Aleron

I am a relative newcomer to the world of Internet and IRC but have found the experience rewarding and oh yes, quite addictive. But, the fact remains the computer has managed to make the world a much smaller place, and in that it mayfinally create the global village so many have envisioned. And therein may lay one of humankind's greatest hopes. AsI have made friends across the world, I have come to realize political boundaries are going to mean less and less in the future and without the pompous posturing of nationalistic pride the threat of war may dissipate into nothingness.

While I wait with hopeful anticipation of such an event, I fill my life with hours of pounding the keyboard. No, it's not all Internet play. By trade I am a wordsmith, a writer, a dreamer, and a journalist. In essence they are all the same thing, with the words simply taking on chameleon like powers, meaning different things depending on which writing I am doing.

Journalism is my career. As an editor of a small city newspaper,I have the opportunity to design the newspaper in a way I feel right. Assigning stories, choosing story placement and taking a shot at moulding public opinion through editorials and columns. It is both a challenge and a responsibility. In many ways we as journalists are the conscience of the community and we must take it seriously. Too often, and with good reason, journalists come under heat for their views and their chosen way of following a story. The key element should and must be fairness. When writing news the personal beliefs of the writer must disappear. With pride I have been accused of favoring each political party in Canada. That tells me over time I have been fair to each. In news the journalist must tell the facts and the public draws conclusions from those facts. That is a precept that is too often lost in a world where the National Enquirer and Oprah Winfrey pass for journalism. But if you take the time to glean through the sensationalism which is spurred by society's voracious appetite to read and view the glorified and ridiculous you will find there is still an honesty in the trade.

When not working as editor I turn my attention to the world of freelance. So far my stories and photographs have appeared in more than 100 magazines and newspapers in Canada, the United States and Germany. Technology has played its role here. I have interviewed an author in London, England, selling the story to a magazine based in Yellowknife, NWT, Canada. Yes the world is shrinking.

My forte in the business is agricultural writing, mixed with sports, being Canadian hockey holds a special place in my heart - Montreal Great Jean Beliveau is my all-time favorite player, and freelance allowed me a phone interview - but
baseball is my truest love.

There is something about the game that allows it to transcend all other. In its truest form there is no outfield. The foul lines extending forever, eliminating the confines of space. And with no time limit, the game played until a winner is decided, time constraints are also gone. With the constraints gone, the true magic of the game takes over. The diamond so perfectly designed. Ever notice how wonderfully close each play at first is. A ball shot to third is a picture perfect play at first. The beauty of the double play at second, the steal of second just beating the throw from home. Glimpses of ballet on the grass under the shining sun. My writing career has allowed me to interview Terry Puhl formerly of the Houston Astros and arguably the best Canadian-born player ever.

Being Canadian of course the Toronto Blue Jays and Montreal Expos are my favorite teams.

Through the years I have had the opportunity to interview many people that I had been in awe of over the years, from noted children's Canadian TV personality Mr. Dressup, over 20 years on the tube and an icon to kids, to Bobby and Dennis Hull the most famous brother duo ever in the National Hockey League to Canadian country music stars Michelle Wright, George Fox, Patricia Conroy and Tommy Hunter, another 25 year veteran of Canadian television. I also write a Canadian music review and while country holds a special place in my heart, I have become a huge fan of Canadian Celtic music. If you want a treat look up the following CDs.

Fiona Blackburn - Land of Passages
The Wyrd Sisters - Inside the Dreaming
Rawlins Cross - Living River
Mad Pudding - Dirt & Stone
Captain Tractor - East of Eden
Scatter the Mud - In The Mud
Orealis - Night Visions
The Paperboys - Late As Usual
Bourne & Johnson - Dear Madonna (more folk style)
Great Big Sky - Up

Away from non-fiction writing I have also found the muse to write a few short stories and poems, some of which appear on this site, and am in the process of writing a fantasy novel. Fantasy and science fiction being among my favorite books in a library of more than 2000 books. Everybody should read J.R. Tolkien's Lord of the rings, Frank Hebert's Dune trilogy and Anne McCaffery's Dragonriders of Pern
series.

