12. Be Strong and Work

When others falter by the way Beneath the heavy load,
Or take "time out" to stop and play
Along the dismal road,
Then square your shoulders with a grin
And lift the banner high,
It's up - and on - and on to win,
Our spirit must not die.

Let weaklings shirk the task at hand
And lay aside their oar,
For like a house upon the sand,
They're rotten at the core.
Give us the men with hearts of steel,
The ones who never fail
To put their shoulder to the wheel,
For them God shall prevail.

Comments: This early-World War II poem reflects Dad's upbringing during the Great Depression. By this time, he was likely training soldiers at Camp Petawawa, Ontario.

The photo is from iStockphoto, and shows Depression-era Cincinnati, OH.

11. Valentines

I often wonder why it is, when we are very young,
We buy a batch of valentines that we will send among
Our little friends both boys and girls with no discerning eye.
But we a little older grow, and larger ones we buy,
To give to some one special girl our heart has set upon,
Be she a dainty damsel fair or hearty Amazon.
But as our love grows warmer and courting really starts,
We buy her chocolates once a year in boxes shaped like hearts.
And when the nuptial knot is tied, unless we've been misled,
We bring her posies every year, quite likely roses red.
And as the evercircling years roll on upon their way,
There's one thing that will never change, though youth has passed away.
We'll love her at the twilight of life, as at the noon,
Though fifty years of married life have passed since honeymoon.
And when we've reached that grand old age when we are ninety-nine,
We'll not forget to take her home - a lovely valentine.

Comments:  My Dad wrote this poem when he was about twenty.  He had already met my Mother and decided that she was "the girl for me."  They had been married for sixty-three years when he died - not at ninety-nine, but at eighty-nine.  And, every year, he gave Mother a beautiful valentine.

10. Commercial Three B

C  is for "cal" we get every week,
O  for obedience, for which teachers shriek,
M  for mistakes we make all the time,
M  for the methods we think are a crime,
E  for the errors we make when we type,
R  is our rate, which is never quite right,
C  for the callous we get from the seat,
I  for ideas not very discreet,
A  to abolish our shorthand distress,
L  for the lessons we get in excess.

T  for the trouble we have every day,
H  for our hair which is going so gray,
R  for the rules by which we abide,
E  for exams we take in our stride,
E  for excuses of which I have none,

B  for the best poem that I have done.

Comments:  Just before World War II, my future father met my future mother in the one-year course, Commercial Three B.  And, his hair was already going gray - at the ripe old age of 18.

9. The Student's Complaint

Why must you set exams so long
That even the most speedy one
Is still unfinished when the gong
Announces that the time is gone?

We try and try to satisfy,
And labour at our work until
You think we're surely going to die,
But still we never beat that bell.

So take a little pity on
The ones who do the writing, then
It will be no phenomenon
To see a few more smiles again.

Comments:  This was another piece penned for the student newspaper.

8. The Horrible Deed

He gazed down at the water, so cold and deadly still,
He knew he was a coward, but his mind was very ill.
He swallowed down the swelling lump that rose into his throat,
He faltered not, but started to remove his overcoat.
Garment after garment, he removed with feverish haste,
And shortly he was stripped till he was naked to the waist.
Again he gazed below him where the water beckoned him
To hasten preparations to fulfil his mission grim.
He paused but for a moment, to his fears no doubt dismiss,
Then started on his headlong plunge into that black abyss.
Water flew in all directions, such was his dizzy pace,
And ere a minute had elapsed—he washed his hands and face.

Comments:  As you can see, my Dad had a puckish sense of humour!

7. An Open Letter to the Editor

You loaf around in school all day
Pretending you're at work,
Whenever you get half a chance,
Your duties try to shirk.

You ask me nearly every day,
"Have you written something new?"
You shout and rave and rant and roar
Till your face starts turning blue.

So I sat down one quiet night
And wrote this little piece,
In hope that in the end perhaps
Your noise will finally cease.

I hope that you are satisfied,
So now I will retreat,
And sign myself, as usual,
Your poet pal called
                    "Pete."

P.S.
Forgive me for what I have penned,
It's really meant in fun,
But if you won't believe me, then
I'd better start to run.

Comments: Although clearly target to a school newspaper editor, this poem resonates with anyone who has had to write to deadline.

My father's nickname was "Pete" - I never learned why.

