​The shiny crown is sitting tarnished
here in the beaten King's County.
It lay in tatters, swallowed up
by the greed of the land.
 
The stores are boarded up.
They used to give our downtown character.
Now they hold the design
of the local spray paint artists.
 
Once new field equipment now rusted.
The shine faded from non-use
from the crops fighting back from harvesting.
 
At one time it was all boom,
not one thought of a bust.
As the man of the home
promises were made
before the move here many years ago
to the flourishing King's County.
 
At the peak, King's County was over three thousand,
up from a few hundred housed on a dirt road
that you could not see from a passing highway.
 
The growth of the soil and mines
gave growth to the community.
New and old families showing love.
Saturday nights were social time,
adults chatting while children laughed.
Stress free smiles all around.
King's County was the envy.
 
The sparkling stars were to always last.
New laws made the mines
too expensive to keep them open.
One by one families were moved
out of the company owned housing
leaving weather to have its way
to the wearing structures.
Ghost community with eerie silence.
 
Cars with shocked families
started to leave by the hundreds
taking monies or lack of
for the stores with them.
More and ore disappeared each day
just like the sun at sunset.
 
The shops closed up gradually,
dresses were going unsold.
Long faces full of worry,
did not want to feel Saturday night festive.
The community spirit was frayed.
Tempers amongst friends started to show
from the stress of not knowing.
 
The quiet, humming county
started opening the doors to theft
in the middle of the dark night.
Fingers pointing to every person
that had envelopes of debt.
 
The farmlands became overgrown
when the markets stated to shut doors
with no one else to buy the overflowing food.
The rotten smells filled the air.
Fields were strangling themselves,
thin animals had nowhere to be sent.
The golden egg was gone.
 
Homes became a falling grey,
front and backyards
were a junk graveyard.
Spirits buried in the broken machines.
Tears adding to the spreading rust.
 
Pride and growth used
to keep it all together
from top to bottom.
The glory years gone
with the history leaving
on the broken road of King's County.
 
November 4, 2019
© Andrew Scott - Just A Maritime Boy 2019
 
 
 

She sits on her front porch
looking up and down
the quiet, lit street.
Edna has been sitting
there for three days,
morning, noon and night.
Her son left a few days ago
and she fears that
he may succumb to old addiction.
Edna has seen this dance before
and knows that some time
he may not return from his stimulation.
In Edna's mind that is not today.
Her unwavering faith repeats this.
 
Gerald paces around his kitchen
before sitting back down
to face his computer screen
waiting for messages to come in.
He has not worked in seven month.
Not since his place of employment
unexpectantly shut its doors.
Leaving bills that have been piling
and two other mouths to feed.
The stress has been all through
the shaky foundation of the home.
Some days Gerald feels
that he has failed everyone
however the search for work is daily.
The message of a job will come.
That is his unwavering faith each day.
 
Gloria and Sam silently staring
off into the sky through a window.
They have not spoken affectionately
for an extended period of time.
Been married for nineteen years,
willing their way to twenty.
There was one love and romance.
Neither of them know when the breakdown
happened between them.
They both play those days of support
in the memories of their mind.
Gloria and Sam do hope for the day
handholding does come back.
To them that could be any day.
Their dance of unwavering faith say that.
 
October 27, 2019
© Andrew Scott - Just A Maritime Boy 2019

​Every Saturday morning starts the same
whether it is rain, snow or shine.
The truck gets loaded for the two hours drive
to the Saturday morning market.
 
The truck is full of fresh meats from slaughter
and cleaned vegetables from the fields.
Never know how much to bring for sale.
You think I would after taking
the same Saturday morning trip for twenty-eight years
but some mornings it is all about
buying meat or vegetables or both.
I do bring a lot of eggs too.
They sell no matter what.
 
The crowds do not start coming in
until about after eight in the morning.
Gives us all time to set up our goods
for sale for them.
We all try to make our selling stands
to look as appealing as we can
to make sure people stop by.
 
Some o the merchants at this market
have a lot of conversations with people
however do not seem to ever sell a lot.
Maybe they come here to get out of their house.
Some of the selling stands are too far away
to ask unlike the folks around me.
We chat all the time every weekend.
Makes the quiet time go by faster.
 
