I have always enjoyed words — learning them, placing them together, balancing their sound and meaning, and also rhyming them.

I actually have to be careful about going into poetry mode, because my brain takes on a particular cadence and feel as it sifts my memory for meaning and rhymes. It can be like a dam opening, whose flow can’t be stemmed until the poem rests upon the new shore.


Here is my theme poem for Making More of Today. Know that today your life can start to become better.
Life Starts Today

Today’s the sudden moment when
All yesterdays can finally end.
Reach past the thoughts that cloud the best.
Seek joy and love and leave the rest.

Be kind, try hard, and
make more of today.
Here is a poem from the 2008 Waterloo writers’ anthology, “Words from Here”, ISBN 978-0-9682520-1-7.
No Power Tonight

Tonight the power dimmed and went.
A popping sound then lights were spent.
The brightness of our pre-sleep home
Replaced by flashlights and a careful roam.

I peered outside and down the street.
The dark was wide and the quiet deep.
The only sound came as a voice
As neighbours talked about their choice,
Of having every night as dark,
To see the stars so clear and stark;
Or have the comfort of the glare
Where nighttime lights do fog the air.

But I knew soon the lights would start
So I walked back home through quiet dark
And tucked in bed like in times of old
When dark meant rest in night’s deep folds.

By Rob Hueniken

No power tonight


Here is a poem about nature, which I love dearly, and community, which we can share in.
The Leaf

Brown and wrinkled on the ground
The leaf is near its cycle round.
From spry, young bud it grew and spread
To fall down here and become dead.
But it was once a flag of spring
Harkening what life will bring.
And in the summer it did grow
Its shared green power it did show.
And in the autumn with dimming sun
It glowed in knowing what it’d done.
The tree was bigger, stronger, tall.
The leaf is proud when it does fall.

By Rob Hueniken

The Leaf


Anyone who has teenagers knows the sadness of their leaving to start their own home.
For parents with children the advice is clear: play with your kids; spend time doing things together.
Cleaning the Workshop

The time has come to clean the room.
To move big pieces and use the broom.
And lift the layers time has spread
Which spin back memories through my head.

Against the wall a wooden box
Raised up on legs with screws is locked.
And on the front my son’s full name
By his own hand it does proclaim.

And there within a child’s treasure:
Bits cut from wood without a measure.
Tiny tools for a young hand
That now belongs to a young man.

How long these treasures lay in dust,
His interests elsewhere but here I touch
The time we shared and built a toy
When I was the father of a small boy.

I clean the box and throw out strings
That may have been the start of things.
I keep the projects that have shape
And with a camera a shot I take.

I miss that boy and the simpler times
When shapes and tools were on his mind.
But here’s his hammer in my big hand.
From the things we built we made a man.

By Rob Hueniken



This poem is my imagining of what it might feel like to be a bird.
Atop the Trees – The Bird’s Tale

Atop the trees, my vantage point.
The hills of leaves with branching joints.
The ground below a distant world,
Of tickling grass and worms that curl.

But here the sky is in my face.
My feet hold strong, a firm embrace.
The wind cajoles and beckons me
To join its trip and become free.

I stretch my wings and leap in space
To fall away from my resting place.
A moment’s thrill as wings catch air
My muscles push and feathers flare.

Toward the ground – too fast to kiss it
But up I rise and smartly miss it.
A swoop to sky, a bob past bush
A quickened flapping, on I push.

A pump then gliding, and again
The journey’s fun, no need to end.
The air is thicker than they think.
I work to rise and rest to sink.

Laughing, threading between trunks.
Reactions quick as time has shrunk.
I weave and roll along my course
My body feeling shifting force.

My eyes are clear, my mind is quick.
To change my speed a simple trick.
Another ride has brought me far.
I look to see what rests there are.

I work to rise above a tree.
Its gentle fingers reach for me.
An open branch offers its repose.
I land as gentle as a rose.

Again the sunlight warms my back.
It follows me off beaten track.
The wind goes on and I wish it well.
Another story for us to tell.

By Rob Hueniken