And again showing the world of IRC magic have written a drama on line with a lady in Louisiana who I did not know her real name until weeks after the 7,500 word work was complete.

The great thing about books is they open worlds to the reader that they could never access in any other way. Every child should laugh at the antics of Tom Sawyer, read wide-eyed the tales of Jungle Book and dream of the north with Call of the Wild. And that is one fear of computers that children may never know the awe and inspiration, laughter and tears of the classic books, those already written and those just now being formulated in new writer's minds.

Away from writing I am an avid Dungeon and Dragon player, love chess, crib, fishing and the revolutionary card game Magic: The Gathering.

So I keep busy, but love writing, so enjoy the following works.

Goddess Bless ye all.

LOST

I am completely convinced
I am not a poet

The words
from mind,
to pen
to page
do not flow

The images,
like lightning flashes
BURST
always extinguished
before I can reach
into the mind's eye
to grasp and wrestle
and capture the fleeting illusion

Sadly,
I am left
with only fragments
of what
in that brief moment
of exploding light
appeared
seemed
and was
a poem

- Dedicated to Brenda Campbell, who drew this, my first
poem, from me and has been my mentor ever since.

DARE TO DREAM

When you're five foot six
you dream of playing football
But as far as reality goes
You're always gearing
toward something else
I was fortunate enough
to play nine years

For me to even play pro football
to even have the chance
was a childhood dream come true

The example I want to be
isn't that I had the opportunity
to play the game
but the opportunity
to fulfill a dream

That dreams do come true If you're willing to work for them willing to strive to be the best you can be

Whether you get the opportunity
to play pro football is irrelevant J
ust striving to better yourself,
striving to chase something
That's the message
I want to leave with young people

I'm successful
not because I played football
but because I tried to be the best
at whatever I tried to do
It just happened to be football

And good things happened

- Dedicated to Mick Burrs, who introduced me to 'found
poems' and to Richie Hall, from who's words this poem is
drawn.

REALITY

Beat up Chev half-ton
rumbles to a halt at the edge of the road,
trailed by a cloud of dust
Out tumbles a farmer, faded jeans, work-worn boots
and a Wheat Pool hat
pulled low over hid brow

He walks across the gravel road
Half way, he kicks a stone
On the far side he pauses momentarily;
slaps a mosquito,
then proceeds through the weed strewn ditch

To his left t
he typical Prairie wheat field
shimmers in the afternoon sun,
wavering lightly in the breeze

In front of the farmer
an expanse of ebony hued summerfallow
Reaching down, he scoops a handful of soil
Immediately,
this modern day Anteus
is renewed

He squeezes the dirt into a ball.
feels its warmth
Crumbling the ball,
between calloused thumb
and weathered fingers
he feels the soil's texture
Hand rises to meet down turned head
He breathes deeply
smelling the freshness,
the life nurturing sweetness
of the earth

Suddenly, a tear escapes
followed quickly by another,
then another
A sob of anguish
echoes across the field
A cry of mourning
for a way of life lost

You see
Today the banker called

AGE

Age catches up to everyone
Quicker for an ice demon
It's the legs
Spent
long before the heart and pride
They continue
to first the desire
to play the game

It's difficult,
the young wizards conjure plays
in rapid-fire ways

There was a time
in the demon's prime
He'd have been there
to stop the pass

Now,
in futile effort
he gives chase
arriving late
witness
to the goaltender's fate

The wizardly goal
takes its toll
The old demon
realizes
past frame
can't compensate
for greying hair

The game belongs to the young
Reluctantly,
the tired demon
hangs up his once enchanted blades,
those which mesmerized
with flashes of arcane skill

Hanging on the basement wall,
beaten and worn,
they now,
only conjure memories

THOSE EYES

Large expressive pools
A bayou of daring, dangerous dreams
that reach out with illusionary tentacles
entwining the unsuspecting
in their mischievous imagination
He momentarily entranced
by the dancing sparkles
is drawn willingly
into her soul
A place of pureness and peace
Where spirits roam free
anything is possible
for those who dare
give themselves up
to the beguiling powers
To swim in the deep blue promise
of those gorgeous eyes