My regulars keep me busy.
The fine folks that make the same stops
every Saturday morning, market stand by stand.
Those people keep a lot of us coming back.
Good to see the same smiling faces.
Sometimes when you are talking
you do not realize how much you have sold.
Truly never know until I pack
the rusted truck to go back home.
Today was a good day it seems.
Only a few vegetable packs are left.
The cuts of meat and dozens of eggs are all gone.
 
I do not do it for the money,
have not needed that for a long time,
saved during the boom years.
The interaction and smiling faces.
That is what will bring me back
next and every Saturday after that.
 
April 9, 2019
© Andrew Scott - Just A Maritime Boy 2019

​A couple laughing into the evening air.
Glasses of wine being refilled
as the chatter grows on their front deck.
Holding hands touching, flirting.
Nights like this were not always there,
years of silence and anger
built up over time.
From every day real world trials,
stress of money, days of non-affection,
periods of stepping out for both of them.
Worlds slowly crashing in a hole,
harsh words came out of frustration,
screaming until real truth opened
their hearts to each other again.
The path of their healing, a hard conversation.
 
A father and son cleaning their spring yard.
The mess spread over from a harsh winter.
They are taking about future plans
after the boy has one more high school year
however the years of booze and drugs
that started in middle school
has him fall behind before he quit.
The father paced in silence many nights
when the son disappeared under influences
until one night after many, the son came home
and the father had to take him to the hospital
after one drink and one pill too many.
From a scared patient's bed
the father, tears and fear started talking
and the son, wanting to live, listened.
Their path of healing, a hard conversation.
 
A man sitting around a bonfire,
laughing and sharing with life long friends,
a moment that would not have taken place
four short months prior to this.
He was hidden away in his home,
shutting the door on the outside world,
depression consuming his thoughts,
never dealing, feeling the loss
of a loved one before.
Friends busted down a locked door
with determination to find their lost friend.
Hours of crying uncontrolled emotion
to bring them all back.
His path of healing, a hard conversation.
 
So many not knowing
that reaching out is needed
while onlookers stay mute.
The hardest part are the first few words,
first steps are the most difficult.
People's path of healing, the hard conversation.
 
August 29, 2019
© Andrew Scott - Just A Maritime Boy 2019

​Exhale of smoke while staring at the night,
stars are shining, air is cooler these days,
words and pictures sliding across my mind,
silent questions bring no true answers.
 
The images of what is happening
around my once quiet city.
One man lay dead over a fight
over drugs taken from another.
Police do not find him right away
as they are busy taking firearms
away from a family dispute of three.
Traces of substance have littered
the streets like never before
however I hold onto the hope
clear minds will once again live.
In this hope I believe.
 
The once great land
held its arms out, accepting others
who traveled here to start peacefully.
Newcomers who left destructive soil
to only be greeted by ignorance
of the ones who turn away
from the disappearance of women
and teenagers who were indigenous
to this open, native land.
The blind eyes leaving scars
on the heartbeat of this once great nation.
We will find what makes us unique.
In this hope I believe.
 
Sometimes I am just waiting
for pains to go away from remembering.
When the mind goes, the heart follows.
the tears just appear in my eyes
realizing how much I still miss
from my mom passing.
A portion of me gone too.
Healing from this loss may never happen.
I miss her.
Silence all around when it hits me,
holding onto loss will make me better.
In this hope I believe.
 
The night sky I am staring at
keeps the mind's eye clear.
The breeze may carry whispers
to grip hold of the positive light.
In this hope, I believe.
 
August 26, 2019
© Andrew Scott - 2019

​All that is left of her is this grainy photo,
black and white, face barely visible.
Sad, after forty-three years, the only memory
or trace of her of her of the time spent on earth.
 
Miss Gracie just disappeared
from the lives of my parents
when she got on her old bike
and went to visit her Aunt and Uncle,
who just lived down the road.
 
This community was small,
mostly everyone knew every body.
It was nothing odd about to have kids
walking or biking up the road alone.
The elders always kept an eye out
with the exception of this one time.
 
Hours later all they found
was Miss Gracie’s bike laying
in a muddy, roadside ditch.
 
Every person in the village
was called and the search started,
farmer’s fields and woods scowered.
For weeks, someone was always searching.
Local radio kept pleading for tips.
There was a lot of people that saw nothing.
 
