Small town Halloween

by denny bastian 2012

“You can’t go out until it gets dark,” Mum says emphatically.

“and it’s cold so you better wear your warm coat tonight.”

The excitement is almost too much; I surely will pee myself.

Pirate costume pulled over heavy coat, cold air nipping ears,

long country blocks lit by streetlamps far apart casting eerie glow

on narrow asphalt street.  I would be afraid of the dark

and scary night but I fear nothing for Mom trails close behind.

Scuffling through fall leaves in every yard to lamp lit door.

pillow case for booty thrust forward with a “trick or treat.”

Large faces of neighbours bending over to smile and greet

“What a scary pirate you are.  Aren’t you so sweet?

Here is something special just for you.”  A casual toss of candy,

my quick glance in the sack to see what it was. “Thank you,” I say

and on to the next almost on the dead run. “hurry up Mum!”

Chewies, hard candy, and gum, Tootsie Rolls,

 little bags of black or red liquorice, and caramel apples.

 Eyes the size of saucers in eager anticipation of a full sack.

A stomach that does not suspect the upset it will face.

Oh but there is the one that makes my little heart thump,

 my hands shake, and my greedy mouth waters, CARAMEL POPCORN BALLS!

“Mum, can we go home now?  I think I’m going to pee myself!”

Okanagan Suntan 

by denny bastian Apr/2012

Face down in the sand on coloured beach towel.
Summer's scorching sun sears fair skinned back.
Toes dug in the blazing sand, awakes with a howl
from the raw burning skin on now lobster red calf.

Springing to feet, sand too hot upon arch.
Running on heels like a fool to water’s brim
grateful feet on wet sand from lake wave’s march,
‘tween welcoming toes. A person dives in.

While young girls model the latest swimsuit
sit cross-legged in shade; so alluring and sweet,
avoiding the lake lest their clothing might ruin.
They chatter about cute boys they want to meet.

Bare chest young boys flexing while tossing a ball
sneak peeks at the girls who are admiring their skills.
The wayward throws planned, no accident at all
in hopes the boy meets the girl for new summer thrills.

Little girls build sand castles with bright plastic pail
so communally made. A twig crowns atop for a flag.
A naughty brother’s purposeful stomp makes it fail
as Mother lifts her shades and looks up over her mag.

“Leave the girls alone,” she calls out with mum’s duty
and goes back to her reading, sunglasses returned,
while brother runs off with a flag as his booty.
The young girls rebuild with lessons they’ve learned.

Alas, the dark cumulous clouds moving up from the south
cover the sun for long stretches of time as windswept waves
smack on the sand, yet discouraging no one to hurry about
and leave the beach, for these are the sun tanning days.

Pikeshead Fishing Trip

by denny bastian 2013

The chilly air smells of late fall today.
The brown leaves of autumn like crumpled
onion skin float carelessly in the light
breeze from their various resting mothers
that surround and lean over like custodians
of the bulrush shores of Pikeshead lake.

I sit on the cold metal seat of a rented
twelve foot aluminum boat, hunched
shoulders, coat collar up. Levi jeans
and a heavy plaid shirt over long johns,
an insulated fisherman’s hat decked out with
multi-coloured flies, and a satisfied smile.

A battle scarred pair of oars lies on the ribs
beneath the seats. A testament to the certain
failure of the blue blowing, smelly old gas
motor that coughs and putts as if in some
kind of pain. I mercifully shut it off and coast
into my favourite south end fishing hole.

Standing up, I spread my feet to counter-
balance the rocking back and forth while
casting a fly line. My chosen weapon; a nine
foot Fenwick fly rod, sinking tip wet line,
50 feet of nylon backing, a 52 Buick fly,
dark green, yellow, with white wings.

The line loops behind me, then forward, to and
fro, swishing, flicking off tiny droplets of water
before landing perfectly, near the bulrushes.
Then an insect imitation of short jerky strokes
to allure the unsuspecting Kamloops trout out of
the safe and dark shadows of the thick bulrushes.

Peace pervades, I feel gratitude to be part of;
as a red sun sets over the western hills. Fishing
becomes secondary. I decide to give the old timer
a break. I’ll quietly row back to the dock; listen
to the steady drip from the oars as they fall to
the now placid waters on Pikeshead Lake.