On the Edge of Seventeen

On the edge of seventeen,

Nary a boy or a man,

Caught I am somewhere between,

Uncertain just who I am.

But that ain’t good enough I’m told,

Nothing is as it appears;

Mixed messages from the old,

And of course those of my peers.

A crossroad if there ever were,

Upon two paths to go by;

At seventeen I walk unsure,

Knowing not how to comply.

On the edge of seventeen,

My uncertain course to steer,

Stuck somewhere in between,

Fighting to hide the fear.

Ode on a Frite Pit

‘Patate a vingt cinq ou patate a quinze.’

Those bargain prices when I was a lad,

And with either size you needed two hands;

For a bigger bag have you ever had?

And to those Summer days lost and dreamy,

Before Cholesterol and inflation;

With a patate a quinze and a steamy,

At the frite pit I spent my vacation.

And carefree me and my buddies quipping,

With salt, vinegar and onions heaping;

While from those huge bags greasy and dripping,

Such memories are surely worth keeping.

And to look upon those days long gone by,

Where many roads I have travelled from there;

And of world cuisine I have chanced to try -

Still I’m coming back to Rue St. Pierre.

Yes, haute cuisine from gay Paris to Rome;

I’ve seen the other - the glamour and glitz.

But I can tell you there’s no place like home,

And a heaping bag of them greasy frites.

A Well Worn Path

A well worn path I travelled on,

Back and forth from home to school,

And all those days I dreamed upon

How it would be if I were cool.

But well worn paths now here’s the thing,

They run the same no matter what,

And back and forth us kids to bring

Felt to me like such a rut.

Now well worn paths I do declare

Get me thinking once and a while,

And in this lifetime it seems fair,

I must admit it’s been my style.

Yes, well worn paths I have followed

Although myself I’ve tried to fool;

Yet, with these pills I’ve just swallowed,

I’m thinking now I’m pretty cool.

Another Moody Montreal Morning

Another moody Montreal morning

At the train station still getting myself dressed;

My God, I’ve become what they’ve been warning,

Breakfast again’s a Pepsi and Mae West.

Tonight for sure I’m going to bed early,

6:30 at eighteen, it just doesn’t work;

Another Montreal morning so surly,

My parents and teachers I see them smirk.

But a working class hero’s something to be,

High school finally I’ve left it behind;

$2.50 an hour, I’m a man you see,

My way in the world I’m beginning to find.

My Montreal morning’s on a downtown train,

Long ago memories I still detest;

But all these years later I shouldn’t complain,

I kind of miss the Pepsi and Mae West.

Chopsticks

Chopsticks at the meal tonight,

I really could have done without,

A little shaky from last night,

I drank too much there’s little doubt.

A fork I would have much preferred,

But when in Rome the saying goes,

And the waitress never offered

And damn Chinese it was me who chose.

So like a trooper placed in hand,

Chopsticks with my Chinese food

And such frustration you’ll understand,

While my wife kept saying, “Don’t be rude!”

But get me going she really shouldn’t,

I’m very immature I suppose,

And though normally I wouldn’t,

Tonight I put them up my nose.

Chopsticks like a walrus ‘stache’,

With my wife telling me I’m dumb;

And that waitress so very brash,

Said, “You like a Dim sum!”

Time to Waste

I looked at life from my chair

In a tavern long ago,

And all I learned I’m here to share

Was just how much I didn’t know.

Now a penny for this thought,

If just one for every beer

In that tavern I had bought,

Now I’d be rich it’s pretty clear.

But ain’t it funny growing old,

All that beer I’d only rent,

If to myself I could have told

What a waste of time truly meant.

But all I’ve learned in old age turned

Is how much still I don’t know;

And time to waste I’m not concerned,

As long as I can keep it slow.

Young Slick a Real Teenage Mutineer

Young Slick stands outside the pool hall

And oozing a belligerent tone,

As though from Brando he’s heard the call,

His well rehearsed sneer he makes known.

“For crissake Slick it’s 2006,

Ain’t this Brando thing a little old?”

And as I say it, his hair he flicks,

While his dull eyes stare empty and cold.

Argh, another teenage mutineer,

And I smile at Slick all knowing,

But all I get’s that angry sneer

And the second hand smoke he’s blowing.

So I babble on ‘bout when I was a kid.

While of course mostly lying ‘bout stuff,

For behind a similar mask I hid,

Just a scared kid trying to act tough.

But to him I’m just an old fool

And it’s apparent from his sneer,

That there’s no way I was ever as cool

As young Slick a real teenage mutineer.