WILMA SEVILLE

SUSAN’S  MOTHER                                                           

Sixteen years old

That’s all she was

When pain and sorrow

Came to call

No more than a child herself

Caught up in uncertain times

Nazi Germany gobbling Europe

England threatened, our boys gone.

Moments of passion

Tingled with anxiety, grief

Fear of separation, death

Life changed, a seed was sown.

Long months without a word

Slender body changed

Morning sickness

Shock, anger amongst family.

In shame, she was sent away

To hide from folks around

Until her time would come

She would be with Aunt Jayne.

The day of reckoning came

When the child was born

No friends, relatives gathering

To welcome the little one

Instead, the new Mom left

Bereft of newborn child

Sorrowing heart, aching void

Scarred for life- always wondering

©2010WilmaSeville

Editor's Note:  Since today is my birthday, I put on a poem which depicts my birth and my birth mother and what I imagined she went through.  In those days, it was a great shame in Canada not to be married if you were expecting a baby.  I have a great deal of sympathy for this young girl and the situation she found herself in.  At sixteen (especially in those days) girls were more sheltered and more innocent that today.  Society did not accept them nor their child.

WILMA SEVILLE

God`s Gift

God's gift is life eternal
for those who follow Him
life may be long or short
with riches and with wealth.

Pain and sorrow comes to all
in this imperfect world
we need not walk alone
God is with us all the way.

We all have our ups and downs
God sends angels disguised as friends
who listen, care and understand
they laugh and cry with us.

Friends and family love us dearly
as they hold us up in prayer
to ask God's blessing on those they love
close at hand or far away.

May our days be filled with gladness
knowing that we're in God's hands
we trust in Him for all our needs
thank Him for his loving care.

Our days are few upon this earth
each day a gift from God
let us strive to make things better
for those who live upon this earth.

Copyright(c)WilmaSeville- December 7, 2011

WILMA SEVILLE

Happy New Year to you all.  It is January 1, 2012 and I thought it might be nice to start the blog off with a Narrative Poem I wrote several years ago.  It is one of my favourites as it tells a story.  I personally love writing narrative style poetry and rhyming poetry the best.

Hope you enjoy it.



HARRY FLANNIGAN

A house steeped in sorrow, looking unsightly

Harry’s home, born there seventy years ago in May

the Flannigans, Mother, Father, Sister, all dead

died young, decent people, death- by motor car.

Harry lives alone, except for Sammy

in fifty years he’s had several cats at home

never married, his mind affected

by the terrible crash which snatched his whole family.

Harry alone survived the accident

damage to his face and ears with loss of hearing

an ugly scar running from eyebrow to neck

disfiguring his former good looks.

Old Harry, friendless, alone  except for “Sammy”

went to bed one night, all doors and windows bolted

sleeping soundly as his custom was, never dreaming

in the basement, danger lurked waiting till he slept.

His bony body, snug in his boyhood iron bed

Familiar place felt secure

Unhearing ears on sleeping man

Did not hear the creaking stairs.

An intruder filled with hate and anger

intent on grabbing valuables to sell for cash

to feed his addiction to crack cocaine

Steadily mounted the stairs.

The hidden knife in dirty tattered jeans pocket

betrayed his awful motive in coming there

old Harry, defenseless and frail, lying so still

seemed to taunt the mind of the crazed dope addict.

Harry awoke with a start, uncertain of the danger he sensed

his sleep crusted eyes focused in the dim light

not seeing clearly the awful presence hovering near his bed

the steel blade clutched in hands that shook

Sammy lying beside him, claws extended, was no match

yowling filled the stillness of the upstairs bedroom

hunting knife plunging into arched orange body

crimson blood spattered on white crumpled bed sheets

In spite of hard, difficult and trying times in Harry’s life

loss of family, good looks, hearing and no wife or children

the will to live in him continued very strong

he tried to fight against the younger person

Harry watched in horror as the hand came closer to him

his mind still groggy with insufficient sleep

his only thought, escape the smelly vile man

who held the blood stained hunting knife.

