governments quarrel, bicker
to war, to war, comes a cry
not of you, or I, but of those
protected by cannon fodder
for pride of country!
sacrificing women, men
for the safety of our citizens
on the other side of the world!

as a blood spattered child, alone
weeps for his parents

© by DC Lessoway


masks of war
victory or death
hurrah! hurrah!
onto crimson plains
go children go
for god and country
au revoir, sayonara, goodbye
auf wiedersehen
till, again we meet on
glorious flaxen fields
for you, in stone, raised
each year call upon
eyes to heaven in gratitude
do soldiers look down
ponder our world, have:
anger at squandered life?
joy in their sacrifice?

photo and poem (c) by DC Lessoway

foot fall by DC Lessoway

imagine the only rhythm
you hear is
ak ak ak ak ak
discordant gun fire
as you cower, away
from windows, doors
under a blanket, trying to
calm two frightened children
quiet, quiet, abruptly
the building convulses
a mighty roar, dust
covers all
and you think, we
have to leave
but how, where, when
the government won’t help
they are the ones shooting
distant family appeal to their own
less violent governments
“no” which is nearly worse
than the government guns
to the shady smuggler, who says
“Give me money, I’ll get you,
your children on a boat.”
what you can carry
mementoes of a good life
on your back with the
hope of better things to come

five days at sea
the sickness won’t stop
moans of the dying
infect your soul
seems more water in the boat today
gathering clouds ring the horizon

pitch of the night
only the touch, clutching
at your children
does the flame of hope
remain lit in
rising seas


cast into the raging brine
surfacing in a panic
your children!
you swim towards the sound
in utter desperation, reaching out
nothing there

then silence

terrible, harrowing, sickening stillness
extinguishing the faltering flame
sinking into the depths
a thought
“I’m coming my child.”

photo and poem (c) 2015 by DC Lessoway

Hushed Sentinel by DC Lessoway


popes, queens, tyrants
brutish, magnanimous, just
pauper, moneyed, common, the curious
all have met my unflinching, stoic eyes
grief finds my inorganic heart, as
I cannot spool the narrative
searing passages scribed in crimson
paragraphs of calm, chapters of war
whispers, intrigue, lovers finding
dark corners, stealing a kiss
glint, flashing iron, steal
have speckled my bulwark folds
still, hidden there, blood
of popes, queens, tyrants
brutish, magnanimous, just
pauper, moneyed, common, the curious

poem and photo © by DC Lessoway

Read this article: A Guide to Mass Shootings in America from Mother Jones.

Oh so freaking tired of that argument about denying people the right to bear arms!  Yeah I’m Canadian, but got an opinion and I ain’t gonna keep it in.

Read and understand what the 2nd amendment is about! It’s about protecting the Nation, and written in a time nearly 100 years before there was a fully formed army and repeating guns. And those protecting the nation are and should only be the armed forces and it is ONLY these men and women who should be armed with such brutally destructive guns!

I’m also freaking tired of the fear mongers who say they MUST have all kinds of guns because there is that nut out there ready to bust their door down any moment and all those minutes practicing the shooting of a semi-automatic weapon will save the day!!

To me the above argument is CLEARLY a sign of a need to deal with some deep emotional issues and not an external danger at all!

in tears because
the innocent have to die
in this country, theirs, and others

in tears because
many put gifts above
their own happiness
their own needs

in tears because
politicians, like children
bicker, squabble, then smiling
stand on the wreckage
of a once beautiful country

In tears because
Aboriginal peoples struggle, still
yet their pride rises, rises
as they stand, together
to oppose the rehashed onslaught

and then, in tears because
the season brings
kind, soft truths of hope, goodwill
closeness of family, friends, good people

in tears because
beside my arm, my heart
my kind wife beams
lays her head on my shoulder
as we plan our day, week, our life

in tears because
I look into my heart
find there upstanding, the egregious, the middling
and stumble upon love, forgiveness, joy
happy in the light and dark both

© 2012 by DC Lessoway

I am not of a lost
generation of souls
who in selfless magnanimously
tore themselves from
wailing grasps, from reasonably
safe home and farm
to be formed, shaped via
lessons in brutality, in dispatching
flesh and blood, souls of the enemy
then those, able to return
soul shattered, grappled
within shaky bounds
within misconstrued, broken normalcy

I am of the generation who
in quiet prairie fields
pause, reflect, striving to
grasp a sliver of profundity
how free, safe I stroll
upon their broken souls
lost upon the fields of battle

My father, he would have been 101 this month. Born on November 25, 1912, passed on November 6, 2004.

Remembrance Day always brings him to mind. He was stationed at Point Grey in Vancouver before being sent off to England just before the war ended.  Ah… warm memories of his voice, muted temperament, mannerisms. How through this quiet ponderation I am my father’s son.

The picture: his vibrant, not-yet-experienced-war smiling face. This is of him arm in arm with my mom on their wedding day in the late 30’s. Then the other, the only way I’d ever known him: a tired smile, bend and weary from a decades-long burden of supporting a family and the ring of white hair. The barber, fisherman, my father.

At times, to think of him is to pour salt into a wound; at others, it’s a soft breeze. But always in this time of the year, a persistent, dull ache pierces me.

© 2012 by DC Lessoway

bring on kindness
bring on wishes
of extraordinary days
of greater truths
bring on upturned
corners of mouths
bring on hands, faces
reaching skyward
bring on ideals
beheld within ideas
stated, dashed off
brought to ears, hearts
brought to action!
as spirited, huddled masses
standing at the gates of war
bruised, battered, demoralized
bearing their casualties
they, for you, for me
offer up the greatest, gift
so in tranquil silence
engaged lives
go about, unfettered

© 2012 by DC Lessoway

war, the bastard cousin of hate
on winged, angry cherubs
clutching immense patience
out-waits peace
for opportunities frequent
their crooked tooth smile
knowing our weakness
our violent propensities
brim his fiery chasm
unleashing untold griefs
upon a scarred landscape

© 2012 by DC Lessoway