Halifax Poems

 

 

                     Barrington Paradox

Barrington north into Barrington south

street marked by paradox, truth twisted straight.

Tall commerce glass judges from heights of stealth,

the corner business conducted by weight.

The living hurry by the patient dead

long since sunk to Titanic depth and chill.

Two hundred dollar plates arm those well-bread:

street-slumped teen jingles torn cup with lost will.

Government House sits pleased with old world pomp;

Turning Point assigns it guilt in fresh mint.

St. Paul’s and Neptune vie for soul’s romp

vowing paradise through spirit or print.

Barrington north to south, paradox place.

Microcosm of humanity’s space.

 

E. Nicolson

                         Public Gardens

 

         Dear to the Haligonians you stand

        to keep time a flower remaining pure.

        An oasis protected by a band

        of black iron stretching round to ensure

        myths Flora, Ceres, Diana remain.

        Egeria and the soldier stand proud

        by Griffin’s Pond which reflects on refrain

        sounding from Victoria’s stand as loud

        as the waterfowl waddling your grounds.

        History and trees in your refuge thrive.

        Humans delight in escape which is found

        in a release from modernity’s hive.

               Hurricane Juan tried to tear you apart,

               but Halifax reinvested its heart. 

                                                               E. Nicolson

 

               Sprytown

 

Sprytown with your miscreants and misfits      

sinking into a body of high crime,

but bubbling with a life that marks a hit

of freedom long since damaged over time.

Although labelled loser by the shallow                   

I witness your verve for laughter and life

through music, skateboards and street side show.      

Freedom you give to a soul sucking strife.

Harsh realities rule your asphalt streets,    

doorsteps proclaim a brand of pure justice,    

yet community bonds and ever meets

together as two lovers in a kiss.

       You gave to me a clean new beginning

       Where I halted the lies and the sinning.

 

                                                              E. Nicolson

 

 

                       Street Pearls

 

         A broken strand of pearls in a world that doesn’t feel

        decorates the pavement with a beauty seldom seen,

        ever moving, always moving, devil at your heels.

 

        Mother brushes refuse into grates with housewife zeal,

        and like her former life the compliments are lean.

        A broken strand of pearls in a world that doesn’t feel.

 

        Mouse scurries to a doorstep, outstretched hand repealed.

        She dodges rebuffs lightly, disconnecting with the mean

        ever moving, always moving, devil at your heels.

 

        Santa’s beard is yellow, not a Christmas white, he kneels

        along the gutters where a butt he spies is deemed  

        a broken strand of pearls in a world that doesn’t feel.

 

        Wolfie stares ahead intently, memory on past deals.

        HIV he carries where nightmares follow dreams

        ever moving, always moving, devil at your heels.

 

        Single pearls cast to corners sparkle and reveal

        truths that seem to question who is lost and who has been

        a broken strand of pearls in a world that doesn’t feel,

        ever moving, always moving, devil at your heels.

                                                                

                                                                             E. Nicolson

Dark Moments

                  Night Assailants

 

                                    They circle

                                              wheeze

                                              cough

                                              sneeze

                                              these dream ghosts.

 

                                     They cackle

                                               heckle

                                               poke

                                               prod

                                               these mind witches.

 

                                     They haunt

                                               prey

                                               beset

                                               plague

                                               these spirit goblins.

 

                     Why torment the tiny in body and spirit?

                     She, the unwitting  pawn in  your perverse 

                                          games

                     woke numbed and haunted

                                                      night after night ....

 

                                                                            E. Nicolson

 

 

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