Stuart David Smith BSc.

Toronto, Ontario

Stuart has just begun to explore his talents as a poet. Stricken with two types of diabetes as a result of a childhood tumor, Stuart has had some hurdles to cross in life, though he has obtained a Bachelor of Science degree in Biology from McMaster University and is now leaning towards Naturopathic studies. Poetry, he says, "If deeply moved by an incident, allows me to put into words what I feel."

Mother, My Mother

There is but one Mother, My Mother;
So Pure, so Perfect, there could be no other.
I cannot bear the thought of ever losing you,
For all, and I mean All, that you do.

You are so Essential to my life;
Stand by to Calm all my Strife;
To this End, you make every Sacrifice;
There is no one else So Beautiful, So Nice.

All the Archangels will Never reach your Height,
For here on earth, all the Battles you do Fight.
You are always, I repeat Always at my side;
You are forever present as my guide.

The Rose is only a Beauty, just a Glimmer
Of the Magnificence of your inner Core.
The thorns on your otherwise fragile Stalk
Represent the Hurt that you so often Balk.

You are my Mom; You gave me the World
And as the Years go by, I too grow old;
I know your Sacrifices, to Assure that I am well;
My Love and Appreciation, no words could ever tell.

Spirit of Oklahoma

Whatever be your true Faith,
As believers or doubters,
It matters not;
Your Children now live in peace,
free of this bitter world,
Perhaps, a comforting thought.

And when mother nature
And father time weave
Their intricate way,
You too, shall find this place,
Where tranquil beauty rules
The place, your Children now play.

So drink the cup of life;
Live, enjoy and prosper,
To conquer this terrible fate,
In the knowledge that
When you come home, your Children
Will greet you at The Gate.

One Rose of White

There was one, lonely rose of white;
For all the others were crimson red.
We then had such tragic news that night,
When told our Sherry was laid to bed.

This was indeed a fateful day,
For she was reaching out to my mother
On her birthday, when she passed away,
With the appearance of One, White Flower.

Losing her own battle with cancer;
Yes, the roses knew of this fight.
So valiant for her age, so young and tender,
For we both saw the lonely rose of white.

Lovely rose of white; so delicately fragile,
As was this child of three, our sweet Sherry.
Never given the chance to go the mile;
Cut short in life, as was our dear Sherry.

Now she rules among the heavens,
As her fate has preordained.
So pure, so innocent; free of all sins;
Her sainthood shall be sustained.