His blood mingled with that of Sammy,

As he took his last breath

Together in life, together in death.

©WilmaSeville 2009

Read at Philpot, my Nov. 15/09 party, ArtWord/Arbar April 3/11, my party, April 10/11, Puddicombe Farm 2011 and published by John Stiles in England..

WILMA SEVILLE

Editor's note:  I wrote this today as I have a friend who is suffering from Pancreatic cancer and I felt impressed to write a poem for her. 

      FOR  KATHE

God’s gift is life eternal  

for those who follow Him

life may be long or short

with riches and with wealth

Pain and sorrow comes to all

in this imperfect world

we need not walk alone

God  is with us all the way.

We all have our ups and downs

God sends angels disguised as friends

who listen, care and understand

they  laugh and cry with us.

Friends and family love us dearly

as they hold us up in prayer

to ask God’s blessing on those they love

close at hand or far away.

May our days be filled with gladness

knowing that we’re in God’s hands

we trust in Him for all our needs

thank Him for his loving care.

Our days are few upon this earth

each day a gift from our God

let us strive to make things better

for those who live upon this earth.

CopyrightWilmaSeville© December 7,2011

WILMA SEVILLE

Christmas at Gore Park                                                

Twinkling lights on Gore Park trees

Little children shout with glee

Riding in miniature red train

I see them through my window pane.

Parents, grandparents, older siblings

stuffle feet to keep from freezing

   

as the snow starts to whirl  around

  

the little red train does its round.

Faces all aglow from the cold

little children  a sight to behold

scarves wrapped around red faces

snowsuits and boats with laces

Fingers tingle in red mittens

hands and feet feel frost-bitten

Santa’s elves in North Pole

two are here playing their role

Gore Park is a wonderland

lights, falling snow,  a fairyland

copyright©WilmaSeville2011

WILMA SEVILLE

http://howyahdoon.blogspot.com/2011/11/gift-short-story-republished-with.htm

Please click on this link above to read my latest published story.

The original story won first prize in Perspectives Magazine December 2010.  It has since  been revised and new details added.

To give a quick review, it is the story of a returning Canadian soldier from Afghanistan and his family, particularly of his Oma (German for Gran or Grannie).  It is told from the perspective of the gift.

Hope you enjoy it.

WILMA SEVILLE

The Bruce Trail

Long ago, seeds were sown

by capricious winds

landing on fertile earth

along Niagara Escarpment

Deciduous trees stand

tall, slender, reaching up

to sunlit heavens above

branches nearly bare

Crunchy leaves line pathway

footsteps pressing them into earth

squirrels scurry to and fro

winter time – on its way

Patches of sunlight poke through

outdoor cathedral hush

feelings of peace

birds sing to their Creator alone

Leaves fall with each wind gust

adding to coloured carpet

footsteps of lone person

walk along the Bruce Trail

Man, in all his wisdom

cannot outdo art of God

whose love for man is shown

by beauty such as this.

©WilmaSeville2008     Showcased at Dundas Art Walk 2008

WILMA SEVILLE

I was reminded of this poem I wrote in 2010 on adoption.  It may resonate with those who have adopted children or have been adopted themselves.

SUSAN’S  MOTHER                                                           

Sixteen years old

That’s all she was

When pain and sorrow

Came to call

No more than a child herself

Caught up in uncertain times

Nazi Germany gobbling Europe

England threatened, our boys gone.

Moments of passion

Tingled with anxiety, grief

Fear of separation, death

Life changed, a seed was sown.

Long months without a word

Slender body changed

Morning sickness

Shock, anger amongst family.

In shame, she was sent away

To hide from folks around

Until her time would come

She would be with Aunt Jayne.

The day of reckoning came

When the child was born

No friends, relatives gathering

To welcome the little one

Instead, the new Mom left

Bereft of newborn child

Sorrowing heart, aching void

Scarred for life- always wondering

©2010WilmaSeville

WILMA SEVILLE

There Once Was a Cat                       

There once was a cat who was big and fat

his belly wobbled from front to back

his paws on her waxed floor made tracks

to show his mistress where he was at.

