Flag

One of Vancouver’s downtown hotels sports a gigantic Canadian flag. It helps  foster the Canadian spirit which infects  the streets of Vancouver during the 2010 Olympics. (Photo © 2010 by V. Nesdoly)

“National flag of Canada
two by length and one by width, red
containing in its center a white square
the width of the flag
with a single red maple leaf
centered therein”*
flies majestic since 1965
over town squares
by cenotaphs and schools
from Cape Spear, Newfoundland
to Beaver Creek, Yukon
Alert, Nunavut
to Middle Island, Ontario.

Proudly raised at Olympics
wrapping the grim coffins of soldiers
feted on Canada Day
marched in to the skirl of bagpipes November 11th
this silk-screened symbol
stitches together
our experience and destiny
sea to sea to sea.

When so plentiful at home you no longer see
till it’s reincarnated into jester caps
umbrellas and wind socks
painted on faces, stamped on T-shirts
decaled onto mugs and beaver pens

abroad even one
grabs your homesickness
like the initials of a sweetheart.
Meet someone with your flag stitched on his pack
and you know he’ll understand Tim Horton’s
hockey, Z that rhymes with “bed”
loonies, toonies, Bruce Cockburn, Diana Krall
why “insurance premiums” and “healthcare”
don’t belong together
Air Canada, Air Farce, Red Green …
How great is it to have found someone
who speaks your own language, eh?

© 2008 by Violet Nesdoly

* Official description of the flag taken from the Public Works and Government Services Canada website.

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The 2010 Winter Olympics are winding down. Citizens of every participating country have flag fever during Olympic games and Canadians are no exception. What pride we feel when we see our athletes winning gold, our flag raised and anthem sung.
This poem won won first place in the Utmost Christian Writers (Canadian site poetry contest, where the subject was “flag.”

Fruit Notes

She bathes in Bubblelicious Fuzzy Peach
towels off then spritzes Kiwi Melon Splash.
She chooses Mango Sunscreen for the beach
or Lemon Lime or Berries from her stash.

She balms her lips with Sour Cherry Twist
her body polish sparkles Groovy Grape.
She freshens up with Pomegranate Mist
(such well-fed skin will never turn to crepe).

Her hands are buttered Strawberries ‘n’ Cream
her hair is tousled with Pineapple Glaze
even her rooms smell like an Eden dream
Forbidden Fruit-soaked reeds stand in her vase.

Fresh, innocent, sweet, dangerous and more
Essence of Eve enchants her to the core.

© 2010 – Violet Nesdoly

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Every month the website Poets Online features a new prompt. Last month the prompt was to write a poem about ‘fruit.’ While I was mulling over my fruit poem, I was also writing my monthly Poets Classroom column on the topic of the sonnet. The two came together in this lighthearted sonnet, which was first published here about a week ago, along with many other fruity poems.

Some Words

I can think a thing a long time
with the words going
round and round
inside my head
like the gray gruel
mixing in a cement truck

but once I say those thoughts
once those words
escape my mouth
pour out
become exposed to air
everything changes.

The minute they’re out
they start to solidify.
Too late now
to scoop them up
shove them back

for they’ve already begun
to work their alchemy
changing the elements
inside me, inside you

hardening –
a shameful statue
a concrete wall
a cold gray memorial
between us.

© 2003 by Violet Nesdoly

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I developed this poem from a journal entry. It has been published in several places – Poets Online, an anthology, Poetry Sharings Journal (no longer published) and Prairie Messenger. I really like the photograph that accompanies it at Prairie Messenger.

Wisdom of the Scarecrow

From the first burp
of a shoot bursting its tomb
to the dozing off
of a harvested plant
life remains a mystery.

There is significance in small things:
the subterranean wisdom of earthworms
the collegial hum of bees
the fantasies of the cabbage grub
the silent plodding of beetles
and how ants and aphids conspire.

It takes a whole season
of watermelon mornings
and peach nights,
all the moods
from mourning to petulance
languid afternoons
to sensual alyssum-scented nights
to grow a garden.

The gardener’s watchfulness
doesn’t keep squash
from escaping over the fence
bindweed from sneaking in
and slugs from leaving glittering trails
to leaf-skeleton remains
of last night’s orgy.

For some
salvation comes
in cages, twine and shears.

I, myself, am nothing
without creeping shadows
the aging of rain
and the life of the wind

© 2006 – V. Nesdoly

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This poem won Honorable Mention in the Utmost Poetry Contest, 2006. It was first published there.