Tribute to Carver Christian High School

The word evokes images of a workshop
Sawdust floating softly through the air
Caught in golden rays of sunlight falling beautifully through the window

A craftsman
Shaping, trimming, refining with design in mind
Making things of beauty out of organic materials

We are those organic materials.
The parents and students and teachers of this place
Human beings created by his grace
To breathe and live and love and create in the Spirit of Christ

He’s in the middle of our name
He’s one of great fame
Our perfect example
Our mission, our purpose, our vision
Our healer, our leader, the Great Shepherd of our souls
Is the Carver of our lives

Is more than the cobbled collection of buildings
Located at 7650 Sapperton Avenue, Burnaby, BC
Is more than the neverending cream of cinder block walls that line our halls
Is more than the unforgiving glare of fluorescent lights that blind our eyes
Is more than the dilapidated curtain that hangs so forlornly from our gymnasium ceiling
Is more than the depressing windows so high on our basement walls that all we can see are grey and clouds

Is like our second home
A place where we are known
A place where we are grown
Where together we all transform and become something we were not before
Like the dust of this place, the spirit of Carver will never leave us



You’re Home

My car pulls into the driveway
the engine stops, my mind keeps running
Events of the day all clamour for replay
Emails, conversations, countless other obligations
and work that should have been done yesterday

Tired and hungry I gather my things
“Summoning all available energy units”
to complete this next level
to be a husband, stepdad, human being
I open the door, and there is my wife.

My fingers pass across your back
and a tingle ripples through me
a sudden surge of emotion
a love that washes over
as your eyes say You are home.

It’s something about your presence
as my arm wraps you up
and I pull you smiling into me
nestling in your hair, inhaling your smell
whispering soft things in your ear.

This is all I need
this woman right here in my arms
the deadlines, pressures, disapproval
they all fade into irrelevance
as your love tells me I am home.

From June to July: A Teacher’s Take


Athletic action
Badminton tournaments
Ultimate frisbee tournaments
Track and field events

Meeting mania
Staff meetings
Parent meetings
Committee meetings
Planning-for-next-year meetings
Emails about meetings

Email emanation
Emails to and from students
Emails to and from parents
Emails to and from teachers
Emails to and from administrators
Emails about emails

Preparation pressure
Preparing policies for next year
Preparing newsletter articles
Preparing devotionals
Preparing speeches
Preparing lessons

Field trip fun
Writing field trip proposals
Writing field trip permission forms
Collecting field trip proposal signatures
Collecting field trip permission forms
Making field trip arrangements
Making bus arrangements
Making TOC arrangements
Leading field trips while praying that nobody dies

Evening events
Awards night
Athletic banquet
New families banquet
Grad convocation
Grad banquet

Marking mania
Writing final tests and exams
Marking assignments, essays, projects, quizzes, tests, exams
Marking, marking, marking
Feeling slightly guilty whenever not marking

Marital misses
Missing connections
Missing conversations
Missing evenings
Missing laughs
Missing emotions

Reporting rush
Entering marks
Calculating marks
Writing comments
Agonizing over comments
Making award winner selections
Defending award winner selections

Final functions
Collecting textbooks
Cleaning classrooms
Last planning meetings
Last drive home

Satisfaction with utter exhaustion.
Productivity with great pressure.
This is June for the teacher.


A load has been lifted
The paradigm shifted
With a quality sleep
Comes sweet relief

Canada Day
Family times
Friend times
Fun and games
Jokes and laughs
Live music

More family times
Going for hikes
Going for canoe trips
Going to the beach
Going for ice cream
Going for walks
Eating ice cream while on walks

Days at home
Quiet mornings
Multi-course breakfasts
Coffee on the porch
Hours of reading for pleasure
Lunch dates with my darling
Running little errands
Swimming at the public pool
Video gaming
Video making
Writing and posting
Creative minds at play

Camping trips
Setting up the tent
Walking to the beach
Listening to the surf
Enjoying the breeze
Breathing in that air
Swimming in the ocean
Playing in the sand
Taking lots of pictures
Long fireside conversations
Telling goofy stories
Quiet mornings
Listening to the songbirds
Brewing fresh coffee
Sizzling eggs and bacon
Little observations

Date nights
Stops at Starbucks
Cactus Club patio
The Boathouse patio
Delicious entrees
Delicious drinks
Delicious dresses
Delicious kisses
Fun conversations
Silly conversations
Heart conversations
Long walks on the beach
Long movies
Long lovemaking
Time and intimacy and reconnection

Time to travel
To hit the open road
To explore other places
To savour new surroundings
To sleep in other beds
To take in other views
To refresh the psyche
To expand perspective
To reboot the imagination

Care for the spirit
Prayer and meditation
Reading and reflection
Reorienting the compass of the heart

Rest and refreshment.
Therapy for mind, body, and soul.

This is July for the teacher.


