My daughter McKenna’s poetry

Daryl HattonPersonal, Poetry

Prepared in 30 minutes for a Grade 11 science course assignment. There was a list of required words for the poem. She nailed it. Volatile Here sat an ancient volcanic neck, It stood tall and proud; a stacked card deck. From its peak, a once known crater,  Not what it used to be, now much later. Below lay a dormant vent, A downward shaft, slightly bent. And even more so was the dike, Which sprouted like a warping spike. Abase the tunnel lay the sill, Flat but flowing like’ melted chocolate spill. And even deeper, it rested tranquil, The batholith, …

Ode to a Man, Obsessed

Daryl HattonHumor, Personal, Poetry

First Performed for my best friend Dave Mason In Front of Friends and Family On Robbie Burns Day January 25, 2003 We know not quite when this affliction first started, Our poor auld man Davie, his senses departed. At first it was hidden, that much must be true, For he married a lassie much like Nancy Drew. She watched and she tested, checked each little thing, Of the man she would marry (though she picked her own ring) Somehow he passed muster, each one of us fooled, Not then did we know, for Scotch how he drooled. It weighed on …

West Coast Whisky Society Robbie Burns Toast to the Lassies

Daryl HattonHumor, Poetry, West Coast Whisky Society

Here is the Robbie Burns Dinner toast to the Lassies I penned for the West Coast Whisky Society… Old Rabbie Burns, a man ‘mongst men,Sure had his way with women,His wife, his maid, four girls (it’s true!),This many bore him children! And there was talk of many more,High and lo abou’ the country.‘Twas no matter, high or common,They’d fall, like night, for poetry. His suff’ring wife, the bonnie Jean,When asked how she survives,Responded slyly, patiently,“He should ha’ had twa wives.” What was special ‘bout this wee man,That made the women swoon?Perhaps he simply loved them more,From this, they weren’t immune. …

West Coast Whisky Society Founder’s Poem

Daryl HattonHumor, Poetry, West Coast Whisky Society

Here is the poem I penned to explain our (my) fondness for whisky… ‘Tis dark and cold when late at night,My feet begin to wander,And visit, shhhh!, my Secret Stash,Its treasures mine to plunder. A dram I crave, fine liquid gold,With flavours strong and subtle,Vanilla, fruit, nuts, smoke and peat,Pure magic in a bottle. The drink that warms me heart and soul,‘Tis aged rare Scotch Whisky,A vice so fine I can’t complain,Tho’ financially quite risky. Dilemma shows itself tonight,What selection shall I make?With so many fine expressions,From which will I partake? Tho’ whisky flows ‘cross all Scotland,Small Islay makes my …