25 January 2016

Somewhere, right now...

Somewhere, right now,
A little boy watches a pilot stride through the terminal
And dreams of flying when he’s big.

Somewhere, right now,
A pilot catches a little boy's admiring glance,
Sees himself and how far he’s come,
Stops chafing under the weather delay
Even though it will mean burnt roast for supper,
And recaptures his love affair with the magic of flight.

Somewhere, right now,
A nondescript piece of luggage
In a dark, cold baggage hold,
After standing on edge for three and a half hours
And thinks to itself:
That was so much fun
I wish I could do it again.

Somewhere, right now,
A first officer guides his craft to landing,
Greasing it,
Garnering the compliments of the captain,
And, on disembarking, the commendation of the cabin crew,
And glows, even though the passengers were completely unaware.

Somewhere, right now,
A passenger on a night flight
Curls up in her seat, glances out the window,
And is awestruck by the northern lights - filling the sky and
Dancing in the reflection on the wing.

Somewhere, right now,
A captain prays
That this turbulent, low visibility approach
Will end
Before the low fuel warning signal sounds.

Somewhere, right now,
A flight attendant serves a hot breakfast sandwich
To a harried, hungry passenger,
Receives a radiant smile of gratitude
And realizes once again why she loves her job.

Somewhere, right now,
A baggage handler at a small tropical airfield
Wishes he could leave the heat 
For some place cooler -
But is interrupted by a sneaking suspicion
That he dropped his car keys in the baggage hold
Of a small aircraft that has long since departed.

Somewhere, right now,
An air traffic controller focuses,
Takes one last swig of coffee
As rush hour begins,
And the enormous, invigorating juggling act

Somewhere, right now,
A writer imagines he hears the music
Of an aircraft overhead,
Thinks of all the fun things happening to make it happen,
And wishes he could fly.

05 December 2015

Joanne and Mr. Joanne

This old story should have been shared long ago. Before we get to it, allow me to introduce you to plane spotting.

Plane spotting is an obscure name for a popular hobby: watching planes land and take off. Sound simple? It is, initially. Its complexity rapidly increases, turning into a game. Variety and size is the ultimate goal; new or international airlines, new or special liveries, new, unusual, or large aircraft; the more variety, the better.

All sorts of things conspire against spotters. Tight security makes life safe for travelers but difficult for aviation geeks. Wind direction dictates your spotting location, for better or for worse. Winds aloft wreak havoc to arrival times. Weather can make all the difference. Warm and sunny is pleasant, windy and gusty is fascinating, cold and wet is miserable.

As I live less than two hours away from Canada’s busiest airport, I have been treated to some fantastic spotting. Provided the winds are right, the prime location is a Wendy’s restaurant situated near the threshold of Runway 23. A few highlights include catching Emirate’s Airbus A380, various airlines’ Boeing 787 Dreamliners, other “heavies” from across the Pond or the Pacific, and a Cathay Pacific Boeing 777 go-around on a short final approach. 

Few things match the exhilaration of a massive jet roaring seventy metres overhead, the resulting rush of wind a few seconds later, and the smell of jet fuel and burnt rubber. Few things match the stimulating relaxation of chatting and waiting for the next plane to pass overhead.

Consider yourself introduced. Back to the story.

After spotting arrivals all afternoon, my friend and I moved to a runway-side location from where we could catch departures. Standing by the chain link fence, we watched aircraft whine by at full throttle, rotate, and thunder off into the darkening sky. Shortly we were joined by two others, a middle-aged man and lady, afterwards named Mr. Joanne and Joanne, respectively.

The lady commented on and questioned the purpose of the fence.

“Perhaps it’s electrified,” I suggested.

“Ooooh. What’s that?” she questioned.

The man explained, finishing with “…Joanne, Joanne, then anyone climbing over would get zapped. Shish kabob à la human body parts.”


Mr. Joanne had a difficult relationship with his sweat pants. Gravity pulled and his girth pushed. Every few minutes, Mr. Joanne would hook his thumbs under the stretched elastic waistband and hitch his pants up around his belly button.

An aircraft lined up for take-off, and I strained my eyes to identify it. “Here comes a Lufthansa ay three forty. A three hundred,” I told my friend.

“Ooooh. What… h-how’s that?”

“Uh…” I said. How do you answer a question like that? “Lufthansa. Um. From Germany,” I finished lamely.

“Joanne, Joanne, that plane is flying to Germany.” Hitch, hitch.

“Ooooh.” Simple answer for a complicated question.

As the A340 lifted off, my friend commented on its early rotation.

“Ooooh. H-how’s that?”

“Well, it must have been light,” he replied. “Maybe it wasn’t full of people or bags. And when the aircraft is light, it uses less runway.”

“Yah, Joanne, Joanne.” Hitch, hitch. “They put all the bags at the back of the plane and then it takes off sooner.”


In few minutes another plane accelerated down the runway, the logo light illuminating the stylized star on the tail. “Air Transat ay three ten,” 

“Ooooh. H-how’s that?”

This time I was more prepared. “Ah, Air Transat. It’s probably flying to Europe.”


But not overly prepared. I still felt relieved that my explanation satisfied the question.

A Boeing 737 roared past. “Joanne, Joanne, that’s the kind of plane we’re flying on to Punta Cana.”

“Ooooh. That’s a big plane.”

Hitch, hitch. “No, Joanne, that’s just a small plane. Really little. A big plane is the A380.” Turning to us he asked, “Did you know the A380 flies in here?”

“Yes,” I replied. “We watched it land this afternoon.”

“Oh wow,” he said. “That plane can hold 873 people! Joanne, Joanne, that’s a big plane. It has two floors. I get all my information from the internet,” he told us confidentially. “Joanne, Joanne, they have ten bathrooms on that plane.”

