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A chess grandmaster named Maleek
had not lost once since birth.
In search of a tough challenge he
played chess round the whole Earth.
Sailed way from home in Panama,
when he was just sixteen,
won gold cups in Brazil, Peru
and all countries between.
Gold at the Sydney Opera House,
and Hanoi, Vietnam,
by a blue palace in India
and Grand Mosque in Oman.
Sent his pawns upon their castles
then rode in his fierce knights
and once his mighty queen advanced
their king laid down in fright.
And yet this world conqueror was
actually so sweet,
consoling all his opponents
upon their swift defeat.
His new friends would bring him home for
a family dinner,
ate at the kids table where he
taught chess for beginners.
He toured around with different folks
who showed Maleek the sights,
but just sitting and conversing
to him was quite alright.
When off to the next tournament,
great memories were stashed
in the hull, with all his gold cups,
below his sailboat's mast.
The boat got all the heavier,
losing some of its zip,
to keep on schedule he tried
adding a second jib.
Won gold in Socotra, Yemen,
on the island’s wild shore,
on Djibouti’s salt lake there was
another gold cup in store.
He won all along the Red Sea,
then Lebanon and Greece.
Cross the Mediterranean,
his pile of gold increased.
That is, until he reached Malta,
in so pretty a place,
is where the toughest opponents,
were he ever to face.
At Mdina's ancient stone gate
lined with medieval swords
it was like stepping right into
a real, lifesize chess board.
He marvelled at the checkered stone
squares all along the ground.
The old arched gate looked like a rook,
topped with a royal crown.
This place, living and breathing chess,
hosted skillful players.
In fact, in Maleek’s first match he
only won by a hair.
The next match was that much harder,
which gave him a wide grin.
All of his life he'd sought someone,
who’d make it tough to win.
He later faced in the finals
another teen, named Dean,
with these two jet-black arched eyebrows,
eyebrows of someone mean.
“So here's 'The Great Maleek,’" Dean smirked,
“your winning streak is through.
As I'm the world's true chess marvel
who’ll finally beat you."
“Best of luck to you,” said Maleek,
extending out his hand.
When Dean refused to shake it,
jeers rose from the grandstand.
The match moved at a rapid pace,
our brave hero, Maleek
tried shifting pieces here and there,
but things were looking bleak.
His knights both bowed to Dean's bishops,
then fell his rooks and pawns,
Dean barged right through the defences
and Maleek's queen was gone.
Journalists began a-typing
while chess fans sat there stunned,
when Dean kicked back his chair and yelled
"I actually won!”
Dean bellowed a big belly laugh but
Maleek laughed all the more,
said, “That was a fantastic match,
the best of my world tour.
Could you spare a single hour to,
Share your wise thoughts on chess?"
So charmed by his humble foe, Dean
accepted the request.
After the game’s hoopla died down,
the two boys went for tea;
their minds together whirled and twirled,
talking chess strategy.
When at last their eyes broke contact,
the clock made Maleek sour,
the next chess match, in Majorca,
started in mere hours!
Worse yet was that in recent days
his boat was terr’bly slow.
The boat barely moved no matter
how hard the wind would blow.
The gigantic stash of gold cups
gave the boat too much weight.
Unless Maleek lightened his load
the next match he’d be late.
Dean schemed the most ingenious plan:
He’d buy his own sailboat.
If he carried half the baggage,
both boats would nicely float.
The two boys sailed the long sea with
their boats by rope attached.
Cruising at such great speed they made
the morn’s Majorca match.
They both entered tournaments in
Gibraltar and Tangier,
Maleek's skills were the sharpest that
they’d really been all year.
When he met Dean in a finals
they played as if entranced.
Spectators witnessed not attacks,
but something like a dance.
He surely could have gone home but
on the journey Dean stayed.
He got to love making new friends
wherever chess they played.
Their friends all saw that these boys had
chemistry together.
Just as their sailboats were hitched their
hearts were also tethered.
They played on England's River Thames
and France's Rue de Seine.
Central Europe’s Danube, Rhine, Elbe
and Oder before then.
Sailing to North America
in a near record time,
dashed to a match in Newfoundland
where they both played sublime.
Once they won cups in fifty States
and tropical Belize,
Maleek thought it the time to quit
sailing the seven seas.
Back in Panama, Maleek was
hailed a national treasure.
He chose to retire from chess and
live a life of leisure.
But first he melted all of his
valuable trophies,
distributing the bars of gold
to local charities.
With the gold where it belonged and
Maleek safe sound at home,
it was logical for Dean now,
to say goodbye and go.
