Whispering Pine

By George T. Kocik

Everyone starts out in life on the same level. Some achieve fortune and fame; others do not. That doesnt mean that they have lesser value or lead less meaningful lives than those who have achieved glory. Everybody means something to someone, and is important to them. To those who have achieved great things that have benefitted humanity, my hat goes off to them. To those who have achieved fame and fortune through their hard work, I say Good for you, you worked for it. I may not have amassed a great fortune in my lifetime, nor achieved fame, but I am rich nevertheless. I can count on both hands the ones I love and the ones who love me. I can boast, however, of two achievements of which I am extremely proud. The first is my two children, Christine and Kevin. No father can be prouder of his children than I. There I can say: George, you did well. The second achievement of which lm very proud is the collection of poems that lve composed throughout the years. My English teachers gave up on me in high school. They figured I didnt have a snowballs chance in hell where it came to creative writing. I cant blame them either. I didnt see writing in my future at the age of 16. I was content to speak the English language and that was enough for me. I always enjoyed reading poems in school; some more than others. After I graduated and joined the work force, I found that I had a knack for composing. As time went by, my poems got better and better. I was actually proud of the end product. Here again I can say: Well done, George. Everyone wants to leave something of themselves behind as a testimony to their passing through this world. And so, dear children, I leave you my collection of poems. When your eyes peruse the words that lve written, lIl be there beside you. As for you, dear reader, I hope you take great pleasure in reading my poems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477111291

George T. Kocik

I was born on June 25th, 1949, at 13 Rossitener Strasse in Furth, Germany. My mother was German and my father was half German, half Polish. My parents immigrated to Canada in 1951.I grew up in thé mining town of Vald'Or, Québec. I learned to speak both English and French very quickly, for, when I wasn't fighting an English kid about nationality, I was fighting a French kid. Eventually peace and friendship were established. My first year of éducation was spent at thé Bourlamaque Elementary School. Grades 2 to 5 were spent at thé Queen Elizabeth Elementary School. Grades 6 to 11 were at Percival High School and my 12th grade was at St. Joseph's High School. I was never thé best student, but I was also never thé worst. Somehow I was always in thé middle and l'd pass my year. The teachers didn't like me and thé feeling was mutual. English Literature and English Composition were amongst my worst subjects along with Chemistry and Physics. It was never in my plans to become a writer and I would certainly never be a scientist. That was as plain as black on white. I wrote my first poems in my final year of high school as part of a contest for thé yearbook committee and as a personal challenge to see if I could put some rhyming verses together. My poems were not chosen, but I didn't care. The yearbook committee was a small clique of snobbish idiots. I never intended to write any more poems, but I didn't throw away thé ones that I did write. From 1967 to 1985,I worked in thé mill at Lamaque Gold Mines. That was where thé floodgates of composition were first opened. I was working three shifts at thé time and words came easiest when I was working thé afternoon and graveyard shifts. Walking thé mill floor, doing my work, words to my poems would sometimes come faster than I could jot them down. It was as if a voice was dictating to me. From 1986 to 1991,I worked at thé Bourlamaque Assay Lab. In between I did a stint as a security guard for Kolossal Security. My composing continued and shifted into high gear when I worked as a guard at an abandoned mine near Malartic, Québec and at Belmorale mine east of Vald'Or. Spending many lonely hours at thèse places, my mind became a treasure trove of créative writing. My composing isn't limited to my waking hours only. When l'm in thé midst of writing a poem, my mind remains active in my sleep. The same voice dictâtes words to me and I hâve to get up and jot them down before I lose them. Sometimes it is only a line or two. At other times, it dictâtes whole verses. With every poem I write, I revise and revise it until l'm satisfied with thé final product. The poems I hâve composed so far won't be thé last. I hâve a feeling that there will be more.

Book preview

Whispering 

Pine

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George T. Kocik

Copyright © 2012 by George T. Kocik.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Contents

Foreword

Romantic Poetry

Lyric Poetry

Descriptive Poetry

Humorous Poetry

Glossary

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Foreword

Everyone starts out in life on the same level. Some achieve fortune and fame; others do not. That doesn’t mean that they have lesser value or lead less meaningful lives than those who have achieved glory. Everybody means something to someone, and is important to them. To those who have achieved great things that have benefitted humanity, my hat goes off to them. To those who have achieved fame and fortune through their hard work, I say Good for you, you worked for it. I may not have amassed a great fortune in my lifetime, nor achieved fame, but I am rich nevertheless. I can count on both hands the ones I love and the ones who love me. I can boast, however, of two achievements of which I am extremely proud. The first is my two children, Christine and Kevin. No father can be prouder of his children than I. There I can say: George, you did well. The second achievement of which l’m very proud is the collection of poems that l’ve composed throughout the years. My English teachers gave up on me in high school. They figured I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell where it came to creative writing. I can’t blame them either. I didn’t see writing in my future at the age of 16. I was content to speak the English language and that was enough for me. I always enjoyed reading poems in school; some more than others. After I graduated and joined the work force, I found that I had a knack for composing. As time went by, my poems got better and better. I was actually proud of the end product. Here again I can say: Well done, George. Everyone wants to leave something of themselves behind as a testimony to their passing through this world. And so, dear children, I leave you my collection of poems. When your eyes peruse the words that l’ve written, l’Il be there beside you. As for you, dear reader, I hope you take great pleasure in reading my poems.

