Poetry From Powell River , British Columbia, Canada

A great place and lots of Freedom Lovers . I visited there last week and spoke at a freedom rally —wonderful freedom leaders Robin Murray and Ian McDonald and many, many others including young poet Kyle Erickson .

Here are two of his Freedom poems :

Ballad of the Freedom Convoy

Who would be traitor knave, 

Who would fill a coward’s grave, 

Who so base as be a slave-

Let him turn and flee!

Who for Canada’s Proud Law, 

Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, 

Freemen stand or Freemen fall,

Let us follow thee!

Canadian lift up thy head, 

Rise up from thy slumber-bed,

Face the road we now must tread, 

Path to Liberty!

Now our time has come at last, 

But it’s short and slipping fast, 

Dark the future, dim the past, 

Come! We must be free!

Leaders fail and leaders hide,

None of them can stop the tide, 

We must in ourselves confide, 

If we shall be true!

Friend to neighbour, lend a hand, 

Men have fought to make this land, 

Tis our turn to take a stand, 

Let us follow through!

They may try to take our all, 

They will try to make us fall, 

They may try but they will stall-

Nothing shall they do!

We are here, we shall not move, 

They may cry, condemn, remove,

But we’ll stay and we shall prove, 

What Canucks can do!

The way is hard, the trial long, 

Do what’s right and scorn what’s wrong, 

Come! Let’s sing a braver song, 

See them shake with fear!

Though with slander, lies and shame, 

They shall seek to quench our flame, 

We shall gain the better name, 

Stay! The way shall clear!

You are standing for us all, 

Crumbling is the coward’s wall,

If it be that some must fall,

We’ll stand up again!

You have started something great, 

Fought with love and conquered hate, 

It shall never be too late,

Bring the healing rain!

The world is watching, row on row, 

See our Maple proudly blow,

Frightening all fear and foe, 

Wide from shore to shore!

Countless March and countless sing, 

Hear the sound of freedom ring, 

Death to us shall have no sting, 

We shall fear no more!

*      *      *      *      *

This Country

Out of the deeds that swell

Which hopes and dreams foretell 

Out of the streets that flow

With rain and blinding snow, 

Out from the deepest wood, 

Or sidewalks where once stood

Men that moulded this land, 

With stronger minds and hands:

Bright dreams of soul awaken, 

Or fright those they have shaken, 

It’s up to us to show 

What others do not know. 

After three dulling winters, 

The world lies all in splinters, 

The paths of future end

Where no one would dare spend 

One minute of one day, 

And yet it’s where we stay;

Now those who look around, 

And find it all profound 

That no one cares to see

The forest for the tree,

Wake In distressing rapture,

They point and try to capture

The signs and try to find

What meanings lie behind. 

This country that few know well, 

They barter are they sell, 

With pomp and words define, 

They flatter and design, 

A robe most grand,–bespoke,

What’s left of a threadbare cloak;

And what then shall we say? 

They’ve thrown the keys away,

What is locked behind the door, 

We shall never look on more, 

For there will be this and that,

To belittle and distract, 

And they know that most will say

“It can only be this way.”

This country that many love,

As if formed up above, 

A land most improbable, 

And almost unsolvable, 

But are we so hard to know,

This wide land of ice and snow?

Yes, it seems, at any rate,

That they underestimate

A land polite and gentle

A little sentimental;

It was with a great surprise, 

That they scarce believed their eyes,

When it began to rise and roll, 

When it’s people had a goal. 

For it’s through our history, 

Great and biding mystery,

How a nation, far and few, 

But one steadfast, honest, true,

Shaped from the immensity 

With it’s shear intensity, 

A citadel upon a hill, 

Which free men built and free men fill;

It has withstood many things 

Many plights and many stings, 

For some were self inflicted, 

But still we are afflicted,  

By those who say they know best, 

Far as East is from the West. 

If this country means a thing, 

One small gift which it can bring, 

That from many we’ve made one,

And tremendous deeds have done, 

Dwarfed against the prairie sky, 

Or a snowy mountain high, 

Outnumbered by all others,

Both friends and older brothers;

We have fought and we have run, 

Such a fabric we have spun, 

And with a deliberate will, 

We have stood, and we shall still;

Shaped by this environment, 

We’ll survive misgovernment.

                 *   *   *

I need my Canada to be 

As Humble as she is Brave, 

The grand and gentle maple tree, 

The rock that breaks the wave. 

Kyle Erickson

Powell River , British Columbia, Canada