Or lay a wreath beside the silent guns;
We can feel that he is present; We can feel him standing there;
For he is all our wars, and all our sons.

He's with us as we gather on the plaza this November;
The longing for his native soil is past;
He's with us as we gather on the plaza to remember;
He's come home to rest in Canada at last.
Top

Mr. May Day

There's a weathered drinking fountain in the heart of old Queen's Park
Just across from May Day's music, laughter, cheers;
And if you stand there quietly and listen just at dark,
The sounds of May Day echo down the years.

When the first May Day was held at the local cricket ground,
John Joseph Johnston entered fame and lore
As babe-in-arms; no one could know that he would be around
To celebrate another ninety-four.

He grew up down on Agnes Street in horse and buggy days
Wearing knickerbockers, later called knee pants;
He'd deliver the Columbian and count the days 'till May;
For he LIVED for May Day's pomp and maypole dance.

He'd say, "Just call me Jack" and "That's Johnston with a 'T'"
But instead of "Jack" folks fondly called him "JJ";
Then as the years rolled by, the townsfolk came to see,
That what fit him to a "T" was "Mr. May Day".

For nearly half a century he chaired the May Committee.
And always introduced the May Queen's Suite;
In 1955 we made him Freeman of the City;
And assigned a parking place on Clarkson Street.

A "JJ" claim to fame, was the silk top hat and cane
He'd sport at Tipperary May Day morn;
And if "Lewie" Sangster's bees declared it wouldn't rain,
A Hyack BOOM announced May Day was born.

In the days that I remember, Gowan McGown taught the lancers -
How JJ's swallow-tails would bounce and sway!
His dapper coat would set "JJ" apart from other dancers -
Like an actor from a Charles Dickens' play.

May Day was his mantle; a top hat was his crown;
Like a poet, he could sense the city's soul;
For he used to say with reverence our Royal Rivertown,
"Was built by folks who danced around a pole."

When his final May Day dawned, confined to bed, but bright;
He heard the Hyack BOOM roll out, and sighed;
When the May Day Ball was over they turned out arena lights;
An hour later "JJ" Johnston died.

There's a weathered drinking fountain in the heart of old Queen's Park,
Just across from May Day's music, laughter, cheers;
And if you stand there quietly and listen just at dark,
The sounds of May Day echo down the years.
Top

New West in May

I like New West in May, how about you?
I think she's best in May, how about you?
I like our Hyack Days, there's so much to do,
May Day at old Queens Park, skyrockets after dark,
How about you?

Blossoms on boulevards, hikes up Brunette;
Old homes with landscaped yards, lunch at the Met;
Broadway shows at the Massey are so pro and classy,
And, always on cue,
Say, I like them, how about you?

I like Westminster Quay, how about you?
Ships heading out to sea, how about you?
I like the riverside, when the day is new,
The shops are creative, a cruise on the 'Native',
How about you?

Queensborough's special charm, Vagabond plays;
The shore along North Arm, our Dicken's Days;
Lacrosse on the wooden floor, sounds great when Bellies score,
The West End's view,
Say, I like that, how about you?

New Westminster is best in May, best when she's dressed for May,
When spring is new,
And, I like her, how about you?

[Sung to the 1941 tune 'How About You?' composed by the great Burton Lane]
Top

New Westminster's Historic Downtown, Theatre Row

They nicknamed it 'The Miracle', that Mile we call Downtown,
When visitors would flock there in the hey days;
When our city was the centre that was everywhere renown
For our Downtown Theatre Row, and May Days.

Its earliest performers were miners who would sing,
Or dance on cedar stumps in place of stages;
They might do a Highland fling, or perhaps a buck and wing,
Then pass around a hat in lieu of wages.

Yank miners favored vaudeville, but Brits like music halls;
Downtown was where the rival cultures met;
So it sometimes came to brawls in bar-rooms crowded to the walls,
When cat-calls clashed with English etiquette.

