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)