A little girl
Born of love
With future bright
Filled with laughter
Enjoying play
Embracing life

Becoming woman
The bleeding came
With some fanfare
But never left
This rite of passage
Would never stop
Incredulous at first
Hidden horror
Permanent pain
Silent shame

This flow defined her
Discredited by family
Disdained by friends
Dismissed by men
Denied the temple
God seemed silent
Invalid entry

Of many physicians
Touched only by strange men
With stranger solutions
Unable to help her
She suffered greatly
At their incapable hands
Their familiar disgust
This must be God’s doing
The sin of your parents
Her resources exhausted
Broke and broken
Her emotions numb

12 years of sorrow
Rumours flew
Of a rabbi from Nazareth
Teacher of thousands
Provider of bread
Calmer of storms
Healer of the blind
Physician of the lame
Could healing be found
In the touch of his hands

Pressed by urgency
She entered the crush
The teeming masses
Clamouring for attention
They would quickly turn on her
If they knew her secret shame
Nothing to lose
She pressed forward

The packed procession
Was headed her way
There he was
This rumoured rabbi
Now in sight
Amid the noise
The busy commotion
The jostling bodies
She nudged toward him
Heart pounding
Doubts screaming
Fingers shaking
Twelve years of pain reached out
Stretching for deliverance

Fingers made contact
The change was instant
The impact was visceral
Power poured into her
Alone in the crowd
They were oblivious
She could feel it
In ripples
Her body awakened
Her suffering over
Her stigma removed
Her hope reborn
Light poured in
Tears streaming
Heart rejoicing

Who touched me?
The rabbi had stopped
The crowd surprised
The bedlam reduced to a whisper
Onlookers expectant
Somehow he knew
His gaze took her in
She was discovered
How would he respond
Would he call her out
Would he recall the gift
Would he demand payment
Used to humiliation
Used to rejection

She edged through the crowd
Toward the rabbi
Toward the light
Toward the power
A secret no more
She crept forward in fear
Falling down before him
Kneeling in worship
Confessing everything
Her undeservedness
Her silent shame
Her agony

Finally safe
He took her arm
No fear
No condemnation
Gently helping her up
His eyes embraced her
His love washed over her
And then his first word to her



*see Mark 5:24-34

Just a Rainy Day

The skies are dark and full of rain
The wind is out in force.
We’re not inclined to leave the house
This day will pass indoors.

Time is delicious when it slows
All options on the table.
Our cozy home is full of life
We do what we are able.

We’re all at home for this spring break
So homework sits on pause
These are times for quiet naps
for reading, games, and saws.

There was a time when days like these
would strike me as depressing
I’d leave my cold dark basement suites
To make the silence lessen.

But that was then and this is now
I’ve moved from D to M.
A leap was made, as were some vows
And singles became one.

Two years wed, and kid you not
I’m still a boy in love.
This bubble simply will not pop
You’re clearly from above.

Your smile says Boy, I love you
Your eyes say I do care
Your body tells me I’m your man
Your kiss is medium rare.

Three years ago I studied you
but little did I know
The host of ways that you’d improve
my life, my joy, my soul.

Despite the rain’s best efforts
My spirits will not dampen.
Beside the fire I wrap you up
My heart at peace. Content.

About Pacific Poems

Computer_keyboardThis little enterprise has been a long time coming.

For years, I’ve felt the gnawing desire to begin a little collection of poetry. It’s always a fun business – these relaxed moments of sitting down with a pen or keyboard to craft little bits of meaningful verbiage. I’ve got it in my blood, I think. My great-grandfather was a dedicated poet. He fashioned so many limericks and lines of various forms that he was able to build a small anthology and have it published. His work had the feel of a twinkle in the eye, a clever pun here, a saucy line there.

My mother carried the torch still further. Her lines are thoughtfully assembled, often carefully metered, usually of religious themes. She continues to write today, or at least I think she does. Averse to publication, she keeps most of her work away from inspecting eyes. I hope she is keeping a collection that can one day form part of her legacy.

And such is the timeless nature of poetry, and I suppose of writing in general. It lives on. Preserved by the right mediums, writing can speak far beyond the life of its author. I suppose that might be part of the purpose for starting this online anthology. I want more than a notebook filled with words meaningful to me – only to have them lost in a box somewhere for decades everlasting. No, I’m not seeking the fame or attention of the masses – thus my anonymity. But I do want to make my work available to readers the world over. And on online medium seems just about the right tool for this task.

What forms will my poetry take? On what themes will I croon on about? Only God knows. What I do know is that the crafting of poetry can be deeply spiritual – regardless of subject matter. It forces the artist to slow down, to take it all in, to reflect deeply on one’s existence and relationships. It’s just good for the soul.

I hope that as you peruse my work and enjoy some of my pieces the experience will be good for your soul as well. Thank-you for visiting.