All Poems

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Evil! What poor argument We mortals hear to make us trustThat as for God he never meant To bait this hook of pain with lust! Then by what devil was it thrustThro' the filmy first upheaval Of our planetary dust?No man knoweth the end of evil

Letter to a Future Generation

© Gwendolyn MacEwen

Upton Wood

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

They hanged three men In Upton Wood:Three months on air Their feet have stood.

The Toll-gate Man

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

They tore down the toll-gate By the songless mill,But the gray gate-man Takes toll there still;And he takes from all Whether or not they will.

The Song of the Ski

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

Norse am I when the first snow falls;Norse am I till the ice departs

The Song of the New Jesus

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

All the fat and shiny preachers From their pulpits say:

The Song of the Hemp

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

The stubbled Hemp-field called the wind That passed with moistened eyes:

Monsieur Joliat

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

Boston she have good hockey team; Dose Senators ess nice.But Les Canadiens ees bes' Dat ever skate de ice.

John Graydon

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

I own John Graydon's place--His elm trees moving with a lovely graceAs slow and stately as a minuet,His great lawns wearing shadows like black lace,Too lovely to forget

The Girl behind the Man behind the Gun

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

You have seen the line of khaki swinging grandly down the street,You have heard the band blare out Britannic songs;You have read a ton of papers and you've thrown them at your feet,And your brain's a battlefield for fighting throngs

Exit

© MacDonald Wilson Pugsley

Easily to the old Opens the hard ground:But when youth grows cold, And red lips have no sound,Bitterly does the earth Open to receiveAnd bitterly do the grasses In the churchyard grieve.

Dat Leetle Box

I leev' me turty year alone; Dat ees a lonely life--A bachelor, dat's wat dey call De man who has no wife.

The Yellow Bittern

The yellow bittern that never broke out In a drinking bout, might as well have drunk;His bones are thrown on a naked stone Where he lived alone like a hermit monk

John-John

I dreamt last night of you, John-John, And thought you called to me;And when I woke this morning, John, Yourself I hoped to see;But I was all alone, John-John, Though still I heard your call:I put my boots and bonnet on, And took my Sunday shawl,And went, full sure to find you, John, To Nenagh fair