But, both sides came to cheer, toasting whiskey, gin and beer,
For a can-can dance or honky-tonk piano;
And the crowd was just as loud, if her voice was bright and clear,
For a big and busty British-born soprano.

The first shows were in tents, then in bar-rooms just for gents,
Then J. Scott built the Pioneer Theatre;
To influence the audience with balconies and opulence,
The elegant new Edison came later.

Soon cruise ships and the Skytrain will bring tourists from afar,
And Columbia Street will thrive just like before,
When, awakened by the Raymond Burr and Royal City Star,
Theatre Row will come alive once more.
Top

Ode to the Samson V Maritime Museum

When you stroll along the Fraser where the old docks used to be,
And you come upon the stately Samson V,
Harken as her whistle echoes through Westminster Quay,
And pretend her paddlewheel has come alive.

Picture settlers, dance hall girls and miners at her rail,
And her crew's made up of men who understand
That a paddleboat's a pilgrim, and a river is a trail,
And the river is more blessed than the land

Bells are rung, and lines cast off; now she's underway;
That's stocky William Irving at her helm!
See her swing to meet the current with the grace of a ballet,
Like a vision from that vanished river realm.
Top

Queen of the May

Sometimes life takes, and sometimes life gives,
And it's funny how time slips away;
But she'll always remember as long as she lives,
The day she was Queen of the May.

She had a favourite doll, and climbed their cherry tree;
Making beds and doing dishes was a bother;
She liked to rollerskate and wore a bandaid on her knee;
Her heroes were Jack Armstrong and her father.

Her girlfriends said that she should run to represent their school;
She ran, and was surprised to be elected;
But, her name was one of several to be drawn from the pool,
So she didn't dream that she would be selected.

The morning of the draw for Queen, the hands slowed on the clock,
Then, she often would relive the classroom scene,
And hear her classmates cheering, and recall the pleasant shock,
When the principal announced that she'd be Queen.

Ted, her little brother, was a slingshot packing pest;
He was teasing and mischievous and loud;
The excitement in their household really put him to the test,
When he tried to hide the fact that he was proud.

She memorized her speech, and was fitted for her gown;
Beatrice Cave-Brown-Cave taught all the dances;
Emma Peale, the milliner, designed and fit her crown;
She and her Dad would dance the Royal Lancers.

The May Day head committee met at Tipperary Park;
They were greeted by a sparkling sunlit morn;
JJ Johnson gave the signal; the Hyacks touched a spark;
The BOOM rolled out; her special day was born.

Her Dad was all man, you could tell at a glance,
He was one of the regular guys;
But that night at the Ball, when he asked her to dance,
She could see he had tears in his eyes.

It seemed like a dream, it was over so fast,
And her new crown was soon packed away;
The next time she work it, ten years had slipped past;
It was brought out for her wedding day.

For, sometimes life takes, and sometimes life gives,
And it's funny how time slips away;
But she'll always remember as long as she lives,
That day she was Queen of the May.
Top

River Song

There's a place in the Rockies where I long to be,
Where the young Fraser River starts out for the sea;
She's made of spring water and clean mountain snow,
When she starts out her life in a northerly flow;
Where she starts on her journey she's not very wide,
You can step right across her in one single stride;
There's a still alpine meadow where I long to be,
Where the Fraser starts out on her search for the sea.

There's a canyon where steep cliffs and sky rendezvous,
Where the Fraser must turn on her side to get through;
Some say that it's best seen when evening first falls,
For that's when the shadows paint shapes on the walls;
But if you want to see a spectacular sight,
Just stand on the rim on a clear moonlight night;
They named it Hell's Gate but it's heaven to be,
Where the Fraser discovers her way to the sea.

There's salt marsh and tow boats and tethers of sand,
And for ten thousand years it was Musqeum land;
There's driftwood and seagulls and cannery piles,
Where she gives up the soil she's carried for miles;
There's freighters and fish boats and log booms about,
And the silvery moon tows the tide in and out;
There's a place every sunset where I long to be,
Where the great Fraser River comes home to the sea.

