Its time for celebration
Its time to say Hurrah
On the upper end of Smythe street
They’re spreading on the tar
For months we’ve been a detour
The traffic on our street
Has more or less quintupled
A quite revolting feat
But now its nearly over
Those endless giant trucks
Bearing loads of soil and stones
And costing many bucks
Can find another project
Disturb another’s sleep.
Likewise giant equipment
Backing with a beep.
So traffic can start moving
Smoothly up the hill
Kings College and Montgomery
Now both quiet and still
But wait its still not over
At the lower end they shout
Will they ever finish
That blasted roundabout

Ode to the Bike

by muffin

My purple bike, you inspire me to write.
I love the way you freewheel, wait and climb,
Invading my mind day and through the night,
Always dreaming about the tall past times.

Let me compare you to a dark crowbar?
You are more benchmark, banal and heavy.
Large storms whip the twiglets of October,
And autumntime has the noble tevye.

How do I love you? Let me count the ways.
I love your favorite brakes, wheels and lights.
Thinking of your royal wheels fills my days.
My love for you is the elegant mites.

Now I must away with a simple heart,
Remember my stark words whilst we’re apart.


Thanks to Datamuse, whose word engine was used to complete the poem.Created on 15th October 2019.

Auto Praise for Ode to the Bike

“Never have I felt so moved by a purple bike. Thank you muffin!” – The Daily Tale”

Look, you might think ‘mites’ is a good rhyme for ‘lights’, but frankly I couldn’t make head nor tale of what you were trying to say.” – Enid Kibbler

“The author is so talented that I really feel the love for the object of the poem’s favorite brakes, wheels and lights.” – Hit the Spoof

“The iambic pentameter almost works!” – Zob Gloop

“Not even Shakespeare himself would be bold enough to use a simile like ‘a dark crowbar’ – wow!” – Betty Borison

This sonnet was generated by my computer as an exercise to improve my verse writing skills. I am not sure if it succeeded!

Two years ago I had an operation for lung cancer in the middle of winter, and I was well looked after. I wrote this poem of thanks to all concerned, which is appropriate for the Thanksgiving weekend.

The time has come to offer thanks,
To those who in their serried ranks
Supported us in many ways
During those past thirty days.
The surgeon who despite the snow
Found another way to go
Through the blizzard that had led
Me to be prepared in bed
The nurses who despite the murk
Found their way through snow to work
There’s lots of others I could list
Including the anaesthetist.
So many working night and day
To ease in bed my post op stay.
Then others came from near and far
To help out me and their mama
From Ottawa through snow and water
Came in sequence every daughter
Neighbours, Unitarians, Kootz
And others came in winter boots
Gathered round to give support
Or offer gifts that they had brought
Wine, balloons and cards and chocs
And even once a pair of socks
Muffins, salads, soup and more
Were delivered to our door
I offer thanks to everyone
For all the kind things they have done
And please don’t think of me as rotten
If you are one I have forgotten

                        .

I might have been a cruise ship that sailed the oceans blue
Filled with happy passengers, and a steadfast crew
Traveling to ports of call in distant lands
But I am in a dinghy, an inflated rubber dinghy
Propelled by a paddle in my own two hands

It might have been a tanker that traveled to refineries
Maybe not as beautiful as an ocean liner is
But vital to the keeping of our cars on the road
But I am in a dinghy, an inflated rubber dinghy
Carrying successfully a rather lighter load

It might have been a sailboat, gliding through the water
Wind blown gusts on my starboard quarter
Filling and billowing my nice white sails
But I am in a dinghy, an inflated rubber dinghy
Emptying the leakage with plastic pails

It might have been a battleship, a corvette or a cruiser
Facing up to battle to be the winner or the loser
Honing up its gunnery preparing for the worst
But I am in a dinghy, an inflated rubber dinghy
Checking the inflation lest the boat should burst

Poised in a high chair,
With air of anxiety
Toddler in Pink
Considers society.

Picture of innocence,
Seeing no dangers,
Toddler in Pink
Contemplates strangers.

Soggy, cold French fry,
On which ketchup lingers
Toddler in Pink
Grasps in her fingers.

Hers is the future,
With problems far ranging,
But Toddler in Pink
Needs her diaper changing.

Envoi
Not just for the moment
We have to think
Of protecting the climate
For the toddler in Pink

For those who like to wander, to walk or run or ride
There are maps around the city they can use as guide
They show the routes where trains of yore ran along on rails
That now are saved for people’s use ,the city’s walking trails
From Lincoln out past Silverwood they follow the Saint John
Or head along the Nashwaaks to Marysville and on and on
From Nashwaaksis to Douglas, on the hills of park Odell
There is a trail to follow, to hurry on or dwell
On both sides of the rivers there’s hiking paths galore
Providing views of countryside and rivers and much more
A chance to watch the wildlife the eagles, geese and ducks
Or even to encounter a doe with fauns or bucks
You can gaze in people’s gardens admire their planned array
Or watch in fall the falling leaves as you go on your way.
If you want to cross the river, I would really like to say
There’s a bridge just for pedestrians, but it is closed today
They’ll spend the winter fixing and when the work is done
We’ll celebrate as users, each and every one.

Road kill or not

Who does not dread that awful thunk
Which means that you have hit a skunk.
Preparing now for weeks of hell
Until the car has lost the smell.
Motorists will gladly brake
To ensure turtles crossings make.
And others carry things to do
For when delayed by caribou
Whose migrations, thousands strong
May go on for rather long.
The UK tunnels under roads
To make it safe for crossing toads
There’s tunnels built on highway 2
To help the moose and deer pass through.
But as a cyclist on the trails
I see where beasty safety fails
In finding squashed pathetic hairs
The tragic end of woolly bears
Please drivers do not be a killer
Of this harmless caterpillar
On its way to safe pupation
To raise another generation.