Sunday 11 September 2016

Guest Author Lockie Young of New Brunswick, Canada.

Lockie Young is the only author I know personally whose work has been stolen. Yes, someone stole one of his short stories and posted it on their blog. It went viral and was shared thousands of times and commented on that is one of the funniest stories ever. He was rightfully "pissed off".  Just shows how good this guy really is even though he never got paid for the entertainment.

Locks is a regular guest on the Scribbler. He lives in Albert County with his wife Trish. A published author with a Young Adult series of novels as well as many short stories. A clever story teller and a poet.

This week on the Scribbler he has agreed to share both and tell us a bit about each one.

Copyright is held by the author. Used with permission.

Grandson (Tiny Angel)



Tiny fist pressed tight against mouth so small.

What gift is this?

Small drool trail catching sunlight’s glint

And crooked smile…leads us to think

Of the wonder of it all.


Tiny angel in my palms.

My hands wrinkled with age and wisdom, hold you strong.

My thoughts travel through time as I look in your eyes

Reminding me of times

When I held your parent, just as fragile.

Same face, same smile, same eyes.

Oh my how time flies.   


I wrote this poem around the time of the birth of my first grandchild. I think the things I thought and expressed at the time are shared with every grandparent who holds their grandson or granddaughter for the first time.


Baby No More




Little baby boy

Of not so long ago

Miles in between, sights have been seen

Flashes of smiles missed.

Flashes of cries kissed.

You look at me

A boy I see.

No baby here.

In your big voice crashing

Running hell bent for greatness

In your dragon quest

Or dog tails best

As you pull for all you’re worth.

Little baby boy

Of not so long ago

Fly away home, lands left to roam

Flashes of golden clouds

Flashes of cries aloud

You look at me

And a man you’ll be.

Now my eyes cloudy with age

Wrinkled hand on crown

Little boy now grown.


This poem, also about my grandson was inspired by this picture taken by his dad. When they visited in the summertime, the little guy loved to pet the dogs and gently pull their tails, and I can still hear his child’s voice shouting as he ran from one end of the house to the other, so full of energy and play. They grow up so fast.


Diary of an Orphan



Sun dried dirt on sun browned feet

Dust clouds rise in the village street.

Walking from here to over there.

Walking from here to everywhere.


African sun beats down on my head

No food in my tummy, no soft place for bed.

Yesterday, today, tomorrow, the same

Tho hungry and dirty I have no shame.


I want to live on, to love and to laugh

I want to belong, forgetting my past

So much death, so much sorrow

Will I see some hope tomorrow?


Sun dried dirt on sun browned feet

Food in my tummy and off of the street

This is my home now with people to love

This is my hope now, sent from above.


In 2008 I had an opportunity to visit South Africa with my family. While we were there we were going to visit an orphanage in a neighboring country called Swazi Land. Swazi Land is a landlocked kingdom, and is a very poor country with some alarming statistics. At that time the average life expectancy was 35 years of age and due to education has recently rose to 5o years of age as of 2013. In 2002 the World Health Organization reported that 64% of all deaths in Swazi Land were caused by Aids or Aids related diseases.

My Mother in law was over there as part of an educational contingency to educate the Swazi people about the dangers of unprotected sex, among other things such as hygiene and proper nutrition. According to her, and not a widely publicized opinion there, the King did not believe his people were poor, and therefore there was no need of any orphanages or any support for them. The consequence of this was very bad, because clearly over half of the population was dead or dying, and as a result, there was no middle aged population. This meant that grandparents were left to rear children, as in many cases both parents and even older siblings were dead because of this terrible epidemic. As a result I wrote Diary of an Orphan after my visit to one of the many non-publicly funded orphanages in that country. It is written from my imagining what a young girl or boy would experience when there was no one left to care for them.





Diary of an Orphan



The water leaked from my eyes and made snake trails down my dusty face, just to fall from my cheek onto the mud floor of my house, in silence.

Grandmother is dead.

She passed from here to there sometime last night. She wasn’t sick like the others. She was just old. She was just tired.

My mother, father and brother, the others… are all dead. They had the sickness and they left me a long time ago. I hope I don’t get the sickness.

Grandmother has looked after me for so long now, but she has left me too.

Now I am all alone. My belly is sore again. When I eat my belly feels good and is not so sore, but now it is sore again, and I am so afraid.

Like the water from my eyes fading into the dirt of the floor, they have all disappeared.


Today a nice lady arrived at my house to talk to me. She said that I could go with her to the mission and get some food for my sore belly. I don’t know what a mission is, but I like food for my belly and I said I would go with her.

She is a nice lady and she smells like clean sweet grass growing in the fields.

We left the village and took the dirt road that leads to nowhere. It was a very long trip, and when we came over the last hill I saw a place in the distance. It was all wavy from the heat of the road but it became clear as we got closer.

There was a big building in the center of this village. It had two sticks on the very top of the roof, and they were white. The nice lady who brought me here said she was teacher, and the big building was called church. She said a man named God lived there, and that someday I would meet Him. It was a fine house.

Teacher brought me to another building where there were lots of boys and girls my size. The floor was different then my home. It was made of wood. And there was food for my belly, and my belly told me it was going to stop the pain. That night I slept in peace, and did not dare to dream.


I awoke in a strange place, and was very scared. I could see the sunlight just peeking under the door, and then I remembered everything. I was safe. I was near God’s house and today I would meet Him, and see Teacher, and the other children who were here with me also greeting this new day.

After some good food, which made my belly quiet, I went to the house called school, where Teacher was to be. I liked this place and I had a warm feeling in my heart. It felt like when I hurt my toe on a sharp rock, and I went to Grandmother, and she held me and talked softly to me and said I would be safe. This was safe, and warm, and even if Teacher was not Grandmother, it felt the same and I was happy to be in this place.

Today I went to God’s house. He was not there but his friend who looked after God’s house was there, and he said welcome. He said that God was always in His house, even if we could not see him. He said God would always love me no matter what. I thought of Grandmother. I could not see her but I knew she was there, and that she would always love me too. I think God and Grandmother are a lot alike, and that makes me feel warm inside.
Thanks again Lockie for being our featured guest.
Find more of Lockie's work here.
The Legend Returns:
Ryan's Legend:
Get your thoughts in gear, drop down a bit and leave us a comment. Would love to hear from you.


  1. Lockie is my cousin and he is one of the most kind hearted, giving people I know, not to mention a talented writer. To think someone stole one of his poems makes me very angry! I am a firm believer of what goes around comes around and Lockie will have countless more good things come his way. To the person who stole his work, he will pay countless times over I'm sure. If they stole from one they will do it again. They say karma is a bitch, in this case it will be a blessing. I just wish we could witness it when it comes their way. Love you Lockie and keep writing, you're the best <3

  2. Thanks for another opportunity to showcase some of my scribbles, Allan. The story you refer to is called Not Waxing Poetic and is on my Blog, Lockie's Lectern for anyone to read. I discovered it a few years ago on another blog and found out that between 1996 or so and 2013 or there about it had some fifteen million views...without my name attached to it. These things happen, especially with copy and paste. Right now at this stage of my writing, I'm very pleased to be able to show readers my style, and a chance to do so on a blog like yours means a lot. Much appreciated my friend.

  3. Always a pleasure to have you on board Lockie. Thank you for the comments Sheila & Lockie.


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