No hiding place for this naughty cat

who tried to hide beneath the big chair

in hopes to escape a painful whack

this poor old cat who was big and fat.

His mistress had two chins which would wiggle

as she walked her whole being would jiggle

when Mister Cat would stretch, she would giggle

Lift him up, squeeze him hard and snuggle.

Mistress and cat, friends forever

sharing a beautiful life together.

©WilmaSeville2011

WILMA SEVILLE

SPHINX 




     My face is orange and white.  I have green eyes.  I’m ready for action.  I walk, as quietly as a tiger, as I advance on the human figure lying on the green sofa. 


     One leap is all it takes.  He stirs and grunts in his sleep. I’m the dominant one. He’s at my mercy lying there. I lean forward, my whiskers softly brush his nostrils.  Hairy hands swat at me as he grunts and tries to turn.


     “Sphinx get off me!” Matthew’s gruff voice growls.I ignore him.  After all, I am the dominant one. I dip my face down again so my whispers touch his nose this time. That really upset him.  That should make him get up and pay some attention to me!


      “Sphinx, come over here.” Her gentle, sweet voice tempts me to come and cuddle with her. For her, I would do almost anything. She’s always kind to me. If I am to describe her to you, here’s how I would do it. Soft, gentle, not very tall, but taller than I am, brown hair tied in a pony tail, and a round face with laughter lines around her mouth.  Her blue eyes light up when she sees Matthew or I come into the room. She loves to read and listen to classical music. 


     My other human, Matthew is tall.  He must be at least six foot and he towers over Laura and I.  I call him the “Gentle Giant”. He’s as round as he is tall, has black hair and brown eyes.  Matthew is funny, when he falls asleep on the sofa, he snores.  What a weird sound that is!

     When it comes to giving attention to me, Laura does this the best.  I don’t have to butt her arm or rub against her leg to get her to notice me.  In fact, sometimes she pats me so much that I fear that I will get a bald spot.

     I like both of my pets very much.  For humans, they are the best!

     Can you believe that some humans think black cats are bad luck? Some even have the audacity to say that black cats ride with witches on brooms. Now I ask you, don’t you think that’s a silly idea?

     I’m one of the lucky cats.  I have a roof over my head, food in my dish and water in my bowl and I never need to scrounge in garbage pails to find my food.

    There is no little human in the picture yet.  I do dread that if that ever happens.  I don’t want to be replaced in their affection!  I hate it when their niece and nephew come to visit. I try and hide, but little hands reach in to my hiding place and yank me out. I arch my back and look as frightening as I can. You’d think they would get the hint and leave me alone.  I’m always glad when they go home.


     Another time, if fact, last week before the “event”, I saw them kissing and snuggling together on the sofa.  I tried to pretend that I was not watching but, of course, I was.  They left the sitting room  rather hurriedly, almost glued together.  Humans are such strange creatures!

     I hear noises coming from where their bedroom but I choose to ignore it, as I stretch out on my cat bed ready to snooze. One last stretch, and I’m off to dreamland where I am king of the cats, everybody bowing to me. I am served the most delicious morsels as I sit on my throne amongst my adoring subjects.  All females of course! This must be what cat heaven feels like!

     From far away, I hear a crackling sound.  My sixth sense wakes me up. My orange ears perk up.  I look for the source of the noise and I see a glow in the corner beside the sofa.

     It’s getting bigger and bigger and the crackling is getting louder and louder.
 I must awake my pets.  The door is closed.  What shall I do? 




     BANG, BANG, BANG as I plunge against the resisting door.  Again and again, I bang against the door. My meows and the bangs should wake up the dead!  Why won’t they hear me?  I’m getting hot and the glow is getting bigger.” 

     “SPHINX, GO AWAY,” bellowed the gruff voice of Matthew.

     I keep on banging and yowling as I try to alert them to the danger of the growing glow.  Why hadn’t that thing in the ceiling gone off, like it always does when Laura cooks?