But just the thought of parting,
felt so horribly wrong,
both boys knew where the other was
was where they both belonged.
Together they finished high school
and not long after then,
they knew that their relationship
meant far more than just friends.
As their wedding approached they mailed
out invites far and wide,
and their long list of distant friends,
all confirmed yes replies.
Both coasts of Panama were filled
with sailboats, yachts and ships,
the grooms were delighted to have
their many loved ones mix.
Kiwis toasted with Ghanaians,
monarchs drank with pirates,
an Egyptian sea diver danced
with a Dutch air pilot.
The grooms gave a speech bout how they
don’t travel anymore,
so they felt so very touched that
the world came to their door.
These grooms, who'd sailed the seven seas,
gave this rising sea pause,
a sea of those they held so dear,
flooding them with applause.
They adopted triplet baby girls
who grew like magic beans.
It felt like no time had passed before
the triplets neared sixteen.
So filled with wonderment were these
three loving teenage girls,
they loved to hear their fathers talk
bout journeying the world.
The dads spoke not of World Wonders,
not mountains, reefs or falls.
They spoke of all their many friends,
travel's best gift of all.
The girls soon craved their own travels,
so on the girls' birthday,
they each received a sailboat so
each could go their own way.
The three daughters sailed far away
on their own unique paths.
Their dads relished their travel tales,
when in time they came back.
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On a long and sandy cove was
a town of cobblestone,
that smelt of fruit and cinnamon;
pies baked in every home.
So quiet was this charming town
without loud stores and cars,
all could be heard were ocean waves
and twinkling of stars.
There was only noise on Mondays,
when all hauled lobster traps
for the weekly town hall supper,
a night of food and dance.
The town hall was showing its age,
all stained and rotting wood.
The lobster and company though,
were positively good.
Dessert was pies of every kind
while fiddlers played songs.
Around the deserted dance floor,
the crowd just clapped along.
The old townfolks weary bones were
not roused by violin,
so unlike many years ago
when they all twirled and spinned.
On a Monday decades before
as the town’s couples dined,
they made a major decision
that all thought was divine.
They decided to close their town
to newcomers and guests,
only with some peace and quiet
would the charming town rest.
They closed every store and kept their
houses off the market,
streets were thinned so car’s drivers would
have nowhere to park it.
In seclusion they lacked nothing,
among them were farmers,
fishers, butchers, cheese makers,
hairstylists and barbers.
And of course the townsfolk could bake,
every woman and man,
pies of rhubarb, apple, berry,
peach, pumpkin and pecan.
For you see the town had a phrase
everyone liked to say:
a daily slice of fresh pie keeps
the lone doctor away.
The quiet town was a triumph
for more than three decades,
now the whole lot of townsfolk had
gotten well on in age.
Across the half-empty town hall
from the stage to the door,
the youngest of the grey-haired bunch
was aged seventy-four.
Until the Monday supper when
during the fiddle clap,
from their old weathered town hall door
came a loud rhythmic rap.
In walked this sweet twenty year-old,
who had a cheery smile,
wore a dress patterned with cherries,
a sweet pie-centric style.
The townsfolk’s eyesight was weak and
dim were the ancient lights,
but this Claire girl’s energy made
the room look clear and bright.
Claire told the townsfolk her saga
of cycling long the shore,
in search of the most perfect spot
for her first ice cream store.
“Your cove is beautiful,” she said,
with such unrivalled views,
might you have any open lots
that I can please peruse?”
Right there and then the townsfolk had
an emergency talk.
Did they want an ice cream store to
which outsiders might flock?
Well, if she opened up a store,
surely she could supply,
a few scoops of ice cream to go
along with their fine pies.
Before they made their decision,
Claire hoped they’d be impressed,
by a bunch of ice cream flavours
she brought them to taste test.
Oh, taste and taste and taste they did,
flavours were delicious,
all these ice creams transcended their
wildest dreams and wishes.
There was chocolate and vanilla,
all the classic flavours,
then these magic concoctions that
the town came to savour.
One flavour tasted like childhood,
one like lifelong friendship,
one flavour tasted of first love,
one like honeymoon trips.
They scooped ice cream on their warm pies,
melting beneath the crust,
everyone ate as much dessert,
they could till they were stuffed.
Claire told them if she had a space
she could make even more.
The town agreed to let her build
a proper ice cream store.
Claire bought a lot along the shore
then dug, hammered and sawed,
constructing a grandiose store
that had the townsfolk awed.
The store was a wooden building
taller than the lighthouse.
