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.