“Ooooh. Wooow, ten bathrooms!”

“Yes, and 873 people! And Joanne, Joanne, the bathrooms are on different floors. And the 873 people can’t go between floors.” Hitch, hitch.

“Ooooh. They must have to wait a long time.”

“There goes another 737,” my friend said.

“Joanne, Joanne, when we go to Punta Cana, we’re going on that kind of plane.”

“Ooooh. That’s a small plane, right?

“No, Joanne, Joanne, that’s a big plane. It carries 189 people!”

“Ooooh. And how many bathrooms?”

Hitch, hitch. “It only has one bathroom. Or two bathrooms. No, I think three bathrooms. But they’re all on the same floor and everyone can use them. And that plane holds 189 people. That’s huge.” Hitch, hitch. “Joanne, Joanne, that’s as many people as work at Wal-Mart!”

“Ooooh. As many people as work at Wal-Mart!”

“Joanne, Joanne…” Hitch, hitch.

20 November 2015

Death of a Dream

A pinnacle, this dream to taste the globe;
To savour, laugh and mingle, kiss and bow.
Unreachable, immortal it became,
A priceless hope beyond my grasp. But now –

A lesser peak I’ve scaled. I’ve found in touring,
Exotic flavours tend to common grey;
The globe to shrink. The revered dream is maimed.
Cathay and Rome are but a flight away.

10 November 2015


Echoes of a keening loon
Reverberate through emptiness.

Tiny tendrils yanked and tangled.
Years of clinging, growing ivy

Abysmal freefall, where certainty once
Stood solid and secure.

22 January 2015

Treasure Hunt

Poetry is both a telescope and a treasure map. Gaze through either end of the poetry telescope; you will see things in ways you could never have dreamed. Follow closely, decipher the directions, and the treasure map of poetry will lead you through valuable experiences to treasure chest of thought.

07 July 2014

You think I sing for joy

You think I sing for joy
When in reality, this song is my lifeline of hope;
Faith’s final stand against the onslaught of despair.
My lips keep moving long since my heart has stopped,
For only in silence will doubt become defeat.

You think I sing for joy
When in reality, this music is my marching song
For trudging on and on through dreary days.
Thirsting for the more abundant life:
Resigned to the rain, yet longing for the sun.

You think I sing for joy
For despite the gloom, guiding stars gleam.
Storms do not last with their overcast,
But as day follows night and season follows season
So comes the calm.

You think I sing for joy
For the depth of the Father’s forgiveness
Is matched only by the width of His love.
And in my weakness,
He is Strong.

You think I sing for joy
I do.

04 June 2014

Looking down into the sky...

Looking down into the sky,
What is there to see?
Whisp'ring waves reflecting on
The sunset's reverie.

An amber line of languid clouds
Wrapped in dressing gown;
A flitting flock of feathered friends
Flying – upside down.

Looking down into the sky
What is there to see?
Two startled eyes, some flailing limbs,
And a bobbing Tiffany.

28 May 2014

Journey Through the Cosmos

Night enfolds a drowsy world
In softest solitude,
Darkness opens on itself,
Infinite heavens revealed.

A thousand silent, twinkling lights
Beckoning through space,
Reach – stretch – grasp a hold
And swing into their midst.

From constellations, loner stars,
To far-flung galaxies,
Wander through the cosmic realm
Adrift yet never lost.

Here a different language speaks:
A language of the soul.
Ancient wisdom reverberates
The music of the spheres.

Entertained by jolly jokes,
Amusing, witty tales,
Revel in the centuries
Of camaraderie.

Catch a comet back to Earth
Whispering, “Adieu.”
Brush the silvery star dust
That lingers in the mind.

written 25 September 2012 

17 September 2013

Right Brain

Loosed from my left brain
Floating in right train
Of pensive, roving thought.
Enter the innerworld
Prism-ed and beauty swirled,
Invited yet unsought.

Living in poetry
Immortal harmony
Unspoke, unheard, unsung,
Never recorded be
Lingering infinitely,
Ne’er ending, ne’er begun.

Climb into someone’s mind
Explore their eyes, unwind
The weaving of their world.
See life just as they see;
Feelings unknown to me,
Unfettered and unfurled.

Pour out a swig of sleep
So drowsy eyes will keep
Locked in freedom’s cage.
Unharried, drift about,
Never lost, wandering out
Of painting, picture, page.

Don’t try to capture it,
Left brain will mangle it
With intense perfection.
Kiss it, let freely roam,
Nevermore to drag it home,
In traitorous defection.

Embrace the present tense,
Immersed in every sense
Mingle, ebb, and swell
Deeper than thought can go
Impressions speak and flow
Sages’ secrets tell.

01 June 2013


Dearest Wanderers, thank you for wandering far and wide - far enough and wide enough to wander back.

I have caught a poetry bug - or it has captured me. This one is from a couple moons ago.



The moon is drifting, drifting,
O’er the world below,
The mist is lifting, lifting,
Born of glittering snow.

The dancing sprites of Northern Lights
Are bending, bowing low,
While mist is lifting, the moon is drifting
‘Cross the glittering snow.

The moon is drifting, drifting,
Through the ocean sky.
The stars are sifting, sifting,
Pearls floating by.

The hoary trees, my whispering skis
Like silver echoes fly,
While stars are sifting, the moon is drifting
Midst the pearly sky.

The moon is drifting, drifting,
Free from ancient care
The clouds are shifting, shifting,
Shadows in the air.

Elusive hue of midnight blue,
Enchanting unaware,
While clouds are shifting, the moon is drifting
Through the shadowy air.