George T. Kocik

George T. Kocik

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Romantic Poetry

1.   I Stood By You

2.   If This Be Love

3.   Stolen Hours

4.   My Love

5.   Flower

6.   Teardrops On The Heart

7.   Heart Alone

8.   The Gods Have Danced

9.   My Friend

10.   Enchantment

11.   My Secret Place

12.   Little Precious

I Stood By You

I saw you there, tied to your bed,

A cold, wet cloth, on your fevered head,

I listened to, your labored breath,

And watched your desperate, fight with death.

I wondered why, what did she do?

It cannot be, her life is through,

Why should she have, to bear this pain,

I sought the answer, but in vain.

How can our God, a God of love,

Look down on this, from up above?

God is a myth, rang in my head,

A small voice said, "God is not dead.

And only He, can tell the why,

Of who will live, and who will die,"

The touch of fever, burned your brow,

I wished to help, but knew not how.

You looked so helpless, lying there,

While I sat helpless, in my chair,

I cried the tears, I had to cry,

But by and by, my eyes grew dry.

And as you suffered, in your sleep,

The pain in me, was very deep,

Friends spoke to me, and they were kind,

But only you, were on my mind.

I could not bear, the losing you,

And prayed to God, to pull you through,

My every word, was from the heart,

I think He heard, and took my part.

You were delivered, from your pain,

I knew my prayers, were not in vain,

You knew the tears, the suffering too,

And through it all, I stood by you.

If This Be Love

When darkening clouds, would crowd your life,

And mar your days, with wicked strife,

And when your sunshine, turns to rain,

l’Il stand by you, and ease your pain.

If this be love, then I love you.

While walking down, life’s weary road,

l’Il walk with you, and share your load,

And try to make, the sunshine smile,

As we go down, each weary mile.

If this be love, then I love you.

When I awake, each brand new day,

And see the soft place, where you lay,

And I reach out, to touch your hair,

My eyes will tell you, that I care.

If this be love, then I love you.

And sometimes when, l’m down and out,

And I may raise, my voice and shout,

I know as long, as I shall live,

You’ll find the patience, to forgive.

If this be love, then I love you.

And when another, day is spent,

I close my eyes, and feel content,

Reach out my hand, and feel you near,

As the dying sun’s, rays disappear.

If this be love, then I love you.

Stolen Hours

Upon the road he met her,

The lone knight far from home,

A flower from the Orient,

Where restless travelers roam.

A flower only dreamt of,

A flower yet to bloom,

He put his arm around her,

And stillness filled the room.

He touched her with his magic,

She leaned against his chest,

And with a sigh so weary,

She laid her head to rest.

She held his hand, up to her breast,

He felt her beating heart,

And wished he could remain with her,

But knew that they must part.

He kissed her soft and tender lips,

Like the petals of a flower,

Their souls became entwined as one,

In that stolen midnight hour.

For only stolen hours,

Were all that could be theirs,

His heart belonged to others,

And never could be hers.

l’m not the one, he told her,

Our love can never be,

But when he comes, you’ll know him,

He’ll mean much more than me.

I won’t forget, she told him,

Your kindness and your grace,

And though we part forever,

In here, l’Il keep your face.

She touched her tiny bosom,

And gave a gentle sigh,

They kissed then, and they parted,

Beneath the moonlit sky.

On lonely nights he wonders,

About things that might have been,

How if by fate and circumstance,

She might have been his queen.

My Love

The sun sinks in, the western sky,

Nervous, here alone, stand I,

Alone beside, the water’s edge,

And nigh to me, upon a ledge,

Arranged perchance, in wild array,

A splash of wildflowers grace the day,

And here I do, await my love,

As soft is she, as the morning dove,

I close my eyes, and reminisce,

And dream of her, delicious kiss,

Her silky touch, her sweet embrace,

The way our arms, do interlace,

And though I tell, myself l’m ready,

My body trembles, l’m unsteady,

For here she comes, to take my hand,

Embraced in love, we here both stand,

In solitude, the truth revealed,

The hand is dealt, my fate is sealed,

For like a queen, she stoops to conquer,

I cannot live, my life without her.

Flower

Her hair danced in, the evening breeze,

This flower of, the southern seas,

And as it did, in days of yore,

The blue waves lapped, her island shore.

The evening sun, still warmed the sands,

He took and kissed, her tiny hands,

Amidst a symphony, of sighs,

He looked into, her soft brown eyes.

A silent tear, rolled from her eye,

She knew this was, their last goodbye,

And though it pained, to let her go,

He knew it would, be better so.

Though he would take her, ’cross the sea,

A rose blooms best, where all may see,

It brightly stands, where it is grown,

Not in a vase, cut off, alone.

For like a flower, fresh of the day,

With passing time, she’d waste away,

By pining for, her native land,

And for its warm and soothing sand.

Teardrops On The Heart

He sits here, in the corner,

’midst the laughter, and the cheer,

As his sad eyes, gaze upon me,

There wells up, a silent tear.

And he raises, his glass slowly,

And he says, to no one