“Twas now the town’s tallest structure,”
the lightkeeper pointed out.
Inside the fun store no detail
was taken for granted,
one went in for some ice cream and
left the store enchanted.
And when townspeople ventured to
Claire’s store beside the sea,
Claire piled scoops to the ceiling and
their scoops were always free.
Letting their Claire open the store
proved oh so opportune,
until the summer arrived when
they’d think they spoke too soon.
Word had somehow gotten out bout
Claire’s magical ice cream,
now just beyond the cobbled roads,
a lineup of cars streamed.
Once the young-folks had ice cream they
tramped cross the sandy shore,
skipped along the cobblestone streets
in groups of twos and fours.
We need to barricade the road,
the townsfolk came to vote.
The move proved itself pointless when
young-folks arrived by boat.
To make the perfect quiet town,
the town had spent so long,
now the poor townsfolk had to stay
in with their curtains drawn.
They tried to get on with their lives,
pies kept them all busy,
the smell of fruit and cinnamon
rose from every chimney.
The young-folks knocked on all their doors,
drawn there by the sweet smell,
asking if delicious pies the
town was willing to sell.
At first the townsfolk had to laugh,
finding young-folks funny.
What would a self-sufficient town
do with silly money?
These young folks offered to mow lawns
or pull out garden weeds,
for just one slice of pie they would
do any chore or deed.
In these young-folks clear love of pie,
the townsfolk could relate,
charmed by their young visitors they
pulled out the serving plates.
Besides pie the townsfolk served the
wisdom they’d acquired,
tips on life and baking that had
their guests feeling inspired.
All the townsfolk and young-folks had
become fantastic friends,
when time for the Monday supper,
hundreds asked to attend.
The young-folks were the ones who cooked,
cooked lobster and rich sides,
equipped with townsfolk baking tips,
they also made the pies.
The task they’d performed overnight
was by far best of all,
with new wood beams, nails and bright paint
they’d redone the town hall.
Stunned townsfolk asked who provided
the wood and paint details,
never found out it was Claire, who
paid with her ice cream sales.
That evening the town hall was packed,
and as the fiddlers played,
the young-folks served the food and pies
they’d all that Monday made.
The fiddlers did their best to
keep the party going,
but while all the young folks danced round
the townsfolk were slowing.
The young approached their old friends and
lifted them to their feet,
though there was much pie and ice cream,
this moment was most sweet.
As the fiddler's played faster,
the dancers had a riot,
sounds of music and laughter filled
a town that once was quiet.
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There was a musical forest
where among the thick trees,
could be heard bugs and animals
concocting melodies.
Percussion of a woodpecker,
the low bass of a bear,
the humming of a hummingbird
and purring of a hare.
Their songs were dearest lullabies,
to a baby elk’s ears,
and sounded all the dearer,
beyond his childhood years.
In time the elk found his own voice,
a large impassioned shout,
adding a brassy, trumpet pitch
to round the music out.
One cool day, while eating mushrooms,
he spotted a machine;
chomping the nature in its path,
destroying all things green.
Though there were still aplenty trees,
his home’s music had dimmed,
and soon got even quieter
as more trees yet were trimmed.
Instead of the bats’ soprano
and low croaking of frogs,
at night the elk could only hear
the grim sawing of logs.
Although the elk’s friends moved away
he couldn’t leave so soon.
The forest still contained for him
the echo of a tune.
The last of the forest dwellers
completely all alone,
the only music now was his
solemn trumpet solo.
That lone winter his meals of twigs
tasted espec’ly bland.
As he watched all the snowflakes dance
he dearly missed his band.
Once warm, his forest was swarmed by
massive, vibrant Beetles,
maneuvered by these very loud
animals, called people.
Parked their Beetle’s at his doorstep,
made noises called laughter,
the elk learned people were no threat,
fun was all they were after.
The elk enjoyed a good time too,
liked playing hide-and-seek,
when people found him he roared loud,
making them gasp and shriek,
Despite the games he played all day,
giving people a fright,
he missed animal lullabies,
alone again at night.
One day he heard a fine noise come
from by the forest’s edge,
galloped there to investigate,
peeked through a bushy hedge.
A woman held a strange round tree
that sung in smooth bellows.
Between soothing songs she called
her tree-thing a cello.
The cello sounded like nothing
that he had ever heard,
more magical than hooting owls,
than all the cooing birds.
The elk just couldn’t help himself,
above the hedge he jumped.
The startled woman stopped playing
and started to pack up.
Oh, the elk needed her to know
that he was not a threat,
from hooves to antlers, he yearned for
a musical duet.