     Heavy foots steps meet my ears, as Matthew flings open the door.  I race back and forth, meowing for him to follow me into the sitting room.  He finally gets the point in his half awake state. 

     “LAURA, LAURA, wake up!  Both of us race into the bedroom.  She is just lying there, dead to the world.  She must not have heard my attempt to warn them. I lick her face, usually that wakes her up.  Matthew calls her name and tugs her up to an upright position. 

     “Please let me sleep”, Laura mutters in a slurred voice. Her chubby arm flings itself around my neck.  Now I’m a prisoner.  I need to wriggle out of there pronto!

     “Wack,” the sound of it echoes in the bedroom, as Matthew tries to rouse his wife from the effects of the sleeping pill.

     Her feet drag on the ceramic foyer floor . He half drags her out into the carpeted hallway and pulls the fire alarm. 


     I was not quick enough to beat the automatic closure of the heavy door.   Smoke and flames leap at me as I yowl for help. This is the last I remember before the smoke got  me.  Will I be remembered as a hero?

SPHINX

WILMA SEVILLE

This poem has a special meaning for me.  It was written after my cardiac arrest and being brought back from death to life. It was published in a Toronto newspaper.

Having had a near death experience at age 22 and then the cardiac arrest in my later years, it has made me very aware of what is really important in life.

I hope that this poem will be a blessing to whoever reads it.

My Journey

I live alone, yet am not lonely

I cry out when in pain, my sighs are noted

my  innermost thoughts are known to You

Creator Lord, Friend and Saviour God

Each day, I choose to walk with you, My God

Your loving presence is ever close to me

When my heart is sad and I feel “down”

You send an angel, disguised as friend

My confidence rests in You, Oh God,

Your loving presence guides me always

I slip and fall, You give me strength

To pick myself up and begin again!

I have left You behind several times

To do my “own thing”, go my own way

My spirit was distressed, uneasy

Until I returned to You, Living God

My frame is getting frail, with little strength

My earthly journey is almost done

I keep on trying, with God’s loving help

To make a difference before I go

.

Copyright©2008WilmaSeville

ISSN 1496-3175 (Print)

ISSN 1496-3183 (Online)

WILMA SEVILLE

This little poem is based on a true story.  When it was first critiqued by our poetry group, I started to read it out loud, but my friend Stella had to continue reading it for me.  The loss of a family pet, in my view, is as traumatic as losing a family member.

Her other two cats who lived with us kept looking around for her for quite some time after the vet put her to sleep so she would not suffer anymore.  She was such a dear little timid cat, gentle and sweet.

        

Hibou, my owl-like cat

Death came knocking early one morning

Unaware, we slept on sofa and bed

Through the vent, a gush of red-tinged water

Unhindered, spread through several rooms.

Hibou, my owl-like cat, companion dear

Licked her brown silky hair to groom herself

Ingesting ethylene glycol as she did

It's deadly sweetness seemed a treat to her

Three cats huddled high on sofa back

Trying to escape the rising  red tide

I awoke that night, stepping into water

Ankle deep, uncertain where it came from 

In appearance, Hibou appeared all right

Her head resting on her buddies bodies

Short haired male cats, unlike Hibou in build

Delicate, feminine, slight of body.

Late afternoon, her movements  became feeble

Vet visit, news bad, needle prick, last pat

I miss Hibou, with her golden brown eyes

Faithful gentle creature, loving nature 

I will never forget you, little Hibou

No cat can take your place, gentle one.

Copyright(c)2010WilmaSeville

WILMA SEVILLE

This poem has a little story attached to it.  A Professor was coming to interview my dear friend in her home.  I was visiting for a few days and although her home was clean, we both decided to attack it and make it shine even more.  Out of this experience came this little poem.  I hope you enjoy it.

A Lick and a Promise

Finger prints on bathroom mirror

Water marks on tiled floor

The hiss of Windex on paper towel

A wipe, a swipe – and all is right.

The old wet mop dragged from hiding

To perform its mighty job

The smell of pine now scents the air

A rub, a scrub – the task is done

Feather duster at the ready

Dust bunnies skulk and hide

Taunting me to catch them

A whoosh, a swoosh – chores are done.