NIGHT BALLET

I long to join the dance
of the night sky
Drawn by the haunting beauty
of the midnight ballerina
Wrapped in moody hued veils
of blue, amber and ivory
whirling and spinning
across the blackened stage
A rare spectacle
of graceful, subtle motion
I stare in awe
with 10,000 unseen faces
their eyes sparkling
in the darkness
of heaven's hall
rejoicing at the wonder
of nature's dance

JUST FRIENDS

We were but friends
Shared smiles which warmed our hearts
Hearts which pleased our souls

Caring about each other's lives
Sharing serets and smiles
Talking of all and nothing

Till the magic over took us
wild untamed
it captured our souls in its web

We struggled
but only for a moment
as the peace of desire overwhelmed us

Now alone in the night
we reach out into the darkness
wanting only to feel the other's touch

Standing together on the edge of forver
Wondering should we turn back
take seperate paths

Or do we join hands
smile into each other's eyes
and jump into the precipice of the future

THE WHEEL

Thirteen came freely to the circle
The quarters were called
Candle of creativity lit

A call went out to the muse,
the spirit of the scribe
to join them on the journey

The wheel begins
it's passage through time
Ideas growing with the turn

Smiles come,
then fade to tears

Love blossoms,
whithers,
and like the flower in spring
emerges anew

Heroes are born,
die,
and rise on the whim of imagination

Concepts on an ethereal course
Energy flows round the circle
mixes in the cauldron of the mind
an elixir of words,
hopes,
and dreams

Thirteen thoughts emerging as one

BULL RIDE

The kid
He's the hottest thing on the circuit
Every nickel he touches
turns into a dollar
Still, he's got to get it up in the morning
And get it out three in the afternoon

There isn't a joint that don't ache
His torn tendon won't heal
and he's lost count of the stitches and scars
But he climbs the chute anyway

The grimace on the kid's face ain't fear
It's determination
He's an annoying gnat in a cowboy hat
hunkering down on the horns of a dilemma
tied astride a ton of bad attitude
Old Dead Eye A pure mean brahma
2,000 pounds of power and wisdom
A slinky with a hump in it
The kid cinches the rope tight
a suicide loop sealed with warm resin

They pull the gate
The kid goes to a kicking and a scratching
Reaching for the devil with his feet
Looking to the lord with his eyes

It's a bullet start
with a rocket finish
Fake to the left J
ump back to the right
In the middle of it all
Ole' Dead Eye goes to a wigglin' and a wobblin'
Right hip follows left jaw
A little belly roll at the front
And the bottom drops out

The kid is sitting back on his pockets
And gets thrown over his buckle
Slam dunked in the arena mud
The air disappears from his lungs
There's a taste of dust and blood
Eyes tear, the vision blurs
As four hooves of wrath
descend from the heavens above

And Tylenol's not going to get rid of the hurt this time

THE JOURNEY

Within the circle
beneath the full moon
under the gaze of the gods
I journey within

A quest to find myself
Battling past age old fears
manifes as monsters of religous dogma
their claws rip at my resolve
leave me bleeding
as I wander
a labrynth woven
by unanswered questions

I scale walls built by distrust
scraping my hopes
on rough-hewn stones
created by an age of ignorance

I cast off my darkened aura
of past failures
leaving behind my sad past
slowly the light within finds me
the well of the gods' energy
long buried in my soul
I scoop saway sands of times
with calloused fingers
digging myself toward a new future

My heart screams
the searing heat of the light
filling me with new hopes
I bath in the energy
washing away blood soaked doubts
questions grow silent
fears fade
with no shadows in which to hide

The circle is complete
back within the womb of the Goddess
where it all began
an eternity ago

All poems on this page are copywritten by Aleron.



Aurora:

Did you know that Aleron has tatoos?? Here's a few pictures of them for you see!!

Tiger Knight Battling Dragon The Leprechon Taz Riding a Bull