He let out a great trumpet note
the best note he could make,
the note, to her, was very sweet,
an audible milkshake.
Her trepidation subsiding,
she picked up her strung bow.
The woman and her new bandmate
soon found harmonic flow.
She played all her orig’nal scores,
plus some Brahms and Mozart,
together they found a key that
unlocked the music’s heart.
This thirty-year-old woman had
all her years been wishin’,
to find such synchronicity
with another musician.
When nighttime came the sleepy elk
crept back among the trees.
She said they should play tomorrow,
the elk, nodding, agreed.
All spring wondrous music they made
throughout the daylight hours,
received standing ovations from
nearby blooming flowers.
Each night, after the woman left,
the elk had song-filled dreams,
melodies flowed throughout his head
in a cool gentle stream.
In the summer they took cover
beneath the thick tree shade.
The elk was proud to show off his
home of the past decade.
He showed his friend the biggest tree
and best patch of mushrooms.
Some beauty still remained in what
machines had not consumed.
The woman said, “I would show you
around the big city,
but, compared to your lovely home
it’s not all that pretty.”
So she brought the city to him,
some fine delicacies,
little sandwiches and warm drinks
she called afternoon tea.
As much as the elk loved the meal,
he could surely eat a
lot more so the woman ordered
ten large mushroom pizzas.
Each day she generously gave
the elk new food to try,
everything from pasta salad
to coconut cream pie.
Maybe it was experience gained,
maybe it was the treats,
their delicious duets were now
resonating more sweet.
When the leaves turned orange and gold
she said “goodbye, my friend!
Don’t worry, I’ll surely be back
upon the winter’s end.”
The elk understood the words of
the friend he long adored,
though couldn’t comprehend how he’d
last long without their scores.
With discipline, he practiced his
wide range of trumpet scales,
but going back to eating twigs,
he felt a little frail.
The elk craved a veggie burger,
with hot, crispy french fries,
and assorted donuts with all
the flavours that surprised.
He stuck his wet nose in the air
and took a giant sniff,
all the food that he was craving
he caught within his whiff!
He followed the alluring scent
for a many long miles,
and roared with triumph when he found
a mountainous food pile.
If he believed in Elk Heaven
there’s no doubt this was it,
this very magical place called
the County Garbage Pit!
He ate his way up the mountain,
ate all the night and day,
this was a grand twenty-four hour
all-you-can-eat buffet.
Living there he made quick friends with
raccoons, rats, cats and goats;
they were not the worst of singers,
the lot could hold a note.
Despite three months of luxury,
all the food and fellows,
he thought often of the woman
and her soulful cello.
The woman had a nice winter,
spent time in Mexico.
She drove off to the forest once
she saw the melting snow.
Running twice around the treeline,
the elk she couldn’t find,
in no mood to play hide and seek,
she forged a plan in mind.
She played a song to draw him near,
and, getting scared, played on.
As chill crept in her bones she knew
her kind elk friend was gone.
Playing one last song, in mourning,
as she so sadly wept,
her bow swung so fast that the strings,
like her heart, were wrecked.
[music break]
Her sad song, carried by the wind,
could be heard crystal clear,
at the County Garbage Pit where it
tickled her elk friends' ears.
The sleeping elk felt a strong chill
as he opened his eyes,
his furry ears twisted towards
the song up in the sky.
That heartbreaking cello music,
the woman, could it be?
He dashed off from the garbage pit,
most curious to see.
Yes, it was his talented friend!
As she played on he hid
behind a hedge so sneakily,
having fun like a kid.
As her song ended he pounced high,
a wee hide-and-seek joke.
Once the woman finished screaming,
long tears of joy she choked.
The two of them were overjoyed
to be in the same place.
She wrapped her arms around her friend
for a warming embrace.
To complete the reunion there
was nothing left to do,
but for the two of them to play
a long reunion tune.
Live in the forest or the pit,
the elk had not planned yet,
all that mattered was the moment,
this beautiful duet.
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I spent summers at Grandma’s house
when I was a young girl.
Each year she’d comment on my height
as I gave her a twirl.
She lived on a narrow harbour,
where fishing boats once roamed,
on both sides of the water were
these wee waterfront homes.
Grandma’s wooden house had endless
rooms, cupboards, crawl spaces.
I’d find the most surprising things
in surprising places.
A one-million piece puzzle was
glued to an attic wall;
Grandma said it took six whole years
and she cherished them all.
I discovered a bronze medal
in a bathroom drawer;
she said she was an Olympian
after the Second War.