© 2007WilmaSeville

WILMA SEVILLE

This poem was published in Boomers Write. 

A Mouse in the House (a poem)

by Wilma Seville
(Hamilton, Ontario)

A Mouse in the House

A mouse in the house, what can you mean?
We tried to keep the place quite clean!
Alas for us, he came in the night
While we were all tucked away from sight!

A scratch by claws on an uncovered match
Scampering feet away from the hot patch
As flames rose upwards with a great roar
Causing people above to get out through the door.

The scene of this arson, not the fanciest room
Nor was it meant to be the mouse’s tomb
The humble pantry where food could be found
A likely place for mice to abound.

No cat in sight to keep him away
He did his damage and went on his way
That event was traumatic I recall
As fire swept away all!


Copyright©Wilma Seville2007

 

 

The Grand River Dinner Cruise

At 9:45 a.m. on June 8th, Cherry Bus Company pulled up at the side entrance to St. John’s Lutheran Church at Wilson and Hughson, in Hamilton, Ontario.

A small group of people were eagerly awaiting its arrival as they climbed aboard the spacious bus and joined the other folk from Wellingstone Seniors Home as well as folk from Transfiguration and Grace Lutheran churches.

After a pleasant drive through the countryside, we arrived at our destination – The Grand River Dinner Cruises building.  We were ushered into the main foyer and the well-stocked gift shop was available for those who wanted to pick up some little memento of their trip.

Complimentary coffee and a muffin were served in the main auditorium and a very instructional video was shown of the Grand River.

A real treat was the entertainment provided.  The group called “The Blazing Fiddles” was performing.  Brielle Goheen (fiddle, voice), Danielle Lennon (fiddle), Jeff Taylor(fiddle), Chris Kettlewel (bass, guitar, voice) Adam Poot (piano, spoons djembe) entertained a room full of people who appreciated their talents very much.  Their high energy was something to behold.

Many feet were tapping and hands clapping as the wonderful music transformed a room full of strangers into fellow music lovers.

The performance ended and the boat tour commenced.  Our group was on the Queen captained by Captain Emily.  One of the fiddlers entertained us while we feasted on a lovely roast beef dinner, homemade bread and homemade apple pie.  There was coffee and tea served throughout the meal.

The sights along the Grand River were varied from trailers to cottages, wharves, and farmhouses as we slowly made our way on the river.  It is interesting to note that the river bottom is mud and that explains why the river appears to be brown. Fishermen fish here, people water ski and swim and in general, enjoy this river.

It was a smooth ride and the day very pleasant but this cruise goes out in all kinds of weather.  We were most fortunate to have had such a beautiful day with no humidity to spoil it!

After docking, we climbed aboard our bus and Tom, our driver, took us to The Old Dutch Mill in Millgrove where we spent a delightful time.  There was a small farm where a goat, some sheep, ducks and swans plus a young 21 day old pony and his parents lived.

If one wished, one could purchase plants in the greenhouse or step inside to buy from the wonderful array of gifts that they had for sale.  There was also a nice little tea room as well which looked very inviting. 

  

Our bus driver, Tom, got us all safely back to Hamilton in good time and it appeared that everybody present enjoyed themselves.

  

A small poem I wrote for this occasion. 

Cruising on the Grand River

  

Flat boat glides along calm river

Gentle waves slap sides

Muddy brown water under bow

Flows by tree lined banks.

Water lilies float on surface

Turtles sun on rocks exposed

Fish jump, making circles

On placid waterway

Roast beef dinner served

Home made bread & pie

Strolling fiddle player

Music while we dine.

Farms and trailer parks

Dot the river banks

As the cruise boat

Moves along the Grand.

The journey finally over

Well fed, contented people

Disembark and go their way

Back to where they came from.

©WilmaSeville2010


Published in the St. John's newsletter 2010.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I was invited to be the guest speaker for the World Day of Prayer which was held at St. Paul's Presbyterian Church and which consisted of 10 churches participating. I created this little poem as well as a topic on Guyana.

