William Otto
Ottawa, Ontario, USA
William OttoOttawa, Ontario, USA |
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Bill was born in 1920 - Son of Mirle and Roy Ott - Married Frances Ott and have two children, William Jr. and Kathryn and two grand children, Kristle and Gary - Educated Army Staff College and Army School and Physical Training in England - University of New Brunswick - Retired in 1975 - member of International Society of Poets with Awards from the National Library of Poetry - Published two books, Musings and More Musings and appears in local newspapers and periodicals - Bill has been writing Poetry since early teens - His other hobby is Music which is somewhat reflected in his Poetry. |
DawnThe sun was rising above the trees,Casting shadows on the lake, Birds were chirping their morning songs, Bidding the world to awake. He viewed the scene with pleasure, From his look-out by the bay, As dawn stretched out a welcoming hand, Ushering in a bright sunny day. He savored these quiet moments, The gift of each new dawn, Too soon this peaceful scene would change, And the magic would be gone. Then he retraced his footsteps, Heading back from his little bay, His face revealed the inner calm, That dawn had sent his way. But he'd return tomorrow, To his look-out by the bay, When dawn again would greet him, At the start of another new day. |
The Open SeaHow swiftly flows the river,As it hastens to be free, Away from land's binding fetters, En route to the open sea. The passage is a rough one, That it tackles with seeming glee, Shooting dangerous, rocky rapids, En route to the open sea. When at last it's reached that goal, Fulfilling it's destiny, It mingles with the salty brine, Found in the open sea. How similar is the life of man, Struggling like you and me, To reach that lofty promised land, The sky is our open sea. |
AgingTempis fugit, the old man said,As he pillowed his weary head. I'm just not what I used to be, Time, at last, has caught up with me. That lively gait, so full of pep, Is now a slower, faltering step. Eyes that once were so very good, Now see things through a misty hood. Fingers once sensitive, now fumble around, Allowing things to tumble down. In each life there comes a day, When the aging process has it's way. The years indeed, have taken their toll, What a tragedy it is, for us who grow old. |