The Writers’ Federation of New Brunswick (WFNB) has announced the winners of their annual Literary Competition. You can hear many of the prize winners read from their work at WordsSpring 2010 in Fredericton, May 15, during the WFNB Literary Awards Banquet. See www.wfnb.ca for more details. Congratulations to all the winners listed below: Read more »
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Arts | Kellie Underhill | 
April 20, 2010 2:53 pm | 
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A State of Mind
Lying back in my old recliner I reflect and meditate
on what I’ve done or haven’t, and, maybe – why?
It’s easy in my solitude as I think about what fate
has brought me to this here and now – and – sigh.
As one takes on the years, the long ago – moves close
’tis said — I can remember yesterday as well.
Does this belie the words that are said by most?
Or, is this a fact? Is it just too early yet, to tell?
I have passed along advice on what I’ve learned
and heard it echoed to an even younger set
It’s satisfying that the knowledge was not spurned
Knowing that, thinking of my years, I’ll not fret
Ones age, I believe, is just a state of mind
Your old if that’s the way you feel – and cry
about tomorrow. Live today – the rest behind
There’s no need to sit alone and sigh
–Charles E. Frost
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Responsibility
There was a time, seems so long ago
When I felt I had been set aside
That no one cared, no man or spirit
I walked alone and alone I cried
That time now is done and gone
I’ve listened and I’ve learned
About life and all its vagaries
And have that for which I yearned
I can’t undo mistakes I’ve made
Nor retrieve hurts I may have caused
But will strive to not e’er repeat them
Keeping in mind all of God’s laws
As I travel the roads of life’s journey
Trying to avoid the pitfalls I find
It occurs to me, I have a duty to share
All that I’ve seen, with all mankind
I charge then, all my brethren
And those with more knowledge than I
To always remember the axiom, old
“There, but for the Grace of God, Go I”
–Charles E. Frost
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A Priceless Christmas Gift
Faded tinsel from an ancient box too long in the attic,
Delicate glass ornaments; most of them intact,
One screw missing from the old tree stand,
Red paint worn off most of the lights,
The fragrant scent of the fir tree
Permeates the warm air in the little house.
She’s tired, but there’s a glint in her soft blue eyes.
With a heavy heart, she picks up
A paper snowflake, “To Mother With Love”
In uneven letters printed on the back.
Memories tug at her heartstrings.
They’re grown now; families of their own,
Life in the city drew them away from her
So very long ago it seems.
She watches snowflakes dancing outside the window,
As the fireplace crackles softly
A faint hint of wood smoke in the room,
Loneliness threatens to overwhelm her.
But squaring her shoulders, she presses play
On the old worn cassette player,
And Bing Crosby croons in the quiet room.
Smiling, she gently nudges her sweetheart,
He kind of looks like Santa, with his white hair and beard.
“Come on, Love, its Christmas Eve.”
He slowly rises from his rocking chair,
The years have not been kind to his aching joints.
But he knows this night is special to her, it always was.
Together, they decorate the four-foot tree.
It’s not much, but it’s all they need.
Each decoration has captured a memory.
At last they step back in admiration,
Their mission accomplished.
The little tree sparkles in the warm glow
Of the cosy brick fireplace,
His arm around her waist,
He gently pulls her to his side.
She leans into him and the world is right.
“Merry Christmas, my love, it’s the best tree ever.”
Smiling, she kisses his cheek.
He’s said those exact words for sixty years now.
She fixes them some warm eggnog,
While he puts another stick of wood in the fireplace,
They meet in the middle of the sofa,
He pulls a soft red afghan over their knees,
Soon they are wrapped in warm memories,
Of Christmases past,
They count their blessings,
Silently exchanging a precious gift –
Another Christmas together.
© Annabel Sheila, Moncton NB
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Yesterday–In A trunk
A trunk left in my care many years ago,
long deceased, had no family, few friends
********
Photographs and letters, lie untouched
A quiet medley of memories of O’ so long ago
Faded pictures, cracked with age, so dry
Letters, addressed to some I did not know
Pencils, pens and empty spools for thread
Made me wonder, who put all this aside
And why. The mustiness betrayed the time
This trove of treasure in a trunk denied
Curious now, I lifted out a laden tray
Below, a mix of color, red, blue and yellow
Met my eyes, toys and, oh so much more
Dressed up dolls, baby clothes, discolored
Slowly, reverently, I closed the lid–cried
Thinking of the memories- trapped inside
The letters and the photos were in the tray
that lie there for years, not mine to invade
********
Now the dark of night has turned a’glow
The memories have all gone to their ends
–Charles E. Frost © 2009
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Signs
Slowly, very slowly, it’s moving in, unnoticed
’til the sun uncovers it with its light in gold
Lurking there betwixt the lush of green
Is a hint of change, ruby red, and bold
A challenge thrown to a season growing old
As another arrives to take its place in line
The green of the waning season will hang on
Tenacious, on the shed’s old clinging vine Read more »
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