Not positive which one of my parents
gave up on finding Miss Gracie first.
For both of them it was decadees later.
Before then, every phone call
or door knock gave hope,
then hope would be taken away.
 
I was ten when Miss Gracie disappeared.
She was seven at the time.
Did not know how that moment
would define everything in our lives after.
I was never allowed to travel alone,
no neighbourhood kid was.
We were all home well before dark
and our parents knew where we were.
 
My kids have gone through the same.
Check in at home at all times.
Those rules never changed
under any circumstances.
 
My children may have resented me
however they were safe so I do not care.
Never once did I explain why.
felt like I did not have too.
There is an old, grainy photo
as a reminder for why.
 
July 10, 2019
© Andrew Scott – Just A Maritime Boy 2019

​The world is flying with dark wings today.
There is a harsh cloud covering us all
that is staining how we fly.
Journeys are being mislead in life.
 
Angers are colouring pure wings
to the colours of rage.
Peace and love are being
murdered and raped by ignorance.
 
We are not trying to see or feel
what is proper in flight.
Storms are being man-made
by all blind angels.
 
The grime needs to be washed away,
soiled presence to be cleansed
so we will feel the fresh winds.
You cannot take in openly
with dirty, dark wings.
 
April 12, 2019
© Andrew Scott – Just A Maritime Boy 2019

​Remember when at one time
this home and land was a paradise
for over ten years when a little visitor
graced me, her great-uncle and her great-aunt.
 
She came from a home full of hate,
driven by parents that could not
even take care of themselves.
All fueled by the easy temptations.
 
May be it was the blinders that I had
but I cannot give the time
that it started to change.
Our little paradise met a hole.
 
Our little gift got older,
found the city and its darkness.
Led from the freedom given
by finding her free mother,
Drugs, booze and anything else.
I did not want to know.
 
For a brief moment she came
back to her normal self
so I stopped watching as hard.
 
She was found drowned in Red River,
body found wrapped up in a bag,
life taken by another, older man.
A beast that walks free today.
 
So many questions and guilt.
The blind eyes that did not see
the world in the darkness.
Instead only seeing light
that was a mirage to the truth.
 
It has all crumbled, rotten.
The flourished that surrounded us once
now a dead, paradise lost.
 
March 15, 2019
© Andrew Scott - Just A Maritime Boy 2019

​The explosion just happened.
I did not even feel anything
until I woke up four days later,
laying in a hospital bed.
 
The nurses and doctors tried to explain
as they dressed and undressed bandages
on my hot face as to why I was there.
 
The steam from a pressured pipe
burned the face and neck
after bursting while I was
being our home's plumber.
This is what I was told.
I remember nothing of that day.
 
The healing took months
with the skin graphs
to cover the burned portions
or what could be covered.
 
My face has the scars.
Red, blistered scars with lines.
I will never be able to hide them.
Not from the people that stare
when I am seen without a hat and hoodie
that is constantly hiding the evidence.
 
My workplace gave me a walled office
so others would not stop looking and talking
or so no one would see customers flinching.
 
My house has gotten quieter
as my partner left months
after I walked back through the door.
Affection was hard for her to give.
The sadness in her face said everything.
Do not blame her for getting affection elsewhere.
 
I sit in the dark a lot now
most of the time hoodie still on.
It is a habit now.
Hiding this mutant from even myself.
 
October 19, 2018
© Andrew Scott - Just A Maritime Boy 2018

​The slaughter was everywhere,
grown warriors not moving.
Life and peaceful death, taken away.
 
The Ghosts of Verdun has been
building and screaming
since the mud rains of Spring.
 
Can hear the enemy marching,
boots echoing on roads
of skeletons of ours and their own.
Men that make up the mist
and fog surrounding us now.
The Ghosts of Verdun.
 
Seasons have changed
as the men have defended this land.
The blood in the soil
is the same colour
when from allies or enemies.
The screams are unified.
The Ghosts of Verdun.
 
Loved ones at home,
waiting for word of
loved ones still alive.
Staring into the night sky
knowing the real truth.
The stars are whispering
the voices of the Ghosts of Verdun.
 
January 27, 2019
© Andrew Scott - Just A Maritime Boy 2019