6. Spring Fever

When warmer days return once more,
And school is nothing but a bore,
I'd rather sleep than do the chores,
Spring fever.

The morning is so bright and gay,
I always loiter on the way,
That's why I'm late for school each day.
Spring fever.

In school my thoughts ne'er seem to fail
To through the open window sail,
Out to the brook down in the vale.
Spring fever.

In class my head is always bent
Over my desk, I'm quite content
To spend the day in languishment.
Spring fever.

The teacher watches in disgust;
To take a nap I simply must.
Oh! Can't you see that it is just
Spring fever.

And so in reverie I dwell,
Till teacher gives a mighty yell
And I must hastily dispell
Spring fever.

5. Open Night

Open night comes once a year,
And you should see the haste,
The students hurry everywhere,
Not a minute do they waste.

Open night arrives at last
And people come galore,
The students show them 'round the school
Until their feet are sore.

But they don't mind the worry
That is caused by Open Night,
To help the welcome guests gives them
Unlimited delight.

But when at last it's over,
The students breathe a sigh,
'Cause they can take it easy,
And let the world go calmly by.

4. Little Audrey

'Twas the night before Christmas
And under the tree,
Asettin' a bear trap,
Was Little Audrey.

And later that night
Audrey, lying awake,
Was wondering how long
It was going to take

Before Santa arrived
With his bag full of toys,
That he brings round each year
For good girls and boys.

Down in the parlor
A footstep she heard,
Audrey crept downstairs,
Not saying a word.

A scream split the darkness,
Audrey understood
That she with her bear trap
Had caught Santa's foot.

The language that Santa used
Flowed through the door,
Now she knows there's no Santa --
It was Daddy who swore.


Comments:  The timing of this post may seem odd, as it is now early Summer.  However, I am posting the poems in the order in which my father wrote them.


Little Audrey was a mischievous cartoon character of the late 1940s and early 1950s.  You can learn more about her on Wikipedia.  You may also like to view some of her many animated cartoons on YouTube.

Image:  Little Audrey (ClassicMedia.TV)

3. In Memory Of

They sailed away across the sea
To fight, and die for liberty,
That we might live in sweet content
When destruction seemed so imminent.

The sacrifice these soldiers made,
Pierced by shell and cut by blade,
But never yielding to the foe
Though rations scarce, munitions low.

The war passed on, and left behind
A seeming never-ending line
Of mangled bodies, left to tell
Of what had been a living hell.

And those that came back home again,
Mere shadows of the former men,
Remind us of the infinite debt
We owe to them:  LEST WE FORGET.

-- Alec Taylor (ca. 1944)

Comment: It is sad how relevant this poem continues to be. Will the world never learn?

Photo: Canadian Military Cemetery, Reviers, Normandy (iStockphoto)

2. London 1940

Nelson! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
What strange fantastic sights would meet thine eyes?
What horrors being wrought by lust for power?
The dire results of greed, and hate and lies.
No glaring lights dispel the gath'ring gloom.
No merry chatter from the evening throng.
O'er all is cast the fear of impending doom,
But through it all, England still stands strong.
Thy soul shall guide us like the Northern Star,
To help us rid the seas of unseen foes
That strike, then flee, beneath the waves afar,
To leave their victims struggling in Neptune's throes.
Rise up! lead us onward once again,
And make this world a home for peaceful men.

-- Alec Taylor (1940), with apologies to William Wordsworth

Photo: WWII ship, HMS Belfast, refurbished & docked in London (iStockphoto)

1. A Mid-Winter Night's Dream

I yearn to stroll the country lanes,
O'er meadows and through vales,
When trees, to hide their naked limbs,
Have donned their summer veils.

Go through the hedge and out across
The green and springing field,
You never know just what will pass,
Nor what adventures yield.

A little snake close to your feet,
Curls up as bold as brass,
It spits defiance e'er it turns
And scurries through the grass.

A hare starts up from underneath
A shelt'ring spreading spruce,
Bounding o'er the rolling fields
He waves his flag of truce.

High in a tree, a little bird,
Singing the whole day long,
Into the balmy summer air,
Pours forth his golden song.

The woods are full of winged forms
That call and pipe and sing,
voicing the thoughts of happy hearts,
They make the forest ring.

A prancing brooklet winds its way
Among the shelt'ring trees,
A pleasant spot to pass the time
Of day in languid ease.