[Sung to the same traditional Irish melody as 'The Mountains of Mourne']
Top

Ode to Colonel Bill

From a Manitoba shanty to beloved "Royal Mile,"
To a stylish highrise penthouse on the hill,
He was blunt and independent, but he carried it with style;
Now they're blowing taps to honour Colonel Bill.

His mortal race is over, and most would say he won,
Though he had to battle all the way uphill;
For he came as an outsider, but became a favourite son,
Affectionately known as Colonel Bill.

The bellowing and gesturing was mostly a veneer,
That could tend to keep folks on their guard until
They discovered that a poet's words could make him shed a tear,
And they saw the gentile side of Colonel Bill.

Some day we'll hear a ghost's about when townsfolk get together,
At our hallowed wooden drill-hall on the hill;
From the shadows comes the order, "Play The Maple Leaf Forever!"
And it sounds an awful lot like Colonel Bill.

If you stroll along Columbia tonight when shadows fall,
Or listen at our plaza on the hill,
From somewhere very far away you'll hear a trumpet call-
A reveille, to welcome Colonel Bill.
Top

Welcome New Canadians

Today you're being adopted by this northern motherland;
Today's a day to look toward tomorrow;
But tomorrow, when you think about that distant other land,
Remember it with ethnic pride, not sorrow.

Does you heart belong to Wales? Do you dream of Camelot,
The breeze off Bristol Bay and lyric pubs?
Do you miss your childhood village with its row of chimney pots,
Where black-faced miners scrubbed in tiny tubs?

Sheep-milk cheese and rockey meadows; the sweet-grass table-lands;
Plum brandy and a shady linden tree;
Black caviar, stuffed cabbage, a roving Gypsy band;
The willows where the Danube seeks the sea.

Do you miss the Sunday bullfights and the ancient mission bells,
Skinny dogs and fat brown chickens running free?
Burrows, jungled mountains, aromatic cooking smells?
Mariachi bands, played loudly just off key?

Shrouded women, turbanned men; shrieking, puffing trains:
Flute sounds and the tigers of Bengal;
Praying in a river and the welcome monsoon rains;
Cricket, sacred cows, the Taj Mahal.

Do you miss a silent temple where the spirit candles glow?
Does the perfume of the flame-tree linger on?
Do you long for great flat ricelands and the water buffalo?
And the misty river-delta in the dawn?

Now Canada's your homeland; in time you'll lover her best -
This mother who's so strong and free and vast;
Too big to be embraced, she's not too big to be caressed;
Bring to her all the best gifts from your past.

Do you long for Tanzania and the marketplace at Dar,
Snow-capped Kilimanjaro, monsoon rain?
Do your daydreams take you down the narrow streets of Zanzibar,
Or to daybreak on the Serengeti Plain?

Viking myths and ludafisk, skiing and smorgasbords;
the Northern Lights show winter has begun;
Ruddy faces reindeer herds, deep and brooding fjords;
The bright and endless days of midnight sun.

A bagpipe's skirl, the tartan shops along The Royal Mile;
The Highlands where the purple heather grows;
Lochs and glens, the ancient abbey at Iona Isle;
The haunting veil of sadness at Glencoe.

Welcome, new Canadians! Be proud of this day -
Stand taller than the tallest maple tree.

[Source: The Record Newspaper, Sunday, July 1st, 2001, page B6]
[Source: Newsleader, Wednesday, June 26, 2002, page 24]
Top

Tall Ships

Have you been outward bound on a Tall Ship
When her sails find a wandering breeze?
And you stand at her helm, as she enters a realm -
The Kingdom of Seven Far Seas;
Her perfumes are tar, hemp and canvas;
Her masts have a roguish rake;
An ancient sea-chime marks the passage of time,
While seagulls stiff-wing in her wake.

