Wednesday, April 17, 2019


Daytime Tuesdays is when Men’s’ Golf League plays
So you can guess the average age
Of faces tanned by southern rays
Boys living at the pension stage.

Men fifty through eighty post weekly scores
Thirty points higher than their age 
That’s why we hear so many “Fores,”
And groundskeepers live inside a cage.

Both skills and strength we expect to fade 
But older guys still filled with vanity
Blame extraneous things for errant shots they played
And pepper remarks with profanity.

The insipid topics of conversation
Range from sports to politics to medical care,
Knee replacement and poor circulation, 
NHL playoffs and Trump’s orange hair.

Since their performances here will never bring fame
One might question the handshakes as each round ends
But they return each week for pure love of the game,
And all are winners when they have friends.  

© Ron Unruh, April 2019

Saturday, April 13, 2019



His hands are language calling from them
Blended sounds he’s coached to brilliance.
Their faces are exhibits of their elevated praise
Their lives like soft clay for the shaping
Our own lives fired to terra cotta
Together we extol the Lord whose name their voices raise
We are the ones who sit now to listen
We are the ones who have travelled so long
We are much nearer
To the theme of their Sanctus
We soon will unite with the heavenly throng.
© Ron Unruh, April 2019
Composed after hearing a musical liturgy featuring hymns and Schubert’s Wind Mass and Elgar’s ‘Nimrod’ from Enigma Variations presented by TWU’s Chamber Choir and Concert Band.

Monday, April 8, 2019



I turn our sports car to the sea at Crescent Beach.
Scattered clouds can’t hide the springtime sun.
Relaxed observers, we’ve come for lunch in our two-seater
With sandwiches from Beast and Brine.

We’re looking toward Vancouver and the tide is out. 
Curiously, not everyone notices or cares.
A sporty Honda pulls in beside us with two young people
who stay for fifteen minutes, each silently scrolling a cellphone. 

On our other side rap music beats and lyrics sound
as two young happy men keep a ball in the air,
their girlfriends soundly asleep in their car.
For them the breeze, the waves, the gulls have no effect.

Across the mud with two dogs to the distant water a woman walks 
while throwing a ball the younger animal eagerly chases. 
The older mate walks slowly, past his time for chasing
Staying close to his master from whom he welcomes a pat.

Two trucks arrive and out climb eight people speaking Filipino.
Soon two of them carry a boat motor the long walk to the water.
Four others manhandle a Zodiac loaded with crab traps to the motormen.
Then with motor attached two men in the boat sail to deep water. 

With lunch over, we decide to walk on Blackie Spit.
Clamshells lie white and opened days ago by hungry birds.
Tidewater is coming in, still cold, yet one man wades knee deep.
Crescent Beach is pleasurable for everybody’s reasons.

© Ron Unruh, March 2019



A long yesterday are my years.
I’m frequently going back. I’m in a groove
reopening memories, revisiting friendships, re-entering scenes, 
rethinking decisions, reflecting with satisfaction
on my lifetime spent suitably, but not done.
Yet going forward is a bullet train.
Only a few stops remain
and I, with so many dreams to fulfill maybe
or maybe not before times up,
here at least, and then, my faith’s assurance, eternity.
I think of it, my life a vapour in contrast with forever
and whatever that can mean in company with the One
who birthed my being to reflect Him.
Have I done that well, I wonder? I still have time.

© Ron Unruh, March 3, 2019


One of these days I’ll get back on the track of recording memories of stages in my life’s journey. Recently I have jotted down in poetic forms, the feelings and transitions I am experiencing, and that seems to satisfy my spirit. First, a 2010 piece revisited.


As Christine and I were saying goodnight
She with her head resting on her pillow 
And me reclining on mine, 
With one hand she stroked the side of my face, 
Silly little beard. 
As she moved her hand against me
I could see in her eyes a look of pathos, 
Viewing the different me she saw 
From the one she knew when we were young new lovers. 
Her expression was so clear to me that I said, 
“I’m sorry.” 
Looking into her eyes, still so stunningly dark and alluring 
I said, “I tried not to change.” 
And then her understanding eyes began to tear up 
As she replied, “Me too.” 
“I know” I offered, “we tried for so long not to let it happen to us.” 
And here we were, both happy with one another. 
Both complete with memories made together; 
Both nostalgic and yet realistic. 
I said, “We’ll go the rest of the way together.” 
At which time, we both wiped some tears 
And then Christine said, “Oh stop it, 
You can talk like that when we are eighty.”

© Ron Unruh, 2010