As I had never been to Guyana, I interviewed Guyanese people both in Hamilton and in Toronto so that I could write this topic and  poem accurately.

It really enjoyed talking to the Guyanese friends I have and they were only too happy to share their knowledge of their country, for which I thank them.

I wrote the poem as a rhyming poem for the reason that most folk who come to this noon day event are retired people and they are more accustomed to hearing rhyming poetry than free verse or other forms of poetry. 

Silver and Gold Magazine published this poem as well as a picture. 

Rhyming poems are still the most familiar for older people and the best received for this age group.  A rhyming poem in German is very beautiful and I oftentimes get to enjoy hearing poetry in that language as I belong to a German speaking group of ladies.

I hope that this little poem will evoke images of Guyana. 

Guyana

My name means “Land of Many Waters”

Given to me by my native sons and daughters.

My soil is rich and fertile

Which makes planting very worthwhile

Fruit, sugar cane, and rice are grown

Eggplant, cassava, pineapples are well known

Gold, diamonds and aluminum boxide

Deep within my bowels does reside

Christians, Hindus and Muslims co-exist

Celebrating each others holidays with such bliss

Cricket, volleyball, football and boxing

Are all well known sports my people participate in.

In my rivers swim piranhas and crocodiles

Waiting patiently for an unwary cow

Boa Constrictors, tigers and leopards

From them you must be on your guard

My people are not rich in spite of my many natural gifts

Many barely manage to exist

Many of my people have left to work elsewhere

Sending money home to families, because they care

I am Guyana, a land of many faces

Made up of many races.

Copyright©WilmaSeville2008

Written for the World Day of Prayer

Held at St. Paul’s Presbyterian Church

March 7, 2008

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is a little poem I wrote which I attached to a jewellery piece which I had made for sale.  It has been performed in public as well. I hope that you will enjoy reading this and that it will bring back memories of pleasant times by the water.

Stones

Water washes over me
smoothing my rough edges
shaping me as seasons pass
making me more beautiful

Small children make me skip
as I skim over smooth waters
squeals of delight
as I fly through the air.

Now transformed into jewellery
My new purpose in life!

Copyright(C)2011WilmaSeville

River stone wrapped.

Taken by a friend of mine five or six years ago

Wilma Seville is active in the Hamilton writing scene, performing her work at various venues.  Her work has been published in England and Canada.  She writes poetry, short stories and articles for magazines and newspapers.  She was a former newspaper staff reporter for a Toronto community newspaper.  She also does volunteer work by sitting on different committees and will be starting to work with the VON to help with their newsletter. She was also an editor for a newsletter in Toronto.

WILMA SEVILLE

I thought I would start it off with a poem which was published in Tower Poetry Society Summer Edition 2010.

It is just a short little poem about when I was young and used to swim in the St. Lawrence River which is in the Province of Quebec, Canada.

Hope you enjoy it and can feel how the swimmer felt.

FLOATING

Minnows swim around pink runners

As I forge ahead into deeper water

Shades of green and blue shimmer

Sun beats down on bathing cap

St. Lawrence River feels cool

On such a hot and steamy day

I float upon my back

Eyes closed against the sun

Water laps gently over supine body

Arms move up and down to gentle rhythm

Feet flutter as I lazily float

Movements calm but deliberate

At peace with my little world

All anxiety at bay

One with the water

One with the world.

Copyright(c)WilmaSeville2010

Wilma Seville - one of the readers at the 60th Anniversary Celebration of Tower Poetry Society

Wilma Seville is originally from Lachine, Quebec and has lived in Montreal and Toronto and now resides in Hamilton.  She is a retired Staff Reporter for The Ambition Newspaper and is an active member of Tower Poetry Society, The Poetry Center, The New Writing Group, the Literary Arts Commitee of The Hamilton Arts Council, as well as a member of The Hamilton Club.

Her poetry and short stories have been published in England and Canada. .  She also writes for HistoriCITY and, on occasion, for her former newspaper and the Eastern Synod Lutheran newspaper.