Imagination

By Eric (Rick) True

Sitting on my own in Grandma's parlour
wing back chairs pillows attached,
looking at a picture of my great grandfather
solemn eyes mustache waxed.
He's got the face of a Scottish warlord
fighting a cause for a noble class
standing tall for law and order
like the rainfall greens the grass.

Or was he a pirate on the Spanish main
calling out orders from the captians loft,
dancing to the fire of a thousand flames
fighting for booty illegally sought.
He's got the face of a pirate of fame
drinking to the plunder of battles fought.
crossing cold steel to honour his name
from tales of yore a splendid plot.

Like the mystery in the wind
the breach of death never ends
Like all sources he survives
in every new born baby's cry.

Or was he a cowboy on the open range
where the wind rushes through the golden grass
riding a mustang with a flowing mane,
tales by the campfire bragging his past.
He's got the face of a Texas ranger
fighting for freedom in a frontier land
sweating long hours in the face of danger
with a heart of truth that makes the man.

Or was he a politician in his own right
a public orator calling the shots,
a democratic pioneer with pure insight
on how the country should be taught.
He's got the face of a verbal dodger
talking up straight in the public eye,
with humour and wit a wily old codger
a pure avenger with gracious pride.

Like the mystery in the wind
the breach of death never ends
like all sources he survives
in every new born baby's cry.

Author's note: As a young boy I would frequently visit the old family homestead in Fosterville New Brunswick where my great grandmother Minnie Foster lived. In the parlour, as it was called then, was a picture of William Henry Foster my great great grandfather. This is a poem I wrote as a result of staring at his picture, a kid with imagination, and wondering what kind of a man he really was.