Have you climbed to the top of a Tall Ship
And reached out to gather a cloud?
There's a sudden strong gust; your ship feels the thrust
And she answers it, graceful and proud.
Have you stood wrapped in wind and high canvas,
And felt what it means to be free,
With the mast's giddy sway through the great Milky Way,
And you knew you were bred to the sea.

Have you weathered a storm on a Tall Ship,
When the bottom falls out of the glass?
Heard whip-crack of sail, and the shriek of the gale,
As she plunges into a crevasse?
Then the bowsprit is spearing the heavens,
There's fear and despair in the air;
The waves are so vast as you cling to a mast
That you find yourself shouting in prayer.

Have you watched far at sea as a Tall Ship
Glides regally out of the dawn,
With white wish-bone wake; like a bird on a lake -
A giant, majestic white swan;
When the world was first new, the Creator,
Decreed that Tall Ships in His plan
Have great wind-filled wings, the most beautiful things,
To ever be crafted by man.

Sailors leave home for the Tall Ships,
For a world where horizons are far;
But only winds know the reasons they go
To steer for a distant bright star.
Does a sailor reflect in the oceans?
Or the oceans reflect in him?
Is his love for sail some unreachable grail
That gleams on horizon's rim?

I dream troubled dreams of the Tall Ships -
When canvas falls slack in the sun,
And the last Tall Ship swings, with white folded wings
At anchor, and then there are none;
And if that day's near, I pray I'm not here
When old sailors dream on the shore,
No Tall Ships remain, lonely winds search in vain
For the cloud of white sail that's no more.

Top

A Golden Rule

I

When Elizabeth The Second ascended to the throne,
Man had yet to walk upon the moon;
We needed operators to help us use the phone,
And we understood the words to every tune.

The best milkshakes in town were on Sixth at Echo's Dairy;
The veterans of World War II were young;
To get to Gibsons Landing, we took the Blackbail Ferry;
The Beatles songs were waiting to be sung.

Girls babysat for free if they could watch TV;
Nearly all the Christmases were white,
Families drove to Delta to cut their Christmas tree,
A steam-train whistle-call would haunt the night.

II

Fifty times our kids wove rainbow ribbons 'round a pole,
And fifty times the May Queen suite paraded;
Fifty times a salmonbelly scored first season's goal;
And fifty times our Queen's Park roses faded.

Fifty times our sacred sockeye swam to meet the autumn,
And anvils boomed the twenty-fourth of May;
Fifty times the spring's lowest tide exposed the ocean's bottom
And the sands of Crescent Beach stretched far away.

Fifty times wild geese have bugled north to herald spring,
And monarchs fluttered to Point Pelee places;
And fifty times we knew the joys that Christmas carols bring,
And fifty years on Royal Family faces.

Fifty springs the Yukon River ice broke with a roar
Since Elizabeth became the head of state,
And fifty times the ice-bergs found the coast of Labrador
And killer whales came home to Johnstone Strait.

Fifty times Granada held its Corpus Christi Day,
And Sri Lankans held a May Day of their own;
And dragon boats at Singapore flew swift across the bay
Since Elizabeth ascended to the throne.

Fifty more St. Patrick Days and wearin' o' the green,
And the heather on the hills burst into flower;
Fifty times on Christmas Day a message from the Queen,
And New Years, big Ben struck his finest hour.

III

In the War she worked on trucks in the army motor pool;
Courage and devotion marks her reign;
When a gunman lunged toward her she was unafraid and cool;
She controlled her horse, and eyed him with disdain.

She was at her mother's side when that grand old lady died
And her gentle spirit crossed the final bar;
She's at her family's side, with dignity and pride;
And she's there for us - just like the morning star.

Candle Power

Far away, past the Milky Way, in the distant curves of space,
Are mysteries beyond our comprehension;
Like stars that lose their light and fade from sight without a trace,
And stranger things I hesitate to mention.

When soldiers fight for liberty, the stars watch from the skies,
A billion miles from shrapnel, shells and shouts;
And in the smoke of battle, each time a soldier dies,
Then far away a distant star goes out.