There was a hand in a glass jar,
atop a blue canoe;
to whom the hand belonged,
Grandma had not a clue.
With every quirky thing I found,
my sleuthing skills grew keen,
yet baffled by what I observed,
the year I turned thirteen.
Only then had I noticed that,
each day at three o’clock,
Grandma looked across the harbour
while standing on her dock.
Directly across stood a man
who looked to be her age,
like branches in a gentle wind,
they did a long slow wave.
Yes, each and every single day,
the action would repeat,
Grandma and a mysterious man
performed their waving feat.
My understanding of Grandma
had all at once been changed,
and yet she just kept on as if
nothing at all were strange.
In the mornings we picked berries
and went digging for clams,
then cooked and baked such wondrous treats
while canning fresh made jams.
One day as Grandma and I baked
her famous apple pie,
I built up just enough strength to
unhinge my mouth and pry.
As she pinched in more cinnamon,
and I dashed in nutmeg,
I asked about the waving man,
soon asking turned to begs.
My efforts were not for nothing,
she talked between pie bites,
and just like that yummy dessert,
her tale was sweet and spiced.
They liked each other in grade school
but went their separate ways,
though she loved Grandpa, she has thought
about him for all her days.
The waving had gone on for years,
from their respective sides,
but they’d not so much as spoken
cross the narrow divide.
Grandma was somber, so I thought
maybe she’d feel better,
if she wrote her feelings for him
in a heartfelt letter.
I reminded her to write him
throughout the entire week,
from the time she woke each morning
till when she went to sleep.
To hush me up she wrote to him,
wondering if… whether…
maybe… perhaps… he thought it was
time to get together.
A reply came the next day and
I danced round as I read.
He'd invited her for dinner
a quick two days from then.
Straight away she doubted going,
and put up a strong fight,
a whirlwind of excuses flew
from the left and the right:
The harbour ferry was pricey,
the bridge too long a walk,
even if she reached him she’d be
too nervous to talk.
“I will of course come too,” I said,
“If you’re willing to go,
we'll take that blue canoe of yours,
I’d be happy to row.”
[musical break?]
As she climbed in the canoe she
was damp with nervous sweat.
Her legs and feet trembled beneath
a lovely tea length dress.
Meager minutes was all it took
to paddle us across,
a small harbour measured in years
together that they lost.
The man, named Tyrell, met us down
along his bit of shore.
He too was sweaty and shaky,
nerves peeling at his core.
Walking up to his quaint old house,
there was not one word said.
All I heard were the cricket chirps
and a resounding dread.
The vegetable pot pie he made
Grandma said was quite nice.
Tyrell said thanks and then they both
looked back at their slice.
Otherwise the only noise was
scratching knives, spoons and forks.
Emotions bottled for decades
needed to be uncorked.
So I turned to all his records,
of which he had a ton,
and searched for the album cover
that looked to be most fun.
I danced wildly to the music,
cross the creaking floorboards.
Tyrell laughed as to Grandma's hand
he moved slowly towards.
He mumbled something sounding like,
will you please dance with me?
Grandma, with a sweet giddy nod,
so happily agreed.
They quickly found their rhythm with
the waltz and jitterbug,
then with slower songs where they
two stepped in a tight hug.
I finished off the pot pie while
the newfound couple danced.
It was the first moment of what
would be lifelong romance.
Tyrell insisted we visit
as often as we could.
Turned out he too had surprises
in his wee house of wood.
By his bed was, from his school days,
a Valentine’s Day card
that my grandma gave to him and
he never did discard.
Within his basement chests there was
a letter creased and bent,
a years-old love declaration,
that he had never sent.
And a ring with a sapphire,
matching the harbour’s blue;
for whose hand it belonged
Tyrell gave not a clue.
We had the greatest adventures,
just us three musketeers,
rowing round together defined
my bestest teenage year.
Sometimes they sat along the dock,
with so much to be said,
catching up on years apart and
their new bright life ahead.
From what I was able to hear,
they both had some regrets,
but felt lucky that their last years
would be the best years yet.
When Grandma moved in with Tyrell,
she gave her house to me,
and for years I would wave at them
each afternoon at three.
Sometimes I’d catch them on their dock
dancing during sunset,
the red, orange and purple sky
outlined their silhouettes.
When they were too sickly to wave
I daily canoed by,
and helped them to the table for
my vegetable pot pie.
I think about when me and my son
waved during a wet snow,
shortly after three that day was
when Grandma chose to go.
There was no one left to wave at,
I still waved anyway,
and so too would my grandchildren,
a tradition to this day.
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released July 7, 2020