An ancient bullfrog near at hand,
Surveys the tads that scud
Amongst the weeds, to him this world
Is frogs and pads and mud.

A tiny minnow playfully
Swims in and out and through
The waving weeds, with one quick twist
It vanishes from view.

The fleeting hours fast approach
Another waning day,
When Nature shows in colours gay
Her glorious array.

The sun, an incandescent orb,
Sinks down toward the hill,
In reverence to parting day,
The world is calm and still.

The twilight settles o'er the land,
And filters through the trees.
It steals away all cares and woes,
And leaves my heart at ease.

As I walk home with swinging stride,
And near the city lights,
I lovingly recall this day
With all its wondrous sights.

I waken quickly with a start,
And find the fields and stream
Have vanished in the winter air
'Twas nothing but a dream.

Though snow has covered all the land,
A thought comes to my mind.
If Winter's icy breezes blow
Can Spring be far behind?

The warmer days will follow fast,
With beauty fair to see,
Then this will be not just a dream,
But sweet reality.

-- Alec Taylor (ca. 1938)

Who Was Alec Taylor?

Although this blog is devoted to my Dad's poetry, I think it appropriate that I begin with a very brief biography.  I will be augmenting it with my thoughts and memories, from time to time, so check back!

Dad was born in Crewe, England on June 13, 1920.  He was christened "Alec," with no middle name.  That seems to have been common, in his father's family.  Shortly after Dad's birth, his father died, of complications from mustard-gas poisoning suffered during World War I.  So, his mother packed up her two sons (Dad's older brother was Jack) and emigrated to Canada with her extended family, settling in St Thomas, Ontario, in 1922.

Dad grew up in a busy household, with grandparents and uncles, as well as his mother and brother.  Everyone had to do chores, to help keep the household running.  Dad's was to peel a peck of potatoes, each noontime.  He also worked, when he could, usually picking tobacco.  In his spare time, Dad would fish, read, and sometimes write poetry.  He also learned as much as he could about practical things, like gardening (which his uncles taught him) and how railroads run (from the nearby London & Port Stanley - "L&PS" - line).

In St Thomas, Dad attended Manitoba Street Public School, Arthur Voaden Vocational School and St Thomas Collegiate Institute.  He was a good student, but chose to learn technical skills, like carpentry and electrical work, at high school, and also completed the one-year "special commercial" program, in which he learned office skills, such as bookkeeping, typing, and shorthand.  That's where he met my Mother, whom he helped with the bookkeeping homework.

Dad enlisted in the Canadian Army in 1939, as soon as he graduated.  Many of his army years were spent in Ottawa, working for D.S.D. (Defense Signals Directorate).  He wrote more poetry, during his Ottawa years.  Later, he trained troops at Camp Petawawa (Dad married my Mother while on leave - another story!), before being shipped overseas.  Dad arrived in England on VE Day, so did not have to go to the front.  Instead, he volunteered wherever help was needed, and found himself back in the fields, working farmland.

After returning to Canada, my parents settled back in Ontario.  Dad took advantage of his army benefits to further his education, earning an "academic" high-school diploma (including a crash course of 5 years of French, compressed into 1 year), a B.Comm. (University of Western Ontario - I was born in London, during this time), and a B.Paed. (Ontario College of Education).

After that, Dad was a high-school business teacher at Uxbridge High School and Weston Collegiate and Vocational School (where I was a student).  During his Weston years, he earned his M.Ed. (University of Toronto) so that, later, he became Principal of Bradford District High School, which he served happily, until his retirement.  During his years at Bradford, Dad founded a Penny Stock Investment Club for some of the teachers, learning a lot about how the stock market works.

Dad was an excellent teacher, and expanded his love of education to include authoring textbooks.  First, he prepared an acclaimed Canadian edition of Twentieth-Century Bookkeeping.  Later, he wrote his own 3-year accounting text, Debit Equals Credit (W.J. Gage, 1962), which was accompanied by 6 workbooks and 3 teaching guides.

In 1978, Dad retired, becoming a member of the North York chapter of Superannuated Teachers of Ontario (STO).  He enjoyed weekly bridge games and excursions with the STO, as well as the many concerts and plays he and Mother attended throughout Ontario.  Dad also expanded his interest in technical stock analysis by becoming an associate member of the Canadian Society of Technical Analysts.  He even created his own index, based on the (then) 14 sub-indices of the Toronto Stock Exchange.