Tonight we townsfolk gather at our plaza on the hill,
In tribute to the fallen of our town;
We hear the muffled drum-beats; we hear the bagpipe thrill;
And once again the silent stars look down.

We citizens who gather here can feel the Candle Power,
As older hands pass on the bright batons
To burn beneath the Cenotaph beyond the midnight hour;
To light the soldier’s way until the dawn.

Our youth and stately beech trees will stand the watch tonight,
While silence reigns except for passing cars;
The candles are like timeless little beacon fires bright;
They light the night like little fallen stars.

City Sounds

I’m in my old familiar home, my family’s gathered ‘round;
A while ago my strong son shed a tear;
I can’t speak when I try, so it helps the time pass by
When city sounds drift here from yesteryear.

At dawn the horse from Dairyland clip-clopps and snorts nearby;
A wire basket rattles bottled cream
As the milkman jogs his rounds, coin-in-bottle jingling sounds;
And then I’m back to sleep – perhaps to dream . . .

Of a steam-train down on Front Street; escaping hisss of steam;
The puff,puff,puff to start the giant wheels;
Most haunting sound of all … the plaintive whistle-call;
Soon, the groan of tortured-trestle wood and steel.

The tap that high-heeled shoes made on a sidewalk made of wood;
The sound of roller-skates on asphalt road;
The humm of singing wires; snap-crackling kitchen fires;
The sound of silence meant it must have snowed.

Mill-sounds from the south bank - the green-chain’s clank and clunk;
The chorus when ten saw-mill whistles blow;
A log-and-gang-saw scream; a boat putt- putts upstream;
The Fraser’s symphony of ebb and flow.

My mother at her Singer, foot-peddle beating time;
The ping of cedar kindling as it’s chopped;
A rooster greets the morn; there’s Ice Cream Eddy’s horn!
I hear my Dad’s straight-razor getting stropped.

Tonight is Inner Sanctum; “Right with Eversharp!”
Quick! Baby Snooks is on the radio!
Who won on Major Bowes? I’ll bet The Shadow knows! Theme-music from the Lux Theatre show.

The high school bugle band; a lawnmower pushed by hand;
Happy kid-games played at close-of-day;
I’m shouting out, “Red Rover!” and “Eevee-Ivy-Over!”
When Mother calls me home from far away.

My daughter says, “Please hold on Dear, your sister’s coming soon”;
But all at once… I can’t remember how!
Say! Why’s the room so still? Oh! Such flowers on the hill!
And city sounds are fading……fading, now.

Salmon Song

The Bands forgot their differences, and came from all around
To canneries on stilts along the shore,
To earn hard cash with gillnets on the Fraser fishing grounds,
In those teeming summer sockeye runs of yore.

For the Haida and the Bands up near the Skeena and the Nass,
The trip could take from ten to thirty days,
As they camped along the way to wait for summer winds to pass,
And explored the countless islands, coves, and bays.

The Native Bands from Washington would make their way by horse,
Riding bareback, using bridles made of rope;
They mostly traveled quietly and let time take its course,
And let their ponies walk, or prance, or lope.

Then one of them would spread his arms and urge his mount to run -
How they thundered down the Semiahmoo Trail!
Then they'd slow, and smile, and pat their horse, and taste the summer sun;
The fastest horse was simply not for sale.

When fishing on the Fraser, each Native man would chant
His salmon song, once his drift was set;
He knew the sacred salmon would hear his plaintive tune
And swim, enchanted, to his waiting net.

Seals were a menace; they'd devour a salmon's throat;
White fishermen would club them from the net;
But Native men would free a pup and put it in their boat,
And take it to their children as a pet.

They'd feed it salmon fish-heads; in days they'd have it tame;
The seal would soon become a family member;
They'd take it out canoeing and assign a fitting name;
There'd be tears when they released it in September.

It's been a hundred years since the Fraser knew those tears;
The canneries and rancheries are gone;
But if you listen closely when the sockeye run is here,
You will hear a distant, haunting salmon song.

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