Poet in Old Montreal

Walking the cobblestone

streets of this historic city

where Sir John A MacDonald

drew swords in jest with Pierre the

great Trudeau, who so gracefully

withdrew a pink rose from his lapel

handed it to Sir John and simply

said Adieu.


A Poet remembers the stench of fish

at the docks and the gulls who flew

then glided and parked over top the

black and gold frigates anchored there

leaving their mark with droppings in white

while their rum drinking sailors stayed

home for a spell to free them

from the oceans great swells.


A Poet remembers

Walking down streets painted with pain

with the exchange of name calling between

the insane that were lost beggars trying to

survive in mad streets with no names taking

aim with sharp tongues and foggy minds while

dusting the streets with their coal piled high

in wooden wagons pulled by hard working horses

pulled off the plains.


A Poet remembers

Old Montreal and the taverns he drank in

that spelled out his name beckoning tables

of misfits and drunkards wanting

to claim their name to fame by talking

of dark things and plots to dethrone any

leader they sang out his name.


A Poet Remembers

as he looked down the saddest of streets pitched with

the dark and the pouring of rain a city lane where children

lay crying for mother’s love while lost without any goodbyes



A Poet remembers

watching the billowing smoke stacks and voices

shouting out with an uninterrupted cry of a woman being

beaten by the watchman by her side as children looked on.




© Copyright Vincent Moore 2011. All Rights Reserved.


Poet in Old Montreal — 6 Comments

    • Oh thank you sweet poet friend of mine, I was lost in my thoughts of long ago spent in the streets of Montreal, some days were mean, others were brightly lit gems awaiting verse. We are inspired by much as we wander in our travels.

  1. I’m thinking this is a reprise for me, but it’s even more heart-rending this time. Oh my. It’s also surely among your very best, for which you should be remembered with the ‘greats’.

    • Oh thank you my dear. I am not so great, yet I try. This piece brought back memories for me of Old Montreal and the days of old, much like the London docks where one had to hide in order not to be conscripted into the navy, many men did not go forth on their own volition. Hugs

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